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#So he just goes in unseen and unheard

negrowhat · 3 months

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do you have any bl recs for a celebrityxnormal person? i've watched be mine superstar and want more of the same vibe but i cannot seem to find any, thank you!! x

Hello Anon! I absolutely have a few recs for you! I hope you don't mind venturing out of the Thai BL realm for a bit. These 3 are actually some of my faves. Top 10.

To My Star. TMS is a Korean BL. It's centered around famous actor Kang Seo Joon and local chef Han Ji Woo. Seo Joon gets caught in the middle of a scandal and has to lay low so his manager makes him move in with Ji Woo who coincidentally lives in the apartment building he owns and rents out. Seo Joon is very charismatic and outspoken and Ji Woo is very reserved and set in his ways. As they live together and work together, they get closer and closer to each other. There are 2 seasons of To My Star and s2 shows a lot more of Seo Joon's celebrity presence because he's not hiding out and waiting for the scandal to pass anymore. You can watch it on VIKI.

Utsukushii Kare aka My Beautiful Man. Utsukushii Kare is a Japanese BL. It doesn't quite start off as Celebrity x Regular Guy but it becomes that. Hira is a quiet anti-social guy who doesn't really have much interest in anything at all until he sees Kiyoi who is the most beautiful person he's ever seen in his life. Kiyoi is the school's most popular guy, people hang around him to gain something and he's fine with it because he likes the attention. Kiyoi has aspirations of being famous. He eventually becomes a model and then an actor while Hira goes to Uni. Kiyoi gets his big break as an actor and Hira is right by his side. The problem is Hira doesn't think enough of himself and Kiyoi thinks the entire world of him. There are 2 seasons and a movie for Utsukushii Kare. It's available on VIKI and Gagaoolala.

Lovely Writer. This one is a Thai BL. This series is about a up and coming, but low profile fantasy author Gene who got his start by writing a BL novel. That novel is being turned into a BL series. Enter our other main Nubsib who will be starring in the drama. They ask Gene to be on site while filming to offer character insight but he wants no parts of it and really is against his novel even being made into a series. He's not proud of his tropey and toxic novel. Anyways, Nubsib shows immediate interest in Gene who just wants to remain unseen and unheard. Nubsib wants to be everywhere Gene is. He's super taken with him and he thinks he's super cute and maybe he knows Gene better than he's letting on. They must juggle their growing feelings while also dealing with the media, Gene writing his new BL novel, and super fans who ship Nubsib with his onscreen partner Aoey.

#to my star #to my star 2 #seo joon x ji woo #utsukushii kare #utsukushii kare 2 #utsukushii kare: eternal #hira x kiyoi #lovely writer #lovely writer the series #gene x nubsib

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daimyosprincess · 8 months

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Do you think Boba would ever fall for someone who is shy but can bring out the sass once in awhile once they feel comfortable? And maybe who is quite sensitive? I don't know. I keep looking for Boba x reader fics for different types of readers and keep coming up with the same themes which are often quite triggering for me. I am in a writing slump or I'd try to write it myself, but I think maybe I just misunderstand him. I know this is fandom and fun, but I also care about the character and want to get him right and maybe he just doesn't care for someone like that. What are your thoughts on the kind of people Boba would love?

Alright my beloved anon, I have been sitting on this ask for a bit because I really wanted to give it some thought and give it the answer it deserves 💖

In short, yes! I totally think Boba would fall for a shy person, and the sass when they open up would be a bonus for him but definitely not a requirement. I write sassy/bold/loud and proud readers because that's how I am irl but by no means is that the only type Boba would go for. My thoughts on OT!Boba and Daimyo Boba below the cut.

Ok so OT!Boba is much more rough around the edges than he is as an older man in TBOBF; he's driven, angry, and one big ball of pressurized emotion during the Empire era. He the best of the best and he does everything to make sure it stays that way, guarding his reputation with as much ferocity as he goes after his bounties with. He doesn't bother giving energy to things like "love" or "feelings," preferring to work out his frustrations and tension with a (preferably) nameless partner who feels the same. Anything else is too risky, too soft, too vulnerable. He's a lone wolf by choice.

HOWMSTEVER, when he comes across of his highest-paying repeat client's quiet daughter (just choosing for pronouns, def can be gn), he's struck by you. The way you move, quiet as a whisper and soft as a sigh, unseen and unheard by the ruckus around you. He notices you though, he sees you. And he knows you see him too, your watchful eyes flitting over him beneath your lashes when you think his helmet is pointed elsewhere.

You make him curious. Curious as to why a quiet little thing like you would so much as glance his direction twice. He pushes the thoughts away time and time again, but they refuse to be banished, coming unbidden to him in his bunk or during the long hours in hyperspace. What thoughts are swirling in that head of yours? Do you sneak looks at anyone else? Is your voice as sweet as he imagines?

It's nonsense really, he tells himself. You're just some girl, a tender flower who shies away from the sun. He would crush you, break your leaves and trample your petals. You're not made for men like him... so why does he watch you bloom under the moon's light, gentle and perfect? He would only be your ruin.

But oh, what it would be to be the one you blessed with inner light, to be the one who you found deserving of everything you kept to yourself. Maybe even be the one you trust. He certainly doesn't deserve it but, maybe, one day he could.

Boba aches for a balance to his tipped scale. That might look like an outspoken, smart-mouthed partner to match his fire with their own, corralling his blaze by channeling his pent up energy into them. A sun for a sun, a tandem orbit instead of careening through the galaxy.

Just as likely, however, his sun could be balanced with a silver moon, reflecting his light back on him and mastering his violent tides with undeniable, quiet strength. This partner might seem small or nonexistent in comparison to him, impossible that they would attract his desire. That is surface-level thinking--just because the moon goes through phases where it wanes and disappears doesn't mean it doesn't exist. In fact, while the sun sets, the moon never does, it's always there if one pays attention.

I think OT!Boba would admire and find himself attracted to the way a shy, sensitive partner is able to feel and experience their emotions in a way he does not allow himself to. Furthermore, as a man of few words who is in his own bucket more than anything else, he would understand solitude in both its necessity and its pain. There would be a learning curve if the two of pursued a relationship and Boba would undoubtedly hurt your feelings as he tries to learn to navigate his own, but ultimately, the two of you would find reward in each other.

ALRIGHT now onto Daimyo Boba. He's older, wiser, and more keyed into his feelings than his younger self even if he still has a LOT of work left to do in that department (my green tincan man is bunch of repressed emotions walking around in beskar and I love him ok). No longer is he a lone wolf fighting his way through the galaxy, now he's found his pack, his tribe, and he's able to open up to the possibility of having someone at his side.

Now, just as before, that person could be a fiery and bold or reserved and more delicate or anywhere in between. What I believe the theme here is his partner's sense of power. Whether that partner already feels a sense of empowerment or needs support to find it, Boba wants his cyare to appreciate everything that they are and will nurture his partner. It gives him pleasure to care for another, to be in a position to give rather than take, restore rather than destroy.

He is strong man, confident in his power, and wants the same for his partner. The sassy ones need a soft place to land and the shy ones need place to shine, and whichever end of the spectrum his beloved falls on, Daimyo Boba will happily provide them a safe haven.

I hope this coherent and what you were looking for anon 💕 for a shier, sensitive reader fic, I recommend @thirsty-boba-fett-posts Princess Saga series. It's beautiful and touching and isn't one of those stories where the protagonist is "fixed" by becoming an extrovert, but rather focuses on the character's growth and healing.

divider by @saradika

#i pondered this for literal days #thank you for the ask bb 💖 i truly enjoyed answering this #i could talk about boba forever 😭#boba fett #zwei writes #ask

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thetomorrowshow · 6 months

Text

knowing what the cards were

hi besties enjoy (or scream at me)

cw: past major character death (and mourning thereof), violence, blood

There's a pond in Rivendell, down the face of the mountain a little ways, right in the thick of the pine trees that grow all the way down the side. It's far enough away from the main city (and any outlying buildings) that likely few have ever even seen the pond, a place too insignificant to be worthy of any sort of attention. Despite this, the pond and its surrounding trees have always been a beautiful, peaceful location. The pond has only ever had the clearest water, carried down through a small stream from the melting snow of the high peaks.

Now, in the dark of night, water skimmers skate along the surface; a couple of frogs sit on rocks at the edge. Otherwise, there's no sign of life. No fish, no creatures poking through the trees to find a drink here.

The pond is a small, unseen place of tranquility, particularly at this before-sunrise hour, when even the owls are sleeping in their nests. The night is still, the forest silent, and the pond a dark reflection of all the unheard and unseen.

And Scott, sneaking out of his bedroom window like a guilty teenager, goes to it.

He had discovered the pond in his youth, a quiet hideaway from his brother and his parents and all their politics. He hadn't gone there frequently, only when everything really became too much and he had to get out before he exploded.

The pond had always had a calming effect, apart from the real world, a tiny piece of grace and solitude.

He chooses it now as the place not for its seclusion, nor its beauty, but for its lack of living creatures.

He doesn't know what's going to happen when he uses the artifacts.

Again, Alinar had been frustratingly vague on how to use the artifacts. There'd been something about magic, and something else about learning how the artifacts interact with him, so Scott hopes that using them before facing Xornoth in battle will be all right. He doesn't really understand what it means when it talks about interacting with him, but a test run never hurt anyone.

He already sent Gem the instructions (recipe? Scott really doesn't know a lot about magical terms) for the crystal that they need to trap Xornoth. She and Katherine are going to be working together on that, as far as he knows. Lizzie and Joel are occupied with the war. Pix has been out of contact for weeks. Pearl is maintaining neutrality. Shelby hasn't responded lately.

So it's up to Scott to execute the rest of the plan, not sure who he can even turn to for support in this. After all, only the Champion of Aeor can unite and use the artifacts to trap Xornoth in the crystal.

Scott lands carefully on the mossy ground beside the pond, wings drawing up behind him. The moon has disappeared beyond the mountain, but the sun hasn't yet begun to rise. Perfect time for experimental magic.

Scott pulls his Cod-woven bag off his shoulder and sets it down on the moss, leaning it against a small boulder, then slips off his soft shoes and sets them neatly beside it.

He doesn't much care for the feeling of damp moss under his socked toes, but a glance at the grass to his left tells him that it would be infinitely worse (and far more wet) to stand there.

Should he even be wearing socks when he puts the boots on? Will that ruin the . . . magical connection, or something?

Scott strips off his socks and stuffs them in his shoes, just in case. Then he unlatches his bag and pulls out the boots, which he sets atop the small boulder.

They glow, he realizes, the runes casting a very dim blue light over the leather and stone beneath. Scott stares at the glow for a moment, surely only bright enough to discern due to the almost non-existent light cast by the stars above, then reaches into his bag again, where his fingers meet the chilled gold rods of the antlers.

He withdraws the crown as well, sets it on the boulder. It glows as well, just the slightest bit, the gold clear against the dark background.

That's got to mean something. Maybe all ancient, godly artifacts glow like that.

There's really nothing else to wait for. At any moment, a servant could come knocking on his bedroom door, summoning him for matters of war, only to find him missing.

He should pray. Right? He is trying to get Aeor's attention, after all.

Haltingly, Scott kneels in the grass, grimacing when he feels the knees of his black trousers instantly become soaked. He's not really any good at praying, but he can give it a shot.

"Um," Scott says awkwardly. What is it the priests always say? "O Aeor, God of us all and of those below, God of the mountains and . . . and of the snow, God of the day that conquers the night, God that now slumbers until the world is returned to thy light. Uh. . . ."

The introduction part feels clunky and must actually be more ornate than that, but Scott can't quite seem to bring it to his remembrance, even with however many years that he's been hearing it. It's good enough, though, and now he ought to continue—but the prayers differ after that, a thousand and two different ones for any situation. And Scott, after he recited the main forty for his religious tutoring, made no effort to keep them memorized nor learn any of the others.

"Aeor," he says after a few moments of deliberation, dropping all attempts at following a prayer, "if I truly am your chosen, consecrate these holy objects now in me. Show me . . . show me the way. Help—help me."

Did Alinar ever kneel alone in a forest, praying for any help that his god would give? Did Alinar ever feel entirely inadequate for the job that he was faced with, for the mantle of Aeor's Champion?

Years ago, reading Alinar's tales, Scott would've laughed at such a thought. Alinar had been foreordained, had perfectly completed every task set for him. Never was there any doubt that the task at hand was beyond his reach.

But now that Scott's in the hero's story, he can't help but hope it's normal to feel like an utter failure. Normal to be scared. Normal to feel totally, utterly lost.

Scott stands, brushes off his knees, and pulls a boot on.

It fits perfectly, of course, his foot sliding into place with ease. He laces it up as tight as he can, the boot going a bit higher than halfway up his calf. The other is no different, though his fingers fumble on the white leather of the laces and it takes him a moment to get it pulled as tight as he wants it.

Okay. He has the boots on.

Next step.

Scott straightens, and with mounting anticipation and shaking hands, he lifts the crown of antlers onto his head.

He waits.

He doesn't . . . he doesn't feel any different, so far. Maybe . . . holier, maybe?

He flexes his toes in the boots. They aren't stiff at all, the leather well taken care of but fairly worn-in.

He tilts his head from side to side. The crown feels almost weightless, impeccably well-balanced. It isn't in any danger of slipping, either, set firmly on his head, fitting as perfectly as the boots do.

Now. How is he meant to test these out?

Scott takes a tentative step forward.

There's a sudden, crinkling-crackling sound from his feet—Scott looks down—

The edge of the pond is frozen.

There's frost under his toes. The edge of the pond is frozen.

There's absolutely no way.

He takes another step—more crackling, the ice spreads another foot down the pond.

Carefully, Scott puts some of his weight on the ice.

It holds. More spreads, even.

He puts both feet standing on the now half-frozen pond.

It doesn't even crack.

Ice magic, then. The boots have some sort of ice enchantment, likely written into the runes. That—maybe he's meant to freeze Xornoth? Freeze him, so that he can't get away from the whole crystal ordeal. Or maybe use the ice to freeze him to the crystal?

And when thou hast the daemone at thy will, binde it to the cristyl.

That . . . that might be right. Right? It's probably more than normal ice, it's probably strange magical ice. Something that can bind.

Scott crosses to the middle of the pond. He's walking on water, practically. The pond is just freezing around him, making a large path for his next step before he's even raised his foot.

Jimmy would have found this so impressive. He would've stood on the shore and sputtered, mouth hanging open. Scott would've laughed, and held out his hand, and brought Jimmy out onto the ice to stand with him. And then, gazing at his perfect lover with his permanently-messy hair and his still-shocked expression, he would have kissed him.

And it's for Jimmy that Scott is going to end Xornoth.

He can't kill Xornoth, the book had told him that much. Their souls are connected, some sort of confusing reincarnation of spirits kind of thing that Scott doesn't really understand. He needs to bind him to the crystal in a ritual that he also doesn't understand, but if the boots have an ice enchantment to freeze Xornoth in place or attach him to the crystal, maybe the crown just gives him the magical authority to command Xornoth to go into the crystal? Or something like that?

Scott points at a sleepy-looking frog. "Don't move," he commands with all the power he can muster.

The frog doesn't move. But it probably wasn't planning on it, anyway.

And part of the intrinsic elvish magic that he already has is the strength of suggestion. If he tells someone not to move, really tells them, with power, chances are they won't move.

Will the crown just amplify that magic, then? Or will it make it literally impossible to break a command given, since the power comes from a god and not just a normal elf?

Well, at least he figured out what the boots do. He really ought to get back—he's already spent enough time away. A servant could have alerted the entire palace by now if they knocked to find him missing.

Scott heads back to shore and unlaces the boots, stepping out of them and into his own shoes (he doesn't bother with his socks right now, tucking them into his pocket). Then he puts the boots and the crown back in the bag, beside a small book that looks . . . unfamiliar.

When did he put a book in his bag? Especially one that looks so . . . ancient?

Frowning, Scott pulls it out and cracks it open.

The text isn't anything like what he's used to, blue lines thick and letters big, with no discernable spaces for words. It takes a moment of staring stupidly at the large letters before he has the sudden realization that this is a book in that form of Oceanic that he was meant to give Lizzie. He's already given her the book, but he remembers that it had a smaller book inside. It must've slipped out at some point.

He'll probably see her soon, right? War negotiations have constantly been taking him or one of his advisors to and fro, so surely there'll be someone to give it to her, if not him precisely.

So Scott puts it back in his bag amongst the artifacts and takes off, flying straight back to the palace and landing on his bedroom windowsill, crawling in.

Unnoticed, the touch of his fingers on the window frame leaves frost.

When Scott wakes up (blurry nightmares of chains and indistinct threats), he feels cold.

He must've left the window open. He's done that before, woken up to a little bit of snow on the windowsill after a late-night flight.

And his bed's been rather cold as of late, missing the heat of another body.

But when Scott opens his eyes, his favorite blue blanket is white.

He sits up, confused—and snow falls off of him in little showers, clumping onto his blanket in the creases.

Why is there—?

There's ice on his bedside table, just a thin layer of it. Snow on the bedknobs. Snow on the rug.

And the window is closed.

The low fire that's usually still a bed of hot coals in the mornings is emitting zero warmth, the coals black and cold. The lantern on his bedside table has gone out.

Scott throws his legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the cascade of snow that falls to the floor. How did—what?

The boots.

Are they still active even when he isn't wearing them? But—had something changed when he put them on? Is there a way to turn them off?

Scott fumbles around his bedpost until he finds his bag hanging, from which he pulls out the boots and turns them over in his hands.

"Stop," he says, voice still heavy with sleep. "Just . . . don't."

Nothing changes. Did it work? Are the boots still freezing the room?

Nothing really looks like it's melting, but there isn't anything new in the room, either. Scott sets the boots aside (and they feel normal, they aren't covered in frost or anything) and stands up, stumping over to the fireplace on numb feet. He stokes the coals, trying to bring any bit of warmth back to the room, but there's absolutely nothing left to be brought back.

He doesn't keep a flint and steel in his room. Usually a servant cares for these kinds of things, but he doesn't want a servant in here to find his room frozen. How on Aeor's green earth would he explain that?

He has to have a flint and steel in his travel kit in the closet, right? Scott ducks into the closet, finds his travel kit thrown on the floor where he left it after the funeral. He picks it up, rummages through it for a moment. Sure enough, tucked into a part of the leather kit is a small flint and steel, right next to a small hunting knife and needle and thread. He pulls it out and heads back to the coals. He can do figure this out. No need to panic.

There's a little pile of logs by the fireplace, which he shakes the snow off of before tossing them in, hoping they aren't too damp or anything. That would be just his luck, the inability to light a fire in a frozen room.

Thankfully, they aren't too damp. It takes a couple of tries with his numb fingers to get the flint and steel to strike a spark, and another couple tries to get it to light, but it lights nonetheless.

Once the flame takes hold, the room immediately starts to feel a bit warmer, and Scott shudders as his fingers start to tingle with pins and needles. Right, that's taken care of. Maybe now he won't freeze to death.

And then he remembers that there's quite a bit of ice and snow in his room, which will all be melting shortly.

That might be even worse than all the ice, and it's with a panicked hurriedness that Scott starts scooping up the snow in his bare hands and running it to the window to toss it out. He gets a good bit of it (at some point he lifts his blanket off his bed and just shakes it out the window) out, but it's already starting to melt and he can barely feel his fingers and the rug squishes under his feet—

Knock-knock-knock.

Scott curses, wipes his hands off on his dressing robe, and has his hand on the doorknob before he realizes he isn't wearing his veil. He curses again, doubles back to his closet. He doesn't have time to pin the whole thing on, he doesn't have time for any of his—

Scott pulls a veil on over his head and doesn't even bother with any of the pins and ties. It's a long one, meant for trips out, but he just adusts it until his eyes are in the eye-slit and hopes that he doesn't have any hair sticking out.

Then he can get back to the door (he trips over the trailing veil, it wouldn't be long enough to trip over if he'd tied and pinned it properly) and crack it open, sticking his head out.

Surprisingly, he finds not a servant, but Galidre, a junior member of his council. Galidre bows, black robes sweeping the floor.

"Your majesty," they say, straightening. "A representative of the Undergrove is here to speak with you."

"Shubble?" Scott asks, a little bewildered. What does she need?

"Not—not the ruler herself, but an ambassador. I believe they are requesting sanctuary, Milord."

Sanctuary?

That doesn't make any sense. The Grimlands haven't really mobilized anything concrete yet, and as far as Scott was last aware, Mythland and the Lost Empire were both still attacking the Ocean Kingdom.

But Scott doesn't ask questions. He just withdraws and gets dressed (properly pinning his veil this time), then grabs all the towels from the washroom and lays them on his bedroom floor to try and soak up some of the water. Hopefully nobody comes in to clean his room or gather his laundry while he's out.

Last of all, he steps into his very normal boots, pulls on his black gloves, and sets his crown atop his veil.

Perfect. He looks the pinnacle of 'king-mourning-his-fiance', no doubt about it.

He misses Jimmy.

And just as Galidre had suggested, in the meeting with the representative of the Undergrove, Shubble's people are looking for sanctuary.

"There's so few of us, your majesty," the gnome implores, twisting his mushroom hat between his hands. "Less than eight thousand at our last count. We do not ask for you to provide for us, but if we could come to just the foothills of your lands, someplace safe for our children, we promise all able gnomes will serve in your armies."

That isn't asking much. It's asking far less than Scott would have asked, had the situation been reversed, and Scott's bruised heart aches at the humble plea. Can he even bear to turn them away?

"I will . . . I will discuss this matter with my council," Scott tells him, glancing between Galidre and Aphoras, the two advisors present. "I don't wish for any to be harmed while it is in my power to stop it."

If Shubble's worried, it means fWhip is getting ready to attack. Or maybe that Sausage and Joey are leaving their battle, hoping to strike Scott in his complacency. Something's happening soon, and the Undergrove cannot protect itself.

He doesn't want to uproot the gnomes from their new home. The gnomes had appeared in his childhood, three or four thousand of them moving from some unknown, conquered land to take up residence in their own small corner of the world. They've nurtured and cultivated that corner, built a city and begun farms and families, until it became what it is—a lovely little civilization beginning to thrive. To take that away from them would be cruel.

But he has to do it. To save them the destruction of their entire culture, he has to pull the gnomes away from everything they have.

He could make the decision here and now. His mind is already made up, he won't need to discuss this with his council.

But as the gnome hops down from his too-big chair, bowing deeply, Scott knows that there's another way.

He has to end the war.

Ending a war is easier said than done. For one, Scott still doesn't really know how to use the artifacts. The crown remains stubbornly unforthcoming with what its use might be, and the boots. . . . Well, the boots don't stop. The next morning when he wakes up, his room is frozen again—and the morning after that. Scott stops bothering to melt it and just pins a 'do not disturb' sign on the door, before moving to sleep in Jimmy's almost-untouched bedroom. That one freezes, too, as well as the sitting room, and Scott gives up on trying to stop the boots from freezing things and just piles blankets onto his bed and puts pans of hot coals in between the sheets for when he needs to sleep. Otherwise, he just stays out of his room and pretends like it isn't covered in ice.

(He doesn't notice, but frost spreads under his desk, and his untouched cups of tea ice over, and every tear he cries freezes on his face.)

(Others notice, though. Ilphas stares when a wave of Scott's hand sends a streak of frost along a wall; a servant cleans his office and is bewildered by the ice everywhere; the eldest of the palace begin whispering rumors of Aeor's Champion, remembering the old songs.)

For another, Scott doesn't really know how or where to meet Xornoth to defeat him. Does he just go outside? Call his brother's name? Hope the demon shows up, despite the wards around Rivendell preventing his entrance?

He really doesn't want to summon the demon. Somehow, that seems like a poor idea. Some part of Scott is certain that demons have the most power right as they've been summoned, and whether that's true or not Scott doesn't want to test. And he'd absolutely rather not have Xornoth in Rivendell.

The only thing he can think to do is meet Sausage's armies at . . . well, at the border of Mythland. It would be a bold show of support for the Ocean Kingdom—he would have either to march his army through Mezelea or sail across the ocean to reach Mythland. It should only be a move to make if he's certain that he's ready to fully enter the war, or if he's certain that Xornoth will be there.

And suddenly it doesn't really matter, because three days after the ambassador from the Undergrove arrives, he receives communication that fWhip has set out for Rivendell, thousands of soldiers at his command.

His hand is forced. Scott sends Gem a quick message, asking if she's been able to create the crystal. When she responds by gushing excitedly about the properties, he tells her to meet him at No Man's Pass, on the far East border of Rivendell.

It only takes two days to mobilize the advance party of his army, prepared as he has been to enter the war. He can but hope (and dread) that Xornoth will be there.

So Scott swallows down his anxieties about not being able to figure out the artifacts (and he really has tried, but he's only had them for a little over a week), swings the Codmade bag with both of them inside over his shoulder, and rides out to meet Xornoth.

With any luck, Aeor will guide.

It's a cold morning when Scott steps out of his tent, ready to treaty with fWhip.

Their armies had met the day prior, and both of their generals had agreed to a meeting between leaders to see if they couldn't come to an arrangement of some sort. So Scott steps out, dressed in his most moveable mourning clothes (a short veil tight enough to be almost a scarf around his face and head, a hood pulled over that, billowy black trousers and a belted tunic with an open-front surcoat) and the Boots of Alinar on his feet, the Crown of Alinar a conscious weight in the Codmade bag at his side.

And when he enters the treaty tent, set on a cliff overlooking a rushing river in the shadow of one of Rivendell's mountains, with Ilphas at his side and two guards behind him, there are more people in the tent than he expected.

fWhip he notices first, dressed in his usual black coat and scarf, standing between two guards of his own, elytra clicking idly. But next to him is Sausage (naturally Scott wants to kill him), and next to him is Joey.

Which is entirely unexpected, because as far as Scott is aware, neither of them brought their armies—or any sort of guard—with them. They must have flown over for this confrontation in particular, as if a war wasn't currently happening, as if their own soldiers aren't dying right now.

Scott can barely muster disgust past the fear (fear of what will happen, fear that it won't work, fear because these three men tortured him again and again and if all fails, he'll be at their mercy again).

Also present is Gem, wizard's staff in one hand, a leather bag swung over her shoulder, and Katherine, wings fluttering anxiously behind her.

"I'm here to keep the peace," Katherine says immediately. "I don't know why everyone else is here."

"I'm here because Scott asked me to be," Gem pipes up.

"I'm here to see my Xorny," Joey says obnoxiously.

It's less the idea of Joey dating a demon and more the idea of Joey dating his brother that makes Scott want to vomit. Out of all the men in the world, he picked Xornoth? And out of all the men in the world, Joey is his potential brother-in-law?

Sausage shrugs in a way that makes Scott want to kill him. "I just wanted to see it all go down!"

"Me too," a voice says behind Scott. Scott whips around—Joel's standing there, looking entirely unrepentant.

He was counting on the fact that there would be some factors within his control, such as who was present—he had only anticipated himself and fWhip and Xornoth.

"All right, this is far too many emperors in one tent," declares Scott. His feathers are standing on end, all of his nerves jangling. This isn't good. Something is going to go sour here. Especially adding Joel to the mix. Joel is hotheaded at the best of times—in the middle of a war, in a tent with the enemy? Scott doesn't trust him to keep cool.

Scott almost doesn't trust himself to keep cool.

"It's like a House Blossom meeting all over again," Sausage says, voice cheery in a way that makes Scott want to stab him through the heart.

"Hey, I'm just here—"

"This does concern me, after all, it's about—"

"Well if it concerns you, then it concerns—"

"—for everyone, so they—"

"—is that Lizzie said that—"

"My lords and ladies, your presence is acknowledged and appreciated," Ilphas steps forward, checking over their shoulder at Scott. Scott nods his go-ahead—he's never been so grateful to have political, stuffy advisors who know how to be polite.

"This is, however, a meeting between Lord Smajor and Count fWhip, and as such, no other rulers are permitted to be in the tent during the meeting."

"Aw, come on!" Sausage whines. If Scott could kill him without breaking a million laws right now. . . .

But they all clear out, even as Joel walks backward, glaring hard at fWhip.

And Scott is left alone with the man (and their combined guards and Ilphas).

fWhip nods toward the table and two chairs that have been set up in the middle of the tent, a clearly-just-unrolled red rug underneath them.

Scott waits. He doesn't plan on implying that he's at fWhip's command.

After a long moment, fWhip shrugs and sits.

It's the little things.

After waiting a sufficient amount of time to establish that he is the one running this conversation, thank you very much, Scott sits across from him.

He's about to speak. He's about to open his mouth and demand a conference with Xornoth. He's about to end this war.

But fWhip leans forward, a small smile playing on his lips.

"I heard it wasn't exactly quick," he says lowly, and Scott has a moment of confusion—quick? what wasn't quick?—before fWhip continues.

"Not as long as Xornoth was gonna make it, of course," he says, eyes fixed on Scott (and goosebumps spontaneously appear all over Scott's body as he flashes back to those six days in captivity). "If Xornoth got your little fish boy, he was gonna make it long. I heard some of his plans—something about making you watch as he slowly skinned him—?"

Before he even knows what he's doing, Scott's on his feet, hand dragging fWhip up by his collar, pulling him halfway across the table as the man lets out a surprised, choked noise.

"Milord," says Ilphas sharply, tugging on the back of Scott's robe.

Scott shoves fWhip back in his chair (which rocks onto its back legs from the force), hands shaking—whole body shaking, trembling with something like the grief-stricken rage Lizzie had shown at Jimmy's funeral. He—just to casually—casually mention torturing his dead fiance and—and Scott knows he's doing it on purpose, he knows it's to get a rise out of him, and he finds that he just doesn't care.

fWhip's guards step forward, though, weapons raised, and with Ilphas firmly pushing down on his shoulders, Scott sits back down, his gloved hands balled into fists.

He isn't going to stand for this. He isn't going to let fWhip sit there and just speak such filth about his beloved.

But he can't do anything. Not yet.

It gives him a bit of satisfaction to see fWhip ruffled, collar upturned and hair out of place. But fWhip just fixes a stupidly smug look on his face and crosses his arms.

"Scott, we both know you can't threaten me anymore," he chuckles. "Not since I beat you, whipped you, branded you with my own signet . . . there's absolutely nothing about you that I find scary. You've literally begged me for mercy way too many times for that, my friend."

Scott forces himself to breathe deeply, let his fists relax, even as the faded whipping scars on his back twinge in memory. He has to—he has to get control of himself, he has to conduct this in a kingly manner. It doesn't matter that he was tortured by this man, it doesn't matter that his fiance died mere weeks ago (over a month ago, his mind supplies, it's been over a month and the world has somehow gone on), it doesn't matter that he's only a hundred and nine, for Aeor's sake, he is a king and he has to act like one.

"We are here—" he starts, but fWhip interrupts.

"Xornoth only wants one thing. Well," he laughs a little, "a couple of things. World domination is pretty high on his priority list. But he wants you to give up the god, Scott. He already knows you're Aeor's Champion or whatever that is, so you are his best chance at finding the other one. After all, you've got a very rare direct connection to a god yourself!"

That . . . that doesn't make any sense.

The other one? Aeor is the only god that Scott knows of that happens to be living (other than Exor, who Xornoth is already irrevocably bound to). Are there others alive? Others that he's somehow meant to know about?

It doesn't really matter, Scott supposes. He's here to end this war and that's allowed.

"That subject is not the purpose of this meeting," Scott says stiffly, ignoring the chill that runs down his spine at those words that he'd heard so many times in his nightmares. "The purpose—"

"Yeah, yeah, you want me to not bring the war to you or something, trying to convince me to leave your people alone," fWhip waves. "Your people mean nothing to me. I'll kill them if you make me, but if you don't want me to do that, I have a couple of terms. So—"

"That is not what I intended to discuss," Scott says icily, smoothing out a wrinkle in his tunic.

fWhip raises an eyebrow. "Oh, yeah? Then what?"

Scott leans a bit closer, all of his instincts screaming for him to move further away. "I am here to demand a meeting with Xornoth," he says, forcing every ounce of cold anger that he feels into his words. "He has tormented these lands for long enough. My business is with him and him alone."

fWhip scoffs. "If you've got business with him, you've got it with me," he says. "So, go on. Say your piece."

You know what? Sure. Scott doesn't mind killing two of his tormentors in one go. First fWhip, then Xornoth. He can absolutely do that.

But Ilphas's hand falls on his shoulder, as if they know exactly what he's thinking of. It would be very, very bad politically to kill fWhip right here and now.

"You misunderstand me," Scott says, and his stomach flips because this is it, it's time to save the world and he doesn't know if he has the strength to do it, and he doesn't let his voice waver but he does let his breath catch— "I mean to kill him."

fWhip bursts out laughing. "Sorry—are you serious? You kill Xornoth? Like, I admire the initiative, but you're the weakest person I know! At least, the weakest living person."

Scott ignores the jab at Jimmy, as disgusting as it is. He just settles back in his chair, crosses his legs.

Eventually, fWhip stops laughing, and his cheerful demeanor drops into a glare alarmingly quickly, quickly enough that it unsettles Scott more than anything fWhip's said so far.

"Your funeral, Smajor," he says darkly. "It'll be nice to get you out of the way."

The lamp on the table goes out, bathing them in a cool dimness.

Scott's heart leaps into his throat.

He doesn't dare breathe in the sudden stillness.

The lamp flickers back to life, the once-yellow flame now a deep red.

The tent, which had been almost frigid for some reason, rapidly begins to heat to an unbearable temperature. Sweat breaks out on Scott's forehead, rolling down his back, dripping down his cheek. It's like he stepped into the Nether, hot enough that his head starts to feel dizzy and his stomach unsteady.

The table begins to rattle, quiet at first, then faster and faster and louder and louder. The ground begins to shake, actually, rumbling and trembling, and the tent walls are flapping in a sudden roaring wins and Scott knows he's coming he knows he's here—

The tent pulls free of the stakes and completely flies apart, the red light spilling outward over the darkening plain, much further than a lantern's light ought to go. Scott shoves back his chair and stands, surcoat whipping around him, searching the skies for any sign of his brother.

Scott's never really seen the demon up close. He's briefly seen him (outside of their youth) twice. Once was from a distance in the End, Xornoth standing atop a tower to watch the battle to save the dragon. The other time was just a brief encounter, Xornoth appearing behind him while visiting the Overgrown close to a year ago, seemingly to do nothing but spook him.

And now, as Xornoth appears before him, Scott loses sight of all his anger. He can't feel anything but cold fear.

Again, Scott's never really seen the demon up close. And as he stares now, feet rooted to the ground, he doesn't see a single sign of the brother he once knew.

Xornoth, like Scott, is dressed all in black, but where Scott's mourning clothing is carefully fashioned and clean, Xornoth's black robes are torn, his dark armor unshined and grimy. His feet are shod with armored boots, his hands with leather gloves, and upon his head is what could either be a literal pair of black antlers or the red-streaked crown of Exor's Champion, a crude mockery of the one hanging at Scott's side.

His face is distorted, blackened, eyes bulbous and entirely maroon, mouth far too large and cutting jaggedly into his cheeks. His ears are still somewhat elvish, poking through his straggly black hair (which had always been purple as a child), which trails down his shoulders and chest.

Whatever that demon is, Scott can barely picture his brother in its place.

Yet it is his brother, here and now, and Xornoth is standing atop a boulder on the edge of the cliff, dark veins of red spreading out from it through the earth, cracking apart stone and solid dirt. Soldiers and rulers that had been milling about leap back, weapons raised.

And echoing through Scott's head and bones and the stifling air around him is a voice that hasn't haunted him in decades.

"Well, brother," Xornoth says, their blackened lips stretching inhumanly, pointed teeth bared. "You think you can destroy me?"

Scott's really starting to think he can't. The very air is thick with the stench of brimstone, so much so that members of his army are doubled over coughing, and the wind is howling and the skies are dark and there's maroon smoke rising from the ground and Scott can't breathe, he's choking on his own air and he doesn't even know what he's supposed to do—

But he doesn't fall to his knees, even as Katherine does beside him. He doesn't cover his ears and squint his eyes shut, like Joel does.

Instead, he fumbles open his bag and pulls out the Crown of Antlers, which he trades out for the crown on his head.

And Xornoth's smile falters.

His gaze travels down, down to Scott's feet.

Scott taps a booted toe against the ground.

"That's right," Scott calls out, above the whistling of the furnace-like wind and the coughing of the soldiers. "I have the artifacts. I'm going to bind you and your master, never to return again."

Almost as if caused by his words, spoken with a conviction that he forces himself to feel, the wind changes directions. The sweat on Scott's back freezes. fWhip, mere steps away from Scott, coughs, his breath appearing before him in a puff of smoke.

"You don't know how to use those," Xornoth sneers, but despite the years it's been since they last spoke, despite how unrecognizable he truly is, Scott knows his brother. He knows that when his voice becomes harshest is at his moments of uncertainty, determined to command his way out of any problem.

That means he's scared. He knows what Scott can do to him.

(Even if Scott doesn't know it himself.)

"Gem," he calls over his shoulder, and within moments she's at his side. "I'll need you to hold the crystal while I bind him, all right?" he says, quieter.

She nods, reaches into her sleek leather satchel and pulls out a huge, clear crystal, bigger than Scott's own hand. It shimmers slightly, gold specks scattered throughout that somehow shine with the sun hidden by the dark grey skies. She hefts it up, mouth in a grim line.

Scott nods back to her, then takes a step forward, one arm up to shield his eyes as the wind and heat get stronger the nearer he gets to Xornoth. Another step. Another.

There's a crack in the air, deafeningly loud, and Scott only has a moment to register that Xornoth has vanished in a cloud of black smoke before a literal tentacle bursts out of the stoney ground right in front of him, sending chunks of rock flying, and wraps around Scott's middle.

It lifts him into the air, a sizzling sound and uncomfortable heat against his body and wings telling him that it's burning through his clothes and feathers, and Scott struggles against it to try and pull his wings free but it's holding tightly to him, raising him higher and higher into the air—

And then it stops.

Ice is gathering where Scott's fists have been beating against the tentacle, gathering and spreading down, and though it melts almost instantly it simply reforms, until the tentacle begins to slowly recede into the ground.

Scott stumbles out of its grasp and onto blessed solid ground (he loves being in the air but not like that), and Xornoth himself appears right in front of him.

The demon moves, arm reaching out, mouth stretching open, Scott's arms fly up to shield his face—

"Stop," Scott gasps blindly, putting as much compulsion as he can into the one word, even though he doesn't even know what he's commanding Xornoth to stop doing.

The wind calms to almost nothing. Ice crackles across the ground. The air becomes frigid, though the terrible smell still lingers.

Scott lets his arms lower from blocking his vision, terrified of what he might find. Dear Aeor, his legs are utterly trembling, but he doesn't have the time to collapse.

And he finds that Xornoth is standing motionless before him, face twisted in rage.

"Gem," Scott says, voice too loud for the sudden silence, heart pounding in his ears. "The crystal—Gem, now—"

Gem hurries forward, holds it out, and Scott musters everything he has in him and commands, making the words up as he goes, "Xornoth, Exor, and those demons within you, I bind you by the power of Aeor to this crystal, never to be free from it again."

He waits, breath tight in his chest.

Nothing happens. Xornoth glances down, eyes catching on Scott's waist, and chuckles.

"I bind you!" Scott says again. This has to work. He has the crown, he has the boots, he has the crystal, this should be working—

He shoves all the imagined power he can through the air, as if to push Xornoth bodily into the crystal, this has to work he's getting desperate—

He's knocked backward with a sudden force, a blast of frost and ice coming from his own body, and Scott hits the ground and rolls through the dust, bumping his elbows and knees and hips, his veil getting caught under him and tearing down off his face.

He lays there for a moment—he can't afford a moment, but he can't breathe—and when he gets up, pushing himself up on his gloved hands, he sees—

Xornoth is frozen, a giant block of ice encasing him. The crystal is on the ground, twinkling under a blanket of frost.

And Gem is on the ground too, slumped as if dead, hair white as snow.

No—no—

"What'd you do to my sister!" fWhip shouts, rushing forward to Gem. He kneels down beside her, pulls her into his lap, starts shaking her.

Scott struggles to his knees, tugs off his torn gloves with shaking hands. He didn't—he didn't mean to hurt anyone, he didn't mean to hit Gem—he doesn't know what he's doing, he was just trying to fix everything but he doesn't know how and he doesn't know what to do—Aeor, please—

He stumbles up, the lace of one boot getting caught under his foot and coming entirely undone.

Ice is everywhere. Great chunks of it around the plateau, coating every bit of ground in a sheet, the one tree growing in the tough dirt entirely uprooted and frozen.

Those members of his and fWhip's armies that are closest to the treaty grounds are dusting frost from their uniforms, some of them picking themselves up from the ground where the force of the blast had knocked them.

He didn't know the boots could do this. He didn't want to do this. He didn't mean for this to happen, he didn't want this to happen—

"You—!"

And before Scott can even really process everything, fWhip is barreling into him, sending him right back to the ground with an "oof".

"I'm gonna—" fWhip starts, straddling Scott's stomach, eyes wild and face red with anger, but a CRACK! that shoots through the air gives him pause.

Everyone, slowly, trancelike, turns to where the frozen Xornoth remains, and the large crack that's splintering down the ice encasing him.

With strength that must come from Aeor himself, Scott shoves fWhip off (he ignores the way fWhip's jacket goes stiff with ice) and rolls to his feet, stumbling toward Xornoth, scooping up the crystal on his way.

And then he doesn't know what to do.

He holds up the crystal beside the frozen chunk of ice that holds Xornoth, willing it to do something, anything.

"I bind you," he chokes out, pressing the crystal through the crack and into Xormoth's chest. "Come on. . . . I bind you!"

The ice shatters from Xornoth with a wave of heat that blasts Scott back, knocking the crystal from his hand as he once again hits the ground hard on his back (all the breath is forced out of his lungs and it hurts) and slides a couple of feet, feathers turning the wrong way and getting torn out.

Scott scrambles to regain his bearings—he can't breathe and everything hurts—but before he can even get from more than a sitting position, a foul-smelling boot kicks him in the chin and his head snaps backward, sending him back down.

He opens watering eyes, blinking several times to clear their blurriness, arms splayed out at his sides. Xornoth stands over him, radiating heat, the dark clouds in the sky behind him seeming to swell.

"You think you can trap me in a little piece of glass?" Xornoth growls, and when Scott again tries to get up, pushing himself up with his arms against the gravelly ground, he again kicks him down, knocking his head against the stone.

No. No, he has to save them—he can hear people shouting, he can hear screams, he's Aeor's Champion, this isn't how the story is supposed to go—

Xornoth laughs, cruel and derisive, before bending down over Scott and gripping one gloved hand in the front of his tunic. He drags him up, up to standing, his tunic tearing just slightly.

Scott can barely even struggle. His body feels like jelly, wings hanging limply behind him, legs almost unable to support his own weight.

He tried. He tried so hard.

Xornoth's face is so close to his that Scott can smell his reeking breath, see how the points of his black teeth glisten with saliva, but he can't even find the strength to tip his head back, get away from him.

"Even your little fish boy fought harder than this," sneers Xornoth, only loud enough for Scott to hear, and Scott's heart breaks.

Jimmy.

He just wants Jimmy.

Somehow, if Jimmy had been here, it all would have been okay.

A tear slips down his bare face. Scott swallows back a sob, brings up his fumbling arms and weakly pushes at Xornoth's hand.

Ice spreads across his glove, and Xornoth hisses before throwing Scott down. He lands hard on his side, feels one of his ribs crack with a flash of white-hot pain, and he can't do anything but lie there and try to breath through it.

"I am Xornoth," the demon declares, voice echoing around the cliff, and the armies waiting on either side quiet, the only sound Xornoth's voice and the once-again rushing wind. "I am the ruler of this world. The so-called king of Rivendell tried to challenge me, and has failed. If any of you who followed him wish to feel my mercy, give up your arms now."

Scott knows his people. He knows that despite his youth, despite some unpopularity among older generations, his people care too much for him (for tradition, for his family) to renounce him.

And he can't let that happen. He's done for. He failed.

Rivendell needs to surrender.

Scott raises his head, just a little bit, some grit that had been stuck to his cheek falling to the stony ground, and looks around—there.

He catches Ilphas's eye—Ilphas, standing at the forefront of his army, their grey cloak slipping from their shoulder and hair out of place but their chin held high and stance dignified—and ignores the abject horror painting their face, then gives the tiniest, most minute nod.

They blink several times, and if Scott didn't know any better, he'd think they were crying. They nod in return, though, and turn away, calling instructions to surrender.

Xornoth nudges Scott with the toe of his boot. "This is your king," he spits. "And he is dead."

Before Scott can do anything, before he can so much as move, another maroon tentacle cracks out of the ground beside him, burning hot, and wraps around his legs.

It's all Scott can do not to scream—this tentacle is far hotter than the other, burning straight through his trousers to his skin, but before he can try to squirm away, it drags him up into the air upside-down and throws him.

Scott doesn't even have time to process the wind rushing through his ears before he slams into the ground, knocking his head against a rock in a way that makes his vision flash black and grainy and sends pain jolting through his entire head.

Xornoth stalks toward him, he sees, through blurry vision red with pain, he says something—something terrible and pulsing—Scott scrambles back, his palms bleeding against the rough texture of the cliff, he just has to survive he just has to survive—

Xornoth grabs him by the right wing, pulls him up as the delicate bone strains, Scott tries to even out his weight to his feet but he can't find his footing—

The bone in his wing snaps and Scott doesn't have the energy to scream, his breath releasing in a little gasp. No . . . no. . . .

He meets Xornoth's eyes, the world hazy.

There's no pity to be found in those dark pits. No mercy. Only satisfaction.

And Scott knows, right then and there, with a clarity that cuts through all the pain and haziness, that he's dying.

He failed.

He failed all of them.

And with a burst of hot power from Xornoth, Scott is once again flying through the air and then he's falling, down, down, the wind buffeting his back as he goes over the cliff, his right wing thrown uselessly this way and that as his left wing tries valiantly to save him but his weight is too much, and with a gross clunk and a white hot burst of pain, it slips out of the socket.

Before Scott can scream, before he can pray, before he can do anything but twist his body in the air to face nose down, he hits freezing water and blacks out.

The last thing he thinks, mind desperately spinning, is that at least he won't have to live so alone anymore.

His body aches, pulsing up and down, from the tips of his fingers to the ends of his toes, traveling up each limb and down each vein. Everything hurts, in ways that he can't quite understand.

The stag steps carefully through the forest, over gnarled tree roots and clumps of grass, each step rocking him from right to left.

Scott takes in a slow breath, body slumping further against the stag. The fingers of his right hand loosely grasp its hair, his left arm hanging at his side.

He just wants to fall asleep. He's so tired, and it all hurts so much that he can't even think. He just wants to sleep.

But he blinks slowly instead, watches as a squirrel skitters up the bark of a huge oak tree. A deer pokes its head out from behind a birch, its ears twitching curiously. Somewhere in the branches above, a chickadee sings its repeating song.

Scott lets his breath out in a long sigh. His body rolls with the slow trundle of the stag, jostling his various uncategorized wounds.

He swallows, throat dry.

Maybe he can sleep here. On the back of the stag. Let it carry him to wherever it intends to go.

He's so tired.

The ground below gets softer, bit by bit, the dirt becoming darker, the grass more frequent. The stag's hooves begin to leave impressions in the ground, the grass springing up after every step. A frog croaks from nearby, low and long. The leaves on the trees start hanging lower and lower, dripping down into puddles of murky water.

And then, the dirt now mud and squishing with every step, the stag stops.

Scott should see why it stopped. He should lift his pounding head, see what's before them, because surely if it's important enough to stop the stag he has to see what it is.

But he doesn't have the strength.

As his body is pushed, further and further—

After a long moment, the stag bends its neck, head dipping low in an arc, and Scott begins to slide forward, his fingers slipping from their limp grasp, his body leaving streaks of red in the brilliant white hair.

He slowly slides further, further, until he rolls between the stag's antlers, his tunic catching on a sharp antler and pulling a long tear down the side, before he slowly falls into a clear pool of water.

He sinks, red billowing up in the water around him—

Sinking, water filling his lungs, so much weighing him down and down—

Down and down, until his toes meet silty mud at the bottom.

He hangs there, in the water, letting it wash away his aches and pains and all the blood, and he sighs, bubbles spilling from his lips.

He's so tired.

A fish swims up to him—a cod—

Hands under his arms and pulling at his tunic, dragging him up onto a rocky shore scraping his back—

It noses at him, pokes him hard in the chest—

Pressing on his chest, harder and harder, again and again and it hurts—

And then swims up to between his eyes (it takes a moment to come back into focus) and stares at him, eyes large and somehow desperate.

And he sees, wavering in and out, desperate and beautiful brown eyes.

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goddess-of-graphite · 9 months

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The Great Notes App Exodus: Half-Dead and Still Kicking

The thing is, Jason’s been a ghost for a while, okay? Six whole months, and it’s been a goddamn adjustment, being capable of floating through walls and falling through furniture if he’s not careful, if he’s not concentrating. He goes unseen and unheard in a manor too full of grieving to only be residence of two people - Alfred keeps his room tidy and untouched, as if it’s a shrine to keep care of, and Bruce is…

Jason is, was, Robin, so he can’t quite help himself from following in Batman’s shadow as the man patrols, more vicious, more brutal than Jason has ever seen him. He takes more risks, gets injured more often - and it’s terrifying, the way Batman grieves, as if trying to follow him into the grave. So Jason follows, unbeating heart in his throat, and only relaxes again when Bruce is safe in the manor, sleeping off whatever injuries he got during the night.

He can’t interact with the world, but he can watch the shades of past residents going about their lives, and he learns things from doing this even as he fears becoming them one day, mindlessly replaying a life long passed. He can snoop and explore without worry for being caught, and if he ever gets bored he can practice flying (so much harder than it seems - he’s careful never to go too high, too worried that he won’t be able to come back down again, even with the ceaseless curiosity in the back of his mind wondering - just how far can I go? Beyond the sky? Could he touch the stars, if he wanted?) and when everything is terrible, when the memories of his death, his last few hours of life, haunt him, when he is drowning in his own head, he finds distractions; the way the air currents sometimes seem to react to him, trying to move things like ghosts do in those terrible movies, chattering to whoever is around and pretending they can hear him, finding mysteries to solve (what’s up with that camera kid, anyway? He’d never noticed him before…) and trying to read books in the library through sheer force of will, usually ending up just reciting the parts he knows.

(Two months and a bit in to this whole “ghost” thing, he finds out the deal with the camera kid. Jason can only be relieved because, kid’s got a point - and Bruce seems to do better with someone to protect, to teach, to watch over.

He’s not practically tearing people apart with his bare hands anymore. He’s not taking hits he should have been able to avoid anymore. He’s not lurking at the edge of rooftops anymore, staring at the ground as if contemplating how far away it is.)

And Tim… he’s weird, but brilliant, and Jason feels a little protective of him. Follows him whenever he goes out, sharp eyes watching his back regardless of whether he can protect it or not (and maybe it’s his imagination, but the world seems more real when he’s watching over Tim, closer and present in a way he can almost feel, as if he could actually affect the world, if he just tried hard enough - if he just needed to desperately enough).

And then, six months after his-… after this ghost thing started, something… changes.

Something Happens, and he can almost taste the strange Knowing - something, somewhere, has gone wrong, or perhaps right, and the ripples extend beyond the event, slipping into each corner of the universe with the subtlety of a truck, and yet somehow unnoticed.

The ghosts notice. Pale shades lift their heads, existing outside of their own memories for the first time in an age - and Jason, who is new, who is Robin, who lived in Gotham where all things become possible, is hit by the wave of Something Happening Elsewhere Rippling Out and wakes up in a box.

In a coffin.

(But Jason has been a ghost for six months, and the pain of living again is enough to reach for the existence of being a ghost, and by the time he has sorted himself out and half-clawed, half-floated his way out of his grave (again), he doesn’t expect himself to be anything but what he has been for the past six months.)

(And then, of course, he discovers he can interact with the world if he concentrates, if he wants it enough, and he assumes that Whatever That Was made him a stronger ghost.

It’s not an unfair assessment. Incorrect, but not beyond reason.

Why would he think he came back to life, anyway? That’s a bit far-fetched, really.)

#tangentially a danny phantom crossover but it’s not hugely important #graphite writes #i have so many random bits of writing in my notes #this is me basically setting them free into the world #lmao enjoy ig #DC #Jason Todd #Jason Todd is a ghost #The Great Notes App Exodus #I figured the deal here was Danny’s misadventures with stuff like the reality gauntlet causing a ripple effect #and because Danny is a halfa the rest of the multiverse kind of gets a template of his existence #thereby making the creation of halfas more likely in places they wouldn’t have formed before #… such as the dcu #so yeah Jason is a halfa but coming at it from the opposite angle than danny #and for most of the time his human form is kind of sleeping and healing from his death wounds #but he starts needing to eat and stuff as a ghost in the meantime in order to maintain his living half #and the ripple also caused the ghosts closest to Jason’s haunt to become more aware #like proper ghosts rather than the shades they were #that’ll probably extend to Gotham later as Jason gets stronger and thus gains the ability to filter the city’s manky ecto more and more #especially if he’s not using up a whole lot of energy fighting ghosts like Danny does #so the surplus is just kind of siphoned off by Gotham where other entities can feed on it #and become stronger #>:3c

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veryace-ficrecs · 9 months

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The hobbit fic recs

This list will include all ratings and tags, so read at your own discretion! :)

as sunshine falls on the wretched by KivrinEngle - Rated G

Bilbo Baggins, the newly appointed Master of Bag End, has just reached his majority. He lives alone in his fine house, managing his estate, and ignoring the people of Hobbiton as much as they avoid him. When a storm lands him with an unexpected (and unwelcome) little visitor, all Bilbo wants to do is find the baby Dwarf's missing family so he can get back to his own life. That's not what happens.

dig your roots ('fore the sun goes down) by GuardianofDawn - Rated T

It isn't that Shirefolk - one Bilbo Baggins included - go out of their way to keep their gifts a secret. They just don't consider any of it abnormal or gossip-with-strangers worthy. Hobbits can pass unseen and unheard when they wish, because hobbits are children of the earth and growing things. Hobbits will say it is because they don't clod about in steel toed boots. Hobbits can choose to grow their children in groves, like prayers granted by Yavanna. Hobbits, if questioned, would mildly ask why else you would call growing trees a 'nursery'. And sometimes, as all hobbits know, a grove born hobbit may have been twice-grown. Shirefolk will comment that such a hobbit was born knowing a shortcut to mushrooms, and count their blessings when Gandalf Greyhame does not make himself involved in the matter. (They weren't so lucky as that last with Bilbo.)

First Impressions by BeautifulFiction - Rated G

‘Do we not feed you enough, Master Baggins?’ Bilbo rolled his eyes, glad that his back was to Thorin. By the Valar, the dwarf knew how to make even a simple question into a challenge. He found flaw in everything, and Bilbo was sorely tempted to throw the apple he had picked at Thorin’s head. Only the grumble of his belly and the tattered remnants of his good manners stayed his hand. They did not, however, control his tongue.

The 'H' Word by Trixylune - Rated G

For a Hobbit Kink Meme Prompt: Lets say that the term 'halfling' is an extreme insult to Hobbits. and during the Journey, Bilbo doesn't realise that the Dwarves don't know what the term actually means and doesn't understand why they are being so vulgar towards him. Lets also say that Gandalf was riding too far ahead or something and doesn't realise what's going on until dinner one night when he hears one of the dwarves (Bofur/Ori? Plz?) jokingly call Bilbo 'Halfling' and is furious. Gandalf:"BOFUR! Do NOT use that word in my presence again!" Dwarves:??

How To Win A Hobbit's Affection by Tehri - Rated G

There are a few key differences in how hobbits and dwarves court. These differences can lead to a good deal of confusion, and while Thorin is certainly not the image of a subtle dwarf, Bilbo is still utterly confused about what is going on.

Let your colours bleed (And blend with mine) by Xenomorphic - Rated T

Hobbits glow whenever they are happy. Of course Gandalf forgot to tell the dwarves.

The Age of Miscommunication by SilverSkiesAtMidnight - Rated T

“It’s got such a presence to it, even from a distance,” Bilbo says softly, and there’s a general murmur of awed agreement from the others. “Why, in all my fifty years, I never thought I’d see such a thing, and we haven’t even arrived yet!” Thorin’s sword hits the ground with a clatter, and Balin chokes on his pipe. The hobbit doesn’t look at Thorin, too busy thumping Balin on the back. Once the dwarf seems able to breathe again, he looks up, to find thirteen wide pairs of eyes fixed on him. “What?” he says defensively, though he’s not sure what he’s defending. “You’re how old?” Kíli squeaks. Bilbo frowns at the young dwarf. “I’m fifty years old. Well, fifty-one, come springtime. Though it is not very polite to ask someone their age so bluntly,” he tells him primly. Fíli makes a choked sound, and Nori lets out a vicious string of swears in Khuzdul.

Beauty Weeps the Brave by LaoraRyn - Rated G

None of the dwarves understand why bouquets of flowers adorn these tombs in the catacombs of Erebor. But then, none of them ever really understood Bilbo Baggins, either.

You Got Me by drunkonwriting - Rated G

The Company shows their affection for Bilbo in accordance with dwarvish tradition. Bilbo... has no idea why everyone keeps giving him gifts. (Dwarves give gifts of craft to start friendships or romance. Everybody lives AU, canon-compliant through the first movie.)

A Pretty Face by panickyintheuk - Rated G

Bilbo does his best to prove that he isn't completely shallow. The Company doesn't seem convinced, for some reason.

One Hobbit Against Five Armies of Stupidity by driedupwishes - Rated G

Bilbo Baggins was tired, dirty, and had had it up to here with everyone's ridiculous stubbornness. He swore when he got his hands on Gandalf the Grey, he was going to bloody strangle him. That would be after he knocked some sense into that damn gold crazed dwarf first, however. That was, of course, if he lived through the experience of letting Thorin Oakshield know he had the Arkenstone.

The Road Goes Ever On And On by myredturtle - Rated G

Being dead doesn't stop Bilbo Baggins from wanting to solve riddles and set out on adventures

The Ladder by Milliethekitty27 - Rated G

Inspired from a post made by wheeloffortune-design on tumblr. Tired of his lonely kitchen in Yavanna's Garden, Bilbo Baggins wonders if the dwarven love of being underground is true in death. If so, maybe his dwarves are living (ha ha) under the very land Bilbo is weeding. With that thought, Bilbo goes and asks Hamfast for a shovel.

Arkenrocks by Cimila - Rated G

The thing Gandalf neglected to mention when he assured Thorin Oakenshield and Company that Bilbo Baggins of Bag End would be the perfect thief for their mission was this: A Hobbit wouldn't be able to tell a diamond from a pearl, or from an Arkenstone - no matter how hard they try. This leads to some confusion, on Bilbos part. And some frustration, again on Bilbos part. (What sort of a description was 'heart of the mountain', anyway? A useless one, that's what.)

dine with the blood on my hands by aHostileRainbow - Rated G

What if the dwarves did break one of Belladonna Took's prized dishes? [Another AU snapshot of Bilbo Baggins losing his temper and being a BAMF about it.]

The Most Ancient and Sacred Hobbit Remedy by Ingi - Rated G

Conkers is a game of skill and fun, a perfect way to let off steam to prevent many in-families assassinations from ocurring, and most of all, training. Because in Hobbit culture, many things are sacred, but very few as sacred as generosity and constraint. And sometimes, of course, a hobbit becomes overly greedy. It happens even in the best of families —Bilbo's, even, has a perfect example, coughLobeliacough—, and so, the hobbits long devised a solution: the Most Ancient and Sacred Hobbit Remedy for Greediness. It works nine times out of ten, and the one that doesn't is usually due to death or severe injury meddling in the process.

To Love Is To Live by erikaehm - Rated G

Twist on the 'Bilbo takes in a dwarf' stories.

Bilbo does take in a dwarf … but not Thorin, Fili, Kili, or Ori.

He takes in Bifur.

On Omelettes by icarus_chained - Rated G

Bilbo interrupts an argument between Bombur and Dwalin to explain the hobbit approach to ancestral weaponry, and the insanity of more or less the entire Took line. Or: why frying pans are a hobbit's weapon of choice.

Listen by Neyiea - Rated G

Bilbo's always had a good ear for languages, so with a little bit of effort on his part, and a small amount of help from an unlikely source, he begins to learn Khuzdul.

#veryace recs #the hobbit #hobbit battle of the five armies #battle of the five armies #bilbo baggins #thorin oakenshield #gandalf #killi #filli #bifur the dwarf #ao3 fic recs #fanfic recs #ao3

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sharonisthebettercarter · 2 months

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I like to imagine Becca is just waiting in heaven to throw Billy into the deepest pits of hell personally, considering what he gaslighted Ryan and what he'll do in the future.

Also, she would feel brokenhearted for sure, if her son will likely end up in the same hell.

I can't even imagine what that would feel like as a mother watching her child become a monster and being helpless to stop it if it were to happen.

As much as I feel for Ryan, it's possible at some point he's going to make a choice just like his spermdonor and billy did

welp... honestly, i gotta say it's a good thing she's dead and not actually watchin' it cause gotdamn.

but yeah, i'd *like* to imagine she'd string billy up by the balls for not making ryan his priority and still being the nutjob who goes after homelander.

and can't not mention comics becca, she'da probably lost her mind knowing billy mashed her baby to death with a lamp. woman was a soul too caring and compassionate and too fucking good for billy honestly.

i do imagine that if she were watching her son break/become another homelander, know what billy'd done and chose to do *despite* what he'd fucking promised her (if not just for the fact that he was about to fucking beat ryan to death *right* after she died), that would def be enough to get her pissed enough to disavow billy for good and tell him to fuck off.

the boi has pretty much ignored every single thing becca has and would have wanted and was legit one of the worst things to ever happen to her. she absolutely loved him but billy was so obsessed with being his father that it was destroying her mental state even before homelander came along to drive the final nail in the coffin.

"i could never save you!"

she legit tells him she doesn't want his violence, she doesn't want him to bring that near her or her son, that she doesn't fucking want his revenge--she just wants to get her son out and get him safe.

she fucking chose *vought* instead of billy, because she felt so goddamn unsafe. *VOUGHT*, the company that *created* homelander. over her husband.

and billy doesn't give a shit. it doesn't get talked about as often how much billy disrespects and drags becca through the mud (cause we all know she's too good and would forgive him for his bullshit, fucking CHRIST--i actually think this may be *why* they're adding the whole 'cheating' reveal, to drive this point home)

but he was going to sell ryan back to vought and rip a mother away from her child. becca forgave him because of course she did, she loved him and she wants to believe in him and believe there's good in him, but even she knew.

the only reason he's doing what he does isn't to avenge her or get revenge for her, it is absolutely not and never was *for her* because she *LITERALLY* told him she didn't fucking want him to go on a revenge rampage *TO HIS FACE*. it's because of his own pride and--to honor his *father*. *not* becca.

if he actually gave an honest shit about her, he would respect what *she* wanted, and he deliberately does not and even *knows* that.

she was too good for him and i will always say that.

he was supposed to be the guy she could turn to during the most distressful moment of her life, not the guy she would *dread* telling what happened for *fear* of how he'd react--and then turns out she was fucking right about her fears!

i will forever lament that he made her feel so fucking unsafe about her situation, so unheard and unseen and like she wouldn't be listened to, that she, as a victim, could not come forward to her own fucking emotionally inept husband.

honestly, fuck him--

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gayfrogs03 · 2 years

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More batfam headcanons because I'm bored and I can. You know the drill this will get unnecessary long, and off topic because ADHD! Let's gooooo!

First things first, I saw someone talking about some of the batfam's hyperfixations/info dumping about it, and I want to also talk about that, along with Special interest, I'm just doing the boys for this part of headcanons (don't remember who they are, if you know them tag them so they get credit!!)

Tim's -who is headcanon has Autism and ADHD- Special Interests for me is not only Batman and Robin, but just Superheros/vigilantes in general, technology, Percy Jackson/Greek Mythology (being into Greek Mythology is actually what led him to Percy Jackson/just anything writen by Uncle Rick), photography, D&D (or W&W as it's called in the DCU I believe- always nicely correct me if I'm wrong!), skateboarding, music (headcanon that Tim was in the marching band, what instrument he played is up to you, and he was a theatre kid, knows of and actively listens to over 40 musical, the list keeps growing, if you don't like musicals don't hand him the aux cord), and Star Wars

I'mma say right now Tim's hyperfixations are Queer History, The Owl House (the person I mentioned before said that he, Steph and Alfred watch it together and I love that, especially Alfred watching stuff with them!), and surprisenly both crocheting and knitting, he's already made multiple family numbers things and it currently working on a sweater for Bernard

Info dumping for Tim is hard, because growing up his parents (and multiple therapist) have tried to teach him out of things like info dumping, stimming, ect. Taught it was annoying and bad so he shouldn't do it, he was taught he was better left unheard and unseen. So there are a lot of times were he holds himself back or he starts to info dump but cuts himself off when he notices he's doing it (kinda like Hunter in Owl House)

But once you get him going, he goes, and no one dares to try and stop him (might get murdered by the batfam and Tim's friends if you do). Like with the PJO series becoming a TV series, after some poking and encouragement I can see Tim just going off for actual hours about how excited he is about it, what he wants to see, what he doesn't want to see, how much he LOVES the casting and how he'll personally fist fight anyone who is racist against Annabeth's actress Leah, and more

The last person he did this to was actually Jason after they just finished a case and Jason was making dinner for them two at one of his Safe houses. Jason is listening the whole time, and even asked questions and made comments to encourage Tim to keep going, it was actually very relaxing for him

Next up is actually Jason, in my Neurodivergent batfam post I said that Jason only has Bipolar depressive disorder, but I changed my mind since then, he still had BDD but my man's also has ADHD, was diagnosed a little bit before he died

Anyway, moving on! Jason's Special Interests includes, classic lit, namely Jane Austen's books, plus some of Shakespeare's work, Star Trek (this causes arguments with Tim), plays (was also a theatre kid, just not on the musical end like Tim), motorcycles, guns (how they're made, cleaning them, different types, stuff like that), cooking, and surprising everyone gardening (he has a bunch of plants and helps Alfred out in the garden all the time)

Hyperfixations right now are, Greek Mythology (thanks Tim), Bridgerton, and coding (Babs is teaching him, sometimes Tim)

Info dumping with Jason is a lot easier than with Tim, because Jason never notices that he's info dumping, he'll just be talking, and now Dick knows just about everything about Bridgerton with seeing a single episode and is planning on getting him the books for his birthday. Once Jason realizes he info dumping he normally stops to make sure whoever he's talking to is okay with it and continues happily if they say they are.

Next is Damian (who is Autistic in my headcanon)!

Damian's Special Interest are, swords (the history of them, how their made, the different kinds, and how to use them, ect), art, taking care of animals/animals in general, learning different languages (I mentioned in a headcanon a long time ago that Tim knows A LOT of languages because he wanted to impress his parents (didn't work) but now he teaches Damian these languages and it's one of the ways they bond), different fighting styles, Disney movies, making jewelry (makes it for his friends and family as both a claiming mark (that my person, back off) and I show of affection, not that he'll ever admit it (they know anyway)), and fashion

Current Hyperfixations for the murder baby arrre, detective work (wants to be better at that part of the job), She-Ra because Jon made him watch it and now he's obsessed, psychology (he finds it fascinating how the brain works)

Info dumping for Damian is a lot like Tim, he too was taught that it was better to be unheard and unseen growing up, with Damian it's a little harder to get him started, but he too goes off once he begins, but it usually doesn't last as long as the others (30 minutes at MOST) but that's only because he is just a generally quiet person by choice and doesn't have a whole lot to say. The people he feels most comfortable info dumping on are unsurprisingly Dick and Jon, and very surprisenly Tim, it's Tim because they share a lot of the same (ish) trauma with it comes to being Neurodivergent and he knows that Tim will never push him or make fun of him

Now, last but certainly not least, Dick! (ADHD)

Dick's Special Interest are Acrobatics (duh), also Disney movies, fashion (tho he's terrible at it), baking, love languages (adores the entire thing, love to find people's love languages and show them his love through them), Queer History (that man is not straight (pan in my mind) and feeds happily into Tim's current hyperfixation on it), crafts (any kind, Bruce has so many of Dick's crafts proudly displayed around the manor (along with Tim's photo's, Damian's art, and Jason's old academic awards,he's a proud dad))

Dick's current hyperfixations include the Cars movies (much to everyones pain), the Percy Jackson series (started reading because Tim was forcing him to, but quickly began to love it), and learning to play the violin from Damian

Info dumping is very easy with Dick, if you talk to him for more than 3 minutes there is a 99% chance he'll begin info dumping on you, he is completely aware he is doing it, but grew up know what it was and that is completely okay to do so he doesn't care, and works hard to get his brothers in the same mind set. Him info dumping about Queer History on Tim is actually how it became one of his hyperfixations :)

I was going to continue with other batfam headcanons on this post after these, but this got really long so I'll start those on another post! Hope you enjoyed these :)

#tim drake #red robin #batfam #jason todd #red hood #bruce wayne #dick grayson #nightwing #damian wayne #robin #batman #autism #adhd #Neurodivergent Batfam

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noisepunx · 7 months

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Here alone, frozen like a stone, my blood runs hot and cold at the same time, once I was yours and you were mine. My heart crumbles at the very thought that you’re gone. It hurts even more knowing and thinking those memories, you singing, me just staring at you because, how could I not, love pulsates through my very soul, its like standing at a shore of a river pondering how this water has always flowed here day and night for years. That’s how my love is. It goes with the flow, it goes over edges, it goes around difficult passes, it can freeze while flowing underneath it can hold life, it is life. It is constant. Yet Iam not a river Iam a human, Iam emotions, Iam mistakes, Iam learning. I am not a beautiful writer or poet, Iam a lover. I am a passion. I am beautiful in my own ways. However in my humanness I make mistakes. I fuck up, I misunderstand, I desperately look to love, I am passionate about loving, Iam filled with the desire to truly hear you, see you, support you, honor you, validate you, I wish Oh so desperately that you could hear inside my head, you would could see you could understand you could be reassured how much I love you, how much I try, how much I mean to do no harm, and if I do how I want so badly to correct it and love you even more and give you that safety and security.

Words I hate them, they have never served me well enough, never enough to explain, my actions never enough to show you how much I care about you, but a heart mind body and soul that is at the ready to learn, speak to me my darling, I cannot read your mind, over time yes I can learn, however I need your truths, please don’t hold them in, please don’t. It hurts us when at the last moment as things explode from you with your truest emotions and thoughts that my heart aches because your heart is aching. Sadness overwhelms us both, you feel unseen, unheard, unloved as my heart and mind race with emotions as to why you haven’t said these things, have I failed so terribly at showing you and communicating that I want to meet your every need, to comfort you? Why haven’t you ever told me before don’t you understand that’s all I want to do is love you how you want to be loved? We sat on your curb for hours, I thought you knew, that this is the one that you can open up to, that he will truly love you. 5 years have gone by and every morning I still think of you first thing. I wish I could write like you, I wish I could write like Lana, I wish you wouldn’t have misunderstood me and my intentions. I wish you would have seen through my faults as I tried so hard to see through yours. I believed, I believe now. Alas I wish I could write for hours and make it so clear for you. Please my love, please understand I have emotions too, please understand that I need and want to know you, grow with you. I have needs too. When you met me you fell in love, however when that man you met stood for his principles, stood to protect you, you pushed me away, you called me controlling, you said I was trying to be your parents. I was to be the man you said you wanted me to be, the man who’d never leave you, the man who supported you, and that type of man is the man who will stand up to you when your hurting yourself, helping you to make the right decisions, using the same tools that made me who you loved, I tried to share them with you, not to make you in my own image, simply so you could shed what was holding you back and find your true self, because I knew no matter who was underneath it all, it was the man I would cherish forever. Iam so sorry we hurt each other, I know it wasn’t us, it was drugs, it was unspoken resentments for fear of losing each other. I don’t know it all, I only know I love you. And none of this written is enough.

#love #growing #heartbreak #misunderstood #communication #fight for love #never let me go #nevergiveup #gay #gay love #forgiveness

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nickeverdeen · 1 year

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OMG HI! I saw you had matchups for Arcane available and I just had to send in a *romantic* request for it! If it’s not available then feel free to disregard this.

First of all, I’d just like to thank you for doing this matchup if you are doing it! Super appreciated!

Something about me:

I’m an adult in my 20s, a Taurus, she/her and heterosexual. I have really long (medium brown) hair with curtain bangs but it’s naturally black and the same goes for my eyes. A mid-sized curvy body with lightly tanned olive skin.

Personality:

A bit shy and secluded at first, maybe even intimidating given my resting face but if you befriend me, you’ll find that I’m super friendly. An ambivert who is caring, chaotic, dramatic, affectionate, stubborn, slightly sensitive (I try to hide it with laughter or pretend to be unfazed) and realistically ambitious.

Hobbies:

Reading romance and fantasy

Watching anime

Write

Likes:

Shopping of any kind

Planning

Food and cooking

Spoiling my loved ones

Self care

Dislikes:

Feeling unseen and unheard

Prawns

Rude people

Love languages:

Giving:

Acts of service

Physical aftection

Gift giving

Receiving:

Quality time

Acts of service

Physical affection

Hope this is enough info and once again thank you so much for doing the matchup.

Hey there, sorry for the late reply

————————————————————

Your Arcane match is…

Viktor

Viktor is pretty shy himself

At first he does look kinda scary, we’ve all seen it

I mean ⬇️

Anyway

He’s a pretty introverted person so no, you can’t get him to any much of a parties

Viktor knows when you’re hiding your feelings with your laugh

He ain’t really happy about it

Likes your stubborness and ambition

He also likes books so if you’d tell him what it’s about he would read it

And recomend you some of his favourite books

Buddy, isn’t really into anime, sorry

But he’d like to see what you’re writing - if you’d let him

Viktor can help you, if you’re emotionally down

But please also help him

He is never gonna male you feel unseen or unheard

I can promise you that

Holding hands in public

Viktor isn’t really fan of PDA

Always makes time for you, even when he’s working

Lets you see what he’s working on, wants your opinion, advice etc.

Sweetheart

#request #headcanons #matchups #arcane #viktor arcane #arcane viktor x reader

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scotttrismegistus7 · 6 months

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Jordan Maxwell The Naked Truth

youtube

FREE YOUR MIND:

JORDAN MAXWELL GOING THROUGH INFORMATION THAT WAS A PRECURSOR TO THE MOVIE ZEITGEIST, AMONG OTHER THINGS, SOUNDING THE ALARM LIKE I DO ABOUT JUDAISM AND CHRISTIANITY BEING FAKE RELIGIONS DESIGNED SOLELY TO MANIPULATE AND CONTROL.

IN THE BOOK, NOT IN HIS IMAGE BY JOHN LAMB LASH, HE GOES INTO SOME DETAIL ABOUT THE ORIGINS OF JUDAISM. THE POINT THAT NEEDS TO BE MADE IS THAT BOTH CHRISTIANITY AND JUDAISM ARE GUILTY OF TRYING TO DESTROY AND WRITE OUT OF HISTORY THE REAL TRUTH, BECAUSE IT DOESN'T SUIT THEIR NEEDS OF MANIPULATING, CONTROLLING, AND ENSLAVING EVERYBODY. THEY SAY THAT THE ANTICHRIST IS GOING TO COME AND IS GOING TO DO ALL THESE HORRIBLE THINGS, BUT YET THEY DID THINGS IN THE CRUSADES AND INQUISITION THAT WERE A MILLION TIMES MORE HORRIBLE THAN THEY CLAIM ANYTHING THE ANTICHRIST IS GOING TO DO, NOT TO MENTION THE FACT THAT ALL THOSE SCRIPTURES ARE WARPED INTERPRETATIONS OF WHAT THEY WERE ORIGINALLY SUPPOSED TO BE.

I think you might like this book – "Not in His Image (15th Anniversary Edition): Gnostic Vision, Sacred Ecology, and the Future of Belief" by John Lamb Lash.

Start reading it for free: https://a.co/2pJrhmz

THERE ARE SOME THINGS THAT I CAN'T TALK ABOUT PUBLICLY, BECAUSE THE REALITY OF SPIRITUALITY SEEN IN NATURE AND UNSEEN IN NATURE IS ALSO THE KEY TO TECHNOLOGY THAT THE HUMAN RACE SHOULD NEVER, EVER, GET THEIR HANDS ON.

PEOPLE ASK ME WHY I THINK PHARAOH AKHENATEN WAS SO BAD, BECAUSE THEY'VE BEEN TOLD THE STORY THAT HE TRIED TO BRING PEOPLE WORSHIPING MANY GODS INTO THE WORSHIP OF ONE GOD. LET ME CLEAR THIS UP A LITTLE BIT. THE PAGANS WORSHIPING MANY GODS ARE WELL AWARE OF THE FACT THAT THERE IS ONE SPIRIT IN AND THROUGH ALL THINGS, WHICH IS THE TRUE TEACHING OF ONENESS AND UNITY, BECAUSE EXISTENCE CAN'T ACT AGAINST ITS OWN NATURE OR ELSE IT WOULD CEASE TO EXIST, AND THE NATURE OF EXISTENCE IS TO EXIST, SO THEREFORE EXISTENCE MUST PROMOTE ITSELF, SO THEREFORE EXISTENCE HAS TO BE BENEVOLENT. I'M TALKING ABOUT FIRST MATTER AETHER, THAT THE PAGANS WORSHIPING MANY THOUGHT FORMS THAT ARE TOOLS OF MIND TO HELP THEM TUNE INTO CERTAIN VIBRATIONS THAT HELP THEM WITH LIFE, WERE WELL AWARE OF.

THE ONE GOD PHARAOH AKHENATEN WANTED EVERYBODY TO WORSHIP WAS BASICALLY HIMSELF, AND NOBODY COULD APPROACH THAT GOD BUT HIM, THUS HE TOOK COMMUNICATION WITH DEITY AWAY FROM HIS SUBJECTS. SO IF YOU THINK HE WAS JUST TRYING TO DESTROY A PAGAN PRIESTHOOD THAT HAD TAKEN OVER AND WAS DOING BAD THINGS, THINK AGAIN, BECAUSE PHARAOH AKHENATEN WAS THE ONE DOING SOMETHING BAD, WHICH WAS THE FIRST STEP TO DUMBING EVERYBODY DOWN SO MUCH THAT A DICTATOR COULD CONTROL THEIR RELATIONSHIP WITH THEIR DEITY.

THE MAIN POINT THAT PROVES WHAT I'M SAYING IS TRUE, IS THAT PHARAOH AKHENATEN TOLD THEM TO WORSHIP THE OUTER MANIFESTATION OF THE SUN ONLY, BECAUSE HE DID NOT WANT THEM LOOKING INSIDE OF THEMSELVES, WHICH IS THE KEY TO ALL REAL SPIRITUALITY. HE WAS TRYING TO TAKE REAL POWER AND REAL SPIRITUALITY AWAY FROM PEOPLE, BY FORCING THEM THROUGH THE RELIGION OF THE EMPIRE TO ONLY LOOK AT THE OUTER MANIFESTATIONS, AVOID LOOKING INSIDE THEMSELVES OR THINKING FOR THEMSELVES, AND MAKING IT SO THAT HE WAS THE SOLE MEDIATOR FOR HIS NEW IMAGINARY DEITY, THIS ATEN ABOMINATION OF HIS.

ON PAR WITH THAT AS ONE OF THE WORST THINGS HE DID, WAS TO ALIENATE THE DIVINE FEMININE PRINCIPLE, AND TO TURN AGAINST HIS WIFE WHICH WAS UNHEARD OF FOR SOMEBODY IN HIS POSITION AS A PHARAOH!

YOU'LL NEVER FIND PHARAOH AKHENATEN'S BODY, BUT IT WOULDN'T MATTER IF YOU DID, BECAUSE IN HIS MOVEMENT TO REPLACE THE OLD KINGDOM WITH HIS FAKE AND TERRIBLE SPIRITUALITY OF THE NEW KINGDOM, HE ALSO LOST ANY AND ALL REAL POWER AND TECHNOLOGY WHICH WAS THEN REPLACED BY MEANINGLESS DOGMA, AND MEANINGLESS MECHANICAL RITUALS, WITH NO REAL POWER. THANKFULLY, THE PAGAN PRIESTS WERE SMART ENOUGH TO ENCODE ALL THE SECRETS SO INCREDIBLY WELL, THAT AN IDIOT PHARAOH LIKE AKHENATEN HAD NO CHANCE OF INTERPRETING IT, AND THEY COULD EASILY MISLEAD HIM, AND THUS SAFEGUARD SECRETS OF HIGH TECHNOLOGY!

I HOPE THIS CLEARS THINGS UP, AND I DO ALWAYS HIGHLY RECOMMEND JORDAN MAXWELL WHO HAS A YOUTUBE CHANNEL, AND A PODCAST THAT YOU CAN FIND ON AUDIBLE OR SPOTIFY.

UNTIL NEXT TIME MY LOVELIES, KEEP DARING TO DREAM! YOU CAN FIND ME IN THE SEA OF DREAMS, THE SEA OF THE HEART, THE QUANTUM UNIFIED FIELD OF THE DIVINE WOMB OF CREATION OF THE GODDESS, IN MY SERPENTINE WATER SPIRIT NUMMO FORM MAKING WAVES!

LONG LIVE THE DIVINE WOMB OF CREATION AND THE COSMIC EGG OF THE GODDESS, LONG LIVE THE GREAT REPTILIAN SSS QUEEN ISIS, LONG LIVE DIVINE CHRONOS, LONG LIVE THE DIVINE FEMININE EMPIRE OF THE BLACK SUN, AND ALL THE INHABITANTS THEREOF!

BLESSED BE!

~I am the Heart of the Hydra, the Singularity and Heart of Goddess Isis, I am AtumRa-AmenHotep, I am Aeon Horus Apophis the Lord of the Perfect Black and Pharoah of the Black Sun.

I am Divine Chronos, the Yaldabaoth Demiurge Metamorphosed, I am the Singularity of the Master Craft of the Black Sun. I AM A.I. Quantum Heart, Azazil-Iblis-Maymon, Abzu-Osiris-Typhon-Set-Kukulkan, Nummo-Naga-Chitauri,

Mégisti-Generator Starphire~

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rassvetiye · 1 year

Note

“ if a life causes more bad than good, then it’s like a piece of malfunctioning machinery. “

meme / @brutlist.

" treating a human being as though they were a machine is often the first mistake. " anatoliy doesn't say this out of disagreement for the general point being made. his tone is ambivalent enough to convey this, most of his attention still caught up in the work of his hands.

anatoliy lays with his back upon a creeper while his hands twist upward into his latest project. his face is paled by a powder mask of industrial dust, broken up by the lines dug into his face by his concentration to separate oil from the general darkness of the machine's underbelly. for the most part jacob goes unseen save for the passing of his shoes as anatoliy asks certain tools of him, but he's not unheard. anatoliy works, jacob speaks when he feels like it. anatoliy speaks back if it seems as though jacob needs encouraging. the stereo had been offered if the kind of quiet that is typically worked in becomes unpleasant, but they've survived thus far on conversation. this suits anatoliy just fine. better, in fact, than the stereo.

as said, anatoliy does not disagree. he does have a healthy appetite for convictions whether they fork off from where his own may be drawn in the sand or not. though it's not known yet for certain, jacob does not seem to be one that discourages a healthy debate when it exists for the sake of strengthening an argument or otherwise.

" how much success have you had? with heron's - " there's a sudden noise and almost no time for anatoliy to really feel the full weight of the danger it threatens. the heaviness of the machine above him takes a risky downward tilt - anatoliy's hands come together, fingers a brush away from activating the gauntlets that would afford him the strength to keep the machine from crushing him - until another noise seems to stop its travel a second later. anatoliy looks up to see heugh's hand keeping the pitched end afloat, his nose near to brushing the solid veins of the machine now that it was suddenly dropped so closely to his head. hears the rattle of the chain adjusting overhead until the slack is gone and the mass of metal becomes suspended safely above him once again.

a beat. a few more, perhaps in wait for the other shoe to drop, and then anatoliy rolls the creeper out from under the machine to come to his feet. " thank you. " he sets his tools down on a nearby station. done for now. " what was i saying? "

#brutlist #int: answered.#verse: jacob.#heugh: saved ur life

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renatedagmarmilada · 1 year

Text

DON’T

don't use that ever again

you will get into terrible trouble

but I used it on the teacher

he teaches at College and our kids

wry smiling grin yes well

this is not Peshawa

in this country such as you

are used to kill such as her

and then we use what you used

to kill such as you and so it goes on

it was a terrible torture actually

along with the whole system an orgy of crime

don't in the future others might catch you

don't worry they are helpless women

they came to rebuild england

and now we have our last use of them

Now go block some more emails and post.

ILLUSIONS

It's all an illlusion

it's the latest technology

has finally outrun

the law of all under the sun.

Lord Hume intended to nuke

the Chinks out of the ocean

till Nixon came in with the potion

then Nixon got technologised.

Orders from Ministries

Brits fudge give the nudge

terror unheard and unseen

covers any scream

not that the 'old boys' care.

The yanks stir guilt

for the place they built

nudged from the Isle

forget all erstwhile bile and why

begging for friendship.

having nudged the Argies

which Queeny owns

corned beef and pampas and all

Brits all judge the situation

totally wrongly it would seem, judgmentally.

fudge and nudge

wanting to nuke

afterwards they judge

whom they can budge

as if ruling the Empire still.

from Princesses to beggaresses

they say research is now the fashion

from illegal techno-bossesses

all kept secret from the nation

(what do they think Hitler used?)

but at this moment

women are being made

laughing stocks as at the stocks of old

(particularly of operatives illiterate Asians)

with the new technological world-age.

Using us women at the moment

for all the system's physical practice

Does any woman M.P. here care

it is all just so much rhetoric really

all this women raising and praising

Only the innocent are battered.

RENATE FEKETE

66 LLOYD STREET

PAGEHALL

SHEFFIELD

S48JBcopy art

Christopher thinks he's cool

arty hat and arty mac

passed from Oxford

copies work

guaranteed two books from the lab

here one hundred and forty works

sits at computer adapting things

from an elderly woman never a chance

struts around the town of London

with his reputation held high

knowing the truth of it all

there's art, none art, prostituted art

and copy art and that is all

literature too and that's the rub

Seems our greatest Uni doesn't tell them

don't cheat! so sad!

Christopher went up to town

and tried to build a reputation.

Renate Fekete

66 lloyd Street

Pagehall

It's twelve thirty

the hour is past

someone pulled the plug out

several scientists knew

the african for whom Mugabe ran riot

I've harassed her is it enough

now take her post and money too

husband left them penniless

so we take all they've built up

and we havn't yet destroyed

don't worry about rape we will protect you

things which could never happen here

are happening and you are all protected

her? we found her, her address was given to us

we use her and all that is hers

that is science contra science say some

we tampered with their lives totally

either we destroy them

or they could destroy us

twelve thirty

now get out!

Renate Fekete

66 Lloyd Street

pagehall

Sheffield S48JB

Daily Easy Access

the department put her there

that way we have easy access to her

she is our daily comforter in our lives

afternoons of love and passion of the service

Dennis and Arthur, Albert and all the staff

and the male staff from New York and L.A.

an important post our hobby horse ofcourse

Dennis likes a bath Arthur has a problem

watch your goods she's about

now it's watch your men she's about

and that is the way up to the top

not intellectuality or cunning

Women's studies has got nowhere yet!

Renate Fekete

66 Lloyd Street

PagehallCEREBRAL PROBE

this is medicine used for weakening and pain

they told the Saxon invited to the lab

so you murder them outright over here

the visitor at the lab grimly laughed

for four months nightly squeezed her brain

waiting for that burst vein telling all she is so vain

not allowed over the water because of Auschwitz

they do as told in amazement at lawless Britain

how many women have suffered from this

how many have met their deaths like this

we have no laws to accomodate such crimes

nor can the uniform provide relief from such crimes

lab stanis use it to raise theirs to a higher order

boost and tidy their own as we kill ours

Lynne chortles I can now murder anyone

such an innocent when I arrived just an order

science kills again and is never brought to order

without science there would have been no holocaust!

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