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dandelion-turtle · 3 years

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Hyakinthos

Hyakinthos was a Spartan prince, most prominently known in Amyclae with a decent cult following. there are a couple of different people listed as being his parents, but the most popular is King Amyclus and Diomedes. if Amyclus was his father, that would also make Daphne, another of Apollo’s lovers, Hyakinthos’s sister. it seems like he would be quite simple, he has a relatively small story with one of the earliest written records from Hesiod. in this version there is no love rival, just an accident. written in the 7th century BC, it was merely one, albeit long, sentence.

”. . ((lacuna)) rich-tressed Diomede; and she bare Hyakinthos (Hyacinthus), the blameless one and strong . . ((lacuna)) whom, on a time Phoibos (Phoebus) [Apollon] himself slew unwittingly with a ruthless disk.”

however, the most famous version, and one that most will know, comes from Ovid’s Metamorphosis. written somewhere between the 1st century BC and 1st century AD, this sentence long story grew to be paragraphs long. in which Ovid describes the love Apollo and Hyakinthos have for each other — which was the ultimate demise for the young prince. with parts of it coming from the perspective of a mourning Apollo, Ovid writes how Hyakinthos was turned into a flower with “ai, ai” written on the petals to express Apollo’s sadness. and the version that we all have come to know including betrayal and jealous rage from Zephyros (the West Wind), is hinted at in Pausanias’ “Description of Greece”.

”[In the temple of Apollon at Amyklai (Amyclae) Nikias (Nicias) [painter fl. c. 320 B.C.], son of Nikomedes, has painted him [Hyakinthos (Hyacinthus)] in the very prime of youthful beauty, hinting at the love of Apollon for Hyakinthos of which legend tells . . . As for Zephyros (the West Wind), how Apollon unintentionally killed Hyakinthos, and the story of the flower, we must be content with the legends, although perhaps they are not true history.”

despite this seemingly clear-cut story, there’s a lot more than meets the eye with Hyakinthos. according to many historians the -nth part of his name is pre-Hellenic and comes from the Mycenaean era. another word like that would be Corinth — a pre-Greek polis that was destroyed and rebuilt. this leads many to believe that Hyakinthos was around BEFORE Apollo. he would have been a chthonic vegetation god — almost like the male equivalent to Persephone. this leads to a few different theories, but before I get to that, let me tell you the story of Hyakinthos as told by Ovid and Lucian’s “Dialogues of the Gods”. ═══════════════════════════

⊰ The Myth ⊱

Hyakinthos was a beautiful Spartan prince. he had many lovers, but the one that had eventually won his heart was Apollo. the god taught beautiful long-haired Hyakinthos how to play the lyre, how to use a bow and arrows, a little bit on prophecies, and gave him a swan chariot. the two were incredibly in love, but sadly, there was someone who didn’t like that. Zephyros, the west wind, was jealous for he too loved Hyakinthos. he had tried to woo him but it really was no match for Apollo. he watched the two men play again and again until he had eventually had enough of it. he ultimately created one of the most tragic love stories. like most days, Apollo and Hyakinthos were together, playing around and having mild competitions throwing a discus. Apollo wanted to show off for Hyakinthos so he could see just what a god could do. he threw a discus high into the air, clearing the clouds away and it disappeared into the sky. Hyakinthos wanted to impress his lover as well, so he chased after the discus laughing. Zephyros in a fit of rage at the two men enjoying themselves changed the course of the discus. as it came to land, the force was so strong that it bounced off the ground and smashed into Hyakinthos’s face. Apollo ran to his lover and tried every kind of medicine and healing he could think of. he even placed ambrosia on his lover’s lips but blood flowed freely from the wound. there was no way for him to stop a wound of Fate. in his despair, he turned Hyakinthos into a flower, but seeing that wasn’t good enough, he wrote his grief upon the petals. ═══════════════════════════

⊰ Symbolism From The Myth ⊱

Taking A Temple as mentioned before, it’s very likely that Hyakinthos was an older deity from the pre-hellenic period. something that many Greek writers did, was create a myth of how a deity began their worship in a specific place. we know the temple that Apollo was worshipped at in Amyclae was older than when his worship would have started. one theory behind this myth then, is how Apollo came to be worshipped over Hyakinthos at the temple and area; by killing the previous deity. it sounds sad, but it’s actually happened several times, and even with Apollo specifically. the most famous example I can think of would be at Delphi. originally the temple was in honor of the titan Gaia. Apollo came in valiantly and killed the Python (which is what gives Apollo’s priestesses their name) and inevitably took the temple over with his worship. what this doesn’t account for, is the fact Hyakinthos is still worshipped at the temple heavily, his and Apollo’s worship having mingled and being near inseparable. it is even said that upon his death and burial, Apollo said to give him (Hyakinthos) all offerings first. now, if you know a thing or two about Greek worship, the first portion of the offering was incredibly important, especially considering hero worship was probably closer to chthonic sacrifices in practice; though they were not considered to be ‘dead’. within my research so far, I have yet to find this happening somewhere else, but I will update this if I ever do. now all of this is unusual with the theory that this myth symbolizes one deity taking over. if that were the case, why continue to worship Hyakinthos? Duality some of you may not know this about me, but I am a sucker when it comes to duality, specifically with lovers. this myth may be a symbol for the growing season and harvest of the crops. while it may be a common motif, especially among the Greeks, I think it’s a sweet and somber story giving personification to an important aspect of Greek life. I also believe the duality is less about the exacts of what they rule over, but the way they were worshipped. the closest example I can think of also comes from Delphi with the duality between Apollo and Dionysos (who, shockingly enough, was the only other god historians believe was present during the Hyakinthia festival besides Apollo and Hyakinthos). as a hero, or simply for his chthonic aspect, the ritual and practice would have been far different than that for Apollo. while this isn’t exactly backed by anything I can find specific to duality, I personally feel a reason both Apollo and Hyakinthos were worshipped together in Amyclae is due to that duality between them. Hyakinthos would have been a chthonic deity probably for vegetation or agriculture, whereas Apollo here is a god of light (not the sun) representing life, health, and the ultimate grief. their worship in Amyclae was always together once Apollo was introduced (to some this hinted that they were possibly the same person representing a cycle, but most disagree with this theory). the duality is clearly a theme already for Apollo, and I think what happened at Delphi with Dionysos is the same for Amyclae and Hyakinthos. together they represent loss and mourning but also happiness and life — love. ═══════════════════════════

⊰ Hyakinthos Associations ⊱

okay, now that I have bored you all to death, let’s talk about some less heavy things. due to their worship being completely together, I would say that nearly anything related to Apollo can also be associated with Hyakinthos and vice versa. however, we love individuality in this house, so let’s talk about the things either associated with him through the various, limited texts we have and some UPG. Associations ➳ larkspurs/hyacinths ➳ swans ➳ bow and arrow ➳ summer! ➳ new spring growth ➳ chiton’s (they were offered to him by the women of Sparta) ➳ death ➳ rebirth/cycles ➳ chariot’s ➳ blood ➳ blue/purple/red colors ➳ discus (sorry) ➳ lavender ➳ lyre ➳ lapis lazuli ➳ amethyst ➳ black tourmaline ═══════════════════════════ Devotional Activities ➳ keeping a garden ➳ maybe even an indoor garden ➳ go to parks and feed the swans/birds ➳ archery ➳ sports ➳ making a chiton ➳ writing poems ➳ taking care of those around you ➳ growing larkspurs/hyacinths ➳ get a devotional journal ➳ create a playlist (sad songs for the most part) ➳ fall in love deeply ═══════════════════════════

⊰ Deity Or Divine Hero? ⊱

I don’t know if this question can be answered for a fact honestly. what we do know is that he was at least worshipped as a hero, that much can be said. anything further than that comes at a later time and from the outside perspective. a lot of ancient Greek writers didn’t write down certain things because they saw them as common knowledge. this doesn’t help us looking back now. what we can say, is that some of the offerings given to him were not common with hero worship and would have been reserved for the gods. this is according to Angeliki Petropoulou, a professor in ancient greek studies/religion, and the author of “Hyakinthos and Apollo of Amyklai: Identities and Cults. A Reconsideration of the Written Evidence” pages 153-161. Within this, she makes the argument that Hyakinthos has gone through ‘apotheosis’. this is the action of a mortal, usually a hero, becoming a god. note: ‘βουθυσία’ is a traditional oxen sacrifice.

“The βουθυσία for Hyakinthos, which is indicative of his new immortal status, should be placed on the third day too. Oxen are costly victims, the bull being the most “noble” sacrificial animal. After mourning for Hyakinthos’s death and making a propitiatory sacrifice at his tomb, they honoured him with a bull sacrificed as if to a god. Yet the geographical range in which he was regarded as god was rather circumscribed and did not spread beyond the borders of Lakedaimonia. The βουθυσία for Hyakinthos would have been instituted after the construction of the altar on which Apollo received sacrifices; for the only altar excavated, in an area filled with remnants of burnt sacrifices, is attributed to Apollo.”

so there you have it. most places will probably call him a hero, and that wouldn’t be wrong. others may call him a deity, which also isn’t wrong. I’ll tell you what I’m personally going to go with, and everyone can make their own decision based on the information listed through this post and the readings I’ll link at the bottom. no matter your conclusion, the relationship you have will be completely yours, and it’s ok! if anything, I encourage that over taking my word for it. ══════════════════════════ for me, I think I consider him a deity. I know that I heavily romanticize the story, and with Apollo being so near to my heart, him having a terrible love life hurts my soul. while I don’t exactly want to rewrite any myths, I won’t claim that they are married, I will say that I believe them to be happy. their worship in Amyclae was so intertwined and based completely around each other from the history we know, that, for me, it makes sense to also honor them together. I’ll leave you all on one more incredibly sad quote from Lucien’s “Dialogue of the Gods” (that I referenced from earlier).

”Apollon : Well, my loves never prosper; Daphne and Hyakinthos (Hyacinthus) were my great passions; she so detested me that being turned to a tree was more attractive than I; and him I killed with a quoit. Nothing is left me of them but wreaths of their leaves and flowers.”

it’s ok to cry, I do nearly every time I read that.

⊰ For Further Reading ⊱

➳Hyakinthos theoi ➳Apollo theoi ➳Hyakinthos Wiki ➳My Hellenic Research Google Drive this also contains the Sparta book I reference and a few others worth a read.

#mine #greek #greek gods #greek mythology #greek paganism #hellenism #pagan #apollo #hyakinthos #greek pagan #theoi

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filipinoizukuu · 3 years

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Pls share about the Gospel of Judas 👀

, im SO glad someone asked because this topic is nigh always pingponging around in my head and the fact i get to ramble about it means the WORLD to me. TW ahead for canon-typical violence, gore, and other such discussions of all that fun heretical stuff!

Now, to preface this, I just wanted to say that I’m not a licensed professional in anything related to theology nor religion nor historical artifacts. I am. as we all are deep down inside, a simple teenager with ridiculous hyper-fixations and a vast ocean of random information that will not be of any importance to my career or home life whatsoever. Easily, many of the things I talk about could either be wrong or debunked, but I will try my best to explain the Book of Judas as I understood it.

Among the many books that make up what we know as the Bible today, there were various seemingly ‘missing perspectives’ and inconsistencies that existed between gospels. One of the reasons for this was the fact that the Bible in and of itself was a compiled work that was originally recorded years after the oral tradition had passed. What is or isn’t ‘canon’ often depended on the rulings of past Popes who worked with historians to determine the authenticity of ancient artifacts that either proved or contested the canonical teachings of the Bible--one of the more popular debunked samples being The Shroud of Turin, which while being ruled as a fake by Pope Clement the VII a long time ago, still has its authenticity being debated until today.

It’s important to remember that the canon status of ancient artifacts. while somewhat reliant on Papal confirmation, can sometimes be contested and interpreted to each individual’s discretion.

And among all of these artifacts, there is my favorite one of all--The Book of Judas. Now, factually speaking, the Gospel of Judas was written in (somewhere between 2 to) 5 A.D., not actually that farfetched considering that only in 1 A.D. was the first version of the Bible we know today written. It was found somewhere in Ancient Egypt but was declared as fiction at some point in 180 A.D. by St. Iranaeus of Lyon. To understand the impact that The Book of Judas would have on the Bible (which, to put it simply, was revolutionary), you’d first have to have a quick review and understanding of who Judas Iscariot was in the gospels that we know today.

Judas was a disciple.

He was one of the 12 disciples that were closest to Jesus and a disciple that most accounts of the story would say actually truly deeply loved him at some point. Judas was, as all memes about Christianity are fond of reminding, also the traitor that eventually chose money and greed over his love for God’s son and turned him in with a kiss in a garden that led to Jesus Christ’s death at the cross.

That is until you read the translations of the Book of Judas.

In the original books--whether it was because he was possessed by the Devil or simply a man who had fallen into greed--Judas was portrayed to be a sinner and a horrible traitor. After his betrayal and Jesus’ eventual death, Judas had then become guilt-ridden and anguished, choosing to end his own life in the Gospel of Matthew and even tarnishing a field with his blood and sins according to St. Luke in Acts.

The Book of Judas, however, CHALLENGES these motives. Instead, it takes what brought all past Christian texts together by changing the portrayal of Judas on its head and putting the previous ‘traitor’ under the light of something else entirely.

According to the Book of Judas, Jesus had asked Judas to betray him.

The 26-page manuscript was a brief retelling of the dynamics we were lead to believe in the story told by the main four books. In the Book of Judas, we were told that the original other 12 disciples were actually quite... foolish. They were described to be sort of arrogant and clueless, constantly misinterpreting and forgetting Jesus’ words because while he was teaching them to be better and to spread the words of God, the disciples were still, at their core, human sinners. The manuscript was believed to have reported that of the disciples that were closest, or at least best tolerated by Jesus--Judas was by far the most understanding of His words.

Judas, in accordance with his book, was the only one who could understand the significance and cryptic lessons behind Jesus’ teachings. Because of this, Jesus knew he was the only capable one to serve him in what was to come.

You see, part of the prophecy was that Jesus had to die. He had to suffer and fall for humanity’s sake so that we would be able to be forgiven. As much as it sucks to even think about it, Jesus had come to expect that someone would need to cause his death and hurt him all so that he could fulfill his purpose.

In the end, he thought that death by the hand of an enemy was far worse than a death at the hands of a friend.

During the Last Supper, Jesus approached Judas and placed him into a vision. He placed Judas in a fantastical, wonderful dream where Judas sat facing the house of heaven and saw Jesus. Jesus, who looked at his beloved friend and said: “you will exceed all of them. For you will sacrifice the man that clothes me.” Judas will exceed all of them. And he will sacrifice the man that clothed Jesus.

In this interpretation, Judas was essentially told that he was the one who would finally free Jesus from his physical form. Judas, the supposed traitor disciple, would be the one to fulfill Jesus’ prophecy and thus sacrificed his beloved friend to bring about forgiveness for humanity.

And he understands.

In this manuscript, Judas Iscariot understands the will of God and what he has to do. He understands the weight of his betrayal and what he has to do in order to obey Jesus--so then it isn’t money or fear or anger or evil that motivates him to surrender Jesus to the soldiers but utter obedience and adoration for the Son of God. Judas gives his ‘yes’, knowing that for years and years he will be slandered and labeled as a traitor but at his core, Judas knows that it was not a betrayal to begin with.

So he led the soldiers to Jesus in the garden. He kissed him and let him be taken away and let him die.

This was the official translation approved by BBC and National Geographic according to the original translations done by Stephen Emmel, a Coptic studies professional.

Later on, this interpretation would be challenged by Dr. April DeConick, who claims that the mistreatment and mistranslation of the paper actually told the complete opposite, in the way that the revelation in the Last Supper was not created by Jesus but, in fact, by Judas, who had revealed himself to be the 13th demon of hell. This interpretation, while less popular, served as a direct challenge to the recharacterization BBC and NatGeo had approved of. I don’t really know too much about this debate, but I do know that this second interpretation does exist.

Of course, the original Judas text itself is currently impossible to truly translate to be sure. It was torn and shuffled, put into a freezer, and possibly even missing a few pages (which you can blame Bruce Ferinni for), ultimately making the authentic manuscript really difficult to properly restore.

The takeaway from this whole Book though--whether you accept it as canon or not--is that there were many interpretations and beliefs early Christians and Gnostics had that the time that criticized the way the four main gospels had passed down God’s teachings. People believed what they thought supported their own beliefs and at the end of the day. it's all still just a matter of who we choose to credit.

The real author to the Book of Judas remains anonymous to this day, but I am very glad to have been able to share this with you all :)

not proofread since i did this at like 4 am | x x x

#tw long post #long post tw #gospel of judas #christianity

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pamphletstoinspire · 3 years

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The Father We Need Fr. Paul D. Scalia

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 27, 2020

Most of us know today’s Gospel scene (Lk 2:22-40) as the Fourth Joyful Mystery: The Presentation in the Temple. But it is also one of the Seven Sorrows and Seven Joys of Saint Joseph. His heart is filled with sorrow at Simeon’s prophecy that the Christ Child “is appointed for the fall and rising of many in Israel, and for a sign that is opposed.” At the same time, Joseph rejoices to hear his Son proclaimed as the Lord’s “salvation” and “a light for revelation to the Gentiles, and for glory to…Israel.”

Now, we should all sorrow and rejoice when meditating on this scene. But Joseph experiences this sorrow and joy in a unique manner: as the father of Jesus. Indeed, his experience of this event flows from and points to the reality of his fatherhood.

We often use various qualifiers for Joseph’s fatherhood. Although accurate to an extent, they can also give the impression that his fatherhood was a fiction or make-believe. The term “Earthly Father” suggests a father/son relationship limited to this world. “Foster Father” or “Adoptive Father” both imply that at some point our Lord became Joseph’s son. In fact, Joseph and Mary were legally married at the time of Christ’s conception. So, at no point in our Lord’s life was He not the Son of Joseph.

The Gospels don’t use any qualifiers. Today’s passage refers to Joseph and Mary straightforwardly as Jesus’ “father and mother.” Later, at the finding in the Temple, our Lady herself says, “Behold, your father and I have been looking for you anxiously.” (Lk 2:48) Twice John refers to our Lord simply as “the Son of Joseph.” (Jn 1:45; 6:42) The only qualification in the Gospels is parenthetical: Luke’s mention of Jesus as “the son (as was supposed) of Joseph.” (Lk 3:23) Since this comes immediately after our Lord’s Baptism, it is clearly meant to distinguish Christ’s Father revealed at the Jordan from His father known in Nazareth.

It is fatherhood that Pope Francis emphasizes in Patris Corde, his letter announcing the Year of Saint Joseph (December 8, 2020 through December 8, 2021). And with good reason. As many have observed, the crisis of fatherhood is at the source of our Church’s and our nation’s woes. At the core of the Church’s scandals is the betrayal of spiritual fathers. Our nation’s upheaval is the inevitable result of decades of absent fathers. Mary Eberstadt has called it “the fury of the fatherless.”

Joseph’s fatherhood is a necessary medicine for these ills. But first, we have to get it right. Our failure to appreciate Joseph’s fatherhood lies in our misunderstanding of fatherhood itself. We confine fatherhood to its physical, earthly dimensions; it is the biological siring of a child or perhaps the equipping of the child for success in this world. In fact, the greater part of fatherhood is not begetting a child or training him for worldly success. No, it is the imparting of wisdom, patrimony, and identity.

Precisely because he is not Jesus’ biological father, Joseph calls our attention to the deeper, more important dimension of fatherhood. He did not generate our Lord, nor does he have any worldly means to bestow upon Him. But as the husband of Mary, Joseph is in fact Jesus’ legal father – a designation with much greater meaning in ancient Israel than in our culture. It was Joseph’s duty to raise his Son in the traditions and faith of Israel, to pass on to Him the practices and wisdom of God’s people. Insofar as “Jesus advanced [in] wisdom and age and favor before God and man” (Lk 2:52), it fell to Joseph to teach Him how to pray, to bring Him to the synagogue, and to familiarize Him with scripture.

“We have heard with our ears, O God, our fathers have told us, what deeds thou didst perform in their days, in the days of old.” (Ps 44:1) It is wonderful to consider Joseph teaching this verse to our Lord, introducing Him to the patrimony of Israel, to what “our fathers have told us.” Those fathers had bestowed an identity on their children, had brought them to know who they were – and were not – in the world and in history. The fidelity of those fathers meant that the Israelites knew themselves as God’s people.

This is precisely what fathers in our culture have failed to do. They might give their children some material wealth and advice on how to get ahead in the world – or at least how to be comfortable. But for decades fathers have failed to give their children their proper identity. They have failed to pass on the patrimony of the West, of our nation, and most of all of Christianity.

This is in large part because those fathers had themselves impiously rejected what came before them. Impiety is sterile. Since the past meant nothing to them; so now they have nothing for the future. Worse still, being orphaned from the past makes one vulnerable in the present. So, what we see in “wokeism” is an orphaned generation, cut off from its patrimony of wisdom and culture, and thus prey to whatever new theories come along.

We have seen the same phenomenon in the Church. Impious priests, for whom the past was meaningless, failed to hand on to generations of Catholics their rightful inheritance of the Church’s teachings and liturgy. So much of our current sickness comes from this disconnect, this forgetfulness of who we are – and who we are not – in the world and in history.

Time to “go to Joseph.” (Gen 41:55) From him, the father of Jesus, we learn the true meaning of fatherhood and the incomparable worth of a man who faithfully fulfills that mission.

#the father we need

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taehyungsgrowl · 3 years

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could you write something angsty with michael or duncan (or both 👀) using “was this all just a game for you?”

y’all know i love making duncan sad so i’m going w my baby dunc for this one just look at him... baby.

like always... italics indicate a memory/time jump i hope that makes sense

warnings: angst, oral (female receiving)

word count: 1,532

Duncan couldn’t look at her. Where he once saw love in her eyes all he could see was a betrayal. Lies. Empty promises.

“What don’t I understand, Y/N? Hm?” he pushed his hair back as he paced back and forth. He was so angry, he thought he was vibrating from it.

“Duncan,” she pleaded.

“Don’t!” he snapped, “Just don’t even fucking bother.”

“How did you find out?” her eyes dropped to her hand - still adorned with the hefty diamond that promised a life full of love with Duncan.

Duncan’s weight shifted on the bed as he rolled on top of her. His bare chest pressed against her. Everything was so quiet. The back of his hand ran down her cheek, caressing it softly, ending the soft touch by grabbing her chin and tilting it up to kiss her.

“You haven’t taken it back yet have you?” he chuckled, searching for her hand. His thumb ran over the ring - still making sure it was secured on her hand.

Y/N rolled her eyes, “Of course not,” she pecked his lips, “I love you,”

“I....” Duncan drew out the word, moving his lips down to her jaw, followed by her back, “love....” he kissed along her collarbones, “you...”

He continued to trail kisses down her bare torso, slowly inching lower and lower. Duncan’s hand found its way between her thighs, feeling her arousal coat his fingers. He smiled into her tummy as he continued his wet trail of kisses.

“Mrs...” he chuckled, his breath tickling her skin. He kissed her pussy, looking up at her through his dark lashes.

“Mmm, not yet,” she laughed easily. The sound that could make even Duncan’s heaviest days feel a million times lighter.

“Not yet,” he repeated, as he moved his lips to her inner thighs, smirking when he noticed her squirming from the anticipation. His words held a double meaning. “But I can’t wait until the day you become my wife.”

And with those words he dipped her head between her thighs and licked down her slit, not letting her get another word in. Whatever thought she had turned to mush as she gave in to the sensation of his tongue on her pussy.

Her fingers found themselves tugging on to Duncan’s locks - her bright diamond a sharp contrast to his dark hair.

“How did I find out?” he barked out a humorless laugh. Beyond the point of heartbreak - Duncan was furious.

“That’s what you decide to go with.. I can’t fucking believe you.” he pinched the bridge of his nose.

Y/N knew it was his telltale for how upset he was. She felt so small. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, she thought. She fucked up and knew nothing she said could make it right.

“But you want to know how I knew,” the word tasted bitter in his mouth, “You were reckless, Y/N” his voice echoed through the kitchen they stood in. “They saw you,” he shrugged, referencing the story his friends shared of seeing her with another man. “Couldn’t even have been a discreet enough whore and not been caught,” the venom spilled out of his mouth with that one. But he was too angry to care. Even when she winced at the word, he couldn’t bring himself to take it back.

Duncan’s oldest friend and colleague stood at the door to his office. “Duncan, do you have a moment?”

“Yeah, come on in,” Duncan closed his laptop as his friend closed the door behind him and took a seat across from Duncan.

“So, what’s up?” Duncan tidied up the papers on his desk.

His friend sighed, “Listen,” he looked so nervous - but he knew it needed to be said, “I guess there's no easy way to say this so I’m just going to say it.”

“Woah,” Duncan laughed easily, not taking the gravity of his friends tone, “I’m happily taken,” he joked.

His friend winced - did anyone really enjoy being the bearer of bad news?

“Duncan, this is serious,” he sighed heavily. “I think Y/N is cheating on you.”

Duncan’s smirk dropped from his face. “You’re being ridiculous. Why would you say that?” Duncan frowned.

“I wish I didn’t have to tell you, man. Eric and I were at lunch and I saw her! She kissed another man before they had lunch a few tables away. And,” he met Duncan’s eyes, “They walked into the hotel together. This was maybe 40 minutes ago - you can check if don’t believe me. Or talk to her, I don’t know! I just... couldn’t go on without telling you what I saw.”

Duncan felt like he was frozen.

“Dunc?”

His felt a lump in his throat. He didn’t know how to explain it, but - his instincts told him his friend was telling the truth.

Duncan opened his laptop, pulling up the Find my iPhone feature. The loading circle seemed to be taunting him as it turned and turned, pin pointing Y/N’s location.

Sure enough, she was at the hotel his friend said.

In an angry fit, he pushed the papers off his desk. There had to be an explanation.

“Duncan..”

“I just need a fucking minute!”

He nodded and left Duncan alone.

Duncan started to call. And text. And call again.

Baby, pls call me Call me Y/N?

Not one response.

He couldn’t be at the office anymore with his mind swirling with ideas.

He went home and waited.

Fuck, Y/N thought, seeing Duncan’s car. He was never home this early. She looked in the rearview mirror, making sure her makeup looked okay before she headed inside.

“Hey, babe! You’re home early! I just saw your messages. I was thinking we could go to dinner out in Midtown tonight?” she chattered along, putting her things away, not once looking directly at Duncan.

It wasn’t until she felt the utter stillness of the room that she realized something was wrong.

The look on his face said it all.

He knows.

Her heart dropped to her stomach.

“Babe? Is everything okay?”

“I don’t know Y/N. Is it?” his deep stare made her feel such shame. “Where were you? And for the love of god, please don’t lie to me.”

Tears started to fall down her face. She knew he knew.

“I’m sorry.” she cried.

“For what?” his teeth were clenched now.

“Don’t make me say it.” she pleaded. She reached out to touch him, but he flinched away.

“For godsake, Y/N!” he hung his head low, “Why? Why did you? Was I not enough? I fucking trusted you! I love -” he couldn’t finish his words.

“You don’t understand!” she cried.

“Was this just a game to you?” She’d never seen Duncan look at her that way. Disgust colored his tone, “Find some rich sucker to marry you while you continued to screw around?” He shook his head.

“You know it’s not like that, Duncan. I love you.”

“No, Y/N. I don’t know what it’s like because instead of explaining shit you decide to ask how I found out?” Duncan sneered, “Fuck you.”

“If you loved me you wouldn’t have done what you can’t even bring yourself to say,” he continued. “Get out. Two years of us - for nothing. I hope he was worth it, for your sake.”

Duncan stormed off to the guest room not wanting to be near her or the room that held warm memories of them. He couldn’t bring himself to lie down or keep still. He waited. Impatiently, but he waited.

Waited for her to knock on the door - to tell him it was just a joke gone wrong - or at the very least tell him why.

But the knock on the door never came.

He could hear her shuffling around. Every time he heard her sob, he fought himself from running out to hold her. He was too angry. Too hurt.

He tired himself out from crying and eventually fell asleep on the unfamiliar bed.

When he woke again, it was only a quarter past 1:00 AM. The house felt still.

He walked out to see if she were sleeping. The light in the kitchen was still on, but everything else was dark.

Sitting on the counter, he found her ring, the ring of promises he made to her, sitting neatly on top of a blush colored paper, scrawled with her handwriting.

I owe you an explanation - one that’s not just written down. I never meant to hurt you. It was never supposed to be like this. I love you.

Staying with my mom for a few days. Call me. xo

He took the ring in between two fingers recalling the dozens of shops, both vintage and new, he visited in search of the perfect one for her. Something delicate, but strong. Something beautiful that would last forever.

Something he thought represented them.

He dropped the ring on the counter again and traced the words on the paper. Duncan was too tired to think. He was too tired to know if he would call. He found himself on his couch, falling asleep mourning what he’d lost.

okay so i’ve had some writers block for a while and!!! ive been reading old request for some inspiration and this one had me typing away :)

so i hope you guys like it AND i hope it makes sense? sometimes i worry that my time jumps / memories don't translate well when they're typed and that they only make sense in my head?fvjnsrkv

anyway... tagging a few people who are regularly on my taglist + a few that interacted w my post!

@xavierplympton @desertsunflower00 @royalblueviper @dailylangdon @langdonswhoreprobably@rpwithjayn @xavierplymptonstan @spoo-per @wickedlangdon @leatherduncan @plsfuckmelangdon @bitchchatter @beautyiswithinchaos @blakewaterxx @littledemondani @little-grunge-flowerz @lovelylangdonx @sexwon131 @fckinsupreme @prophecy-is-inevitable @shenevertricks1831 @kissme-throughthephone @shyvirgoanon

#duncan shepherd #duncan shepherd x reader #duncan shepherd angst #duncan shepherd smut #cody fern #hoc #Anonymous

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bring-it-all-down · 3 years

Text

I’d like to talk a little bit about why I think Black Sails, while definitely tragic, is NOT a tragedy. Rather, I think that Black Sails ultimately is more hopeful than tragic.

The literary conception of tragedy is divided into two types, Greek and Shakespearean. I’m in no way an expert on tragedy, but broadly speaking, in Greek tragedy, the plot must have unity (it must have a clear beginning, middle, and end) in order for the audience to reach some sort of emotional catharsis. Most importantly, though, the plot must be driven by a character’s pointless struggle to avoid their fate brought on by their hubris (an attempt to become like a god), which has been predetermined (largely from prophesies) and from which they cannot escape. For instance, everything Oedipus attempts to do to escape his fate of killing his father and marrying his mother only draws him closer to that fate.

Shakespearean tragedy, on the other hand, has a less clear beginning and plot, including many subplots that take place over a much longer period of time: it lacks the Greek elements of unity of plot, time, and place. Furthermore, the struggle is driven not by divine prophecy but by a character’s struggle between good and evil; the character is doomed not by an external power but by an internal failing. Thus, while the tragic hero in Greek plays gains full knowledge of the situation by the end, the Shakespearean tragic hero rarely gains self-knowledge. In essence, Greek tragedy is more plot-focused and Shakespearean tragedy is more character-focused.

Although Black Sails has a predetermined end thanks to both Treasure Island and the historical context of piracy, if it was to be a tragedy, it would be a Shakespearean tragedy, not a Greek tragedy. The plot is complex, focusing on a number of characters, and is driven largely by the characters’ internal struggles. However, the show differs in several key ways that ultimately prevent it from being a full tragedy.

Most importantly, Black Sails lacks a real tragic hero, who in Shakespearean tragedy is somebody well-regarded––often a member of the nobility––who is fundamentally a good person, but whose fatal flaw leads to his downfall and the downfall of society at large. As Tom McAlindon puts it in his article, “What is Shakespearean Tragedy?”:

The hero’s fall involves a self-betrayal or loss of identity which constitutes the breakdown in the balance of a richly-endowed nature, one in which feeling is so powerful that it is never far from the point of destructive excess...loosely speaking, then, anger and ambition (including pride, a sense of honor, and the desire for glory), and, on the other hand, love and grief, are the passions whose overflow brings disaster; and it should be stressed that the first pair are to be seen in as positive a light as the second (9-10).

This tragic hero frequently wants to do good, but is blind to the truth of reality, and his initial errors in judgment due to this blindness compound over time, leading to his destruction. Throughout this decline, the ‘hero’ status is maintained through a constant reminder of the environment in which the tragic hero exists; Othello’s paranoia, for instance, is in part a product of the racism in Venetian society. Furthermore, the tragic hero is always juxtaposed by a manipulative figure who knowingly attempts to rouse the hero’s passions for his own gain.

In Black Sails, the person who most closely matches this description is Flint, a high-ranking pirate who commands the respect of his inferiors. Flint certainly is driven by some continuously shifting combination of ambition, love, and grief. His entire project is one dedicated to honoring Thomas’s memory, but it’s also very true that Flint enjoys being in power. He relishes the opportunity to take back command of the Walrus from Dufresne, and as much as he sees his crew as men rather than animals, he absolutely believes himself superior to them. His penchant for murdering those who stand in his way is constantly justified to us through reminders that civilization is even more violent and less discriminating in its use of violence. Furthermore, he is manipulated at times by Silver (though the extent of each other’s knowledge of this is questionable).

This brings us to the question of Flint’s fatal flaw. Unlike with Shakespearean tragic heroes (Romeo’s impulsiveness, Hamlet’s indecision, Macbeth’s ambition), it’s hard to pinpoint a singular flaw for Flint. To be sure, the guy has many flaws: his arrogance, his reticence to trust people, his anger, etc. But it’s difficult to pick out a singular flaw that leads to his demise. In fact, it’s perhaps his abandonment of these flaws that results in his death (“Flint” died, regardless of how you interpret the ending). He trusts Silver, he humbles himself enough to believe himself unworthy of overseeing a post-revolutionary world alongside Madi and Silver, and it’s his love in place of anger that makes it impossible for him to kill Silver. So, ultimately, his fatal flaw is trusting Silver too much, but this is not a flaw that is inherent to him, that he had even from their first meeting.

A second way in which Black Sails differs from Shakespearean tragedy also concerns the ending. In Shakespearean tragedies, the reciprocal relationship between the disordered tragic hero and the disordered society in which he exists comes to and end with the hero’s demise, and a new orderly society springs up in its place. In Macbeth, Malcolm becomes king, ushering in an era of benevolence; in Othello, Iago receives a fitting punishment, thereby restoring some sense of justice; etc. In essence, the tragic hero’s death results in the end of conflict and the beginning of peace.

In one sense, Black Sails follows this plot. The end of Flint brings about the end of war and the beginning of peace in Nassau under Max’s rule. However, we know that this peace is deeply unsatisfactory because we have come to learn that compromising with civilization is actually impossible. We learn that while the Maroons have a peace treaty, it does not extend to any other freed Black person, and it includes the Maroons re-enslaving people who come to them for freedom. We know through historical context that Jack and Anne only have a few more years of freedom before they’re captured and Jack is hanged. We know that Silver spends the rest of his life haunted by what he did to Flint. And so Flint’s death brings about no actual peace.

The key element that prevents Black Sails from being a Shakespearean tragedy, despite it fitting most of the typical components of a Shakespearean tragedy, is the idea that the central conflict––freedom vs. civilization––extends beyond the show. And so we are aware that no character’s actions will actually affect the conflict in a monumental way. Even though there is the idea that it could have ended differently, we know from the beginning, with our historical knowledge, that the revolution is doomed. The central conflict of the show is an ongoing conflict; there is no possibility of reconciliation as with the Montagues and the Capulets. While all Shakespearean tragedies begin in medias res, they have a definite conclusion, but Black Sails does not.

So, Black Sails is not a Shakespearean tragedy, but on its surface, it looks like it’s incredibly tragic. However, I think that, for all of the reasons I just talked about, Black Sails is actually a show about hope. Flint’s arc demonstrates to us that people can change, that hope can be found in a mutual recognition of suffering and a desire to end that suffering not just for yourself but for others. We learn from Max that nothing is worth doing unless it begins and ends with love. We find a deep sense of familiarity in these characters through the recognition that their battles are our battles, that their flaws are our flaws, but their failure does not have to be our failure.

Unlike with Macbeth or Othello or Romeo and Juliet, the Black Sails story is still being written and so long as that is the case, there is room for hope.

#black sails #I suppose there's an argument to be made that Flint's relationship with Silver is akin to his relationship with Admiral Hennessy #in terms of misplaced trust #But it's difficult to extract this into some statement of his penchant for trusting the wrong people because he often trusts the right peopl #like Thomas and Madi #So it's a tricky one

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redqueen-hypothesis · 3 years

Text

tied together pt.2 ➳ mlqc

➳ WORD COUNT: 3359

➳ GENRE: fluff

➳ SYNOPSIS: how would the mlqc boys (lucien, victor and shaw) propose?

➳ REMARKS: i seem to be obsessed with sleeping at last songs recently. they’re soothing to ears... these headcanons were inspired by heart.

VICTOR

has been thinking about proposing for a long, long time

and by long, long time i mean, he’s been thinking about this ever since the two of you started dating

victor has a one track mind: dating, proposal, marriage. when he gets into a relationship with you, it’s all or nothing

the man might seem like he’s emotionally constipated - but he’s determined to make this relationship work, to officially join the two of you together for the rest of your lives

victor is a traditionalist romantic, he inherited that side from his mother. he’s big on romantic shows of affection and has the money to do it too, so he gets down to preparing something that will definitely blow you away

he’s brought up the idea of proposing before, wanting to wait until you’re as ready as he is about the idea of being together

when you give him positive answers, jokingly telling him that he’ll have to do all the cooking or you’d turn him down on the spot, he knows that it’s time to pop the question

gradually puts together a proposal plan after work each day, making arrangements and phone calls

goldman gets roped into helping overtime (give the poor man a raise)

aside from goldman, though, victor is determined to get this proposal down on his own: it’s his proposal, and he’ll do it with his own hands

personally goes to the florist to inspect each and every rose he’s buying (he’s buying them by the hundreds), trimming them of the thorns and bundling them into bouquets

he’s not fantastic with his hands, fumbles with the silk ribbons that seem to keep slipping through his fingers and some of the bouquets look just a little lopsided, but it’s the effort that counts for him

victor knows money can buy almost anything in the world, but he also knows more than anyone else what money can’t buy - your love, your devotion, your patience with him

finds himself reminiscing a lot about his memories with you, from the way you jammed your foot in his office door and shouted how you were going to get that funding no matter what to the way you shiver when he kisses you

gods, time works in some strange ways

you realise he’s been looking a little exhausted when you come to deliver the reports to his office, but victor waves it off, looking as put together as ever

goldman complains to you that he’s been staying up late doing extra work and that he should at least get a bonus, but victor drags him away before he can say another word

(he does get a bonus, but it’s more of hush money than anything. from then on goldman keeps his mouth faithfully shut)

one day after a work week, victor invites you to souvenir for dinner. it’s rare that he brings you there nowadays, because you’d rather just eat together in his house, but you’ve missed the place and mr mills

he sends you a dress to wear, a beautiful wine red affair that fits you like a second skin, and also a limousine to pick you up. no one but him is seeing you in that dress

you’re kind of stressed, because victor just dropped this on you out of nowhere and oh god is something big happening? the dress looks more like something you’d wear on the red carpet than a simple meal

you redo your make up five times before giving up

when you enter the limo, the chauffeur passes you a delicate jewelry box “with regards from mr li”. you open it to find a string of sparkling stones - no, those cannot be real... right?

when you think about your boyfriend though, no they’re quite definitely real

you put it on with shaking hands. victor has a penchant for giving you the strangest gifts, from a golden camel he’d found in a souvenir shop while visiting dubai to a glass jar of pink sand from the beaches of eleuthera just because you had mentioned wanting to visit in passing

but diamonds? you’re pretty sure you’ve seen this as a collector’s item somewhere... how much did they cost?

stepping into souvenir is like stepping into another world altogether - you’ve never seen it like this before

there are velvet roses decorating the small restaurant, in all manner of colour, wine red, champagne, white and pink, scented candles lighting up the room with their flickering glow

and standing in the middle of it all is victor dressed in a dark suit, holding a huge bouquet of red roses in his hands. when he sees you, his face softens ever so slightly, and he puts the flowers in your hands “here”

doesn’t so much as explain what they’re for, pulling out your chair for you. the two of you are the only ones here, and victor serves you himself

is it just you, or does the food somehow taste better than usual?

during the course of the entire dinner, however, victor looks like he wants to say something, but can’t quite open his mouth

he puts a pudding in front of you for desert, your favourite, but this time when you cut it in half with your spoon, there’s sound of metal on metal

you frown. surely victor wouldn’t have dropped one of his cuff-links inside? scooping it out, you find a single, silver band inside, a sparkling diamond resting on the top

you stare at it for a good few seconds without moving, unable to believe your eyes. you’re not hallucinating, right? that’s really a diamond ring there in the middle of your pudding?

you know it’s a proposal. you just can’t seem to shed the thickness in your throat that steals your voice, the way your hands are trembling too much to pick the ring up, the way you’re on the verge of bursting into tears

victor is a little flustered. he can’t see the ring from where he is since it’s still firmly lodged in the pudding. did you swallow it on accident?

he rises to his feet, picks up the ring (where it is, thankfully, still in the pudding and not halfway down your throat), and kneels next to where you’re seated

your eyes are wide with unshed tears, and suddenly he finds it difficult to speak

fuck, he had a speech written... he can’t remember a damn bit of it now

when he whispers your name, you look up at him with those beautiful eyes in stunned shock, and the words just tumble out.

“i know that i am not a perfect man, that sometimes we fight, and that there are times we disagree. i know all of that, but i also know that more than anything in the world, you’re the one i want to spend the rest of my life with.” words have never felt heavier on his tongue. “i love you, i really do. will you marry me?”

you’re still frozen, unable to wrap your head around this, victor is proposing to you. on the other hand, the poor man is starting to wonder if he’s given you a heart attack. “you don’t have to give me an answer right now, you can take some time to think over it more clearly. i know it’s an important decision to make, so-”

you practically knock him over with the force of your hug, squeezing him so tight to you victor almost feels like he can’t breathe

“yes.” you whisper into his ear, and he can feel your tears - warm tears of pure joy falling onto the bare skin of his neck. “yes, i’ll marry you, victor.”

ahh fuck. victor doesn’t know why he feels like crying too. he holds you tighter so you can’t see his face. “you’ll rip your dress like that, dummy.”

when the two of you finally get off the floor, he puts the ring on your finger, and you pull him in for such a fierce kiss that you almost knock him to the ground again

“dummy” he whispers again, and kisses you back just as hard

LUCIEN

surprisingly, just recently starting thinking about proposing

for him, the fact that you were already dating him was all the happiness he thought he deserved for everything he had done as ares

he knew that he had hurt you before, his betrayal, his involvement with black swan, and although he seemed perfectly fine on the outside, he would lie in bed, late at night and unable to sleep, thinking

“does a person like me really deserve such an ordinary happiness?”

everything had been about the evolution of mankind to him, survival of the fittest, leaving the weak behind

and yet nowadays when he sat on a park bench and partook in his usual hobby of people-watching, non-evolvers and evolvers alike, mingling without distinction and enjoying their time together, as friends, as family, as lovers, he couldn’t help but ache for that intangible something as well

love. a concept that had been so utterly foreign to him that he’d merely dismissed it as a survival mechanism humans had developed so that different people would take care of each other, increasing their chances of procreating and passing on their genes

until he had met you

he remembered something you had told him once

“if I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing.” it was love that made humans humane

he had dreamed so much about a future where only the best of humanity had survived, leading to a elite society of humans, but if they had to give up this love to get there, did that really make them human?

he pulled together the tiny fragments of memories he had of his parents. the way they had loved each other, the way they had loved him. the way you love him, even though there’s no logical explanation to why you would, even after all he’s done

tears slip silently down lucien’s cheeks on the park bench, alone, for the first time since that car accident when he was five

a young girl offers him a tissue, he smiles and thanks her, watching her scurry back to her family

so you were right all along, weren’t you?

when he confesses this to you one night, with your arms wrapped around his in bed, you look down at him with the most tender smile - so full of this love that he feels like he needs to look away, yet he can’t tear his eyes away from your face

“everyone deserves to be happy, lucien. and i want to be one of the reasons for your happiness, if you’ll let me.”

silly girl. you’re the reason he’s understood happiness in the first place

dating isn’t enough for him. he wants more, to be bound to you, heart, body and soul. he wants to become family, he wants to see you in a white dress. he wants to see his ring on your finger, your love belonging to him for the rest of your lives

he wants to give you the same love you’ve given him

“when two people come together in love, it grows.” you had told him gently, one day out on a date with him. “i want to make you happy because it makes me happy too.”

he’s watched plenty of romance novels in an attempt to replicate the human emotion of love, so he’s all too aware of how the sweetest of words slip out far too easily from his mouth

all those seem so trivial, so lackluster when it comes to expressing just how much he feels for you - it even scares him sometimes

proposals needs rings. that’s the easy part

but he wants to ask you in a way that means something deeper for the two of you

sometimes the old ghosts come back to haunt him and taunt, ‘look at how weak you’ve become, ares, what a fool.’ your arms and lips are there to chase the darkness away

it’s an emotional journey for the two of you

waits till it’s spring to do it

lucien invites you out on a date to a garden exhibition in the rural countryside

it’s a small, beautifully kept greenhouse (typically, it wouldn’t be open to the public, but lucien pulled a few strings with the owner)

when you step in, you’re stunned to see vibrant colours all around in this small, cozy greenhouse. beautiful doesn’t even begin to describe it

you’re already stunned enough until one of the petals flutter just a little before taking off into the air, it’s a butterfly!

your smile makes lucien smile

you run from bush to bush, from flower to flower, gushing to lucien about how beautiful they are - lucien thinks you’re far more beautiful, but just smiles and nods

“did you know that some butterflies only live for a few days after hatching?” he wonders aloud, and you turn back to see him watching two butterflies dancing together in the air. “and yet they’re still one of the most beautiful sights that nature can offer the world.”

you slip your hand into his. when he looks down at you, bemused, and you smile. “kind of like human lives, don’t you think?”

the two of you spend some time at the greenhouse before you leave, wandering along the some of the grassy fields outside. to your surprise, there’s a small stall selling handmade kites

lucien catches you looking at it, and asks if you want to fly kites. you remember your promise together, to fly kites in spring. he hasn’t forgotten it, not even once

you shout encouragement to lucien as he runs, pulling the kite along, and cheer as the purple butterfly kite soars up into the air on the stiff breeze

the two of you take turns keeping the kite in the air

doing this together makes you feel like everything is okay, as if lucien is telling you that he’s ready to put down his past as ares and move on to who he wants to be

you’re feeling just a tiny bit sad when you reel in the kite together, until you see the something shiny tied to the kite

curiously, you pull it free - and realise that it’s a ring

the gem on it is unlike anything you’ve ever seen, it looks white at first glance, but under the light it splits into a rainbow of colours

lucien speaks quietly as he slides it onto your finger. “at first, all i could see this world in was black and white. but the day when you came in my life... i saw colours for the first time. you taught me that this world was so much more than what i thought was right, helped me see the way others saw the world. you brought colour into my life.”

of course you cry. the way lucien speaks is in a way you’ve rarely heard him, his voice isn’t that smooth, composed tone you’re so used to hearing

it’s raw, emotional, and so real with you that you find yourself hanging onto every last word

“i know i don’t deserve you, or the love you give me, but can i be selfish enough to keep asking for it regardless?”

this silly man. why is he asking for it when he already has it all?

holding the kite between you, he kisses you so gently that you feel yourself unraveling under the near painful affection that you can feel from it - the end of one promise, and the forging of a new one together, one that you’ll keep for the rest of your life

SHAW

what’s marriage? is that something you eat?

shaw hasn’t thought about marriage since like... ever

he’s lived his entire life on the edge, playing with danger, coming and going like the thunder clouds before and after a storm

settling down has never been a concept he’s familiar with, but it’s one he finds himself thinking about after he started dating you

he’s kind of young for this, so he’s not sure if he’s ready to give up this flighty lifestyle - it’s all he’s known all his life

and yet, when you call for him, he’s there. when you need him for help, he appears. when you ask him to remain with you, he stays

isn’t that something similar to being chained down already? shaw wonders, but doesn’t quite understand why he doesn’t seem to mind

sometimes, he worries thinks about the fact that you’re getting older... don’t you think about settling down? didn’t one of your co-workers ask you out on a date a few days ago?

when he brings up this question with you one day, you think about it for a bit before nodding. for a second, a tiny bit of worry edges into his heart, but then you’re kissing him on the cheek gently. “whenever you’re ready.”

fuck. he’s never really cared about being a reliable person, he’s the only person who he’s had to take care of his entire life, but now he has you

he wants to be your rock. your anchor in the storm. your man.

when the fuck did he get so cheesy???

finds himself making tiny changes in his lifestyle that he wasn’t even aware of, waving away a cigarette when one of his bandmates offer him a stick, choosing to bring you out on late night dates instead of going drinking with some more uh... shady friends

starts taking on a part time job to earn extra cash (and counting his umbrellas so he stops losing them)

mayhaps he has something in mind that he wants to buy (something for you, but he’s not quite sure yet)

the necklace was an impulse purchase

he’d been skating down the streets, heading home from university one day when a pair of necklaces in the window of a shop catch his eye - they have matching charms, a small storm cloud and a sun

his first thought is: wow that’s so stupid

his second thought: you would look cute with it

he knows he’s whipped, but he’s never going to admit it

shaw finds himself buying it anyway, only to regret it immediately after

what the fuck is he doing

he chucks it somewhere into the mess of his apartment, only for it to resurface a few weeks later when you come over to bring back some clothes you’ve left over in his house

you find the jewelry box, and open it to find the necklaces

they don’t really look like shaw’s type. maybe there’s another girl wooing him?

when shaw sees you holding it he’s scrambling to explain, no it’s not a gift from a girl, it’s...

you look at him, confused. “it’s...?”

he doesn’t have much of a choice but to give it to you now. plucking out the silver chain of the sun necklace, he holds it out to you a little awkwardly

“it’s for you.”

you look into the box curiously. “but there’s another necklace...?”

he blurts out what’s been on his mind for a while

“they’re matching necklaces... for you and me.” he mumbles. you don’t think you’ve ever seen him this embarrassed before. “to chase away any bastards who think they have a chance with my girl. damn, this is stupid, i’m going to throw this-”

you grab his hands before he can move, and suddenly you’re wearing the prettiest smile as you ask him, “well, aren’t you going to put it on me?”

chewing on his lower lip, he puts it around your neck. it takes him a few tries to get the clasp right

in return, you put the other necklace around him, kissing his neck and he swallows at the warmth of your mouth

maybe it’s a little too early to start thinking about marriage, but he knows you’ll wait for him, and that he’ll get there one day

“you belong to me now, alright? no one can take you away from me.”

#mlqc #mlqc fanfic #mlqc lucien #mlqc victor #mlqc shaw #lucien #lucien xu #mr love lucien #lucien fanfic #shaw #mr love queen's choice shaw #victor li #mr love victor

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quokkacore · 4 years

Text

LIBERALITY: starshine [oh sehun] (m)

part II of all your gods are fake

summary: sehun gives you what he can, but it’s never easy. you have to work for it as well, but effort pays off, and he rewards you so kindly.

pairing: freedomfighter!sehun x reader

genre: smut, angst, fluff, light horror towards the end?

warnings: language, descriptions of war, descriptions of cults, mentions of violence, shibari, thigh riding, handjobs, reader has nipple piercings, sensory deprivation (blindfolds and ties), seizures, knives

song rec: rosalia & ozuna - yo x ti, tu x mi ♡ taemin - never forever

word count: 4.3k

a/n: this was originally posted to my old writing blog on may 9th, 2020. if you would like to be on the taglist, pls send me an ask or a message! <3

masterlist

He was getting agitated. You could tell this much.

It was already bad enough that the meeting so far had lasted for over an hour and a half, but now the tension of the situation was finally settling in, as everyone realized that it was finally here.

The last stronghold. Or so they believed. Or so he believed.

The meeting was only for the highest ranking officials of the resistance, people who The Brotherhood knew they could trust—the plan was far too important to risk it falling into the hands of The Sect of Seven at the hands of double agents.

The plan that, if executed correctly, could turn the tides and cause the downfall of the Sect.

You watched, leaning against the wall as Junmyeon, leader of The Brotherhood and face of the resistance towered over the war table, talking about possible strategies to take the last major neutral city and also take control of the country.

The Sect of Seven had existed for years before the war began—its existence spanned across centuries, millenia, even; dating back to the year The Prophecy of Brothers Alike was first proclaimed in the late twelfth century, and remained strong even almost a whole century after The Great Collapse of 2050, when global society had collapsed due to war, famine and climate disasters.

Then the war broke out, some ten years ago, when the first two brothers of the Fated Fourteen first made themselves known, springing the Sect’s violent plans into action.

Since then, the resistance had been built up by The Brotherhood’s efforts, both capturing strategic cities and territories across North America. The Sect was based in the desert, with the Sanctuary based in what was once Los Angeles, their control spanning across what was western Mexico, the american south, and half of the northwest.

The resistance was based higher north, in the Citadel, which used to be Chicago, territories consisting of parts of southern Canada, the rockies, the northern midwest and what remained of the Peninsula of Yucatan. Places like Greenland, the southern east coast and northern canadian territories had either been destroyed during the collapse or had since been reclaimed by extreme climate and nature.

The only major territory that remained uncaptured by either sides, the place where many had fled to avoid getting caught in the crossfire, was the northern west coast, and that was controlled by Washington DC.

The very spot the resistance was now planning to take.

Your eyes floated up towards Sehun, who was standing right next to Junmyeon, who was now listening to Chanyeol and Baekhyun discuss the logistics of a peaceful invasion.

“Overall, I think we still need time to form a solid strategy,” Baekhyun said, “Jongdae needs to get in contact with The Agate Sisters for some more weapons—”

“Which is not very easy, might I add—” Jongdae interjected.

“And even before that…” Junmyeon’s voice was loud, taking command of the situation, “Sehun.”

All eyes in the room fell to the youngest member of The Brotherhood.

Oh Sehun. The Oracle.

Sehun had become known to the world two years after Suho and Junmyeon were proclaimed the first two brothers of the prophecy, the same time as his twin brother. Being so young, his ability of both interpreting and creating prophecies was a sight to behold, both terrifying and morbidly fascinating.

You’d known him since he and his brother were children, before the three of you realized what the future held in store—pain and suffering for Sehun and you, and nothing but pleasure and debauchery for Sehün.

“Do you think you could consult with the spirits for a minor prophecy? Or any other interpretations of the prophecy?”

Sehun shifted in his stance, leaning back and forth. “I need time.” His voice was firm and gravelly as he crossed his arms, immersed in thought. “My most recent auguries have revealed to me that DC is the last stronghold that the prophecy is talking about. But I can’t be a hundred percent sure. Prophecies love to play mind games. We all know that.”

“Is there anything we have to be wary of when it comes to the prophecy? Double entendres, stuff like that?” Yixing asked, even though everyone in the room had heard the god-forsaken prophecy more than enough times throughout the past few years.

Sehun sighed, but closed his eyes and nodded anyway. A dramatic tension settled over the room, and Sehun began to speak.

“Cometh a day when seven sets of twins, be opposite ends of both virtue and sin—why am I going over this again, we all know this,” He huffed.

“Please just continue,” Baekhyun mumbled.

“Ugh, fine. Bearing eyes of blue and eyes of brown, cometh to tear the last stronghold down—” Sehun rolled his eyes, frustration evident in his expression. “The term stronghold has always been somewhat questionable. The prophecy was first declared in 1176, right? Early Modern English wouldn’t become a thing for another three hundred years, so most of this stems from Middle English. Some interpret stronghold as fort, or base, or holy land…”

Jongdae raised his hand before speaking, eyes flashing in alarm as he interrupted Sehun’s tangent. “Wait, wait, if others have translated it as holy land, then—”

“The Sanctuary.”

Junmyeon’s voice was quiet, but still commanded a heavy presence across the room, as a profound silence spread across the space.

“That means that the final battle could be in Los Angeles, on their turf. That would put us at a major disadvantage. We’re already at a major disadvantage.” The leader’s eyebrows were furrowed, using both hands to lean on the table as he made the connection.

The dread that followed was thick and suffocating, and you took the opportunity to speak up, wishing to rid the room of the anxiety gathering.

“But think about the implications of fighting the final battle in The Sanctuary. It would have to mean that we’ve managed to push them back sufficiently to the point where we feel confident invading their home base. Which we wouldn’t do unless we knew that we had a high possibility of winning.”

All eyes fell to you, and you crossed your arms, before meeting Sehun’s gaze. The look in his eyes was something akin to gratitude, being able to lift the sudden darkness. You lifted your hand to gesture back at Sehun. “Continue.”

He nodded, gaze stern. “Perhaps lovers lost to a most wicked brother, bringeth vengeance and hellfire upon one another… Loss could mean one of two things. Betrayal or death. But the rest of those two lines imply that the side that does the taking will suffer because of what they’ve done. That means that for now, none of us lay hands on any of the Sanctuary Queens, and those of us who have them, keep our partners close… Beware ye who heed this, for I warn thee now: suffer shall those who carelessly bow.”

“It has to be them,” A girl, Sasha, declared, “They’ve been lying to their followers for years—”

“That could mean anything. You know that.” Sehun’s voice was rough, eyes trained on the map that had been carved into the table.

A silence hung over the room, tension palpable as everyone remembered what the stakes were. These were lives and people’s free wills on the line, indescribable anguish promised by a prophecy written centuries ago to people who didn’t truly know their leaders. The end was near, but the outcome was nowhere near foreseeable.

“I’ll… I’ll try and do some more smoke readings.” It struck you how tired he sounded, watching as he rubbed his eyes with his thumb and index finger, “Maybe I’ll ask the spirit of the Oracle for a specific prophecy on DC. For now, we just have to be cautious. Watch for any suspicious activity here in the citadel and listen to intelligence reports. Jongin, you’ve got your moles at the Sanctuary, right?”

Jongin nodded, gaze dark. “Yeah. I’m meeting with Ren in two weeks. She’s the best of the best. I’ll see what she has for us.”

Junmyeon straightened his posture, everyone quieting when he opened his mouth to speak.

“I think that’s enough worrying about that for today,” He declared, sounding grim, “Before we go, you all know that not a single word is to leave this room. This is highly classified information. Meeting adjourned.”

You watched everyone file out of the room, hoping to speak to Sehun, yet somehow didn’t catch when he left. You got the feeling that that was what he intended.

So you left too, resolving to see him that night.

—

Sehun’s room was easy to find, seeing as how it was right across the hall from yours, in the large apartment building the heads of the resistance had settled into. You knocked on his door, sighing when you didn’t hear any response. You tried one more time, then another time, finally a third time, before letting your head fall frustratedly against the wood of the door.

“Hun, I know you’re in there… please let me in.”

You heard muffled sounds of shuffling from behind the door, pulling your head away to lean it against the doorframe. Waiting, you strained your ears for a noise, hearing the occasional sound.

Eventually, you heard the telltale sound of heavy footsteps being dragged across the floor. You pursed your lips, waiting for the door to open, wondering what you would see when it did.

The door swung open slowly, and you were met with a tall figure, hunched over as he peered down at you. The exhaustion in his gaze was palpable, and you felt your heart clench in sympathy.

Sehun was 25 now. He was made known to the public some nine years ago, and on top of it all, he was the Oracle. Interpretations of any and all prophecies were up to him, a sixteen year old boy who had just discovered he was destined to spend the rest of his life fighting against his own brother, something that tore his family apart.

He was a child.

And now, here he stood, looking too worn, too hopeless for someone so young. His eyes had seen horrors he was much too young to see. Life had eaten away at the glow he’d had when you were both younger. The dark circles underneath his eyes were so pronounced, you’d think he hadn’t slept since he was a baby. His short, dark hair was greasy. You wondered if he’d been taking care of himself properly.

“Do you need anything?” His voice was raspy, quiet. You looked at him, brown eyes met yours. Your heart clenched. Here he was, mentally exhausted, and the first thing he said to you wasn’t a hello, but rather, asking quietly if you needed anything.

“Can I come inside?” You asked sheepishly, and he blinked for a second, before nodding, opening the door more for you to pass. “Go ahead.”

You stepped past him, into the hallway of his small apartment. The smell of incense invaded your nose, and you frowned. He closed the door, and crossed his arms. “What’s going on, Y/N?”

“Are you okay? You looked so tired today, you look tired now.”

“I’m fine—"

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

You refused to let him keep it all to himself. “Sehun…”

He leaned against the wall, head bowed, and you mirrored his stance, standing against the wall as well, but you didn’t look away. “Y/N, I can’t deal with that right now. People need me.”

“Sehun, you can’t force yourself like this, you’ve told me that yourself—"

“I have to make this work. I can’t fail like last time, not if DC is what we think it is.”

You sighed, taking a step forward, resting a hand on his arm. He glanced at it briefly, then raised his head to look at you. You said nothing, but guided him to sit down on the couch, and you sat next to him.

“Sehun,” You said, voice quiet, “DC is nothing but puppets right now pretending they’re actually doing anything. We have our puppets, the sect have theirs. You can’t be sure that a place like that is what determines whether we’re doomed or not. You said it yourself, there are so many possibilities that DC isn’t the place we’re thinking about.”

He took a few deep breaths, nodding to your words before rubbing his eyes with his thumb and index finger. He looked strained, and you moved to sit closer to him.

“Everything is so fucked up,” Sehun whispered, and you nodded in agreement. “I feel like everything is out of control. Like I can’t do anything about it. Meanwhile, Sehün—"

“Sehün has people who think he’s a god obeying his every whim, just like the rest of those—those idiots.“ Your voice was quiet, but firm, refusing to allow him to compare himself to his brother, "The only reason they look so polished and seem to have everything under control is they only leave the Sanctuary when they absolutely need to, to save face. They feel like they’re above everyone else.”

You took Sehun’s hand, carefully removing his worn, black glove before cradling it in your smaller hand, as if it were incredibly fragile. His eyes met yours, and you gave him a sad smile.

“The Brotherhood, on the other hand… You only use that title for formality’s sake. Yes, you’re all the leaders, but you see yourselves as equal to the rest of us. All of you are out there with us, on the front lines. You’re tired because you give everything you have to serve this cause, my love. You feel that everything is out of control because… well, it is. Lady Fate is a tricky one, we all know that. But you feel it even more because you’re dealing with it head on, not from some sparkly throne on a golden pedestal.”

Sehun’s eyes glittered with several emotions you couldn’t pinpoint, but you could see fondness in them. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Starshine,” He mumbled into your hair, before resting his chin on the crown of your head, “Where would I be without you.”

You hummed, before allowing your eyes to flutter shut, and the two of you sat in silence for what seemed like hours. You reflected back to when you and Sehun both realized your feelings for one another, after a devastating battle in Salt Lake City where Sehun had given his brother the now infamous scar running down the left side of his face, some six years ago. He’d come so close to dying that day, and you’d realized just how important he was to you.

You’d been joined by the hip since you were children, and when the revelation came that he and Sehün were the brothers of liberality and greed respectively, you didn’t hesitate in taking his side, vowing to follow him until the bitter end.

It all made sense to you when you came to Sehun’s sickbed, seeing him resting and bloodied, that you’d actually been in love with the boy for a long time, perhaps ever since you’d first met him. You wouldn’t ever be able to live without him, and apparently, he felt the same way.

In this moral crisis, you were his anchor, his tether to the corporeal plane when his world was on an ethereal one.

Upon all the doubts that everyone had, as to whether the Fated Fourteen were truly gods or if they were simply men with delusions of grandeur chosen by Lady Fate for her cruel entertainment, he felt that you were what reminded him that he was human, that past gods were never truly capable of love or real emotion.

To be capable of loving you was a humbling experience, one that he treasured dearly, especially in moments like this.

“Do you remember what we did the last time you felt like you had no control?” Your voice was a whisper, full of promise and anticipation, as the hand that wasn’t holding his own came to ghost over his thigh. Sehun’s breath hitched, recalling the experience. Roughness against soft, supple skin, restraint and control, you giving yourself entirely to him before he gave himself entirely to you.

“What exactly are you proposing?” He murmured, and you exhaled as one would when they found something amusing, the ghost of a laugh. “You know what I’m proposing, Sehun. Don’t act as if I haven’t seen you teaching Chanyeol to tie his knots when he’s getting ready to go out on a field mission.”

His hand tugged yours towards him, and you moved as he sat back, resting his back against the couch as he helped you straddle his waist. You faced him, realizing with a giggle that he’d turned slightly pink at your accusation.

“Do me a favor,” He said, and you nodded, letting your free hand rest on his shoulder. “Never talk about Chanyeol when you’re trying to get me into bed again. You are the sexiest thing I’ve ever laid my eyes on… Chanyeol, however, is the most unsexy person I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.”

Your head tipped back with laughter, and he joined in with you. Your heart, upon hearing this, skipped a beat. You had a hard time recalling when the last he’d laughed was. “I think Sasha would disagree.”

“Yeah, but Sasha isn’t here now, is she? It’s just you and me.” He leaned forward, trapping your waist with his hands and letting his face come close to yours. You watched his eyes flutter down to watch your lips, inches away from yours. You gulped when his lips parted, his tongue peeking out to lick the pink skin.

“So you want me to tie you up. Take control.”

Your hands wrapped around his neck, and you smiled. “Only if you want to tie me up. I want you to have at least one thing you feel you can control.”

Sehun licked his lips again, sighing in amusement as he considered the idea. “Y’know, a few weeks ago, some of the field officers came in with a bunch of fabric they managed to smuggle out of LA…” His tone was quiet, and his hands began trailing downwards, pulling you against him, voice filling you with anticipation. Comfortable fabric was so difficult to come by these days, given that the Sect had taken what were once lavish city districts.

You gasped slightly when your core came into contact with his lap, feeling he was already starting to get hard, and felt your face heat up.

“I might’ve bought a silk tie or two off of ‘em,” He told you, eyes burning holes into your skin, “Wanted to see what my starshine would look like in pink.”

Your felt your hands tighten of their own volition against the fabric of his black t-shirt, your mind conjuring the mental image. “Fuck, Sehun. W-where’s the jute?”

He flashed a lopsided grin, and you felt the need to smack the smug look off of his face. How he could go from being so serious to this, was beyond you. You personally didn’t believe that The Brotherhood and The Lords of the Sect were gods, but Sehun’s duality, in situations like this, seemed to be supernatural at times, if you dared say so yourself.

He pressed his lips to yours briefly, before lightly nudging you to get off of his lap. “I’ll go get it, baby. Give me a second.”

He stood, catching his breath briefly, before walking down the hall, towards his closet. The hallway was slightly darker, and you stood, striding over to him as he pulled out the rope. He turned to face you, and he quickly cornered you against the wall.

“Shirt off. Bra, too.”

You grinned. “What are you gonna do this time?”

You could vaguely make out his features, but you knew his face was probably twisted up in smug satisfaction. Regardless, you obeyed silently, your chest rising and falling quickly with anticipation.

“Chest harness, for now,” He quipped, “Is that okay?”

You nodded, not breaking eye contact with him as you undressed yourself. You wanted him to realize that you weren’t backing down.

He seemed to read you perfectly, nodding in response to your answer as he watched you pull off the dark fabric, before reaching behind you to unclasp your bra. Even in the dim light of the corridor, you could see how his eyebrows raised and the way his lips parted slightly, lazy gaze falling down to your breasts. You knew what he was gawking at.

The studs embedded in your nipples were a dark stainless steel, glittering, alluring. You’d gotten them on a whim at nineteen from some clandestine tattoo artist on the way back from a field operation. He’d always had a bit of a fascination with them, the way they seemed to twinkle at him underneath the light.

"You gonna stare at me all night or will I have to tie myself up?”

Your playful jab snapped him out of his reverie, and he straightened his posture a few seconds later. “Go stand in front of the bed.” His voice was soft, but still commanding.

You stalked into the dark bedroom, standing in front of where you made the bed out to be. He followed you, before standing behind you. “Are you going to tie my hands up, too?"

"Not yet, starshine,” He declared quietly, into your left ear. You could tell he was untangling the jute, and you pursed your lips in anticipation. “You want to know what I’m about to do to you?”

“You know I do,” You whispered, a confession just for him, before lifting your arms and your hair for him to work.

“Too bad,” He sighed, ”Because I’m not telling you.”

You huffed, but didnt protest.

His arms began to wrap the rope below your ribcage, tightening the jute to the point where you could feel it digging into your skin, but enough to complicate your breathing. Taut, but not torturous. You closed your eyes, sighing quietly as he looped the jute higher up this time, just between your breasts and your collarbones, wrapping back to where he began, in the middle of your back.

The sensation of the rough fibers against your skin was by no means comfortable. It was scratchy and some stray fibers tickled at your chest. But its presence against your skin, the implications of its position and what was to come, was most definitely comforting. Intimacy with Sehun now was rare, you rarely even slept next to each other. But you knew that it wasn’t because of a strain in your relationship.

Sehun had always needed peace of mind and silence when it came to auguries and prophecy readings. Now, with the war coming so close to what seemed to be the end, he needed it more than ever, and the moments you shared with him came to a pause. You didn’t complain—the cause came before your emotions, now and always. But inside you were crying out for him; in concern, in longing, in yearning.

So maybe that’s why when he paused his ministrations and chuckled, tracing a finger down his spine, you whimpered quietly, thighs rubbing together in anticipation. “You have goosebumps,” He said, lips brushing against the shell of your ear.

“It’s been a while,” You answered, and he hummed in response, pressing a soft kiss to your nape. You sighed at the sensation.

“Drop your arms, and turn around to look at me,” Sehun whispered a few seconds later, and with some help from him to maneuver through the rope he was still trying to tie around you, you were able to complete his request.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous.” His voice was throaty, eyes scanning your body as you did the same, eyes landing on the growing bulge in his pants.

“Sehun, please just hurry.”

He shook his head, crooked smile still gracing his face. His hands worked quickly, looping the jute underneath the lowest rope, between your breasts.

“It’s not too tight, is it?” He asked, and you shook your head.

“It’s fine. Not too tight, not too loose.”

He nodded, eyebrows furrowing in concentration. “Okay. Let me know if it becomes too much at any point.”

“I know, Hun.”

Sehun’s dark eyes lifted their gaze from where his hands were working to meet your own, not saying anything. By now, the smile had faded, replaced by a stern look of concentration.

Be still, my heart, you thought, he is so beautiful.

“What?” You whispered, and he blinked.

His response was soft, gentle. “I would fucking die for you.”

You felt your face grow warm, and you lowered your gaze. “Sehun,” You murmured, “I—”

“Sh, sh,” He answered, continuing to tie the rope, “Listen to me, starshine. You’re it for me. There’s never been anyone else. A-and if anything happens, Lady Fate forbid it… There’ll never be anyone else.”

He finished his words as he tied off the final knot, and silently, you stood there, eyes shut as you pressed your forehead to his. For how long, you weren’t sure. Seconds, minutes, eons… Maybe no time had passed at all. You didn’t really care. Moments like these were never long enough, they always ended too soon. Sehun was your elixir of life, your lifeline, and in these moments, you felt immortal, invincible, powerful.

To be able to bring such a man like him to his knees, to be so ready to put himself on the line for you; you were sure it would be your ruin.

You surged forward, wrapping your arms around Sehun’s neck, and he caught you as you pressed your lips to his in a blazing kiss. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. You whined into the kiss, the dark cotton of his t-shirt pressing against your sensitive nipples and their piercings.

“Sehun,” You moaned into the kiss, reaching down to tug at the hem of his shirt. “N-not fair, take it off.”

He hummed, pulling away to comply with your protests, revealing toned skin and the broad shoulders you so adored.

“Is it fair now?” He asked, grabbing your upper arms to pull you closer and press kisses to your collarbones and along your sternum. “I should tie your hands now, maybe then you’ll learn you’re not allowed to touch without my permission.”

“Shut up,” You said, ignoring his declaration as he pushed you onto the bed. You peered up at his broad form, towering over you in the darkness, almost trembling in anticipation, waiting for him to put his hands on you, to make a move.

A few moments later, he finally did, reaching down to pull your pants off, as well as your underwear. He pressed soft kisses to your stomach as he did. When both garments were finally tossed aside, he lifted himself up onto the bed, lips trailing up across your skin. His eyes met yours as he gazed up at you, through you, before pressing his lips to one of your breasts, your sensitive nipples hardening at the contact of his warm mouth against the cool steel embedded in it.

Your head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut, unable to keep eye contact with your lover. One of your hands came up to comb through his dark hair, whimpering as he alternated between your nipples.

“Sehun, mmph, baby…” You murmured, coming back to look at him when he let go and came back to kiss at your jawline.

“Up, starshine,” He ordered, leaving no room for protest, arms wrapping around your waist and hauling you up to sit on his lap. As you squirmed to get comfortable in his grip, one of his hands reached for his nightstand’s drawer, and he pulled out two pastel pink silk ties. Your heart leaped towards your throat in excitement when you registered what these were, hips subconsciously searching for friction against his.

“Sit still,” He huffed as he closed the drawer, before straightening his posture, dwarfing you even sitting beneath you.

Wordlessly, he brought the tie up to your eyes, covering them before tying it at the back of your head with one tie, quickly doing the same to your hands with the other, tying them tightly in front of you.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty,” He mumbled, hands raking from your hair to down your back.

His hands came to grasp at your thighs, propping them so they rested only atop one of his. You felt your core clench at what he was alluding to, inhaling sharply.

“Move your hips, baby,” He said, and you couldn’t bring it in you to deny him.

Another thing you couldn’t do was speak, you found, as you prayed you could maintain your balance and began to slowly rock your hips against the rough fabric of his dark pants and his toned thigh, your bare pussy rubbing listlessly against the coarse fabric. You didn’t mind however, perfectly content to let him speak, murmuring strange hybrids of dirty and sweet things in your ear.

The hot pleasure between your legs seemed to double at the restriction in your ribs and not being able to see or anticipate where his hands or mouth were. You buried your head into the crook of Sehun’s neck, peppering wet, opened kisses against his collarbones, your nails digging into your palms with a vengeance in hopes of anchoring yourself to something.

The movements of your hips soon became capricious, rhythmless, your whimpers becoming louder and louder as he switched between flexing his thigh and bouncing it like a restless child. In the darkness of the silk tie, you could feel the callousness of his fingertips as they dug into your hips, a guided meditation through your pleasure.

The room reeked of incense and sex, you realized as you attempted to delay your slowly building release by focusing on different things. Smells, sounds, and finally, Sehun.

This was the Sehun you loved most, the one you cherished most in your heart. The Sehun that was so willing to give, give, and give, but not to the point of recklessness, unlike the Sehun you had seen so often lately in the war room. This Sehun was yours, and yours only. And if the growing wet spot against his rough pants was any indication, then your body loved this Sehun as well.

“S-Sehun.”

“Hmm?”

“P-please let me touch you.”

“Alright, since you asked so nicely.”

You clumsily began to search for his hard bulge, and he grabbed your tied hands and guided them to something hard and hot. You jumped slightly in surprise, not realizing he had taken himself out of his pants while you were humping away at his thigh like a bitch in heat.

He laughed at your squirming, and you slowed the rhythm of your hips in annoyance, but not completely—your hips had stopped folding to you, subconsciously rutting, twitching gently against the rough, now ruined fabric, perpetually searching for release.

“S-shut up,” You panted, and he laughed again, pressing another kiss to your jawline.

“You shut up. I still have to make you come.”

His hands resumed their leisurely movement on your hips, your focus snapping back to the impending edge, thoughts blurring into incoherency as the pleasure against your core. Mindlessly, you let go of Sehun’s member to bring your hands up to your mouth, attempting to spit crudely in order to improvise lube.

Instead, your heart jumped into your throat in arousal when Sehun grabbed your free hand and did the same, keening at his actions, eyebrows furrowing. And, despite feeling a slight annoyance at the chafing of your thighs, a feral instinct took over, and your hips sped up against his thighs.

“You look perfect like this,” He told you, guiding your hand back to where he needed you most, and you began to pump him slowly. His hands moved to wrap around your waist, large hands splaying possessively across your back.

“Gods, I wish you could see how lovely you look, starshine,” He mumbled, seemingly in a daze, “All mine.”

You nodded. “Y-yours, Hunnie. Only yours.”

He pressed a kiss to your collarbone, his breath picking up as your hands did the same, pace speeding up. He groaned against your skin as you pressed your thumb into the slit of his cock. Your movements were harsh, jerking against him as you felt yourself losing yourself in his touch.

“S-Sehun, I’m gonna…”

“I’ve got you,” He whispered, his voice your only anchor, “Let go, Y/N, it’s okay.”

Finally, finally, you crested, head tipping back, mouth falling open in a silent scream, body stiffening in his arms as you were possessed by pleasure. In the dark, colors danced around you, sounds could be touched, Sehun’s hands on your body tasted exquisite.

You didn’t even realize that your display had tipped Sehun over the edge, spilling himself onto your hands while he gripped your shoulders like his life depended on it.

When you came down from your orgasm, your chest heaving, you reached up to pull the blindfold off of your face, struggling slightly as you were still restrained by the silk tie. You blinked a few times, eyes adjusting to the light of Sehun’s room, and found that he had fallen back onto the bed in the height of his orgasm.

His eyes had fluttered closed, panting furiously. He seemed loose, almost boneless, and you stifled a laugh at how much more relaxed he seemed now.

“I take it you had fun?” You asked, poking his stomach teasingly. After a moment of silence, of what you assumed to be Sehun trying to catch his breath, you furrowed your eyebrows.

“Hunnie, come on, get up. Can you untie me, please, baby?”

No response. If anything, Sehun’s pants seemed to be getting even heavier.

“Sehun?”

His eyes fluttered open, and your blood ran cold.

His eyes had rolled up into his head, mouth opening and closing as if he were trying to say something but he’d lost his voice. Around you, the temperature seemed to drop.Out of nowhere, the scent of incense returned, stronger than ever, and beneath you, Sehun tensed, muscles contracting as he began to seize.

You froze, momentarily unsure of what was happening. Here lay your lover, convulsing under you, and you were restrained to a point where it would be difficult to help him. Panic creeped into your stomach, eyes searching for something, anything, that would get you out of the grasp of the silk tie. You brought your wrists up to your teeth, frantically hoping to loosen the knot. Sehun was still convulsing. Your eyes drifted around the room, glancing at his stiff hands, gnarled into unrecognizable gestures. Your clothes were on the floor, but you had left your knife in your room.

Knife. Sehun’s knife.

You lunged for the nightstand, knowing that was where he kept his switchblade in case of an emergency, tumbling to the floor as your legs gave out, still wobbly from both panic and your previous orgasm. You managed to open the drawer, clumsily fumbling for the blade, before pulling it out, holding it between your teeth and bringing your wrists up to your mouth, beginning to saw away at the lovely, pale fabric, suddenly not caring about its softness or its illusion of luxury.

All you needed was to know that Sehun was okay.

Your eyes squeezed shut at the thought that he might be dying, and when the final strands of silk finally gave way, you practically spat out the knife, grabbing onto the nightstand for balance, turning to look at Sehun on your weak legs.

He wasn’t on the bed anymore. Your eyebrows furrowed, head spinning as you tried to figure out what was going on.

“Beware the master of tongues.”

You shrieked, eyes snapping up from where the deep, almost demonic voice had come from, and almost fainted then and there.

Because somehow, Sehun was floating above you, suspended in midair, eyes open wide but not a sliver of brown could be seen. In its place shone a bright silver, the holiest of metals for the unholiest sight.

“Beware the master of tongues,” The voice spoke again, speaking through Sehun, who was stiff as a board, face contorted into a sneer, and you realized with a chill that this wasn’t Sehun, but rather the Oracle.

“Beware the master of tongues,” He said once more, as his sneer morphed into a cruel grin, “But beware more the wrath of the faceless one.”

#kpop scenarios #kpop smut #kpop imagines #kpop x reader #kpop au #exo x reader #exo scenarios #exo smut #exo imagines #sehun x reader #sehun smut #sehun scenarios #my writing #fic: aygaf

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orange-axolotl · 3 years

Text

A sequel to this fic! Once again a huge thank you to @tack-tick for letting me use their idea.

tw: hurt/some comfort, graphic descriptions of a dead body, a role reversal au, reference to suicide, non -graphic body mutilation (wings being burnt away). Ghostza.

ao3 series link

ao3 fic link

It’s the middle of the night by the time the Withers are finally killed and the end of L’manberg seems to have been ensured enough that the violence is stopped.

Wilbur stands on shaking legs and sets Phil’s enchanted bow down next to him. The inside of his wrists are bleeding and his shoulders are numb from the strain. He hates to say that he’d grown soft inside the walls of their childhood home but he must’ve.

He really must have.

In dazed confusion he watches as everyone scatters to the winds, the lights from torches and lanterns moving in various directions. He watches as the bright pink of Techno’s hair disappear with the barely visible red and green shirts of Tommy and Tubbo following behind him. The glint of Eret’s crown guides two people to his castle. The members of the Dream SMP proudly march back towards their homes.

The utter fucking bastards.

Wilbur makes his way down into the crater. It takes forever with only a hastily constructed torch and his limbs threatening to give out on him at any second.

In the dark, he can’t see the base of the crater so it’s easy to pretend like Phil must’ve respawned. He’s respawned and is talking to the others at the moment. He’ll be back to let Wilbur take him and the boys back home.

Home where they’ll never have to deal with this fucking bullshit again.

Wilbur’s feet hit the smooth stone of the bottom. He smells iron and the unmistakable stench of death before he sees the worn out sandal attached to a limp foot. His torch slips from his hand with a spluttered, cut-off whimper that turns into mist in the cold fall air.

He’d known. He’d known it from the moment Phil had fallen, he’d known the whole goddamn climb down.

It’s just so very different to know and to know.

Wilbur picks up the sputtering torch with a trembling hand and takes a few unsteady steps forward until Phil is fully in view. The netherite sword is still sticking out of Phil’s chest.

Rage fills him. The man who never dies, taken by his own fucking sword. With a sickening squelch Wilbur removes it to throw it as hard as he can in the other direction. It clatters to the ground several feet away and skids away until it’s no longer in view.

Wilbur glances over at Phil’s half-shadowed face. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting, maybe laughter at the sudden action, but it’s still slack and so pale. His lifeless blue eyes barely catch the torchlight.

Phil is dead.

Wilbur holds the torch up higher so he can see better.

There’s dried blood everywhere. It’s a black halo around Phil’s head and it spreads out like some kind of poison from his back until it almost looks like wings.

Wilbur kneels beside him without a second thought, his hands hovering above Phil before falling limply back to his side.

The time to help has long since passed.

His brain has gone completely silent in the face of the grief and the agony. Misery and exhaustion has him of half a mind to curl himself around Phil like a child and never move again.

The other half whispers a question that keeps him still.

“How will I tell Fundy?”

The six-year old that Wilbur left behind in Sclatt’s care would be absolutely devastated. Wilbur regularly regaled him with stories of his grandfather that Fundy loved even though his little man doesn’t have any memories of meeting him.

Four years is such a long time. Longer than Wilbur realized.

“Oh,” a soft and unfamiliar voice whispers behind him. Wilbur has a dagger pointed and ready to be thrown in a moment’s notice.

It’s simply too dark to make anything out but that the other person has their hands up around their heads. No weapons to be seen.

“Who are you?”

“I’m BadBoyHalo,” The name tickles something vaguely familiar in the back of Wilbur’s mind but he’s simply too tired to even try to chase it. “I’m - I saw the light down here. I didn’t - I thought that this would be Phil’s first life.”

Wilbur blinks sluggishly at them, puts away his dagger with a quiet sigh.

“Are you Wilbur?” BadBoyHalo asks.

Wilbur nods. “Are you the one who tells my brother not to swear?”

“That’s me.”

“Fuck.”

“Language!”

Huh. Wilbur has always thought that Tommy was exaggerating in his earliest letters home. Turns out that there is a demon out there who hates swearing. He’ll have to apologize. He turns back to look at Phil.

The next words that BadBoyHalo says are hesitant and soft with understanding. “I’m also the server undertaker.”

As nicely said as the words are, they still take Wilbur breath away. They leave Wilbur choking on tears as he grinds his palms into his eyes.

A funeral.

A funeral for Phil.

It’s utterly inconceivable, totally incomprehensible.

Necessary.

Wilbur is the only person who can decide what to do at the moment. He has no ideas where his brothers have fucked off too. Niki doesn’t have the understanding necessary to give his family the burials they had promised to each other as they’d swam away from the melting ruins of an Empire.

“I need -” Wilbur takes a few deep breaths. “Do you know where I can find some journals, a boat, and some white sheets?”

It turns out that the unblown-up docks of L’manberg have ships. Ships with achingly familiar designs and even more familiar insignias.

Scott has apparently requested them on a drunken whim.

Wilbur can’t help but wonder if they had provided him any amount of comfort. If they’d eased the howling wind and cracking ice that resides inside all of the Empire’s children. He wonders because it certainly isn’t doing shit for him.

He picks out two that he’ll have… somebody drag to shore. Long enough to fit them but not big enough to last past the fire.

Then he messages Niki.

WilburSoot: Where are you?

Nihachu: At Eret’s Castle. You won’t be able to miss it.

Wilbur grits his teeth. He does know exactly where Eret’s castle is.

When he walks back through there’s a white tent set up that Wilbur doesn’t dare go near. He’s using all of his strength to get this done. He won’t be able to if he has to see Phil again.

He makes it up the steps and walks through.

Voices are talking quietly and he wanders towards them aimlessly.

“The entire country is gone,” Niki is saying. She sounds like she’s been crying. “I just don’t understand why he would do that.”

Wilbur thought his heart couldn’t crack any further but he couldn't have been proven more wrong.

“We’ll ask him,” a far deeper voice comforts her. “When he gets back, we’ll ask him.”

Eret. The rage and the scorn that should well up inside him absolutely refuses to show its cowardly face.

“It was never meant to be,” his father had repeated like it was some kind of divine prophecy.

This castle is so vast that Wilbur’s steps echo down the corridors. When his hand connects to the wall it comes back covered with dust. There are spider webs spun into the dark corners. It could be more impressive during the day or maybe it’s just Wilbur’s melancholy and half-delirious mind but all he can think is that this place must be such a pain to fill up by oneself.

“Hello?” Eret calls out, “Who's there?”

Wilbur pauses. “Niki?” he calls out.

“Wilbur!” Between one blink and the next Niki emerges from an open doorway and flings herself into his arms. “Thank god, that you’re alright-”

Her eyes catch his face, her relieved smile fading. “What’s wrong? Wil?”

Wilbur attempts a smile, fails miserably. “I think I need to sit down.”

“Yes, of course,” Eret says, “Please take a seat.”

Wilbur nods at them as Niki helps him towards a chair that he collapses into. He covers his face with his palms, struggles to pull himself together.

“Here,” Eret says, holding out a familiar looking potion. When Wilbur just blinks at it, they retreat slightly. “It’s a strength potion? It might help with the whole-”

“Me situation?” Wilbur asks.

He laughs a little, nodding. He doesn’t really look like the evil betrayer that Wilbur has built up in his head. Standing there with an equally hesitant and awkward expression he kind of looks like Fundy does when he’s trying to show Wilbur his newest little redstone project that he’s not sure of.

Wilbur takes the potion and gulps it in one singular motion, the familiar warmth of a strength potion spreading from his chest outwards.

“What did you need, Wil?” Niki asks. Her hands are stained with flour.

Wilbur suddenly realizes that there are various kinds of baked treats all over the table. Bread, cakes, muffins, and pies all over.

He raises an eyebrow.

Niki looks embarrassed, cheeks turning red. “I’ve been stress baking! Yesterday was just so awful. There was so much going on and I couldn’t go to sleep. Would you like one?

Wilbur has to fight back tears, although he isn’t successful judging by the way that Niki and Eret are looking at him. He wipes at his dry mouth with the back of his hand.

“That’s fine, Niki.” he manages. “I - Phil.”

He chokes on the words. He can’t imagine them ever getting any easier.

“Phil’s - Phil’s dead.”

The room goes utterly silent before Eret whispers a shocked, “What?”

Niki’s hug is unexpected but it’s soft and comforting. She smells like pumpkin and cinnamon and vanilla. She’s crying uncontrollably into his hair.

Wilbur shatters in her arms. He can’t help himself as he soaks her shoulder in his tears. He keens like some kind of wounded animal and her arms only tighten when he tries to pull away.

It’s selfish the way that Wilbur thinks about Phil. The things that he’ll miss most about Phil. His dad will never be there to give him advice in the early morning or in letters. Phil’s hug hadn’t been the answer to all of life’s hurts in over a decade but they’d still held some kind of magic. Fundy will grow up with only the stories that Wilbur knows instead of hearing them from the man himself.

The three of them had always competed for Phil’s attention, for his laughter, for his praise.

Phil had never once told them that he loved them all equally. Instead he’d name his most loved traits over and over again until they’d grown into them.

Wilbur can’t catch his breath.

He tugs Niki closer and just tries to get his breathing under control. He can’t get anything done like this. He has to get some kind of plan together so he doesn’t just leave Bad hanging.

It takes a few tries but finally Wilbur has himself pulled together. Niki - after a little while longer -moves away. Her eyes are red-rimmed and puffy as she tries to pull herself together.

Wilbur gently kisses her knuckles. “Hello,” he greets.

“Hi,” she says, sniffing and wiping at her eyes with her flour covered sleeve. “What - What happened?”

“Eret,” Wilbur says, instead. Eret lifts his face up from his hand. His sunglasses cover his eyes but Wilbur isn’t stupid. The devastation is evident, the resignation of being blamed is also there. “Dude, why are you sitting all the way over there?”

“I - I didn’t know where I should be?” Eret answers, voice even deeper than it had been. He chokes on his next words, “I - What happened?”

“He pressed the button.”

Eret makes a noise like she might be about to be sick. Her hands clasped over her mouth.

Wilbur nods in agreement. “He pressed the button and it - it triggered the TNT. Then he fell.”

“I saw that,” Eret says, their voice unsteady and faint. Wilbur wonders if he should’ve refused the strength potion so that they could have it. “Why didn’t he respawn?”

“Yeah,” Niki pipes in. She pulls Eret closer, links her arm through her elbow. “I thought that he was only on his first life? He’s never died before.”

There are so many ways that Wilbur could answer this. So many lies and a truth that he’s always kept to himself. A secret that Phil let slip in the darkest nights.

A half-truth then.

“I don’t know if there’s a reason,” Wilbur mutters, “It might just be the way that Phil was.”

That obviously doesn’t satisfy them but they hold their peace.

“What can I do?” Eret asks.

Wilbur sighs. “Do you have any journals to spare?”

There are so many customs of the Empire that have been lost to their family.

There are songs that Wilbur can only remember snippets of. There are stories that Techno read from an old, waterlogged book that he had to make the endings up for. There are dances that Tommy will never dance on centuries old ice under the night skies bright lights.

So many things have been missed. There was only one thing that Phil stressed to them.

Phil had talked to them about the customs of deaths.

The dead were never buried in the Empire. The snow was simply too deep and dense to reach the equally hard surface. If they were to be put into the snow they would be trapped there in that freezing chill for forever.

Instead, the dead are placed onto boats. Boats that would help them find their way to the afterlife with the help of the Sky Gods.

Journals are then passed out.

The traditions of the Empire understand howling winds that snatch away words into the endless tundra. It also understands that sometimes there are simply no words to be said, only wishes that will never be granted, only memories that need to be recounted.

So the living are encouraged to write a letter. A simple but truthful letter about the departed.

There are no rules to what can be written. Anything goes but most follow a pattern. What the living would miss about the dead.

The journals are tucked into the boat which is then sent out to the ocean.

Once the boat is almost out of sight, it’s set on fire.

The letters can’t be tampered with that way, no extra letters added by those who wish ill. This way the ashes of the letters and the ashes of the dead mix together and then reform in the afterlife to be judged together.

The gods would carefully read the letters and then send the soul where they deserved to go.

Simple.

“Don’t make it a big fuss,” Phil had insisted. “Don’t make it a big fuss but I - I wouldn’t want to end up in an afterlife I wasn’t suited for.”

“Imagine you in the desert, Phil!” Tommy had chirped, nimbly avoiding the affectionate slap. “You’d have lots of fun.”

“Sunburn is far worse than frostbite,” Phil had shuddered.

The memory of their little log cabin nestled in between snow-capped mountains and spruce trees that nearly reached the cloud is almost enough to bring him to tears. He’s never been so homesick in his goddamn life.

So he stops thinking about it and instead takes the journals that Eret hands him with a shaking smile. “I’ll let you know when the funeral is.”

“Please do,” Niki says, giving him another hug. “Take care, Wilbur. Please.”

“Of course,” Wilbur says.

Niki looks as uncertain of that as Wilbur feels.

The sun is just barely peeking over the horizon when he makes his way back to the outskirts of the crater.

The white tent’s opening flaps gently in the wind like it’s inviting Wilbur towards it.

Wilbur grits his teeth. He doesn't want to go in and he doesn’t want to be the one planning funerals.

There is no one else who can.

He ducks into the tent and immediately falters.

Phil’s body has been carefully cleaned and thoughtfully covered in the white sheet that Wilbur asked for.

He hardly recognizes him in the soft glow of lantern light.

His face is completely fine, of course. The fall didn’t damage his face or Wilbur would’ve noticed immediately.

It’s just that he looks almost nothing like the man Wilbur remembers.

The deep black circles and bags under his closed eyes are unfamiliar and cold when Wilbur gathers the strength to bring a shaking hand to his father’s face. The crow’s feet are deep and set in sorrow. Phil’s blond hair is patchy, thin, and white at the temples. The frown lines surrounding his mouth are completely foreign.

All the same details that the panic of the button room covered up. The small details that Wilbur hasn’t been there to see.

Wilbur kneels down next to the stone slab. He clasps Phil’s hand in both of his, bringing it up to his forehead so he can rest his throbbing head on Phil’s knuckles. Bad has obviously gone to great lengths to get Phil presentable and clean but the smell of gunpowder still lingers.

“I’m sorry,” Wilbur whispers, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I should’ve been here. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Bad places a gentle hand on his shoulder and Wilbur lets his mantra fall silent. So they just sit there in silence while Wilbur breathes solid, even breaths. He can’t manage any more tears so he just quietly rests with the yearning chasm in his chest.

After a while he says, “Have you found Scott?”

“We think that his body must’ve been lost in the explosion,” Bad says, and he sounds oh so guilty about it.

Wilbur wonders how on earth Scott’s soul will find its way to their afterlife without a boat to help him get there.

“Nothing to be done for it.” Wilbur sighs. “Don’t worry too much about it.”

They fall back into a long silence until the sounds of people wandering towards the crater become clear.

Then a few moments later it becomes obvious who it is.

Tommy’s barking laughter hits him first.

Wilbur gently sets Phil’s hand onto the slab.

He thinks that he must’ve been the only one Phil ever told about being a purely one-life individual. He wonders if Phil had ever thought that Wilbur would be put into the unavoidable position of having to explain it.

He imagines that if he’d known then he would’ve at least told Techno.

Techno’s deadpan voice - still too distant to understand the words but enough to catch the intent of a joke - sweeps through the tent flap. It’s quickly followed by Tommy and Tubbo’s hysterical laughter.

Then again maybe not.

“What’s this?” Tubbo’s voice calls out. “There’s a tent?”

“I’ll get there faster, bitch!” Tommy calls back.

The sound of running sends Wilbur into a panic as he stumbles over himself to stand up. He has to catch them before they can run in without warning. He’s almost to the tent flap when it opens and then closes with a gasp.

“What? What is it Tubbo?” Tommy calls out, the tent flap opens again.

Tommy takes in the scene in front of him. He’s had a growth spurt in the six months since Wilbur’s seen him but his posture’s gotten so much worse. There are dark circles under his eyes as well although they’re nowhere near as bad as Phil’s.

A beat of silence where Tommy just seems to take in the room.

Then he yells something incomprehensible and stumbles towards Phil’s body. His hands shake above the cloth like he’s afraid to touch it. “What the fuck happened here?” he demands.

He turns to Wilbur with a pleading look, “What the fuck?” he asks, again his voice breaking. He angrily swipes tears away from his eyes with his palm.

God, he’s only sixteen.

Wilbur opens his arms and Tommy throws himself into the hug. Wilbur makes sure to tuck him into his shoulder so if he doesn’t want his tears seen then they won’t be. Tommy mutters questions under his breath until he’s not saying anything but is just sobbing.

Wilbur had been wrong about having no tears left. He has to blink them away so he can focus on his twin who just walked in.

“Wilbur.” Techno breathes, standing at the tent opening with the white cloth of the tent clenched in his palm. He can’t take his eyes off Phil. “I don’t understand. This was - This was his first life? He said that it was his first life.”

“His only life.” The words come - unbidden and unwanted - to Wilbur before he can stop them. He winces.

Tommy doesn’t seem to notice but Techno turns to stare at him. “What?” he demands.

“I’ll tell you later,” Wilbur promises.

They have a long staring contest until finally Techno nods.

BadBoyHalo shifts in the corner. A move that has Techno’s eyes darting towards him and then narrowing.

“Bad,” he greets.

“Technoblade,” BadBoyHalo says, “I’ve been helping Wilbur with Philza’s funeral.”

A flash of guilt crosses Techno’s face. “Alright.”

“I need to know when we’ll be holding the funeral so I can tell all of those who are invited,” Bad says.

“Noon.” Wilbur and Techno answer immediately. Wilbur combs a hand through Tommy’s wild hair, the sobbing has calmed down to sniffles and hiccuping breaths.

“Are there any specific-,” Bad pauses as if he just realized that what he’s about to ask isn’t quite the question that he wants to be asking. “ - guests that you don’t want there?”

“Everybody who wants to be there is welcome,” Wilbur answers before either of his brothers can set up some kind of restriction.

Tommy bristles, pulls away slightly, “Dream isn’t-”

“Everybody is welcome,” Wilbur repeats, louder.

Bad nods, pauses at the opening. “Tubbo?” he asks.

The three of them pause as the sound of muffled crying answers him. Bad gently leads in Tubbo with red-rimmed eyes and a hand pressed against his mouth.

Wilbur’s never met Tubbo before, for all that they’re family. Phil had written to him in a daze about the child they’d found on the side of the road. Phil and Techno apparently dedicated themselves to finding the boy's parents before finally declaring it useless and taking him with them.

Tommy pulls away from Wilbur and throws himself at Tubbo who buries his face into Tommy’s shoulder and starts weeping. The room goes silent besides Wilbur quietly humming a lullaby while Tommy rubs Tubbo back and Techno seems to be deeply in thought. He paces the room like a caged animal.

Tubbo finally recovers enough that he and Tommy pull away with a muttered apology.

“Hey,” Wilbur says. “Don’t apologize. This is a truly terrible situation.”

He puts just enough emphasis on it that it makes Tubbo huff a laugh before looking horrified at himself.

“Hey, Wilbur?” Tommy says before the silence can turn awkward.

“Hm?” Wilbur answers, already dreading the next statement.

“Dream and Scott shouldn’t be allowed at Phil’s funeral.”

“Scott’s dead, Tommy.” Wilbur sighs. The other three freeze before a small cheer erupts among them. Wilbur continues, “And it’s tradition. Everyone gets to have their say.”

That seems to take the wind right out Tommy’s sails and he deflates into a dejected teenager. “This isn’t the Empire,” he mutters half-heartedly, “We don’t have to follow everything.”

“It’s what Phil would’ve wanted.” Wilbur answers.

That’s the end of the argument and the conversation.

They stand in that tiny white tent exhausted and lost beyond belief. Wilbur watches the Sky and tries to convince himself that he isn’t looking for black wings.

After a while Tommy and Tubbo start to get relestless. The two of them glancing between Techno who hasn’t moved from Phil’s side and Wilbur who’s been staring out into the distance for the past few hours now that some of the responsibility has shifted shoulders.

“Hey Tommy, Tubbo?” Wilbur calls. “Can you do me a favor?”

Their whispered conversation dies down.

“Yeah?” Tommy calls back. “What kind of favor?”

“Niki’s at Eret’s castle -” He waits for Tommy to make some kind of comment about how awkward that must be for him. It unsettles something deep when Tommy doesn’t say a word,

distrubed Wilbur continues, “Niki’s at Eret’s castle and she’s been stress baking all night. Do you think that you and Tubbo could get some together to hand out at the - the docks when it’s time?”

“You got it, Big Dubs,” Tommy says, the two of them darting out of the tent like lighting bolts.

Tommy turns back at the last second and hugs him. Wilbur combs a hand through his hair, bewildered at the fact that Tommy would be seen hugging him.

“I’m glad that you’re here, big man.” Tommy whispers, so quietly that Wilbur almost doesn’t hear it.

“I’m here as long as I can be, Tommy.” Wilbur promises.

Tommy breaks away with a small smile before racing back to where Tubbo had stopped in surprise. The two of them walk away with their heads pulled in close together as they talk.

Wilbur closes the tent flap with a sigh. There’s a hard conversation waiting for him and Technoblade. No reason to try and postpone it or make it harder for the two of them.

“So,” Wilbur says, spinning his ring on his finger. “Which question do you want to ask me first?”

“His only life.”

It’s not a question.

Wilbur answers him anyway, “Phil never told me why he only had one life.” he admits, “I think that he probably lost two of them during the Fall of the Empire. He only told me because I happened to be in the right place at the right time to hear about it.”

It’s probably nowhere near the answer that Techno wants, not really the answer that he deserves either. Wilbur just doesn’t have any better answer to give him.

“I - That’s fine!” Techno says, surprising Wilbur into turning around to look at him. “I don’t care that he only had one life. Why didn’t he tell me?”

Wilbur does his best not to take it as an insult. He’s failing miserably at it. “I could’ve protected him so much better!” Techno continues, “There were so many plans that could’ve gone so much better!”

“Phil wouldn’t have wanted to be thought of as a liability,” Wilbur points out, “He wouldn’t have taken that.”

Techno takes a moment to ingest that information. They both know that Phil would’ve patiently accepted it for a while with minimal protests as he went around Techno’s back to change the plans.

That’s just Phil.

“You’re right,” Techno admits. “So there’s no chance of a respawn?”

Techno and Wilbur had never been the type of twins who were close. There was no reason for it on either of their sides, just the understanding that they had their own interests and tastes that very rarely intersected.

It’s almost comforting in that moment to know that at least in this moment the same question has been racing through the both of them.

“No chance of a respawn.” Wilbur confirms.

“I saw - I saw him run himself through.” Techno says, once again he’s talking more to himself. “I saw him throw himself into the crater. That whole time I thought that he’d respawn.”

Wilbur envies him that hope. That jealousy for the night Techno had thought that Phil would be back at any time while Wilbur carried him out of a crater and got things together. Then he thinks about the way that a nation that he’s never seen has turned to ash under Techno’s feet and the jealousy shrivels up in his chest.

“It’s almost noon,” Bad calls making both of them jump. “If you need any help moving Phil?”

Wilbur looks at Techno. Techno looks at him.

“We’ve got it.” Techno calls back.

“Thank you.” Wilbur adds.

“Of course.”

Sometime during Wilbur’s visit with Eret and Niki Bad had fashioned a kind of wooden slab with handles so that they could transport Phil’s body without too much hassle. Wilbur needs to thank Eret again for the strength potion because otherwise there would simply be no way that he could manage to do this.

They work in silence as they carefully shroud Phil in the thick white sheet that Bad had gotten for them. Techno’s face freezing when he sees the burnt remains of Phill’s wings.

“He was protecting me from the blast,” Wilbur admits, carefully wrapping the cloth around them. “I don’t know if - if the wings would’ve made it if I hadn’t been there.”

‘I don’t know if Phil would’ve made it if I wasn’t there.’

Techno blinks at him, his words awkward but obviously carefully chosen, “I think that he decided what he was going to do. Nobody could’ve changed his decision.”

“Maybe.” Wilbur says, “Maybe.”

They finish in exhausted silence. There’s nothing left to be discussed between the two of them now.

There’s a universe where Wilbur had been fast enough. There was a universe where Phil had never even pressed the button. There had to be a universe where right now Phil was alive.

Wilbur wonders how many end portals and nether portals he’d have to jump through to find it.

“You ready?” Techno’s voice is a low rumble.

“Ready as I can be.”

They slide Phil’s body onto the slab and start the short journey towards the boat that will guide Phil to the afterlife.

Everybody is already at the sand next to the docks before they get there. Members of L’manberg and the Dream SMP hovering around each other. Niki is handing out food that everybody is half - heartedly nibbling on.

Tubbo and Tommy come racing forward when they see them, only faltering a little when they see the ceremonial shroud.

“Is there anything that we can do?” Tubbo asks.

Wilbur almost tells them not to worry about it before he reconsiders. “Can you grab the journals out of my pack? There should be about twenty or so.”

Tubbo eagerly digs through it and passes ten back to Tommy and then takes ten for himself.

“I’d be a big help if you handed those out.” Wilbur admits, “Tommy, do you remember what they’re for?”

Tommy swallows, “I remember.”

“Are you up for explaining?”

“Yeah. I can - Yeah.”

Wilbur smiles at them, warmth kindling in his chest. God, they have good kids here. Wilbur couldn’t be prouder. He hopes that even a fraction of that warmth and pride shows when he says, “Thank you, guys. Seriously.”

Considering the way that both of them flush and then turn around to give out the journals he thinks that maybe at least a little had come across.

Setting Phil into the boat is easy. Setting the charcoal in beside him is not.

His father will be in flames in less than twenty minutes.

The way that Techno’s hands shake lets him know that he understands the gravity just as well. The sound of waves lapping against the shore and nearby dolphins are slowly joined by the sound of quill tips scratching out thoughts onto paper.

Tommy quietly sets two journals and two enchanted quills in the sand beside them just as they finish.

Wilbur writes as many good things as he can. He writes about long, lonely nights made bearable only by his father’s warm presence. He writes about giggling snowball fights, and the feeling of flying with his toes skimming the top of water.

He writes about the certainty of never being allowed to fall.

He wants to write page after page about his sorrow and his guilt but he doesn’t want that to be the last that Phil ever reads from him. So instead he signs -

‘I’ll miss you until we meet again.

Forever Your Loyal Son

Wilbur Soot’

He gently sets the book into the boat and covers it with charcoal before stepping aside so that the others can do so when they’re ready.

Nikki feds him a bit of pumpkin pie when she sees that his hands are dirty and caked with charcoal dust.

Clouds begin to cover the sun when Techno settles his letter beside everybody else.

Tommy and Tubbo volunteer to push the boat out and something inside Wilbur breaks even more as they grit their teeth and shove the boat into the water. Wilbur tucks them both under his arms and curls over them.

He has to bury his face into Tommy’s hair and just breathe when Techno notches the flaming arrow. He swallows down a sob when the telltale sound of something catching fire barely reaches them.

“It’s over, big man,” Tommy says after a minute, “You can’t see it anymore.”

Wilbur nods, squeezes them once to reassure himself that they won’t disappear the second that he lets go.

They don’t hang around the docks much longer after that. Everybody is wary of each other now that the common goal has been fulfilled. They disappear back into the same packs that they had the night before but now Wilbur follows the bright pink of Techno’s hair to wherever the hell they’re going.

“Secret base,” Techno says to Wilbur’s questioning stare.

“Everybody knows where it is now, Technoblade,” Tubbo says.

“It was once a secret base,” Techno amends. “Now it’s just a base.”

“It’s under a lake!” Tubbo says.

It turns out that Technoblade does have a once - hidden base that’s under a lake and it looks a lot better than it sounds.

“Took two years to build,” Techno says when Wilbur looks around in awe.

“You haven’t even seen the hidden hidden bit,” Tubbo says, “That's really really cool.”

“Maybe later,” Wilbur says, “First though I’m gonna make some lunch.”

The fish and chips that he makes isn’t the best and everybody mostly just picks at it but it gives them the excuse that they need to all get settled into the small dining room.

Wilbur and Techno pick up books that they half-heartedly read through even though their concreation is shot to all hell. Tommy and Tubbo play tic - tac - toe only finishing a few games before they start to yawn.

“I think that I'm going to go take a nap,” Wilbur says, putting his book down without bothing to put a bookmark. “If anybody wants to join me.”

“You’re getting old,” Tommy complains, “Who needs a nap this early.”

The impact of his statement doesn’t hit that hard when he yawns at the end.

“Maybe a nap wouldn’t be all that bad,” Tommy huffs a laugh.

That’s how thirty minutes later Wilbur is pinned under two asleep teenage boys and idly staring up at the ceiling. He doesn’t think that he’ll be able to go to sleep himself and as the cloak sounds off hour after hour he’s proven correct.

It doesn’t bother him like it would’ve once. Instead he just settles in for the long haul and lets his mind gently wander. Until it hits midnight and his body all of sudden itches for activity. The last hurray of the long - acting strength potion that Eret had given him making him restless.

He tries to tough it but after he nearly wakes up Tubbo twice in three minutes he throws in the towel and painstakingly extracts himself.

Then he goes to search for Techno wandering through the confusing base until he finds him in a comfortable little living room.

Techno has always built for practicality more than any kind of sentimentally or comfort reasons. That’s why Wilbur knows that the little living room with it’s comfortable furniture and potted plants had been a concession for Phil.

He can just barely make out the edges of Techno from the angle that he’s at and for a moment he’s about to walk in. It’s always been better for Wilbur to have somebody to sit up with for the night if the other person could bear it.

Before he can he watches as Techno takes off his crown and sets it onto the side table next to him. Then with a quiet huff Techno puts a very familiar green and white striped bowler hat onto his head.

Wilbur doesn’t want to disturb that so instead he heads up to the surface.

It’s the middle of the night again so he just idly starts walking until he finds a path. He doesn’t have any armor on but the diamond dagger has taken out several mobs before they could take him out. So he’s not terribly worried.

“Hello.” A voice says.

Wilbur whirls around and finds the man, the myth, the enemy.

“Good afternoon, Dream.” he greets.

“It’s a bit past afternoon, Wilbur,” Dream says, affably. His mask really is disturbing this close up. “You shouldn’t be out here without any armor on. Who knows what could get you.”

Wilbur smiles, “I wasn’t all that worried about it, but now that you’re here I’m sure that you’ll protect me isn’t that right?”

“Of course,” Dream laughs. “Wouldn’t want somebody to get killed on their first day on the server would I?”

“It’d be bad for the image of the whole place.”

Dream hums in amused agreement. “What are you doing out so late?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Wilbur admits, “Just wanted to walk to try and see if that might help. Is it the same for you?”

“Yeah. I - Yeah.”

Not as skilled in lying as he thinks he is. Dream’s voice will give him away if Wilbur listens carefully enough.

“I could show you a nice place for us to sit and chat if you’d like?” Dream offers.

“Oh no, thank you.” Wilbur waves the offer away, as he starts to walk again. Dream has to walk with him if he doesn’t want to get left behind. “Tommy’s offered to show me around tomorrow and I’d hate to ruin anything.”

Dream’s voice is strained when he answers, “You’re walking one of the main paths of the server right now. I think that you’ll find your way towards most of the big spots by yourself.”

“Huh, fancy that.” Wilbur hums, walking along.

The mask doesn’t hide the sound of teeth gritting together very well. A shame for Dream because Wilbur finds that he quite likes the sound.

“I’m gonna cut to the chase, Wilbur.” Dream says, he’d almost certainly be imitating to somebody who isn’t running on unbridled grief and pure maniac energy. “You’re the only person whose managed to break the protections that Callagan’s put on the server.”

Wilbur keeps walking. Dream goes silent but he’s barking up the wrong fucking tree if he thinks that’s gonna make Wilbur talk. He lived with Technoblade for sixteen years, he can handle the silent treatment with both ease and grace.

“Do you know how that could’ve happened?” Dream breaks after a few minutes. He doesn’t sound pleased about it.

“I might have a few ideas,” Wilbur bullshits, leaning down to pick a dandelion. He presents it to Dream with a peaceful smile. “I doubt those ideas would be of much interest to a man such as yourself though Dream.”

He’d wanted so desperately to see his family. The stars had engulfed him and he has no idea how his feet had met stone in this server. No. He doesn’t think that Dream would find his answer satisfying at all but if he wanted to insist then Wilbur wouldn’t stop him.

“I think that it’d be of great interest to me actually,” Dream takes the flower from him and settles it into his pack.

Wilbur thinks that if Dream was a bird then he’d be a Raven or a Vulture. Circling around the hurt and waiting for them to die. Wilbur’s read the horror stories that had been included in Dad and Techno’s letters of a bloody war.

He’ll do the same to a limping, shambling state of a nation.

“Would you be in a trade of information, Dream?” Wilbur offers.

Dream hums, pleased. “I could be. What would this trade include?”

“I tell you how I got on your server. You tell me how my father came to the opinion that L’manberg needed to be destroyed.”

There’s a weighted moment where Dream seems to be deliberating if the information was worth it.

Wilbur stares at the stars and marvels at how unfamiliar they are. The only familiar objects in the sky are the waxing moon and the northern star.

Dream obviously must decide that he wants to know enough because he takes a deep breath. “Phil wanted L’manberg back and all that was left was Manburg. He decided that it wasn’t worth that.”

Wilbur hums, “Manburg, huh? Scott took the L.”

Dream laughs and agrees. This whole server must be so amusing to him. Little puppets to play with and chess pieces to move.

“Did Phil find the TnT by himself?” Wilbur asks, making sure to keep his voice light and curious. “I mean there must have been several stacks.”

“I gave him the first stacks,” Dream says, “After that I just gave him the gunpowder. He found the sand.”

“Oh! That explains how he was able to get that many so quickly, I suppose.” Wilbur says, “Taking out a nation on the name along though. Seems a bit strange.”

“More the principle of the thing I think,” Dream shrugs, “The land that he’d built just kind of disappeared when Scott took over and changed everything.”

“Did he tell you this?” Wilbur asks, innocently.

“We had a few talks,” Dream admits, “We didn’t see eye to eye on a lot of things but that was something that we came to agree about.”

Dream pauses in their steps as if he’d suddenly realized what he’d revealed. Wilbur keeps his pace even and steady as he walks away. It’s always nice when a suspicion is confirmed that’s for sure.

“So you were the one reasonable for the Manburg destruction.” Wilbur says when Dream catches up. “Well that and the Withers that you set off.”

“Phil made his choice.” Dream says, pauses. “Maybe if you’d been here then you would understand.”

“Is that so?” Wilbur asks, he wishes that he’d grabbed his guitar. Something to do with his hands beside keeping them determinedly loose by his side. “It’s almost like I wasn’t whitelisted and wasn’t allowed on the server.”

“Nobody asked me to whitelist you.”

“How embarrassing for them.”

Dream grits his teeth again, “I kept my end of the bargain. Tell me how you got into the server.”

That - at least - Wilbur can agree with. He’d answered the question and had even given far more than he’d intended too when he’d decided to trade.

It’s a shame really that WIlbur won’t be able to give him the answer that he wants.

Such is life.

“I just wanted to be here,” Wilbur says, “Then I was.”

The crickets chirp quietly around them. Wilbur silently counts down in his head.

3...2...1

“Is that it?” Dream says, disbelieving.

Him and Techno really are so alike in the strangest of ways. Maybe that’s why Phil had such an obvious soft spot for Dream. Maybe that’s why Dream was able to convince him that a nation once gone can never be recovered. Maybe that’s why Wilbur is standing here and playing games instead of ripping his throat out and burning his lands to ashes like he wants too.

“It didn’t matter in the long run did it?” Wilbur says, offering a small olive branch of truth. “A little too late for me to have changed anything.”

“I suppose so. Do you plan on staying?”

“Well, somebody has to help Techno and Tommy rebuild L’manberg.” Wilbur says, “I’ll stay as long as they need me.”

“The nation of L’manberg is gone, Wilbur.” Dream says. “Phil blew it up.”

That’s cute.

“If Phil truly wanted L’manberg gone then it would be gone, Dream.” Wilbur assures him. “After all the bedrock is still there.”

Wilbur holds a hand for a handshake that’s mostly an excuse to try to crush Dream’s fingers with the last holding effects from the potion. Dream doesn’t take it instead his mask tilting until Wilbur has to drop his hand.

“Have a good night, Dream.” It’s counter-initiative to turn his back on the enemy but Wilbur can’t afford to show fear here. Not if he wants to get what he needs.

He’s several feet away before Dream says, “You do the same, Wilbur. Make sure to enjoy it while you can.”

Wilbur rolls his eyes. What a dramatic fuck.

He makes it back to the lake and down into Technoblade’s not - so - secret base just in time for the true exhaustion to slam into him.

It leaves him stumbling and shaking as he moves through the base to check on his boys. Tommy and Tubbo are still curled around each other like affectionate cats, Techno still sitting in the little living room although he’s fallen asleep with Phil’s hat still on his head.

Tomorrow morning he’ll have to send a letter to Sclatt and Fundy to break the news that he’ll be gone longer than intended. It’ll probably take him a long - ass time to write.

A problem for tomorrow though. For now he’ll have to settle into the knowledge that everybody is as safe as they can be for now.

He swings back towards Tommy and Tubbo to rejoin the pile when he hears somebody moving through chests. His dagger in his hand immediately and he creeps towards the noise silently until he meets a nondescript door.

The door swings open with a quiet squeak and Wilbur’s breath catches in his throat.

Standing there is a grey figure. A grey figure that he recognizes shifting through chests.

The breath finally leaves him in a pained wheeze that could be mistaken for a “Phil?”

The figure turns around with a frown on his face. His sandals don’t quite touch the ground. His eyes aren’t a soft baby blue but instead a raging grey.

His words are a half - question, half - demand that echo around the room.

“Where are my sons?”

#text #let there be a garden and a man in it au #wilbur soot #philza #fanfiction #once again i don't know how to tag

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twilightofthe · 4 years

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Ohhhhh Nonny do I have an IDEA for this one, thank you so much. I’m going off of your Separatists idea, thanks!

(You also sent me that second Obikin prompt which I shall also answer boy howdy!)

(OTP prompts list found here)

Obianidala 4 - Enemies to lovers AU: Which one switches sides?

In this universe, Dooku tries to catch more flies with honey than vinegar at first. When Padmé Amidala starts stirring up a fuss in the Senate about things that could interfere with Sidious’s plans, Dooku sees an opportunity arise. That formidable personality Amidala uses to command attention to her cause, something like that could be useful to him, to have on his side. His Master will certainly disagree, but Dooku knows that his Master cannot be his Master forever. At some point, Sidious will have to be dealt with; why not have the girl who took down the last Chancellor as an ally?

Count Dooku arranges a meeting with Senator Amidala. He tells her the truth about Sheev Palpatine. He shows her the datapad painstakingly compiled with over a decade of evidence of the Chancellor’s high treason. The entire sordid affair that was invasion of Naboo and Palpatine’s role in it is displayed in full. The truth is undeniable.

Padmé has never been so furious in her life. If what is in these documents is true, everything up to and including her own election as Queen, what she prided herself on for achieving through her own success and talent and by the grace of a democratic society, all of it, was his doing. He chose her. He groomed her. Eight fucking years of her life as a civil servant unknowingly dancing on his strings like a puppet, enacting his will, causing her planet and the galaxy irreparable damage. Gods, he chose her because she was weak-minded enough to hand him the Chancellorship on a silver platter.

Dooku tells her of Palpatine’s plan, of the war he’s been cultivating— too late in the proceedings now for Padmé to do anything to stop it, gods, he’s thought of everything, and his ultimate goal of complete galactic domination. He believes Dooku is his servant, on his side, but, Dooku says, he does not plan to follow him forever. He wants to take Palpatine down, and he thinks Padmé could help him.

She learned all of her political prowess from the man who betrayed her. She knows he has left nothing to chance and that there is no way civil law and political action could knock him off his throne, no matter what evidence she gathers. She doesn’t trust Dooku, thinks he’s just as bad.

But Padmé was a tool in Palpatine’s rise. Anything bad that happens because of him is now blood on her hands by proxy.

Padmé Amidala commits herself to an alliance with Count Dooku.

A slightly less detailed version of the evidence shown to Queen Jamillia is enough to commit Naboo as well.

They can’t tell Palpatine yet, don’t want to alert him to their plan, so for a year they plan in private. Dooku is certain his Master is unaware. During that year, Padmé is told of what Darth Sidious really is, how the Sith factor into everything. She really didn’t sign up for this. This is Jedi-level danger that she has no experience in handling and gods, the Jedi don’t even know about any of this, and while Sidious is awful and Padmé Will bring that bastard down, she doesn’t like or trust Dooku in the slightest. Does not want his ideas of how the galaxy should be run.

But what should she do?

The answer comes when Dooku tells her that he is being ordered by his Master to make attempts on her life due to her rabble rousing in the Senate. He won’t actually kill her, he promises, and she knows he needs her enough that she believes him.

And then the sack of utter shit kills Cordé accompanied by a completely unrepentant message to her saying that it was necessary, and Padmé despises him too and maybe that’s why she’s so eager to lightly push him into the fire when Palpatine pulls her into a meeting with the Jedi about it. Maybe the Jedi can help her, do something, maybe—

The Jedi is the same one who was sent to protect her a decade ago, the one Dooku’s mentioned by name from time to time when he’s humored her questions on the Sith and Jedi, his former grand-apprentice Padmé swears he might still be fond of.

And that apprentice’s current apprentice, and damn, Little Ani has certainly grown up...

Obi Wan is truly brilliant, Padmé didn’t appreciate that enough the first time they met. She’d appreciate it more now, if not for the light suspicion she starts picking up from him near the moment the investigation into her attackers starts. She supposes it could just be dislike of how his apprentice is blatantly, adorably enamored with her— which, doesn’t quite bother Padmé like it should, and no, she is not going down that road right now, nope —and it’s easy enough to tell Obi Wan cares very deeply for Anakin, but she suspects it’s more, that he’s caught on that there’s something she might not be telling them.

Having his intense focus on her though? Not entirely bad. His eyes staring into hers and his smooth voice as he asks her questions? Padmé can accept that. She can accept Anakin tripping over himself, being genuine and kind and so eager to help her. Even if she doesn’t want to tell herself why.

After the second assassin attempt— bugs, Dooku, really? —she can tell Obi Wan definitely knows something is up and says so to Dooku, who had promised her he’d handle it.

Her and Anakin are sent off to Naboo and she knows that bothers Obi Wan— though again, is that more his suspicions about her or his worry over Anakin —and she dearly hopes Dooku doesn’t kill him

During the time on Naboo, she learns much more about Anakin Skywalker, his humor, his brightness, his complication, his anger. He’s mad at the government too, and he feels pressure and upset at who he answers to. He’s ridiculously gone on his own Master even if he doesn’t know it, and Padmé has seen Obi Wan with her own eyes so she understands that completely. He’s beautiful and she’s unable to look away from him, especially not when he’s looking right back at her, kisses her, and no, this is a problem, a Major problem because the crux of the entire issue is that he is far, far too close to Palpatine.

Padmé has spent enough time reflecting back on just how exactly Palpatine groomed her, she recognizes it now in Anakin. He, wine flushed over dinner, tells her of the supposed prophecy he doesn’t quite believe in, how he is very powerful in the Force. She remembers all Dooku told her of the Sith, and while she’s sure he didn’t tell her close to all of it, she knows far more than enough to know that Anakin Skywalker is in grave danger

She sees even more of it when Tatooine and his mother come into play

She needs to pull away from this.

The updates Dooku’s sending on Obi Wan, how he’s being lured, her concern, no, none of this is good.

These are good men, bright men, people who just want to help, and she can’t have them around her because they’ll mess up the purpose she’s gambled her entire life for

So when Anakin gets a distress call from Obi Wan on Geonosis, Padmé grits her jaw, shoves down her feelings, and leads Anakin straight into Dooku’s trap.

The look of utter heartbreak and betrayal on his face once they arrive and are captured, when the droids let Padmé go and she walks away from him, the pain in his voice as he says her name, only her name, nothing else, it breaks her.

But this is it, Obi Wan discovered the clones and the game is put in motion, and Padmé can no longer hide in the shadows, has to sit and watch as the two Jedi are put in the arena to die, looks at Dooku who’s watching them with a troubled expression— she knows he made Obi Wan an offer and was turned down, knows he too sees something in Obi Wan like he did in her, and Padmé has an idea because she sensed a likeness in Obi Wan that resides in herself, that he wouldn’t listen to a shady figure like Dooku, but if she could make him see her view, tell him what was controlling them— controlling Anakin...

Anakin, she thinks, would come too. For his Master, if anything, but she knew they had something and if she hadn’t managed to completely kill it by betraying him.

She tells Dooku she might be able to convince the Jedi one more time to see things their way, and he narrows his eyes suspiciously but keeps the other newly-Separatist leaders from going after her when she tosses two blasters into the arena for the unarmed Jedi.

Obi Wan’s glare at her is pure acid and no, that one will not be easy, she very well might fail, and something in her both winces at the disdain but also ignites at the challenge, he is a challenge and she is good at challenges, but she catches Anakin’s eyes and sees confusion, remnants of that awful pain that makes her faint with guilt, and hope, hope in those eyes as he handles the blaster with the ease of a lightsaber— Obi Wan’s even better at it, Padmé notes with amusement, remembering him expressing distaste for them —she feels her heart jump. Maybe she hasn’t destroyed what she and Anakin had, maybe she hasn’t lost him, maybe there’s a chance to explain—

The Jedi show up and they bring the clones, and now it’s a full out battle, the other leaders are fleeing, but Padmé can’t go, not yet, though she is shameless enough to duck behind Jango Fett and let him handle things when she sees Mace Windu headed in her direction with a look like death on his face, which, fair, very fair, Padmé does kind of deserve it, she did lie to everyone

She’s trying to follow Obi Wan and Anakin, catches a swoopbike and gets a small cluster of droids to follow her when she sees them headed on carrier ships.

This time, when one ship is struck, Obi Wan and Anakin are in different transports, so it is Obi Wan who is knocked out of it and tumbles into a sand dune, and Anakin on his way to get Dooku without even noticing his Master fell.

Padmé is ready to use her droid squad to capture him again so she can explain, but now clones are headed his way too, and her droids and the clones engage in a firefight across the sands, so it is Padmé alone who goes across the sand to offer him a hand up

Her getting flipped onto her back and a lightsaber at her chest reminds her that right, he’s a bit peeved with her at the moment

Wait, she tells him, raising her hands complacently. Listen to her, she says, Anakin is in danger.

His hair is unkempt and there’s dirt on his face and his stare seems more intense than ever. His voice is icy as he replies, and who’s fault is that?

She winces. He is mad that she hurt Anakin on top of everything else, which is also fair, she’s mad at herself too. Not from her, she explains, from the Sith Lord, the one Dooku told you about, did he tell you their name?

His eyes narrow, says Dooku said the Sith controls the Senate

Padmé tells him she’s met the Sith, Dooku is right, and that the Sith not only controls the Senate, they control Anakin, have had their eye on him for a very long time

And there’s that flash of protective fire in his eyes, she has his attention, though he’s trying to act like she doesn’t. She likes his attention, is glad he cares for Anakin as much as she does. He asks her, tone dangerous, what the hell she’s talking about.

Padmé takes a breath. You’re in danger of losing him to the Dark Side.

He reels back ever so slightly, snarls, you don’t know what you’re talking about.

Ask him what we did on Tatooine, she counters, watches as he takes that entirely the wrong way, the flush of cheeks, the second once-over of her, and she can’t help but be amused.

No, she stresses though, because they don’t have the time, not like that. Ask him what he did. He did something awful and if you don’t help him with that, it will get worse and he will deliver himself right into the Sith’s hands

She can see him paling. He knows she’s not lying. What did he do? Who is this Sith?

She shakes her head, tells him that he will not believe her, and that Anakin must tell him himself, and he must still be there for him. You are what’s keeping him where he is. Don’t drive him away. You can’t lose him.

His eyes narrow, he wants to argue with her and the lightsaber is still at her chest and he’s staring at her just as intensely and her heart is tight, but he’s getting a report on his commlink, and she hears something about Anakin about to engage Dooku, and he swears sharply and is pulling out the blaster she gave him and she doesn’t have time to move before he shoots her with it—

And he stunned her, thank the gods, she wakes up handcuffed in a transport ship with a few clones still milling around, she sees the entrance to the cave system Dooku was using off at a distance, she knows exactly where he would be and knows in her heart that Obi Wan and Anakin are fighting him.

The clones, bless them, are still a little new, and her cuffs are in the front and aren’t exactly chained to anything, and she’s in white just like them so it doesn’t take much to pull her wrap cowl up over her head, wait until one isn’t looking, and take off out of the ship at a run, somehow avoiding getting shot until she’s deep in the cave and has time to pull a pick out of her boot and undo the cuffs with her mouth. She can hear fighting in the distance and she may be unarmed, but she feels she was finally breaking through to Obi Wan and she needs something she can control, not Dooku, not Sidious, her, and she bursts out—

And there’s Dooku, fighting what looks like Master Yoda, and there are both of her men, collapsed on the floor, and obviously there is history between Dooku and his old master so neither of them even pay her any mind as she darts across the ground to where Obi Wan is laying slightly over Anakin— who, gods, is missing an entire arm, Dooku you bastard —and is surprisingly, still awake.

She meets Anakin’s bleary, pain-filled eyes, runs a hand soothingly over his forehead and croons softly at him, melts at how quickly he leans in to her touch despite what she’s done, what side she’s on. It’s okay, shhh, it’s okay, rest.

Did you mean it? he asks her, and her heart shatters. Any of it, did you mean-?

I didn’t want to lie, she tells him, completely honest. You weren’t part of the plan, you never were, hurting you wasn’t—

He makes a confused, sad little noise as she leans closer and oh, she can’t help it, she leans down and she kisses him and he presses into it eagerly, she can taste blood in his mouth, before slumping back to the floor, asleep.

What are you doing? She turns to see Obi Wan struggling to wake, glare back on his face, and oh, these two need to have a serious conversation, but that’s not the now. She wipes Anakin’s blood off her lip.

She tells him she is gaining an ally, and when he flares up, adds that she does truly care for him, and wants him safe, and the only way she can do that is if she takes out the Sith who is after him

Why side with Dooku then, Obi Wan challenges, and she smiles, tells him that Dooku too is a threat, and in this position she can try to bring down the both of them—

With help, she emphasizes. I don’t know the Force, there are things they don’t tell me and I am far from strong enough. If you were to help me...

Obi Wan snaps that he is loyal to the Republic, and Padmé counters, is he to Anakin? Padmé catches the break in his façade for but a second as he glances at his broken apprentice still curled up beside him, and she knows she isn’t wrong.

She dares to reach out, brush a loose strand of shiny auburn hair out of his face while he’s incapacitated, tells him, she is willing to help them. They should consider helping her. He stays still while she brushes his hair, watching her hand. Maybe she hasn’t misjudged him either.

Obi Wan is once more cut off by louder noises and the sound of clones approaching, and Padmé sees Dooku getting ready to flee, so she pats both men on the head once more, tells Obi Wan, commands him, keep him safe. We will meet again.

And she’s off, dodging Yoda who’s running back for the Jedi, catching a swoopbike of her own and tearing off after Dooku to escape the planet.

Naboo has a declaration of secession to make, and a war is starting, and for the first time, Padmé feels like she has options.

#like ok yea they're still enemies by the end of this but c'mon y'all know where this is going i tried to leave it open ended #anon tbh this is a GOLDEN idea for a full on Clone Wars through ROTS au thanks so much for this #asks #anon #morai's fic #ot3 to save the galaxy #queen of my heart #our only ho #one (1) hot mess #obianidala

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fatesdeepdive · 3 years

Text

Entry 11: Archduke Silly Bot

I built a new Mess Hall and Accessory Shop, but before I could play with them, my castle was attacked! By spooky ghost men from the Astral Plane I mean, I summoned them, but still, the castle is in danger. Fifteen enemies showed up to try and seize the fort. Lilith was supposed to help me fight, but just stayed in her pond and did nothing. Dumb fish.

The invaders were tough, but focused more on smashing stuff than killing my Units. Unfortunately, there was a casualty. Kenshi, our valiant POW who we force to serve as cannon fodder, was slain in battle. I mean, not really, because I’m playing Casual mode. Still, I renamed the castle Fort Kenshi in his honor.

The invasion gave me the points needed to build two new structures: the Rod Shop and the Smithy. The Mess Hall can be used to slightly boost unit stats for one battle. The Rod Shop can be used to buy various consumable items. Smithy can be used to reforge Weapons; for instance, I gave Kenshi a new bronze club called Kenshi’s Whacker. The Accessory shop can be used to buy and equip fun accessories, like the bath towel that is all Kenshi is allowed to wear.

Support: Jakob/Mozu

C: Jakob finds Mozu crying, because she had a nightmare about the death of her family, and comforts her.

B: Jakob tells Mozu that she is fortunate to have had something to lose; he explains his abusive childhood that ended with him being sold into servitude of the royal family and tells Mozu to hold onto her memories of her village.

A: Mozu begins training so she can be strong enough to protect everyone and thanks Jakob for looking out for her.

S: Jakob proposes to Mozu, asking her to help him create memories worth cherishing.

Review: This one was short, but good. It could have very easily just been a throwaway conversation about Jakob’s fanciness contrasting Mozu’s lack of sophistication. Instead, it was a genuinely touching conversation that expanded both characters and made me love Jakob even more.

Support: Orochi/Saizo

C: Orochi tells Saizo to stop being mean, because it’s ruining his reputation with the ladies, and threatens to take matters into her own hands.

B: Orochi reveals that when they first met, when Saizo was a child and she was...whatever age she was, she predicted misfortune in his future, which scared Saizo so much he wet his pants. She then reveals that she’s told everyone. Saizo runs away to salvage his reputation.

A: Saizo comes back, furious. Apparently, Orochi lied about telling everyone and Saizo, in his attempts to explain that he only peed his pants because he was a child, ended up spreading the story for her.

S: Saizo has turned over a new leaf and is trying to be nicer thanks to Orochi’s mind games. Orochi confesses that, when she fortolled misfortune in Saizo’s future, she must have actually been talking about his father. Because, as we all know, Saizo has not suffered any misfortune in his life. Also they get married.

Review: This one was decent. Saizo ignoring Orochi’s threats at first then ruining everything in his struggle to fix things is amusing, and the duo have better chemistry than most couples in this game.

Support: Azura/Corrin (Birthright)

Notice the Birthright parenthetical. Corrin and Azura, the main duo, actually have different conversations in different routes, which is neat.

C: Corrin and Azura take a walk together. Azura compares the nice day to Castle Shirasagi. She then apologizes for bringing up her childhood, which she feels belonged to Corrin.

B: Azura asks Corrin about her childhood and Corrin explains both the forced isolation and the constant companionship from Elise and the servants. Corrin actually says she misses the Northern Fortress.

A: Corrin and Azura reflect on their different opinions of Nohr: Azura’s feelings of it being the evil she escaped and Corrin’s of it being a home she misses. They discuss the fact that no place is truly good or bad, something the game’s writers needed to be reminded of, and vow to bring peace.

S: Corrin states that his good memories of Nohr all stem from kind people and vows to be that kind of person for her. The duo exchange some insanely on the nose promises about being fine in a dark pit if they’re together and their fates being intertwined. Now, this may feel like incest because they share parents and siblings, but I actually think this one is okay? As long as there isn’t some late game twist that makes them cousins or something, this seems good.

Review: Overall, a fairly good conversation. Corrin’s feelings on Nohr are more nuanced than this game normally is and the idea that Nohr isn’t evil because of the people is a good sentiment.

Support: Setsuna/Subaki

C: Subaki and Setsuna are assigned to train new recruits together. The new recruit is Kenshi, I have decided. Subaki, worried that Setsuna will be Setsuna and mess everything up, does everything himself.

B: Setsuna just wanders off in the middle of training new recruits and Subaki tries to help her be a better leader.

A: Setsuna attempts to resign from teaching, but Subaki tells her that her wandering off actually helped the recruits because she’s observant, I guess. Setsuna does not retire from teaching.

S: Setsuna tells Subaki that she likes him then wanders off because she’s done talking. Subaki chases after her and proposes.

Review: This one was mediocre. Setsuna is always fun, but this support conversation lacked a good conflict and was resolved in a dumb way. Setsuna wandering off in the middle of a confession is fun, but the relationship wasn’t built up at all.

Birthright Chapter 9: Land of Gods

The gang head to Izumo, a neutral kingdom south of Hoshido. The guards, recognizing Azura, let the party in. Corrin asks about the missing princes and is told no battle happened near Izumo. No war in Ba Sing Se and all that jazz. Archduke Izana approaches them, looking like a wise and calm leader. Then he talks and they realize that he’s a silly boy.

They ask him about the battle on the border of Izumo and he tells them he knows nothing about it. Izana invites the gang to rest and be treated by his healers. He also invites Corrin and Sakura to go to some special spa healing in his deep relaxation chamber which is absolutely not suspicious.

The deep relaxation chamber is an execution chamber. Nohrian soldiers march in to kill Corrin and Izana reveals that he is actually a Nohrian mage named Zola. His voice sounds like Gollum and he has this weird jester hat. I cannot wait for the part of the game where we kill him.

Right before Corrin is executed, half of the Nohrian soldiers attack the other half. It’s revealed the soldiers are actually our soldiers in disguise. Where they got the Nohrian costumes, I do not know. Maybe they looted them from some corpses? Also, how did they know this was happening? And how did they seamlessly blend into the Nohrian army? I have many questions.

Hinoka explains that she knew Zola wasn’t the real Izana because no royal would ever act like such a silly boy, because she has never read any history textbook. The battle begins.

Something I haven’t mentioned yet that I want to mention: if an enemy has a super effective weapon, a red balloon with an exclamation mark appears above them as you move your unit. Nice touch.

On turn two, two new characters march into battle: a Samurai named Hinata and a Spear Fighter named Oboro. The two of them are looking for Takumi. The two bicker. Hinata is an idiot and is thirsty for Takumi. Oboro fantasizes about killing all of the Nohrian scum and Hinata tells her to chill out. These two idiots are Takumi’s retainers. Corrin goes up to the duo and recruits them.

Hinata

A samurai and one of Takumi’s retainers. His personal skill, Triple Threat, hurts enemies who lower him below half health. His design is fine, I guess. I think they’re going for a meathead thing from his introduction and his scars and muscles, but he looks way too young. Personality wise, he seems to be kinda dumb, but not enough to be funny.

Oboro

A spear fighter who is really goddamn thirsty for Takumi and is also really racist. Her unit description is: Loves fashion, hates Nohr. Her personal skill makes her do extra damage to Nohrians, which is useful because we are at war with Nohr. Fates has a bad tendency of reducing characters to a single character trait and we’ve already been shown three traits for Oboro, which I assume will dominate every line she ever says. Seriously, we’ve known her for a minute and she’s said Nohrian Scum a dozen times.

This map was good. It was a standard fighting enemies in a castle map; nothing special, but then again it didn’t need to be special. After the battle, Zola says that he’d rather die than tell Corrin anything. He then throws a smokescreen and runs away, only to be attacked by Leo.

Leo says he’s going to kill Zola for being a disgrace to Nohr and Corrin says, no, don’t do that, don’t hurt another Nohrian. Except, Corrin has killed dozens of Nohrians at this point. Leo yells at Corrin for being a traitor and gives her Zola to keep as a pet. Corrin reflects on how Leo has gotten stronger, but also become more cruel, since her betrayal of Nohr.

The gang meets the real Izana. Yeah he’s every bit as weird and wacky as Zola was. He tells the gang about hearing that the princes were near the bottomless canyon and reads Corrin’s fortune. He sings the next verse of Ocean’s Grey Waves, implying that this song is genuinely a prophecy about this game.

In the white light, a hand reaches through

A double-edged blade cuts your heart in two

Waking dreams fade away,

Embrace the brand-new day

So, let’s see. First off, a lot of imagery about light, which is Hoshido’s aesthetic. Not sure what verse one means, but verse two is some heavy foreshadowing for Chapter 26. I’ll talk about it more then. Verses three and four are about Corrin leaving the fake life in Nohr and returning to Hoshido. Probably.

Azana also predicts that the princes are both alright, so the gang heads off to find them. That night, Azura talks to Corrin about the prophecy, saying that it is the lyrics to a song she was taught as a child that now seems to be about Corrin.

#fire emblem #fire emblem fates #fe fates #fe 14 #hoshido #fire emblem birthright #oboro fe #hinata fe #zola fe #leo fe #izana fe #corrin fe #azura fe #corrin x azura #jakob x mozu #setsuna x subaki #orochi x saizo

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historic-old-guard-lover · 3 years

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The emperor has to be god-king Andy. Also like since nicky and Joe obv have to have the lovers why not have andy and quyhn kissing as the empress.

Another related ask (potentially by the same person):

Also since the fool is a journey's beginning I'd almost want to pick Nile for it. As well there are four characters who commonly have swords (or an axe but close enough) and cards have four corners. So one sword each corner, nicky, joe, andy, and quyhn.

So. Someone has good ideas. Here’s the post that prompted these asks. This made me pull out my tarot deck and go through the cards. Below the cut is a break down of the entire tarot deck. There will be an explanation of the (standard) interpretation of the cards, good then less good, and then my associated headcannon (or more than one if I couldn’t decide). The source is my experience with tarot. I’m trying to minimize repeats, but historic and modern Old Guard members are counted separately. Enjoy.

The Major Arcana (aka the cards most people have heard about)

0. The Fool - the seeker. Naivety. Courage. Living in the moment. Journey’s beginning. All paths available. Folly. Apathy.

Nile. Anon convinced me. Though Booker has got the folly, apathy, and madness down, Nile is ultimately the beginning. She’s naïve but headstrong, and quite frankly a perfect match.

I. The Magician - the trickster. Power, skill, talent. Mastery, self-control, willpower. Subtlety. Divine connection and inspiration. Self-reliant.

Modern Nicky. Definitely Nicky. Just. He’s a formerly very religious man who just says these things. Also sniper.

II. The High Priestess - the moon goddess. Intuition, wisdom, foresight, divination, prophecy. Enlightenment, understanding, intelligence, education. Pride, emotional instability, unforgiving.

Historic Quynh. Her name means “night-blooming flower”, which is very moon goddess vibes to me. Also, I’d say over 500 years in a box turns understanding and enlightenment into emotional instability and unforgiveness.

III. The Empress - the queen. Feminine power, matriarch, mother. Fertility, pleasure, beauty. Success, evolution, movement. Marriage, wealth. Overattachment, domestic upheaval, delay.

Quynh. The counterpart to Andy’s emperor card.

Nile. Let’s be honest, she’s going to take over from Andy some day.

IV. The Emperor - the king. Masculine power, patriarch, father. Authority, leadership, proficiency. Wealth, stability, effectiveness. Perseverance, logic, endurance, experience. Lack of ability, weak character, immature, rebellious.

Modern Andy. She is the leader who’s short-comings effect her entire team. And who doesn’t love a little gender bending? (and her film look is already soft butch)

V. The Hierophant - the religious leader. Tradition, convention, ritual symbolism. Ceremony, religion, morality, philosophy. Mercy, goodness, forgiveness, humility, vulnerability, Impotence, Religious tyranny.

Historic Nicky. I mean, former priest (enough said).

Historic Andy. “I was once worshipped as a god” (enough said).

VI. The Lovers - the lovers. Love, attraction. Compatibility, harmony, choice. Triumph over trials, vacillation. Entanglement, enmeshment. Infidelity, moral lapse, vice, separation, quarrels, inadequacy, failing tests.

Andromaquynh. *peeks out from behind barricade* I know that most people would just put Kaysanova as this card, but look at all the negatives it is associated with. Sounds a lot more like our immortal wives can really cover the gamut. They have the range....I am a sucker for Kaysanova, though. Even though the beginning of their relationship is rocky, I’d like to think it’s been fairly constant over the years. But let’s reverse the uhaul lesbians and fickle gay men tropes! Sorry, Book of Nile fans. That ship just isn’t established enough for this, I’d say. Maybe one day?

VII. The Chariot - the journey. Ordeal, obstacles, competition. High stakes, ambition, discipline. Conquest, victory, greatness. Right action prevails, overwhelming odds, sudden defeat.

Merrick and/or Dr. Kozak. I mean, this is literally their characters in a nutshell. Merrick is the journey/ordeal for the old guard. He is driven by his ambition, thinks he’s won over impossible odds, and then has a sudden defeat.

VIII. Justice - the balance. Equilibrium, equality, symmetry, harmony. Integrity, honor, fairness, neutrality, moderation. Vindication, self-righteousness, bigotry, prejudice, favoritism.

Nile. This is the woman with a sword card. She brings a balance to the team, she clearly moderates conflict, and I’d love to see BLM art of her in this style. Just sayin.

IX. The Hermit - the seeker-sage. Wisdom, inspiration, contemplation, discretion, understanding. Safety, protection, spiritual quest. Seeking truth and justice. Self-denial, timidity, fear.

Historic Joe. The idealized warrior poet? Definitely just a form of the hermit. Helps explain why a Magrebhi trader/artist fought at the Siege of Jerusalem: spiritual quest. I also like the idea of Joe having a secret reserved side.

X. The Wheel of Fortune - cycles of life. Destiney, evolution and progress, advancement. Manifestation, unexpected events. Success, sudden luck. Ups and downs.

Modern Quynh. There is nothing that better encapsulates her storyline than the wheel of fortune. One day you’re roaming the world with your immortal wife. The next, you’re drowning for over 500 years. The next you’re in Booker’s shitty Paris apartment.

XI. Strength - fortitude. Resilience, courage, resolve, confidence. Integrity, moral victory, endurance. Energy, action, vitality. Power, force, violence. Abuse of power, disgrace, impotence.

Lykon. Do I love this character beyong measure and reason? Maybe so. We have so little to go on about him, however, that the only things we do know bely his strengths. Also, he becomes ultimately the weakest when he dies and encapsulates both “extremes” of the card.

XII. The Hanged Man - the tested. Delay, sacrifice, abandonment, rejection. Betrayal. Reversals, restrained or bound, limbo, trials. Falseness.

Booker. If the fact that his first death was by hanging didn’t convince you? Read that description again. His character arc is literally working through being the hanged man.

XIII. Death - the loss or parting. Alteration, transformation, transition. Boredom, depression, stagnation, failure or disaster. Bereavement, recovery, immobility.

Lykon. He literally represents the fear of death to the remaining immortals. It is HE that they invoke when they discuss it. Also, I’m still mourning my favorite underdeveloped character.

XIV. Temperance - the moderation. Self-control, economy, patience, coordination. Consolidation, harmony, friendship, recuperation. Unfulfilled desires, discord, stubbornness, hostility, clashing of interests. Time, seasons, and climate.

A Safehouse. I don’t think any of the people really capture the tempered essence of this card, the constancy throughout all seasons of life. An actual physical building that rises and falls with (regular) humanity, though, seems to do the trick.

XV. The Devil - the arcane. Magic, strange occurrences, prophecy, fate. Catastrophe, downfall, negative attitude, Temptations, sins, obsessions. Enslavement, bondage, misplaced loyalty, violence, fatality.

Honestly? I’m so torn. I feel like a major commentary of the movie is that our demons are the way people react more so than the people themselves. Maybe the armored van?

XVI. The Tower - the House of God. Disruption, expulsion from an earthly paradise, divine wrath. Punishment (of pride), loss, destructive rivalry, plans ruined. Need to start again, bankruptcy.

The Iron Coffin. While this doesn’t capture the religious undertones quite right, the coffin is the Tower for Andromaquynh, It is (divine? or very human?) wrath brought on by pride since the two probably thought that they would be fine. It is loss and painful new beginnings.

XVII. The Star - the bright promise. Hope, faith, light of the spirit. Recovery, symbols of immortality. Gifts, good prospects, new dawn, frustrated expectations.

Nile. The new immortal, enough said.

Historic Andy/Lykon. In a way, the first immortal would also be a great choice of representation.

XVIII, The Moon - the hidden forces. Twilight, illusion, deception, trickery. Dishonesty, danger, uncertainty, terror. Developments, particularly somewhat concealed. Errors, powerful feelings.

Copley. I know, I know. “He’s the moon when I’m lost in darkness” and all that jazz. But look at this card’s interpretation and notice it’s pretty negative. Copley’s entire role is to pull the strings behind the scenes. He makes headway on problems in secrets, he lies and deceives everyone in the film at some point.

XIX. The Sun - the work’s rewards. Daylight, co-creation, union “of male and female”. Peace, joy, pleasure, love, contentment. Accomplishment, achievement, success.

Joe. Not only is he the sun, he also fits this card perfectly. He is creation and happiness. Enough said.

XX Judgement - the rebirth. Judgement, sentence. Rejuvenation, renewal, resurrection, call to the new from the old, rehabilitation. Creation, promotion.

Historic Booker. I feel like his backstory with his family helped highlight the theme of rebirth for the Old Guard. They must be willing to give up what they have left behind to move forward. Also, there’s the more literal play as well since Booker was a conscripted criminal.

XXI The World - the long journey. Perfection, completion, conclusion. Power through intelligence and wisdom. The universe and the material world.

A group photo, of course! Beyond that? Who knows.

Historic Andy? She’s seen so much of it. Like just her eyes portray the history of the world.

The Minor Arcana (aka the rest of the cards)

Since most people are only familiar with the major arcana, I’ll just briefly explain it. The minor arcana are actually the majority of a tarot deck. There are four suits associated with the four elements. Each suit has ten number cards and four court/face cards (traditionally modelled either based on one person or different interpretations of similar costuming). Each number or face has its own meaning, each suit has its own meaning, and their combination mostly explains what the card should be interpreted as. Quite frankly, the minor arcana are vastly underrated in popular understandings of tarot.

Suit of Wands - fire. Spontaneity, action, passion, adrenaline, life force, stroke of genius.

Guns? It’d be a bit of a niche take, but I associate guns with fires.

Staffs? More traditional in shape.

Suit of Coins - earth. Solid growth, material interests, possessions, profit, business, labor, slow and considerate.

Historic currency. Enough said.

Suit of Cups - water. Heartfelt involvements, imagination, spirituality, love, friendship, family.

Fountains around the world. Enough said.

Suit of Swords - air. Worry, trouble, boundaries, objectivity, the power of truth.

Obviously, their weapons of choice. I would go into more detail about who best represents each number, but I don’t want to bore you.

Court of Kings - mature men. Leaders, authority, status-quo, taking responsibility.

Again, most tarot is very gendered. But members in tuxes?

Court of Queens - mature women. Reflective and active, concerned with security/foundations, supportive, focused.

Members in dresses/gowns/anything that glitters?

Court of Knights/Cavaliers - young men. Dynamic, adventurous, intensive, revolutionary.

Tactical gear. Or historical armor. But it’s easier to do tactical gear right than accidentally draw a 15th century helmet on a 14th century suit of armor.

Court of Knaves/Pages - younger women, teenagers, and children. Students, apprentices, trainees, messengers, new opportunities.

Casual clothes.

#asks #lovely anon #tarot #reference #niche headcannons #major and minor arcana #i really thought this would have more kaysanova #but tarot is for wlw i guess? who knows

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onereallygoodlambonastick · 4 years

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1, 2, 7, 8, 9 and 10 please

finally some good fucking food, thanks anon;

1. What themes would you like to write about that you feel don’t get explored very often?

Generally speaking, I think the in-betweens, the casual time-skips, and the quick intermissions are the things that get glossed over the most. The “missing scenes”, if you will--the hours after a squabble between a team, the morning before the battle, the months where a child sat idle, the dreams that turned into prophecy.

I also think the theme of re-connection is not often explored--its always “love on first sight” kind of deal, but what about the enduring kind of love, the kind that stays like an ache in your bones? the one you remember and miss? the one you long for like a phantom limb?

2. What are some common elements of stories you are tired of seeing? What would you avoid writing about?

This varies wildly between fandoms, but probably the thing they all have in common is: mindless smut. Just straight up down and dirty fucking, with no motive or prompting or characterization. Just the author smashing two guys (usually) at the hips and being done with it.

That’s fine; we all love to see it. It’s just so dull sometimes.

I need some intricacy, some intimacy, some ache, some angst, some destructive lines and some ruthless gut-punches, you know? Not a guy coming for the fifth time.

For the AFTG fandom: I’m tired of seeing people being fine with the way Sakavic treated her characters and coddling Neil & Andrew in the face of it. I don’t hate Andreil, I feel like I should say, but so much of it relies on one or the other sticking people with their knives or fists and that’s such a toxic love, a misconception of what a “good” relationship should be. Now, there are some brilliant fics I’ve read that are just gorgeous with the concept of Andreil--that was what I wished Sakavic had the ability to achieve in her series, while giving dignity to Kevin Day and the rest of the characters that were there and LIVED despite the romance.

So, obviously, I would avoid doing any of the above I just mentioned, and pray that you will too. Just let these ppl breathe, alright?

For the AoT fandom (yeah i dabbled cuz the manga is just. depressing man): same issue---too much fucking, not enough talking and emoting. Why are there so many goddamned high school AUs? My god. I need a fic that gets down and dirty with the shit going down in the manga and take me through it so I can stand to continue. What about the grief and mourning and the betrayal of it all? Can I get me some of that? Lord, don’t go near the Levi/Eren tag. Y’all just don’t even knock it. Go to Levi/Erwin or something. Or just don’t. Don’t.

For the BNHA fandom (lol. a staple): actually, there’s quite a bit of diversity here so I geniunely can’t complain about much. The sheer magnitude of the English-speaking fandom helps on that end, I suppose. I do think there should be more fics looking at the Shit n Grit of Hero’s society tho, Stain-style. The people the heroes couldn’t save or didn’t want to, the forgotten bodies and the cooling hands, the victims that never got closure, the heroes who got maimed and multilated and couldn’t get back on their feet once the limelight left em. Those sorts of things. I think the fact we see thru the rosy-eyed worldviews of a bunch of green-eared kids deludes people to the fact that People Are Fucking Bad and Disgusting almost all the time. So exploring that, I think, is far more worthwhile.

But I will also take injury aftermath. I’m not a monster.

For the KNY fandom: EYYY we talk about grief and suffering a lot which if you haven’t noticed, is kind of my Jam! Actually, this fandom prob hits a lot of my sweet spots: role reversals, grief/mourning aftermath, SabiGiyuu, Sabito Lives, the usual! Can’t really say much abt this. Except, there’s a lot of Demon Sex and Rape and, uh. Guys? Can we go back for a hot sec?

For the Code Geass fandom (*rubs hands in glee*): SO this is the fandom I’m most active in aside from AFTG at this precise moment. It’s pretty dead, tbh. My favorite two fics in the AO3 archive was published in 2014 and the author hasn’t written for my fav pairing (Suzaku/Lelouch) since. So. There’s that. There’s also a lot of fucking here! And gross cishet dynamics, but, uh, whatever. I think the Emperor Lelouch/Knight of Zero Suzaku has been overused and abused for rough sex and just general Angst-ing it out. I wanna see how their dynamic plays out like that for sure, but what about when they still had secrets between them a mile wide and had to tell each other half-lies and half-truths? How about them coping with the fact of their betrayals and the death of their loved ones at the hands of each other? Where’s the hardcore shit?

Think this fandom doesn’t want to dig their fingers in too deep. Shame.

Another thing: CC is not an immortal seductress. My god give her pizza and some fucking DEPTH. She’s a walking encyclopedia, not some mysterious slut machine! Get your stereotypes and fetishes outta here!

Final thing: TALK ABOUT THE SHIT SUZAKU HAS BEEN THROUGH! He’s not just Lelouch’s boytoy or knight! Stop that! Examine his abuse, his time with the military, his span as a pawn! Look at his motivations and his internalized disgust for himself as a Japanese that was ingrained in him by an oppressive fucking system! Why does he bow? Why is he silent? Speak for him!

7. Favorite description in your wip? (If asked more than once, respond with a new piece each time)

Suzaku watched him watch the discoloring, and Suzaku watched the stillness change into the bare bones of animosity. It was almost kind, the way Lelouch turned his face away and shifted his grip to snatch up the antiseptic.

Neither of them spoke as sharp hands dabbed at the slightly split skin and wet bruising. It stung, but only a little. Long minutes passed like this, Lelouch exchanging swabs for cloths, Suzaku sitting still and watching him work.

Neither of them mentioned the scatter of old deadened skin, puckered across Suzaku’s build like a migration of mutilated fish.

8. Favorite dialogue in your wip? (If asked more than once, respond with a new piece each time)

"You know I can't be seen with you two."

"And I just warned you to not be a coward." Lelouch's eyes gleamed. Again, the challenge was there, and like a fool only Lellouch could make of him, Suzaku took it, open-mouthed and open-palmed.

"Fine," Suzaku said, not knowing what he'd promised himself to: a dinner or a duel. Even though the last time Lelouch picked up a sword it was wooden and he was tiny and cute and clumsy. But Lelouch didn’t need blades to cut. "I'll be there. Does Nunnally still enjoy a good scone?"

"Bring the blueberry ones," Lelouch said, extending the comment like a plank between them, and leapt off the wall, into the white sun. "One for the bastardly son and one for the disowned daughter."

Suzaku followed him out into the blaze of heat, feeling the crude perch of his laughter at the base of his throat. He was so fucking dramatic. "Which one of us do you mean?"

9. What scene was the hardest to write for you and why?

From the same wip fic from above--I’m stuck on the “light” kind-of crackish scene where Suzaku is literally just exasperated with Rivalz and his porn mags. Like I just can’t write it. It’s too.....friendly. And “nice”.

10. What scene was the most fun to write for you and why?

Out of the same fic as above: probably the scene from #8. It was fun to see how coy and rough-mouthed Suzaku could get once he’s together with Lelouch. Just to see them fool around with each other whilst keeping secrets but also somehow be honest was very satisfying and interesting to write out. They are just boys, there. Just boys. In love.

#aftg #all for the game #code geass #suzalulu #bnha #aot #kny #my writing #my fic #soy replies #asks

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mortuarybees · 5 years

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Exclusively For People Made Feral By “You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

The kind of fanfiction I enjoy is the kind which requires me to take a decompression breather every paragraph or so because I’m repressed and tenderness is physically painful. i want there to be yearning and pining and brooding and ultimately, intimacy: fics which embody the mortifying ordeal of being known, as well as the reward of being loved in the end. So here are the fics I’ve read that satisfy this requirement, or in some cases are just extremely tender, in no particular order, with a quote that made me absolutely wild, as well as a few things that aren’t fic

another soul to cling to by strawberry_bee/my best friend @femmeaziraphale

Crowley is born a run of the mill angel. There is only one catch though. He is given a prophecy by God to be the first and only angel to fall in love. That's clearly off the table when he falls from Heaven though, right? // in progress and the only in-progress fic on the list but it is Too Good and also i have a direct line to the author and they will finish it

“Do you promise to stay still if I turn out the lights?” Aziraphale asked.

“The dark is a demon’s favorite place to be,” Crowley joked, feeling the urge to make light of the situation. He rather felt like he was being taken on a jaunty little date, human skulls included just to woo a demon in the right sort of way.

“Quiet, foul fiend,” Aziraphale said, snapping his fingers again. They dove into darkness, and before Crowley could find some sort of clever quip, he felt Aziraphale’s arms about his waist. His brain turned to mush, the only thing he could think of being ‘oh, so this is love’ before he felt Aziraphale’s lips brush gently against the edge of his mouth.

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale murmured, before pulling away. Crowley reached out blindly, coming up with nothing. He turned to the entrance, spotting the outline of Aziraphale as he ascended. Crowley leaned against a wall, hand resting against the forehead of a skull.

get religion quick (cause you’re looking divine) by brinnanza:

So it was fine. Even if Crowley couldn’t love him, he clearly liked him well enough, and that was almost the same thing.

It no doubt would have continued to be fine, or at least fine-adjacent, were it not for a narrowly averted apocalypse and several bottles of a really quite nice Riesling Aziraphale had found in the back room of his newly restored bookshop.

“I love you, do you see? Not for work. I’m - I suppose you could say I’m in love with you, to use a human phrase.”

Crowley went very still. Aziraphale withdrew his hands and folded them primly in his lap, moving back to their more customary distance. “It’s quite alright that you don’t love me,” he hurried to add. “It doesn’t change anything. I just wanted you to know in case... Well, anything could still happen with our superiors, you know? Neither side is probably very pleased with us at the moment.”

Crowley stared at him over the rim of his sunglasses, looking rather stricken, and he was making an odd, creaky sound like a strong wind through a poorly-sealed window. The mostly-empty wine bottle he’d been holding slipped out of his loose grasp and clattered to the floor, wine drops spattering on the hardwood. “Aziraphale,” he said finally, voice ragged, “what the fuck are you talking about.”

a home at the beginning of the world by stereobone (explicit)

"Oh," Aziraphale says. "I think Crowley might have moved in with me." // okayokayokay there’s Meaningful Interior Decorating and a couch metaphor and like the fact that they actually goddamn brought That Quote into it...unacceptable

"My dear boy," Aziraphale says. "You could have said something."

"But we never do that," Crowley says.

He's back to worrying at the fabric of his trousers.

"Besides," he says. "Didn't want to go too fast for you."

Aziraphale feels something swell in his chest, and it feels all encompassing. Like love and heartbreak at the same time. Like being back at the Eastern Gate watching Crowley slither up to him for the first time, question everything while Aziraphale himself was trying not to. He's spent so long, too long, telling himself he could never be ready for this. He reaches out and grabs Crowley's hand, stops him from worrying at his trousers any further.

the nuances of ‘together’ by mirawonderfulstar

Everybody in the whole world can tell Aziraphale and Crowley are a couple. Everyone except, apparently, Crowley.

“Oh, don’t look like that, my dear.” Aziraphale said airily. “I don’t mind sharing.”

“It’s—that’s not the bloody point.” Crowley exclaimed, his feelings from the last week finally coming to a head. “Why do people keep assuming we’re together and why do you keep letting them?”

Aziraphale froze, a forkful of chocolate cake halfway to his mouth. He looked like he’d just been slapped. He was focuing very hard on a spot over Crowley's shoulder and his eyes seemed rather wet. Crowley felt a panic begin to slither up his throat, constricting his breathing. He wanted very much to say something, anything at all to make Aziraphale stop looking like that, but he had no idea what.

a culmination of miracles by prettydizzeed

Crowley has chronic pain, and six thousand years later explains that to Aziraphale. I adore the small intimacy of Aziraphale asking him to print him articles about it so he can better understand, and their characterizations, and it seems so much like an exchange from the book I’ll likely have difficulty remembering it isn’t canon in the future, which I’m fine with.

“I don’t read books,” Crowley corrects. “The occasional article, well, maybe.” He figures he’s going to need to extend as many olive branches as he can find, so he adds, “Some of them help. Sometimes quite a lot, actually.”

“Could you—would you print some for me?” Aziraphale asks. “I’d like to understand better.”

“Yeah,” Crowley says, looking at him as long as he can bear. “I’ll do that.”

the hour/the spot/the look/the words by planethunter

Crowley watches Pride and Prejudice (2005) and it spurs a realisation. // fuck guys it’s literally about the hands and perfectly captures like nothing else does the feeling of watching Pride and Prejudice (2005)

One of his hands rests over the other, the tips of his fingers cold. He watches as Darcy takes Elizabeth's hand, gentle, like handling a bird, their fingers curling over each other's. He mimics the gesture with his own hands, brushing his fingers over one another. Slowly, slowly closing them to a grasp. Opening them again, brushing his knuckles with his thumb. He continues, back, and forward, watching with mild fascination. The sensation relaxes him, like a trance, and he only feels some sensation building inside him when it had risen so high that he had to sigh to release it. Now his hands lie still, holding each other limply. He releases them, letting his fingers brush past each other on the way. When he looks up, the television had cut to adverts.

covet by mirawonderfulstar

pining aziraphale and an amazing confession scene that i absolutely adore.

Aziraphale, little good though it did him, wanted desperately. He wanted with an urgency that scared him. He wanted wine, and cocoa, and the occasional tea. He wanted gravlax with dill sauce, and Pappardelle Bolognese, and those awful little iced biscuits they had at Tesco at Christmastime. He wanted dinners at the Ritz and long walks in the park and late nights in the back room of his shop. He wanted Crowley. Fervently, achingly, he wanted Crowley.

a city wall and a trampoline by kafkian

5 times Crowley knows he’s in love with Aziraphale + 1 time he knows the reverse.

Crowley has a system in place for dealing with moments like these. He developed it sometime in the fifth century, when it became clear that the thoughts and feelings the angel inspired in him weren’t going to go away, and neither was the cast iron certainty that they were largely unreturned. The angel loves him, of course, but only in the slightly absentminded, mandated way he loves all other living things. Crowley has long since made his peace with this. It just stings a bit sometimes, like taking a sip of tea so hot it burns the roof of your mouth. (Not that Crowley himself has had this experience. He has gathered from the mental exclamations of many, many humans, however, that such a mishap brings forth a similar sense of aching hurt, betrayal and a wistfulness that things might be different.)

The best Crowley can do is just let himself feel it – let the love go through him, unnatural and sticky though it may be, always trying to glue itself to the inside of his veins – and wait for it to come out the other side. Sometimes it even works.

such surpassing brightness by handful_of_silence

The revelation that Aziraphale might have been in love with him for thousands of years is surprising. The fact that literal books have been written on the subject comes as even more of a shock.

Crowley had always assumed – perhaps disingenuously – that Aziraphale was like most other angels. Capable of grand expressions of love when it came to humanity, but generally avoidant of the topic personally. A love for all things, a love for Crowley even, but the love of a kind, well-meaning relative who sends birthday cards on the wrong day and with a fiver inside with a note to buy something nice like you're still at primary school. Love but distant, separate, and impersonal.

But now, at least according to the rumours, Aziraphale had spent most of the medieval ages playing wingman to a bunch of queer martyrs and church-folk. Which meant that there must be something there, a comprehension of love beyond his angel-standard, over-arching love for mankind. That Aziraphale could, and apparently did, pick favourites.

That he could, just possibly, feel love himself. On an individual level.

listen (he’s already told you five times) by darcylindbergh

Not everything Crowley says is said out loud. Aziraphale doesn't always hear him at first, but he's learning to stop being surprised. // love!!! languages!!

He wonders what Crowley can feel through this touch. He wonders if Crowley can feel him back.

“I’ve never felt anything like you,” he finally says, looking up to meet Crowley’s eyes. They’re wide, awaiting judgment: something in them is terribly resigned, but when Crowley tries to draw his hand back, Aziraphale doesn’t let him go. Instead he steps in closer and says, at nearly a whisper so as not to startle, “What I mean is, you’re beautiful.”

There is a pause, and then Crowley says, soft with surprise, “Oh.”

Aziraphale kisses him.

tell me all the ways by tinsnip

One little speck of sentiment: was it so much to ask? // crowley struggles to tell Aziraphale how he feels out loud; he finds a way around it. pairs well with the fic above, I think.

“I’m not smitten, angel. I wouldn’t say smitten.”

“Oh?” He’d looked at Crowley’s hand in his, looked back up. “And what would you say?”

Suddenly a change in Crowley’s posture, a tilt of his head; there was the sideways smile. “I’d say I lust after you, angel. I covet you. I idolize you. But... smitten? I mean, honestly.” And Crowley had shrugged, as if that had been that.

For some reason, this morning, that hadn’t been enough.

“And?”

“And... and what?” Crowley had looked a bit desperate.

Aziraphale’s mouth had tasted like tea and toast. “And you love me.”

penance by blissymbolics (explicit)

It’ll happen, Crowley tells himself. This time, it’ll finally happen. // it’s porn with feelings, crowley has a praise kink, just read the tags if you’re interested

Maybe being deprived of his right to come was a necessary component of being a demon. It was permanent, chronic proof of his disobedience. But fuck, God already gave him his snake eyes and revoked his retirement benefits. Messing with his dick was just foul play. It probably violated the Geneva Convention.

Around the turn of the twenty-first century, he began to think that maybe it’d be best to just accept his lot and call it quits. It’s obviously never going to happen. So why keep torturing himself?

Or at least, that’s how he felt before Aziraphale. Before a certain day in the year of our Lord, 2019. Before he felt a shift in the solar system, and knew that they were now spinning together as one gravitational unit. They shared the same space. The same time. And on one occasion, the same bodies.

Also, I wrote a fic: all i need, darling, is a life in your shape

it’s about repressed aziraphale and pining and it was inspired by strawberry blond by mitski.

Not Fics But Fuck, Man

Meta: why is aziraphale so gay? by dictionarywrites on ao3: a very extensive meta exploring how aziraphale canonically presents himself as a gay man, and why exactly he does that.

this crowley space meta and this crowley space meta really fcking did me in

the unadulterated yearning in this mitski-inspired art by @poladraws i think about it at least once a day and it is. A Lot

this from eden fan video on youtube

this two part amnesia post by @thealogie like i don’t even fcking like amnesia fic but like. “this discovery and several other little reactions of yours have led me to believe that the Other Me, that is the Me that has all his memories, has let standards slide and is not doting on you as he should be. are you cared for? do i need to kick my own butt?” oh my goddddd

@mulderswatch made a spotify playlist titled angels dined at the ritz hat makes me personally suffer every single time i hear it. he began it with predatory wasp of the palisades (”touching his back with my hand, i kiss him / i see the wasp on the length of my arm”) and ended it with strawberry blond by mitski (”can you hear the bumblebees swarm? / watching your arm / i love it when you look my way”) his m i n d

The best anon in the world asked me for my mitski a/c song associations and here it is

#this is admittedly 90% reference for me in the future #henry speaks #good omens #crowley #aziraphale #ineffable husbands #fic rec #good omens reference post

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