#but every time i think of “you speak of peace yet you use war to achieve it” i think of this fucking comic
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i got reminded of the scene in post-stormblood with varis and the alliance and it reminds me of this comic every time i think about it
#ffxiv#aymeric de borel#varis zos galvus#like we been knew varis is a fascist#but every time i think of “you speak of peace yet you use war to achieve it” i think of this fucking comic#bc the way the argument is presented is exactly that#ffxiv memes#stormblood#ffxiv shitposting#its so funny too bc w aymeric there wasn’t much of an argument varis could use other than the war#you know#the war that he helped end#and didn’t cause in the first place#so all varis had was ‘well your dad was cooler so’#and that was enough to shut him up#when it doubt go for the throat
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I legit just see you randomly on my feed and your writing was really good and I thought why not? Since requests are open, may I request for yandere skyward sword link with goddess reader? Reader can either replace Zelda herself or is a whole other goddess that doesnt even belong or own Hyrule. Id love to see what else you have in store here!
Order up!
Sorry it’s been a while! I’ve been dealing with a lot these past two weeks but hopefully life will improve (?) Love this concept and there’s a mention of @monpalace’s idea with Skyloftians using shed loftwing feathers to propose. Not proofread, I am sorry, this took wayyyy too. Much like Link, i am eepy. That’s about all!
Hope you enjoy!~
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝
There was little refuge for Link on the surface, that much he knew. That much the world made incredibly apparent. Aside from what little lands like that of the kikwi or the ancient temple, there was little non-hostile life. The sun was fading from the sky, Hylia’s light fading from the surface land, letting monsters run rampant across the untamed earth. Not a particularly pleasant situation given the stab wound he’d nursed, limping through the forest as he tried to find a way home. With no statues in sight, he resigned himself to his fate —alone within an unkind world. Not that it’s a first that he’s felt such a manner, everyone knew everyone in Skyloft, his business was never truly his. And with Groose and his goons taunting him for his every breath, there wasn’t much to say for company. He could be surrounded by people, and yet he was —to some level— still alone. That was, aside from Zelda, missing among this realm. There was some small, nagging part of him that wish he needn’t search for her. Sure, he valued her companionship, and yet… it’s been odd lately. Originally he kept from the sky to be with her once more. But now knowing he was a piece in a prophecy —one she knew, no less— he couldn’t help but question the authenticity of their friendship. He feels wrong about it to question. The hylian people serve Hylia, he should be grateful that he’s been sent on a mission she foretold. He should be so many things. It just seems added onto the pile of things he should be. More outgoing, Zelda would say after he’d share his difficulty with speaking to his peers. Less pathetic, Groose and his lackeys would sneer. Dead, He’d often think, looking at the bags under his eyes and tousled hair. So it seemed irrelevant that Hylia wished he’d be heroic. The small decaying temple looked surprisingly stable from the inside. Vines and mosses grew into the cracks within the marble, nature filling in where people could no longer support. The door was easily blocked and the main area was large enough to safely light a fire without smoking himself out. Above a plinth stood a statue, sharp imposing eyes glaring at whomever entered with judgement. Their face was alight with the golds of the fire, setting in the allure within his mind. Looking down past stone ceremonial robes were offerings, placed at their feet, still fresh despite the centuries since any people lived down here. A deity, he noticed a little too late. Perhaps it was sacreligious of him to stay here, the Hero of Hylia taking refuge in a different god’s home. But perhaps that kingdom has since crumbled, their blades too rusted to do him any harm. The blood seeping through his tunic was the least of his concerns as sleep pulled him in familiar as ever.
Link liked to sleep. It was safe and warm, something quite the contrast to the life he’d led. He wished many times both before his journey and since its onset that he could stay asleep forever. It’d be a blessing, to exist in such a state of peaceful serenity outside of a world defined by its wars. And yet, morning after morning, he’d awake to soft sunlight or be shoved out of his bed. Hylia did not wait on him. So waking up to fingers carding softly through his hair as a lullaby —one his memories could just barely grasp at— was a sharp contrast. He felt no pain in his stomach nor the jolt of adrenaline he was used to. Turning around sleepily, he saw you, the very deity he seeked refuge under. He scrambled to apologize, your sharp eyes looking down upon him as he lay strewn across your body.
“I’m- Oh- I-“ He could not, for whatever reason, speak. Much a common theme in his life that whenever he needed his words, they’d fly away faster than a loftwing. Strong arms tightened around him, shushes and soothes whispered to his pointed ears.
“Be at ease. Your goddess cannot find you here” The fingers resumed carding through his hair, twirling the uneven cuts. “You are safe, little hero” Your words bled with a care and endearment he had not been given in so long. His mind latched to you, to your care and your soft treatment of him. He let himself rest limply, telling himself that it would pass soon. Nothing ever stays this good for this long. And yet, there were no monsters to kick in the door or someone waiting on him. There was just you and him. And no other God watching. “She’s put you through so much.” Your statement hangs in the air as Link can’t find the words that dignify a response. “To wander in here bleeding as badly as you were.” His eyes widen and he does his best to pat his tunic, feeling for the blood. And yet there was none. Aside from the rip in the forest fabric, there was no signs of him ever being injured.
“What?” His brows furrowed and he found himself looking up to you. Your skin held an inhuman glint, a glow to it that needed no sun nor fire to illuminate. Your hunter’s eyes had no iris, a scalara of pure white looking back at him. Your lips here pulled to something of a mischievous smirk as you looked upon him.
“I fixed you.” Your tone was a little uncanny, voice unused to conversing. “I used to do it frequently for the before people” He felt his eyes widen marginally. He’d never heard of the ‘before people’ only if what came after them. He knew naught of their societies, nor their deities. You giggled at his curiosity, pressing lightly on his shoulders so he’d lay back down. “It’s been so long since i’ve had such lovely visitors” Your voice was a far off cry in his mind as he buried his face in the nape of your neck. There was no rushing of blood to lull his own rushing mind, and yet you soothed him all the same. “Rest now, little Hero. I will watch the world in your stead.
There were many times afterwards that he visited you. He’d put a beacon near the clearing where your quiet temple sat. Gone was the comfort of absence that came with sleep, that nullifying expanse of nothingness. Instead, he’d seek out you, the glow of your grace soothing the rage he now brought upon the world. At your Altar he’d leave gifts, anything you’d mentioned in passing or anything he knew must’ve been good. You’d offhandedly speak of how much you missed the ancient cistern, and he’d bring you its water. He’d gather the fruit of the Faron woods, making into pies and jam and alcohol for you to feed off of. It wasn’t often, but he’d occasionally get you blood or meat. Not common, he didn’t want to raise concerns, but he knew the spirits would strengthen you. You may have only had a one man clergy, but he was loyal to a fault. He cleared the surface of monsters so you could roam freely, basking in the moonlight as your fingers brushed the grass. His favorite gift to you came in the form of a plume of crimson feathers. You were quite oblivious to the meaning behind the exchange, instead cooing over the bright colors and imagining the majesty of the bird it came from. But he knew that maybe then the other half of his spirit —as the people said— would mingle with your own to care for you as much as you did him. Bound to you perhaps by fate and now with the matrimony of his gift to you, no longer would you lay forgotten to the world. He’d build an empire in your honor if it would be your wish. He’d kill the goddess who subdued you if it were your ruling. Afterall, he was prophesied to kill a deity.
#yandere link x reader#link x reader#yan!link#yan!sky#yan!sky x reader#yan!link x reader#deity!reader#zelda skyward sword
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Can we please stop pretending Klaus is some Machiavellian genius?
I get the show is always trying to tell us he is a mastermind, but there are so many more clever characters who actually set up long term plans to achieve their goals (Lucien, Celeste, Katherine). What did Klaus ever do that was ever strategic or showed any superior intelligence? If anything his intelligence was severely stunted, he was a thousand years old and still acting like a teenager half the time. He made rash and impulsive decisions and they worked out sometimes. They had just as much of a chance of blowing up in his face. This doesn't make him smart. If he wasn't so indestructible, he wouldn't have been so lucky.
Throughout history, we constantly see Elijah having to remind Klaus not to draw attention to them. All he has to do is stop being a serial killer or risk bringing the one man he is terrified of to town. You would think it would be easy, yet he is unable to control himself. At no point do we see him ever preparing to confront Mikael. He only runs from him. He could have created an army to trap Mikael or befriended witches. But no, instead of coming up with a plan, they all just run. Not much of a master strategist. The fandom loves to say it was stupid that Rebekah called Mikael to New Orleans yet doesn't want to talk about how stupid it was for Kol and Klaus to go on a killing spree which they knew would attract Mikael. And he does this not once, not twice, but repeatedly in every flashback we see, all the way from the first flashback in 1001 to the last in the 1950s.
Speaking of the 1950s, what great strategic plan was it to tell Elijah he buried their siblings at sea? He isolated the one family member he had left while Mikael was hot on his trail. This turned Elijah against him and what did Klaus do? Did he come up with a masterplan? No. he ran and body jumped.
Klaus' strength isn't his intelligence but his durability and his psychical strength. Which is why he was so determined to break his curse. He needed to be stronger than everyone, including his siblings. But what did any of that get him? Tristan and Aya at least built a cult and created weapons that could even take down Originals. Yet Klaus wasn't able to come up with any plan to take down Mikael?
We see Elijah tell Klaus that Klaus 'built' New Orleans, yet we never see any indication that Klaus is politically minded. In fact, in season one, he is in charge and a war breaks out in large part due to his scheming. He is constantly killing political leaders (the mayor, the mayor's son, the witches' leaders, every faction head, etc.) and then is surprised when they can't find peace and everyone is against him.
The only time Klaus had a long term plan that actually seemed clever was the lie about the sun and the moon curse. Not only did it take them nearly a thousand years before it actually worked, but he wasn't even the reason it worked. He was tricked by Elijah and literal teenagers. Elijah tricked him to get him to MF, the MF gang tricked him into believing Bonnie was dead, and then he fell for that exact same trick and believed that Elena was dead.
Throughout the shows and even flashbacks, people act like Klaus is this great strategist. And maybe he is compared to the children he is targeting. But when you put him up against his equals (Lucien, Mikael, Dahlia, etc.), he doesn't compare.
Celeste and Genevie were manipulating Klaus left and right in season one. In the short '9' months he was in New Orleans, he destabilized it so much that Hope nearly died. She only survived because of Marcel. They only got her back because of Elijah and Hayley. In fact, Klaus' plan to bring Hope back before they were ready is what drew Dahlia back so quickly, leaving them unprepared to face her.
Klaus wasn't responsible for Mikael's first death. He got lucky that everyone else (the children he was targeting) came up with a plan to trick Mikael. Mikael's second death was simply overpowering him, no outsmarting there. In fact, Mikael would have killed Klaus if his family hadn't saved him earlier.
Yes, he 'tricked' Dahlia into believing he betrayed his family, but this wasn't a trick. He actually did betray them. He murdered Gia and turned Elijah against him once again. He is unable to scheme without actually hurting those close to him and alienating the people trying to help. He lies that he killed Aiden, again another time he just jumps on the first opportunity he sees, and by doing so, he alienates all of their allies and endangers his family. The only reason they end up beating Dahlia is because of Esther. They all would have died based on Klaus' plan. Sure his idea to curse Hayley did technically save her life but he didn't do it for that purpose, he admitted he did it to punish her. There was no long term scheme. He hadn't thought through how it would impact Hope or even what he would tell his daughter as she got older.
Then in Season 3, Lucien had Klaus on his knees before his big brother and big sister swept in to save the day. Even taking down Tristan was thanks to Cami and Freya's plan. He had to be saved from the Strix by Hayley, Marcel, and Stefan. They have their big Thanksgiving dinner where they confront the three, but all it does is show that Lucien, Tristan, and Aurora had out schemed the Mikaelsons. The only thing the Mikaelsons could do was overpower them and threaten them.
In Season 4, Klaus hardly does anything and Season 5 Klaus is an absolute mess. You're telling me this legendary strategist couldn't save his daughter and her mother from a hundred year old vampire? He couldn't figure out a way to find her? In the seven years they were forced apart, he wasn't even trying to find a way to reunite his family? He wasn't a strategist, rather he waited for events to happen and then reacted impulsively, hoping it would work out. His plans are all based on emotion and vendettas, not strategy or intelligence.
Yes, he is Machiavellian in a sense that he has nearly no empathy and will do whatever it takes to get what he wants, but he lacks the cunningness to be truly Machiavellian. Instead he is just a narcissistic psychopath.
#let's be honest#klaus isn't that clever#he's just strong#and cruel#so people think it's clever#his plans had just as much odds of failing#he was just as easily manipulated as he was able to manipulate#anti klaus#not really#but just in case#tvdu#the originals#the vampire diaries#tvd#the mikaelsons#klaus mikaelson#tvdu metas#metas
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(photo to catch people's attention)
Welcome back to yet another episode of "them having things to say about KOSA"
God forbid KOSA passes, but IF IT DOES, I hope other countries either find a way to circumvent it, OR urge the US to take it back once they realize what a GROSS overstep of boundaries it is.
Either one would be amazing, BOTH would be incredible.
I repeat for the second time: The AMERICAN government is trying to make EVERYONE, including people in OTHER COUNTRIES- adhere to this mass internet censorship law on the WORLD WIDE WEB, that EVERYONE ACROSS THE WORLD USES, under the guise of "ThInK Of thE aMeRiCaN ChIlDrEN!!!!!"
LIKE THATS SO STUPID??? The fact that they're trying to sneak this past us while other horrific things are happening is EQUALLY disgusting. This should be world news. Everybody should be FURIOUS that the Senate is even humoring this.
If KOSA passes and people in other countries start being affected, I hope governments across the world absolutely PUMMEL the US (not through war in case anybody tries to take this out of context, I mean verbally). Call a United Nations meeting or something and absolutely CRACK DOWN.
DESTROY THEM.
Call out every crappy single thing this country has done and use it as leverage against them. Pull out all the stops. Roast them if you want to. Rightfully charge them with the crimes they've committed. Hold them accountable. Literally ANYTHING and EVERYTHING.
Let them know NO peace.
God knows the majority of Americans will be cheering y'all on.
The American government is on a serious power trip. They think that they can do whatever they want with no consequences because they're a world power. The rest of the world can fight back, speak up, and show them that
they.
are.
WRONG.
#stop kosa#palestine#bad internet bills#ceasefire now#world news#kosa bill#I'll be cheering on the rest of the world from the sidelines if this happens#us politics
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"on feathers and dreams"
read it on ao3!
Rated: T (Teen and Up Audiences)
Content Warnings: possession, brief self-harm (ender king hurts purposefully hurts phil's body), drowning, brief vomiting
Summary:
“This is what happens when mortals steal from gods, crow,” the King snides, narrowing his eyes as he clenches the fist tight. “Now, quiet down. I think it’s about time I’ve rested, now that you’re out of the picture.”
Somewhere in his monologue, the King doesn’t pick up footsteps somewhere behind them -- but Phil does. His ear feathers twitch.
A soft voice calls out, “Phil?”
--
A self-imposed exile leads to a reunion.
You.
His skin writhes with an intruder's presence.
“What about me?” he rasps, aching eyes watching the ocean underneath him. The sun had set moments ago -- maybe hours, but he’s stopped counting -- and now, the waves lap at the cliff walls with a hypnotic motion. How long has it been now? Weeks? When was the last time he slept? Ate? Did anything besides stare vacantly at the endless horizon and entertain that nagging voice in his head.
Every part of his body aches since that moment in the forest -- he had to wrench the control away at each second, demanding the movement of his own body. His eggs had run from it. His body remained frozen so he wouldn’t chase after them with the dagger in his hand. The backpack is gone. He’s powerless.
Even his voice comes out wrong. His vocal chords are wrung from two warring voices fighting over them, a deep snarl so unlike what his body is used to, and his normal voice. It’s all… wrong.
Let me out.
The voice hisses, sharp and ringing in his head. It has no face, but he still raises an incredulous eyebrow. “Is that the best you can do?” he scoffs. “No. You’ll have to beg harder than that if you want to escape so badly.”
A quiet sea breeze rustles through his feathers. It all feels still, peaceful, static. Normally, he would be lulled to sleep by this, but something in his body refuses to let him sleep.
When he looks up, the void stares back at him.
What a familiar face. Distantly, he thinks of it as home. The night sky, free of twinkling stars and suffocating clouds, just a vast emptiness for him to soar through. This island was nice, but it was only a vacation.
The End was where he belonged.
Let me out.
“You can keep demanding that,” he sighs, disappointed. It’s like he isn’t even trying. He’s bored by each attempt because it hasn’t changed. Has it been days? “I won’t give it back so easily at your request.”
You will pay for this.
“Will I, now?”
Give me back my body.
The voice rumbles now, deep in the back of his head -- and his wings flare. “Your body?” he hisses sharply. Indignation rushes through him. His body? Does he even hear what he’s saying? “What makes you think this body is yours? It’s always belonged to me. Has your greed gotten to your head?”
You are so full of shit.
There it is.
His lips twist into a grin that stretches too thin on his cheeks. “Oh, crow,” he croons, “do you really think your insults will do anything to you like this?”
Fuck. You. Ender.
He laughs, louder, booming off the cliff face. “Face it, Philza. You’re useless like this.” The King taps his claws — his claws, not flimsy talons, dripping with the tears of the void — against stone and rolls his neck back, spreading out his wings. His wings. “Be patient. I haven’t had my fun with you yet.”
Do not hurt my kids.
“And what will you do about it?”
The King’s mind falls silent.
He hums. Typical. All bark and no bite from this little pest. “Try to take your body back. Speak for yourself if you think you’re strong enough,” he goads, returning his gaze to the void.
Die.
A laugh erupts from The King’s chest again. That really is the furthest he could do, isn’t it? How pathetic. “I will repeat this until it finally sticks to your feeble little brain, Philza: we are one and the same. You conquer every new land you’ve traveled across and steal every last piece of valuable treasure from its habitat -- and you say it’s for protection. For your safety. For your eggs. Do you really believe that fantasy that you’ve made up? Do you really think I would believe these lies you tell yourself? We both know the real reason you claim all of these things for yourself. Right?”
I didn’t take them.
The audacity. The King’s wings flare out again, feathers standing on end with rage and the pulsing amethyst light branding into his skin. “Do not lie to me, Philza.”
I didn’t take your fucking wings.
“Do not lie to me!” he roars. His fist slams into the ground, knuckles first -- and the King hears bones snap and break with a grotesque pop. This mortal body is just a puppet for the King to control, so Philza is the only one to feel the pain receptors firing. He hears a sharp, pained cry in his head and Philza’s pitiful voice finally quiets. Insolent brat.
The King lifts the damaged appendage with a flat stare. The stone underneath his first had cracked under the force, but Philza had a fast metabolism, so the hand slowly began to repair itself before the King’s eyes. It was hardly fascinating. Dragons could regrow heads.
Once it fixes itself entirely, the King rolls the wrist to test it out. It must still feel tender or sore, because he feels an involuntary flinch in his wings. He has to bite back a snarl. Of course Philza picked his wings for that.
“This is what happens when mortals steal from gods, crow,” the King snides, narrowing his eyes as he clenches the fist tight. “Now, quiet down. I think it’s about time I’ve rested, now that you’re out of the picture.”
Somewhere in his monologue, the King doesn’t pick up footsteps somewhere behind them -- but Phil does. His ear feathers twitch.
A soft voice calls out, “Phil?”
---
He didn’t hide his location on the map. It had to be a sign.
Missa had to believe that.
He told Phil he would protect him. As best as he can, with all of his willpower. Sure, he isn’t the strongest and he can barely hold his sword right sometimes, but he made that promise to Phil and he intends on keeping it.
“Tallulah… Tallulah told me,” he says to the black wings shadowing Phil’s seated form. The moon sits high in the clouds and against his back as Missa takes a step forward. It’s almost eerie, how still Phil’s body went at the sound of his voice. Just moments before, it was bellowing with a voice so unlike Phil’s, Missa was convinced somebody else -- something else -- was here.
Rose-weaved signs flash in his head. [ he… he hurt me ] [ but papa is still in there ] [ i know he is ] [ i dont know what to do apa ]
Chayanne had disappeared too. Part of Missa hoped he would find his little egg here too, along with Phil, bantering as they farmed in a new location or sparring with Phil’s cawing laughter and Chayanne’s adorable quacks. It was… wishful thinking at best. He couldn’t just ignore Tallulah’s fears.
There’s no response, so he continues cautiously, “You don’t have to say anything. I just… want to know if you’re alright. I don’t think you should be alone.”
Phil’s head lifts. Blond strands roll over his shoulder, but he doesn’t look completely over to meet Missa’s eyes. “How did you find me?”
He… sounds fine. Maybe too fine — it comes out flat, lacking any of his usual inflections, and cold. If Missa hadn’t known any better, he would’ve taken that answer the second he heard it.
But he doesn’t. “I came as soon as I heard,” he murmurs, trying to see past the shadows of Phil’s face. There’s the faintest glow of something violet illuminating his face from a downward angle. Underneath his black feathers, a pattern of light pulses slowly, like a heartbeat. Missa doesn’t tell him -- them? -- how long it took. They don’t need to know that; as long as they-- Phil knows that Missa was looking for him, that’s enough.
“You’re too late.”
“Maybe I am,” Missa says without missing a beat, confident as he takes another step forward. Phil’s wings begin to spread and, despite the warning signs, Missa advances. “I’m always late, aren’t I? Phil-- I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you. I couldn’t respect my promise like I told you I would. I woke up for Tallulah, spent as much time with Chayanne as I could, but-- I couldn’t do it for you. I’m sorry.”
The Ender King scoffs. Missa shoves aside the queasiness rising inside his empty ribcage, because they’re using Phil’s voice but it sounds nothing like him. He knows better. “Your apologies mean nothing to me. He’s too far gone to hear this. Leave me, or else.”
Or else. Or else what? Missa’s resolve burns through the dread that tries to freeze him in place. “Tallulah wanted me to tell you, if I found you,” he continues with another step, and another dangerous twitch of those obsidian wings, “that she forgives you for attacking her. You’ve always looked out for her and Chayanne -- that’s why you’re doing this now, right? You just want to protect them. She knows. She forgives you.”
Tallulah doesn’t.
That’s the thing. She was terrified at the thought of following after Chayanne to try and find her papa, conflicted because of the fear this deity instilled into her and her love for her father. She didn’t take to any of Missa’s reassurances -- she was as stubborn as her feathered parent, albeit so much more intune with her emotions.
More importantly though, Tallulah told him that Phil knows she wouldn’t forgive so easily. It takes time for her to recover from her wounds, no matter how fresh they are. Phil would know this.
When Phil’s body finally turns to look at Missa, his eyes are wide. “She does?” he whispers, in utter disbelief.
Missa nods. “I missed you,” he adds quietly.
…There’s truth to that one, unfortunately. It feels too easy, and he hates that it works. Phil’s body sways as they stand up -- and Missa rushes to close the gap between them, reaching for Phil’s hands. They’re almost unrecognizable now, covered with black scales and nails sharpened into something far stronger than this sharper-than-average, black-painted nails.
He’s always loved Phil’s hands. The few nights where they were under the same roof, he asked if he could paint Phil’s nails for him. It was something that brought unnamed nostalgia to Missa, a memory from his past life he couldn’t exactly grasp, and it was a fun night where they learned they could paint Chayanne’s nubby paws as well. Phil’s hands were always nice and well-kept.
Like this, they’re completely gone. Not to mention the black mass pulsating on Phil’s shoulders with that violet glow he spotted earlier. His nonexistent stomach twists into knots. He rubs his thumbs along gnarled knuckles and, holding eye contact, asks Phil, “Are you okay?”
Phil’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. The wind lets his hair sway, his wings ruffle, and the act is laughable. Missa almost feels insulted. “I’m fine,” they reassure Missa with no reassuring inflection. “Now, what did th-- Tallulah tell you?”
Missa glances away. “She… everything, Phil. It- it freaked me out a little bit, but-- are you sure you’re okay? I just wanted to come here to make sure everything was fine. I’ll leave if you want.”
Phil’s wings twitch again -- Missa’s starting to realize this must be an involuntary twitch, because the sigh they let out sounds… aggravated, and the wings tense against Phil’s back again. Missa tries not to let his surprise show. He’s still in there.
Behind Phil’s body, past his wings, the edge of the ocean meets the starry sky. It’s an impressive sight. They’re fairly high up.
“I told her not to tell any more people,” Phil’s voice says with another displeased sigh. His eyes lift back to Missa’s. Gone are the beautiful azure he loved so much, replaced with a cold, amethyst purple. When they look at Missa, it’s like they’re looking through him. “How much do you know? The King won’t be happy when he hears about this.”
You don’t seem like it, Missa thinks, unimpressed. He swallows and glances away from Phil’s changed eyes. “I- I mean, I can pretend I don’t know anything? I’m sorry. I shouldn’t snoop.”
He’s still in there somewhere. Missa needs to get him back.
He… isn’t a fan of the idea he’s come up with though.
Phil’s eyes soften. He reaches up carefully with his unbroken hand, cupping the underside of Missa’s cheek in his black, clawed hand delicately, as if he were a flower. His touch is ice-cold against Missa’s wispy skin. “I’m sorry, my love,” he whispers, violet eyes searching his. “This is all my fault.”
Alright. That’s enough.
Missa slams his hands into Phil’s chest.
Lo siento, querido.
The cliff’s edge drops off directly into the ocean. Missa saw it as he paddled his boat to the island and worried, for the longest moment, that Phil’s distant figure was going to jump. Would he have flown, if he did? Did the deity Rose heal his wings like Chayanne told him? Would it be Phil that finally gets to spread his wings -- or somebody else?
Phil doesn’t fall. His only tether to stability beside his feet, desperately scrambling against the stony edge, is Missa’s hand, clenched around the collar of his kimono.
“What--” The King snarls -- his voice booms suddenly, unnaturally deep in Phil’s light voice and echoing over the cliffside.
Missa holds firm, staring down violet eyes stretched wide as saucers. He can’t hold this for long, but he keeps his stance balanced. There’s a chance this might not even work. Missa could be wasting his time.
Better him than Chayanne.
Phil’s wings pump through the air for his own balance. The flaps are stilted and uneven, strangely enough -- it’s not instincts trying to keep him upright. Something is holding them back. Is something trying to… keep them closed? Hope wells inside Missa’s chest.
The loud, thunderous voice quiets back to Phil’s as if nothing happened. “What do you think you’re doing?” they say incredulously, feigning innocence.
“Let me talk to him,” Missa says firmly.
They bat his eyes. “Talk to who? I’m right here, love.”
It’s all wrong. How smart does this thing think they are? Missa’s arm starts to shake with the strain of holding Phil’s weight -- so he gives the thief a thin, weak smile. “Philza never calls me love.”
Cloth slips from his hands, and Phil’s body plummets.
Without missing a beat, Missa dives after him.
(He really hopes the Ender King is allergic to water.)
There’s barely enough time for Phil’s body to rotate and catch the airs in his wings for flight. Those huge, black shadows billow in the wind as the thing controlling his body thrashes, suddenly out of his element, eyes stretched wide and fear in their grimace. Those wings have been broken for so long. Maybe, if they had the chance, they could’ve flipped around and taken control of his flailing body as they fall.
Missa can’t let that happen.
It’s a horrible feeling, taking hold of Phil’s wings in the air. Claws flash, but Missa grits his teeth through the pain and the cold drip of his blood down his face to hold Phil’s body as tightly as he can. Lo siento, lo siento, lo siento, lo siento.
Faintly, as the ocean below swallows them whole, Missa wonders… if Phil could fly, would he take Missa with him?
The water around them makes everything go blurry, sluggish, heavy. Missa is naturally weightless, but the armor he’s wearing lets him sink further down. More claws swipe at him until their squirming gets to be too much -- they break free with a sharp knock against Missa’s jaw and shove him away.
The Ender King’s eyes are terrified. They’re holding their breath, eyes wide and furious when they glare at Missa, but quickly, they look back up to the surface above them and try to swim for it. They kick Phil’s legs and pump his wings frantically -- Missa panics, thinking they’ll manage to escape the second they break free from the ocean’s grasp -- but then, Phil’s wings stiffen up. Their eyes shrink even further.
“No!” they screech, and all of the air rushes out of them in large, globe-like bubbles. As loud as the voice once was, the water muffles the booming effect, as if trying to silence his cries. “Stop-- give me back my body, you--”
All of Phil’s limbs freeze in their scramble. Missa watches as they try to suck in another breath and only take in the seawater, sputtering and seizing. It’s horrific, trying to watch somebody you love try to fight for control with no room to breathe. What is he supposed to do? What can he do?
The King continues babbling, voice growing shrill without any oxygen in his lungs, “Not again! Not again, I can’t-- No--”
Missa counts the bubbles rushing from his lips until there’s no more. The ocean grows still. Quiet. Phil’s body sinks.
Limp.
He’s going to die.
The realization spurs Missa into action immediately. He went unconscious, but Missa only has a minute until Phil dies and respawns somewhere else.
Hurried, frantic Spanish spills out of him as he takes Phil’s body in his arms and swims up to the surface -- Phil’s head lulls onto his shoulder the second they both break free. Land- land-- where--
There! Where Missa left his boat, a small shore under the cliff roof, but far away. Too far for Missa to reach with Phil’s -- heavy -- body in tow. Hastily, he searches his inventory.
It’s cluttered with random items he picked up along the journey after Phil’s map marker, but a singular enderpearl catches his eye. Thank the gods he decided to take it with him for some reason, as if he could’ve spoken with the Ender King through it or some shit-- it doesn’t matter. Missa grabs it and, without missing a beat, launches it in the direction of the beach.
As it flies, Missa wraps his arms around Phil’s body and squeezes him as tight as possible against his chest. Please teleport with me, please teleport with me, please--
Pop! Missa hits sand with a heavy weight in his arms.
It worked. He has no time to celebrate. Carefully, he adjusts Phil onto his back, taking as much care as possible with his wings, laying them out flat and not kneeling over sodden feathers, and his trembling hands hover over Phil’s body. The death counter ticks in his eyes. Fourty seconds.
And counting down.
Dios mio. What does he do?
Breathing-- is Phil breathing? He peels off his gloves and throws them somewhere in the sand, bones rattling in the dark wisps that make up his skin and making it nearly impossible to stay still to check for air. He hates how pale Phil looks, and the dark circles around his eyes, and the way his face is too slack -- is he breathing? If Missa’s hands would stop shaking--
Twenty-five seconds. Phil still hasn’t moved. Tears well in Missa’s eye sockets. Why hasn’t he moved?
Pulse-- check for a pulse-- please, why isn’t he-- it’s the best thing Missa can do, carefully pressing against Phil’s neck, trying to remember where the pulse point is. Twenty seconds. He bites his tongue to hold back a whimper. Phil, please--
Thmp. He can barely feel it. Thmp… thmp… thmp…
Is that--?
Water gurgles.
Immediately, Phil’s body seizes and water splatters from his open mouth -- Phil’s eyes shoot open as coughs rip from his throat. Missa retracts his hands with a surprised squeak, eyes stretching so wide it hurts but-- Phil?
He rolls to his side to dry heave, a painful, guttural noise that Missa hates, oh, Gods, please let him be fine. His whole body shakes with each retch. Missa, twitchy, anxious -- needing to do something because is it Phil, is he okay, how can he help -- finally gives into his urges and reaches over to brush Phil’s long hair out of the way as he vomits the seawater out.
When he finishes, Phil lets out a shaking breath and slowly, on shaking limbs, pushes himself up into a sitting position. Missa’s hands follow him carefully for support.
As he catches his breath, Missa hovers still. The silence wanes on. He can’t see his face -- his eyes, Missa just wants to check, dreading the sight of that same purple glow that’s still stuck under his feathers.
“Phil?”
His wings shift. Weakly, Phil’s head lifts to meet Missa’s seeking eyes.
Blue.
“Hey, mate,” Phil croaks, looking exhausted.
It’s-- Missa can’t help it -- an overjoyed sob escapes him, tears finally bursting from his eyes. “Philza!”
“Mis-- ouff--”
He doesn’t have time to return Missa’s exclamation the way they normally do before Missa collides into him all at once. A caw startles out of him -- so crowlike Missa is swarmed with adoration and endearment and relief. Phil’s okay, he’s alive, he’s back -- Missa has to bend down and shower his face in loud, blubbering kisses, vocalizing each with an exaggerated, “MWAH!” that makes Phil burst out into breathless laughter. It’s the only distraction Missa can give himself, trying so hard to keep his trembling bottom lip shut.
For Phil. For Phil.
“Okay, okay!” Phil laughs, craning his neck away for space but Missa only takes the opportunity to press his lips underneath his jawline and blow a raspberry against his skin. “What the fuck-- Missa! Chill out!”
His words are meant to be sharp, but he’s giggling like he’s drunk and Missa feels like it. It’s infectious; he feels silly laughing into Phil’s neck, needing to cling onto every inch of Phil’s skin he can reach, relieved and happy and so, so, so-- scared--
A sob tears out of him.
Missa has never been the strong one here.
“Oh, mate,” comes Phil’s achingly sweet murmur into his hair. Missa curls in on himself, into Phil’s embrace, letting the terror finally sweep over him.
Gods above, he almost killed Philza. He knows how painful death is for him, even if they respawn-- but if he respawned, he would be with Chayanne and Tallulah. He would’ve put them directly in harm’s way if he didn’t save Phil in time. They could’ve died because of him.
Missa wants to be strong for his family. He tells them, over and over again, he wants to protect them the way they protect him. He wants to be there for them when they need it. He wants to love them as much as he can.
But he can’t. He’s gone so often, and he can’t help it -- can’t help it when Death calls back to him in his sleep and he loses himself in his past again -- no matter how much he tries. If this plan of his failed, his kids would’ve been through the same thing. Gone, except, unlike him, they won’t be able to escape.
How can a protector do that? How can a father do that to his kids? He doesn’t deserve the title of a husband, much less a parent. All he does is sleep and dream, and-- and--
“I’m sorry.”
Missa hiccups. Phil’s voice vibrates against where he’s buried himself against his throat, his hands loose where they’re wrapped around Missa’s back. He leans just as heavily onto Missa, muttering, “This is all my fault.”
What?
Phil sucks in a breath -- and Missa hates that it sounds shaky like his sobs, which can’t be right. “I should’ve- I should’ve known he was coming after me. All of the warning signs were there. I took that stupid backpack without even thinking about it, and look where that fuckin’ got me. I’m-- god, I’m fucking stupid. The worst fucking dad.”
What? No, no, no-- Missa lifts his head away with his eyebrows knitted together, finding Phil staring resolutely away from him, his teeth gritted and eyes glimmering in the moonlight. That doesn’t make any sense. Why is he blaming himself? What is he blaming himself for? A deity possessing him? Is he being ridiculous?
“Phil, what are you talking about?” he whispers.
He watches Phil grind his teeth and give a very forced, controlled exhale through his nose. His eyes shift down to the sand underneath him, the space on his opposite side where Missa isn’t is, down into his lap. When he opens his mouth, his jaw trembles as he laughs something harsh and bitter, spitting, “I’m fucking terrified, Missa. I don’t know how to get myself out of this.”
His voice cracks in the middle of his words, and the second he finishes, Phil shatters.
Missa watches his face crumple in dismay. “No, no, no, querido,” he moves quickly and shushes him gently, gathering Phil in his arms. A strangled noise, torn between a sob and wail, gets muffled into Missa’s cloak and Missa cradles Phil’s head closer, pressing his lips to the golden crown of his hair. Skeletal fingers run through his scalp as delicately as he can.
How long has this been going on? How much has Phil been holding this all in?
Has he told anyone this?
Everybody must think of Philza as the most collected person on the island -- even Missa thought that, because who couldn’t? He held himself together well, kept to himself, and offered kindness whenever somebody needed help. He’s always been the one protecting -- because he never let anybody else do it for him.
He grew up so alone. Of course he would expect to manage on his own, but--
Missa screws his eyes shut, feeling more tears drip from his sockets. He can’t handle this problem by himself. And now…
Taking in a shaking breath to calm himself, Missa pulls away from Phil’s embrace. His face is red and splotchy, eyes swollen, and he makes another strangled grunt, covering his face with his hands to wipe away the tears and mucus. His shoulders still shake with labored breath and the occasional hiccup. He looks miserable.
Distantly, he wonders if he’s the only person that’s seen Phil like this.
Missa’s hands gently sweep away his to cup his jawline, tilting his face up. Tears stain his cheeks -- wet streaks that replace the sticky, dried-out marks from the seawater that was on his skin -- and Phil still can’t look him in the eye. He doesn’t seem like he’s used to this attention. This kind of vulnerability.
That’s fine. Missa brushes away the fresh tears that bead from his long eyelashes. He holds Phil, just like this, taking him in. He doesn’t want Phil to hide this from him, not when he’s here.
When blue irises finally focus on him, it’s shy. Missa’s chest flutters. Even like this, he can’t help but feel enamored by the crow in his arms. He had no idea someone so strong could look so bashful at someone like Missa.
Love is a strange thing, he thinks as he leans down and fits his lips over Phil’s.
It’s a simple message, a reminder. Phil tastes like seawater, but Missa drags him deeper, willing to drown himself in it for him.
Phil pulls away first -- his breathing still isn’t steady, and the kissing probably isn’t helping, but he stretches to meet Missa’s lips again anyway. It feels like a response -- Missa was fine as long as Phil heard, but he wants to return it-- him-- his head spins.
He doesn’t care if his feelings are reciprocated or if Phil even knows how far Missa is willing to go for him, always. Relief pours over him like honey and he sighs into the kiss, letting Phil take the lead.
There’s a bit of a challenge, namely Phil needing to breathe. He parts long enough to take in a breath before diving back in, and it’s-- endearing, tickles Missa in a way that makes him giddy, but he knows he should probably put a stop to this if Phil wasn’t going to, for Phil’s sake. He’s not the one with lungs here after all.
(He also wasn’t the one to almost drown.)
Despite this though, Phil chases after him the second he starts to pull away. His nose knocks into Missa’s skull, the edges of his nasal cavity -- and still, that doesn’t deter him. Missa’s endeared laugh gets muffled by Phil’s smiling lips; he can’t help but give into his fluttering chest and Phil’s touch.
Eventually, they part, just not very far. Missa rests his skull against Phil’s forehead -- at his insistence -- to listen to him steady his breath. Behind them, the waves lap at the sand. They’ve gradually dried over time thanks to the enchanted armor they wear, but Missa feels ready to collapse like he’s weighed down by bricks.
He can’t imagine how Phil must be feeling.
“Missa…?”
He blinks, sitting back on his (hurting) knees (ow, he’s been on them too long), peering at Phil. The crow looks like a mess still, but under the moonlight, Missa doesn’t care. Phil gazes at him, hesitant -- an expression Missa’s never seen on him before.
They… have a lot to talk about, don’t they? If Phil even feels comfortable enough to talk to him about it. Something nags in the back of Missa’s mind -- a horrible voice in his head that usually points out all of his insecurities -- that this feels too perfect. The Ender King disappeared too fast. They’re too happy.
Chayanne is still missing. Tallulah is no doubt worrying about him, and Phil, and now Missa. The sand underneath them is bathed in that eerie purple glow from the mass on Phil’s back -- he said something about a backpack? -- and Missa still feels the edges of his fears still gnawing at his bones. Phil isn’t okay, and there’s no telling the next time Missa may wake up.
Phil’s voice carries in the breeze. “Can… can you stay here tonight? With me?”
Oh.
A warmth, fuzzy and like the sun, coils in his ribcage. Missa nods, maybe a bit too aggressively, with, “Sí, sí, si me quieres aquí. Anything, Philza.”
Phil’s smile crinkles the edges of his eyes, his crow’s feet, in a way Missa thinks only he’s seen before. “Thank you. Th- thank you, Missa.” It sounds as if the world is lifted from his wings. Maybe it has.
It isn’t much, but it’s something. They find a spot underneath a tree, far from the beach or the stony cliff, and Phil lights up the area as much as he can despite his exhaustion. As they work together, they talk. This isn’t the end of it. The water scared Ender off, but it didn’t get rid of the mass on Phil’s back, or the darkened claws that were Phil’s hands.
It was enough for tonight. Phil hadn’t slept as a punishment to himself, afraid Ender would take control in his sleep -- but that ended in his downfall the moment his consciousness lapsed with the sleep deprivation. Ender swooped in, and Phil was too exhausted to try and fight back.
So it comes to no surprise that Phil’s asleep the second his head hits Missa’s lap.
Blond hair weaves through Missa’s skeletal hands as he chuckles quietly. With two fingers, he picks up a lock of his hair and presses his lips to it, murmuring to Phil’s sleeping face, “Buenas noches, querido. Que descanses.”
The moon above them wanes into something full, bright, whole -- a lunar eclipse just ending. It watches Missa slowly drift to sleep as well, hearing Death’s distant call.
For the first time in his existence, Missa fights against the natural calling of his undead body. Maybe it’s a pointless fight. Maybe Death will still claim him in the end. Maybe he’ll give into the urge with his fears too heavy and pressing in his mind and submit himself to the void.
He fights because he wants to wake up next to Phil. He can’t leave him alone after tonight. He wants to help him with this, in any way he can.
Just like he promised.
#my writing#qsmp#philza#qsmp philza#qsmp missa#missasinfonia#qsmp ender king#deathduo#death duo#pissa
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one thing that I find really really interesting is that in practically every scene where it's just jiraiya and tsunade alone, kishimoto very deliberately draws at least a panel of the two of them being completely silent in each other's companies, even refusing to look at each other.
when jiraiya got drinks with tsunade in og
when he got drinks with her before he left. notice that neither of them are making any eye contact, refusing to look at each other.
the iconic bench scene ofc
why this is important to me is cause I think it's an excellent way on kishi's part to show the dynamic and history between the two of them (and the sannin as a whole too). ((note this isn't a jiratsu post))
the few scenes we get of the two of them talking alone, you always get the impression that there's a secondary, entirely silent conversation going on in the background that only the two of them even know about. a conversation about all the things they cannot say. and he conveys that so well in these deliberate panels. you can SEE in their expressions, in the things that they do say when they choose to break the silence. there's so much between them, so much they yearn to say. and the weight of all of that, the depth of those feelings and emotions, is ultimately what makes them not say anything at all.
because you've known each other since you were SIX years old, you fought WARS together, this is a person you'd put your life on the line for without a second of hesitation. yet. there is a 20 year gap. you haven't spoken with each other for as long as you grew up together too. they've lived an entire lifetime together, but then an entire equally as long lifetime apart. they're the same person they've always been but yet... you can't really recognise the person in front of you. they both can see that they've become shells of the people they used to be. you both have gone through so much, and you know the the other person knows this. you know it so intimately, what things you can say, what things you can't. youre being so careful yet you both know there's this pretense going on.
there's so much left, yet so little. after all of that, what is there even left to be said? what CAN be said? they're already so intimately aware of what the other is thinking, there's nothing new, yet somehow, there's this gap. there's this emptiness that both know they can't really do anything about.
in the end, the sannin are a tragic trio. and kishi does an excellent job of showing this through their stories and histories, sure. but he does an even better job at showing it through their small interactions together. the way they always end up talking about the past, the attempt to bring up happier times (like tsunade trying to reminisce about their genin days as team hiruzen), yet how they ALWAYS come back to ultimately how they fell apart, and the world kept spinning, and all they can do is try to make sure the future doesn't make the same mistakes they did.
what can you even say to someone like that? it must've been so freeing, to have someone that understands them to such an extent. that would know them more than anyone else in the world ever could imagine. and yet. so suffocating. because they're a reminder. a reminder of what you used to be, a reminder of what could've been, a reminder of how everything went wrong, every single mistake you ever made. and so despite the person in front of you being the only person in the world that likely knows exactly how you're feeling, what you're going through, all your experiences, they're also somehow the last person you can ever speak to about any of it. because it becomes like a trap almost. they're constantly reminded of their pasts when they look at each other. how can you ever begin to move on with someone like that right in front of you?
once upon a time, they were the hope of konoha. they were the young shinobi, meant to bring in a new era of peace, meant to be the change. and they wholeheartedly believed this too. and then, to make it to 50, after everything they went through, and realising they were no better off than the generation before them. that everything they ever stood for, ever fought for, were all practically in vain. and how suddenly the people meant to be the change for the future can only hope to make sure there is still even a chance for change for the next generation.
really, what else are they meant to do around each other than continue their little dance or chess game and let the unspoken remain unspoken?
#like i said i have a lot of feelings and thoughts about the sannin#i cannot get enough of their dynamic#it doesnt help that kishi barely explores them at all#i want to see more of them#i wanna see how three carefree children grow up together and become as fractured as they did#theyre so different from team 7 too#cause team 7 doesnt have that much history that much shared experiences#team 7 are what the sannin couldve been if the sannin didnt give up sure#but there is definitely a reason that made the sannin give up in the first place#we need a prequel#sannin#jiraiya#tsunade#meta#hc#nart#naruto#naruto shippuden#the sannin#the legendary sannin#densetsu no sannin#tsunade senju#sorry im a rambler at heart#a yapper#i cant help myself#what is left????#this is what people mean when they say the silence is so loud its deafening#analysis#stream of consciousness#NOT A SHIP POST
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𝐏𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐏𝐀 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐆𝐎𝐑𝐘 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐐𝐔𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐖𝐎.
All sentences are taken from different books from Phillipa Gregory, specially her series about the historical fiction setting of the war of roses and the tudors era. Change names, locations, pronouns and nouns as you see fit for your own liking. Some of these have slight foul language or involve insuation of sexual situations. Please beware. This is part two. (part one).
You are my joy. You are worth tens of thousands.
The art of happiness is being content with what you have.
Bless you my daughter, and may you remain pure in heart and get your desires.
I want my husband to love me with a passion, like in a troubadour tale, like a knight.
Ah, my dear, you are a good wife. You are my beauty. You are my only love.
Another husband, another new house, another new country, but I never belong anywhere and I never own anything in my own right.
Life is long, and if a woman survives, she can take her pleasures one way or another.
My advice to you, as you go to your husband, is never to trust him and never love him more than he loves you.
This is a generation of men accustomed to warfare, inured to danger and familiar with cruelty.
Last time I danced in these rooms it was the Christmas feast and I was wearing a dress of silk.
I have the Sight, I should have seen it all, but some things are too dark to forsee.
When a country is at war, cousin against cousin, brother against brother, no boy is safe.
People always make up stories about princesses. It comes to us with the crown.
Good God, I could take you in my arms right now.
There is no one who loves peace more than a soldier.
A troubadour to a distant mistress.
Every woman should marry for her own advantage since her husband will represent her.
The castle will seem very quiet and strange without you here.
We may be of the same family, but that is the very reason why we are not friends, for we are rivals for the throne.
Her confidence is extraordinary, her impertinence unforgivable, her words terribly true.
I believe that to be a free woman is to be both passionate and intelligent; and I am a free woman at last.
She doesn't realize yet though men go to war it is the women who suffer--perhaps more than anyone.
They are a couple in love, and anyone but a fool would see it is simply that, nothing more- and certainly nothing less.
We are Plantagenets - we dine on a diet of betrayal and heartbreak.
One little boy, and he a bastard.
The queen sees me coming, turns toward us and waits, with a killer's patience, for me to reach the chancel steps.
I am the daughter of a water goddess. I am a woman with water in her veins and power in her breeding.
I am not defeated by a boy with a newly won crown, and no man will ever walk away from me certain that he won’t walk back.
Compared with the rest of us she was silver, while we were pewter, a common mixture of lead and tin.
I was born to be Queen of England and mother of the next King of England. I have to fulfill my destiny, it is my God-given destiny.
I will stand up and speak in my own voice and no man will ever silence me again.
Affection is not important to you, nor to me. You want power Margaret, power and wealth; and so do I.
A woman of sense would marry only for the improvement of her family. Only a lustful fool dreams every night of a marriage of love.
All this is always for nothing.
Her heart has to break and her spirit has to break if she is to be any use to her family.
Your son is heir to an enormous fortune and name. Someone would be bound to bid for you him and take him as his ward.
Your son is heir to an enormous fortune and name. Someone would be bound to bid for you him and take him as his ward.
It's not an easy dance she's leading.
Bed, Wife.
You look as if you would eat me up.
I cannot think how to sate my desire for you. I think I will have to keep you prisoner here and eat you up in little cutlets, day after day.
But you would not get out till you were with child.
It is easier to take a country into war than to bring it to live at peace.
When you are still and thoughtful you are as lovely as the statues they are carving in Italy.
Jane had gone to pray for the dead queen, Anne would dance on her grave.
I have a longing for you, Lady Elizabeth Grey, that I have never felt for any woman before.
Come to me, I beg you, come to me. It could be my last wish. Will you come to me tonight?
I cannot be your mistress. I would rather die than dishonor my name. I cannot bring that shame on my family.
This is my marriage, and I want my wife in my bed.
Learning is an ornament to a good woman, not a distraction.
I would rather see you dead at my feet than dishonored.
What if the king is killed in battle?
I have loved you honorably as a knight should do his lady, and I have loved you passionately as a man might a woman.
I am not defeated by a boy with a newly won crown.
It's not magic. It's what any slut does if she has her wits about her.
He was such a happy boy, and happiness is not memorable.
I have a right to you, as your betrothed husband.
He has to marry a princess.
You have married a man who is going to die in his bed, preferably after making love to the most beautiful woman in England.
I will make sure that the most beautiful woman in your eyes is always me.
If you hate a woman, the first thing you destroy is her reputation.
Don't waste your courage on hating him. Keep yourself to yourself. And keep up your courage.
Where have I offended you?
And now I want love. Lust is no good for me. I want love. His love.
She can be pious, she can be learned, she can be witty and wise and beautiful.
And swore that whatever the obstacles before me, I should be Queen of England.
My chamber. Come at once.
It seems that we have to be married.
So now we are going to consummate our betrothal.
Let’s dance for the Queen of the May!
My mother does not need your good opinion.
If I burned them, I became as one of those who think that ideas are dangerous and should be destroyed.
From the moment she could talk she had been taught to guard her tongue.
I gave my womanhood to you. Tell me, in what way have I offended you? What have I ever done which was displeasing?
But don’t run too fast. Remember he has to catch you.
Nobody in this world will ever call me Mrs. Fool.
You can always tell a pretty girl by the way she walks. A pretty girl walks like she owns the world.
I thought that our marriage vows had moved your heart. I thought that you were resting your head on my shoulder for affection. Fool that I am.
I adore your hair, I like to see it loose.
I am as envious of her as she is of me. But I have seen her rise and rise.
Because I dare not look at you, because if I did, every man and woman at court would sell at that in my eyes.
Because I can't sleep for thinking of you. Because I burn up with desire for you.
You’re a girl from the House of Lancaster. You cannot fall in love with the heir to the House of York unless he is king victorious.
Child, you cannot change a king, you can only make him laugh.
What will happen when I am old and I can dance no more?
She seems not to have a seat of her own but she must borrow mine.
The queen is right. The queen is always right.
I’m not a girl, afraid of the unknown, I am a woman; I can face fear, I can walk towards it.
And we hardly ever speak of her. It is as if we cannot bring ourselves to speak of her as dead.
A lady will find her defenders. The men around you will speak for you if needs be.
She can speak three languages, but she can tell the truth in none of them.
She never thought when she overthrew a queen that thereafter all queens would be unsteady.
What if I don’t want an unwilling bridegroom, a pretender to the crown, who won his throne through disloyalty and betrayal?
His is a rule of terror. He makes us afraid of imaginary enemies so we don’t guard ourselves against him and against our government.
#roleplay memes#sentence meme#( cali meme. )#rp memes#rp prompt#rp musings#roleplay prompt#royal scheme#royal concept#phillipa gregory book quotes
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"When knife and sword are reunited, so shall our people be."
(listen, I'm about to get crazy here so please take this theory with a grain of salt. This is probably more wishful thinking than me believing I have it right)
The above is the Crescent City prophecy right? And Aidas tells them the sword belongs to Theia's female line.
But the thing is, that sword never really belonged to Theia in the first place, it rightfully belonged to Fionn, the first and only High King of Prythian.
"that one of the Fae heroes who rose up to overthrow them was Fionn, who was given the great sword Gwydion by the High Priestess Oleanna, who had dipped it into the Cauldron itself. Fionn and Gwydion overthrew the Daglan. A millennium of peace followed, and the lands were divided into rough territories that were the precursors to the courts"
“The last one Made, the great blade Gwydion, vanished around the time the last of the Trove went missing.”
"This sword isn’t Gwydion,” Cassian said, well aware of the myths regarding the sword. It had belonged to a true Fae High King in Prythian, as there had been in Hybern."
Amren lived in Prythian prior to Fionn and Gwydion arising in history and she only went to the Prison once the Daglan were defeated. Therefore she is as accurate of a source of Gwydions origins as we're going to get.
Theia most likely stole the sword from Fionn:
“Fionn was betrayed by his queen, who had been leader of her own territory, and by his dearest friend, who was his general. They killed him, taking some of his bloodline’s most powerful and precious weapons,
then ended up in Midgard through the tear in their worlds.
I am not of the belief that the people of Midgard will end up on Prythian, I think the Merpeople, otters, shifters, angels wolves, etc are happy in their modern society and plan on fighting for their world rather than ending up on another planet where they don't even speak the language and where they wouldn't even have homes to live in considering nothing but the Prison exists on "the lost Dusk Court" (which was never actually a court). I don't think those on Midgard feel they need to reconnect with "their people" considering those in ACOTAR are really just strangers they may have shared a common ancestor with 15,000 years ago. They're not "their people" but the people on Midgard are.
On Midgard, their biggest threat is the Asteri and those who work for them but to me, they're not really a land divided, they're a land being suppressed by a dictatorship.
However, we do have another series where the land is divided, where the people are at odds with one another:
“Do you think we stand a chance?” I asked, motioning to the human figures still walking, far away, back toward the camp. “Of peace between all of us?”
There was still much work to be done, trust to build, but the matter of crafting a new wall … It remained to be seen whether we could agree on that. Many of us were against it. Many of the humans, rightfully so, were wary. There were still other Fae territories to contend with—those who had found Hybern’s promises appealing. Seductive. The High Lords quarreled the most about the possibility of a new wall. And with every word of it, just as Helion said, that temporary allegiance frayed and snapped. Court lines were redrawn.
"We need the humans in other territories to trust us, if we can ever hope to achieve lasting peace.”
“Why does your father want to start a war so badly?” “Why does anyone go to war?” Eris reached out a long, slender hand, letting the falling petals gather there. “Why does Vallahan not sign the treaty? The borders of this new world have not yet been set.”
“Beron knows another war that pits Fae against Fae would be catastrophic. Many of us would be wiped out entirely. Especially …
It doesn't seem to matter how many came together to defeat Hybern, the humans, the fae in the continent, and the courts of Prythian are all at odds with one another after the war. Rhys knows the humans don't completely trust them and they're struggling to get Vallahan to sign the leave treaty.
The people of their world are not united.
“And I won’t?” Rhys demanded, standing. “I will not be High King. I will not consider it, not today and not in a century.”
“Very well then, Rhysand.” Amren also turned from the desk and the blades Rhys’s magic now sheathed and set upon the surface. “But know that the Cauldron’s benevolence will be extended to you only for so long before it is offered to another.”
I don't think Rhys will ever be High King though Cassian can't imagine anyone being a "fairer ruler than Rhys" but it does seem like SJM is hinting that someone might be.
I love Rhys but other courts and those in the human lands and continent don't trust him (understandable given that he spent centuries letting them believe he should be feared).
So who would be a fair ruler?
“I claimed Lucien as my own—named him emissary, since he’d already made many friends across the courts and had always been good at talking to people,
so he spent his youth doing everything a High Lord’s son probably shouldn’t: wandering the courts, making friends with the sons of other High Lords”—
Lucien shifted in his seat. “Not to be the bearer of truly bad tidings, but my contact at the Winter Court managed to get a letter to me.”
Thoughts slammed into me, images and memories, a pattern of thinking and feeling that was old, and clever, and sad, so endlessly sad"
"Things were bad, Feyre. I went in his stead, and I did my duty to the court."
His mother’s family is strong—that was why Beron wanted a bride from their line. The gift could be hers.
Other than the fact that Lucien might be Helion’s sole heir.
Lucien had remained behind to help with any of the human wounded still needing Fae healing, but had promised to come here when he finished
“Send Lucien, then. As our human emissary.”
Lucien had encountered him, I realized. Somehow, in living with Jurian and Vassa at that manor, he’d run into Elain’s former betrothed. And managed to leave the human lord breathing.
“He’s spent months helping them sort out the politics of who rules Prythian’s slice of the human lands,”
The male had grown up alongside Eris. Had dealt with Eris’s and Beron’s cruelty. Had his lover slaughtered by his own father. But Lucien had learned to keep his cool.
“Easy,” Lucien said. Cassian snarled. “Easy,” Lucien repeated, and flame sizzled in his russet eye. The flame, the surprising dominance within it, hit Cassian like a stone to the head, knocking him from his need to kill and kill and kill whatever might threaten—
He’d been trained, he once told me—at the Autumn Court and at this one. Like Rhys, he usually opted for words to win his battles, but I’d seen him and Tamlin in the practice ring. He knew how to handle a weapon. How to kill, if need be.
High King would not be the most powerful, they'd simply be the one capable of uniting everyone (sort of like Captain America, he's the team leader giving the big pep talk before battle). And there is only one character in the series who has friends across all courts, who is good at talking to people, who keeps his cool and doesn't seek out revenge even when he has the right to, who does his duty to one court, helps out another as emissary while being heir to third and the son to his powerful mother in a fourth, who helped the humans in a way no other did after the war, who prefers words to win his battles but can fight when necessary.
In mythology, Fionn Mac Cumhaill is the leader of a group of hunter - warriors, often depicted with his hunting hounds and fighting with his spear and sword.
What court in ACOTAR has hounds? Autumn.
Fionn was also able to call upon the "Thumb of Knowledge" which equates to wisdom.
Also from mythology "With natural fighting and hunting ability and now all of the world’s knowledge at his disposal, Fionn was poised to be a remarkable leader."
"A pattern of thinking and feeling that was old, and clever"
"he waded into the stream, boots off and pants rolled to his knees, and caught one with his bare hands".
"My friend had been economical about which ones he'd selected. The blade, plus a short sword, plus an assortment of daggers. A quiver of arrows and an unstrung bow were tied to his pack.
"but I'd seen him and Tamlin in the practice ring. He knew how to handle a weapon. How to kill, if need be."
"Where's my dear friend Lucien?" "Hunting for dinner."
What if Lucien is somehow a descendent of Fionn on his mothers side?
Gwydion, which Fionn wielded, means "born of trees" and SJM once said this of Lucien:
His woods, by blood and law. He was a son of this forest, and here....He looked crafted from it. For it"
(another note about Gwydion, it was the name of the magician who created Blodeuwedd out of flowers for the hero Lleu to have a wife and we know SJM tagged a picture of Blodeuwedd with Elain's name. Also Gwydion was Lleu's uncle in the tale).
Gwydion, in ACOTAR, also has a "savior's light" with Lucien's name meaning light and Feyre reminding us a few times of his goodness.
Again with this excerpt:
"Fionn was betrayed by his queen, who had been leader of her own territory, and by his dearest friend who was his general. They killed him, taking some of his bloodline's most powerful and precious weapons, and then out of the chaos that followed..."
In CC history, the sword belonged to Theia and Aidas angrily claims it belongs to her daughters line (it's important to note he's speaking as an angry ex lover who doesn't feel it belonged to Pelias's offspring) but in Prythian history, it doesn't seem like Theia is quite the hero of the story considering an unnamed queen married to Fionn and Fionn's general killed him. If Prythian's history is accurate, it was in his possession for years after being gifted to him by the High Priestess before it was taken by his queen after his murder, "his bloodline's most powerful and precious weapons".
We've gotten hints that the fae (including the Starborn), the Illyrians, etc were possibly "made" by the Daglan. Gwydion was "made" when it was dipped into the Cauldron therefore the Starsword could theoretically respond to anyone made or descended from those who are made (like calls to like).
Amren tells us made objects can also choose to reveal themselves to certain people when they have their own plan.
What if Truth Teller, which Az now has, once belonged to the general who also betrayed Fionn? What if TT is the weapon that killed Fionn? What if Gwydion doesn't necessarily belong to Bryce and she was simply part of the prophecy as Theia's female heir (Theia who murdered Fionn or was somehow involved), to return the sword to where it belongs? Sort of righting a wrong? (and kind of like what Aelin did with Elena and the other goddesses).
The novella and SF has been building up major animosity between Lucien and Az. Mostly on Az's side because of his jealousy that Lucien was given a bond with the "third sister" while his brothers are with the other two along with his possible jealousy over the NC relying on Lucien for information where Az was once the one they turned to. Because of that jealousy, Az isn't thinking clearly and doesn't seem to care about the problems he might create between the courts as a result, "I'll defeat him with little effort". To which Rhys responds: "And your doing so will rip apart any fragile peace and alliances we have".
The ACOTAR world settled into a fragile peace after the war, only to have Az threatening that tentative peace over Lucien and Elain. That sounds like Rhys's attempt to prevent a repeat of history, the peace Fionn brought about thrown into chaos over the actions of Theia and the general:
"They killed him, taking some of his bloodline’s most powerful and precious weapons, and then out of the chaos that followed"
What if the Az, Lucien and Elain setup is an echo of what happened between Fionn, Theia and the general.
What if Bryce returning Gwydion to the world of Prythian and it eventually being given to Lucien (maybe Fionn's ancestor), is a course correction from a bloody history?
And what if "when knife and sword are reunited, so shall our people be" is actually referring to Lucien and Az, two characters who have unknown history's with Gwydion and it's matching dagger, not making the same mistakes their ancestors did so that Lucien can take up the role of High King in whatever war is coming their way, uniting the humans, the fae in Prythian and the fae on the continent in order to defeat a more major threat to their world (possibly the Asteri if they do actually find their way back to the world of their brothers and sisters as they've been trying to do).
Again, their world is the one who currently needs united in a way that Midgard does not. Their world is the one that is divided and a world divided is not in a place to fight against major threats coming their way.
"Our people" may not mean the people living on Midgard but the ones who are living on the world they all originated from. Sort of like someone living in America but referring to "my people" in reference to their ancestors who are living in the country of their heritage.
Bryce has her own people to save on Midgard but what if the first step to doing that is learning about the Asteri and who they really are and learning the history of her people? And the way SJM brought all of that about was by creating a storyline where she, as Theia's descendent, came into possession of a sword that rightfully belongs in Prythian. The sword recognized her as the bloodline of the female who stole the sword, knowing she'd be the one to help it find it's way home (since we're told in SF that made objects have a mind of their own). With it's twin the beacon calling her to the world of ACOTAR where she can gather the knowledge she needs while also righting the wrongs of her ancestor (something we saw on the TOG series).
And as a final point, Helion is connected to the Mask through his ancestors, the Mask being a made object of the Trove. Gwydion, another Made object, also went missing around the time the Trove did. Following the "like calls to like" narrative, if Helion is connected to Made objects that means Lucien as his son would also be.
(below is a follow up to this original post)
#high king lucien#pro lucien vanserra#lucien spell cleaver#azriel acotar#sarah j mass#elucien#acotar theory#crescent city#crescent city theory#hofas theory#crossover acotar#azriel shadowsinger#lucien vanserra
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Hopelessness
@prongsfoot-microfic
It turned out that this microfic is 1600 words long, so if it's more convenient for someone to read on AO3, here's the link.
It's jilypad.
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Sirius kisses Lily’s belly, stretched by a muggle T-shirt with Black Sabbath on it, his gift. The air's filled with the light scent of jasmine from the open window, letting in the cool June breeze. Lily isn't really into Black Sabbath, but Sirius hopes the band's symbolism might somehow influence Harry’s musical taste, since he’s got no hope with Lily and James. As Lily recently said, she wears that T-shirt solely because it features a "handsome vocalist" who reminds her of Sirius. Sirius is quite pleased with that outcome.
They're sprawled on a wide sofa under a soft blanket, Sirius snuggled up beside Lily. The quiet of the Potter home, only interrupted by the ticking of antique clocks, always puts Sirius in a peaceful state. Lily gently strokes her rounded belly, while Sirius, with his arm around her waist, draws patterns on her skin, occasionally leaving soft kisses in response to the baby's sharp kicks. James, sitting opposite in a battered chair once favoured by Fleamont, reads the newspaper, his eyes scanning the pages gloomily.
"Oh," Lily exhales lightly. "He's been kicking all day. Extra lively today."
"Harry," Sirius murmurs softly, amazed at the depth of feeling he has for a child not yet born. "My handsome, smart boy."
"When did you get so sentimental?" James asks, not looking up from his paper.
"Since you married this incredible woman and started your own amateur production of 'Tiny Humans.' Even my frostbitten heart had to defrost for the premiere."
"Oh, my love," Lily, smiling softly, reaches out to gently ruffle Sirius's hair, "sometimes I think, what if I'd married you instead of James? How much prettier would my child be?" Lily's light, carefree laughter makes Sirius smile.
"Hey," James perks up, pretending to be offended. "There’s a lot of Blacks. And only one of me. Harry's gonna have the most unique hair in all of Magical Britain."
"And the dullest sense of humour," Sirius shoots back, still focused on the belly, speaking in a teasingly sweet tone as if talking to Harry. "Hopefully, you’ve got a better one. You got a bit short-changed on the genes from one side, but I promise to teach you."
"At least my humour doesn’t make people want to off themselves," counters James.
"You adore my jokes, don't kid yourself."
"Haven't heard one yet."
Sirius flicks his middle finger at James, who just chuckles, then removes his glasses and rubs his nose bridge in mock exasperation.
"Everything alright?" Lily asks him, concern in her voice.
"Yeah," James replies, trying to mask the worry in his voice. "Just going to make some tea."
Rising from his chair and heading to the kitchen, James leaves a trail of unspoken thoughts behind him. Sirius watches him go, and Lily, with a soft sigh, shakes her head.
"He's like this all day. Lost in thoughts about the war. Sticks to me like glue. Fancy taking him out somewhere? Hit a pub? Even stay out all night. He needs to get out more. He can't keep guarding me from God knows what," Lily adjusts a stray lock of Sirius's hair, a simple, familiar gesture.
"Alright, but not tonight," Sirius responds tenderly, kissing Lily's belly one last time before gently running his hand over her soft skin and carefully standing up from the sofa to not disturb her.
"Patrol?"
"Yeah," Sirius glances at the old wall clock, "and I'm already late."
"Why don't you move in with us?" Lily stops him with the question she poses every month.
"Don’t start," Sirius says with a light reprimand. "I'd end up covered in old people's dust here, sipping teas and reading newspapers. Tea? Seriously? When was the last time I drank tea?"
Her laughter, bright and full, fills the room, reflecting off the warm glow of the candles. She could easily shift from a pensive mood to mirth, and really, it took nothing to make her laugh. Lily was always so light, Sirius adored that about her. Like an autumn maple leaf playfully dancing with the wind – always ready to soar at the slightest breeze.
"Come here," she extends her arms, and Sirius leans in, allowing Lily to plant a tender kiss on his lips. "I love you," she looks at him, her gaze filled with care and tenderness, "Be careful."
"You too," Sirius smiles and ruffles her hair. "Look after Harry."
Stepping into the hallway, leaving Lily resting on the sofa, Sirius grabs his jacket from the coat rack and pulls it on, whistling a tune he caught in some noisy muggle café.
"James! I’m off."
James peeks out from the kitchen, holding a pack of tea.
"Not staying for tea?" he asks, knowing the answer already.
Sirius isn't much for tea, yet James has been offering it to him for years. In an attempt to make the drink more appealing, he once even started spiking the tea with Firewhisky. That gimmick worked for a while, but soon not even Firewhisky could dispel Sirius's irritation with the whole tedious, monotonous process.
"No, got patrol."
James looks slightly disappointed, tosses the tea pack onto a table cluttered with books and newspapers, and approaches Sirius.
"Lily suggested we should hit a bar," Sirius mentions.
James shrugs, adjusting his glasses absently.
"I can't leave her alone. Every time I go on patrol, you know it’s torture for me. I keep thinking something might happen, that they might attack our home, and…"
"I know," Sirius cuts him off. "That’s why I’m not inviting you. Just passing on Lily’s words."
James gives a soft smile, tilting his head slightly.
"You’ll come over on Friday?" he asks.
"Yes."
"And stay the night?"
"Of course."
James nods and hugs Sirius, pressing his face to his neck. Sirius leans into his ear, kissing it and breathing in the scent of earthy moss and the morning forest. James's scent always carried the notes of their moonlit adventures, as if his skin had absorbed the essence of those nights. They stand in silence for a moment until the soft hum of an old radio playing a vintage jazz tune Lily adores drifts in from the living room.
"Everything will be alright, James, hear me?" Sirius whispers, probably a bit too roughly patting James on the head as his movements have grown more abrupt lately. "I promise. Everything will be alright. With Lily, with you, with Harry."
"Yes," James says, rubbing an eye then running a hand through his hair. "Of course. It'll be alright. With you too."
"I'm not that important."
"Don't talk like that," James responds in a strained voice.
"I’d do anything for you, whatever it takes," Sirius says in a matter-of-fact tone, as if they’re discussing a Christmas dinner menu, not talking about things people usually don’t say to each other when everything’s fine.
James steps back, looks up at Sirius, and smirks, chasing away the worried shadows from his face.
"Have I mentioned you’ve become sentimental?"
"I've spent too much time around a mushy sod like you," Sirius grins, shrugging. "Bad influence."
James laughs, shoving Sirius's shoulder then pulling him in close, as if wanting to hide away in Sirius's broad embrace.
"I love you, you idiot," he kisses him, fingers threading through Sirius’s hair, tousling it. "Don’t be late on Friday. Lily’s making your favourite blueberry pie."
"I won’t," Sirius breathes out huskily.
James nods, and Sirius steps out the door. The June air hits his face, a warm breeze flicking a lock of hair from his forehead. The scent of night flowers mingles with the smell of fresh paint – someone nearby decided to give their fence a fresh coat.
Sirius moves a few meters away, casting one last glance at the Potters' house. James stands in the doorway, leaning on one shoulder against the frame. Sirius catches his worried gaze and nods subtly in response.
A moment later, Sirius apparates, but James's troubled face lingers in his mind like an echo. Usually, James's face brings peace, but this time it leaves a quiet itch, a reminder that Sirius is missing something, yet can't quite grasp what it is.
The war makes everyone nervous, anxious, and lost, and Sirius knows better than to succumb to these draining sentiments. But seeing those feelings in James – the person who made Sirius believe that even in the coldest winter, there's an unbeatable summer living inside him – Sirius realizes things are grim.
Of course, Sirius will come over on Friday. Perhaps he'll stay for the weekend, and they'll spend it together, like old times, before the threat of war knocked so clearly on their doors. They'll wake up to a late breakfast in the garden, reminiscing about school under the rustling of green leaves and birdsong, and perhaps even making plans for the future where the war is just a distant memory—a future where Sirius already knows exactly how to raise Harry and what gifts to give him from the very first months of his life.
A future where they're together.
After breakfast, they'll apparate to the lake, where James will set up broom races, beating Sirius yet again. Lily, always rooting for Sirius, will put on a theatrical display of disappointment and spend the day cheering him up, recounting for the hundredth time the tales of James's rare Quidditch misplays at Hogwarts—as if Sirius didn't already know each one by heart.
After dinner, James will suggest a game of wizard chess, and Lily will pick out a book to read aloud by the fireplace. Soon, she will head to bed early, as has become more common since she got pregnant, and James and Sirius will go out to the garden, lie on the grass, and spend the night forgetting all worries, remembering that it's moments like these for which they're fighting and ruthlessly suppressing the hopelessness that seeks to consume their souls.
#james potter#sirius black#lily evans#prongsfoot microfic#jilypad#it seems to me this might be too saccharine#prongsfoot
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Please ignore this, I'm sorry to rent I just really need to get this out of my system after seeing some of the gross messages people have been sending you...
All these idiots defending Israel and calling people who support Palestine anti-semitic need to wake up...
I'm literally 100% Jewish but I'm anti Zionist and people are accusing me of going against my religion. Zionism is a political ideology and it does not define my jewishness. Anyone who thinks otherwise has literally been brainwashed by the Israeli government and it is so shameful for me to currently live in a western country whose government is falling victim to the same type of brainwashing. For anyone who claims to be jewish, christian, or muslim, you cannot claim yourself to be a child of God yet sit back and be silent when Israel is committing genocide against other children of god, in the name of God. There are rules and Commandments at the forefront of all these abrahamic religions and a constant in every single one is to not kill another human. How do you think the so-called God you claim to worship will react if you are participating in the murder of hundreds of thousands of innocent people?
If Israel is claiming that their efforts are focused on getting rid of hamas, why are they attacking the West Bank where there is no hamas? why are they attacking Palestinian Christian churches when Hamas is an Islamic extremist group? Why have they been constantly harassing and attacking Palestinians for over 75 years when form a majority of that time, Hamas did not exist? Sounds like genocide to me
And to add on to that, people who are claiming this is Palestinians fault for voting Hamas in, 1-Israel created Hamas and 2 over 50% of the population wasn't alive when that last election happened and over 70% of the current adult population weren't even of age to vote in that election.
To those saying it's about the hostages, Israel does not care about the hostages because if they did they wouldn't be blindly blowing up Gaza not knowing where these hostages are being held. If they did they would have released the thousands of Palestinian hostages and political prisoners who have no confirmed affiliations with Hamas. Please do not misunderstand my words, obviously there are innocent Israeli civilians who should not have died, but there no way there can be peace if Israel's retaliation comes in the form of purposely targeting civilian homes and murdering thousands of innocent people, a majority of those being literal children.
It's just really blowing my mind that some of my Jewish brothers and sisters who have family who have directly experienced the holocaust, and have lost family during the Holocaust are sitting idly sit by and watching as the same exact thing is happening to another group of people. These are the Jews that are claiming Israel is a holy land given to them by God and that they are indigenous to israel, but if they're saying this they have obviously not read the torah. The Torah explicitly states that they were people in the land of Israel before Abraham led the Israelites there, and they were murdered so that the Jews can have the land. There are certain sects of Judaism is that believe we jews are not entitled to Israel because our Messiah has not arrived and those people have been very openly Pro-palestine.
Netanyahu and his entire cabinet are a bunch of war criminal, power hungry freaks who are using this as an opportunity to seize more power, more money, more support, and more Palestinian lives. As a Jew, it is my responsibility to speak up about this and I will never stop until Palestine is truly free.
Good anon👏
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I don’t know how this narrative principle is properly called in English but today I finished reading an academic paper on “backend vs. frontend motivation” in stories and I am nerding off big-time.
One of the most important elements of modern media to me, especially in film, is for it to be motivated from the ‘front’, that means from the beginning. You gotta have a starting conflict so well fleshed out that it justifies all which comes next in a domino chain of such bulletproof logical consequence that it cannot be questioned until it inevitably culminates in the grand, satisfying finish. Only then is an ending good and only then can it be truly enjoyable.
The best example of which that remains to this day is How To Train Your Dragon.
In my opinion this movie leaves no room for a different ending. Were it to be replayed thousands and thousands of times, it would always unfold the same way. It’s that solid. Solid in its core conflict, in its character designs, in its stakes. It would choose to happen the exact same way again every time. Everything is in-universe consistent and character-consistent to a T. I believe luck, or chance, played a role in the creation of this movie because humanity is just not able to think up something as perfect as this on purpose.
While the sequels are - generally speaking - good, the failure to recreate the artistic mastery of the first movie can be seen in them. Glimpses of the original magic do appear more often than I had feared, which pleasantly surprised me for both the second and the third movie. However, both sequels have obvious weak points. The first movie has none. None. It’s somehow flawless.
I attribute its success to strong frontend motivation. There is an age-old war yet it threatens the current generation’s survival as acutely as it did on the first day. The People are tired and it’s either the annihilation of the enemy or resigning themselves to poverty and death. Berk is backed into a strategic corner and while Stoick is far from giving up, he doesn’t know where to take fresh ideas from. The absurd third possibility of talking peace with the dragons comes from the innocence of a child human and a child dragon. The grown-ups couldn’t have done it, yet so unexpectedly balance is achieved. It’s brilliant.
Httyd1: Shitty war -> needs to end (peacefully if possible, because the vikings are not bad people...but Stoick doesn’t see hope). + DRAGONS.
Httyd2: Hiccup Will Be Chief, therefore let’s throw some growth at him and kill off Stoick so that the two won’t fight about how to run the village later (because that would be in their characters).
Httyd3: The Dragons Will Leave, therefore let’s create an artificial villain, and a convenient dragon girlfriend, and make Toothless ooc to achieve it.
See, Httyd gradually declines into using backend motivation and that’s why the third movie works even less than the second. At least Httyd2 had a strong middle, that is, from Flying With Mother til Hiccup starts talking to Drago. Don’t make the mistake of buying into the rest: Nowhere was the topic of Hiccup becoming Chief even a thing before Httyd2. Also, Hiccup behaved ooc with his sole focus on dragons (at the so-uncaring-that-it-must-be-intentional expense of humans) and the no-kill rule. And Stoick died not from a plasma blast, but for plot convenience.
The third movie, in turn, gave Hiccup his original character back and bestowed a glow-up onto him and Astrid and their relationship, but at the cost of Toothless’ personality and backstory... and the general in-universe logic, such as Grimmel’s hollow arc (stressing his intelligence when he’s clearly NOT). You see, both movies have their strengths, but it just doesn’t work when the creators think up the ending first and are willing to bend everything else, however painfully, to achieve exactly that desired ending.
The newest marvel of frontend motivation done right is of course Puss in Boots: The Last Wish. The reason why it’s just so good is because the arc of Puss eventually losing his lives was not a forced narrative, simply conjured up to Have Puss Do More Jiggling On Screen. It was an innate part of his self, already there in his character from the start, and was inevitably going to become a problem some day. The creators made the most of it by dealing with it not after 8 more daring adventures that were clearly fabricated to generate money in theaters (what a nightmare to think about), but by insinuating that Puss has already lived some of those lives, giving him depth. Because we have not seen all of them, yet our famed hero has been shaped by them.
One could argue that the quest for the Wishing Star was a little too cheap of a narrative. But Puss has been a serious character stuck in a world full of dumb magical creatures and artefacts before. That’s literally the universe he lives in. So it works. And ohh, how magnificently it works.
So anyway. Front-end motivation, people. Has usually better characters too because the plot is tied to their consistency. It makes the ending of their story depend on themselves, not on ex-universe tinkering or budgets. Use it more, please and thank you.
#httyd#httyd2#httyd3#httyd franchise#analysis#httyd analysis#puss in boots 2#puss in boots the last wish#wherethekiteflies#storytelling#yup I like this; this may be one of my best posts yet
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Certain things can't be overcome, you just have to learn how to live with it...
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Pairing: Peeta Mellark x Therapist!Reader
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Summary: Even if he loves you, even if you love him, her memory won't let you have a happy ending.
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Warnings: Mention of trauma, PTSD, requited love but unrequited love too ? it's complicated, hurt and comfort ?
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A/N: I just finished watching Hunger Games and boyyy, Peeta deserved better. Like, fight me idc, he's the sweetest ever, must protect.
Feedback and comments are appreciated ♡
"What do you remember, Peeta ?"
"Blood. Screams. Lots of screams."
"What period of your life are you talking about?"
"My teenage years? The games, I think. There was a lot of death. S-so much death…"
"It's okay Peeta, you're safe now."
"Am I..?"
"Of course you are. Look around you. Tell me three things that you can see."
"You. A vase and...a cat."
"Three things that you can hear."
"Your voice, the birds and a kettle."
"You're doing good Peeta. Now three things that you can smell ?"
"Your fragrance, bread and lavender."
"Excellent. See ? There's nothing here which can harm you. Well except for Mittens but I swear that he's a good companion. Hold on I'll be back in a few seconds."
Peeta watched you get up from your seat and walk to the kitchen, a smile on your face. He loved to see you smile. You were so pretty when you smiled.
"Peeta ! Would you like some tea ?"
The boy smiled to himself and answered "Yes !" before taking a look at his surroundings, noticing once again the cozy decorations which made your house look cozy. He has been there so many time that he could tell what and where were the objects in the room with his eyes closed.
"Here. I brought us some of the bread that you gave me. What do you think about Camomille tea ?"
"Sounds perfect, thank you."
A comfortable silence took over the room, the sound of water filling glasses and birds singing outside adding to the serenity Peeta felt. He wasn't used to feeling like this. So…peaceful. He only felt that way when he was in this room. No. When he was with you. But every time he questioned his feelings for you, a name kept coming to his mind.
"Katniss."
"Yeah ? What can you tell me about her ?" you got comfortable in your seat, crossing you legs and taking a sip of your tea.
"She was a mutt- No. She was my first love. She's the… the Mockingjay. Katniss Everdeen, tribute of District Twelve." Peeta murmured, his gaze growing distant as the words left his mouth. And yet, he continued to speak, trying to make an effort but… "She is the reason for the war. The reason why- why all those people- Argh!" the young man shouted and stood up, grabbing his hair and walking at an increasing pace around the room. "My name is Peeta Mellark and I'm from District 12. My name is…"
"Peeta Mellark and you're a baker in Senew."
"Katniss-"
"Left to live her life in the forest."
"You're lying!" he approached you with long strides, pointing an accusing finger at your face.
You put your cup down and sat up straight, shrinking into your seat so that Peeta wouldn't perceive you as a threat. "No Peeta. I am not. All of this. What they said, what they did to you, it's all gone." you added in a soft voice, in an effort to get him through this post-traumatic episode as calmly as possible.
"Is- is it..?" he asked with a quivering voice, falling on his knee just in front of you.
You reached out to him, hesitated, and then brought your hand back to you. He was your patient, he needed a professional, not physical affection. "It's all gone. You've lived here since the end of the rebellion, you said you always wanted to be a baker who could help anyone in need. Everyone loves your food, people come from everywhere to get a piece of cake."
"Yeah, I always wanted to be a baker…" he whispered. He inhaled deeply, trying to regulate his breathing, but judging by the trembling of his hands you knew he was about to give in. "Why… Why can't I just overcome it ? All of this, the nightmares, the screams, the memories. Her…" he sobbed, resting his head on your legs as he hid his face. He didn't want you to see him in such a pitiful state.
"Certain things can't be overcome, you just have to learn how to live with it. You do things that you like, meet people that you love, eat what you enjoy the most. You live your daily life and hope that the pain will go away, you change your mind and try to not think about the things that you lost. You learn everything again. Yo take baby step."
"Did you- did you do all of this..?"
"Yes, yes I did…" your voice broke a little but you tried to keep a strong exterior for Peeta, you had to be the one to console him, not the other way around. "We all suffered from what happened two years ago. We all have lost loved ones. Sometimes their presence lingers in the air. You think you hear them, you hear them laugh. But it's just a memory, something your mind made up to make you feel better…"
"I listen to the laughs of someone that I like. I watch him smile. He's just right there in front of me, it's enough. I remember that I'm not alone, I'm not the only one who suffered, we all are here for each other, to help, protect and provide."
"Sometimes I- I hear a laugh. A woman's laugh. I see the glimpse of her smile and I feel the stroke of her hands on my hair. And- It feels so real."
"Does it ?"
"Yeah."
"Isn't it just a memory ?"
"No. It's real. You're real."
"Peeta..."
"I'm so sorry, you deserve so much better than a guy with a bunch of traumas who can't forget about his first love."
"You-" you burst into tears. How could you be the therapist here when this man, this precious, kind and lovable man was degrading himself for others mistakes. When the man that you secretly loved was telling you that his heart could never truly belongs to you ? "You are so much more, Peeta, so much more."
#hunger games#peeta mellark#peeta x reader#peeta mellark x reader#hunger games imagine#peeta mellark imagine#x reader#angst#the hunger games
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Could you use prompt 52. “Don’t look at me like that.” And a foxhole kiss for Bill Hoosier Smith of the Pacific?
Sky Full Of Stars // Bill "Hoosier" Smith Imagine
AN: Long time since writing. I have definitely missed it. I might be a bit rusty but I hope ya'll enjoy. And I used to have a taglist, but I honestly lost track. So just comment if I should make a post for people to comment on, making a new taglist!
Word Count: 1,711
Y/N sat in the foxhole, staring up at the stars that remained in the sky above. Her mind was mostly blank at that moment. It was a rough day for all of the Marines. A lot of loss, a lot of hunger, and a lot of lost morale. It was war after all. But, Y/N couldn’t help but just stare at the sky and think of nothing. She would rather think of nothing than think about how much she was truly hating life at this moment. Hating how hungry she was. Hating how tired she was. Hating how sweaty, unclean, and hating the stretch that her nearly rotten uniform stunk of after days to months of wearing it with no opportunity to shower. So nothing was peaceful at the moment. The silence, well more like the absent sound of gunfire, bombs, or screaming, was peaceful.
The thought of nothing was quickly interrupted but a thud of boots hitting the dirt of the female’s foxhole. Blinking, snapping out of her quiet glance, her head snapped over to the sound of the thud. Quickly reaching and grabbing her rifle just out of spite.
“Hey! Easy now, L/N. It’s just me,” rang the voice. Once Y/N heard the voice, and her eyes adjusted to the Marine’s face whilst in the dark, the female Marine relaxed. It was just Mr. Bill Hoosier Smith, a close friend of hers within the company. The breath she held was now exhaled as she slowly released her tightened grip on her firearm. “See, that’s more like it,” the male spoke as he gently sat down across from her. Letting out a heavy sigh as his knees popped whilst he sat. Y/N just sat quietly in response, kind of just staring at Bill.
Bill eyed her closely. Well as well as he could in the near pitch black night. Y/N’s silence was something new that came over the female Marine. A once bubbly woman, who always had quick responses for every snarky remark, question, or sarcastic statement ever said to her. Always willing to share a cigarette with her group of friends and always willing to speak up or talk into late hours of the night. Now it was quiet, and closed off. He didn’t blame her, but was still a little surprised at the sudden change in character. Of course he, and a few others had questioned Y/N before. But was met with it being shrugged off her shoulders and no true answers. But Bill, being the man he was, wasn’t taking no for an answer this time.
“Alright, I’m sick of this,” Bill started, after about five minutes of complete silence. While he was waiting for his female counterpart to say something. Anything at all. But nothing to his wishes. Y/N just looked at him, her face not changing at all. A blank, closed off stare. It was like Bill was looking at a stranger.
“Sick of what?” She debuted. Not a change in face still. No raising eyebrows. Not even a hint of attitude. Just a straight, monotone voice. That grinded Bill’s gears. Her eyebrows knitted together. He wasn’t mad at her. Not at all. He could think of a billion reasons of why she was starting to act the way she was. For christ sakes they were in the middle of World War II! But that didn’t mean he wasn’t worried. And Bill Hoosier never showed himself worrying.
“Seriously? Y/N, you have single handedly sectioned yourself away from our friends and I. And you haven’t even noticed. Or maybe you have,” Bill paused in his words. Hoping Y/N would say something. But she didn’t. Her eyes shifted. They became glossy for a moment he swore he saw. But she quickly blinked and turned her head away for a moment before turning her head back over to Hoosier. This time her eyes showed more frustration, more emotion. But yet, nothing left her mouth. No explanation, not even any questions. And that grinded Bill’s gears even more. “Don’t look at me like that!” he whisper-shouted. Careful not to alert any other Marines resting in other foxholes.
Y/N’s eyes now definitely softened to the tone change. Her eyes become glossy once more. Now Bill was now frustrated, and highly confused. And that’s when Y/N’s eyes began to pour out tears. And a few stifled sobs left her lips.
To be truthful, Y/N had been slowly pulling herself away from everyone. Partially she herself noticed her actions, though partially she didn’t. More so, didn’t recognize how hard she actually was doing it. And now, all her emotions were coming up to the surface. Everything she had tried so hard to push down and away, was spilling over like a boiling pot.
“I'm sorry,” was all that spilled out of her lips. Bill sat shocked as he watched the female’s tears quietly slide down her mud caked cheeks. Getting onto his knees and shuffling to her side of the foxhole, he placed a caring and comforting hand to her shoulder. Y/N leaned into his touch. “I just-” she started and then she stopped. Trying to contain her heavy emotions and get her thoughts in order before she tried to speak.
In her world, in her mind, she believed if she had closed herself off from anyone, it would protect her own well being. Y/N had seen so much loss in her service on the Japanese islands, so many men dying in such horrific ways. Watching friends be shot, blown up, or both. Seeing so much death, destruction, and sadness. She couldn't bear the sight, or even the idea, of her closest friends falling victim to this war. Especially Bill Hoosier Smith. Who she thought more than just a close friend, a fondness of feelings had grown whilst their time spent together. Foxholes shared, ducking for cover with each other, and one night in Australia that the pair shared that stayed between them and only them. Never to be spoken about, but the thought remained in both their minds ever since. But, Y/N thought that if she just separated herself from the group, especially from Bill; that if anything was to happen to any one of them, it wouldn’t cloud her mind. That it wouldn’t take over her wellbeing so bad that she couldn’t bear to see the end of war. That plan seemed great in the beginning. Until she realized that the isolation made her feel a billion times worse. It made her feel alone and scared. But she thought she was already far too far into her plan already to back out of it now.
“Look, you know I’m not one for all that emotional shit,” Bill paused. Turning his head to the side momentarily to try to process his words properly. Not only was he not good with anything with emotions; he also wasn’t the best with women either. “Just talk to me about it, or don’t- well do whatever you want to do. But stop kicking us, especially me, to the side. We miss you damn it,” Bill took another pause. Y/N finally looked up at him, stifling her quiet cries for just a moment. Taking a deep breath and locking eyes with the female Marine. “I fucking miss you, god damn it.”
It didn’t take Y/N a second thought before she grasped the sides of her dear friend’s face and planted her lips onto his. Bill’s eyes widened, but he quickly grabbed the side of her face as well. Gently squeezing it, as her messy hair stuck between his hands.
Pulling away quickly Y/N looked at him, a few more tears rolling down her face. “I haven’t stopped missing you since that night we were in Australia,” she finally spilled. Her breathing became a bit more labored, and Bill just sat there staring at her. Still in a slight feeling of shock. “We brushed it off like it was nothing! And ever since then, and ever since things really started getting bad here. With all this death and dying happening all around us,” Y/N stopped to take a breath. Wiping a few stray tears that leaked from her eyes. “The thought of you had been clouding my judgment, making me make mistakes on the field. Which isn’t your fault, but I thought if I had just distanced myself and not thought of anything to do with you; my mind would clear up,” Glancing down at her hands and sucking in her bottom lip. “But it didn’t. I just couldn’t stop thinking about how much I missed you. And it was distracting me even more,” Placing her face in her hands and shaking her head. “God this is so embarrassing,” she muttered through her hands.
Bill was now a little shocked by the confession. Of course, he felt the same way. He was just some idiot Marine that didn’t know how to express his feelings in the slightest way. He thought if he just didn’t talk about it, the nagging thought would just go away. But clearly, that didn’t work for either of them. So now here they were, both sitting in silence. Bill just sat trying to figure out what he should say next.
“If it makes you feel any better,” Bill started, Y/N peaked up through her hands. Scratching the back of his head for a moment, with a soft sigh. “All I’ve thought about for the past few months has been how bad I wished we were back in Australia,” taking another deep breath. Pausing just for a second longer. “And I wished it was just you and me back home in Indiana. Out of all this mess,” he stated. Scooting himself to sit besides her. Resting his elbows on his knees and staring up at the black sky full of stars.
Y/N sat up and rested her head on his shoulder. “We can do that. After all this,” she whispered. Now also looking up at the stars. Bill looked back down at the woman and a small smile formed on his lips.
“Alright then, Corporal L/N. You got yourself a deal.”
#band of brothers#hbo war#hbo#hbo series#band of brothers imagine#the pacific#the pacific imagine#imagines#imagine#bill hoosier smith#bill hoosier smith imagines#x reader#hbo war x reader
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Photos 3 & 4 by Henry Diltz.
A look at Peter in 1967, through the lens of Flip, Tiger Beat’s Monkee Spectacular, and Teen Screen:
“He has this magnificently low voice and sounds about ten years older than any of the others. But sometimes, he acts about ten years younger than any of the others. He is not ‘zany’ however. Just kind of childish at times. He forgets that he is an ‘adult.’ I think that all adults do occasionally, because of the tension, and he certainly is under stress as much or more than other people.
[...]
He lives for other people, [to] talk with them and to be with them. He knows everyone in the world. Like when he goes to clubs and things, he spends most of his time talking to friends, instead of watching what’s going on. ‘Well, I just can’t ignore my friends,’ he says, but what he doesn’t say is that anyone he’s ever been introduced to his friend!
You know how some people can always find something to say, like I never can. Well, Pete’s one of those. It’s not just ‘How’s the weather?’ or ‘Is it hot enough for you?’ And he remembers things. Once I was with him when this guy he knew very casually in the Village came up to him, and Pete not only came up with his name, but where he lived and who was at his house when Pete went to his party. (I expect him to say which songs they sang, too, but he could only remember a couple!)
He has the proverbial shoulder to cry on. I don’t know why, but you just feel like pouring your heart out to him. Maybe it’s that warm smile. I mean, no offense intended, but he’s never come up with a fantastic solution to anything. He just pats you on the back and smiles and tells you that ’sometimes a disaster clears things up.’ And he’s right.
He loves to tell jokes. And he’s very unhappy when you don’t get the point. His mouth does this great reverse smile, like a clown’s frown.
He’s very serious about music, however. He won’t be content until they do something really special — ‘I want us to make a contribution to the music world, like all the big groups have.’
He reminds me of a cocker spaniel puppy, ya know what I mean? He’s so eager to please and excited when people are around. Then suddenly he’ll fall into a sulk or just a quiet mood and lay down his hands clenched under his chin.
He’s the type of person that you worry about a lot and yet you don’t. That’s as clear as mud. I mean, you know he’ll be all right in the end, but you’re not too sure about the middle. Now it’s just dusty, huh? He tends to be gullible — a sob story will get him every time, but he manages to wise up.
He’s the ‘flower child’ of the quartet — hip to love, peace, beauty and all that (not that the others are in favor of hate, war and ugliness, but you see what I mean). This ties in with his complete trust of his fellow man. He says, ‘If everyone trusted everyone else, then 99% of the people would live up to that trust. All kinds of crime and cruelty would be eliminated. No one would be saying, Well, I always knew he was a bad sort. Everyone would just expect you to do the right thing and you would.’” - Tracy Thomas, Flip, September 1967
“When he talks, Peter likes to sit cross-legged. This doesn’t have anything to do with meditating or yoga, it’s just that he likes to sit cross-legged. His piercing brown eyes focus intently on the person he’s speaking to. This is a quality Peter radiates… one of making others feel totally involved. He’s there all the time and you can feel him.” - Ann Moses (presumably), Monkee Spectacular, June 1968
“My first meeting on the set was with Peter, who is a nice, easy-going and friendly guy. I noticed that whenever Peter had a little time to himself between takes he would pick up his guitar and play for his own enjoyment and relaxation. In the show [‘Monstrous Monkee Mash’], Dracula decides that Peter had the perfect brain for the Frankenstein Monster. One that would be easy to control — but I found Peter in complete control of his brain. My own impression was that Peter is a self-made young man who is enjoying his success. And I felt he dressed not to please others but to please his own individual tastes.” - Ron Masak, Teen Screen, November 1967
#Peter Tork#Tork quotes#60s Tork#1967#Tracy Thomas#The Monkees#Monkees#long read#<3#more for the solid Tork advice files#Ann Moses#Ron Masak#The Monkees Season 2#Flip Magazine#Monkee Spectacular#Teen Screen Magazine#can you queue it
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The Prophecy x Sophie Foster
(How that, it’s my third analysis of the day?)
« Hand on the throttle, thought I caught lightning in a bottle »: she literally caught starlight as one of her first accomplishments. And then unending fire. Lightning here as a symbol of power. Fire as the fact that she is right.
« Oh, but it’s gone again »: but no one ever let her decide, she always have opposition, whether it’s the Council, the Black Swan, her bodyguards, even her friends, she has to argue. Power never stays hers.
« And it was written, I got cursed as Eve got bitten »: all her life was thought before her, her wars exists before her. She’s cursed from beginning to end.
« Oh, was it punishment? Pad around when I got home » is how she feels after every defeat, after every time she couldn’t keep things from going bad, every time Keefe left.
« I guess a lesser woman would’ve lost hope »: she is still a fighter. As of the end of Unlocked and Stellarlune, we see that awakening, and she starts to take pride in it.
« A greater woman wouldn’t beg »: she has yet no trust in herself. Almost no confidence. She isn’t as great as she could, thinks she.
« But I looked at the sky and said »: through the panakes branches, Sophie is looking at the sky every night, and she is begging.
« Please, I’ve been on my knees, change the prophecy »: everyday wishing, waiting for a change, hoping it could be easy for once.
« Don’t want money, just someone who wants my company » *look to Keefe*. And it’s not just someone, it’s peace, she wants peace by her side.
« Let it once be me… »: let her be just a normal teenager. She deserves it.
« Who do I have to speak to, about if they can redo, the prophecy? »: she’d bargain for so long. If she just knew who to address. She’d bargain for everything and if she’d get a rebuttal for peace for herself, she’d ask for her friends…
« Cards on the table, mine play out like fools in a fable, oh » is about how she’s feeling about the fact that the Neverseen always seem so much further in their plans and their attacks. Like they always know what Sophie will do next.
« It was sinking in, slow in the quicksand »: the progressive realization over the four first books that she has, not only a whole world to discover, but secret organizations to deal with. And in background the fact she actually has to *stop* one.
(Also, yes, I thought of the access to Atlantis and the cover of book 6)
« Poison blood from the wound of the pricked hand »: post Neverseen, post Unlocked. Even more Unlocked. Cause Keefe ran away, refused to stay, to be helped, and even if it’s not treason this time, it hurts. And she doesn’t know who to trust. She doesn’t know who she loves. She doesn’t know who she is.
« Oh still I dream of him ». Sophie, if you ever get sleep, we all know Runaway Boy is in your dreams.
« And I sound like an infant »: she prays, she hopes, she doesn’t want this place. But she gets remorse from this, calls herself an infant who has to grow up and stop complaining.
« Feeling like the very last drops of an ink pen »: she’s alone. The story can’t continue without her, the ink has to be used, but she is terribly lonely and vulnerable. The last on Earth able to do something.
« A greater woman stays cool, but I howl like a wolf to the moon »: Sophie is over-achieving and going to burnout. That’s pretty clear. She has that idea in her mind of the greater woman she has to be. But she’s here, crying, praying, trying to go on, having panic attacks, insomnia, anxiety.
« And I look unstable ». She often looks very tired, it’s said multiple times. Also, at the beginning of Stellarlune, everyone looks at her like she’s crazy for the storehouse fire.
« Gathered with a coven at a sorceress’ table »: her coven is her friends, her team, all around her, doing planes. And the sorceress table is that magic thing Mr Forkle showed us with different views of places and options.
« A greater woman as faith, but even statues crumble »: that’s when she will realize she can actually be enough.
« If they’re made to wait »: and that’s the reason she starts burning. Fighting. Attacking. Cause she doesn’t want to crumble anymore.
« I’m so afraid I sealed my fate ». Sophie is thinking that constantly, about every decision she makes, wondering which one could be fatal.
« No sign of soulmates »: cause she’s unmatchable
« I’m just a paperweight »: useful, a little, but a weight, how she thinks.
« Spending my last coin so someone will tell me it’ll be ok »: she needs so much to hear it. And it’s not said enough in this series.
#kotlc#keeper of the lost cities#sophie foster#kotlc sophie#the prophecy#ttpd#the tortured poets department#taylor swift#yeah I’m conscious it’d fit even more with PJO#but I’m rusted on PJO#even more than Kotlc#and I have to post on kotlc
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hi! i love your writing so much and saw that your requests are open- can i request echo x f!reader who works as riyo chuchi's senatorial aide? i feel like riyo would get other trusted individuals into the fight for clone rights. maybe she and rex would introduce them after the events of ep 9?
fluff would be good but it's up to you! 🥰❤️
Author's Note: So cute;; I had an idea similar to this awhile back but I never did anything with it, so I'm happy :3
Summary: You'll fight for Echo, even for soft for moments just like this.
Relationships: Echo/Fem!Reader
Warnings: Fluff, SFW, Brief mentions of dehumanization of the clones, Cuddles,
Echo normally doesn't do a lot of, stopping. He's always- since he was a cadet- been shuttled from place to place, battlefield to battlefield, squad to squad. There wasn't much time to enjoy the scenery, or take a breather.
It's what makes moments like these feel almost, disturbing. Not at all like he doesn't enjoy them, but he's not used to it; The relaxing.
The hum of your apartment is an unusual one. It's far quieter than what he's normally used to, even as he hears one of your tookas knock something over in one of the other rooms. He's conditioned to the the sounds of footsteps outside and an uncountable number of other clones crowded into a barracks. And even after leaving Kamino, he was used to the constant noises of every other member of the Batch. he never minded it, but it's made him unfamiliar to the quiet sounds of only one other person, softly sleep next to him. Instead of footfalls and humming of machinery, it's quiet breathing and the rustling of a shared blanket.
He feels, normal for a moment. Maybe this is what nat-borns just normally feel like, but Echo feels almost like he's indulging. Granted every moment he's with you always feels like that; Like he's tasting something he isn't allowed too.
He's felt like that since the beginning, though he's never told you.
Rex in the beginning even had to give him a bit of a push, before he managed to tell you how he felt. He'll thank him one day for it, surely. Kriff, just thanking him for introducing the two of you to begin with. While he doesn't regret leaving the Batch for Rex and he misses them dearly, being here knocked him into you; Yet another thing that makes him feel like he belongs.
This was originally supposed to be strictly a business partnership; Mutually beneficial. Not turn into something where he's thinking about things like a shared home, peace away from war, getting married. Not that he even can, at least in the eyes of most regulatory bodies. But it's the thought that counts the most, at least in his eyes.
"And, who is this?" Rex speaks with not an overwhelming amount of suspicion, but not much trust either. Echo doesn't exactly blame him. They're clones heading a rebellion on the home planet of a new Empire, suspicion is a must. But they trust Chuchi, enough so that they hear her out.
"She's my assistant. We've been working together for, quite awhile." She for a moment attempts to think of how long the two of you have been working together, but fails to come up with a solid answer. Instead, she gestures towards you.
"She can help you with requisitioning any of the materials you need," Chuchi halts for a moment, as you finish her sentence for her.
"Within reason, of course." She nods.
Echo remembers the way your eyes glance towards him and you softly smile, before stepping forward to shake Rex's hand. When you move back to him you offer your hand out again, and with a firm grip, he returns the gesture.
Echo remembers this interaction vividly, and and it almost always fills him with an odd concoction of emotions he can't quite unmix.
The blankets on your bed lay over his legs and hips, falling slightly as he leans up and looks to the side towards the windows. It's not quite sunrise yet, but the sky is noticeably lighter. Soon it'll be morning and you'll be separated, but he can still enjoy this moment.
When he looks to his left, he notices you're obviously still asleep, laying on your stomach with one arm tucked beside the pillow. Your face is smushed and soft with sleep, eyes occasionally flickering behind your closed lids.
You look, absolutely incredible.
To think he managed to get himself someone he loved so much, and that they loved him back with just as much fervor. Fervor that also fought for the rights of him and his brothers, no matter how fruitless it might seem at times.
Fives would've loved you, had he been around to tease the both of you.
Echo leans down just enough so that his lips brush over your temple, and he relishes in the warm feeling of your skin. He feels the tickle of your hair against his face, and one hand presses down harder into the mattress to keep himself steady as he overs over you.
He thinks he's being sneaky; Until he feels you move, and the sounds of grumbles that just might be words come from your throat. Echo leans away just a bit, and curses under his breath.
"Kriff, didn't mean to wake you up." You softly groan. Your eyes flutter open after a moment closed, vision blurry as you look upward to focus on his face. Echo is clearly sat upright and leaning over you so he's fully awake, despite the time.
"What were you doing?" You know the answer won't be that complicated, feeling his warm breath on your skin. The skin of his arm brushes against the top of your head.
"Just thinking." Pulling away from your own body blindly you reach outward, trying to gain purchase on some part of his body to pull him down towards you. After successfully doing so your lips press against the corner of his mouth, tickling his skin as you mumble.
"Well, stop that." He lays back down, his forehead pressing against yours. "I only have a bit more time until I have to get ready and deal with fussy senators," Echo raises a brow and interrupts you.
"Are you calling Miss Chuchi fussy?" He smiles at the way you shush him, making variety of weird little noises.
"Everyone but her. Besides the point. Just lay down and sleep with me, will you?" Echo can't exactly complain. Especially since he'll need to leave with Rex any day now. They're always busy; There's so many clones out there that need their help, and neither of them are going to let them down. You aren't either. But it means he doesn't get too many of these moments with you and gods- does he want to enjoy them.
His body pushes closer to yours until all of your limbs are totally intertangled with one another, not caring about any of the metal pieces that make up his body. He'd once had worries about hurting you with them, but he no longer cares nearly as much as he had before.
A few marks or bruises are worth the snuggling with him, in your mind anyhow.
Your hands grip him tighter, attempting to move even closer. It's still so cold in the morning, and his body is a perfect to help you stay warm. He feels your fingers rub along his back, as you tighten your hold.
"For demanding I sleep, you sure are wiggling a bunch." You give him a soft smack. "Shush." He chuckles, music to your ears, as your body feels like mush. But the good kind; Completely comfortable in his arms. In a few hours you'll surely be fighting off a migraine trying to make even a tiny bit of headway in the Senate, but at least for now, you can enjoy him as you steal a kiss, before going back to sleep.
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