#as well as gold-lined wings for icarus

[ali-annals]

5: isn't it just so pretty

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On June 24th, Red Robin popped by Lucky Charms, but it was closed.

He then headed to 195 Andes Plaza but saw Damian glaring at him from the window and left.

Marinette was finishing preparing for her upcoming album release/tour and didn’t need to deal with inquisitive birds and bats right now.

The second story had a large room for the kwamis to play around in. The spacious garden out back, tended by Tikki, Pollen, Nooroo, Fluff, and Wayzz, was lush and blooming abundantly.

Tomorrow Fairy would release the album cover and name, then in a week the tracklist and another MV for her second single, Threads of Time. With the new info released, there would be more interviews. One would be with Clark and Lois.

So Damian protectively shooed his brother away from Marinette. 

Chloe and Icarus would be going on tour as well, in the States and Europe. At least Bruce hadn’t questioned him when he requested to not begin working at WE till January, taking a gap half-year. There was the tour, the wedding, and planning the functions to do. He couldn’t be there for Mari and keep an eye on her health while he was busy acclimating to working at WE as well.

~~~~~

June 25th the Waynes were stunned by the cover of Fairy’s new album, Golden Ties. It was different from her debut album, Gossamer Wings. Gossamer Wings’ background was an iridescent, shimmering background with golden lines like butterfly wings curving up from the surface. Black italics spelled the title.

Golden Ties was a black background with loopy gold letters all connected spelling the title.

Fairy’s picture on the back of Gossamer Wings showed her back, with fairy wings attached. (Actually, they were her Ladybug wings and the background of the cover.)

On the back of Golden Ties was her profile in black, wearing her signature red lipstick and a plain gold masquerade-style domino.

July second, the tracks –all sixteen of them– were released, plus Threads of Time (MV). 

Damian, as Icarus, appeared in it.

One of the songs, Emerald Eyes, was about him, though no one except him, Mari, Jagged and Penny, and Chloe knew that.

~~~~~

Fairy began the American leg of her tour in Gotham with Jagged.

The Waynes came, of course, minus Damian again but including Bruce this time.

Fairy sent Chloe with a note inviting them backstage after the show.

Chloe reported that they were happy to join her and that they had all (minus Bruce) squealed in excitement.

Once the backstage fans left, Icarus escorted his family to Mari’s dressing room. 

“Hi! How have my ‘biggest fans’ been doing?"

“Great! This album is even better than your debut, and the concert was amazing!!”

“Thank you! Icarus inspired a lot,” she smiled at him in a way that the Bats could *tell* was reserved for him only.

"Did you know MDC was engaged to someone?” asked Bruce, not foregoing his detective tendencies even in the face of his children’s favourite artist.

“MDC is engaged? I didn’t know she made a press statement,” Fairy played dumb. “I did notice a lovely ring on her hand, though. She also seems quite close with whom I believe is your younger brother...Damian?”

“That’s him. Unfortunately, he had a previous engagement scheduled and couldn’t come tonight. I do know he actually quite enjoys your music.”

“High praise! I’ll have to tease him about it if MDC brings her man around!” Fairy giggled like her namesake. She turned to Icarus. “Remind me next time we see him?”

“Of course, Cherie. ”

~~~~~

Gold was the color of the leaves when I showed you around Centennial Park

Damian asked Jon to cover for him while he followed Marinette around the US. In return, Jon got MDC clothing and signed Fairy and Jagged Stone merch.

Jon was introduced to the kwamis, and Trixx was enlisted to create illusions of Damian and Marinette as needed. Kaalki was the MVP, opening portals regularly so Damian could maintain his presence in Gotham. 

At the end of August, Fairy headed to Europe for the next leg of her tour. She hit all the capitals, saving Paris for last. Luka, Jagged, and Clara all joined her at different parts of the tour for surprise collabs. 

Finally, the day came when Marinette arrived in Paris again. She hadn’t been since she wrapped up her and her parents’ affairs two years ago, and she was glad she was only there for a short while.

Damian portalled over, thanks to Kaalki, and they disguised themselves to go sightsee.

Marinette showed him Master Fu’s shop, the Couffaine houseboat, her grandparents’ house, and at last, the park by her old house, where she used to sketch.

The sunlight filtered golden through the leaves, the warm air blowing Marinette’s hair in her face.

Damian brushed it out of the way and handed her an elastic off his wrist.

She took it with a smile, grateful one of them could keep elastics close at hand.

They came out at the other end of the park, standing facing the corner where the bakery used to be.

Marinette’s grip on Damian’s hand tightened, and she wiped a tear away from her cheek.

“Let’s head back, mon ange .”

~~~~~

Hell was the journey but it brought me heaven

“Bonjour, Paris!” called Fairy the next night on the catwalk. “As many of you know, I’m originally from here. It’s good to be back!” And it really was, as she thought about it. With Damian by her side, her return had been much less painful than she had originally thought.

“As I wrote Lady Luck to pay homage to the Miraculous Team, I’m proud to perform it in their city! If you’re watching this, I hope you know how much we appreciate your hard work and selfless sacrifices!”

She knew the Couffaines were in the audience, and Chloe was backstage. Adrien and Kagami were planning their wedding for the week she was back, so she was unsure if they would be too busy to come or not. She had sent them tickets anyways.

Her guitarist played the opening riff, and she started the song.

~~~~~

Adrien and Kagami were married with Marinette and Damian in attendance. They planned to honeymoon in Osaka, then fly to Gotham for Marinette and Damian’s wedding. Two days later, Fairy and Icarus returned to Gotham. 

Marinette and Damian’s long absences had been chalked up to wedding planning, which was true. Mari only wanted a small wedding–just friends and her few family members– and Damian didn’t want lots of fuss either. His family attending was enough fuss, considering all their drama, he grumbled to her once. She simply giggled and told him she was sure they would be on their best behaviour.

Wayne Manor had much larger grounds than Marinette’s house, so the ceremony was set to be held there.

Tikki, Wayzz, and Pollen definitely never snuck over to encourage the lush grass and flowering blossoms, and Trixx never aided and abetted by illusioning them. The greenery was all Alfred’s green thumb.

In between concerts, Mari sewed her wedding dress and Chloe’s maid of honour dress. 

Damian’s tux and Jon’s suit were already prepared, and she collected what had been Gina’s veil while she was in Paris.

The final touches of embroidery were added in the last weeks before the wedding, and all the preparations ran smoothly, thanks to Chloe and Damian’s combined terrifying ruthless efficiency.

October 10th dawned clear and bright, sunny for once in Gotham.

(Marinette bet it was something to do with Tikki’s luck and cleansing accumulating in breaking down the curses on Gotham.)

As Chloe helped her dress she reflected that maybe she should be nervous, but she only felt happy and content. She was marrying her romantic soulmate today, what more could she ask?

(The whole week before she carefully avoided even thinking of anything that could go wrong, lest Plagg’s bad luck jinx them.)

Marinette surveyed herself in the mirror by the door as Tikki and Pollen slipped into their Chosen’s bouquets.

Her veil was her ‘something borrowed’, Tikki’s earrings her ‘something old’, her dress her ‘something new’, and the sapphire necklace Damian gifted her for her birthday her ‘something blue’.

The dress was scoop-necked white tulle over white silk,  the layers creating a slightly flouffy skirt. It was simple and understated, but when the light shone on it, gold threads embroidered throughout the fabric became visible. The patterns ran from her slightly pouffed sleeves, down her fitted bodice, and branched off in the skirt. Many little mementoes and details important to her and Damian were stitched in it. Ladybugs, the league of assassins and the bat symbol, a needle and thread, masks for Fairy and Icarus, dates important in their relationship, like their first meeting, the day Damian proposed, the day they found each other in her shop.

Damian’s suit was black, but another gold thread wound throughout it, spots and feathers trimming the edges. Plagg had taken a liking to Damian, and she had occasionally let him practice with the ring, just in case he needed to use it, so a tiny pocket for Plagg was sewn into his suit as well. 

The car pulled up to the flower strewn aisle, and Marinette gripped her bouquet, preparing to step out. The door opened and Bruce extended his hand.

She took it with a smile, sad that he wasn’t her own father but pleased that she could incorporate Damian’s into the programme.

Alfred, as the officiant, was waiting at the end of the aisle with Damian and Jon, Damian’s best man.

Damian’s jaw dropped as he saw Marinette walk down the aisle like a pageant queen, but he quickly closed it when Jon nudged him.

His eyes fell briefly to Tikki, hidden in the bouquet Mari held. She and the other kwamis had given him the equivalent of a shovel talk, which he took quite seriously, as he should. They all walked away from that conversation satisfied (and a little unsettled, on Damian’s end).

Damian met Marinette’s love-filled gaze and smiled widely at her, causing Dick, Bruce, and Alfred to tear up a little.

Tim, Steph, and Babs were a little surprised at how outwardly happy Damian was acting, but were pleased for him. Cass watched closely as Marinette took Damian’s hand and joined him in front of Alfred. Her hypothesis was confirmed when a faint golden glow appeared as they exchanged rings. Soulmates .

Bruce eyed his new daughter-in-law’s bouquet. He was sure something in it was watching him.

Plagg cackled quietly in Damian’s pocket.

After a lovely reception provided by Alfred and Wang Feng and Marinette’s cousin Fei, the newlyweds departed for parts unknown on their honeymoon.

In reality, they moved into 195 Andes Plaza. Relaxing at home sounded much better than jetting off after they’d just been on an extended world tour. Now was the time to be quiet and put down roots. 

(It also had the added benefit of keeping the Batfam’s prying eyes off them, as the Bats didn’t expect them to be under their noses, still in Gotham. After all, who decided Gotham was a prime honeymoon destination? Only Damian and Marinette.)

#daminette #DCxMLB #IbTS #fic #ali writes

[wr3n-writes]

Ghosts - excerpt

hope you guys like it!!

Ethel regards stories as her saviors. 

Sorry, she'd start to defend herself, tan face flushed with embarrassment. That was far too hyperbolic. She'd pause to think for a moment, if she ever dared say this to someone else. Maybe not my saviors, but they've always been special to me.

When she was still a young child, still growing up in Mother Nyx's big house in the sky, she'd beg the immortal woman to buy more and more books.

"Empty bookshelves are sad," little Ethel would pout, staring up at the rows and rows of rich mahogany wood until her neck would begin to ache. Even then, she'd keep staring, imagining thick books sitting there instead. The words on the spines were gold, in her fantasy, the well-lit library making every letter sparkle.

Mother Nyx was nicer all those years ago.

She bought Ethel three boxes worth of books, let the little girl explore every single page with wide eyes.

The book of Greek myths was her favorite by far. The pages had begun to yellow at the edges, but it only added to the book's charm. Ethel thought the beaten-up red cover had a sort of humbleness to it that her other, newer books didn't. That special book was the only one to earn a permanent spot on her bedside table.

The Legend of Icarus was her favorite of the individual stories. She re-read it over and over, run her fingers over the lines to guide her tired eyes so many times that the words had faded in some places. A few punctuation marks had been rubbed away completely. It didn't matter, though, Ethel could practically recite the story by heart.

Icarus fascinated her. How could he not?

Ethel grew up around Ghost Girls, around Mother Nyx who never bothered to hide her wings up in this house hidden by clouds and maybe a few eldritch incantations too. She'd dream of black feathers and soaring through the very clouds that kept her home secluded. She'd dream of doing what Icarus couldn't.

Ghost Girls have ten lives, Ethel once whispered into the darkness. I have ten chances to reach the sun.

Clara didn't understand. She never did, never would, even when both girls had been twenty-four for decades.

"We have a responsibility to ferry ghosts, Ethie, that's it," the girl said one day as she braided the other's hair, tugging gently on soft sections of dark hair. "Besides, you know what happened to Icarus. There's no point in dreaming of anything else happening."

Ethel was seven that day. Truly seven, not seven-and-a-few-decades. She was too young to realize, in that moment, what was wrong with what her best friend had said. If she had known then that Clara was afraid to dream, she could have made peace with the truth before it drove them apart.

Decades later, when she’d been twenty-four for over twenty years, she'd finally write it down in her journal.

Clara is afraid of dreaming and you're afraid that none of your dreams will come true.

[saturndivine]

The Ferality of Mars

»»————-　➴　————-««»»————-　➴

Feral: "Existing in a wild or untamed state"

When I think of Mars, I think of the Greek god, Ares. I think of the heart pumping blood throughout the body to keep it alive. I think of passion, ferocity, and rawness. Mars is the planet of emotion, similarly to the moon but with a more sinister twist. Mars wants you to feel everything and create with that energy, Mars wants you to be overwhelmed with emotion, so much so it consumes and guides you. Mars wants you to feel everything. It is known as a Malefic Planet because of its inability to be tamed and controlled but Mars isn’t about having control, its about intuition and allowing yourself to be guided by the invisible force that encourages you to nuzzle into your most primal and authentic state and honor that part of you. 

[Yes I will be using Hozier lyrics that represent the ferality of each sign]

Aries Mars [Mars in 1st]

When I picture Aries Mars at its most feral state, I visualize a forest fire consuming everything in its path, absorbing nature to feed as fuel. With Mars in its rulership, Aries Mars has no issue releasing, guided by their heart throughout it all to overcome whatever may stand in their way. They move quickly and harshly, striking first and questioning later. You mold life into what you want it to be so there is no need for you to even plan right? As an unstoppable force, you have to let your heart take control. 

“There's no plan, there's no race to be run

The harder the pain, honey, the sweeter the sun

There's no plan, there's no kingdom to come

Sit in & watch the sunlight fade, honey, enjoy its getting late

Theres no plan, theres no hand on the reign,

...As Mack explained, there will be darkness again”

Taurus Mars [Mars in 2nd]

When I picture Taurus Mars at its most feral state, I imagine a bear tearing its way through a beehive, grasping at the honeycombs and devouring it in a matter of seconds. With a venus-ruled mars or mars in detriment, you all look for the sweeter things in life and insist that you are worthy of goodness and don’t mind taking it for yourself. Conflict is stupid to you because you have your own morals and studies and firmly believe in what you desire and if anyone steps to you, you have the power to throw it right back in their face. You are the raging bull, undefeated once you’re committed. But you represent the tamer, earthy side of Mars.

“I have never known peace like the damp grass that yields to me.

I have never known hunger, like these insects that feast on me.

A thousand teeth, and yours among them, I know.

Our hungers appeased, our heartbeats becoming slow.” 

Gemini Mars [Mars in 3rd]

When I picture Gemini Mars at its most feral state, I picture the rebirth that spring offers. The energy of this mars sign matches the intensity of the rising sun and falling rain that causes the flowers to blossom and fill the earth with its aroma. It is quite impossible to stop a determined Gemini, they want to leave their mark on this earth and do so in many different ways as they are indestructible, powered by the combination of their mind and their heart which creates an explosion upon collision. To get in the way of this placement is to stand in the way of the changing seasons, impossible. 

“Each day you'd rise with me, know that I would gladly be the Icarus to your certainty.

Oh, my sunlight, sunlight, sunlight.

Strap the wing to me, death trap clad happily, with wax melted, I’d meet the sea,

Under sunlight, sunlight, sunlight.”

Cancer Mars [Mars in 4th]

When I picture Cancer Mars at its most feral state, I visualize the crumbling of the earth into itself, only to grow back in a healthier form. A resilient placement that can have the worst thrown at them and come back only more beautiful. In the introduction, I discussed how both Moon and Mars share a common goal but the Moon goes about it a different way, as Cancer Mars goes about martian energy in a different way as well. With mars in fall, Cancer takes the soft approach to ferality, embracing the harsh energy and converting it into tenderness. 

“And I love too, that love soon might end, 

be known in its aching, shown in the shaking,

Lately of my wasteland, baby. 

Be still, my indelible friend, you are unbreaking,

Though quaking, though crazy

That's just wasteland, baby.” 

Leo Mars [Mars in 5th]

When I picture Leo Mars at its most feral state I see a blinding white-hot light overcoming anyone and everyone in its path, forcing others to bend to its will simply by doing what it does naturally. As a fixed mars, Leos energy is continuous and bold, quite difficult to escape if a Leo Mars has you in their eye line. They are everywhere, they rule the heart so they rule ferality in a way, diving back into their lion roots and fully delving into the fact that they are the rulers of the jungle and rulers of the world.

“Be love in its disrepute, scorches the hillside and salts every root 

And watches the slowing and starving of troops

And, lover, be good to me.

Be there and just as you stand or be like the rose that you hold in your hand 

That will grow bold in a barren and desolate land

Oh, lover, be good to me.”

Virgo Mars [Mars in 6th]

When I picture Virgo Mars at its most feral state I can clearly gaze upon an open field, a deer nosing at grass only to be pounced on by a random predator, yet Virgo represents both the predator and the prey, enforcing balance and really honoring nature fully. Virgo Mars is one of the most ferocious and determined martian placement because they understand how to use the life around them to their advantage. Failure is impossible because they are always ten steps ahead of everyone else. They understand balance, both aggressiveness, and peacefulness. 

“With the war of the fire, my heart moves to its feet

Like the ashes of ash, I saw eyes in the heat

Feel it soft and as pure as snow, fell in love with the fire long ago

With each love I could lose, I was never the same

Watch it still live in roofs, be consumed by the flame

I was fixed on your hand of gold, laying waste of my lovin' long ago”

Libra Mars [Mars in 7th]

When I picture Libra Mars at its most feral state, I see a person walking into a mossy lake only to never come out again. There is a slight underestimation when people first get to know the Libra Mars.  This martian placement matches up with tricky Aphrodite, Libra mars has secrets they dont want unturned, they have a hidden past that they want to be kept to themselves because they are never the people they were a few moments ago. They are evolving and healing, rubbing soil on their open wounds to grow into a new version of themselves. 

“I had a thought, dear, however scary about that night, the bugs and the dirt.

Why were you digging? What did you bury before those hands pulled me from the earth?

I will not ask you where you came from, I will not ask and neither should you. 

Honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips, we should just kiss like real people do.” 

Scorpio Mars [Mars in 8th]

When I picture Scorpio Mars at its most feral state, there is a black burning tree in the middle of the falling snow, crackling and popping and falling to the pieces onto blankets of snow only to keep burning. Mars takes a different approach in this rulership, it is calculated, ready, and sure of whatever move is to be made as if it has been practiced for quite some time. There is no defeating a Scorpio mars, only succumbing, bending to its will, and praying that they will take mercy on your soul. 

“If I was born as a blackthorn tree, I'd wanna be felled by you, held by you

Fuel the pyre of your enemies.

Ain't it warming you, the world gone up in flames?

Ain't it the life you, your lighting of the blaze?

Ain't it a waste they'd watch the throwing of the shade?

Ain't you my baby, ain't you my babe?”

Sagittarius Mars [Mars in 9th]

When I picture Sagittarius Mars at its most feral state, I see the serpent in the garden of Eden sliding on its belly and offering an option of freedom, going against the grain of submissiveness. Sagittarius Mars tends to ooze this raw sex appeal that stems from their confidence & their need to question the life around them, never satisfied by what is given to them, instead they leave their own mark on the world before them by embracing individuality and moving along their own path. 

“I'd be the voice that urged Orpheus when her body was found. 

I'd be the choiceless hope in grief that drove him underground.

I'd be the dreadful need in the devotee that made him turn around.

And I'd be the immediate forgiveness in Eurydice,

Imagine being loved by me.” 

Capricorn Mars [Mars in 10th]

When I picture Capricorn Mars at its most feral state, I imagine the fall of an empire, a civilization, a society, forced to come to terms with the fact that its reign has come to an end. Mars in exalt, arguably one of the most powerful placements to have in the natal chart, there isn’t a way to prevent the energy of a Capricorn Mars, they are backed by Saturn, two malefic energies combining to create an unbeatable power and manifesting as strength in the native who claims this energy. 

“It's the light, and it's the obstacle that casts it

It's the heat that drives the light, It's the fire it ignites,

It's not the waking, it's the rising.

It's not the song, it is the singing.

It's the heaven of a human spirit ringing.

It is the bringing of the line, It is the bearing of the rhyme

It's not the waking, it's the rising.”

Aquarius Mars [Mars in 11th]

When I picture Aquarius Mars at its most feral state, I visualize a group of nude women, dancing around an intense fire, the full moon shining only for them as they howl out into the wind. Aquarius Mars is a placement that understands how to honor their roots and get back in touch with themselves to move to the future. They use their past to propel them into new opportunities and to become a higher version of themselves. There is no obstructing this futuristic placement, eyes steady on the prize that remains up ahead. 

“When you move, I can recall something that's gone from me

When you move honey, I'm put in awe of something so flawed and free.

So move me, baby, shake like the bough of a willow tree,

You do it naturally, move me, baby.” 

Pisces Mars [Mars in 12th]

When I picture Pisces Mars at its most feral state, I envision a floating sailor, sinking in with each song that leaves the siren’s voice only to realize that it is too late as the last of air leaves their lungs and they now become one with the siren. Pisces Mars has the gift of “innocence” that people project onto them and they understand how to use it to their advantage and come out on top. Deception is a mastered tool but doesn’t negate the fact that they are simply seductive and persuasive and hold power that many are unaware of. They should continue to move carefully and use their “faults” to their benefit. 

“Feeling more human and hooked on her flesh, 

I lay my heart down with the rest at her feet.

Fresh from the fields, all fetor and fertile

It's bloody and raw, but I swear it is sweet. 

In leash-less confusion, I'll wander the concrete,

Wonder if better now having survived.

The jarring of judgment and reason's defeat. 

The sweet heat of her breath in my mouth; I'm alive.”

Link to Website [Services, Blog, & More!]

#aries mars #taurus mars #gemini mars #cancer mars #leo mars #virgo mars #libra mars #scorpio mars #sagittarius mars #capricorn mars #aquarius mars #pisces mars #Zodiac Signs #astrology #astrology memes

[brushstrokesapocalyptic]

it’s time for the “overanalyzing one-off lines” show!

so the very first thing magnus says when he sees pit in chapter 2 of kid icarus: uprising is as follows:

“Well, I didn’t expect to see an angel here. Hope this doesn’t mean I’ve kicked the bucket.”

now, i’m not sure if you’re aware, but that’s a really weird thing for someone to say, and it’s even more weird that no one comments on it. pit and palutena go on talking about unrelated things, as if that’s a totally normal and expected thing for magnus to say.

now, if you’re like me, you probably also didn’t really react to this line the first few times you saw it. it’s the second chapter, kiu has a lot of slightly-odd lines which turn out to be foreshadowing. me, personally? my first thought was “oh, i guess angels are probably associated with escorting the dead to the afterlife,“ and then i moved on.

they’re not, though. that’s what reapers do. and there’s no way humans have these two races mixed up. just fucking look at them.

do they look anything alike to you??? no. they don’t. which raises the question of why, exactly, magnus said that.

now, we don’t know a lot about angels as a whole. pit (and by extension dark pit) is emphatically not the gold standard of angeldom. we can assume he looks fairly ordinary for an angel, seeing as no one has trouble identifying him as such. beyond that, though, a lot of what we know about angels comes from what pit isn’t. for starters, he can’t fly. and there’s something else, too, but i’ll get to that later.

before that, though, i’m gonna go through the various unsubstantiated comments made by people with a dubious level of authority on the subject. (incidentally, i sourced these screenshots from the wiki— much more convenient than trying to dig through youtube for every single random conversation.)

without any further ado! let’s get into it!

Angels as Messengers

Gaol: Aw, Palutena’s little messenger boy. And Magnus, it’s always a pleasure. (src)

in the specific context of overanalyzing magnus’s first line, this is an important sentence to pick out. magnus and gaol are both humans, both with presumably a fairly similar history as mercenaries up until gaol got stuffed in a suit of armor. but while magnus makes a weird comment about death, gaol calls pit a messenger.

and pit agrees with her!

Viridi: I wish I had an angel to do my bidding. It’s like having an intern.

Pit: I’m not an intern. I’m a messenger of the gods!

Viridi: Poor Pit. Don't you know that the definition of angel is "errand spirit"? (src)

this particular conversation is the most insight we get into angels as a whole, i think. viridi thinks of angels as like divine interns, there to do little tasks for gods, and palutena doesn’t exactly disagree with her. pit says they’re specifically messengers, which lines up with biblical mythology. i could see the traditional role of angels in the world of KI being exactly that, showing up to tell the humans what the gods have to say because the gods themselves are too busy being petty jerks to do it themselves.

The Angel’s Code of Conduct

Magnus: You go in fully dressed? Don't you at least want to change into a...swimming tunic or something?

Pit: Oh, no no no! The angel's code of conduct says that we must always be ready for duty.

Magnus: I guess you wouldn't be an angel if you didn't do things by the book. (src)

Pit: Hey! You know the angel's code of conduct! I need to be prepared at all times! (src)

another random little thing is the angel’s code of conduct. without a larger sample size, we can’t know if it’s a real thing or just an excuse to save on laundry, but apparently it’s against the rules to not be on call at all times. in pit’s case, the duty he has to be ready for is doing palutena’s dirty work, but it can easily mean just about anything— including, of course, being a messenger.

No Warrior

Chariot Master: But you are no warrior, angel. Tell me, why do you fight?

Pit: I fight for Lady Palutena. And I fight for the people under her protection!

Chariot Master: That's not reason enough for an angel. (src)

remember how i said there was something else weird about pit? the chariot master seems to think angels aren’t very prone to battle— or perhaps even that they’re actively opposed to it. this lines up well with the idea that they’re supposed to be messengers, peaceful go-betweens for gods and mortals. this does not line up well with pit, the adorable weapon of mass destruction.

and it also does absolutely nothing to explain the question driving the whole existence of this post.

you know what does kinda lean towards an explanation?

No Other Angels

Pit: Do all gods have their own angels, like you have me?

Palutena: No, I don't think that's necessarily the case. (src)

i said before that the Intern Pit conversation had the most illuminating information on angels. this is what i was actually referring to. on its own, it’s pretty innocuous, but it’s just as weird as the magnus line. shouldn’t pit know about other angels, seeing as he is one himself? but he doesn’t know if there are other angels.

the only angels we ever see are him and his clone. no one ever directly references the existence of other angels, they only make general statements about what angels as a whole are like— statements which clearly don’t apply to pit, meaning they’re not just extrapolating based on the one angel that definitely does exist.

the one time someone does comment on the hypothetical existence of other angels, palutena gives a vague answer to the tune of “no,” the topic is changed, and no one brings it up again.

let’s go over everything i’ve established about angels up to this point. they can fly, they’re peaceful messengers of the gods, and pit is the only one that seems to exist as of the start of KIU.

it should be pretty obvious at this point what answer i’m dancing around, if it wasn’t obvious from the start. pit is the only angel around because all the other ones are dead. the reason why magnus said what he did is that his thought process went something like this:

See an angel.

Think “Aren’t angels extinct? Is that a ghost? Am I a ghost? I sure hope not.“

Make a quip about that.

Move on with his life, because he isn’t dead and evidently neither is this guy.

i’m not gonna pretend i went into this post with the intent of any other conclusion to that mystery. anyone who’s bothered glancing over a plot summary for the original kid icarus can draw that conclusion. it’s certainly what i did, reinforced by fics by people who had the same thought!

the truth, however, is that this was all a trick to get you to read my analysis of the theoretical nature of angels as a race. now that you’re invested, i’m going to dramatically throw aside my cape and reveal my TRUE FORM: telling people that fandom consensus is wrong, and my ideas are cooler and better than everyone else’s and you should all throw roses at my feet and bow before your king.

(or just, y’know, take it as the subjective analysis that it is. whatever floats your boat.)

Hot Takes

the original kid icarus does not actually tell you about angels going extinct. here’s the wiki article with the full text of the backstory, just for convenience, so you know what i’m on about for the rest of this post.

so, the part of the story that i think gets misinterpreted is this part about palutena’s army.

Medusa led a surprise attack on Palutena's army which could barely fend off the attack. Palutena's army suffered major losses and was heavily defeated in the final battle.

specifically, i think a lot of people interpret said army as having been made up at least partly of angels. sure, in the actual game it consists entirely of centurions, but you have to take old NES games with a grain of salt. i know i don’t buy for a second that pit was part of palutena’s guard before the original game (he was just too goddamn young), there’s nothing wrong with reinterpreting things.

recall everything i established about angels already, though. this is the hot official lore, from the game everyone knows and loves. angels are messengers, and if the chariot master is to be believed, never warriors. pit is an outlier. palutena’s army consists of centurions, not angels. if medusa wiped them out, it wasn’t because they were fighting for palutena.

(and honestly, i don’t think angels are necessarily associated with palutena exclusively. sure, she’s got the wing imagery, and she’s got the one known surviving angel working for her, at least up until pittoo is born. but angels are messengers of the gods, not messengers of palutena. again, pit is an outlier.)

which all brings us to the real question of this post.

what the FUCK happened to all the other angels? why is there only pit? why does magnus act surprised to see a messenger of the gods, and make a quip about being dead, if not because angels are otherwise extinct?! WHO KILLED THEM, AND WHY?!

thus concludes the “over analyzing one-off lines“ show. see you next, uh, maybe at some point if i feel like it!

(also another thought i had but couldn’t find room to fit it in properly: the gods don’t really act like angels are all extinct, but i feel like that can be explained through the sheer scale of a god’s lifespan. if we assume they were wiped out sometime around the original kid icarus (even if not as palutena’s army) then that’s a whole twenty-five years. that’s a long time for us humans, but for a god, that might as well be last tuesday. “yeah, i know what angels are like. sure wish i could have one. too bad palutena’s got a monopoly on the one single angel that medusa didn’t manage to wreck.”)

#kid icarus #kid icarus uprising #the things i think of at five am #i am just yelling and spewing thoughts and theories and headcanons #if anyone has their own thoughts to add go right ahead i am dying to know whether or not i'm actually breaking new ground with all this #or if there's some vital lore i missed #or anything like that #i am OPEN for CONVERSATION

[storytellerofuntoldlegends]

an icarus and his sun: chapter 6

A/N: seeing y'all freak out over the last chapter when i have the outline and i know that things get worse... it feels me with evil glee. also vyeoh drew some amazing art of the last chapter, show them some love!! <3

Warnings: crying, hugging, arguing, threats of violence, heartbreak

AO3 Link - Tumblr Masterpost

-

Jimmy still felt like he was in a daze when they made it back to his empire. Lizzie hadn’t let go of his hand once, and he was grateful for the grounding touch. She was still murmuring words of comfort and asking what happened, but Jimmy could only nod numbly. Every single thought and feeling he had of Scott felt tainted now. Was anything he had felt even real? Or did Jimmy just fall right for Scott’s plan (whatever it was) hook, line, and sinker. Just thinking about it made Jimmy feel nauseous.

Katherine and Joel landed beside Jimmy and Lizzie, and Katherine looking equally as distraught as Jimmy felt shook him out of his stupor slightly. Wordlessly he let go of Lizzie’s hand to pull Katherine into a hug. He held her tight as she hugged him back, crying into his shoulder.

“It’s gone. It’s all gone. There’s barely anything left of my castle,” she hiccuped. Jimmy didn’t know what to say as he held her, but gently rubbing her back seemed to help.

“Fwhip was plotting against the House Blossom Alliance the whole time, Sausage too. I think Gem, Pearl, and Scott were involved as well,” Joel explained. Jimmy just about shuddered at the mention of Scott, trying not to cry.

“Why would they do that?!” Lizzie gasped.

“Fwhip said something about how the alliance was too argumentative, and should be destroyed before anything worse could happen and bring down our empires,” Joel explained. Katherine let out another hiccupping sob at Joel’s words, and Jimmy murmured words of comfort to her. Then he looked up to the skies, and his heart froze. Three figures were flying towards them- one with elytra, one with bright yellow feathered wings, and one with white feathered wings tipped in gold. Joel noticed Gem, Pearl, and Scott in the air as well, and grit his teeth as he put a hand on the hilt of his sword. Lizzie rushed over and put a hand over Joel’s, shaking her head.

“Stay on guard, but let’s hear them out. We only know that Fwhip and Sausage were the masterminds behind this. But if they are here for trouble, we’ll make sure they regret it,” Lizzie said, tone going dark at the end of her statement. Joel hesitated for a moment or two, but dropped his hand from his sword with a frustrated sigh. He and Lizzie did, however, stand protectively in front of Jimmy and Katherine as Gem, Pearl, and Scott came to a landing in front of them. Jimmy let go of Katherine, but she didn’t go far, taking his hand and gripping it tightly.

“I know we’re not high on your list of people to see, but hear us out. We didn’t know that Fwhip was going to take such… drastic measures,” Pearl explained, hands up placatingly as her wings fluttered anxiously.

“But you did know Fwhip was up to something,” Joel countered.

“We knew he wasn’t super happy about the House Blossom Alliance, but we thought that he would just pull a harmless prank or pick a fight with Jimmy or something. Not destroy Katherine’s castle,” Gem continued, Pearl nodding along with her. Scott stayed suspiciously quiet, and Jimmy’s mouth settled into a firm line as he let go of Katherine’s hand.

“But Scott knew. Didn’t you,” he accused, glaring at Scott. His expression immediately turned guilty, and that was all the confirmation Jimmy needed.

“I wanted to tell you, really! But-”

“But you kissed me instead of telling me or ANYONE about Fwhip’s plan!” Jimmy shouted, stepping forward and gesturing angrily, that cold numb feeling from before now replaced with molten fury. Lizzie gasped, drawing her sword and fully intending to lunge at Scott, but Joel quickly scrambled over to hold her back.

“Joel, let go of me, I need to give Scott a piece of my mind for taking advantage of our sweet swamp boy’s heart!” Lizzie fumed, straining against Joel’s hold. Joel glared at Scott, but his grip on Lizzie didn’t let up.

“Scott, you better have an explanation for this, or I will let my wife loose on you,” Joel warned. Scott actually looked a little terrified, and part of Jimmy hated the fact that he was relieved at that.

“I should have warned people about the TNT, I know. I just- it was stupid of me to hope that Fwhip was going to change his mind. And I was going to tell Jimmy, but then I saw Fwhip in the distance, and he had his crossbow aimed at him. I- I figured that Fwhip wouldn’t take the shot if it meant hitting me too. So that’s why I kissed Jimmy, and by that point it was too late to warn anyone,” Scott explained, his expression pleading and apologetic. Joel and Lizzie seemed to accept his explanation, as Joel let go of Lizzie and she sheathed her sword- but they both still glared at him. And Jimmy wanted to believe him, wanted to say he forgave Scott and rush back into his arms again- but there was something else that bothered him.

“What did Fwhip mean, when he said something about ‘playing the part?’” Jimmy asked, absolutely terrified of the answer but needing to know the truth anyway. Scott swallowed nervously, expression overcome with guilt once more.

“Fwhip told me to keep an eye on you, make sure you wouldn’t be a problem. It wasn’t just Katherine goading me into being nice that kept me coming to your empire, at first. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t-”

“Leave,” Jimmy growled, having enough of Scott’s excuses. Scott flinched at Jimmy’s tone. Good, it was about time people stopped seeing him as the sweet swamp boy or the friendly Codfather. He was done being pushed around, done being used and tossed aside.

“Jimmy, please- believe me, I really do care-”

“I don’t wanna hear it! I’m sick of your lies and manipulation! I never want you to set foot in the Cod Empire again, if I ever even SEE you again I will make sure you regret it,” Jimmy shouted, the words fracturing his heart into a million pieces. But he couldn’t afford to trust Scott ever again.

“Jimmy…” Scott trailed off, any fight finally leaving him as his wings drooped. His gaze shifted between Jimmy’s angry glare, the tears on Katherine’s face, the glares from Lizzie and Joel, and the sympathetic and apologetic expressions on Gem and Pearl’s faces. He looked back at Jimmy one last time, eyes glassy- before taking off into the night sky. Jimmy couldn’t even watch him leave.

“We truly are sorry for everything that happened. We know it doesn’t make up for it… but we wish you the best, Codfather and allies,” Gem said softly, before taking off into the sky as well. Pearl gave them a weak smile before following Gem. Jimmy waited until he could no longer see either of them in the sky, and finally let himself cry, falling to his knees as ugly sobs wrenched their way out of his throat. Lizzie scrambled to his side, pulling him into a hug and letting Jimmy cry into her shoulder.

“It’s okay, let it out. I’ve got you,” she soothed.

“He tricked me. And like a fool I fell for it, I fell for him,” Jimmy said between sobs, desperately clutching at Lizzie. Joel came over to kneel at their side, pulling both of them into his arms and rubbing Jimmy’s back. Katherine joined the hug pile too, on the opposite side of Joel. Jimmy wasn’t sure how long the three of them all stayed there with him, but they all held him until he finally had no tears left to cry.

-

After Jimmy had finished crying, Lizzie gently prodded him into changing, insisting that he would feel better in his normal clothes. She was right, and a lot of the tension drained from his shoulders once his trusty cod head was back on his head. From there, Lizzie and Joel brought him and Katherine to Lizzie’s empire, saying that Katherine could stay in the embassy she built, and that neither of them wanted either one to be alone at the moment. Katherine and Jimmy didn’t argue, neither of them wanted to be alone either. So they ended up huddled together in Katherine’s embassy, a borrowed blanket from Lizzie over both of their shoulders. Lizzie stayed with them and made sure they were comfortable, while Joel flew to Pixandria to update Pixl on everything that had happened.

“This is all my fault,” Katherine said numbly, after a long silence. Jimmy and Lizzie looked at her in confusion.

“It’s really not, you didn’t blow up your own castle, after all,” Lizzie pointed out. Katherine smiled weakly, shaking her head.

“But none of this would have happened if I didn’t insist on making friends with everyone. Everyone would have been fine if I just stayed out of it and stopped trying to bring people together,” Katherine said, voice watery.

“Katherine, if you hadn’t tried to bring us all together, I’m sure much worse would have happened. Who knows how many empires would have been destroyed if it wasn’t for you,” Jimmy countered softly. Katherine let out a small sob, hand clasping over her mouth as she tried to collect herself.

“But if I hadn’t started those meetings, pushed you and Scott to be nice to each other- then you wouldn’t have to be feeling this way,” Katherine said, voice as fragile as glass when she dropped her hand from her mouth. Jimmy shifted to face her, gently gripping her shoulders and looking Katherine in the eyes.

“Katherine, listen to me. My- my heartbreak is not your fault. None of what is happening is your fault. If anyone’s to blame, it’s Fwhip. You hear me?” Jimmy asked, voice gentle but no less serious. Katherine’s eyes went wide.

“You’re heartbroken?” she asked in a shallow gasp. Jimmy gave her a sad smile, throat growing tight as he felt his eyes watering again- funny, he thought he had run out of tears.

“I learned what love was, only for it to get crushed barely a day or two after. So… yeah. I think I am. But that still doesn’t make it your fault,” Jimmy said, tone forlorn before it turned gentle and serious once more. Katherine let out a shaky sigh, nodding her head.

“Okay. Okay. I’m still sorry you’re feeling this way, though,” Katherine said softly. Jimmy just smiled, pulling Katherine into a hug.

“So what’s our next step? Plotting our revenge on Fwhip?” Lizzie asked, and Jimmy couldn’t help but chuckle at her casual ruthlessness.

“I think before we do anything revenge-related, we should help Katherine rebuild her castle,” Jimmy replied, frankly not wanting to think about getting revenge on Fwhip, because that would likely lead to getting revenge on Scott as well. And Jimmy definitely didn’t want to think about Scott at the moment.

“I don’t know if you’re the best person to help me build,” Katherine teased lightly. Jimmy gave her a weak smile in response.

“I think I’ll be able to manage if you’re guiding me,” he replied softly.

“I would definitely appreciate the help,” she said with a smile, and it was the first time Jimmy had seen her smile, truly smile since the ball.

“Then I’ll help, mediocre building skills or not,” Jimmy insisted, glad to have something to look forward to so he could think about anything other than Scott. He was done with him, no matter what his traitorous heart thought about his sunshine smile, his laugh of gold, or those icy blue eyes that contradicted them both. So much about Scott felt like a contradiction, now. He snarled and teased and jabbed, but there was a hidden fondness too, or at least it seemed like there was. Jimmy wasn’t sure if it was ever real to begin with. Then there was how he sided with Fwhip, even though Katherine was his true ally, a business partner too. Nothing made sense, and Jimmy wondered if he should have let Scott explain- no. Jimmy was never going to give Scott a chance to use that silver tongue on him again, paired with a smile that was only gold-plated. He wouldn’t be hurt again.

-

Taglists below! Ask to be added/removed!

MCYT General Fic Taglist: @corazon10000 @damiensaidno @franticfandomfanatic @gattonero17 @hetapeep41 @space-ace123 @vyeoh

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#empires smp #jimmy solidarity #scott smajor #ldshadowlady #smallishbeans #katherine elizabeth #pearlescentmoon #geminitay #flower husbands #seablings #mcyt #aiahs #sage writes #i am making the executive decision to keep maintagging this #if scott and jimmy see this that's their problem #interact at your own risk flower husbands /lh

[analviel]

I am weak to when Gothamites see the Bats less as people and more as concepts.

Example: Robin used to laugh so much, fly so high, like a very slowly descending angel as the Bat reached up to meet them, until the Robin alights and suddenly it is someone you can touch, you can speak to, it has adopted their ways, adopted a skin to belong with those who needed them the most. Then Robin was gone, a bird who flew too low, the opposite of Icarus, but all the same it must've lost its wings, and the Bat rains its grief for its companion on the world. Just as Gotham thought they were going to drown in it, Robin returns, but sewn into what must've been left of its wings is a piece of the Bat's own, and it carries its splint with it wherever it goes. There is war in Gotham, and on its head, it ties a piece of its feather as a banner of hope, shining gold in the moonlight. Bludhaven is gone and Robin bleeds red for their sister city, for one of their own donned in blue. No one knows what triggered it, or perhaps it has been a slow poison, as any fallen angel, corrupted by the filth and darkness of the city it tried to help. Robin ties the shadow on its head this time, perhaps a warning, perhaps just a symptom. There are the yellow wings, but it had frayed its splinter into a sword, a threat, and the Bat flies the closest to this one, its darkness protecting it. Pulling it in. There are whispers that perhaps they had been wrong all this time. Perhaps the Robin was not the Bats companion after all. But a ray of hope it snatched from heaven to slowly, steadily, chain to itself so it, too, can fly as high as Robin used to. In the hopes that the little bird can carry Gotham with it.

It is in vain, some fears. And those same people are the ones who grow to resent the Bat for corrupting a free spirit. There are so little good in this world that they need not break it themselves.

Some others... well, they see the yellow wings. There are now more others that circles the Robin than it ever has, ones with black wings. There are stories for those too, their connection to the Bat and the Robin. Tales spun between them. But some hope that with enough wings.... then maybe.

(If you know stories along these lines, would love recommendations.)

#dc #robin #batfam #dc comics #red robin #batman #dick grayson #jason todd #tim drake #stephanie brown #nightwing #damian wayne #red hood #batgirl #spoiler #and i write #concept Bats #Batman and Robin

[yeojaa]

Dude... What about a devil!jk spending his first valentine's day with her and she's all it's just a dumb holiday and he's all offended cus he's a rooooomantic 🤣🤣

[ read devil in a new suit ]

pairing.  rich boy!jjk x girlfriend!reader.  rating.  general.  tags.  the epitome of fluffy angst.  wc.  1.4k.  beta reader(s).  @coepiteamare, @yeoldontknow.  ty mucho. ✨  a/n.   vday is a capitalist lie and also, this will rip your heart in half then piece it back together.  happy 14th of february!    

There sits a portrait in the atrium of his heart.  A lovely thing, a lonely thing, painted in the shades of your smile, the rouge of your lipstick, the studded dark of your stare.  It never gathers dust, prim and pristine, carefully tended to with an adoration that sinks sunbeams into the shadows, sweeps cobwebs away on moth wings.  

It’d once been blocked off, locked with a skeleton key, brass tucked behind the cage of his ribs.  He’d guarded it like a three-headed dog, barked and bayed and keened quiet in the night when no one else was around.  No one enter, he’d said, full of fear, skin of his hands hardened and rough and purpled.  The flesh of a fig, hardy and thick, protecting a centre soft and chewy and terribly sweet as it stuck to teeth.  

He’d never been bitter - never the harsh white pith of a lemon, never tart like the yellow that burst forth and stung - but he’d been something else.  Cautious, worried, scared.  Full of love but with nowhere for it to go, overripe and inedible from years of hanging on the limbs of trees left to rot.

And then you’d appeared.  Shot across his sky like a comet, brilliant and beautiful and fluorescent, lighting up his life like the burst of a supernova.

You’d drenched all the grey in technicolour, turned paper leaves green, spilled colour into his cheeks.  Made them rudied red and full of life, warm warm warm in the curl of your palms, scorching coals under the weight of your kisses.  Filled all his cracks with the silver quality of your laughter, honeycomb smile turned gold filigree to piece back all the fragments. 

So of course he’d showered you in affection, appeared with an armful of flowers and a smile that rivalled the sun.  “Happy Valentine’s day,”  he’d hummed, a heart full of hope, hands full of freesias and white roses and enough baby’s breath to take yours away.  He thought you’d love it - like you loved him, with unashamed adoration and lines at your eyes, brow creasing with delight.  But you’d only blinked once, twice, with a polite turn of your chin, a knife slipped between his ribs and pressed, too gentle for purpose. 

You’d smiled and shook your head, caught a petal between your fingers and dipped your nose to the leaves.  Inhaled deep and pure and then continued on, moved along, already miles away by the time he’d caught up.  

“Don’t you like them?”  He’d asked, doubt creeping up, twining around his lungs like a rose bush, heavy with thorns.  They’d pin-pricked his heart, spilled his insides out;  your bandages were nowhere to be found, no chiming bells or liquid gold in sight.  It’d beat for you, in time with you, one to one for each of your own.  It’d stuttered and tripped, caught on its own too feet, overeager and delirious.  “The girl who helped me said freesias symbolise trust and baby’s breath mean love and—”

“They’re lovely.”  

Maybe you’d meant it, for the briefest of moments, in the quiet before you’d crossed the threshold, before you’d swung open the door and turned his efforts to ash.  Surely you’d appreciated them - him.  Surely you never intended to hurt him the way you had.  

“But they’re kind of a waste.”

A heart is a well of impossible depths, an abyss of contradictions and contrived notions.  Even the brightest of rays do little to penetrate its darkness.  Moonlight filters over the surface in ripples and waves, undefined and blurred.  Thoughts without end and often without start.  

He supposes he can’t help the way he feels, how his shoulders turn stiff beneath your touch, the set of his mouth worn and sagging, a poorly strung noose tying his lips up.  (It feels more like the thing around his neck, tattered and heavy, a reminder of all the reasons the door had been better left shut, sealed.) 

“What’s wrong?”  You’re a birdsong in his ear, lilting and lovely, impossible to ignore.  You hold him in your hands and press kisses to his throat, sear stardust beneath skin, and hum in hopes of an answer.  He’s stoically silent, a statue fit not for hallowed halls but mausoleums, stone cold and sad.  

Jungkook doesn’t mean for this - for the sorrow that rains down in sheets.  You’re a Monday in May, a winding path speckled with flora, springtime.  His misery will surely suffocate you, tear life from limb with its torrential cast.  

“Nothing,”  he says, through the pristine white cage of his teeth, untruths bleeding past enamel and staining them red.  He speaks them well, well enough to fool anyone else, well enough that his lies are dressed lily white, stunning in their Sunday best.  “Just don’t feel well.”

Hasn’t, since you’d come home, since dinner, since exactly four hours and four minutes ago.  

“Don’t lie.”  It’s not an accusation, baseless and blunt.  It’s coaxing, pleading, whittling away amber, crystallised and hard around the too-soft thing in his chest.  A layer of wax giving way, melted by the warmth of your touch, the fire in your eyes.  Icarus’ wings, hummingbird wings, monarch wings.  Stained glass creaking and cracking beneath the weight of your words.  

“I’m sorry.”

The apology lays itself over crushed velvet, spins itself into silk and twines into strands, a braid twisted over your shoulder.  It settles, indistinguishable from the salt-sweet, his whisper finding a home within the shell of your skin.  He threads his fingers with yours, twists and turns knuckles until they knock awkwardly, unkempt and unsure.  

Your sigh is a salve, soothing ointment spread over scorched earth, dulling the sting.  He still aches all over, from the base of his spine to the top of his head, a rattle in his bones when he brings you close.  It trembles through the both of you, an eruption of emotion felt to the core.  (But still, he feels best when he’s with you.)

“For what?”  

He thinks and thinks, works himself into a knot he doesn’t know how to unfasten.  It coils in the centre of his chest, a slipknot he’s tied wrong, whose tail has been folded in on itself.  He grasps at frayed rope, seeks aimlessly for the answer.  A tidal wave of emotion sweeps high above his head, an unnamed terror that threatens to upend his rowboat.  He settles as the sea does, in breaks and luls that belie something far worse, in a voice small as a drop in the ocean.  “For being too much.”

“Jungkook.”  The way your voice breaks hits like a thousand pounds, an assault to the back of his knees, a shot to the vulnerable soft of his gut.  A sound whines out - another apology - and you swallow it whole, take it in and turn it around, offering tenderness in its wake.  “You’re never too much.”

He believes you.  He swears he does, even if the words come tumbling out, glass too full to hold them all.  “You didn’t like the flowers.”

“So what?”  You cradle him careful with magic hands, understanding threaded between each digit.  You hold him tight even as he threatens to run away, can’t keep the skip of his stare from doing so.  “I don’t need flowers.  I don’t need gifts.”  (Not the jewels he’d laid in your lap, stamped with an interlocked ‘C’ and nestled within pristine white tissue.  Not the flowers that’d poured onto every surface of his apartment, a mountain of blooms with typewritten cards nestled amongst stems.  Not the five course meal he’d ordered in, because love and devotion didn’t translate into a masterclass in cooking.)  “All I wanted for Valentine’s Day was you.”

Something he’s never heard before.  Less an excuse and more akin to you’re enough, echoed in the quiet, repeated in a daisy chain that attaches itself to the end of his thoughts and undoes all the sadness.  That unravels him in a single fluid motion and has him melting against you, leaking love from all his undone seams.

“I’m sorry.”  This time, he means it as thank you.

“Me too.”  And you mean it as I love you.

#incoming.eml #lcksndkys #work.zip #drabble.zip #jungkook.doc #devil.doc

[mintchocolatechipnut]

icarus | takami keigo

Note: I first posted this on Ao3, you can find it here. Hawks seems a little OOC here and I Regret That as I reread it but I still liked how it turned out overall. Hope you enjoy!

Tags: ‘Hawks has a crush!’ drabble, reader works at the same agency, possibly OOC Hawks, slow burn, fluff galore, overly generous use of italics

Word count: 2.4k

It’s just moments before he has to leave for patrol, but as Hawks hangs around in the lobby of his agency that fact momentarily leaves his mind when he catches sight of you, with your perpetual smile. You’re at the reception desk, back ramrod straight, fashion impeccable as you greet clients, your eyes lighting up as they regale you with their latest anecdote. Hawks could have been fooled, if he hadn’t known you since the three years he and you began working here, him nineteen and you looking a little older. Perhaps twenty? Twenty-one?

He knows what you look like on a cloudy Monday morning running late for work, your hair in a frizz due to the humidity in the air and the slightly crumpled hem of your dress shirt peeking coyly atop the waistband of your skirt. He remembers the cup of coffee from the cafe down the block that you clutch in the palm of your hand precariously as you shuffle into the building, bidding a hasty ‘good morning’ and letting a look of pure relief grace your face when you spy the clock ticking three minutes to eight.

The you that he sees that’s not for customers is, sadly, also seen by most of his colleagues. They know you’re the entertainment fairy of the agency; despite your calm and collected looks, you’re really the life of the party at functions, always ready to go ham on the karaoke machine and take the dance floor with some killer moves. It’s led to a lot of love for you as one of the youngest in the agency, aside from him, and how the atmosphere becomes a little lighter the moment you step into a room.

He’s not going to lie, those three years with you really did a number on him. He’s a willing contractor of your contagious cheer, his heart lifting when the sight of you greets him after a harrowing day of taking down villains. The job’s not always difficult, he admits, but it’s exhausting nonetheless. Sometimes, if you’re not busy, you’d glance up from your seat, your eyes peeking over the edge of the counter, and disarm him with your gaze. Then a smile, and a wave, and you’re back to work. Little do you know those gestures have carved a nice little space for themselves in his mind, but not his heart.

He’s asked himself the question many times, but he’s been warned many times more. About how it is when you give your heart away to someone who might never understand the workings of a pro hero, or to someone who understands because of their own experiences, but in return you’re never fully guaranteed of their safety out in the field. He definitely has hero acquaintances who’re happily married, with kids and fur-kids, but the stories that echo in his brain whenever he looks at you are those of broken bonds, severed ties and loved ones lost. And then he remembers how pretty you look with that smile on your face, and knows he wouldn’t want anything to ever risk its existence.

But is it too much to hope that he might be, at some point of time, the cause of that smile?

He’s shaken out of his reverie when his sidekick calls out to him, having just stepped out of the elevator in time for their patrol. Unconsciously, he takes one last look at your form, now turned away from him as you stand before the photocopier, and his chest vibrates with the murmurs of his heart’s wish for you to turn back for one last glance.

But you don’t, instead your head turning sideways to return a conversation with a coworker, and Hawks finally looks away. The automatic glass doors open up before him as he steps out into the city for another day of work, and the last thought he has before switching into professionalism is how you greet him in a way these glass doors never could.

Hawks has always been one to be in tune with his emotions, but just because he acknowledges them doesn’t mean he needs to act on them, or give in to them.

But as he sits alone in his office, hands tightly balled atop his knees as he heaves through his mouth, he’s tempted to let go. The words Dabi uttered to him feel like they were from eons ago, yet they’re floating afresh in his mind, bouncing off the confines of his brain like echoes as he strains for his own voice to be heard above the din. He’s shaken, no doubt, but heaven forbid that he’s so shaken he loses his balance in the air.

He’s known as the man who goes too fast, but never as the man who flies too high or too low. He’s comfortable where he is, his technique immaculate as he keeps himself airborne. But the drawbacks of being too fast is that without near perfect control you’re prone to crash and burn, and Hawks surmises that he’s close to that end when he’s never once slowed down enough to confront the feelings collecting dust and despair inside his heart. The mental strain the undercover mission has on him weighs on his conscience like gravity, and suddenly he’s falling, and his wings don’t open up fast enough, he’s not fast enough—

And then the sound of his name in your voice envelopes him like a safety net and grounds him gently, instead of the splat to the earth that he’d seen as imminent just seconds ago. He looks up from where he’s sitting to see your eyes scan over his hunched figure, and he prays you can’t see the sweat beading the sides of his neck or the whiteness of his knuckles in his lap. He watches as your brows knit together, your stare once sweet now laced with worry, and he curses internally that he’s not able to put you at ease in his condition. Smiles come as easy to him as they do you, so why is it so hard to muster one now?

He barely hears the click-clack of your heels as you make your way over to him. All at once his brain is firing off warning signals, his head is ringing with alarms. No, don’t come near, don’t get near me, the sirens blare, don’t see me like this—

A carton of juice is placed on the glass tabletop before him, and his gaze slowly traces up your fingers to your face. He wants to remove his gold-tinted glasses to convince himself you’re not as perfect as he perceived, but at the same time your light is so blinding he’s afraid that if he sees you in your full glory he’ll burn.

But you’re still perfect in his vision, though the edges of your mouth don’t quite reach your cheeks as you put on your trademark smile, and are you faltering? It’s the first time he’s ever seen it, and yet you look prettier still. Hawks wonders if you're not accustomed to sadness, you with your eternal grin. Wonders if, for all the cheering up you do, you lack in comforting and sympathizing, but then he realizes that's such a rude thing to assume.

“It’s been a long day, huh?” He spies the stray strands of hair plastered against your damp forehead, as you walk away from him towards the windows, where you start to draw the blinds. “You can stay here if you want, but I’d really like to lock up soon.” When you turn to him again, your smile no longer wavers. Your gaze does, though, and it's enough to prove his earlier theory wrong. "I also think you should get some rest."

That precarious position he holds while airborne is threatened immediately by the sun in your smile, your laugh, your heart, and he finds himself falling to the sea below, instantly relishing the feeling of air through his feathers and the coolness the water’s about to grant to his scorching skin. But oh no, oh dear— the sea is also you, the deep expanse of your arms and chest welcoming like that of a siren's song, while your eyes threaten to rob him of the lift in his wings.

He knows the League of Villains was a force to be reckoned with, but you are a whole new danger altogether.

It’s the first and last time Hawks would ever let you see him as… well, ‘vulnerable’ is what most people like to call it. ‘Less than best’ is what he tells himself instead.

He couldn’t call your relationship that of friends, since you’ve never had to speak to him more than the occasional small talk and necessary work matters. However, he couldn’t call you an acquaintance either, when he bumps into you in a convenience store one weekend and immediately watches your countenance brighten.

You greet him first with a sunny smile on your face, but he’s delighted to see that it came with a messy bun and sweatpants that signal you were in your most comfortable state. As he stands behind you in line as to not obscure your view of the signs overhead, displaying the prices for an ice cream cone, he’s locked onto the sight of your frame, the loose baby hairs sweeping across your nape, and he wonders how it’d feel to envelop that frame with his own, to let his own hair tickle that nape—

His silent beration of himself for having these thoughts come to a standstill when you move out of the periphery of his vision to let him make his purchases. Instantly, regret washes over him that you have to leave so soon, that the one time he’s managed to see you out of work you’re gone so quickly. So imagine his shock when he finds you waiting near the doors, your purchases in a bag on your arm while you hold two ice cream cones in hand.

He doesn’t know what good deeds he’d done to bring this on, but he’s not questioning this: walking side by side with you, ice cream cone in hand as you both make your way down the street towards the station. You apologize that you’d been presumptuous in getting him ice cream, and he’s taken with how the corners of your eyes crinkle in mirth when he dismisses it with a laugh. He's enjoying the ride home, even misses his own stop under the pretense of ensuring safe passage home to a well-meaning civilian. And when you reach the front door of your apartment, ice cream gone from your hand a long time ago, he wonders if you'll ask him to stay.

But you don't, instead thanking him and telling him to rest well and have a good evening, Hawks. And before he can stop himself, he utters, "Keigo. Keigo is fine."

A beat, then another. They're loud and thundering before he realizes that they're echoing through his eardrums. Gritting his teeth, he forces himself to look up.

"Okay." Your voice lilts from the doorway, and—he really wants to know where you get all these dazzling grins from, so that he can bottle some up for a rainy day. "Have a good evening, Keigo."

Suits don’t suit him. Obviously they hinder his wings, but the stuffiness of wearing them often makes him wish he was on patrol instead, soaring through the sky while feeling the wind whip his clothes.

But here he is, in a tailored suit where the starch of his collar digs into his neck hard enough for him to consider laying off the chicken nuggets this month. Besides the stuffiness of the suit itself, the air where he’s at is downright suffocating, though the ceilings are high and the chandeliers glisten in magnificence above his head. He can feel the thin film of sweat forming across the skin beneath his tight, layered clothing, and he wonders how he hasn’t gotten used to this, after all the charity balls and hero galas he’s had to attend.

Perhaps today will be different, he thinks. Today is his agency’s tenth anniversary, and there’d been a function thrown together for it. Of course today is different, he realizes—you’ll be here. That fact is enough for him to inhale deeply and step into the grand ballroom, and really, it’s not hard to spot you.

There you are in the middle of the room next to the refreshments, a vision in your dress as you hold a flute of champagne between your fingers. It’s a stark contrast from how you hold your coffee cup on work mornings, and all of a sudden he realizes he’s been holding his breath. You’re talking wistfully to a bunch of colleagues at work, and your polished appearance makes him forget how much more frazzled you’ve looked the past few days while planning for this occasion with the rest of the events team. Where strands of your hair would have been sticking up in all directions sits an elegant braid pinned to your head, while the rest of your hair cascades past your bare shoulders like shimmering waterfalls. The demure smile on your face belies the pallor of your complexion where lack of sleep is evident, but you’re beautiful, even if in a vampire sort of way. Hell, you’re beautiful no matter what.

You’re absolutely magnetic, and he’s drawn into the whirlpool that is your presence as he takes a shaky step across the floor towards you. He’s all too aware of the rapidly pulsing heart inside his too-tight chest, the heart that holds a million wishes just for you.

But he's done wishing and wondering. He's done hearing the voices that tell him he's too fast, or not fast enough, or that he's in trouble. Your name leaves his lips like a prayer, a desire given form and shape for just having been spoken, and Hawks watches as you turn. He feels your face brighten before he sees it.

His heart alights when your mouth moves in tandem with the letters in his name, his first name, and he shifts his gaze to eyes that disarm him once more. Instantly he knows those eyes will disarm him as long as he lets them (as long as it’s you).

He’s falling, but god, has he ever felt so free—

#bnha x reader #mha x reader #hawks x reader #keigo takami x reader #takami keigo x reader #hawks drabbles #hawks fluff

[larkkspuur]

Itty bitty

Mof belongs to @erroraceart​

Cod belongs to @alientoastt​

Icarus belongs to @trashymayhem​

Wisp belongs to @peitalo​

The Nomad belongs to @axiliern​

The Dryad belongs to @tempulian​

The Baron belongs to “JugularZerren “

The Visitor belongs to @rayczintosart​

The Frost belongs to @feyrien​

The Soldier belongs to @jojenis​

(I dont know if everyone has a tumblr so if i missed someone ill add them)

ID:

Icarus: He is a darker skinned man with shorter pointed ears. One eye is green and the other is brown. He has short, dark, curly hair and some facial hair on the chin and the back of the jaw. He is wearing a white tank top, blue jeans, a red plaid overshirt, and brown shoes. He has large white wings behind him.

Cod: They are an anthropomorphic calico cat. One ear is orange and the orange covers one eye. The other ear is brown. Orange and brown spots cover them. They are wearing a red jacket over a grey hoodie. The red jacket has a bunch of patches on it, including a non-binary flag. They are wearing blue pants with holes in the knees and are wearing yellow, red, and blue shoes.

Wisp: They have dark eyes, large circular glasses, and dark short hair. They are wearing a tannish brown jumpsuit with a belt around the middle, a dark, long coat over it, a pinkish scarf, and brown boots.

Soldier: Their hair is split in color, with one side being black and one side being white, while the back is black that fades into dark grey with white stripes. One eye has an eyepatch and the other is gold. They have fangs coming out of their mouth and a nosering. They have a dark shirt and pants with a brown belt and brown shoes. Their coat is red and gold and long.

Dryad: She has brown hair pulled into a ponytail, brown eyes, wood patterning on the face, and long pointed ears. There are leaves in the hair. She is wearing a netherite armor chestplate and brown bracers. She has a green cape with leaves at the top. She wears a green sash over dark pants and has a belt with a pouch. She is wearing brown boots.

Baron: He is a pale man with short, blonde hair. He is wearing a raccoon mask that covers the top half of his face. He wears a black suit and slacks, black shoes, a white buttoned shirt, and a tie in the bi flag colors.

Mof: They have purple skin and orange, fluffy hair. Out of their head are two red mushrooms with white spots and two fuzzy antennae. They are wearing a tan tunic that is torn at the edges. On their shoulders are two big red and white spotted mushrooms, and two more grow out of their chest, near the heart.  Out of their legs come a bunch of flat, brown mushrooms. Their eyes are orange and they have fangs. They have orange and black moth wings. There are orange mushrooms growing over their feet.

Frost: They have blue skin with darker blue eyes. They have long pointed ears. They have long light hair, and around their shoulders is grey fur. There is a dark gem at their neck. They are wearing a flowy blue shirt tucked into grey pants and are wearing black boots and gloves. They have light, translucent wings.

Nomad: She has shoulder length dark hair. Her eyes are gold. She is wearing a red plaid shirt under black overalls. There is a red bandana around her neck. There is charring around her hands and feet, as well as cracks revealing magma.

Visitor:      are a completely dark figure except for purple lines detailing the suit, tie, hair, earrings, and eyes.

Nautilus: He is a greenish cyan man with wet green chin length hair. His eyes and mouth are cyan and he is smiling. He has a scar on his cheek. He is wearing a white, puffy shirt, black pants, and a blue vest. all clothes are torn and tattered and wet at the edges.

(I believe this is everyones pronouns but if I am wrong I will change it)

#Artiver #Wet Boy #OCvander #I dont think i have a tag for when i draw other people's ocs #not my oc #LoreBook #added the others' tumblr

[nikkywrites]

Day 1: Disinterest

This and the thirty things after is things I did for Creatober -- a prompt a day for a month. I think after I get through the 31 prompts, I might be done transferring things. How exciting! The end is within sight!

No edits except maybe a bit of grammar/rewording.

*****

Amelia is like the sun, in a lot of aspects. Her laughter radiates warmth, as do her hugs, and she brightens the darkest of people. She's alluring in that she's kind and gentle and selfless.

She's prattling about an interest -- honestly she can't remember what exactly it is, but knows it's nothing she has any interest in -- and the passion is a night sky in her eyes.

Most won't make the sun comparison, will dive for the easier earth, nature, the trees. But while she's dark in her skin and hair and eyes, she uses herself to reflect brightness. To make a super powered flashlight from a single flickering candle.

She's bright and warm in all the ways that aren't misleading aesthetics. She can't help how she looks, but she dresses in bright colors that look neon on her. She acts the part and in all the ways she controls her looks, she looks it too.

She is the sun. Simple. Undebatable.

Pearl is not Icarus.

She is not easily drawn in by simple promises and warmth that's so often fleeting. She grew up in cages of ice and she won't melt at the first sign of warmth.

Winter was eternal and summer was temporary.

"'Melia," Pearl says, a near inaudible quiver to her voice. She means to continue after that, to say her request all at once and confidently, but she freezes.

(It's all she's ever done.)

The bright brunette before her is attentive and hears the call of her name in the midst of her rant about inconsistent characters and lackluster plot lines. She halts her passion to hear what her friend has to say. "Yeah?"

Her eyes are glimmering like a moonlit pond and if Pearl swung that way (she doesn't), she'd be in trouble. Big, big trouble. It was effortless to fall into those eyes, to get sucked into the riptide and not care about whether or not you drowned.

Pearl hears the sick amused laugh of her mother ringing in her ears. "Can we talk about something else?" Her heart is pounding, racing, and she's preemptively hearing taunts her mother has thrown out a thousand times before.

Amelia’s eyes flicker, a few of the stars dying in a supernova. “Oh.” Her expression’s shift is slight, but stark. “Yeah, sure.” Her lips lift after, a smile, but this one doesn’t spread any warmth, doesn’t niggle at something in the other girl’s chest, and doesn't light her eyes like usual. “I guess I was rambling, huh?”

She sighs. There’s guilt, now, grappling against her fear. She wasn’t a great listener. She wishes she was, wishes she was the ever-present shoulder and unwavering hand, but her mind has learned to tune out long rambles to avoid the barbs hidden in the words. Amelia isn’t malicious like that, of course, but habit is habit and it’s hard to change.

“I’m sorry,” she says, cradling her cup in her hand, warm like Amelia had been before she got greedy and snuffed it out. “It’s just…” she slides her other hand down her face. “I’m having trouble keeping up, everything has been so,” she waves her hand through the air, “muddled, lately.” Choking. Stifling.

Amelia digests the words, pursing her full lips. “Alright. What would you rather we talk about, then?”

Oh, the kindness. Nothing hurts quite like it. Not when she was undeserving of it -- who was she to stop her spiel? Her mind was a whirlwind, true, but that was her issue to deal with. Not Amelia’s.

“Did you see the newest episode of Project Paranormal?”

“Of course!”

Pearl bites the corner of her lip, masking her smile. “Well, I didn’t catch it. Mind giving me the rundown?”

Dramatically, the other girl gapes. “You missed it? After the cliffhanger from the last episode?”

Pearl recalls said cliffhanger. She remembers watching it in the living room on her couch. She winces. “Yeah. I was… busy.” Grounded from TV, more like. Her mother had come home early and seen what her daughter was watching. She didn’t approve.

No daughter of mine will worship the devil, she’d said, practically hissed. The cross at her neck had felt like hellfire then.

That cross is tucked into her pocket now, still burning. (Always burning.)

“Well, you see…” Amelia hops onto the new train of rambling quite quickly — she’s made to talk in that her words are bait on a hook. She draws others in, for better or worse or worst.

Maybe the Icarus comparison isn’t too far off.

Maybe she was already in too deep, over her head and drowning in honey. Sweetness all around, but too much.

What was Icarus’ mistake, anyways? When the sun calls, Apollo’s pretty words and reaching hand, was he supposed to ignore that? God’s attention, no matter how meager or plenty, is not something for a mortal to pass up. Especially a summons. Especially when the sun had been so scarce for him.

He hadn’t really had a choice, in the end, except in how he’d like to go. A mindless plummet into the freezing, or a soaring arch into the smile of a carefree god?

Pearl was quite like Icarus in a lot of ways. If she had to choose between her blood, who were far less sacrificing then Daedalus had been, or her sun, she’d burn too.

There were far more unpleasant things than dying in a fire one chooses.

“You’re kidding,” Pearl gasps, derailing her inner thoughts for the shocking tidbit she just heard (she’s good at multitasking, on some things). “That’s what happened? No shit?”

“Nope. That was how she died.”

“Never would have guessed that. Shit.” She takes a sip of her coffee. “Hey, I’m sorry I’ve been a bit MIA lately.” This is their first time speaking in a couple of weeks -- by far the longest gap of silence they’ve ever had, though it wasn’t all silent and wasn’t preplanned.

The long list of one-sided texts, gray bubbles with read receipts on and no replies, vouches for that. Let’s have a movie night soon! Hey, wanna go to the fair while it’s here? Are you okay? Did something happen? Text me back! Coffee? I miss you <3 Tell me that you’re ok. Texts that had gone unanswered.

Texts that had sent Pearl’s parents breathing down her neck.

But she hadn’t been busy, like she’d said she had been when she finally got around to replying. Though she actually had been busy. Fielding questions, praying, going to church, fending off her mother’s paranoia about her daughter turning to the devil, ignoring her father’s disapproval. All of her parent’s overbearingness was unneeded. They were just friends, Amelia and Pearl. Nothing more. And Pearl didn’t swing that way, didn’t daydream about the softness of the other girl’s fingers wrapped in her own or of the gloss shining on her lips. No. She wasn’t gay. That was sinful.

“Hey, it’s cool.” Amelia smiles, radiant and honest. Pearl feels the guilt again.

Liars will burn in the lake of fire and sulfur.

She was lying. She actually… kind of really did like Amelia. Like Icarus did Apollo, like Juliet did Romeo.

She sips her drink again, wishes it was still hot enough to scald her tongue. “Go ahead and tell me about the other thing.”

“You sure?”

She nods. She can sit through an hour’s worth of what’s drivel to her but gold to the other. Sacrifice. Small things. She can handle listening to the other girl’s joy if she must. One day, she may even actually follow through on one of the thousand book recommendations she’s received. She’s not a reader, finds it hard to focus on something utterly silent and blocked with words, but maybe she’ll try one day. One day when she’ll be living on her own, out of her parent’s toxicity. One day when she’ll be free to watch whatever she wants. One day when she can…

Well, the future was the future. Not here. Unpredictable. Subject to whims. Bound to change drastically from tiny choices, a butterfly’s wings. But there were some certainties.

Pearl and Amelia would stay friends. Amelia will always ramble on about her books while the other listens with more amusement and fondness than any real interest in the topic. They will drink coffee and stay at each other’s side, together.

As friends, obviously. At least at first.

But until then, there was today. Coffee and friends and a rambling she doesn’t care about (same as the future, except here there are no touches that blatantly linger).

One day things would be different. But today was pretty good.

#writeblr #writing #writblr #creative writing #prompt fill #nikkywritesstories #nikkywritesprompts #my writing #repost from my old blog #creatober 2020 #creatober #tw religion #tw toxic parents

[druid-for-hire]

new Hadestown au, ICARUS!ORPHEUS, wherein orpheus is not the world’s greatest musician but rather the world’s greatest inventor/mechanic/tinkerer. his creations are wondrous and beautiful and a miracle. Orpheus his mission is to create something that will repair the world--take what’s broken, make it whole.

Orpheus is still very much an artist--only his art in this AU is visual instead of auditory. and he’s still poor! not everything he makes is immediately useful for survival and y’know, hardly anyone has the money to buy things, and he has a propensity to just. give things away, especially the smaller trinkets he makes. and they take a Long Time to make. so he still works at hermes’ bar

SO!!!

this orpheus is body pain solidarity KDSKFJH

he has a fucked up back from all the heavy lifting he does around the workshop, being hunched over while he works on stuff, and being stuck in weird positions for extended periods of time when he’s working on machines and whatever, especially the bigger ones

also he’s got a wrist brace

he has a set of gear he wears a lot especially when he’s in his workshop

1) his wing pack! he built it himself and he’s proud. the pack was also made to help with his back problems. he doesn’t wear his mechanic gear when he’s working at the bar, but sometimes he’ll leave the wings on because back hurty. also, following w icarus, the wings are kept smooth & together and waterproofed w wax, kinda like a gloss. he reapplies every so often

2) his goggles! every part about the design is impractical (the red lenses and the beak) but i like them. they protect his eyes from flying bits and sparks and sawdust etc. when he’s working and wind when he’s flying

3) his boots! they’re sturdy workin’ boots, and have a talon function to clasp onto and lift things up. especially useful for moving bigger things around the workshop, up to higher levels and what have you, and he gets to flit around the whole space with minimal usage of ladders. (yes, they’re inspired by Vulture’s boots from Spider-Man: Homecoming)

(ALSO. the model of his wings are white crow wings, bc of the myth of Coronis)

because in greek mythology, crows started out white and had beautiful voices and the reason they turned black and got croaky calls is because a crow had to tell Apollo that his lover, Coronis, left him to marry a mortal 

and Apollo got so upset he burned the crow and then burned Coronis to death, or burned the crow and then turned Coronis into a crow, depending on the version

(thanks to @princessponies81 for helping me figure this bit out)

so there are some... parallels here

also, IIRC crow wings are elliptical-type wings, meaning they’re good for a lot of control and maneuverability in tight spaces. good for the workshop

also he makes automata too! he has this little mockingbird to help him around the workshop. lots of calls for lots of signals, like how a car will have diff beep signals for low gas or parking brake on or door left open or key left in etc... little bird can measure and alert for lots of things

he’s also less noodle-y than canon orpheus because of how much he uses his arms and legs doing lifting, work, and flying

he’s not like. Built or anything. but hes got some strength to him

he doesn’t just make really good machines either; he’s absolutely as skilled in fine, delicate things as much as the big pieces—he sees the details himself, has to make it himself, he’s as skilled in silversmithy or goldsmithy as he is in mechanics, and i imagine he has skills in metallurgy too. maybe even a bit of glassblowing? just for piece assembly. all his pieces will fit most perfectly if he makes them himself

things like the Silver Swan automaton (i’d link a video but external links are illegal on tumblr)

also... i don’t know if they manage to get married this time, but they at least get the wedding bands

lover, tell me, if you can--who’s gonna make the wedding bands?

@supercantaloupe: the river gonna give us the wedding bands -- he draws the mineral, the stones from the silt, and crafts them himself

SO, he charms eurydice with one (or many) of his dazzling creations that also have usages in practicality and survival

as is the youzhe, she leaves when he gets to obsessive with working on something, holed up in his workshop instead of like. Surviving the winter

they last longer into the winter this time though because again, he does have a couple of machines good for tiding over the winter and surviving, and eurydice can operate them. but he’s too caught up with creating something to fix the world to repair them when they break down

when he leaves, he leaves his mockingbird to take care of his workshop while he’s gone. make sure there’s not leaks or fires, etc., keep everything in working order

the trip to hadestown still takes a long time, but less time than in canon, given that orpheus gets there on a pair of wings, though he gets grounded plenty of times due to bad weather. plus, his wings aren’t really meant for long-distance

so in the end the time still matches up; the events underground still happen on the onset of proper spring

he sails over the wall of the Styx on his wings, but it’s a feat easier said than done; it really is high and wide, just... hundreds of feet tall, and i headcanon that the “wall” is in fact seven layers of fortification because some myths say the River Styx wraps around the underworld seven times

and he is not a high altitude flier

uhhhhhhhhh blah blah something something ... i’m not clear on all the details but here are a few things:

orpheus gets the shit kicked out of him in Papers as usual and the fates hold his wings over him instead of his guitar

i have no idea how If It’s True goes

SOMEWHERE there’s Hey Little Songbird II (thank you to @supercantaloupe​ for authoring this idea);

it's Hades to Orpheus this time. Ironic, as he sings and flies, a real songbird.

and orpheus, that inspired inventor, that mechanic, that engineer, blessed by Hephaestus himself, being tempted to stay. It's a marvel of engineering, those factories. But they're rough around the edges, dirty, inefficient, unrefined. Imagine all the work he could do. Imagine how grand it would be, with just his help. And imagine how much fun it would be to fix it all!

but since he's fallen in love - and lost her once already - he has to pause and think. it's too good to be true, isn't it? Is it true? Can he really stay here forever, with parts and tools and endless projects worthy of his skill and attention - at least, without her?

ok back to me writing stuffs

there is no Epic I / Epic II / Epic III; the titles are now Trial I / Trial II / Trial III, like trial runs of prototypes, and on the third one it has a double meaning as a trial of judgement

Trial III goes as such:

(and thank you to @ferretteeth for this)

Hades orders him to build.  An impressive invention in turn for his life – a chance he gives only because his wife is smitten with interest. 

Orpheus gets three days and no more, and when he is finally ordered to come before the throne of basalt and steel he brings his invention. And Hades gives a curt, mocking laugh, because all Orpheus has in his hands is a simple box of bronze, cheap and adorably human. 

 He almost orders for Orpheus' death the moment he sees it, but then the boy lifts the lid and reveals a mechanical flower. Petals made out of metal rusted rosy, nectar of flecks of fool's gold. 

Delicate and beautiful; extremely finely spun, as if the metal were only woven fibers. It is as soft as any silk.

"Where did you get that," the king snaps in a hurry. "How did you know–" 

And then, with the twist of a key, the invention reveals to be a music box and long lost chords fill the Underworld.

(i originally had the idea that he builds a planetarium that replicates the summer above, a caught snippet of the thing that hades could never make on a large scale. a beautiful thing with flowers that blossomed and played the old song as hades brushed his hands across them, sun above. but i figured it’s probably more in line with the sensibilities of Hadestown if orpheus had created something less... grand)

so eurydice and orpheus are granted their chance to leave.

i’m not sure what the test is, because he’s got to fly out with eurydice clutched in his talons, and i want him to be as much a victim of his doubt as in canon

but he has to follow this flight path with absolute perfection, down to the flap. you fly too high, the flames of hadestown will catch him. he flies too low, the flames of hadestown will catch her.

i think, in his paranoia, he flies too high, and his wings catch fire

his wings are on fire--his arms are strapped in to them. he’s burning up. he’s burning.

he’s slowing down in his ascent. in a moment, he knows that if they’re going to make it, it’ll only be one of them, and... he’s not going to drop eurydice. he can’t do that to her.

when his wings can no longer climb, he throws her the final distance to the surface. she turns around and reaches desperately for him, but he’s too far away.

he falls. a comet.

he breaks.

the fact is, he dies

but he dies in hadestown. so now he’s just... well, one, no chance of going back aboveground. two, now he’s... sitting at the bottom of that long climb, broken and in pain, surrounded by the charred skeleton of his wings, broken and burned feathers, drips of melted oil and wax, and blood

he’s... there for a long time, just suffering, before someone comes to see if they made it out, and finds him at the bottom

hades sees this as an opportunity to bring him back, let him heal, and put him onto projects, perhaps “to get your mind off of it all,” but. orpheus doesn’t want to work. he doesn’t want to do anything

thanks to supercanteloupe again for co-authoring this section:

Hades says he'll squander his god given talents to just sit around all day but Orpheus won't listen

hades has just zero fucking clue how to deal with a depressed human

"have I not given him all he could want, metal, tools, a workbench? Bed, bread, fire? Strength in his bones? And yet he refuses still? The boy must be mad," he cries, angry

@s-aint-elmo: "i got a new mechanist" 

“you ruined a perfectly good talented young man is what you did. look at him, he's got depression"

persephone herself is a mess (less so after Trial III) but she has at least some sense—she is more in touch with mortals than him, spending time with them up on the surface and throwing revels, but also greeting those who lost their lovers/sisters/brothers/mothers/fathers in the winter before

persephone encouraging orpheus to build, not for her sake or for Hades', but for his own. little flowers, little birds, wind up toys and music boxes. something to keep him going

s-aint-elmo: she brings him pressed flowers from the surface, little trinkets, tokens of the green. orpheus only lets the first few wilt and rot at the corner of his table.

flowers bloom until they rot and fall apart

it's a sad, painful reminder

he eventually has the resolve to rebuild his wing pack—better this time, because really, he feels crippled without them after living w em for so long

edit: (and the feathers are black, a la the crow myth)

when hades first sees him like, passing by w wings on his back, he turns to persephone like “what have you been saying to him?” “only what he needs to hear, husband”

he has a great fear of actually getting off the ground at first, though

he’ll perch at the edge of a rooftop, but... doesn’t move. it’s a leap of faith he doesn’t feel like he can take

he always saw air as just a medium to move through, that it would support him, as easy as swimming

now he sees straight through it to the ground

he has burn scars across the entire back of his arms, hands, and fingers

it’s a reminder every time he gets to working

rough patchy skin. calloused fingers from work

big sigh

eurydice goes home.

there is the empty shell of his workshop. his many machines and trinkets and tools and his hundreds of unfinisheds and thousands of scraps of plans, and… his bird left to care for the shop after god knows how many weeks or months.

it flies down and greets her, some string of whistles and beeps she only half understands. then it asks for orpheus

she tells it that he fell; he’s not coming back, it’s too late

the bird sticks by her from there on out, the last “living” remnant of her lover, besides his shell of a workshop

ok i haven’t thought farther than this, please have fun with this au i think it’s a new favorite alongside Unswayed AU & Apartments AU

#icarus orpheus au #hadestown #hadestown au #hadestown fanart #my art

[nikkyshows]

Day One: Disinterest

And so Creatober 2020 begins! This, admittedly, might have gone off prompt, but its there if you squint? I have a bad habit of getting carried away with something and having the story get away from me. But I tried. That’s what counts, right?

Warnings for religion/toxic Christianity, anti lgbt mentions, keeping someone in the closet, controlling/overbearing parents, some cursing, mention of tv ghosts.

*****

Amelia is like the sun, in a lot of aspects. Her laughter radiates warmth, as do her hugs, and she brightens the darkest of people. She’s alluring in that she’s kind and gentle and selfless.

She’s prattling about an interest — honestly she can’t remember what exactly it is, but knows it’s nothing she has any interest in — and the passion is a night sky in her eyes.

Most won’t make the sun comparison, will dive for the easier earth, nature, the trees. But while she’s dark in her skin and hair and eyes, she uses herself to reflect brightness. To make a super powered flashlight from a single flickering candle.

She’s bright and warm in all the ways that aren’t misleading aesthetics. She can’t help how she looks, but she dresses in bright colors that look neon on her. She acts the part and in all the ways she controls her looks, she looks it too.

She is the sun. Simple. Undebatable.

Pearl is not Icarus.

She is not easily drawn in by simple promises and warmth that’s so often fleeting. She grew up in cages of ice and she won’t melt at the first sign of warmth.

Winter was eternal and summer was temporary.

“‘Melia,” Pearl says, a nearly inaudible quiver to her voice. She means to continue after that, to say her request all at once and confidently, but she freezes.

(It’s all she’s ever done.)

The bright brunette before her is attentive and hears the call of her name in the midst of her rant about inconsistent characters and lackluster plot lines. She halts her passion to hear what her friend has to say. “Yeah?”

Her eyes are glimmering like a moonlit pond and if Pearl swung that way (she doesn’t), she’d be in trouble. Big, big trouble. It was effortless to fall into those eyes, to get sucked into the riptide and not care whether or not you drowned.

Pearl hears the sick amused laugh of her mother ringing in her ears. “Can we talk about something else?” Her heart is pounding, racing, and she’s preemptively hearing taunts her mother has thrown out a thousand times before.

Amelia’s eyes flicker, a few of the stars dying in a supernova. “Oh.” Her expression’s shift is slight, but stark. “Yeah, sure.” Her lips lift after, a smile, but this one doesn’t spread any warmth, doesn’t niggle at something in the other girl’s chest, and doesn't light her eyes like usual. “I guess I was rambling, huh?”

She sighs. There’s guilt, now, grappling against her fear. She wasn’t a great listener. She wishes she was, wishes she was the ever-present shoulder and unwavering hand, but her mind has learned to tune out long rambles to avoid the barbs hidden in the words. Amelia isn’t malicious like that, of course, but habit is habit and it’s hard to change.

“I’m sorry,” she says, cradling her cup in her hand, warm like Amelia had been before she got greedy and snuffed it out. “It’s just…” she slides her other hand down her face. “I’m having trouble keeping up, everything has been so,” she waves her hand through the air, “muddled, lately.” Choking. Stifling.

Amelia digests the words, pursing her full lips. “Alright. What would you rather we talk about, then?”

Oh, the kindness. Nothing hurts quite like it. Not when she was undeserving of it -- who was she to stop her spiel? Her mind was a whirlwind, true, but that was her issue to deal with. Not Amelia’s.

“Did you see the newest episode of Project Paranormal?”

“Of course!”

Pearl bites the corner of her lip, masking her smile. “Well, I didn’t catch it. Mind giving me the rundown?”

Dramatically, the other girl gapes. “You missed it? After the cliffhanger from the last episode?”

Pearl recalls said cliffhanger. She remembers watching it in the living room on her couch. She winces. “Yeah. I was… busy.” Grounded from TV, more like. Her mother had come home early and seen what her daughter was watching. She didn’t approve.

No daughter of mine will worship the devil, she’d said, practically hissed. The cross at her neck had felt like hellfire then.

That cross is tucked into her pocket now, still burning. (Always burning.)

“Well, you see…” Amelia hops onto the new train of rambling quite quickly — she’s made to talk in that her words are bait on a hook. She draws others in, for better or worse or worst.

Maybe the Icarus comparison isn’t too far off.

Maybe she was already in too deep, over her head and drowning in honey. Sweetness all around, but too much.

What was Icarus’ mistake, anyways? When the sun calls, Apollo’s pretty words and reaching hand, was he supposed to ignore that? God’s attention, no matter how meager or plenty, is not something for a mortal to pass up. Especially a summons. Especially when the sun had been so scarce for him.

He hadn’t really had a choice, in the end, except in how he’d like to go. A mindless plummet into the freezing, or a soaring arch into the smile of a carefree god?

Pearl was quite like Icarus in a lot of ways. If she had to choose between her blood, who were far less sacrificing then Daedalus had been, or her sun, she’d burn too.

There were far more unpleasant things than dying in a fire one chooses.

“You’re kidding,” Pearl gasps, derailing her inner thoughts for the shocking tidbit she just heard (she’s good at multitasking, on some things). “That’s what happened? No shit?”

“Nope. That was how she died.”

“Never would have guessed that. Shit.” She takes a sip of her coffee. “Hey, I’m sorry I’ve been a bit MIA lately.” This is their first time speaking in a couple of weeks -- by far the longest gap of silence they’ve ever had, though it wasn’t all silent and wasn’t preplanned.

The long list of one-sided texts, gray bubbles with read receipts on and no replies, vouches for that. Let’s have a movie night soon! Hey, wanna go to the fair while it’s here? Are you okay? Did something happen? Text me back! Coffee? I miss you <3 Tell me you’re ok. Texts that had gone unanswered.

Texts that had sent Pearl’s parents breathing down her neck.

But she hadn’t been busy, like she’d said she had been when she finally got around to replying. Though she actually had been busy. Fielding questions, praying, going to church, fending off her mother’s paranoia about her daughter turning to the devil, ignoring her father’s disapproval. All of her parent’s overbearingness was unneeded. They were just friends, Amelia and Pearl. Nothing more. And Pearl didn’t swing that way, didn’t daydream about the softness of the other girl’s fingers wrapped in her own or of the gloss shining on her lips. No. She wasn’t gay. That was sinful.

“Hey, it’s cool.” Amelia smiles, radiant and honest. Pearl feels the guilt again.

Liars will burn in the lake of fire and sulfur.

She was lying. She actually… kind of really did like Amelia. Like Icarus did Apollo, like Juliet did Romeo.

She sips her drink again, wishes it was still hot enough to scald her tongue. “Go ahead and tell me about the other thing.”

“You sure?”

She nods. She can sit through an hour’s worth of what’s drivel to her but gold to the other. Sacrifice. Small things. She can handle listening to the other girl’s joy if she must. One day, she may even actually follow through on one of the thousand book recommendations she’s received. She’s not a reader, finds it hard to focus on something utterly silent and blocked with words, but maybe she’ll try one day. One day when she’ll be living on her own, out of her parent’s toxicity. One day when she’ll be free to watch whatever she wants. One day when she can…

Well, the future was the future. Not here. Unpredictable. Subject to whims. Bound to change drastically from tiny choices, a butterfly’s wings. But there were some certainties.

Pearl and Amelia would stay friends. Amelia will always ramble on about her books while the other listens with more amusement and fondness than any real interest in the topic. They will drink coffee and stay at each other’s side, together.

As friends, obviously. At least at first.

But until then, there was today. Coffee and friends and a rambling she doesn’t care about (same as the future, except here there are no touches that blatantly linger).

One day things would be different. But today was pretty good.

*****

At some point this month, I’ll add a Creatober section and throw everything I manage to do there. Don’t hate me if I don’t manage all 31 prompts?

#gtpatcreatober #my writing #writeblr #writing #prompt fill #creatober #nikkywrites #tw religion #tw toxic parents #oc amelia #oc pearl #i do prompts kind of abstractly sometimes and i hate it #because i feel like i didnt do it right #but prompts are meant to get you started #and that's my excuse #im sticking to it #it got me writing 1500 words almost so thats what imma focus on #not the prompt veering

[la-nightraine]

writing my june song

I've been writing songs for seven years, sometimes I write one once a month, but I don't think I've ever before been so proud of a song I made to the point where I have to write about it online. I wish I could simply share the audio, but I'm still figuring out how to produce my songs into reality (also I ain't confident with my voice yet; also I don't have a proper instrument and a good recording device and space).

Anyway, the song title is Icarus Underwater.

Let me start with the inspiration--I was listening to Corpse Husband's new music release: a one-hour loop of this lofi song which faintly goes "I fall for you, full circle" in the background. No, literally the title of the official YouTube vid is "CORPSE Singing in a High Pitched Voiced for 1 Hour" and the video accompaniment is a high-def GIF thingy of Corpse standing in the middle of the ocean with a giant wave building up and about to crash him. Except, it doesn't crash onto him and just keeps building up for the whole hour. Now if you'll check the comments under it, you'll see different stories by people who needed to release something aided by that song. And I, too, had some feelings and tears to release while listening to the entirety of that 1 hour song for the first time.

I realized that everything that makes my college life insufferable is my biggest regret: choosing the wrong course and possibly the wrong school as well. Every time something wrong happens, my mind automatically blames it to the fact that I didn't choose the course that I really want. I wanted to blame my mom for making me think that the course I want won't lead anywhere unlike the one she wants for me, but in the end I made the decision when I could've easily told her otherwise. It's been two years since then. My batchmates are about to choose their majors, while I'm failing subjects here and there, essentially stuck in the middle of my first and second years, unable to shift out or transfer.

Well enough about my story, I wrote a song about these feelings. The first thing that came to my mind was the phrase "drowning in these thoughts", then I remembered that I have a big fear of drowning (I'm not aquaphobic, but the thought of dying by drowning triggers my anxiety). It got a little graphic in my head but instead of making things worse, it helped me visualize these feelings which was easier to write about. I wrote about sinking to the depths of the ocean with no anchor to guide you back to the surface, everything in your sight gradually losing color, the big bright sky fading in the distance, the water freezing you to death, but you don't totally die like those shipwrecks that remained intact as if they were frozen in time...

That's when I decided to give the song a temporary title called "Icarus Underwater". It was temporary until I reflected upon the story of Icarus, the son of Daedalus. The crafty father created wings for them to escape the Labyrinth where they were trapped, and Daedalus specifically instructed Icarus not to fly too close to the sun nor the sea. But because the idea of flying was thrilling, Icarus flew a little too high, got the wings broken, fell to the sea and drowned. Now one of the things I love about assessing stories is looking at its tone in the ending and post-ending, which I've been mistakenly calling the "aftertone". And I think the "aftertone" of this story is regret, but we mostly see it in the perspective of Daedalus. What about Icarus? I'm pretty sure his dying thoughts were of regrets, too.

Additionally, what if just like in most Greek myths his soul remained stuck there at the bottom of the ocean with his corpse, watching it decay and over time witnessing other things sink and die, while the world above moved on. Mixing in that perspective of Icarus with my own thoughts, I came up with the song and officially titled it such. It was supposed to maintain that tone for the rest of the song, but the next day I figured it should at least end with a somehow positive tone, so I inserted a half-verse to close the song that denotes a wishful thinking of finally washing up ashore from the depths in a thousand years' time.

I'm afraid to post the whole lyrics online without audio accompaniment just in case someone steals it as their own (worst case: they put a different tone over it and just ruins the whole thing). So I'll just share like 4 lines that I'm proud of coming up with.

* "Lately all of my waking lights / were just one monochrome morning"

* "They said cherish your present life / 'cause future comes and the past won't be around / Now what would I do if I was stuck in time?"

* "Shipwrecks don't always have chests / sometimes, they reek with sharks and regrets / And not every glitter you see is gold / sometimes, they're tears of the untold"

* "Not everything that survived needs to be glorified / I doubt Daedalus thanked the gods it wasn't him who died / He knows his tears would never reach Icarus underwater"

I guess that's all I gotta share about writing my June 2021 song! And I hope soon enough I'll finally be able to release it to the world and share it with anyone who feels the same.

#music #songwriting #original song #regrets #daedalus and icarus #stuck in time #june 2021 #aftertone #la nightraine #icarus underwater

[koostory]

001.  writing sample (long) / jeon jungkook x reader

There sits a portrait in the atrium of his heart.  A lovely thing, a lonely thing, painted in the shades of your smile, the rouge of your lipstick, the studded dark of your stare.  It never gathers dust, prim and pristine, carefully tended to with an adoration that sinks sunbeams into the shadows, sweeps cobwebs away on moth wings.  

It’d once been blocked off, locked with a skeleton key, brass tucked behind the cage of his ribs.  He’d guarded it like a three-headed dog, barked and bayed and keened quiet in the night when no one else was around.  No one enter, he’d said, full of fear, skin of his hands hardened and rough and purpled.  The flesh of a fig, hardy and thick, protecting a centre soft and chewy and terribly sweet as it stuck to teeth.  

He’d never been bitter - never the harsh white pith of a lemon, never tart like the yellow that burst forth and stung - but he’d been something else.  Cautious, worried, scared.  Full of love but with nowhere for it to go, overripe and inedible from years of hanging on the limbs of trees left to rot.

And then you’d appeared.  Shot across his sky like a comet, brilliant and beautiful and fluorescent, lighting up his life like the burst of a supernova.

You’d drenched all the grey in technicolour, turned paper leaves green, spilled colour into his cheeks.  Made them rudied red and full of life, warm warm warm in the curl of your palms, scorching coals under the weight of your kisses.  Filled all his cracks with the silver quality of your laughter, honeycomb smile turned gold filigree to piece back all the fragments.

So of course he’d showered you in affection, appeared with an armful of flowers and a smile that rivalled the sun.  “Happy Valentine’s day,”  he’d hummed, a heart full of hope, hands full of freesias and white roses and enough baby’s breath to take yours away.  He thought you’d love it - like you loved him, with unashamed adoration and lines at your eyes, brow creasing with delight.  But you’d only blinked once, twice, with a polite turn of your chin, a knife slipped between his ribs and pressed, too gentle for purpose.

You’d smiled and shook your head, caught a petal between your fingers and dipped your nose to the leaves.  Inhaled deep and pure and then continued on, moved along, already miles away by the time he’d caught up.  

“Don’t you like them?”  He’d asked, doubt creeping up, twining around his lungs like a rose bush, heavy with thorns.  They’d pin-pricked his heart, spilled his insides out;  your bandages were nowhere to be found, no chiming bells or liquid gold in sight.  It’d beat for you, in time with you, one to one for each of your own.  It’d stuttered and tripped, caught on its own too feet, overeager and delirious.  “The girl who helped me said freesias symbolise trust and baby’s breath mean love and—”

“They’re lovely.”  

Maybe you’d meant it, for the briefest of moments, in the quiet before you’d crossed the threshold, before you’d swung open the door and turned his efforts to ash.  Surely you’d appreciated them - him.  Surely you never intended to hurt him the way you had.  

“But they’re kind of a waste.”

A heart is a well of impossible depths, an abyss of contradictions and contrived notions.  Even the brightest of rays do little to penetrate its darkness.  Moonlight filters over the surface in ripples and waves, undefined and blurred.  Thoughts without end and often without start.  

He supposes he can’t help the way he feels, how his shoulders turn stiff beneath your touch, the set of his mouth worn and sagging, a poorly strung noose tying his lips up.  (It feels more like the thing around his neck, tattered and heavy, a reminder of all the reasons the door had been better left shut, sealed.)

“What’s wrong?”  You’re a birdsong in his ear, lilting and lovely, impossible to ignore.  You hold him in your hands and press kisses to his throat, sear stardust beneath skin, and hum in hopes of an answer.  He’s stoically silent, a statue fit not for hallowed halls but mausoleums, stone cold and sad.  

Jungkook doesn’t mean for this - for the sorrow that rains down in sheets.  You’re a Monday in May, a winding path speckled with flora, springtime.  His misery will surely suffocate you, tear life from limb with its torrential cast.  

“Nothing,”  he says, through the pristine white cage of his teeth, untruths bleeding past enamel and staining them red.  He speaks them well, well enough to fool anyone else, well enough that his lies are dressed lily white, stunning in their Sunday best.  “Just don’t feel well.”

Hasn’t, since you’d come home, since dinner, since exactly four hours and four minutes ago. 

“Don’t lie.”  It’s not an accusation, baseless and blunt.  It’s coaxing, pleading, whittling away amber, crystallised and hard around the too-soft thing in his chest.  A layer of wax giving way, melted by the warmth of your touch, the fire in your eyes.  Icarus’ wings, hummingbird wings, monarch wings.  Stained glass creaking and cracking beneath the weight of your words.  

“I’m sorry.”

The apology lays itself over crushed velvet, spins itself into silk and twines into strands, a braid twisted over your shoulder.  It settles, indistinguishable from the salt-sweet, his whisper finding a home within the shell of your skin.  He threads his fingers with yours, twists and turns knuckles until they knock awkwardly, unkempt and unsure.  

Your sigh is a salve, soothing ointment spread over scorched earth, dulling the sting.  He still aches all over, from the base of his spine to the top of his head, a rattle in his bones when he brings you close.  It trembles through the both of you, an eruption of emotion felt to the core.  (But still, he feels best when he’s with you.)

“For what?”  

He thinks and thinks, works himself into a knot he doesn’t know how to unfasten.  It coils in the centre of his chest, a slipknot he’s tied wrong, whose tail has been folded in on itself.  He grasps at frayed rope, seeks aimlessly for the answer.  A tidal wave of emotion sweeps high above his head, an unnamed terror that threatens to upend his rowboat.  He settles as the sea does, in breaks and luls that belie something far worse, in a voice small as a drop in the ocean.  “For being too much.”

“Jungkook.”  The way your voice breaks hits like a thousand pounds, an assault to the back of his knees, a shot to the vulnerable soft of his gut.  A sound whines out - another apology - and you swallow it whole, take it in and turn it around, offering tenderness in its wake.  “You’re never too much.”

He believes you.  He swears he does, even if the words come tumbling out, glass too full to hold them all.  “You didn’t like the flowers.”

“So what?”  You cradle him careful with magic hands, understanding threaded between each digit.  You hold him tight even as he threatens to run away, can’t keep the skip of his stare from doing so.  “I don’t need flowers.  I don’t need gifts.”  (Not the jewels he’d laid in your lap, stamped with an interlocked ‘C’ and nestled within pristine white tissue.  Not the flowers that’d poured onto every surface of his apartment, a mountain of blooms with typewritten cards nestled amongst stems.  Not the five course meal he’d ordered in, because love and devotion didn’t translate into a masterclass in cooking.)  “All I wanted for Valentine’s Day was you.”

Something he’s never heard before.  Less an excuse and more akin to you’re enough, echoed in the quiet, repeated in a daisy chain that attaches itself to the end of his thoughts and undoes all the sadness.  That unravels him in a single fluid motion and has him melting against you, leaking love from all his undone seams.

“I’m sorry.”  This time, he means it as thank you.

“Me too.”  And you mean it as I love you.

#sample.zip

[irisbleufic]

(via https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7kdwvJGR8gr1f6PESZr9h6?si=DbQYunR4TeWwf95bQi_T2g)

Hey, Gotham anon: instead of answering your ask about what Ecco, Ivy, Jerome, and Five were listening to on the radio or on mixtapes in “Dog Days” at the end of Come As You Are, I’ve built a playlist of what I was listening to while I was working on the fic.  I feel like it plays even better than the other J5 and/or Wayleska mixtapes I’ve made (there are two previous ones, also on my Spotify, accessible above).

Here are snippets of lyrics from each of the songs, in case you’re curious...

“Pretty Little Head” - Eliza Rickman

Hook, line, and sinker, drop it down to the bottom Butterfly, float, flicker, soar to the top Kill for the thrill, cut it, stick it where you got him Circle rollin' under, runnin' red to the stop

Where's your mother? Fall down dead Dirty mind, dirty mouth, pretty little head I wish you were here, I wish you'd make my bed Dirty mind, dirty mouth, pretty little head

“Revolution Lover” - Left at London

You know, I know that your hope's been missin' I know we both coulda almost died I know it's harder everyday to provide But it's gonna change, I can feel it comin' And when it's here, we’ll be side-by-side I know we'll make it out of this one alive

And we'll be alright Revolution lover And we'll be alright Revolution lover

“Astronaut” - Amanda Palmer

And is it getting harder to pretend That life goes on without you in the wake And can you see the means without the end In the random frantic action that we take

And is it getting easy not to care Despite the many rings around your name It isn't funny and it isn't fair You've traveled all this way and it's the same

But you are, my love, the astronaut Flying in the face of science I will gladly stay an afterthought Just bring back some nice reminders

“Great Vacation” - Dirt Poor Robins

We are all guilty of importance (Playing life is hard) Borrow money and a Porsche (Stealing poorly from afar) But we want it We need attention here Or else we're just like everybody else Is that wrong?

Romans and countrymen, please lend me your ears There's some late-breaking news I know you'd like to hear But the papers won't print it And the TVs just won't air Nobody gets the word 'Cause there's nobody there (There's no one)

“Icarus” - Jason Webley

I wake up every morning To the sound of motors roaring They are drowning out the voices in my head At night while I am sleeping I can hear the angels speaking But I can't recall a single thing they said

I see their lips move clearly I feel their presence near me But each word they try to tell me just slips through the cracks I push, I strain, I wrestle with my brain And then a voice from somewhere whispers to relax

“Beneath the Brine” - The Family Crest

Oh, young love of mine She sleeps beneath the brine And oh the sound, the tick The weighty click of her heart against my spine

Now the dark is nigh And she lays here at my side But like a steady squall Her arms they fall and her legs, they grasp me tight

“Your Best American Girl” - Mitski

Your mother wouldn't approve of how my mother raised me But I do, I think I do And you're an all-American boy I guess I couldn't help trying to be your best American girl

You're the one You're all I ever wanted I think I'll regret this

“Ghosting” - Mother Mother

I've been ghosting, I've been ghosting along Ghost in your house, ghost in your arms When you're tossing, when you turn in your sleep It's because I'm ghosting your dreams

And this is why I have decided To pull these old white sheets from my head I'll leave them folded neat and tidy So that you'll know I'm out of hiding

“This Too Shall Pass” - Danny Schmidt

We think too big We think our self is one whole thing And we claim that this collection Has a name and is a being But deep inside When every cell divides Well, it sets upon the rule that states Self-interest is divine

“Starchild” - Ghost Quartet

I will light myself on fire It's time to get out of bed And be the starchild I can be

A billion light years away Someone's thinking the same thing But he's already turned to dust And the starlight I see Is a billion light years old A ghost just like the rest of us

“Heaven or Las Vegas” - Cocteau Twins

Singing of a famous street I want to love, I've all the wrong glory But is it Heaven or Las Vegas? But you're much more brighter than the sun is to me

Reaching this itch in my soul Is like any good playing card Must be why I'm thinking of Las Vegas Why it's more brighter than the sun is to me

Carnivals are bluster loud I'm dizzy so I go under the 'Big Dipper' Cum fantasy for a carnival How fitting before a wedding

“Under the Rainbow” - The Jane Austen Argument

My brain is made of straw And my heart was forged from tin My courage, although fierce, it is endangered My sunflowers still grow Though my monkeys have no wings My path is paved in gold and filled with strangers And the city made of green Was a mirage filled with diversions You notice when the smoke has cleared away That that wizard was a hoax And this old witch is scared of water And home is always just three clicks away

#jerome valeska #514a #wayleska #ivy x ecco #gotham

[dropsofvanilla]

Rays

Flutter, reflect, glide.

Those god forsaken wings.

Their master rips apart clouds to leave currents of wind behind to search, and to touch. To feel that somewhere.

Somewhere? The sky.

The wisps of white coating the pastel blue are too harmful, cutting on his feathers, leaving the softness to touch our cheeks.

And we stand aghast at the heavenly descendant that dared to disregard words from wise lips, to go far beyond.

They don’t serve him well. Those farce of silvery white that coat his back, and it makes me angry.

How dare he defy his own being? His own soul that has been left behind for irrationally rational thoughts that his mind can offer? How dare he defy the numbness that course through his veins, but the after effect leaving fire behind?

But yet still, like all of those silly humans who always look up, I see him, probably genuinely for the first time.

And how wrong I was.

He commands them, the ambrosia flowing, raw being in his bones, the fluidity in his muscles,

An off-spring of Helios perhaps?

But yet still his eyes don’t hold the sun. The sun he is forever looking for in a sky of flinching words. No, he is no son favored by the gods.

It is perhaps, quite the opposite, an Icarus maybe.

And the day his wings melt, I worry for that day. When I’ll no longer be able to see him delicately perch on the summer breeze.

He hurts. I know. He bleeds. I know. He holds a certain depth. I know. Does he know what he is doing? To himself? I don’t.

And for days I pray, to keep him alive.

One mid-summer, I see him no more, where has he gone? And I find out, from whispers of the elders, from people he refused to get tied down with.

He reached the sun.

Did the wings melt?

My eyes constantly search for a silver lining, and in a moment consisted of a thousands of seconds, I see them in a winter storm.

Smooth, rich, bright. Commanding. Russet brown with flecks of vibrant gold.

Eyes the Gods refused to acknowledge, the same eyes that I later learnt, vanquished their ignorant notions of no one reaching them.

And I realized he had come closer to the ground and I felt scared.

‘Go back’ I tell him.

‘Where?’ He asks.

‘Back to where the stars sing for you, you’re far too bright for this earth.’

He laughs, and I feel small.

‘I don’t see the same things as you see. Tell me about them.’

And I don’t understand, but I still speak.

I talk to him about the silent respectful gazes, flashes of envy trying to cut him, how in no way is he blessed.

And after I finish he looks up to say,

‘Are they enough though?’

I realize that this creature is flawed to an extent where he is almost human, but not quite. We are fickle creatures, a majority don’t get what they want to see and whine for the songs they couldn’t hear.

But him.

He never, for one second, stayed. And I wish I hadn’t seen him with rose-colored glasses. I took them off.

And oh lords, how littered he is with scars.

But those eyes, those eyes don’t speak of them. And I ask.

‘Did your eyes finally grace the sun? I heard.’

He hummed and for some reason grinned.

‘No, but I looked at my rays.’

I didn’t understand but he smiled some more and told me,

‘You remember? When my feathers stopped growing, I stopped by? You sat and spoke to me, even though I was so ugly then.’

My breath caught in my throat.

‘You always saw what others, or in fact, even I could not see. I wanted to see what you saw. And you know what? I did.’

His soul ghosted over me, enveloping me with something so foreign, I couldn’t comprehend it.

‘My eyes changed somehow.’

‘They’re prettier.’

‘Oh?’

‘They reflect the rays now, the real ones.’

And he stopped at that and chuckled, his eyes glowed, I shied away.

I realize he is no Icarus either. So many mistakes from my side, and I know he is forgiving, but guilt still scratched of how terribly I had seen him.

He is human, he is celestial not for his blood but the golden nectar he had drunk. The golden nectar he had harvested to get a vision picked out from a dream.

To tie down Gods, to tear apart legions, to command men who don’t have gazes of spite, that is a power everyone wishes for.

I realize, among us, how lucky he is.

What is ethereal is not his being.

But the hand-picked legacy he lives made real by his own thoughts.

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