#Ankh writes something
Text
A Charming Journey Home (SOA) chapter 6
Minors, please do NOT interact with this work. Sorry. The fun filth is under the cut, as always. Thank you for encouraging me and following with me on this journey. As all journeys must, they come to an end. At least, for now. This is the end of a Charming Journey Home.
“Let’s take her back to the club. Gemma can help.” Chibs said as he leaned into his burner phone. Tig kept his arms around you, encouraging your deep breaths. “Gemma? Yeah- we got a package coming your way. She’s okay but- the prospects got her jeep.”
“I gotta stay- finish the shift. Can someone just pick me up?” you found yourself asking, not wanting to face what might happen. You wanted to wrap yourself up in the safety that was your boys. “Filip, Alex– please??” you found yourself asking, never quite having used their actual names until now. It was almost like breaking an sacrament.
Things were put in motion and the night was a blur to you. You didn’t quite wake up or come back fully to yourself until you were driving up to T&M, seeing Gemma outside broke you slightly- you always had a soft spot for the matriarch.
“Gem.”
“Darling girl.” she whispered, holding you in her embrace for a moment, while Chibs and Tig looked around, making sure the compound was all clear. It was almost unnecessary, but you welcomed the action.
“I heard everything.” she said succinctly as she guided you back into the clubhouse, your boys walking past you with a slight embrace, off to see Clay and make plans. You let out a long sigh and nodded. “I bet you want the kids- I sent juice over to make sure they’re okay.” you thanked Gemma for her thoughtfulness, and she was succinct with her parting words, shooting you a knowing look "Bad shit happens to greedy whores." You took a few hours to yourself to relax and put everything to rights. You didn’t want to scare your parents or the kids with more stories about the Sons, or any of that club stuff. But somehow, you felt like everything was kind of on repeat, it was as if Connie was back.
Connor.
You hadn’t thought about him in months. Now it was almost as if you were back in Ireland. You allowed yourself to relax into the couch, your arms around the twins, your oldest leaning into your legs from his seat at your feet, the faint beeping sounds of his game system keeping you faintly tied to this world. You knew they understood the gravity of the situation, but at the same time you felt safer here in the clubhouse than out there.
“Bedtime, let’s go.” you found yourself saying as you blinked up at the clock. The kids silently obeyed you, trotting off to a room that Gemma had claimed for you and the kids, you put them to bed efficiently and once they were asleep, you went back out.
You couldn’t help yourself. You had to know what was going on. You had promised yourself you’d stay detached, but you had to know. Your space had been invaded, and you wanted to know what you were up against. Standing up tall, or at least as tall as you could with your petite frame, you moved confidently towards Chibs’s room. He was more likely to be straight with you, you had a feeling that Tig would try to protect you more, but Chibs, he had been through Ireland as well, and you knew he would understand.
“Chibs?” you asked, knocking on the door. You didn’t want to walk in on him if he had a girl with him, even if the thought made you twitch slightly. You heard him moving around, and then he opened the door to you.
“Okay, what?” he asked, a brow lifted in a knowing gesture. You moved past him, turning to face him and he shut the door.
“So what’s gonna happen now?”
“We gotta some work t’ do.” Chibs said in a slight huff, smirking as he sat himself heavily down on the bed. “There’s some stuff gonna go down this weekend… thanks t’ ya friend. Amanda pissed off some people, that’s what. She took herself down there and sold herself to another club.”
“What?” you said with a startled expression on your face. It couldn’t be Amanda, that sold the Sons out to that club, but at the same time……
It was Amanda. It was a shit thing she’d do, she’d wanted to be part of the club so long and they had denied her for so long. You fell back on the bed, your hands over your eyes as you tried to think but you couldn’t. All you could do was keep your eyes closed, your mind spinning from Chibs to Amanda, and back to Chibs and Tig. You listened to Chibs outline what Amanda had done, and how it had fucked everything up. Thanks to you, though, the Sons would be able to salvage something of their operation. Chibs’s hand slid up and down your thigh as you listened to him, your head still spinning but for different reasons. His hands felt so good, solid, and calming. He grounded you, and kept you from going into a tailspin, freaking out six ways to sunday.
“Don’t stop.” you found yourself murmuring, his hand stilling slightly up at the crux of your thighs, where the thick denim felt like nothing, you could feel his warm hand burning into your leaky slit.
“Darlin’ say the word.”
“Filip.” you whispered, arching your back to him.
He moved quick as lightning, hands moving quickly to remove your jeans, everything below your waist disappearing as if you had only to think of it, and it would happen.
His rough mouth slid over your moist heat. You could feel the warm slick of his tongue prodding through your wet folds, licking up every drop you produced, and your thighs held still, your breathing grew hoarse.
“Filip, please.”
“Please what, Lass?”
“Don’t stop.” you whined as Chibs coaxed orgasm after orgasm from you, your legs trembling and stomach contorting with each spasm of pleasure that shot through your body. You could see stars, and you floated along the edge, and then you felt his warm heat nudging at your thighs.
“Y’ need this, princess?” his voice coaxed, his face coming up to yours, his mouth inches from yours as you could feel the heat burning you through.
“Why you askin’ I told you not to stop.” You said with a half-laugh, catching your breath long enough for him to laugh sightly as he leaned forward, filling you up to the hilt with his thick cock. You felt filled up and complete, as if something had slid in place.
It didn’t last long, with the man above you, filling you and his movements were slow and sure, but you knew he would do this again- and again- and again, as long as you would allow him. He was your Filip, and you had welcomed him with open arms. You turned slightly, his rough kisses sliding from your mouth down to your neck, his mouth working your throat and back up, until you couldn’t help it anymore. You sobbed out his name, wrapping your legs around his waist and forcing him further up inside you, squeezing his cock with the immense wave of pleasure that you felt each time he moved inside you.
“Stop being a fucking tease, and fuck me.”
“Ah–!” you heard your name, strangled out as he slid out of you, hot come spilling at your entrance. He plowed through you, his hands at your shoulders, holding you close to him. Your heartbeats slowed, and your breathing grew more even.
You and Chibs cleaned up, you looking at yourself critically in the mirror, wondering if it would leave a mark, or not, but you didn’t care. The small bruise would be easy to explain away. You opened the door, and laughed at Tig, who was lounging at the door.
“Private party?” he asked with a slight pout.
“I saw Venus eyeing you earlier.” you said with grin, winking at Tig. “I know you’ve been chasing that for awhile. I figured– she’s a good gal, and I think you need a shot at that alone.” Chibs moved behind you, closing the door and latching it. “Filip, he’s done a good job of making sure I’m okay. He’s got my lucky charms.”
“Well, you know who to call when he can’t perform.” Tig winked saucily at you, kissing you on the mouth, tasting the warm heat that Chibs had imprinted on you with his rough kisses hours earlier. You and Chibs followed Tig back into the clubhouse public area, listening to the croweaters twittering over the recruits, and you sat with Gemma at the bar, listening to Gemma and Jax, your kids sleeping in Gemma and Clay's room close by as the members relaxed in the living quarters of the clubhouse in the late hours of the night.
You were home, you realized with a jolt as Chibs went behind the bar and poured you a shot of whiskey, with a can of coke fizzing open. Your heart grew three times its size at the moment your eyes met your man’s over the whiskey.
You were fucking, finally, home.
#Ankhmutes writes something#A Charming Journey Home#sons of anarchy fanfiction#chibs imagine#chibs x reader#Tig x reader#Tig x venus mention#filip telford#chibs telford#tig trager#soa#Ankh writes something
31 notes
·
View notes
Text
Mmm concept that at some point in trying to get Devineax to see things from her perspective, Julia describes Carmen not unlike a stray cat. Explaining that the more he chases her, grabs at her and tries to collar her, the faster she will run.
But if he just sits nearby, leaves out something good, takes affection when offered and then critically; lets her go, then Carmen will always come. Showing up on balconies, in living rooms and in passenger seats.
Anyway, Devineax has a chance encounter with Brainwashed!Carmen they banter, he gives her snacks, tricks her into talking about geography a bit and then lets her go.
Then a confused, scared but back-to-normal Carmen appears on his balcony, meekly asking if she'd hurt anyone.
#carmen sandiego#ankh speaks#carmen sandeigo 2019#carmen sandeigo netflix#idk if I'll write this but other ppl are welcome to the idea#maybe throw in something about how in their desperation team red is chasing her now#and devineax of all people has figured out how to wait for the red cat to come home
85 notes
·
View notes
Text
Realizing I might have to go back and watch some ooo episodes 🫠 if I want to write this fic with Eiji so I can get a better handle on his character....
#im not confident i could write something that's just him mostly#its easier with ankh around but lol he's not in this
1 note
·
View note
Text
Discworld/Good Omens parallels ramble
Exactly what it says on the tin! These are some fun little Discworld/Good Omens parallels that my brain picked up on at various times (usually 3 a.m. or thereabouts... Thanks, mum, for the persistent insomnia...)
Mild-to-moderate spoilers for Wyrd Sisters, Lords And Ladies, Men At Arms and Carpe Jugulum below the cut.
In A Life With Footnotes, the official biography of Terry Pratchett, Rob Wilkins mentions that when he was in school, a young Pterry wrote for English class a story (sadly lost to the mists of time) about orcs attacking a vicarage in full Jane-Austen-spoof fashion. Now, given how the Whickber Street Shopkeepers' Ball turned out, it seems reasonable to assume one of two things: a) Neil Gaiman did not know about this story when writing S2 and the parallel is an ineffably delightful coincidence (a bit unlikely) b) Neil Gaiman *did* know about this story when writing S2, and the nod to Pterry happened to work really well with the plot (seems a bit more likely). Either way, the parallel is there and giving me all of the warm fuzzies <3
There's an idea in Discworld, forming a significant part of the moral backbone of the series, that's very succinctly summed up by Granny Weatherwax in Carpe Jugulum: "[S]in [...] is when you treat people like things. Including yourself." This is absolutely at the core of what's wrong with Heaven and Hell and God and Satan in Good Omens; the leadership and culture of both organisations/cults treat everyone -- angels, demons and humans alike -- as disposable things to be used and toyed with and discarded or destroyed if they start having the temerity to be imperfect or form opinions or thoughts of their own.
There're two characters in Discworld who parallel Aziraphale surprisingly strongly: Magrat Garlick (of the Lancre witches) and Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch. -*Magrat is viewed as a bit of a soft, soppy 'wet hen' by the other witches, but she is still a witch, with all that that implies. She also has at least one scene in every book in which she appears where she does something extremely badass and witchy; for example, turning an ancient wooden door back into a tree, or (very pertinently to GO) delivering a literally iron-clad punch to the face of a villain who's mentally torturing her with her own insecurities. Likewise, Aziraphale seems to mostly be viewed as a bit dull and wimpy by the other angels we see (though Magrat still has the genuine respect of her witchy peers) but he is still an angel -- a Principality -- with all the powers, steadfast guardianship and bloody-minded stubbornness of that rank. The Metatrash might not be vulnerable to iron in the same way as Discworld elves, but you can bet that his attempt to break Aziraphale and bring him into line is going to backfire just as spectacularly!
*For the parallel between Aziraphale and Captain (well, Corporal, at this point in the Discworld timeline) Carrot, the novel I have in mind is Men At Arms. At one point, Vimes is being held at crossbow-point by a villain, and has a bout of internal monologuing about how, if someone has you at their mercy, you'd better hope they're evil, because that way they'll take time to gloat and mock you so you'll have an opportunity to think of a way out; a good man will kill you with barely a word. Carrot does exactly that at the climax of the plot, putting his sword through the villain and the stone pillar behind said villain without saying a thing. Now, Aziraphale might not quite have Carrot's 'incorruptible pure pureness' tendencies, but he is -- for all his flaws -- a good person. If he knows that something needs to be done to prevent an evil outcome, he will DO it without hesitation. He knows how to use a sword, too, and if That Frickin' Elevator Smile Of Tranquil Fury is any indication, the Metatrash is in far deeper doodoo than he realises!
Related to the above, The Smile also reminds me of the old adage, "beware the fury of a patient man." (Well, man-shaped being in this case...) Very appropriate for our careful, thoughtful angel -- it would not surprise me (much) if Metatron were to depart the plot of S3 with a flaming sword pinning him to one of Heaven's columns (probably won't happen, but I can dream, eh?)
Hope you enjoyed reading all that :D
#good omens#good omens meta#discworld#aziraphale#crowley#ineffable husbands#granny weatherwax#magrat garlick#captain carrot#carrot ironfoundersson#terry pratchett#sir terry pratchett#pterry#gnu terry pratchett
88 notes
·
View notes
Text
Key to His Heart Theory: Shot Through the Heart, and You're (S5) to Blame
Intro
So a little over a year ago (since usually I think about things meta wise for at least a good month before writing them down), I wrote a meta about why I thought the Key of Aaravos might hold a quasar diamond, specifically Aaravos' missing chest piece. His heart, if you will.
At the time, I thought it was a very strong contender for what the cube might be, even if it didn't necessarily give us a clear depiction on what it might be used for, and was again operating under the assumption the cube itself is something Aaravos even wants back or needs (which is assumption still, at this point).
It made sense loosely with some of the new information we'd gleaned about the cube from S4 (mostly the Callum pawn intro with its bright flashing light, the emphasis on hearts in the narrative with Ezran's speech, the 4x04 flashbacks) and was likewise built upon a previous meta regarding the series' use of Egyptian mythology (Thoth and Ibis being present somewhat in Callum's arc, the main trio's parallels to another Egyptian myth trio, Aaravos' mirror and mirrors as objects of divination, and potential matching symbolism with the ankh).
The Key to His Heart theory was also built on previous seasons — largely the Magma Titan plot line, and Avizandum being stabbed in the heart — in addition to Aaravos' chest piece, seemingly, being notably absent, which seemed indicative of certain lines from the short stories, particularly Rayla (S4's Dear Callum), but we'll talk more about these later:
Please don’t let this hurt too much. But, if it does—if you feel that soft aching—know that that piece of your heart isn’t missing. It’s not missing at all, Callum: I’m carrying it with me! Always.
If you're interested in this theory and want to know about it, I recommend reading the two metas I've linked above, as the rest of this won't really be delving too much into what I've already written about, and talking about how season five has given more potential evidence.
With that out of the way, let's get into it in rough order of "most to least" likely:
Season Five
TDP Reflections
Whereas hearts weren't mentioned too much in the short stories leading up to S4, they became a reoccurring motif every TDP reflection story going into S5.
Fools. They might as well have held their own hearts, beating and bloody, in the palms of their hands. Kim’dael knew that if she showed them her heart—or something convincingly like it—the Sunfire elves would do exactly what she wanted them to do.
“Rayla,” she said, meeting Redfeather’s gaze. “My name is Rayla. And I’m going home.”
Redfeather sighed. “Oh, you bleeding heart.”
“They balk at shadows, then.” Aditi pulled a slip of white-hot metal from the forge and turned to place it upon a gilded anvil. “I see your heart—and I am not afraid.”
It stared up at him. Ezran felt a coldness twist its way around his heart. It took his lungs, too, and for a long moment he could not breathe, could not feel anything but an unfamiliar anger so potent it seized the whole of him, inside and out.
Viren staggers backwards, his last breath shuddering through the blade. His white robes turn red at his heart. Something in Soren’s own chest shatters along old cracks, but he cannot look away.
“You are stronger than this. All storms end!” Rex rumbled a snort through flared nostrils. “What lies at its heart?”
He wept for his city, his people, and the darkness struck deep into their hearts.
While one may say it ends with a sunrise, another will insist it ends at nightfall. Yet at the heart of the story is a single, simple truth…A star fell from the sky.
From where Kim’dael stood, she could only see the brilliant aura of its magic. For a moment, it was as though the queen’s heart overflowed with light.
Now, some of this is undeniably because a heart is a short hand for emotion and one of our most useful metaphors for communicating a variety of emotion. However, I did think it was particularly interesting / eye catching that these lines tended to overlap with the series' growing light and darkness motif and emphasis on wounds/scars (to the point we have a 5x02 episode titled "Old Wounds" that refers to both Viren's past and Callum and Rayla's healing relationship).
But by far the one that struck me the most, and seemed the most reminiscent of how Aaravos's (literal?) wound manifests is this paragraph from Claudia's short story:
Lissa had left her years ago, but the space she had owned in Claudia’s heart remained. It was a dark place now, hard and hateful, its edges raw as a wound that had forgotten to heal.
Mountains had crumbled and left in their wake a vast new sea. It was as though the land had been dealt a great wound and bled a hundred years. Terror washed across the remnants of humanity like a wave: What power could fell mountains? Turn all the world dark, and bleed a sea from stones?
—Ripples (pre-S5)
As well as Aaravos' clear desire to have revenge over the Startouch elves for something that seems to go beyond the resentment over just being banished:
I have not seen the stars in centuries. But when I see them again—when the stars are forced to look upon me, their dark brother—they will know how I have waited. And when everything they have built lies shattered, I will savor their fall from the sky. For I have been patient.
—Patience (pre-S4)
We don't know yet if we are going to get more TDP reflections going into S6 or S7, but given the way the previous stories emphasize the heart as both a symbolic idea (a darkened, hollowed out heart) and a literal entity you can hold in your hands... It's clear there's something going on symbolism else, otherwise why be so consistent? But enough of the reflections, for now.
Time to talk about S5 itself.
Laurelion
Previously, I thought the cube in the intro (a literal glow toy, as Rayla identified back in 1x05) already had similar properties to the star-glow effect in the title intro back at S4.
At the time, this was more of a guess. Most of the Star magic we'd seen at that point we weren't able to fully identify as such, it seemed a bit more magenta in colour, and while there was a parallel in the bright flash of light upon releasing Sir Sparklepuff, there's also a bright flash when the prison is actually made. It's just a good short hand for a crescendo of magical power, you know? We didn't know if quasar diamonds were even going to be white, besides the one presumably in Aaravos' chest concept art wise.
And yet — it still felt like something to me. Then S5 with Laurelion came along.
The Death of the Immortal
K: "And though undying, took last breath, immortal Laurelion was no more."
C: That's good, right? I mean when someone "was no more," that's — that's dead, yeah?
K: It's a bit confusing, but that is the clearest implication. Though it is somewhat odd they call them undying and immortal.
C: Well, that doesn't sound so immortal? Laurelion "was no more".
K: Right.
C: But how? How did they...?
K: Right here. "White as the star's heart it pierced, ivory draconic brought death's bite known ever forth as Novablade."
C: It's a sword.
There's a few noteworthy things about this whole exchange:
The poem has to be relevant eventually, otherwise why include it at all when you easily could've just had Kazi and Callum stumble across the sword period?
It confirms that the heart of a star is something that can be pierced, presumably removed, and white, which I think is the biggest "hell yeah" to the 4x04 intro
There is no reason to point out the contradictions in the poem itself unless A) the sword doesn't work the way we think it does and/or B) we are going to find out why the "undying and immortal" thing matters — and they make sure to emphasize the contradictions quite a bit as well, so they definitely want us to notice
If Laurelion died, and Aaravos took his place, that would explain how Laurelion — identity wise — could die while the same person under a new name could also remain alive / immortal
We learn in Rayla's pre-S5 short story that Ghosts don't often keep their real names, and take a new one as the final severance of their bond with their old community. For all extents and purposes, Aaravos was Ghosted (banished) from his community as well. Taking a new name would make sense
"That must've been when [Harrow] fell." "Fell? Fell! He didn't fall, Rayla, he didn't trip and fall on the ground — he got killed!" (2x08)
There's more speculation here regarding the actual sword and draconic ivory, but that is another post for another day that other smart people have made if you are interested. For now let's just focus on the heart.
We know Laurelion had a heart; we know it got stabbed with the Novablade, leaving Laurelion both no more (i.e. dead) and yet immortal / undying. We know that Arc 2 in particular has had an emphasis on losing your sense of self and identity ("I was his puppet" / "We can't save everyone, Soren" / "But I'm not evil. It's me" / all of Viren's dream visions). We know that a Star's heart is white. We know that Aaravos seemingly used to have one, and now it's either missing or impermanent, only visible sometimes.
(Putting a pin in the second image cause we'll roll back around to it in the counter evidence section.)
We know his chest centrepiece glowed when he was imprisoned, and we know it was seemingly gone when he got banished. We know something about the Key of Aaravos was able to reveal his treachery.
I'm not saying any of this is for sure connected, but it does make you think, at least a little?
That, and it'd play into another bit of potential interesting foreshadowing / symbolism we got in s5 with
Viren Heart Theory
This is another theory I've discussed in more detail elsewhere, so I'm going to link to it here, but it wouldn't feel right to not talk about it at least a little here. Basically the theory is that Viren used his own blood / a piece of his heart, or possibly the whole thing, and the relic staff in order to save Soren when he was a young child.
This is largely due to Viren's spotlight turning red after he begs to be able to save Soren, and cinched by Kpp'Ar pointing specifically at Viren's heart only for Viren to deflect and start talking about Soren's case specifically. Whatever he did seemed to make him more 'powerful,' but at a great personal cost ("In the name of love you may perform acts that are so unforgivable, you will never forgive yourself") and something he finds the need to justify ("I had to do something! I had to save him! I had no choice!").
If Viren did this, it also adds another layer to Viren's sentiment of "Harrow's death breaks my heart" being well, half-hearted, in addition to Soren literally stabbing illusion Viren in the heart in 3x09. Viren mutilated his heart for his son's life, stopped being able to properly express love to said son, and then Soren stabbed his father right in the place that presumably saved him as a child. Ouch.
It seems likely that one of the reasons Aaravos was able to prey so aptly on Viren's desire for importance and attention — to Matter — was because Aaravos might've tried and failed earlier on to get the Startouch elves to listen to him pre-banishment. Being ignored, exiled, and disempowered is something he can relate to, and something he doesn't mind taking advantage of when it suits him.
However, if this combination could save someone Viren loved, it makes me wonder if Aaravos did something similar to likewise try (and fail?) to save someone he loved, too. It's either that or the Startouch elves just completely ripped it out, so... I guess we'll have to see?
But yeah — if Viren did it, then I'm expecting it's more likely that Aaravos did it, too. That is all.
The Pawn Intros
But Dragons, you say, didn't we already talk about the Callum pawn intro?
And to that I say yes, but — thanks to a promo S6 picture of Aaravos crying, we know something else very important about said intros that we didn't know before: they take place at the Sea of the Cast Out.
The sky, the mountains... the fact we know, thanks to the statues in 5x09, that this is likely where Aaravos' grief — his wound, if you will — began to bleed and take root, leading to his thousands of years of seeking vengeance and using just about anything or anyone he could. This is, presumably, where his chess game started... and where it is, symbolically at least, going to end.
Okay, so it's the Sea of the Cast Out — why does that matter?
Well, we know the Sea of the Cast Out is a site of literal trauma for Aaravos. We know, thanks to the statues of Aaravos and the Merciful One, that it plays into the same reaching motif we see Viren participate in quite a few times, both in his intro and in other places/relationships (most notably Sarai, Harrow, and Terry).
The Sea of the Cast Out is also, perhaps more importantly for this theory's purposes, near Elarion. What little we do know about the city beyond it being an important place for humans and dark magic ties it repeatedly to nature through The Midnight Star poem:
Elarion, trembling seed,
lay down to earth in icy night,
and in the cold
her roots took hold
defying winter’s deathly bite.
Elarion, fading bloom,
afraid to wilt and dim and die,
[...] Elarion, dying husk,
did wilt and whimper in the dark
[...] Elarion, black-eyed child,
her twisted roots spread deep and far,
as well as a tale about the Flowers of Elarion, precious blooms that could soothe the senses and turned to dust come morning—flowers that were left as "a fair exchange of beloved for beloved" (Tales of Xadia). Put a pin that Exchange idea because I swear we're gonna come back to it but not in the usual way you might be expecting, or at least not entirely.
And we have good reason to believe this nature motif is tied to Aaravos' current imprisonment as well, given how present flower imagery is for his mirror.
So the Sea of the Cast Out and Elarion seem to be the two places we know of thus far that are not only the most important to Aaravos, but the most instrumental to his banishment. It would not surprise me if either Aaravos got involved in what would become Elarion either because he was banished, or it was what he was banished over, or if discovering the truth of what happened there is likewise why the Archdragons were partially like "Yeah, we gotta lock this guy up" (now that they knew he posed a serious threat). The fact that Elarion is referred to as a child (everything with "blood of a child,"), black-eyed (which denotes dark magic), and winter's "deathly bite" ("White as the star's heart it pierced, / ivory draconic brought death's bite") just all ties together nicely in being related even if we're not totally sure how.
But Aaravos having his chest piece removed by force / as punishment in addition to being cast out by the Startouch elves, or him taking it out himself and giving it to someone who was lost... There's a lot of roads to get here as to why this stuff all seems connected if the Key is indeed his chest piece, which offers up both a power up, a sad tragic backstory, some baller symbolism, and some nice double meanings as to what it is key wise.
As the Key works in the moment, it doesn't seem like it's something that would be very useful to a primal mage, as other than pretty easily identifiable gemstones they wouldn't be using much the key identifies. However, the function of the Key being able to categorize and sort magical creatures and plants from each other is something that is very useful if you're a dark mage and need to shore up your ingredients list.
If the Key has Aaravos' chest piece in it, there are two main prongs this offers:
It may have been instrumental in helping humans discover dark magic, hence the "Elarion, searing white" and could also be the Gift the poem speaks of. Aaravos removed it himself (love makes you weak?), gave it to his chosen human, chosen human died, and he was locked out of Startouch realm as a combined result. This offers the clearest connection between why Aaravos' mirror has the nature motif and why Aaravos is crying in the beginning of 6x01.
It was removed by the Startouch elves and lost/hidden, forcing Aaravos to be away from his old home until he could find it again. This is the clearest explanation as to why the Key might be relevant on a plot level. It could give him the power up he needs to get out of his prison and barring that, it's what he needs to wreck havoc and gain access to the Startouch elves to get revenge on them
It also allows what we learn of the cube in 2x06 to have multiple meanings:
The Key is revealed in an episode called The Heart of a Titan. We're led to assume that this is just the Magma Titan, and you could perhaps make an argument the dual meaning (just like how Breaking the Seal refers to the letter and the titan's chest) refers to Harrow or Callum's capacity to love. But, given that one of Aaravos' most prominent mythic comparisons is to Prometheus, a literal Titan, well...
"It unlocks something of great power in Xadia" would work equally well if it's a Key literally made from Aaravos, not just to Aaravos. And the past 2 seasons in particular have emphasized over and over again just how powerful and dangerous he is
The salvation and destruction motif that is inherent in the key, ("I just have a feeling this key thing can help me" / "It's the key of Aaravos, no good will come of it") as keys are linked to chains and freedom with the ability to lock and unlock, is rampant in 2x06, as Viren states that Xadia and the Magma Titan "held both the promise of our salvation and threat of our destruction." This goes double for Sarai sacrificing her life to save Viren
And to round back to Viren and his intro, I don't think it's a coincidence that
is one of the first things Aaravos ever says to Viren, particularly when trying to earn Viren's trust. (Nor that Aaravos considers that Zubeia and co. "betrayed" him when "he would lower his guard," just before the imprisonment.) And while Aaravos gains Viren's trust as a political ally here first, it's also clear that he's actually primarily preying upon Viren's deepest emotional desires here as well: to be listened to. To matter.
Viren wasn't listened to by the monarchs around him (Harrow). He wanted to be important (to them). He wanted to matter.
"It is everything to me, to know that I matter. It's all I ever wanted."
Aaravos: Search your heart. There is something you want very badly. (2x09)
Zubeia: He was able to give them something they wanted very badly. (4x04)
And that's what Aaravos offered him, with power and knowledge just being the bait. (If you're interested in more detailed thoughts on this aspect of Viren / their dynamic, check out this meta here.)
More to the point, I do lean towards the Key's plot purposes being 1) a power-up that may be needed for him to get out of his mirror and 2) something that likewise allows him to see the other Startouch elves again. After all, the Silvergrove gave each elf a similar kind of key:
But y'know what, let's talk about Rayla now, because
The Missing Piece of Your Heart
As stated earlier, Rayla's letter has a consistent metaphor when it comes to family and loss:
I remember how I felt when my parents left me to join the Dragonguard, like PART OF MY HEART WAS MISSING and I would never feel right again. I thought I hated them when they did that to me. In the beginning, it felt so big and terrible—like raging despair—but, overtime, it became a soft, sweet ache—a reminder of that missing part of my heart. [...] Please don’t let this hurt too much. But, if it does—if you feel that soft aching—know that that piece of your heart isn’t missing. It’s not missing at all, Callum: I’m carrying it with me! Always.
This struck me as interesting when the letter first came out, as it was a departure from most of Rayla's previous heart motif ("My heart for Xadia") and even the one attributed to her one half of her parents ("My heart goes out with this one"). Why have the motif suddenly switch up when it would've worked just as well, or been doubly romantic + a Ruthari parallel, to just have it be the whole heart?
Then season four came out, and I understood, because, well...
Upon her return, Rayla brings back that "missing piece" of "Callum's heart". It's a painful restoration and doesn't run entirely smooth, but in season five in particular we see him be much more like his older, happier self once he's let himself love her again, and how steadfast he is in said love ("To love is simply know this...").
But, in a moment that could've been exclusively about Rayla, nor did it need for Stella's connection to the Star arcanum to be this prominent in the same moment, they choose to likewise highlight Rayla 'bringing home' the missing piece of Aaravos' heart, too.
This symbolism is also consistent with how the key is introduced in the first place, i.e. first thought of because Rayla's drawing in Callum's sketchbook (another gift from Harrow) reminds Callum of it, and her ultimately being the one to retrieve it even once things at the Banther Lodge take a turn towards the south.
Furthermore, we do have reason to believe that Rayla is indeed the 'Key to Callum' in a sense, particularly after 5x08. Just like how a key can both lock and unlock — give freedom or entrapment — Rayla symbolizes a great deal of duality in Callum's life, including but not limited to:
Leading him to primal magic (1x03, 5x08) and dark magic (2x07, 5x08)
Light ("No one can control you or make your choices for you" / Ray of light) and dark ("But the second you see that elf girl in pain, you completely lost yourself" / "Stay safe, and stay in the light. Don't look for me")
Being routinely emphasized in Callum's arc with Aaravos, especially in S4
"Now you're back. That's kind of good, and it's kind of bad" / "You have to hold pain and love in your heart at the same time" / "And when she came back, I was so happy, and so mad at the same time"
Salvation ("Rayla saves people [...] that's what makes her a hero") and destruction (being willing to die / do dark magic for her)
The Ocean arcanum realization being both positive and negative, just as the poem itself takes on a different shape across the season in regards to how Callum views her and how he views himself while being motivated by his love for her / Ezran
“Wow. So [the berries] look identical, but they might kill you or they might save you,” Callum said.
“Exactly. Just like me…” Rayla smiled.
—Book One: Sky novelization
If you're interested in a more specific meta on this dichotomy, I recommend this meta written pre-s4 and this more recent one about 5x08 specifically.
I've written before about Rayla have a weird consistency with the cube as well, particularly in her being the primary carrier of its foreshadowing for most of arc 1, with Callum only really doing so in 1x04 and having Rayla pick up the slack the rest of the time:
"It's a toy, a piece from a children's game" (1x04) as well as "It's a glow toy" (1x05) are now literally true as the cube is 1) involved in Aaravos' game and 2) literally glows a bright flashing light circa the 4x04 intro.
"Are you practicing magic or are you losing to Bait at a game of rolly-cubes?" (2x07 right after Callum calls it a key) came to pass, somewhat if not outright, it seems, in 5x08. Callum practices two different magics, Rayla is literal bait in exchange for the glow-toad, and the episode ends with Callum being worried he's potentially losing Aaravos' 'game' so to speak — that he's made himself more vulnerable to the Startouch elf's control.
Two lines of hers regarding the cube that have not yet come to pass are "This doesn't end well for you" (1x05) and "I hope it was worth it to you, putting everyone's lives in danger" (1x04) but I expect that we'll get them soon enough.
Rayla's 'tether' to a the cube does, of course, loop back into the Flowers of Elarion tale, in which there was a fair exchange of beloved for beloved. If the Key does indeed hold Aaravos' heart (and that is still a very big If), whether it would include an actual exchange is still debatable, but it seems inevitable that she would at least play a part. (If you're interested in more thoughts on Rayla + the cube, check out this meta pre-s4.)
Where the game motif gets the most interesting, I think, is where it intersects with the idea Aaravos mentions in 2x09 regarding, "Those who fail tests of love are simple animals," and one of the TDP short stories in particular having one very interesting tidbit:
“My behavior is—?”
“—unusual,” Corvus repeated, nodding. “Very unusual. Ever since you started challenging me to all these little games.”
Soren squirmed. His pauldrons clanked as his shoulders slumped. “They aren’t games. They’re tests. Ugh…I’m really messing this up.”
Since Rayla is going to have her "My heart for Xadia" undeniably tested, it would make sense if Callum and Aaravos' hearts came into play too, don't you think?
Other Misc Symbolism / Oddities
Last but not least, we have our odds and ends that didn't fit in the other sections, but I thought may be worthwhile to mention anyway.
For starters, we have screencaps (most notably in 3x06) where you can see a visible dip in Aaravos' tiddies chest that indicates something was removed, and it's not just an artificial darkness.
We have Aaravos touching a fist to his heart twice before he bows and indicates that Callum is going to "play" into his hands (remember that game motif?).
We have this shot, which is the exact kind of thing that "crew makes sure the Ocean and Moon runes are most prominently on display in Callum's dark magic dreams to foreshadow him doing dark magic in S5 Ocean for his Moonshadow gf 3 seasons later" would absolutely do and think they're So Funny about. "No gem for star magic" except the one you're unknowingly holding in your hand, am I right?
Finally, we have precedent that dark magic can 'darken' your heart both in show when Amaya passes the light trial ("A human that is pure of heart") and in the graphic novels with Claudia ("Your heart is not yet darkened") which allows her to see the map to a unicorn (The Puzzle House).
@self-spaghettification also noted that the bright white flash of the star in the 'o' of Aaravos' name in the Arc 2 intro momentarily looks like and makes the shape of the Nova Blade, which is also very cool.
Honourable mention to Rayla going "it's a piece from a children's game" and Ezran going "you said each of the archdragons had a piece of the puzzle" and the Orphan Queen and Jailer presumably working together to trap Aaravos. I think about that shit every day.
Evidence to the Contrary / Alternatives
But like I said at the start, there are plenty of alternatives or feasible pitfalls to consider. This theory resides on a few assumptions after all, that may not be true, such as Aaravos not actually needing the key for anything other than as a lure for Callum, it could purely have something to do with the Nova Blade and nothing to do with the prison, or even have something to do with the nature of magic itself, capable of great good as well as great evil.
His chest piece could've always been more immaterial and dark magic has just darkened it rather than it being removed. Aaravos may have stabbed Laurelion in order to use that heart diamond to partially make the Relic Staff he passed onto Ziard, or Aaravos' chest piece could be in the staff itself, and the cube is something else entirely.
Conclusion
In the end, as we go forward into S6 all the above is more less my personal bet as to where I think we really could go in terms of answering a lot of these questions we've had for a few seasons now. I hope you enjoyed reading the theory and considering (and possibly subscribing to) it, as well as getting your own thoughts stimulated. If any of the above happens I will cry for days and no matter what, I am deeply intrigued to see where S6 takes Aaravos' backstory and, of course, his cube. Luckily:
93 notes
·
View notes
Text
So, in Guards! Guards! one of my favorite sequences of events is the watch waiting on the roof so Colon can shoot the dragon with a bow and arrow.
And while this scene is great for the twisted humor of self awareness that these characters have, it's actually a really good deconstruction of stakes in writing.
Not only is this a fairly tense moment for the book, right in the height of the dragon's plans to enact ritual human sacrifice, but the watch almost dies in their attempt. One might think it's the comedy aspect of the story that keeps them alive (or Carrot being built like a brick house), because people of importance seldom die in comedies, but it really isn't. It's the stakes that keep them alive.
Raising the stakes in a story changes the likelihood of character death. Colon, by all accounts, could have died, as could Nobby, and debatably Carrot if you look at G!G! in isolation. None of them have the narrative weight of Vimes or Sybil in this book, and they could all be considered expendable (though Carrot to a lesser degree, as he was specifically introduced by the narrative to be a "hero"). When the stakes are highest, someone is the most likely to die doing something good. But the watch also knows that when the stakes are high and the odds are against someone doing a noble thing, that action has the highest narrative likelihood of success. The phrase "it'd never work, it's a million-to-one chance" being their goalpost inspires them to artificially lower the odds of their success when the stakes are high. But in so doing, they lower the stakes by acknowledging that it's entirely possible that Colon could kill the dragon, even if it's unlikely, and his odds of him certainly killing the dragon are higher if his odds of maybe killing the dragon are lower (if that makes sense; granted, if you've read the book you probably get it).
Anyway, this adjustment of odds to make the chances of success higher (by making them lower) lowers the stakes of the book when it is at its most tense and signals what I call a "descent into absurdity." And while that may sound like a bad thing, it is one of my favorite parts of Discworld. Things are rectified in absurdity, because functioning is absurd, and the goal in most of these books is to be "functional". E.g., Vetinari's whole goal is to keep Ankh-Morpork functional, and he does so by being the most absurd sort of untouchable dictator possible. The man pays people to try and kill him, spreads rumors about himself, builds a prison only he knows how it really works, governs intelligent rat societies, and is perhaps the only character in the whole book that doesn't fear the most fearsome creature there is. He functions and the city functions because they are absurd.
Absurdity lowers stakes, while increasing chances of character success. It is how comedy almost always resolves. But absurdity only begins to descend upon narrative after the failure of the logical. Logical solutions will always fail when the illogical and comical is fated to happen. And a city built on absurdity will always be fated to be saved in the most illogical ways possible. And that is a wonderful thing.
Of course the watch would never be able to shoot down a draco nobilis, even in the most absurd way possible. Especially not when the stakes are as high as they are. But you think, for a moment, as they embrace absurdity and twist this logical attempt into an illogical one, that they might actually do something helpful. It just turns out that that something helpful is to begin the descent. And they survive this otherwise incredibly dangerous scenario because they embraced the absurd and lowered the stakes.
437 notes
·
View notes
Text
(From research but also from my own workings with him. This isn’t meant to be strictly historical this is more for pagans wanting to work with him. There will be a lot of UPG or SPG)
Anubis/Anpu/Inpu/Inpw (and some other spellings depending on where you look) :
-He is the jackal headed Egyptian god of mummification, funerary rites and a fierce protector of tombs and places where people are buried.
- a lot of stories have him as either the son of Nephthys and Set or the son of Nephthys and Osiris. I personally go by the mythology where he is the son of Osiris, then taken in by Aset and raised as an adopted son after the death of Osiris. He is fiercely loyal to his adopted mother and his father. As well as supportive of his half brother Horus (Heru-sa-Aset)
What working with him is like
-He is a sort of Psychopomp deity for dead souls. Also in my experience can help bring you into meditations with other spirits safety (he’s guided me to a few of the other deities I work with now)
- He is a fierce protector. Big guard dog energy. Doesn’t usually have a huge temper until something threatens him or a follower of his.
-Most of the time he’s a very calm and patient deity. He will give space when you need it, and also be around when you need him too. He tends to put in the effort that you do. But if you can’t put in much effort he’s patient (just quieter maybe if you’ve backed away from him first)
- He is usually the first one to jump in to help when I’m going through something emotionally rough. It could be because he is my patron but I do feel like he is the type of deity to want to be there for, and comfort his followers/devotees.
Offerings for Anubis
(These are the personal ones I use because they work for my own practice and lifestyle- feel free to share any of your own!)
Crystals
- tigers eye
- obsidian
- onyx
- jet
- lapis lazuli
- red/brown goldstone
- labradorite
- Dalmatian jasper
Incense
- frankincense
- Egyptian musk scents
- Sandlewood
- Myrrh
- Tobacco
Food offerings
- Dark chocolate
- dark bread
- red wine
- water
Other physical offerings/associations
- dog statues/imagery
- ankhs
- wooden things/wood carvings
- jewelry with gold on it
- keys
- black candles
- gold candles
- brown candles
- the death tarot card
- the hanged man tarot card
- the emperor tarot card
Devotional offerings
- self care
- taking care of your own dog/a dog
- volunteer at dog shelters
- donate to animal shelters/rescues
- learn about him
- learn about the history of the pyramids and mummification
- draw him
- write poetry for him
- play music/dance/sing for him
How to know if he’s reaching out to you?
Best way to know is to confirm by tarot or your clairsenses if you have any. Or candle flame reading/other forms of divination.
If you’re looking for signs he’s popping up (this is rather morbid but so it goes with the god of mummification and decay) he tends to send roadkill to me. If you see a lot of extra roadkill on a drive to work/a regular route that isn’t usually there. That could be a sign. (I like to ask him to help guide their souls somewhere nice whenever I see roadkill)
I think he’s an excellent deity for beginners and if you feel called to him I’d say go for it! I started with a simple candle dedicated to him and went from there!
#Anubis#anpu#kemetic paganism#kemetism#deity worship#deity witchcraft#Egyptian gods#pagan witch#deity work#deity offerings#Anubis offerings#deity guide#Anubis guide#death gods
300 notes
·
View notes
Text
what you're searching for.
summary: Margo goes to a shitty poetry slam and gets more out of it than she expects.
wc: 4.9k
warnings: alcohol consumption, and it's like very VERY lightly implied that they had an Adult Sleepover if you get my meaning. Nothing really too suggestive in here I promise. One singular reference to a tiktok.
a/n: this took me a whole ass week but I'm very proud of where my writing style is going! somewhat inspired by the film 'Love Jones'. If you enjoyed this pls feel free to leave your thoughts or your favorite line if you have one!
EDIT: OH MY GOD I FORGOT TO ADD: the first poem is actually taken from the Junior novel 'Miles Morales: Suspended' by Jason Reynolds! The poem at the end is mine though lmao I'm not the best poet
Margo can’t stand poetry.
Someone gets up in front of you with a piece of paper clutched in their hands, and recites what is simultaneously the most vague and the most painfully obvious string of fragmented sentences you’ve ever heard as if they’d just touched your soul.
It’s not rapping, not preaching, but the ugly middle child standing between them. Some odd bastardization of music for people who thought they were too smart for either of the first two, but weren't brave enough to just give speeches.
Speeches, at least, are coherent, specific, and can be scrutinized.
So far, sitting in the front row of the bar that her classmate Zoe had invited her to for poetry night, no one has changed her mind.
Tonight’s performances consisted of an assembly line of men (and a couple of women) in vintage sweaters ranting about their exes to the rhythm of bongo drums, or some mildly relevant social issue that none had the lexicon to really say anything in stanzas that hasn’t already been said. She had heard nothing yet that sounded much more profound than an Instagram post.
Although, one girl had come up and recited a short poem about her late mother that Margo thought was quite sweet, and the least tortuous to sit through.
The crowd erupted in snaps again for a poet with long braided dreads and an ankh tattoo whose words she had tuned out. The host took the mic and announced the final (thank god) participant:
“Now this next one I had to practically drag over here to get him to share his beautiful poetry with us tonight. Everyone, please give a warm welcome to one of my close friends and colleagues, Miles Morales!”
A lanky young man–Margo suspects about six feet even, given the way he’s towering over the host–awkwardly shuffles over to the center of the stage, offering the crowd a tight-lipped smile.
He’s in a plain green sweater with the sleeves hastily rolled up to his elbows and a bomber jacket tied around his waist. As soon as he’s handed the microphone, it seems to dawn on him that there’s no turning back, and his body visibly tenses.
He clearly just got here, and for once Margo doesn’t know what to expect.
Squinting beneath the bright spotlight, he clears his throat and speaks into the mic.
“Um, hi.”
A few scattered ‘hi’s from the crowd.
There’s something bright and sweet in the tone of his voice that makes him sound a little boyish, and she wonders what he could possibly have under his sleeve that warranted him getting dragged up here last minute.
He takes a deep breath.
“It’s said
That nobody
Is ever more
Than ten feet
From a spider.”
Miles began the poem carefully, like he was confessing something.
“They be everywhere you and me are.”
A few members of the crowd laugh, others shudder at the thought and frown.
“And even though
We see them only
When they big enough to see, or when
They move,
Like a cursor
Across the blank white
Page of a wall…”
His voice loses some of its airiness in exchange for confidence as he recites the rest of the poem, and Margo realizes that he isn’t reading off of anything.
Either he’s improvising, or he has it entirely memorized.
“Or when we trip
The web-like wire
Of a booby trap
Or when they
Fang our flesh
We should probably
Assume most
Just be right there…”
Miles paused and looked somewhere far beyond the crowd, lifting his arm to point to the back of the room. Then he repeated:
“Right there,
Right here,”
He gestures toward the front row, where his eyes land directly on Margo. It’s not so close to the stage that she can tell for sure, but she thinks she sees a hint of a smile cross his lips.
“Looking at us,
Looking over them.”
Silence.
His arm falls limply to his side as his eyes frantically scan the audience, searching for some kind of response.
Then, someone begins to clap. Then another. Then another. WIthin moments, the entire room erupts in applause, causing a shy smile to spread across the young man’s face.
“Uh, thank you!” he says, surprised at the positive reception, before shrinking into himself again and leaving the stage the same way he came.
The host returns and takes the mic from him.
“Miles Morales, everybody!”
-
After the poetry slam, Margo insisted that Zoe take her to the sushi place across the street. It had a bar sitting off to the side, one with significantly less poets. The decorative lights hung directly above the shelf filled with glass bottles and shrouded them in cherry red.
Zoe takes a sip of her sherry and leans in.
“Sooo, how was it?”
“It was a’ight.”
The light-skinned girl’s lips pull into a pout. “Seriously?”
“Hey, I told you poetry wasn’t my thing,” Margo pauses, then amends, “I liked the last guy, though. Breath of fuckin’ fresh air.”
“Right? His style really caught my attention, subtle.”
“Glad you liked it.”
Zoe’s eyes widened as she glanced just beyond Margo’s shoulder.
When Margo turned towards the familiar voice and froze.
The poet in question was standing just inches away, a friendly smile gracing his features. His jacket is no longer around his waist, neatly folded over his arm like an expensive coat. He is with the excitable darker-skinned man who’d just hosted the event, and a man the shade of sandalwood standing just behind him.
They’re both wearing the same type of muted cardigan as Miles, but they’ve got actual coats.
“Y’all were in the front, right?” Miles asks the both of them, though he’s only looking at Margo.
She nods wordlessly. Zoe picks up the slack.
“M-hm, you were great up there! You’ve really never shown anyone your work ‘till tonight?”
Miles snorts at the wording of the phrase. ‘His work’.
“I wrote that poem in high school,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Wasn’t supposed to be anything serious, but my roommate…”
He gives the dark-skinned man a dirty look.
“...swiped my journal and found it. Told me I should read it out loud somewhere.”
Margo examines Miles’ face and imagines him as a baby-faced high-schooler, sitting in the back of the classroom with a protective arm around the beat-up red composition notebook he’s writing in. He stuffs it in his bag as soon as he’s done, because he has just poured his heart out onto that page, and his crush’s name is in there. Maybe there are tiny doodles of her in the margins.
“Yo,” the sandalwood-colored man claps Miles on the shoulder. “We about to hit up Tiff’s place, you coming?”
“Yeah, in a minute,” Miles nods dismissively. “I’ll catch up with y’all.”
The two other men give each other a knowing look before brushing past him.
“Alright man, catch you later then.”
Once she finally regains the ability to speak, Margo remarks, “You were the only performance I really liked, if I’m being honest.”
“Is that so?”
“Oh yeah, this one hates poetry,” Zoe places a hand on Margo’s shoulder and laughs. “Tried to change her mind by bringing her over here, but no dice.”
Miles raised an eyebrow. “What made mine so different?”
“Hm, I dunno…” Margo’s eyes float over his form before making their way back up to his face. “Your delivery, I guess.”
Safe to say, he looks amusedly unconvinced.
“My…delivery.”
She catches herself and quickly adds, “I-I mean, it also kinda felt like everyone else was trying too hard. So.”
He tilts his head at the remark.
“Are you just saying that to flatter me?”
.“I don’t flatter people. Too close to lying.”
“That sounds like half a poem already. Maybe you should go up there next week.”
She gives him a lopsided smile.
“Only if you’re there. I need something to actually look forward to.”
His tongue darts out and passes over his lips.
“What’s your name?”
“Margo.”
Miles hums, softly repeating the name before inching his way over to the counter where he leans his hip on it.
“Pretty. Can I buy you a drink, Margo?”
She doesn’t think her name is all that pretty, but he makes it sound that way.
“Knock yourself out.”
“I’ll leave you two alone,” Zoe teases as she rises from her seat. “I’m gonna go order us some sushi.”
Miles takes the stool to Margo’s left as he waits on their drinks, his long legs never needing to leave the ground to do so.
He has a funny way of sitting, hands folded neatly in front of him with his back just a few degrees off from being perfectly straight. As if you needed to look distinguished at a sushi bar.
Church boy, Margo guessed. That, or his daddy’s a military man.
It’s adorable either way.
“You in school?” she asked.
“Yup. Princeton.”
Her eyes lit up.
“Oh shit, me too! I’ve never seen you on campus, though. What’s your major?”
“Physics. You?”
“Comp Sci. Been coding since I was in middle school, so…”
Margo remembers the echoing ‘click-clack’ of her keyboard as she sat in an empty computer lab for hours on end after school because she preferred it to her parents’ house.
The bartender hands Miles two glasses of white wine, and he sets the second glass in front of Margo, his warm eyes still focused on her.
She’s intrigued by how clear they are - no trace of suspicion or calculation behind them. Just the warmth.
“So, where you from? My folks are over in Brooklyn.”
“Georgia.”
Miles’ brows jump to his hairline.
“Damn. What brought you all the way up here?”
To get as far away as possible.
“Well, it’s Princeton,” she says beneath a forced laugh.
“Yeah, but you got, like, eight different HBCUs over there. How’d Princeton win you over?”
Margo breaks eye contact to stare into her drink.
“Needed a change of pace.”
When she looks up to gauge Miles’ reaction, skepticism is written all over his face. But he doesn’t push it further.
“That’s fair. Princeton’s got a cutting-edge quantum physics program that I’m aiming for. Had to beg my parents to come here,” he grins proudly, “but here I am.”
Margo is silent for a moment.
“Can I tell you something?” she asks suddenly, beckoning Miles to lean in.
“Yeah?”
Grinning, she half-whispers, “I’m actually here on a scholarship.”
He gives her an odd look.
“Why’d you say it like that? Nothin’ wrong with getting a full ride. The opposite, actually.”
“Some people might feel otherwise. You’re like, the second person I’ve told other than my parents.”
“And why me?” Miles chuckles. “My poetry was just that good?”
“I just…Hm.”
Margo leans back and takes a contemplative sip of her wine, watching him over the rim of her glass.
Why did she just tell him that?
“I guess I just sorta felt like telling you.”
Margo cautiously sets the wine back down. She figures if she’s not careful, he’ll have her full government name and social security number by the end of the night.
“Y’know, I actually get that a lot,” Miles laughs. “One time, I had this lady I was standing in line with at Target turn around and just start telling me stories about her dead son and how much she misses him. And it’s like, I’m sorry for your loss, but we’re in Target right now and I literally do not know you.”
“Wait, people just go up to you and…tell you shit?”
“Yup. There was this other time at church, too. Just as service ends and I’m about to get up and leave, this short old dude–Dominican, I think–stops me and starts telling me about his entire life. I’m talking start to finish! Apparently I reminded him of his nephew that died in the military or something.”
“Jesus.”
A crease forms between Margo’s brows. She wishes she could say she didn’t understand the old man at church or the lady at Target, but she does. No, it’s not the poetry. It’s got nothing to do with words.
It’s the way that Miles looks at people.
Like he already knows all of your secrets, but you’re not worried because they’re safe with him, so might as well tell them. It’s a merciful sort of gaze; you get the impression that he won’t judge you. You might even tell him more after his friendly ‘boy-next-door’ voice coaxes them out of you. The thought unsettles her because she had done just that.
“You ever had a girlfriend before?” She asks, all of a sudden.
Miles shrugs, “Yeah, in tenth grade, then again freshman year. Didn’t really work out.”
“Why not?”
His brows furrow gently for just a second, as if he’s still trying to figure out the answer to that.
“I…don’t know, actually. It goes well the first few months and then…”
“It fizzles out?”
“I get ghosted. Something about how they’re ‘not ready’. Understandable, I guess, but you don’t have to ghost me, y’know?”
He awkwardly examines his fingers, then his glass.
Margo feels a bit guilty for suddenly bringing up his exes when they’d just met. Would they end up the same way? She saw herself there too, being in a relationship for six months before his weird pastor’s eyes get to be a bit too much and she takes off.
“Yikes, sorry I asked.”
“It’s no problem,” a smile starts to return to his face. “Onto better things, right?”
“Right.”
“And you?”
“Huh?”
“You ever been in a relationship before?”
Margo smiles awkwardly and messes with one of her fingernails.
“Well…not exactly.”
Miles’ eyes widen.
“Never?”
“I mean, guys offer, and then we talk for a little bit, but then…”
“They flake out on you.”
“Pretty much.”
“Damn shame,” he says with a bit of sharpness to his voice. “Not even a first date?”
“Nope, just ‘Read at 4:15’.”
“You know what I think it is?”
Just as he asks this, his knee brushes against her thigh. Margo isn’t sure if it’s an accident, but it distracts her nonetheless.
“What?”
“You’re too smart for them, I can tell. It scares ‘em.” But it doesn’t scare me, is the suggestion.
He smiles then, the kind that shows the whiteness of his teeth on every vowel. It’s wide enough that a dimple comes out of hiding on his left cheek, and she suddenly wants to tell him everything again. She takes another sip of wine.
“So! What’d I miss?”
Zoe finally returns from ordering their sushi at the front with an expectant grin. Miles still hasn’t taken his eyes off of her friend, while she is staring at him like a string of code, which, if you know Margo, is better than nothing.
“You didn’t miss much,” says Margo. “We were just talkin’ about our majors. School stuff.”
Miles checks his phone and lets out a low whistle.
“Well, it was lovely meeting y’all, but I gotta bounce. After getting dragged onstage, I get to be dragged over to a house party, too.”
Just as he rises from his seat, he stops and points at her.
“Before I go, though, d’you mind giving me your digits? I’d love to talk about, uh…computer science…over lunch.”
She snorts, “Who still says ‘digits’?” but hands him her phone anyway.
It couldn’t hurt to try.
“Sure.”
His eyes light up as if he wasn’t expecting her to say yes as he saves his number as ‘poetry slam guy’ in her phone, then hands it back.
“Cool,” Miles begins his walk towards the entrance backwards, holding eye contact for just a little longer before turning around. “G’night!”
“Goodnight!” the two women call out in unison as he leaves.
Margo looks to her left at the now-empty bar stool. The glass of wine Miles left on the counter is full, completely untouched.
It’s still on her mind as she's sitting in her single dorm room, re-writing her lecture notes on cyber security in a meticulous neat print that could almost pass for a font.
Every few minutes her pen stops because she’s distracted by the sound of clinking glass in boxes downstairs, or because she pauses to stare at the white wall in front of her that brings to mind one of the lines of Miles’ poem.
There might be a spider that I can’t see sitting ten feet away from me right this second, she muses to herself. The thought gives her an idea, and the perfect excuse to call him without seeming too desperate.
Margo unlocks her phone and scrolls through her contacts. She smiles to herself at the contact name Miles chose. Did he think she’d forget his name that easily?
His voice soon filters through the speaker.
“Hey, you didn’t throw out my number!”
“Yup, lucky you.” she replies. “I wanted to ask you a question? About your poem the other night.”
“What about it?”
“See, I was thinking about that first line. Are we really never more than ten feet away from a spider? Like, at any given moment?”
There’s a moment of silence from Miles before he asks:
“You…called me just to ask me that?”
“What? It’s a very pressing issue! There’s probably one in the corner of my room as we speak!”
“Alright, I’ll humor you,” Miles laughs. “That’s actually a myth from the 90s. Your distance from the nearest spider really depends on where you’re at, so if you’re in a spot with hella bugs, you’re more likely to see one. You’re probably fine.”
“Now wait just a minute!” Margo gasps dramatically. “So you lied to all those poor folks in there?”
“Sure did. Played ‘em all like a fiddle.”
“Terrible.”
“So, why’d you really call? You don’t sound as concerned about spiders as you say you are, if I’m being honest.”
So much for an excuse.
“Don’t nothing get past you, huh?”
This earns a burst of laughter from Miles’ end.
“You’re a worse liar than me, I wouldn’t recommend making it a habit.”
“Ugh, fine,” Margo admits, “I just wanted to hear your voice.”
“You could hear my voice in real life, you know. Offer’s still on the table, and I’m free today.”
Their second conversation, and already a lunch date? But as she’s reminded of what his voice sounds like, she quickly realizes that just the voice is not enough.
Still, she tries to sound casual and makes a non-committal noise.
“Better than being cooped up in my room all day.”
“Great! Where you wanna go?”
Margo shrugs as if he can see her on the other end.
“Wherever you wanna go.”
“Ah, the ‘wherever you wanna go’ paradox,” he chuckles. “Okay, well–lemme ask you this then. Do you like eating with or without music?”
There’s a beat of silence as she considers.
“Hm…is the music good?”
“I’d never subject anyone to a place that plays shit music. Promise.”
“Music, then.”
“Cool, what time works for you?”
“How does two sound? I’ll catch you in front of the Engineering Library.”
“Bet. See you in an hour, then!”
-
The place Miles chose had a live band playing at the front.
A bass player, a keyboard pianist, a saxophonist, and a few background vocalists on occasion. All are propelled forward by the rapid-fire snare of the drummer. It’s jazz - the easy, conversational kind you hear in the background of 90s romantic comedies where the love interest wears nothing but dark lip liner and filled-in brows with a bit of smokey eyeshadow in the crease.
This is the look that Margo has decided to go for as she sits across from Miles at a mahogany table positioned ideally by the window.
It was all she could do other than frantically adjust the braided 'fro-hawk sitting atop her head and spin around in a mist of ‘Champagne Toast’ before bolting out the door.
She doubts he can even smell it right now through the curry and garlic.
“Figured out what you want yet?” Miles asks as he looks over his menu at Margo.
“Eh, I dunno,” she replies, running her index finger down her own menu. “I’m tryin’ not to blow half my paycheck on pasta right now.”
Miles gives her a strange look, then it clicks.
“Oh! Lunch is on me,” he laughs. “Your bank account’s safe for now.”
Her head snaps up.
“You should’ve mentioned that! I thought we were going half and half this whole time, I had my whole budget for the week planned out.”
Margo has to hold back an ugly cackle at the look of horror on Miles’ face right after she says this.
“I’m gonna pretend you didn’t just say that.”
With this new information in mind, she orders a bowl of chicken alfredo with a glass of lemonade that she sips on as the band seamlessly transitions into a cover of Solange’s ‘Cranes in the Sky’.
“So, Margo,” Miles rests his chin on his knuckles and squints his eyes comically.
“If that is your real name.”
Margo giggles, and plays along.
“It’s not, it’s my alter-ego for when I go on top-secret missions.”
“Is it short for something? Or just Margo?”
“Hm,” she puts on an affected, ‘action movie’ voice, “If I tell you, I might have to kill you.”
“It’s worse ways to die out there.”
Margo looks around her as if to make sure no one’s listening, then leans in.
“It’s short for Marguerite.”
Miles snaps his fingers.
“I knew it!”
“What? You think I look like a Marguerite? Seriously?”
“No, but you got a lil’ country twang in your voice. Ain’t no way in hell Margo wasn’t short for something.”
“Man, alright,” she laughed.
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that,” he winked, “I like ‘em country.”
“Boy, don’t give me that! You look like you’d pass out at the sight of a jar of pig’s feet.”
“Hey now, I got family in South Carolina. I used to go down there and see about ten of those every summer.”
“Fine, but you were still raised a Northerner. I could hear the Brooklyn from a mile away.”
Miles removed his hand from under his chin to clutch his chest.
“Ugh, I feel like I’m caught between two worlds!”
The reference to one of the more choice lines from the poetry slam makes Margo snort and let out a loud guffaw, which she quickly muffles with the palm of her hand.
“Why would you remind me of that!”
Miles is soon infected by the fit of laughter and has to put all his strength into not doubling over at the table and drawing attention.
“This nigga said,” he wheezed, “ ‘I keep doing the Achy Breaky to Suavemente!’ “
“I thought I was the only one who thought that shit sucked,” Margo sighed as she wiped a tear from her eye. “But I didn’t wanna be mean ‘cuz I’m not like, half Puerto Rican, or anything like that.”
“Well I am, and that whole poem felt like a microaggression. And I knew that guy!” He starts gesturing wildly with his hands at the outrage, which Margo finds hilarious.
“He's like, one-eighth Boricua. His last name is fuckin’ Schwartz!” Miles scoffs, “He don’t know shit about no damn ‘Suavemente’. Bet he looked it up.”
“You should write your own poem, then. ‘Take up space’, as they say.”
“Hell no,” he said. “I left that behind in high school. The other night was an exception, remember?”
“Look, I’m not one to encourage more people to become poets, but you never know. Something might inspire you.”
Miles calms down and gives her a meaningful look.
“Maybe.”
The rest of the conversation saw Miles slyly gathering intel through bites of roasted chicken. He’d quickly learned from their meeting at the bar that his line of questioning with Margo ought to be less direct.
He even hit her with the ‘what’s your sign’ question, though Biggie would’ve advised against it (Margo was a Libra, he was a Leo). He didn’t actually care for astrology, but Margo wasted no time in proclaiming that she couldn’t stand Scorpios because they were ‘too nosy’.
Miles’ only error was asking if she’d ever dated–correction–spoken to one, and her eyes hardened with suspicion again. He quickly elected to change the subject.
“Okay, totally random question, but humor me. How do you like your eggs?”
Margo blinks twice.
“What?”
“You heard me. You can tell a lot about a person by what kinda eggs they like, true shit.”
“Alright, fine. I like ‘em fried, with the crispy edges. What that say about me?”
“I dunno, but when I find out it’ll all make sense.”
Margo laughs.
“Okay, well, how do you like your eggs?”
“Scrambled, fluffy,” A childish grin spread across Miles’ lips. “And seasoned with Adobo to make ‘em all orange.”
“Never had ‘em like that before.”
“Maybe I could make some for you sometime, if you’d let me.”
“Maybe.”
She remembers his promise a month later when she wakes up to the aroma of the seasoning and hears the pop of frying oil, letting out a sigh of relief at the realization that Miles is still there.
His back is facing her when she enters the kitchen, the morning light illuminating a tattoo she had never seen before.
It’s a spider with sprawling legs that cascade all the way down the expanse of skin, the movement of his shoulder blades bringing them partially to life. She hadn’t noticed it in the dark, and he was not one to walk around in anything revealing enough for it to have ever seen daylight. It’s faded, which means he’s likely had it for years.
He’s only twenty-one, she thinks. Did he get it in high school?
Amusement creeps onto Margo’s face at the image of Miles sneaking around the house, darting in and out of the bathroom to clean it without his hawk-eyed mother or straight-edged father taking notice. Picturing this, it’s suddenly much easier to believe that their son would have to beg and plead for them to send him a measly forty-six miles away for school, even for an Ivy League.
Miles doesn’t turn around yet, but Margo catches the way he stops, tilting his head playfully and placing a hand on his hip.
“Man, I can’t believe I’mma have to eat this whole thing of scrambled eggs all by myself, with the ones I just fried! How sad.”
“You’re not very funny,” Margo says with a smile, pulling out a chair from beneath the dining table.
He switches the stove off, then does a dramatic spin to face her with fake surprise on his face.
“Oh! Where’d you come from? I didn’t see you there.”
He turns back around to grab two plates–ceramic ones, not the stack of styrofoam ones–from one of the cupboards to serve the eggs in, starting with fried.
Margo watches him silently. The tiny, squint-or-you-might-miss-it gold chain around his neck catches the light as he moves, and she remembers feeling the cold metal brush across her lips.
“The fried ones, are they–”
“Crispy at the edges?” he finishes, with a smile in his voice. “Yes ma’am!”
“You could really be a detective, can’t get nothing past you.”
“You’ve said that before.”
“See?”
The two burst into laughter, and the ink on Miles’ back does also. His poem was accurate, in a way. For the past five weeks, Margo has been no more than ten feet away from a spider.
They have a brief and quiet breakfast, wherein Margo finally asks to try the scrambled eggs and is delighted by the burst of flavor added by the Adobo. They aren’t too dry or too soggy the way they tend to be in restaurants - just fluffy, as promised. She thinks it might be time to finally start taking Miles at his word as she watches his back again while he’s washing dishes.
Once he is fully dressed and about to leave, Miles stops suddenly, as if he’s forgotten something. He reaches into the left pocket of his jacket and pulls out a neatly-folded sheet of paper, nervously running his other hand through the short dreads sitting atop his head.
“Before I leave, I, uh…I took your advice and wrote a lil’ something.”
He hands it to Margo, who takes it gingerly.
“Well, good for you.”
“It’s been a while, so it’s kinda rough, but hopefully the sentiment is there.”
Miles plants a quick kiss on her cheek, and she smiles easily for once as opposed to the usual raised eyebrow.
“I’ll be sure to let you know if it is.”
Some time after he leaves, she finally sits down to read it while sipping on a cup of tea, because coffee wreaks havoc on her nerves. His handwriting is strange, overly graphic as if it’s the title card of a cartoon, but she reads it.
I know you don't like poetry
but you said you liked mine,
and the way you sip your wine
has set my pen to paper,
so I hope
you'll make another exception.
You've already claimed
half of my sketchbook
because I just can't get your eyes right.
I always make ‘em too soft,
or too round.
They don't pierce through me,
like they did when
you stared at me over your glass,
eyes narrowed.
When you search my face
and pick me apart,
I'd like to know what it is
you're always searching for.
#miles morales fic#margo kess#flowerbyte#cybershock#cyberflower#atsv fic#atsv fanfiction#moralesanhour
66 notes
·
View notes
Text
ok fuck it idc here it is. I wrote 90% of this at 3 am last week when I couldnt sleep. just a little thang I had to get out
Living Not in Vein
William realizes he has more in common with Otto than he thought.
G rated + 759 words
They found Otto crumpled in a heap on the cobbles of the Street of Cunning Artificers. The frames of his dark glasses lay scattered among a mess of his equipment, all stomped out of shape. He groaned when Sacharissa knelt down and turned him over.
"His skin is ice cold! That's bad, isn't it? Is he dying?"
"Er, I think he's always like that, Sacharissa."
"Oh. Right."
Otto was struggling to sit up.
"What happened? Are you alright?" She knew it was a silly question.
"Some men," Otto mumbled, "five or six... I could have dealt with zhem if my hands vere not so full... and if zhey had not brought so much... garlic..." He reached up gently to touch his neck, and that was when William noticed the band of suspiciously garlic bulb-sized welts.
"Oh, Otto..." Sacharissa breathed.
"I vill be fine," Otto declared as the pair helped him shakily to his feet. He forced a befanged smile, but it was more of a grimace. "No vorries!"
Supporting his weight, the three began their trudge back toward Gleam Street.
"But this is a violent crime! We should report it to the Watch!" said Sacharissa.
"And write a story," suggested William.
"Zhere is no story," Otto sighed. "It is not ze first time. Or second. Or third. And it vill not be ze last. It is not news. Just olds."
An uncomfortable silence descended. Dog bites man, William recalled. Man attacks vampire.
"Do you know vhat ze vorst part of it is?" Otto added quietly.
"What?" asked Sacharissa, her throat drying up.
"Otto—"
Otto struggled to get out his next words. "Ze vorst part is vhen I feel ze... urges rising up inside... vhen I have to sing my songs just to keep from givink in... all I can zhink is... zhose men are right."
"I am a monster!" he snapped. "I am dangerous! Zhat is simply ze truth! Oh, sometimes being on ze vagon is so hard, so hard...." He buried his face in his hands.
"Then why do it?" William heard himself ask.
"William!" Sacharissa hissed.
Otto looked up in surprise. "Vhat do you mean?"
There was no stopping him now. "Why not be a blo— a B-word-sucking creature of the night, if that's your nature? Why not be true to yourself? All this effort to deny who you are, and what for?" It was a question that had been weighing on William's mind for quite a while.
Sure, joining the Temperance League was pretty much the only way a vampire could simmer acceptably in the Ankh-Morpork melting pot, but William failed to see what they got out of it. Back in Uberwald— at least it was said, his internal editor added— the most powerful vampires lived in castles with twisted black spires and lorded over villages of terrified peasants who sacrificed their crops, or their firstborns, or a steady supply of virgins, or whatever. He made a mental note to send a clacks inquiry to the office of Lady Margolotta later to do some fact-checking.
Otto looked hurt. "A vampire is vhat I am, not who I am," he said, as if William was stupid for missing something so obvious.
"The difference being?"
"Who am I? I am an iconographer. Capturing ze light and shadows, zhat is my craft, my purpose! It is everyzhing! It is vhy I came to Ankh-Morpork in ze first place, yes? Ze people back in Schüschein zhink I am stealink zheir souls vith my cursed magic box."
“I suppose that—”
“Who are you, Villiam? I ask you zhis. Do you say, 'I am ze son of Lord de Vorde'?"
"No! I—"
"But it is just how you vere born, no? You cannot deny it?"
William felt the cobbles beneath him turn to quicksand. Otto was giving him the phosphorescent stare that only a vampire could give. "Well, yes, but—"
"So you understand."
For once, William de Worde was at a loss for words. He settled on tensing his jaw resentfully instead.
Sacharissa, feeling out of place in all this, politely cleared her throat. “Perhaps we should be getting back now,” she said lamely.
For the rest of the journey, William stewed on the comments from the vampire leaning on his shoulder. The mere thought of his own father was making his skin crawl more than usual. Perhaps I really have been stupid, he reflected. What you are and who you are… they’re both true, aren’t they? But perhaps, for just a moment, the Truth can leave its boots off and relax.
#ok *runs away forever#discworld#discworld fanfic#otto chriek#william de worde#sacharissa cripslock#mine
62 notes
·
View notes
Note
Hello. Please, tell me what do you think about Angua. I'm personally struggling to like her after her words to Carrot, something about "why you are so supportive!?", when he didn't start a fuss about her being the werewolf.
It would be nice to see another point of view for the character. I hope it helps me to understand her better.
Thank you
Hi!! Firstly thank you so much for this ask! It’s a really fun one and I’ve been thinking over how best to answer it and figuring out what exactly I like about Angua so much, so I appreciate it a lot!
There are a few different reasons why I like her. Some of them are pretty superficial, so I think I’ll get those out of the way first.
In general I just think that she’s pretty cool! From a purely superficial standpoint she’s pretty and gets to be badass and a werewolf and that’s just kind of fun. The whole circumstances around people finding out she’s a werewolf are also just pretty funny to me.
I also really like her in terms of the way that she’s written.
I really like how Pterry writes women in general because he manages to write them in a way that doesn’t feel like it’s fitting into stereotypes about women? They’re all real people with nuances and I feel like Angua is a good example of that. Yes, she does get to be badass, but also she’s a person and has a lot going on internally. She’s got a constant struggle with trying to fit in around people and trying to be human which is something that I haven’t often seen around werewolf characters and I think Pterry explores it well.
Werewolves in media seem to go in a couple of pretty predictable ways. You get the general horror of someone turning into a werewolf and then it either seems to go in the direction of oh no the werewolf is a monster!1!1! Or oh, the werewolf has a pack and learns to live that way. For me Angua is interesting because Pterry goes okay, but what if a werewolf doesn’t have a pack?? Angua is pretty much estranged from her family; she doesn’t have anyone to help her with the experience and is generally met with fear and hostility when people find out that she’s a werewolf. She has to deal with a LOT, even people who mean well and actively like her (Cheery) inadvertently hurt her with comments about werewolves and that’s someone who doesn’t know she’s a werewolf!! I can’t imagine that other Ankh Morpork citizens are somehow kinder or more understanding. And in amongst that you get to see the inner conflict that Angua has. She comes to this environment and she doesn’t just magically adjust - she struggles with trying to maintain control when she turns and she struggles with maintaining humanity and seeming human, because that’s what people around her will accept.
I think that, for the most part, is why I can understand the way she reacts to Carrot, as it’s pretty unusual for someone to be completely supportive. I’m segueing slightly, but I do really like how her relationship with Carrot develops because it’s nice that she has someone there who accepts her without question. Carrot is just *nice*, with no ulterior motives or strings attached and that’s something she doesn’t seem to encounter too often.
The other main reason that I like Angua is how comedic her perspective is. She’s quite a funny character and consistently plays the straight man to the rest of the watch’s insanity and that’s really fun.
Her internal monologue is great for this because despite being a werewolf she’s somehow the most normal person in the watch.
I love those watch guys but Dear God none of them are normal about their job. I love Vimes’ POV very much and he’s one of my all time favourite characters, but sometimes it feels nice to just take a step back and view the watch through the eyes of someone who isn’t used to it. Angua is pretty great for this.
I also quite like seeing her go from incredulous to understanding about Carrot - she’s quite perceptive and figures out pretty quickly that he’s deceptively simple. She can also be quite dry in terms of humour, which I personally really like.
Overall I just think that she’s pretty neat! I hope that this has been helpful!
Ultimately though, if you still don’t really like her then that’s fine too!! Discworld is full of wonderful characters and the best part is that there’s no right answers about which ones resonate, even if one is particularly popular or well liked.
#discworld#gnu terry pratchett#angua von uberwald#carrot ironfoundersson#samuel vimes#asks#thanks once again for this ask!!!#I had a lot of fun thinking this through#rambles
21 notes
·
View notes
Text
I don't know what kind of anti-hero suits Bi-Han's personality better, not sure yet, but I'm looking forward to find out!
The “ends justify the means” protagonist. An antihero who doesn’t relish the thought of doing something wrong but will do whatever’s necessary for their happy ending. Example: Sue Trinder from Sarah Waters’ Fingersmith, an impoverished orphan who becomes the lynchpin in a scam to inherit a huge fortune.
The moral ping pong ball. An antihero who does what’s right when it suits them – but commits wrongs just as often. Example: Lord Vetinari from Terry Pratchett’s Discworld series, the corrupt leader of the city of Ankh-Morpork who occasionally operates by the book but often does things that are completely against the law.
...
#mortal kombat#bi han#mk leaks#lin kuei#mortalkombat#mortal kombat 1#bi han sub zero#thinking about the leaks 🤔#mk leak#subzero mk1#mk1#sub zero mk1#noob saibot#story mode expansion leaked
20 notes
·
View notes
Text
Another Moodboard
I couldn't help myself. Did another moodboard for Chibs from Sons of Anarchy. I adore SoA and I know I've kind of dropped the ball on Charming Journey Home, but it's slowly coming to an end (ish) and the moodboard kind of is based on that.
#Ankh writes something#filip chibs telford#chibs sons of anarchy#chibs x reader#chibs imagine#chibs telford#soa chibs
18 notes
·
View notes
Text
By the time you see this I will be 17.
Weird.
(scared scared scared scared scared weird weird doesn't want nope no absolutely not I draw the line at 16 and WHO THOUGHT BIRTHDAYS WERE A GOOD IDEA because I don't want to have such a say on your lives I already take up too much space and I'd rather be a supportive side character STOP ASKING ME WHAT I WANT IT MAKES ME UNCOMFORTABLE TO SAY. Thank you though, I appreicate how much you care BUT I"M BORING AND LIKE BOOKSTORES AND THAT WOULD BE BORING TO YOU AND I JUST LIKE LAUGHING WITH YOU ALL THAT"S OKAY)
ANywhosies! I should post something Land of Fallen Fairies to convince all the nice writeblr people to not run away /half joking... I should post something lotff related.
@waitingforthesunrise @sm-writes-chaos @holdmyteaplease @full-on-sam @awleeofficial @clearcloudlesssky @gummybugg
Let me know if you wish to be added/removed to the tag list <3
#writeblr#random polls#tumblr polls#my polls#polls#poll time#random poll#happy bithday to me#take care of yourself#the land of the fallen fairies
17 notes
·
View notes
Text
Puppy Love
A short I decided to put up on here.
“Do you have a moment, Carrot?” Angua asked.
“No,” Carrot replied. “I know who to ask if I need one, but… do you mean, are you busy?”
He sat down on the chair in their shared quarters. “I’m not busy, no. Is something wrong?”
“No,” Angua murmured, smiling for a moment. “Or… I don’t think so, anyway.”
She stretched.
“I was thinking about us, Carrot,” she explained. “And I mean, about our relationship.”
Most human males would consider this sentence to be an instant trigger for a fight-or-flight response, though the term fight-or-flight is itself a misnomer as it avoids the third, very convenient option of freeze – one which most boyfriends, or husbands, often employ under stress.
Carrot, being human physically but dwarfish by cultural upbringing and only naturalized human, just looked serious.
“I see,” he said. “Do you think it’s a good one?”
His expression turned faintly worried. “I hope it is. It’s easy to make mistakes and something that important deserves attention.”
Angua smiled. “I know,” she said. “And, don’t worry, it’s not about something you’re doing wrong. It’s more about… something we could do, if we keep going.”
Carrot continued to look faintly puzzled, and Angua concealed a mental sigh.
She loved Carrot, she really did, but sometimes when talking to him you needed to remember to recalibrate mentally a bit.
“Right now, we’re boyfriend and girlfriend,” she said. “Which is a steady thing. I like it.”
Carrot smiled, a little shyly.
“I like it too,” he said. “It’s not what I thought it would be like when I was growing up, but… I like it.”
He nodded, as if he’d come to a careful conclusion after thinking about all the possibilities. And the thing about Carrot was… Angua knew that he had.
Carrot wasn’t the sort of person to just say what everyone expected was the right thing for a boyfriend to say. If he said something like that, it was because he’d seriously thought about it and decided that, yes, it was nice.
It was endearing, and infuriating, and Angua was sometimes not quite sure which of those things she felt like it was at any given time.
“We could keep going on like this,” Angua said, half-offer and half-explanation. “Or we could try and do something else. Marriage, for example.”
Carrot nodded seriously.
“I think I know someone who can write a good contract,” he said. “Mr. Axehammer on Short street, he’s highly recommended-”
Then he cut himself off.
“Oh,” he added. “You might be thinking about it in a different way, right?”
“Two different ways,” Angua admitted. “And one of them says we already are married, or as close as it gets. But with the human side, the contract isn’t the important bit, it’s the commitment.”
“Commitment’s important for dwarfs too,” Carrot said. “But… is it because there’s no contract, the commitment is more important?”
“It’s hard to say,” Angua admitted. “I don’t really have experience with either of them.”
She snorted. “Cheery might be better at answering a question like that.”
Carrot nodded seriously.
“With a contract, you know where you stand,” he said. “Even if it’s a really simple one. You know what’s expected.”
That was something about Carrot as well. He wouldn’t insist on something – but he’d explain what he thought, and make sure you knew both sides of things.
It was easier to respect a decision, he thought, if you knew that the other person had known everything going in.
“What’s the other thing?” Carrot asked, while Angua was still thinking about that.
“Hm?” Angua asked, then replayed the conversation mentally until she got to the point he was talking about. “Oh, well. It hasn’t come up yet, but I was wondering about. Children.”
Though she’d never say why out loud, she sort of suspected that she and Carrot wouldn’t have any children unless they were married.
Carrot’s unique position in the story of Ankh-Morkpork, the one he quietly rejected but that followed him around everywhere all the same, said that legitimate children mattered in a way that wouldn’t apply to almost anyone else.
Nobby, now, as someone who was potentially a duke, the idea of an illegitimate child fit into that story. But Carrot… no. Not him.
It was a strange thing, to know you were a secondary character in someone else’s story, but Angua was used to the feeling after so many years of it.
“Children,” Carrot repeated, and he sounded… slightly concerned, but mostly confused. “You mean, us having children?”
He frowned. “Does something worry you about that?”
“I know I’ve talked to you about this before, Carrot,” Angua said, though without any real heat to it. “It’s the biggest danger with a werewolf who’s stuck in one shape, when they have children… they have children who are mostly one thing, but a bit something else. And sometimes they can’t really handle it.”
She sighed. “I don’t know what to think about it, though. It worries me, but… it’s not the only thing here.”
Carrot nodded, and his frown deepened.
“You know more than me about it,” he said. “So if you think it’s not a good idea, then that’s that.”
“And what do you think?” Angua asked.
Carrot opened his mouth, but Angua beat him to it. “I don’t want to hear what you think is a good idea, Carrot,” she said. “I don’t want to hear what’s a bad idea, either. I know you’re a sensible man, and I love you for it… but, right now, what I want to hear is if if it’s something you’d want.”
Carrot closed his mouth again, and put his hand on his chin.
Angua watched, and after a minute or so a shy smile stole over his face.
“I’d like it,” he said.
Angua nodded.
“That’s what I wanted to find out,” she said. “Because I think something being a bad idea is a good reason not to do it… but it’s a terrible thing to do, I think, to bring a child into the world without wanting them.”
She reached out a hand, and Carrot took it without prompting.
“This isn’t a decision,” she said. “We do still need to think about it. But I think… whatever choice we make, it’ll be for the right reasons.”
Carrot nodded seriously.
“How would you want to do the names?” he asked. “If we did get married, it’d be a shame for you to lose the von Uberwald name… I like it.”
“Is there an option?” Angua asked, slightly surprised – mostly because she hadn’t even thought of that herself.
“Mr. Axehammer’s very good at contracts,” Carrot told her. “He could write a good one.”
Angua burst out laughing.
Because Carrot knew that, sometimes, the best way to get your way was to come up with how to make sure everyone did.
24 notes
·
View notes
Text
90% of vetinari analysis ends at "hey maybe he Isn't an evil tyrant after all" and stops there like its the most groundbreaking thing on the planet. like yes. terry pratchett loves to subvert tropes. he is a subversion of a trope. do you have anything else
people figure That out and then go "this Must mean vetinari is the good and Necessary and Practical leader of ankh morpork!' which is insane. he is still a dictator. like this is not me writing a callout post about vetinari, i love this man, but you guys make him sooooo boring when you insist he's this perfect ruler.
and its really interesting that vetinari is this jaded, cynical man about humanity with destroyed idealism, whose coping mechanism is. capital punishment. he's putting on an act as an evil tyrant Yes but he's also sometimes kind of a dick for no reason. he tortures mimes because he thinks that's funny. he's funny. HES FUNNY.
he also fucks up a Ton in the books. He's not all knowing even if he likes people to think he is. He's literally stressing the hell out at the beginning of Guards! Guards! and Jingo.
like this may be something crazy. but i think believing humanity is this 'great rolling sea of evil' is in fact. kind of a character flaw.
#merlin.txt#disc tag#none of what im saying is groundbreaking either#but i want vetinari analysis to really move on from the 'hes the perfect ankh morpork ruler!'#bc it implies that a city like ankh morpork Needs a dictator. which is weird. what you're saying is weird
19 notes
·
View notes
Text
More Dreamling Anastasia AU
Because I must obviously be stricken down for my hubris if I say I refuse to write something. (Masterpost can be found here!)
This one’s an earlier bit, while they’re still trying to teach “Murphy” how to act like Dream, and first encounter The Corinthian - so please be aware that there will be Corinthian-typical mentions of stabbing and blood in this excerpt!
(Tagging @10moonymhrivertam again, and also open invitation for anyone who wants to be notified of new updates to tell me so, and I’ll tag you when/if I write other scenes!)
---
“Do the list again.”
“Hob…” Murphy sighs, visibly annoyed, hands stuffed in his coat pockets and face ducked into his scarf. There are snowflakes caught in the dark tangle of his hair, and Hob wonders briefly if he would accept Hob’s hat, or look at it with the same disgusted grimace he pulled when he was offered one of Gil’s spare cardigans.
“Come on. Again.” Hob encourages. “You’ll need to know it by heart, it has to be ingrained so deeply into you that I should be able to wake you up at three in the night and have you recite it perfectly.”
“Do not dare to wake me up at three in the night!” Murphy snarls, and they will really have to work on that temper - Gilbert is very insistent that Dream of the Endless’s fury was fierce, yes, but quiet, controlled, and merciless in its silence. These outbursts don’t befit a Dream King, and they’ll have to go.
“I was speaking metaphorically!” Hob laughs and holds up his hands defensively. “I know better than to disturb your sleep, rest assured. Matthew would peck my eyes out, for a start.”
(Judging from the look on Murphy’s face, the man would approve of that course of events, and possibly praise his raven afterwards.)
“But the list. Go on, Lord Morpheus, the list.”
Murphy sighs again, turning his face up to the snow-grey night sky. Hob is suddenly quite glad Gilbert shooed them out for a walk, to clear Murphy’s head after another long day of lessons - more lessons tomorrow, and then they’ll be travelling again over the weekend, always busy or on the move. It’s quite lovely, to have this moment of tranquillity, in the dark and the snow, and to see Murphy… well. Less frustrated and harried than he usually is, solemn and thoughtful and with chapped lips from the frost.
“Destiny, the oldest, in the maze, with the book.” He recites, only slightly sullen. “Death, the second, everywhere and everywhen, but always where she’s needed, with the ankh. Dream, the third-”
“Include the names.”
“Ugh. Dream of the Endless, Lord Morpheus, the King of Dreams, Ruler of the Nightmare Realms, the Shaper of Form, Kai’ckul-”
“Kai-what?” Hob frowns. He hasn’t heard that one before.
“-Oneiros or the Oneiromancer, and the Lord of Stories.” Murphy continues, undeterred, slogging through the list just to have it be over quicker. “There, the names. Now: Dream, in the Dreaming, with the ruby - and sometimes the helmet and the sand. Always with a raven. Next, Destruction-”
.
“No, please,” drawls a voice behind them. “Tell us more about Dream.”
.
They both freeze.
Hob turns slowly, stepping to the side just slightly, just enough so he will be in range to shove Murphy behind himself, should it become necessary.
“I do so love bedtime stories,” the stranger who has approached them is grinning broadly, in a tan suit and coat much too thin for this weather, and dark glasses - sunglasses? At night!? - covering his eyes. “Though I always like ‘em best when they have gory endings. When the stepsisters cut their feet to fit into the glass slipper in the Grimm brothers’ version of Cinderella? Boy, I could listen to that all night.”
The man is holding a long knife in his hand, the sort not made for cutting anything but the flesh of your fellow man, toying with it - and Hob feels a prickle of fear slide down his spine.
“Who are you, to disturb us?” Murphy snaps haughtily, and Hob would be pleased at the excellent noble-arrogant cadence, if he weren’t suddenly fucking terrified of Murphy getting a knife in between the ribs for his cheek.
“Me?” The man laughs, throwing the knife up in the air, glittering, twirling, before catching it again. “You don’t remember little old me?”
The man’s teeth are too white, Hob notes, too bright, and too *many* when he smiles like this.
.
“I’m your worst nightmare, my Lord,” he says, still smiling - and then lunges forward, knife first.
.
Hob moves instantly, instinctively, without even a moment’s hesitation.
With his elbow, he shoves Murphy back, out of the way, and then bats the man’s knife arm off-course, coming in swinging with the other fist. It connects with an audible crack, but their assailant only laughs, giddy and breathless, and spits out half a mouthful of blood - is there some dripping from his eyes under the glasses, too - before evading Hob’s grip on his arm and dancing out of the way.
“Murphy, run!” Hob shouts over his shoulder, heart beating in his throat, blood up and boiling. He hasn’t gotten into alleyway fights in a year or two, but it’s familiar, the tang of blood, the rush of adrenaline. He’s always liked the brawls where there wasn’t a sharp object involved better, just two men and their fists - but if this madman wants a fight, he’ll damn well get one. Hob’s put better people than him in hospital.
Hob charges forward, goes for a grab at the knife arm again, and manages a short grapple, a kick at a shin, the tip of the knife wavering as they twist against each other, and slicing a red-hot line of pain along the side of Hob’s jaw - the man’s still grinning, holy shit, that’s unsettling - before the other twists himself free again with almost unnatural strength, and Hob has to jump back before that knife goes somewhere vital.
“Well, aren’t’cha quite the fighter, Hobsie?” The assailant says, with his dozens of bone-white teeth bared. “I’m glad. Makes it more fun to carve into you when you struggle a li’l bit.”
“Would love to see you try,” Hob spits back, wiping his cheek, his blood dripping red onto the snow.
They throw themselves at each other again, and the man is impossibly strong, delivering an almost casual punch against Hob’s sternum that knocks the breath out of him, forcing him back a couple stumbling steps.
And Hob knows he should run, too. The best way to win a streetfight is to not be in one, and he’s not keen on getting stabbed. Would be a waste, to die now, when he’s so close to earning himself immortality…
…but he needs to buy Murphy time.
The thought alone, of seeing Murphy dead in the snow, blood pooling around him in and coat spread out like broken wings - he can’t bear it. He’s got the man into this fucking mess, and he cannot let Murphy die because of his con. This is supposed to be a win-win situation for them all, not a threat to anyone’s life!
And if somebody’s life is threatened, it better be Hob’s own. Only fair - he gets the biggest reward in the end, he should shoulder the brunt of the risk as well.
Hob coughs one last time, eyeing the blood-red tip of the assailant’s knife. He won’t die here, he refuses to, and he’ll fight until the bitter end if-
.
“Wait,” Murphy says, and Hob’s heart stutters in his chest.
.
The idiot! The absolute fool! Hob told him to run, why the fuck is he still here!?
Hob gets barely more than a second of panic in before Murphy steps up beside him, glowering darkly at the man with the knife…
And then, in a movement quick as a flash, he throws a handful of salt-grit-sand mix - the sort the city keeps in large containers alongside the streets in wintertime, to make the snow and ice safer to traverse - straight into the man’s face.
The man screeches, voice strangely dissonant, as if it comes from three mouths at once, and jerks back sputtering, dropping his knife and covering his face with his hands.
Hob kicks the knife away, out of reach, on instinct - and then he feels a bony hand curl around his own, dragging him away, and he lets it, running hand in hand with Murphy for dear life.
(There are angry shouts behind them, threats, but Hob never looks back, only squeezing the cold palm against his harder.)
.
They run, and run, and run, until they finally reach the relative safety and familiarity of the street outside their inn, both gasping for breath as they lean against its walls.
“You… need not… have come…” Murphy wheezes, his thin chest heaving under his thick coat, even as his eyes are burning with indignation, “to my… defence!”
“Clearly!” Hob rasps, sliding to the ground, uncaring for the snowmelt soaking through his trousers. “Still… I didn’t want to be standing in front of the Endless alone, in a few weeks’ time.”
He grins up at Murphy - the wound along his cheek burning as he does it - and the sharp retort about being perfectly capable of handling himself in a fight visibly dies on Murphy’s lips.
He crouches down besides Hob, coat puffing up around him, and brings one hand up to cup Hob’s jaw, to turn it and inspect the line of red their attacker’s knife left there. Thumbs the cut, smearing warm blood along Hob’s cheekbone.
“You were hurt,” he murmurs, dark voice almost wavering with distress.
“Shallow cut.” Hob catches Murphy’s wrist before he can fuss any more with the wound, rubs a thumb soothingly over the thin bones there. “I’ll live.”
“Foolish man,” Murphy grumbles - but he’s very nearly smiling as he says it.
Their eyes meet.
They’re both still breathing hard, and for all his haggard, skeletal build and sunken face lined with long years of hardship, Murphy looks almost lovely like this, lips slightly parted and pale face flushed with exertion, looking up at Hob through his lashes as if…
As if…
Hob leans forward, and Murphy does too, something burning bright and smouldering hot between them, lips getting close enough to brush-
.
“ROBERT! MURPHY!” Gilbert slams open the door beside them, and they both jerk apart as if burned.
“Oh, thank goodness, you’re here!” Gilbert flusters, wringing his hands on the grip of his cane. “I had the most terrible premonition that my two dear friends were in danger, most ghastly, so I rushed- Robert, are you bleeding!?”
“I’m fine, Gil,” Hob tries to wave him off - to little avail.
Hob is ushered up into their room, sat down, and then berated by Gilbert for his recklessness while Murphy is carefully, studiously, dabbing at Hob’s wound with one of Gilbert’s handkerchiefs and pointedly not making any eye contact.
(Though Matthew is more than making up for that, staring Hob down as if he knows exactly what almost transpired outside the inn’s door, and is rather firmly against the idea of letting it happen again…
Which it surely won’t. It was a mad impulse in the spur of the moment - they both know better, now.
Yes.
They both know better.)
#WyWrites#dreamling#the sandman#anastasia dreamling au#and feel free to send me asks if you want me to elaborate or something#or what i had in mind for other scenes#i'm always happy to chat!#i just couldn't resist an almost-kiss here#and gratuitous references to the 1789 scene#hob and dream fighting to protect each other my beloved#also the corinthian is LUCKY gilbert got the memo a little late#because yes he DOES have a sword in his cane#and he happily would have used it#maybe he will in a later confrontation#because i suddenly have a mighty need for gilbert vs. corinthian sword-knife fencing#matthew kind of likes hob by the way#but after years of protecting murphy on the streets he's just overall wary of others#even if they seem like good guys who let him sip from their beers
142 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
frenesi-soul
Back To Triangle
deasequana
OurWorld
crescent-rolls4
clare/crescent
spare-sister
Violet Hastings
sexshuual
the name's alex