#they both run away from their family and have a prodigal-son moment
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Hi GT, I hope you are doing well! who is your favorite Weasley?
Thank you! Absolute treat of a question. Oh, man. It's Ron, right? It was always going to be Ron.
So here's the thing: the Weasleys are a really well-characterized family in that you can kind of see a lot of character emerge through limited sketches and contextual information. Bill is Number One Boy, the best at everything, oldest child who was always confident and at peace with his indisputable place in the family; so he's a chill, cool, incredibly competent guy who naturally takes-charge. Charlie is a patented never-grew-out-of-your-middle-school-dragons-phase Weird Kid, but like, mindfully and enthusiastically so, because his parents probably still had plenty of time to support and nurture his interests; plus he's also different to Bill and excels in different ways, so they aren't too competitive (as we see). Percy is the first one to suffer from the pressure of mounting expectations, and he's very quickly followed by the twins, who do the classic "if I can't be the best I'll be the worst" late-sibling trick of acting up for attention, so he gets lost in the shuffle. (The fight between Ron and Percy in Chapter 58 is, hence, in substantially about the relationship between the two most-ignored members of the Weasley family, and that's why Ron is so much angrier at him than the rest of them. Like I've said before, Ron always thinks he's got it the worst, but he takes pride in being able to kinda "tough it out," and nothing pisses him off like other people's self-pity.) Ginny is obviously the baby of the family, a girl with everyone wrapped around her finger, and I love her, but I feel like we didn't get enough grit in her portrait— she's just really successful in everything she does, in a way that can read as flat to some people, and certainly read as flat to me my first time through the books. In fact, Ginny reminds me a lot of Bill: first daughter/first son, described often as "cool" and clever and good at basically everything, charming and generally liked by all. Which is lovely. A delight to read, just like the twins are. But my taste in characters ranges way more fucked-up and mean.
Ron is the last boy, "sixth son of a woman who wanted a daughter" (fascinating line that complicates everything we know about Molly's relationship with her kids — and BTW, how the hell does Ron know that, and how old was he when he learned it? And this also comes into play with Molly's cry of "not my daughter" to Bellatrix which like, as a moment obviously fucking rules, but also — there's a reason she says daughter, not "child," right? Do you see what I'm digging at? Anyway). Ron meets Harry and recognizes himself in how Harry defaults to thinking people don't care about him, or won't help him if he asks, because — although they come from very different circumstances, Ron's home was completely loving, just not as nurturing as he always needed it to be — Ron usually goes in assuming people don't care about him, too. So his first instinct is to go: "Alright. Well, I'll care about you, then, weird stranger. Do you want to share my horrible sandwich, and also my life, perhaps?" Goddamn! Sixth of seven in a house with never enough to go around, and he's immediately like: "fuck it, room for one more." Because he could have been Percy — and you can see it in the way that Ron is mean, sometimes, he's not careful with his words and he struggles with empathy and he's got a vengeful streak that comes out when he's pissed — but he isn't selfish enough, he loves too much and too easily, and it takes shockingly little to earn his loyalty. You just have to pay a little attention to him.
#i'm excluding arthur and molly because i assume they're off the table#and they don't get a ton of characterization in the series#they're sort of the archetypal 'Good Parent' figures who represent goodness and nurturing#which is ironic because. again. the weasley household is not perfect#and it creates significant problems for ron and by extent the golden trio when the weasley drama#spills over and starts to create actual plot problems. e.g. percy#I think it's absolutely no accident that Percy and Ron have parallel arcs in Deathly Hallows#they both run away from their family and have a prodigal-son moment#very telling about their respective characters I believe#in short. there are two kinds of Weasleys: the “number one” and the “number two”#the tragedy of number one (bill charlie ginny) is that their problems are dismissed by no. 2 because “you're good at everything!”#the tragedy of number two (percy twins ron) is that their self-doubt is being constantly & implicitly affirmed by the existence of no. 1
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the sound of water, then silence: part iv
Link: AO3
Fandom: 1899 (Netflix)
Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8
Character(s): Olek, Olek’s parents, Olek’s brother, Ling Yi
Summary: You keep your head down and blend into the background, spending your days alone and unseen. It’s not quite a life, but at least you are alive.
iv.
It goes like this:
You are an invisible boy, confined below deck in the dark, stifling heat.
You work long hours before a blazing furnace, your breaths mingling with heavy steam.
You can no longer tell where the ship ends.
You no longer know where you begin.
...
At three years old, you are handed a broom and put to work for the first time.
Your parents had you later in life, and in fact, they had not been expecting you at all, so you spend your early years trying to make up for that original sin, trying to prove that you are not a mistake, that you are not a burden, that you can be useful if only they’ll let you.
And they do let you.
You help out with the cleaning, then the cooking, then the repairs around the house, and by the time your brother leaves home, your parents have come to rely on you for nearly everything, for far too much.
Others might blame them for this, but not you.
How could you?
They are your parents, after all, the ones who brought you into this world and gave you life, and what they ask of you in return seems so small a price to pay.
It is easy to mistake being needed for being loved.
And they let you do that too.
...
Life aboard the ship is simple with its strict rules and routines.
You are used to following orders, used to physical labor, used to being ignored.
It feels comfortable and familiar, like slipping on an old coat.
...
Now, your brother, he does love you, of this, you are certain.
From the moment you are born, he is there to shower you with attention and affection, and your earliest memory is of his smiling face, your first word, his name.
Of the two of you, he is the prodigal son while you are merely the spare, but he treats you as if you are the favored one instead, and perhaps to him, you are. He becomes both brother and parent to you, teaching you to read and write, telling you bedtime stories, and proudly bragging of your milestones and accomplishments to anyone who will listen.
And they do listen.
Pretty soon, neighbors and strangers from near and far are knocking on your door for help. They need an extra pair of hands to work the fields, they say. They could really use some help repairing a fence, they explain. They’ve heard you’re good with a hammer and nail, they praise.
If it were up to you, you would send them all away. You have more than enough work to keep busy, and you are tired enough as it is, but your parents are always quick to accept on your behalf.
Of course, that’s after they negotiate the proper payment for your time and labor, in money or goods or the promise of returned favors, and though your family is never rich, it’s enough for a comfortable life.
For a while.
As the years pass, you come to find out that your brother has been telling tales not just of your skills, but his own, sharing grand ideas and business plans with would-be investors and other, less savory individuals as well.
Most of his ideas never come to fruition, and on good days, he comes to you for help clearing the debts he has accumulated in pursuit of his dreams.
On bad days, he runs to you in a panic with angry men hot at his heels, and you are left to settle the score with your fists.
He has always been quick to attract attention, your brother.
He is just as quick to share it with you, whether you want it or not.
...
Deep below deck, you shovel coal methodically, just another nameless stoker, one of many.
You do not speak, nor are you spoken to, and the hours pass slowly.
...
To be seen is to be hurt.
This is the lesson you learn from your brother, and you have carried this knowledge with you ever since.
You keep your head down and blend into the background, spending your days alone and unseen.
It’s not quite a life, but at least you are alive.
...
At midday, you take your break, feeling exhausted enough for a lifetime though it is only the second day of your journey.
You make your way through winding halls towards the small room on the side of the ship, the fatigue soon forgotten as you reach your hiding spot and pull open the heavy door.
The salt air hits you first, then the breeze cooling your skin, and then, belatedly, the dawning realization that you are not alone.
There is a woman leaning against the wall.
There is a woman, here.
She is unlike anyone you’ve ever seen before, with her elaborate hair and her beautiful, if unusual, red dress, and it’s only when your eyes move to her face, taking in her smooth, white skin, that you realize she is looking back at you.
It has been a long time since anyone has glanced at you with something other than indifference or contempt, and you find it hard to look away even as you remind yourself that it’s impolite to stare.
For a long moment, you stand there in silence, neither one of you speaking, until the groan of creaking metal echoing down the hallway startles you back to your senses.
In an instant, you duck your head, murmuring rushed apologies and quickly closing the door. You retrace your steps back to the furnace, your break all but forgotten as you pick up your shovel once more.
For the rest of the day, you move coal back and forth, but your thoughts are elsewhere, in a small room far above you with an open view of the sea.
...
Hours later, as you fall asleep, you think of a pale face with eyes that are dark and piercing, but not unkind.
It felt warm when she had looked at you, like the sunrise after a long, cold night.
It felt familiar too, somehow.
...
The next day, you return to the room, not because you are hoping to see her again but because you are certain you will not.
The fact that you even met at all was surely a mistake, one that will never be repeated, and as you open the door to your hiding spot, you expect to be greeted with nothing more than an empty room.
This time, she is sitting on the floor with her legs dangling over the ledge, her hair loose around her shoulders, and when she turns her face towards you, you have never been happier to be wrong.
As if she has been waiting for you, she speaks, her voice soft but firm in the otherwise silent space.
You stand there, unsure and unmoving, the words foreign to your ears, and she repeats herself, this time with a wave of her fingers, her meaning becoming clear.
Before your mind can protest, your legs carry you forward, and you take one step, then another, then another.
When you finally lower yourself to the ground beside her, she lifts her hand again and points out towards the horizon.
There, many miles away, the water shimmers underneath the sun as if blanketed by millions of tiny diamonds, and a gasp escapes your lips, unbidden.
You never knew the sea could be so beautiful. You never imagined that the world could hold such wonders.
There are so many things you don’t know, you realize, so many things you have missed while you went through life with your head down, and you can’t imagine returning to that life now, not after you’ve seen this.
You turn back to find her eyes upon you once more, a small smile on her lips as she lifts her hand again, patting her chest lightly.
Ling Yi, she murmurs, answering a question you were still gathering the courage to ask.
You repeat her gesture and offer your own name in return, your hand still pressed to your heart.
High above you, the afternoon sun glows brightly as you hold her gaze, and for the first time in a long time, you are glad to be seen.
...
This will be the last time you ever speak to her.
If only you had known, you might have said something more.
...
It all happens so fast.
One moment, you are hard at work, following orders as always, and the next, you find yourself swept up in a mutiny you never signed up for.
One moment, your ears are ringing from the sounds of fighting around you, and the next, you hear your name above the din, a hoarse scream from a voice you would recognize anywhere.
One moment, you are pushing your way past the crowd, trying to reach the edge of the deck where she stands, and the next, the ship lurches, sending you crashing to the ground.
One moment, you see her huddled near the railing, shivering against the rain, and the next, there is only a flash of red fabric fluttering in the wind.
It all happen so fast.
One moment, she’s there, and the next, she’s gone.
By the time you reach the place she was standing, it’s already too late, and you can only watch, helpless, as she drowns.
...
If only you could have saved her.
If only you could’ve taken her place.
If only.
If only.
If only.
...
In the morning, you sit in the small, empty room and stare out at the horizon, trying not to dwell on the absence beside you.
You try.
You fail.
And later, when you hear her calling you out to sea, it’s not surprise that you feel, but relief.
You push yourself off the ledge without hesitation, diving feet first into murky waters, and as you sink deeper and deeper, her voice echoes in your ears.
Just before it all goes dark, she appears before you, and when she smiles, it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.
#olek x ling yi#1899#1899 fanfic#ling yi x olek#olek#ling yi#fanfic#fanfiction#fanfic: the sound of water then silence#1899 netflix
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The Slayer (Ch. 4): The Slayer, Revealed
Oh look, I finally cleaned up another chapter. Please enjoy!
Read on Ao3!
Summary: Vero, a lovely high elf bard with no memories prior to being abducted by mind flayers, suffers from a slew of intrusive, violent thoughts that come always at the worst of times. She now has to handle the new power that comes with the Slayer's form along with her dark urges.
---
Descending through the dungeon, past the victims of ancient conquests, and through the giant doors that led to the massive room of the ritual was a dreadful experience. Astarion was already worried about facing Cazador, but doing so after seeing the people he unknowingly trapped into an eternity of darkness and misery only filled him with more anguish. Vero had spent the majority of their time dungeon crawling wrangling her most menacing thoughts, only really returning to reality when the large doors opened to the long descent into the ritual space. She had hardly had the brain power to process how Astarion was feeling in all this. She looked to him as the doors opened, wondering how he was faring, but then her mind became lost in the immense spectacle that was the ritual room, if it could even be called a room.
The space itself was gargantuan. There was seemingly nothing supporting the stairs or the platform where six bodies hovered in the corners, and the sight was disorienting to Vero. The cages hanging from the high ceilings didn’t help either. Vero was perplexed on how a dungeon so massive was sitting just below Baldur’s Gate. How had no one found this place? Were there other ways in? Where were they in relation to the rest of the city? Just how far down had that elevator taken them? Her brain was already running on fumes from trying to control herself and the Urge, but the dungeon only set her thoughts running more.
The slow walk down the long staircase was a sickening experience. Vero was disoriented by the scale of it all and thought to reach for Astarion’s hand for balance, but held off. Now likely wasn’t the time to lean on him. As the party descended closer and closer to the main platform, Vero became nauseous from finally putting a face to those rancid, brutal thoughts of mutilation that plagued her for so long. Upon seeing Lord Cazador’s face, the first thing that ran through Vero’s mind was that those high cheekbones would make an especially good canvas for a blade to run through. Her stomach felt a twisted sense of delight at the image as well as a wave of sickness from how gruesome it was.
Then, as they finally stepped onto the platform where the ritual would take place, the vampire lord began to speak. “Who stands before us? Is this truly our prodigal son?” The way that shrill voice would sound screaming… Vero shook away the thought, bracing herself for what was to come. She needed to maintain composure. If not for herself, then for Astarion. She glanced at her partner and saw how his brow contorted and his eyes filled with both fire and ice. She had never seen him look quite like this. So… angry. He was crouching ever so slightly, looking as if he was stalking his prey and ready to pounce.
“Do not slouch before me, boy! Have you no respect for yourself?” As Astarion stood up just a bit straighter, Vero’s blood burned hot.
This is the one that hurt the one she loved.
This is the one that compelled him to do horrible things, just as Bhaal compelled her.
As her blood boiled more and more with the power of that accursed form, she vowed to not show this monster any mercy, no matter how much she may hate herself later.
He did not deserve her restraint.
Keep it together Vero, she thought to herself, wrangling the fury that threatened to escape any second. Wait for the right moment…
“Look at you, crawling back after abandoning your family. You should be begging our forgiveness!” Cazador continued.
“Forgiveness? You’ve never forgiven anything. Every mistake, every slip was punished!” Astarion yelled. This anger of his, it was nothing quite like Vero had seen from him before. It was this place. It brought back a version of him that she had only heard about through Astarion’s stories.
“I strove for perfection in all things - even those as imperfect as you.” Cazador spoke with a grimace. “A pity you amounted to so little, despite my efforts.” Another wave of anger washed over Vero. She could feel the Slayer banging against the gates of her will, dying to come out at the taste of the hot anger and bloodlust that coursed through her. Not yet…
“No!” Astarion shouted. “No. Fuck you, and fuck everything you’ve ever done to me!”
“We are here for justice, and you are going to pay.” Vero couldn’t help but interject. She needed to before she lost complete control of herself. She needed to hold on and maintain the composure that Astarion couldn’t right now. He was always the one in control when her urges flared, so now it was her turn to be the rational one. Since there were too many emotions flooding his mind, there was no way Astarion was going to be able to be that voice of reason Vero had grown so accustomed to. Not in this place where he had suffered for so long.
“I will not speak to cattle!” Cazador roared, cutting off Vero’s words. Vero winced at the shrill sound of his voice. “This is between me, and the boy.”
“You son of a bitch!” Astarion spat, and before anyone in the party could stop him, Astarion ran at Cazador with the intent to strike, though before the punch could land, a red glow surrounded Astarion’s wrists and held him in place. Cazador stood before him, tall, unfazed, and unimpressed. “Astarion!” Vero shouted, beginning to run towards Cazador before Halsin grabbed her by the shoulder. She looked at him and saw that he was just as furious as she was, though rushing into this could make things worse. He looked at her with pleading eyes to wait just a moment longer and see what happened next. She looked back to Astarion and paused. Cazador wouldn’t kill him now. He needed Astarion alive for the ritual, but she couldn’t help but worry what he may do instead.
“You truly forgot my power. You truly thought our bond as creator and creation was all that stopped you from killing me? You are weak, my child. You are a small, pathetic little boy who never amounted to anything. But today, you will finally do something worthwhile. You will burn, and I will ascend.”
With that final sentence, Astarion flew across the platform to the opposite side of the entrance. Cazador’s spell held him in the air as his armor left his skin, leaving nothing to hide the scars on his back. Vero took a step forward, her rage boiling closer and closer to the surface.
“No! Stop him!” Astarion screamed in panic. “And get me out of this!”
That was it. That was what opened the gates to the Slayer. The fear in Astarion’s voice as to what would happen next was all it took to push the Urge over the edge. Vero fell to her knees as the form came out, the awful smell of the beast’s putrid flesh filling her nose before everything went dark for her and came into light for the Slayer. Halsin and Shadowheart took a few steps back, startled at what their bardic bhaalspawn had become.
“Oak Father preserve us…” Halsin said, baffled by what oddity against nature Vero had become.
There were no thoughts in the Slayer’s head, only an instinct to slaughter the vampire that stood in the center of the space. Though the beast did not think, it felt a pure, carnal desire to rip the haughty elf to shreds. It lunged towards Cazador, but Cazdor moved faster and transformed into mist before anything could be done. Ghouls and werewolves swarmed the Slayer, but it was stronger. It slashed and shrieked, slaughtering anything that stood in its way between it and Cazador.
Its claws tore through the other monsters with pure bloodlust. The only thing in its mind was the red color that spewed from the monsters and swarmed the Slayer’s senses. It grabbed ghouls by the torso and ripped them in half. Werewolves were brutally slashed at before the Slayer’s claws hooked onto their innards and ripped them from the inside of each beast. Coating the floor with the crimson color was all the demon desired, especially of the one who spoke in that horrible, nasally voice. Any trace of Vero was gone, only the Slayer lived in this mind for the time being.
Soon, the path was covered in viscera and clear of any obstacles that meant to stop the Slayer from chasing down the black mist that Cazador hid himself in. The beast lunged at the cloud and began slashing and clawing at the mist, doing its best to grab the smoke, though its attempts proved useless. Cazador couldn’t hold his concentration forever though. The moment he transformed back into a proper body of flesh rather than mist, the Slayer towered over him and roared a bloody shriek. The sound paralyzed Cazador in place, leaving him wide open for the Slayer to strike with its razor claws. It struck once, then again, and again, and again, tearing through Cazador’s fine gothic garb, first only damaging his skin, then ripping away bits and pieces of the vampire lord. Bits of flesh flew off as the Slayer continued to claw and slash, waiting for Cazador to finally collapse to the ground, though he never did. If only he weren’t immortal, this would’ve ended so much quicker, though it was better that he was forced to endure. The more suffering, the better. The Slayer could savor his shrill screams longer, and oh how pleasing they were to the monster’s ears…
After what felt simultaneously like an eternity as well as a short moment of hacking and slashing with its massive claws, Cazador disappeared into his cloud and ran again. The Slayer gave chase, roaring at the mist and slapping bats out of the air that tried to swarm the monster, but just as its anger reached its height, a beam of sunlight shot past it and shone on the cloud. The Slayer was blinded for a moment from the intense brightness, but as soon as its eyes recovered, it spotted Cazador. He had returned to his true form and was shrieking from the burning light. The Slayer lunged at the vampire once more, only getting a few slashes in before Cazador completely disappeared in a puff of smoke.
The Slayer looked around the area to see where he had gone, only to see that Cazador had completely vanished. Instead, the monster saw Shadowheart, who had just cast that sunbeam, running over to Astarion to cast Healing Word on him. Astarion was leaning against Halsin’s stature for support across the platform, his minor wounds being healed by the party’s favorite princess. All the monsters were dead. The two elves and Shadowheart stood amongst the pile of desecrated corpses, staring at the Slayer in horror, though Astarion’s eyes also had that same look of awe that had been there as Vero had ripped Godey apart. Seeing those eyes, Vero’s mind came back to her and the Slayer was once again shut behind those gates. She transformed back to herself, naked as the day she was born.
As she stood there, once again a simple high elf, and looked at her three companions, two of them her dear lovers, she waited for them to say something. Anything. Now that she had regained her composure, she would have to face the fact that she had hid this monster from them.
She feared for the worst. That they’d be disgusted by this new form and say that they could never love a monster that heinous. That they’d loathe her for hiding such a dangerous secret. That they’d decide to kill her in order to spare the world from the Slayer. Gods… the thoughts were unbearable. The silence the party sat in as they all stared at Vero only gave her more time to dread what their next words would be. She wrapped her arms around herself as the anticipation and anxiety consumed her.
“That… creature you changed into.” Halsin finally spoke. “I pray to Silvanus that you have it under control.” His voice was firm, though his face was filled with concern and a bit of fear.
Astarion spoke next. “The beast you turn into… as charming as it is… Just make sure those claws don’t come anywhere near me.” Vero’s heart broke a bit hearing her lovers’ concerns, though she understood where they came from.
“I promise I can control it…” Vero said weakly, curling in on herself even more. As powerful as she was only a moment ago, she felt like she may lose everything now and felt so small and pitiful. Of course they’re worried. I’m a monster, after all. Then, Astarion managed to find words that, just like after that night where Vero had killed Alfira, made her feel like anything but a disgusting beast.
“Oh, don’t bother, not on my account, anyway. Let it roam free! You make quite the pretty pitfiend.” He gave her a soft, coy smile before continuing. “Now, how about instead of standing here and dawdling, we kill the bastard that’s trying to heal himself as we speak?”
Vero nodded and watched as Astarion went to push the sarcophagus lid off of where Cazador slept. Halsin, always so considerate, approached Vero, took his cape, and draped it around her shoulders. When she looked up at him, he gave her that same loving look that he always did around camp, showing her that despite the beast she could become, he still saw the woman he loved. She smiled in relief, wishing that she could kiss Halsin right now.
Instead, the soft moment was broken by Astarion pulling Cazador out of his crypt and throwing him to the ground.
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Chapter 30 — The Prodigal Son
Grigoriy was spending the majority of his time with Akim and Anatoliy, enjoying every moment. The three were sharing memories, but also engaging in various activities together, however avoiding straying too far away from the castle. One evening, as they were heading inside, Akim remarked how his life had changed for the better since he turned back from his old lifestyle, returning to faith.
"...sure, I got shipwrecked on the way here, but even being in the hospital for so long was good for me in the long run, as I met Anatoliy, who lead me here. I've spent so many years trying to amass wealth and fame, but when I finally got it all, it suddenly felt meaningless. And I soon discovered it really was. But crashing into the shore of my home country, now as an impoverished foreigner, taught me to value the seemingly smaller things, such as friendship and family."
"That's exactly how I felt!" said Grigoriy. "Why did I waste so much time getting involved in plots to conquer a land that ultimately meant nothing to me? I don't even know how to describe the feeling I had; it's almost like a child getting bored of a toy immediately after stealing it from his sibling."
"Yes, because there's no real satisfaction if it's earned through dishonest means."
"Yours could be called dishonest ways, Akim, but mine are outright criminal."
"We're both at fault for Vaidas' death." said Anatoliy.
"You lean more on the heat of the moment revenge, but I knew from the start it wasn't him. It couldn't have been. He was just a tool for conquest to me. I feel disgusted with myself..."
"I felt the same." said Akim.
"So did I. And I was convinced that I could never be forgiven by God, but I was." said Anatoliy.
"Well, taken separately, either of your crimes, yours or Akim's, seem forgivable. But what I did was the worst possible combination of every wrong you both did."
Akim paused, thinking deep about his past experiences, trying to find something relevant to say.
"If you want, I can show you some passages from the Scriptures that really helped me when I was faced with the same turmoil. Do you remember the words of the philosopher king: 'Vanity of vanities, says the Preacher, vanity of vanities! All is vanity.'¹? Then, 'The end of the matter; all has been heard. Fear God and keep his commandments, for this is the whole duty of man. 14 For God will bring every deed into judgment, with every secret thing, whether good or evil.'² These words were the ones which first moved me, making me realise I had been living a shameful life. And indeed, everything I had done was in vain, and all lost in a day. However, as I kept reading, I eventually reached The Parable of the Prodigal Son, which you certainly know..."
"I do, and it much better applies to your life than mine..."
"Nobody said it had to fit perfectly to your experience. There are too many variations of human experience to fit into a single parable, even into a single book."
"...you're right, of course. I only wanted to say I feel too guilty..."
Anatoliy tried to remember all of the things Radek taught him, and all of the things he had read, so as to answer his uncle's doubts. He even opened the Holy Book so as to show him the passages he was able to remember right away:
"Come now, let us reasonc together, says the LORD:
though your sins are like scarlet,
they shall be as white as snow;
though they are red like crimson,
they shall become like wool."³
"...and that's far from the only one!" said Anatoliy. "If you read more, you can see that there are also many instances of people having committed similar if not worse sins, and still being forgiven. It goes on to show how great God's grace is."
They kept talking to him until midnight, but when it got too late, he urged them to go to sleep. He remained, however, all alone. He stood at the windowsill, looking at the night sky, as he used to. He couldn't help but think how disappointed his parents and his siblings would have been if they had known about his true nature. A thought escaped his mind, that it was better for Afanasiy to have died when he did, as he no longer had to witness so much turmoil and betrayal. He dared not even imagine what his brother would have reacted like if he had known what he was planning, and what he was about to do. However, he thought about the reaction of his son and his nephew, and felt surprised how little judgement they held over him. Surely, they must have felt disappointed in him as well, mustn't they have? Yet they tried to convince him he wasn't beyond forgiveness.
...but he wondered if God would have told him the same thing would He have been directly speaking to him. Or if He had, how would he have known for sure? Perhaps a more faithful person such as his late parents or brother had such discernment, but, much to his shame, he was nowhere near any of them when it came to matters of faith. However, it wasn't true that he didn't know the Scriptures; he remembered enough to know people, and kings, like him fit into the category of 'wicked', which were promptly punished, often along with their entire countries. This thought scared him, and he prayed: "Lord, don't let the empire go into ruin just because of me!..."
Feeling already hopeless, he stopped trying to think about anything, and just let his mind wander, as he watched the clear, starry sky. He thought how both people like him, and moral people were able to enjoy looking at the same sky. He could've sworn Akim just read something with this message during the day which just passed, but the concrete words didn't cross his mind yet. He stood still, continuing to watch the stars, and he found this feeling weirder and weirder. One wouldn't quite say it's fair for both the good and the wicked to be able to enjoy things such as good weather. Wouldn't one usually expect the good to be rewarded, and the evil to be punished? But he hadn't yet been punished, not even by other people, as they failed to know he was behind the plot. Why do the ones who do evil prosper, he thought, even though placing himself in this category. He lived more than six decades, and now he realised there must be people out there resenting even the fact he was alive for this long. Why has he lived so long, though? Why was he able to enjoy a peaceful starry night? He was happy he could, but he was now suddenly unable to understand the reason, and he still wondered... Why had God answered his prayer, bringing not only his long-lost son back home, but also his thought-to-be-dead nephew? He didn't deserve any of this! Yet he had been blessed beyond his imagination...
...and then, all of a sudden, it made sense. This was the Grace they had been talking about. All he had, from life, to family and even starry nights, were not deserved, and neither was forgiveness. It was all a gift. It was now clear that this is what God was trying to tell him, albeit differently than what he had imagined. He further pondered upon what he had heard and read. He used to take it for granted, as he heard sermons about the Resurrection every Easter, but he know realised how incredible it was that the Saviour was willing to die for everybody's sins, without exception. Grigoriy felt moved to tears as he realised he was included, too. He voiced all of these thoughts through a prayer, and he had never felt so grateful as he was now. The more he thought about it, the more he realised how much God had blessed him, and, most importantly, forgiven him.
Unbeknownst to him, Akim did hear him, but he waited until the morning to talk to his father. Indeed, when morning came, Grigoriy was eager to share the good news with them, but they seemed to know already. Despite this, there was much rejoicing.
"Now my soul is saved and at peace, and I'm here, together with my boys... What more could I ever want from life? I'd even say I can die in peace now." Grigoriy said, among other things.
The three spent their days mostly carefree, and, this time, Grigoriy was able to enjoy every moment without guilt sitting at the back of his mind. They engaged in various father and son activities, such as hunting and dog sled races.
"Uncle is the one who taught me who to ride a sled," Anatoliy told his cousin, "and when Sveta's kids were old enough, I also rode with them, and taught them how to go by themselves. Eventually, I'll teach Oleg, too."
"I wish I could bring my children here so they could go sledding. I think they'd love it."
"I'd love to meet them, too!" said Grigoriy, feeling an odd sense of accomplishment upon learning he was a grandfather.
"If I manage to reconcile with Margarita, there's no question that I'll bring my whole family here for the holidays. Or maybe we'll stay here for good; we were kicked out of the other country after all..."
"As much as that sounds idyllic, I doubt you'll be able to stay long term. The people will not trust you after having been president abroad." Anatoliy chimed in.
"I know... Anyways, I'm not used to winters like these anymore, and my family even less so." he said as if finding an excuse.
Despite feeling somewhat discouraged by the conversation, it was exactly it which gave Akim the idea to start writing some letters to his wife, even though he didn't yet know her exact address. He was determined to write until he received an answer, proving he had finally found her.
In the meantime, Sveta, Gintarė and Žydras had reached a village, in which they remained a few days until they resumed their journey. As soon as they arrived, they searched for a doctor or a nurse to tend to Sveta's broken leg properly. The nurse rebandaged her, but she did commend Gintarė and Žydras for having done a good job with their own bandaging. On Sunday, Sveta went to church and urged the other two to join her, which they did, despite not having had the inclination to do so. The sermon handled the subject of forgiveness. The three had a discussion about it later, also prompted by Sveta. They then returned to the house in which they were hosted after the service ended, preparing to leave the following day.
"You remind me of my mother, in a way." Žydras told Sveta.
"Oh, really?"
"You've been betrayed by your loved ones, but you don't revenge on them, but you seek to forgive them."
"If I don't intrude, how do you think your mother has been betrayed?"
"My father divorced her unfairly. He remarried suspiciously soon, and to a much richer woman. Mother, however, was able to overcome her situation, and she became a medic, all the while raising me. She's so optimistic, in contrast to the life she's had. She's also a faithful person like you."
"I'm glad she has managed to get over her past and forgive those who wronged her..."
"She urges me to do the same, but I met my father in the revolution, which to me meant separating myself from him and proving my worth, and I couldn't get along with him in the slightest. It's not an exaggeration, I either avoided him or argued with him."
"Gintarė seems to be in a similar situation, doesn't she? Yet she said she must see her father."
"I resolved to meet with him again, too, eventually, but I'm not looking forward to the meeting. I promised Gintarė I'll go with her first, so that's my priority. I can't wait to meet my mother, though. She must be so worried for me!"
"Doesn't she know you went to the revolution?"
"I left her a note, but I practically ran away from home. I love my mother very much, you see, but, out of courtesy or other such reasons, I'd always have to see my step-family, too, and I couldn't stand it anymore. I also wished to prove myself, thinking the years of military school made me skilled enough. I fared well, but I expected something much more heroic and less dangerous than what I really encountered. I don't know if it was ultimately a good or a bad decision to come here..."
"Now what's done is done. What you need to do is to get home to your family, even the one you don't get along with. Before that, you should send them a letter as soon as you can."
"...have you never wanted to run away from home, even if the reason wasn't too smart, or a reason at all?"
"My mother died when I was 16, and my youngest sibling was only 1. I was so overwhelmed by the situation, that I opened the window, sat on the windowsill and prepared to jump out. I don't think I would've died; the castle doesn't have that many levels upwards and there always is a lot of snow on the ground. Maybe I just wanted to run away and didn't know how else. However, my dad saw me, and panickedly dragged me back inside. He hugged me tight and we both sobbed."
"...I guess in this case, your father was to you what my mother is to me..."
"What would your mother say to you if you met again now?"
"Even if only for my sake, you also have to come to good terms with your dad."
_________________
¹ Ecclesiastes 1:2
² Ecclesiastes 12:13,14
³ Isaiah 1:18
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Only Good Vibes ♡ Min Yoongi
Pairing: Min Yoongi x female reader
Genre: smut, a futile attempt at comedy, strangers to friends to lovers au.
Rating: 18+
Word Count: 5.9k
Summary: If Yoongi was being honest, the last thing he had expected to inherit from his father was a sex toy manufactures, even more so, the last thing he expected from being there was to fall in love. Or let someone peg him, but you know, potato potatoe
Warnings/Tags: mentions of minor character death, Yoongi is bisexual, Yoongi’s father is homophobic, kinda sub!Yoongi, pegging, chaebol!Yoongi, family exclusion, YN is somewhere on the queer spectrum, YN has no filter whatsoever, they drink but they aren’t drunk does that make sense?, Yoongi and YN are soooo awkward istg it pains me, masturbation (female and male), mutual masturbation, use of sex toys, slight edging, fingering (male and female receiving), overstimulation (female and male), squirting, slight dirty talk, kinda voyeurism (do i even write something that’s not voyeurism by now?), Yoongi’s suit gets ruined, anal plugs (male), cock ring, electrode vibrator, use of lube.
A/N: Gotta say, this one took a lot to get done BUT SHE IS HERE. Huge thanks to @birbdae for the banner, I know you did it quite a while ago and since then this fic evolved into this so- yeah I hope that you guys enjoy this one.
Yoongi walks the pristine halls once he enters the building, it smells like a mix of freshly brewed coffee and sanitizer, his shoes somewhat squeaking on the floor with each step he takes, the starched collar of the white shirt he was practically obliged to dress in has started to itch his skin from not being used to the whole put together look. It had been a few weeks since his father died, nobody really seemed phased by it, being that the man had passed away after a long battle on a hospital bed. No one had cried during the funeral, not even his mother. Truth be told, they were all instructed not to do so, something along the lines of being the most deserving family in the country or some bullshit like that. Of course the man would be missed, not for his grandeur as a human being, but more for the millions he made day by day. And that’s where Yoongi comes in. Dressed up head to toe in a way that he hadn’t done ever since his father practically threw him into the streets. As much as he disliked it and had grown out of it, he couldn’t help but compromise, eyes on the grand prize: the family fortune.
So what if his siblings and a few cousins would get something out the old man’s will too, the Min’s fortune, both in money and enterprises, was huge; after his grandfather had passed away, and his father, being the youngest child, absorbed every single part of the fortune as his siblings weren’t fitted anymore to run their part, the newest Min generation had turned to resemble a bunch of vultures waiting to feed. So as long as he got his fair share for having to put up with the man for so long, he would be okay with it.
Everybody was already sitting on the large wooden table by the time he arrived, the commissioner signaling for him to take a seat before he began the lecture. An almost three hour long preface that had Yoongi dozing off multiple times, getting a side eye from most of the other people present, before the distribution began. Min Enterprises consultant branch for Daejun, Min Enterprises technology branch for Hada… and last but not least, Min Enterprises recreative branch for Yoongi.
“HA! TAKE THAT YOU HOMOPHOBIC FUCK! I KNEW I’D GET SOMETHING!” all eyes turned to him as he stood up from his seat, some shocked at the word choice, although it was no secret he had a rough relationship with his father, most of them just snickering at him, like they knew something he didn’t.
And man did they know.
“So he just had to keep being a homophobe even as he’s buried six feet under the ground and give me the dildo factory” Yoongi sighed as he frantically paced around the room
“Eh” his friend shrugged as he munched on a small bag of pretzels “The snacks are nice”
“What the fuck am I supposed to know about dildos! I don’t have a vagina!” Yoongi’s face was redder than ever, throwing a fit on his very first day at the office he inherited just a few days ago– not before going through a lot of papers and signatures and approvals– and learning that apparently amongst the whole business emporium his family had built, there was a sex toys manufacturer. And his father had decided to be his funny homophobic self even after death, by letting his bisexual son run it.
Namjoon had laughed for a good five minutes on the phone before he decided to come over and help his best friend out of what was surely about to be an existential crisis. Leaning against the couch that was placed on what would now be his office, he added distractedly “You don’t need to have a vagina to use a dildo tho”
“Well-true” he seemed to ponder it for a while, before shaking himself from the thought “either way I wouldn’t know a thing about it”
“Remember back in college summer 2013?”
Yoongi turned to his friend, stopping dead in his tracks and squinting his infamous cat-like squint at the younger, gritting his teeth “We DON’T talk about summer 2013”
Namjoon lets out a whole body laugh at both his friend and the memory, when you make your way into his office in order to deliver some of the papers you needed him to sign “What happened in summer 2013?”
“We don’t talk about that” you couldn’t help but smile at him, grumpily making his way to his desk, rubbing his temples as he let out an exasperated groan. Not everyone really knew a thing or two about the new boss, never been the one to be acquainted with his late father’s business, or family, for that matter and it really showed, the poor guy didn’t even know where to begin with before he was savagely thrown into an already clock-work organisation. People were starting to talk as soon as he set foot inside the building, gossips going around about how he wasn’t fitted for the position and how he was the outcast of the family, yet you thought he could use a friendly face if he ultimately decided to take the job. His friend was still absentmindedly laughing before his eyes caught something on his phone screen.
“Well this has being fun, I’m gonna head out” he started getting up from the couch before the elder interrupted his wave towards you
“What am I supposed to do Namjoon?!”
“Just- give me a call once you figure out if you get an employee’s discount, okay?”
“Wha-” Yoongi was quick to throw a pen that had been lying on top of his desk at his retrieving friend, the object falling to the ground as it hit the doorframe, completely missing the other man, whose laugh could still be heard as he walked away.
He slumped against his desk chair once again, eyeing the stack of documents you had brought in for a brief moment before groaning and hanging his head low. There were a lot of rumours going around, with the Min family being as successful as they were, and although you had decided not to trust them, you couldn’t help but feel your heart ache if what people said about Min Yoongi were true. A prodigal son fallen from his father’s grace, truly one –if not the most– prepared person out of the whole family, with a lot of curriculum to back him up, everyone rooting for him to be the head of the whole Min emporium, only to be casted away in a rush of headlines, front pages of magazines and online bashing as he was seen leaving a bar that was known to be one of the few LGBTQIA+ friendly ones around and it all went downhill from there, never to be seen around his own family again except for the big events and now, here.”I could help you figure out your way around if you’d like”
He didn’t even bother to turn your way when he answered “I don’t even know where to begin”
“That’s alright, come on” you tapped his arm in an attempt to have him follow you outside. Although the methods seemed quite unorthodox for an enterprise carrying the Min’s family name, Yoongi didn’t seem the type to take offence on a lack of traditional manners, plus, the whole workplace had always been quite different from the rest of the Enterprises. “My name’s Y/N, I’m the head director of a sister brand, so you’ll be seeing a lot of me around”
“So…” he turned to face you as you two made your way out of his office “dildos?”
“Kinda- we run the LGBTQIA+ focused brand” he almost missed a step as soon as the words were processed inside his mind and you couldn’t help but smile at him
“I never knew my father had an inclusive line in his business”
“Oh he didn’t” you couldn’t help but find it cute when he made a confused gesture with his face as you both stopped at one of the doors that led to the designing part of the building “You see, we tend to do things differently around here, and there’s a lot of space to work with”
The room is, admittedly, not at all what Yoongi had expected it to be –not like he had a precise image in mind about a dildo manufacturer. But the room he was brought in was almost surgical, men and women alike are all dressed up with white laboratory coats and all, one of them approaching both of you with a smile on his face.
“Y/N! What brings you here? It’s been a while since we’ve seen you!” Yoongi can’t help but steal a glance at your smile, the heavy air that he was accustomed to feel every time he came close to one of his family’s business nowhere to be found, the whole room was breathable enough.
“Work’s keeping me busy, anyway, this is Min Yoongi, he’s taking over” for a second Yoongi felt like suffocating, you having to introduce him as if he wasn’t quite literally your boss, as if he was a new employee “I’m showing him around, see how he finds the place”
“Oh the infamous Min Yoongi” and he could feel his heart race- even in such a place, only god knows how much of his family disaster the people could hear of, the flashbacks to being outcasted and laughed at for his downfall all coming back to him “It’s nice to have you man, I’m Hoseok”
You turned his way and smiled at him, in an attempt to let him know that it was fine. There really wasn’t much to fear inside the building– except for when they had to deal with executive meetings– things were different around here. Yoongi’s gaze seemed to fixate on one of the computers where another man in a white coat was sitting, albeit still quite awkward, he approached him “Is there a program for that?”
The guy, one of your best designers ever since he joined an internship a few years back, Jungkook, turned to look at Yoongi with wide eyes and sort of shy at the stranger “Oh yeah” when Yoongi didn’t seem to break out of his fascination on watching a 3D modelling program run with a sculptured cock being designed on it he added with a small chuckle “Drawing penises by hand only gets you so far”
He watches you chat away with both men and can’t help but feel at peace, as weird as the thought of it could be. Min Yoongi, with a MBA and a Business Administration Doctorate, feels at peace in a dildo factory. But the teamwork seems like something he had never seen before, the line of production is almost text-book like. He can’t help but wonder, even if headless, things seem to run smoothly, where exactly does he fit in? “So what exactly am I supposed to do in a dildo factory?”
You laugh at his choice of words, before Hoseok steps in somewhat offended by them “We don’t just make dildos” and although it didn’t help his case, he throws one squiggly silicone penis his way, to which he has no other option but catch “We are in charge of designing, planning and manufacturing recreational tools in aid for people’s mental health, self indulgence and lifestyle” he then loses his whole offended facade as he takes a small ring between his fingers and shrugs before smiling brightly “At least that what we tell the big boss”
The younger man in a white coat speaks up from his place in front of the computer “Except he’s now the big boss”
Hoseok’s eyes grow as wide as saucers as he realises “Oh god did I fucked up?” You can’t stop yourself from smiling at his antiques, hand coming up to shut his mouth as he realises his slip in vocabulary “Oh shit” Jungkook rolls his eyes at him before returning to his work and Yoongi can’t help but feel endeared as the whole scene develops “Sorry boss”
Gratefully, you step to his side, waving a goodbye to both of them, Hoseok returning it with a smile and a bow towards him, and he realises his question still hasn’t been answered “So really, where am I supposed to fit in?”
You seem to ponder the question before responding “You could take over the white collar meetings, we all hate them” Yoongi groans at that “or” you take the silicone penis from him with a mischievous smile on your face as you shake it around on his face “you could be Jungkook’s test subject”
“I-no. Despite what you heard from Namjoon I don’t- I” your body almost doubled over in laughter at the face he pulled, an honest horror face and hey, the man is quite attractive, that much could be seen from miles away, and it had been a few too many months since the last time you got laid, technically he wasn’t even your boss, as you held the same position for a different product line.
“Eh- you could always try them on me” Yoongi’s eyes widened in surprise before they took on something darker in them, almost amused at your advances “...if you let me try my products on you”
“Deal”
“Hyung what the fuck”
Yoongi started playing with a stress ball you had given him the day before after all introductions and tours were said and done, and now of course, after texting in the groupchat at night, both Namjoon and Seokjin wanted to hear all about what Jin named– very proudly– the deal-do “What could be worse than dildos?”
“Strap ons?”
Seokjin placed a hand on Yoongi’s back and sighed, already knowing the answer yet forcing himself to ask “Did you even read the papers you signed? The product lines of your company?”
“Oh”
“So you’re not going to keep the whole Min Yoongi doesn’t bottom facade any more?” Namjoon asked, knowing that although it was quite fun to watch the whole scenario unfold, his friend was the one going through it all
“I don’t bottom, that’s a fact”
“Hello boys, having fun on company time?” you crossed the door to his office the way you did the day before, dropping on top of his desk a stack of documents, only now noticing a new face on the couch, turning to greet him as he does the same before standing up, signalling Yoongi’s other friend, Namjoon to do the same.
“Well Yoongi-ah, this has been nice and all but it looks like you’ve got work to do” although he was trying to keep a straight face, the snickering of both men could be heard as they left the room. Yoongi really has to tell them that the walls are paper thin.
“So…”
“So…”
“Was the whole deal thing a thing? or should I just pretend it never happened and get stuck on reviewing whatever papers I’m supposed to review?” A short laugh escaped your lips as you looked at him, still kinda awkward about the whole ordeal.
“Oh it is a thing” you grabbed one of the folders on top of the stack, pressing the paper against him “We like to be very particular on our quality”
His eyes travelled along his feet for a few seconds, no word spoken about it.
“Yoongi, you do know you can say no right?” it was something you should have addressed way earlier, knowing beforehand that the work ethics around branched out into almost non existent territory, and the man was fresh out of a big family outcasting, getting thrown back in it to take over the least coordinated side of the enterprise “Look, I won’t lie, there’s a lot of talk going around, but you seem like a nice man, and I find you very attractive, you came in here as the boss and I was trying to get you entertained with the whole dildo factory idea, I know it must have been tough being designated here, especially since we tend to be...a little too much to handle, so just know that you can opt out of this one, I can just get Jungkook and his girlfriend to try these ones out, as they always have”
“That’s- that’s a lot to process”
“Then take your time and let me know okay? just thought you could have a nice laugh at the whole situation”
It took Yoongi three days and a half to get back to you on the offer, three days and a half in which, although he wouldn’t admit to it, you had wormed your way into his heart, having you deliver documents each morning, bantering along with his friends before you had to go back to whatever it is that you did around the company. You had also started to smile more at Yoongi’s antiques as he slowly but surely made himself more comfortable around the company, handling small white collar tasks and getting less squeamish at every prototype Jungkook or Hoseok handed him without previous notice.
“You really invited me to dinner beforehand” Along with the responsibilities of being a head of management, came work trips, which were initially a you thing until Yoongi came along and now had to take responsibility as well, so naturally you had suggested to him–after a lot of rain checks on your deal– that this work trip would be perfect for you two to give the new toys a try.
“I’m a true gentleman, Y/N I don’t know what you’re talking about”
“Min Yoongi you’re about to absolutely ravage me after this”
“Y/N” his cheeks coloured a pretty pink as he tried to stifle a giggle by taking a sip out of his wine.
Even though it was hard to tell from first glance just what type of lifestyle Yoongi was accustomed to, it certainly became very visible as he navigated effortlessly through the menu with all the french names on it, swiftly ordering for both of you and being delighted at your reactions when the hors d'oeuvre came out, a soft smile on his face the whole time. Whether it was the soft buzz of two cups of red wine over dinner or having the chance of relaxing after a particularly busy week, it made you start gravitating towards Yoongi more than usual. It really was no secret that you found him attractive–you had even told the man yourself. And although you two had somewhat friendzoned each other, the awkward glances, blushing smiles and lingering touches certainly held more than what any of you two could express after barely a month of knowing each other.
Getting Yoongi to your hotel room was the easiest part, a faint blush on the apples of his cheeks as he gazed longingly at your held hands while you dragged him along after leaving the elevator. The kiss was unexpected but certainly welcomed, the way that Yoongi– the man that you had come to know for always being adamant on trying new things– looked so out of his element yet was willing to give it a try instead of running away like many times you had seen him do at work. The kiss was brief, a bit shy and probably out of all the built up tension in the room, your heart swelling at the gesture before you leaned in and captured his lips once more.
“Well this is certainly the first time someone has dined me, wined me and courted me before fucking me into next week”
A laugh escapes his lips, nothing like before, his eyes turning something dark within them as he lowers his voice and his fingers play with the strap on your shoulder, letting it fall down before his lips latch on the base of your jaw “Well what type of assholes have you let fuck you into next week”
A breathy moan escapes your lips as his mouth travels down your jaw to your clavicule, pressing you against him where you could feel his cock hardening, your hand coming down to trace the clothed length as he sharply breathes in “You know, maybe if you end up being good with the toys I’ll let you fuck me with this instead”
He groans loudly, head hitting the wall as you grip him inside his pants “Just fucking give me the dildos already so we can get on with it”
You both move to the bed, losing your dress in the way and positioning yourself nicely as you take out the box engraved with the company’s name on it before he trails behind you, feeling his cock twitch at the image he was greeted by, legs spread open, head against the pillows as your right hand leisurely strokes your already wet folds for him to see.
Yoongi tries his best to take deep breaths as he takes a look into the box, not recognising most of its contents “You really gotta walk me through these”
He can hear you laugh the way you always did when you noticed him being awkward in the slightest at work “Look, I’ll get the part going okay?” your hand stopped stroking your folds, fingers coming up to your mouth, licking them clean before going to grab a small bullet vibrator from the box– a classic you had become well acquainted with during your time working at the company.
The small object comes to life with a practiced twist on its body, buzzing against the air a few seconds before tracing the tip all over your folds before settling it on your clit, a gasped moan escaping your lips as you blindly fetch the glass dildo inside the box, cold surface sending a thrill down your spine as you slowly begin to insert it messily from being focused on not loosening your grip on the small vibrator. Warm hands remove your own from the clear object as you feel warm breath against your exposed skin, the tip of Yoongi’s tongue circling around your right nipple, capturing it between his teeth as he brings the tip of the glass penis inside and out of your cunt playfully a few times before deciding to bottom it out, earning a moan from you. Pumping the dildo a few times, his weight is suddenly shifted from the bed, movements halting and you prop yourself onto your elbows just to throw your head back in pleasure as you feel Yoongi’s mouth on your cunt, tongue lapping up your juices before he inserted the dildo once again, lewd sounds taking over the small room as he continues to fuck you and eat you out at the same time, you feel your thighs start shaking when he stops his movements, smirking at your surprised face, gaze fixated on you as he takes out both a set of ben wa balls and a rabbit vibrator, prompting yourself to explain both of the toys when he cuts your off “Oh I do recognise these two from the lab”
He quickly turns the rabbit vibrator on, wasting no time in fucking you with it as deep as its second vibrating tip allowed him to, the design effectively sending a wave of pleasure against your already worked up clit. Yoongi positions himself comfortably on your side, still fully clothed, hand at a slightly awkward angle so that he can reach down all while having open access to nibble at your skin, having you gasping and moaning under him
“Y-Yoongi I-!’m-” he throws a wink your way as you clench around nothing, impending orgasm long gone “You fucker”
He’s about to pick up the ben wa balls placed carelessly on the bed when he discards them in favour of a small silicone gadget that catches his eye “You were very much eager to try all of these tho” turning to you, all red faced and fucked out “What is this?”
You have half a mind to answer him “It’s a finger vibrator you just place it on your fingers like a glove”
There’s a brief glint in his eyes before he lowers himself again on the floor, easily manhandling you so that he had full access to your already dripping cunt, leveled to his face, cleaning you up with his hot tongue before he experimentally inserts his fingers inside you, vibrations making you instinctevely try and close your legs, to which he only chuckles and playfully bites the inside of your thigh. He quickly starts scissoring his fingers, gentle nibbles to your clit scattered between pumps, working you towards your previously cut short orgasm at a fast speed, walls clenching around his fingers as he separates himself from your core in favour of replacing his tongue for a mechanical sucking motion that you don’t even need to look down to know that he had reached for yet another toy inside the box “Yoongi- oh God- Yoongi p-please I’m-”
You moan loudly, pretty sure that if the rooms in your vicinity were occupied, they were most likely already filing a noise complaint, as you feel your whole body spasming by the force of your orgasm, feeling wetness around yourself, out of the corner of your eye you can see Yoongi smirking at you, the upper part of his sleeves wet from working you until you squirted on him. You can’t even begin to process the situation or really come down from your high as you feel Yoongi’s fingers carefully inserting what could only be the last toy. Your cunt seems to gape before clenching yet again as he works each of the rounded toys inside you, a mix of feeling too much yet not enough, dabbing between pleasure and feeling uncomfortable from the overstimulation taking over you for as long as Yoongi took his time inserting them all “God I can’t wait to see if you’d take my cock as well as you take these balls Y/N”
You’re about to respond with something snarky when he starts to slowly pull at the string of the toy, the ben wa balls coming out one by one, stretching you deliciously, a moan escaping your lips before Yoongi proceeds to start the ritual all over again. A sensation in your lower tummy aching for your climax buildup again and you could already tell it was going to be a long night.
Falling back into a comfortable, bantering routine was easy enough, if anything, that fated sleepless night followed by small giggles from Yoongi everytime you shifted uncomfortably on your seat at the meeting the next day, served the purpose of shifting your relationship towards a more relaxed sexual tension between the two, instead of the awkward one from before, lewd jokes thrown around as well as shameless flirting around the office when you thought no one was watching.
“Look what Jungkook just came up with” you said as you barged into his office a Monday morning, Yoongi almost choked on his coffee as you threw the artifact his way
“And I seriously hope this is a you thing”
You rolled your eyes at him, a smile stretching on your face as the sweet idea of revenge took over your thoughts “It’s an us thing”
His eyes seemed to want to escape their sockets at that “You gotta take me for dinner before you even plan on using that on me”
“Tell you what, I’ll feed you afterwards”
“Deal”
The office usually went quiet and lonely at around a quarter to seven, people from all sectors filtering out after a day’s worth of work, with you being the only human left on the building afterwards, that is, until Yoongi started working there, the man tended to stay for even longer than you did, the lights inside his office filtering to the otherwise dark place. You knock three times on the wooden door before entering Yoongi’s office, finding him hunched over his desk, some document open on his desk as he stares intently at it. You make your way towards him, hands kneading his shoulders to relieve tension, a pleasured groan escaping his lips as your lips bite teasingly his earlobe.
“The ever so romantic Y/N about to fuck me in my own office”
Your hands travel down to the expanse of his chest until they reach his belt, where you struggle a bit to get it undone. “I really just couldn’t wait any longer, could you blame me?”
Yoongi is quick to capture your mouth with his in a heated yet chaste kiss. He rolls his chair out of its original position to allow you to place yourself in between his legs, hips coming up just a few inches to allow you to bring his suit pants down to his ankles, half hard cock twitching in the cool air, your hand wrapping around it and pumping it a few times, to which Yoongi groans loudly, head thrown back as you lick a strip all the way from the base to the tip.
“Oh god Y/N” he can almost feel himself twitch in pleasure as he gazes down just in time to watch you slip him insid eyour mouth, lips wrapped prettily around him as you bob your head a few times before taking him out and giving his tip a few kitten licks “Oh-Oh I swear to fucking god you’ll be the death of me”
You take more of his length in your mouth, ravishing in the way that Yoongi responds, hand coming down to rest on your head, guiding you, yet not forcefully enough as you take a small set of rings from your bag laying around as soon as you feel him tense. You expertly maneuver the toy so that it is wrapped around his cock, him looking down and shivering at the cold metal touching him, constricting his cock to stand proudly as you move to straddle him, moving around a little so that his exposed cock grazes your clothed core under your skirt “I think you should stand up for me”
Yoongi does as he is told, not a word coming out of his mouth as he braces himself against his desk, one of your hands works on his cock as the other one comes down to his asshole, surprised enough to come across a bejewelled toy nestled inside it. You experimentally tug at it, Yoongi hanging his head low with a moan before you tease him a little with it, repeating the motion “So you prepped yourself for me”
He inhales sharply at your ongoing movements, biting down on his lips to keep a much louder noise from coming out “Shut up”
“No I think it's hot" you finally take the plug out, taking a few too many seconds to place the strap on you had thrown his way earlier on before moving to squirt some lube on it as well as on Yoongi’s hole before you tease it with the tip of the dildo, a broken moan coming from Yoongi’s mouth at the feeling, although it had been years– and he really wasn’t about to admit he was looking forward to having you fuck him ever since that sleepless night at your hotel room.
Your hips meet his in a faint and comfortable rhythm, Yoongi clutches his fists tighter every time you graze his prostate, cock leaking in front of him as he feels his orgasm building at a rapid pace before you completely remove yourself from him, bending down to put his pants in place, hand fumbling with the zipper so as to have his still ringed up cock standing still through the pants, forcing him onto his chair as you smile wickedly at him, a small set of electrodes being placed along his length, thin cables leading up to a small device you held in between your fingers.
He gasps as soon as he feels the electrodes vibrating against his cock, his faded climax coming back tenfold, something between a groan and a moan coming out from the back of his throat as you refrain yourself to just continue to watch him curiously “Look at you, such a pretty baby”
Yoongi’s moans keep getting louder by the second as you increase the level on the toy, and you certainly have to thank the universe for the whole office building being completely empty as you clearly see his cock twitch a few times before he cums all over his pants, Yoongi’s breath is ragged as his cock is unable to go soft, discomfort blending into pleasure once again as you keep the toy on for good measure, until you see his eyes watering, to which you hastily make your way to him, as he almost dissolves against the chair.
“It’s- it’s fine, I’ll clean myself” his voice is raspy and kind of quiet as you make sure to clean him the best that you could after removing the toys and running to his private bathroom for some towels.
“Yoongi, I’m not about to leave you after splitting your ass open and overstimulating you into oblivion, you’re not even sitting properly”
He makes a go at inhaling sharply before coming to fix himself on the chair “No it’s okay, I’ve had worse”
“Yoongi” you chastise, fixing him a glare
“Summer 2013”
You chuckle at that–the very much recurring inside joke of his. “What even happened in summer 2013?” He barely opens his eyes just to send an irritated glare your way “Yeah Yeah, we don’t talk about summer 2013”
Carefully selected dates under the pretense of trying out whatever new gadget Jungkook and Hoseok came up with during the month soon turned into weekly meetups, meetups turned into staying the night that soon enough turned things as official as they could be– if Human Resources were the ones asking, Yoongi and you were just really great friends, end of the story. Out of all the ways that Yoongi had initially thought this scenario could play out, it certainly wasn’t this one.
“I’ll see you at home once the meeting is over then?” you say after placing a kiss on Yoongi’s adorable pouty lips, gathering your documents and thoughts for the meeting you were supposed to already be at. He nods right as your knees buckle, feeling the small device inside you pick up in speed, turning to the culprit only to find him smirking at you “Yoongi”
“Love you!” the little shit is quick to pretend like he hadn’t done a thing, eyes quickly fixated on whatever that was showing up on his screen as he watched you leave his office. Guess you’ll just have to get revenge on that one.
#bts smut#yoongi smut#houseofddaeng#ksmutclub#hyunglinenetwork#btscreatorscorner#bangtansorciere#bts imagines#yoongi imagines#yoongi x reader
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MY WRITING
This is an index of my writing publicly available online. I have a variety of short stories, a few essays, and three novels. To save you time, here are a few of my favorite things I’ve written:
The Love Song of Spiders to Mice: A love poem about inevitable longing.
SELFAGGRANDIZE PART II: What if you never had any trouble adequately describing yourself?
Consider Your Ways: When a booming voice from the heavens woke Mickey Ruiz in the dead of night with the announcement that the end of days would begin soon, he was almost too terrified to think straight. But as the days stretched onwards, both he and the rest of the world were almost able to believe it had been nothing more than a dream. That dream, however, quickly turns real when an angel falls out of the sky like a blazing meteor. The angel seems hurt, and what can he do but try and help it? But Mickey and his friends soon realize that the strange, pitch-black angel is only the beginning of the wild changes soon to erupt in the quiet mountain town of Hamilton, Montana...
Find all my writing below the break.
SHORT STORIES:
The Gospel According to Joseph: Do you require proof to believe?
SELFAGGRANDIZE PART III: When the prodigal daughter returns, the only gift she brings is change.
The Axeman Cometh: An Olympic athlete and her trainer hunt the minotaur in between events, but the real monster is lurking someplace none of them expect.
Teatime: The literary equivalent of overhearing one half of a five-minute phone conversation from two seats away while you're halfway falling asleep on the way home on the MBTA Commuter Rail heading to South Attleboro station, at around 9 PM, in December, circa 2005.
Stheno’s Day Off: Only the statues know what lies beneath the beggar girl's blindfold.
Slayer: How do you kill a dragon that’s bigger than the sun?
SELFAGGRANDIZE PART II: What if you never had any trouble adequately describing yourself?
New Cumae: In a world where life and injury are both eternal, how might people cope with their cumbersome permanence?
Miss Polaris: If you knew that the moment you stopped running you’d die, what would make you stop?
Ishtarmacadam: A man's unlikely relationship with the larva of a god turns out to be much more than he bargained for.
Dock Days: A man who can see into the future finds an unlikely roommate.
Die, Son: A Von Neumann machine tasked with disassembling a solar system is strangled in the crib.
Corrie the Crab’s Big Surprise!: Everyone at the sandbar is excited for Corrie the Crab’s violin recital!
Black Cherry Pie: What if you had a nosebleed that just wouldn’t stop?
Among the Stars: What happens after the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog?
A Trip to the Cinema: Roth's weekly trip to the Kinopolis Cinema takes an unfortunate turn.
A Death in the Family: After a young woman’s uncle devours a mailman, she finds her sense of familial obligation stretched to the breaking point.
The Spending of the Coins: What really happened to Judas Iscariot?
The Incineration of Esme Smeck: A peculiarly overlookable woman accepts her fate with equanimity.
The Littlest Giant: The Littlest Giant is spared the sword by a misunderstanding and takes his unintentional revenge.
There: A posthuman wanderer keeps up a one-sided dialogue with the inhuman monster stalking him.
Troy: A brilliant javelineer finds her life endangered by circumstances entirely out of her control.
Sand: In a world where every person knows the exact date and time of their death, the only question left is 'how?'
Sick Days: A girl is tormented by visions of her deceased father, who seems to want her to join him.
Adventures in the Land of the Permanently Adolescent: The narrator's illicit affair with his friend's imaginary friend is discovered, with predictable consequences.
The Mermaid: When a volcano erupts in the depths of the ocean, the sudden change in temperature forces an abyssal mermaid up into the light near the surface.
POETRY:
Desearia haber conocido tu cara: A love poem in the style of Neruda.
The Love Song of Spiders to Mice: A love poem about inevitable longing.
Untitled II: A melancholy introspective narrative after a late-night dinner.
The Victim of Altruism: A violent reflection on walking down the street.
burn after reading: A love poem about things unsaid.
NOVELS:
Down the Rabbit Hole: Roan Dzilenski is a reporter on a ticking clock, who stumbles accidentally across one of the biggest and meatiest mysteries of the last decade: what really happened at Mystery Flesh Pit in 2007, and what is happening inside the high fence and patrolled trails of the former National Park today in 2011? Her dogged pursuit of the truth leads her straight down the rabbit hole, chasing knowledge that will either change, end, or perhaps save her life.
The Adventure of the Eidolon: When Sherlock Holmes is kidnapped by the enigmatic Twins for an unknown purpose, Watson must team up with Holmes’ former associate Nemaides to get his friend back. But Watson quickly learns that he knew very, very little about the man he called Sherlock, about the world he works and lives in, and about himself and who he is meant to be.
Consider Your Ways: When a booming voice from the heavens woke Mickey Ruiz in the dead of night with the announcement that the end of days would begin soon, he was almost too terrified to think straight. But as the days stretched onwards, both he and the rest of the world were almost able to believe it had been nothing more than a dream. That dream, however, quickly turns real when an angel falls out of the sky like a blazing meteor. The angel seems hurt, and what can he do but try and help it? But Mickey and his friends soon realize that the strange, pitch-black angel is only the beginning of the wild changes soon to erupt in the quiet mountain town of Hamilton, Montana...
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Favorite color
Ever since he was born, his world was filled with colors, a beautiful rainbow at his fingers. He’d look down at them at night, or when his parent’s leaving made him want to cry, or when a horror story told by a classmate in the playground scared him half to death, and find comfort in their silky touch and bright hues.
He was seven when he learned the meaning behind them. And the blaring lack of red signaled the first, but not last, heartbreak of his life.
Blue, green, purple, black… and bright yellow. A teacher, a missed opportunity, a first love, life and death… and friendship. No eternal love for Tim, it seemed.
Well. He hadn’t really expected any different. Who would love him forever, when his own parents didn’t?
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
He had forgotten it, and it escaped his notice for many years. Until one night, following Dick Grayson as he jumped from rooftop to rooftop, when he noticed his purple string moving in synch with him. Pointing towards his hero, the boy who had given him his very first hug that night at the circus. His First Love, his Not Meant to Be.
That night, Tim packed up early and went home. He just couldn’t stand the red uniform contrasting sharply with his purple thread.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
When Dick left, he thought maybe now he could go back to his old habits, to run the streets looking for flashes of the new robin without the baggage of avoiding to look at his own hand.
No such luck.
The green made a whole lot of sense when news of Jason’s death reached him, tough.
It wouldn't be the last night he’d cry himself to sleep, holding the frayed ends of his fated Almost.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.
Becoming Robin was both easy and painful. Comfortable, because the blue string pointing him towards Bruce meant this was always supposed to happen; heartbreaking, because it took a kid dying. Because Tim might not have a romantic soul mate, but his hands, that had made a green string break to grant him access to the blue path, were stained red nonetheless.
Wearing Robin’s red, with all the hurt and bad memories it carried, felt like a subpar punishment.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.
Meeting his Yellows almost passed his awareness. In the middle of a crisis, every adult missing, no mentor to guide him, he couldn’t exactly spare a thought for the kids looking shellshocked at him, each other and their hands.
After, when Young Justice was officially formed, he firmly avoided looking at Bart, Superboy and Wondergirl. Their eyes followed him, pleading, but he’d learned no good ever came from strings that weren’t red.
And the red in his soul wasn’t from love.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
Despite himself and his best efforts, they grew closer. Life or death situations had that effect on people, after all.
His own reluctance, which had in turn provoqued Kon’s anger, Bart’s dejection and Cassie’s confusion, slowly began to crumble. He was helpless in the face of their unrelenting friendship.
The strings grew shinier, stronger, healthier, the yellow a stark contrast to frayed (dead) green, cold blue, distant purple. Scary black.
Tim still despised the rainbow in his fingers, but… he could maybe withstand the sparks of yellow he’d catch from the corner of his eye, knowing just who were at the other end.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
It wasn’t exactly team training. Greta, Anita, Cissie, Slobo and the others didn’t join them, for whatever reason. It was always the four of them, leaning on and learning from each other.
When Kon’s strength frustrated him, when the world around him seemed to be made of bubbles and sea foam, Tim stayed late at night every weekend to help. Every spare moment directed towards coaching him, again and again, through exercises he had to come by himself (Clark was no big help, here), until exhaustion made his muscles tremble and Kon’s anger had burned out from frustration to soft acceptance that he just wasn’t like the rest. Until he could hold still and let Superboy trace the side of his jaw with a careful finger, and exchange proud little smiles when his face remained unbroken.
Bart being raised by video games had the expected outcome; he had little to no practical, day to day life knowledge. He was the closest living thing to a Looney Toon. Which was fun and good when crime fighting, his crazy ideas often saved their ass last minute, but unacceptable if integrating him into society was to be considered. So Tim would take him out, hand in hand so he didn’t forget himself and ran on his own, to leisurely stroll down busy streets, arcades, schools, libraries. Talk to people in parks and visit recreational centers, barter with street vendors and ask the little boy selling flowers on Jump Street how his mother is doing. Whatever Tim could think of that would soften Bart’s cultural shock.
In that regard, Cassie was a godsend. With her own attentive mentor, and raised like a normal girl until she obtained her powers, she was the most well balanced member on their team. Tim had started to feel a little restless (how can he help her, how can he convince her to stay…), when he noticed her frustrated, sad face whenever Donna was mentioned on Tv, when any reporter or older hero compared the two Wonder Girls. Familiar as he was with imposter syndrome, Tim would rest his arm around her shoulders and turn to the rest of the team, loudly reminding everyone to ‘speed up guys, Cassie here’s already done with her training routine’ or slump tiredly against her while complaining about ‘how immature they are, I can’t deal, thank God you’re here to remind me competent people do exist’.
It was familiar, to help them along. To nudge them forward and watch their backs as they went, firmly making their way towards being the awesome men and woman he knew they’d become. Lending a hand here and there, working on steading their foundations, so he’d be remembered fondly when they inevitably took off and went on with their lives.
He was used to that, to looking for ways his fated people would want him around. Being a good brother to Dick, an eager student to Bruce (a good mourner for Jason).
What he wasn’t used to was reciprocation, though.
Tim had learned how to fly from the best, from Dick Grayson himself.The boy with no powers that looked at gravity and laughed, sayed “thanks, but no”. But there were some things only a true meta could experience, ways to move his body just so, to take advantage of wind currents to either speed or slow his movements. Kon also visited him in Gotham, unknowing or uncaring about its meta restriction, risking pissing off Batman himself just to spend time with Tim.
There was Bart, kind, cute, friendly Bart, who would stop eating and playing around to drag Tim to the training grounds and run laps around him, as silently as he knew how. Making Tim used to fighting against someone quicker than him, lighter on their feet. To count incredibly soft steps even when they made no sound, and use other senses to pinpoint exactly where the next hit was going to come from. And after they were done, there was always a warm smile and some sweet treat (always different, as if Bart was determined to figure out Tim’s preferences by trial and mistake), the new knowledge and delicious prize worth the dirt in unmentionable places.
As stated before, Cassie was an absolute godsend. But it wasn’t just because she was easier to deal with than the rest. Or because she understood the pressure he had on his shoulders, being raised in the shadow of two incredibly renowned heroes. When Tim’s position as leader had been taken away (after Bruce’s plans for taking out the league became known, and ‘what if he has the same for us’), she took him aside. Hugging him, promising him the team’s anger was going to pass, that she could see why those contingencies might be necessary, that even if she was officially in charge, she’d always defer to him when it mattered. Her trust in him and his heart was unshakable, firm as the arm he’d put round her when self doubt arose its head.
(It wasn’t supposed to be this way; if they reciprocated, they didn’t owe him, and then how was he supposed to keep them close? To convince him to stay, to love the boy with loveless fate?)
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
Jason was unexpected, but Tim couldn’t hold it against him. Even there, bleeding out in the Tower, he felt… at ease.
His predecessor was back. Bruce’s son was back. The prodigal Robin had returned, by some miracle. Tim’s shift had come to an end; even if he died here, he had succeeded in keeping Bruce sane, and now that the real deal was in town, Jason could take over and everything would go back as it should have been. Everyone (B, Dick, Babs, Alfred) would be happier. Maybe they’d mourn him, for a bit, but with such a joyous occasion as a beloved one returning home, it wasn’t like grief could stay for long.
Someone yelled, near. Warm hands shaking as they touched his face infinitely careful, small fingers intertwined with his in a very familiar hold, a strong and slender arm around his back as he’s being held in a half hug. Cries, pleas, demands.
And while nothingness claims Tim, drags him to a well of black, yellow still clings to his eyelids. A touch that keeps him warm even though unconsciousness is supposed to be so cold.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
Death and life. Damian.
Tim can see the first one, what with all of the brat’s attempts to end him. It’s the second one that has him stumped.
He knows not all strings go both ways. His purple one, for example; even if Dick was Tim’s first love, everyone and their mother knew Babs’ was his. Dick had a string pointing towards Tim, but it was a mentor-student one. Same as the one he and Bruce shared. Jason, too; Tim’s side of the string was the green of Almost, while the former Robin’s color was black (Tim taking his place as Robin, and being the only one in the family offering his hand again and again despite his murderous actions, was in some poetic sense the death of an old role, and the birth of a new family dynamic).
Damian, though… Well. He was almost sure they had the same color for each other (how else to explain such dangerous rage), but really, unless the kid was willing to share, it was only suppositions for now.
His only comfort remained the three beams of light, of a yellow almost golden in its healthy shine.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
When Tim changed his suit following Conner’s death, everyone thought it was an homenage. A way to pay tribute to a hero that was his closest, dearest friend. A way to never forget (as if he could, ever, with the lifeless line of pale beige, once yellow, dangling from his twitching finger).
They weren’t wrong, but it wasn’t just that.
Red had always pained him, in a deep, almost forgotten place. A thorn on his side, scratching against his heart. For the longest part, yellow had filled him to the brim, until hurt and yearning had no place inside him. With Kon’s warmth missing, red bleed in the place between Cassie and Bart, despite their best efforts to close ranks and keep it out.
Their sad eyes followed him during the funeral, knowing what the color meant to him. Just how much he was hurting himself, right now. But, lost in their own grief, there was little to be done.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
By the time Tim got the call about Bart, he already knew.
He ignored the ringing phone, holding a sobbing Cassie in his arms, both desperately clutching at their only remaining yellow string.
Between the two of them, color like blood seeped.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
Every so often, when Ra’s voice in his ear became too familiar for comfort, where lines draw in sand begane to erode and blur, he’d raise his hand, eyes locked on the three yellow strings, and watch as Cassie’s moved, disappearing end pointing always in her direction.
He was fairly sure that, wherever she was, she was doing the same. Reminding herself he was alive as well, hadn’t left her behind.
Her absence from his life was necessary, finding Bruce a priority, and the red of his new suit (his new name) was proof of just how deeply it all ran. But it didn’t mean he wasn’t yearning for her lighter color.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
They were back, and he was hiding.
He wanted to run to their arms, hug them and never let them out of his view, far from where he could protect them (keep them). He wanted Kon’s hand on his face, delicate despite his strength, un-trembling when Tim’s own would softly join it on his check and held it there; Bart’s fingers between his own, too steady and constant for the boy who didn’t know how to sit still; Cassie’s arm on his waist, his own on her back, as they shared the weight of the world in their shoulders.
And because he wanted so damn much, he couldn’t do it.
He was covered in red. His first love discarded him, his Almost died so Tim could have his Teacher, his Life and Death was so heavily focused on the last bit… his hands lacked red, but oh, how much he leaked of it in his soul.
He couldn’t let them die again, be stained by his twisted fate; even if it meant he could’t hold them close any longer.
Letting go was more painful than holding on, but he was used to it by now.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
They find him. Of course they do; even without Kon’s senses, they all have beams of gold pointing them towards him, like Dorothy’s yellow brick road.
Tim knew it, was ready for it. And as such, had prepared the words that would push them away, to where it was safer.
Or so he thought.
“We are not leaving you.”
“Who cares about fate? You are ours, Rob.”
“It’s been long enough, Tim. Time to come home, we are done waiting.”
He denies them, shakes despite his usual iron clad control over his body, heart wrenching painfully at their decided expressions.
“You don’t understand. I’m Red Robin now. I’m not… I’m no good for you.”
“I could literally snap your back with the flick of a finger, shut up with that ‘I’m dangerous’ bullshit.”
“Yeah, even Bart could be dangerous given the right circumstances, you aren’t the only one here to watch for. It doesn’t mean shit to us.”
‘
“That’s right, I- wait, what do you mean ‘even Bart?”
“Not the point, Imp.”
They don’t get it. He takes his mask off, wants to give them a good look at his eyes, to read his emotions there and finally realize what’s wrong about him.
“Almost all my strings have something to do with death, or were touched by it. Don’t you see it?” He raises his hand, despite knowing they can’t see his strings, only their own. “I have no red here, only blood. I can’t… I’m not safe to love. I’ll never be loved.”
Kon snaps, something he had rarely done since their Young Justice days, hands on Tim’s shoulders, seemingly torn between shaking him and pulling him close. The latter wins.
(As it always does)
“This is love, you idiot! WE love you!”
Tim chokes on something (saliva, his own breath, emotions). Gasps, tears coming to his eyes unbridled.
He feels two pairs of arms joining the first one, a cocoon of warmth and unconditional love forming around him.
Bart’s sad eyes watch Tim from under Kon’s hug. “I don’t have red either, Rob. Romantic, platonic, filial… who gives a fuck”, he shrugs, before hiding his face against the red of Tim’s uniform. Uncaring of all it represents for him or perhaps doing his best to defy it.
Cassie just holds them all in the circle of her own embrace, forehead to the back of Tim’s head. Her hold is the tightest, and he just realizes- she lost all of them, didn’t she? To death and grief, all too far to touch, and now that they’re back in her arms, there’s little chance of her ever letting go again.
“Love has more than one form, Tim.”
He shudders in the middle of this weirdly emotional dog pile, and thinks. About Bruce and Dick’s pride when they successfully taught him something new. Of Jason’s reluctant smile when Tim first tugged him along to some joined patrol, sneakily edging him closer to the family with every interaction. Of Damian, who would often look down at his own hands (and Tim would honestly kill someone to know just which color the young boy had for Tim) and then at him, with something like hope in his green eyes.
He thinks… yeah. And this one…
(He gives up, closing his eyes and snuggling deeper into Kon’s chest, knees buckling but staying up thanks to his three rays of sunlight holding him in place between them.)
This one’s shape might just be his favorite.
#my writting#core disaster week#day two#Red string of fate#tim drake#kon el kent#bart allen#cassie sandsmark#bruce wayne#dick grayson#damian wayne#jason todd#angst#you've been warned
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.... any succession fic recs? 👀
Yes!! I haven't read a lot for it yet, but some of the stuff I've read has been staggeringly good. I'm generally more into gen fic in this particular fandom, but have enjoyed some Stewy x Kendall, Gerri x Roman and Naomi x Tabitha too.
A few recs under the cut!
“I wanted to get out. From under all this. Take the money and run.”
Kendall tells Stewy even though he knows he’ll never get it, not like Naomi does. He’ll never understand the crush of it, the heart-stopping head-fucking fear of failing a tyrant. Kendall’s been ignoring the shape of it for a long time, putting pieces of it together in the back of his mind in total darkness like a blindfolded man. It doesn’t matter that one day his dad will die. It doesn’t matter about the money or the hostile takeover or the stolen files or any of it. There’s no running. Kendall’s Logan Roy lives inside his head.
Stewy laughs. Stewy laughs for a long time.
“There is no out, Ken, what the fuck are you talking about? You were born this and you’ll die this. You are what you are, and what you are is a fucking Roy.”
Kendall hates him, for a moment. Lightning-strike furious. What the fuck does he know about any of it, about his dad’s swinging dinner plate-sized hands, about getting 24% name recognition in reliable international polling, about puking every time you think about a car swerving off the road in the rain. About finding out that you can do something unthinkably, unimaginably terrible, and it doesn’t matter to anyone you know but you. There’s a scar on his arm that no one else who hasn’t already been told how it got there can ever know about, and he’s sick of it, and it’s not fair. He hates Stewy for a moment because Stewy’s right.
“I wanted to do the right thing, Stewy, for once in my fucking life.”
Stewy laughs again, more briefly, and the predator flash of his eyes in the neon of the motel sign is a torture all its own.
‘There is no right and wrong, Ken. How the fuck do you not know that yet? Not for people like you. Like us. There’s shit you get caught doing and there’s shit you don’t.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. You really, really fucking don’t,” says Ken, and fuck, there it is. The road less travelled, that only he has ever driven on. The path he’s down where Stewy can’t follow. That place beyond Stewy Hosseini where he never thought he could go.
“You’re not telling me something, and when I find out what that is, and I will find out what it is, Kendall, don’t you think I won’t, so I am warning you that when I do find out I am going to be righteously fucking pissed,” says Stewy, and if Kendall thought those were a predator’s eyes before—
“Yeah, you will,” says Kendall, because he knows exactly how perceptive Stewy is. Exactly how weak he is. Exactly, precisely what both of them are.
And treat this night like it’ll happen again by postcardmystery.
8k words. Kendall x Stewy. Post s2. (CW: internalised homophobia, some homophobic language)
I tried to pick a shorter excerpt, but I literally couldn’t, this fic is so. good. The voices are pitch perfect, and it’s got this incredible build to it overall that goes back and forth between time and point of views and just rips your heart out. The premise itself is pretty simple – after the press conference at the end of 2.10, Kendall calls Stewy, and they drive through rural America while Kendall has a breakdown, and it’s just - - unspeakably good. I love it so so so much, I have no words.
r/roysucks
Connor’s gf just posted on Instagram (instagram.com)
submitted two months ago by webbedscrum_2279
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[–] DM_ME_SAMESMAIL 40 points two months ago
I too like to escape to my yacht in the Mediterranean when my family and I are on trial for covering up rape and murder.
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AITA for accusing my father of multiple crimes on his own news station? By amleth
3k words. Gen fic. Post s2.
And now for something completely different – epistolary fic which is just reddit news threads of the Roy family drama. I love an epistolary fic and this is just totally charming, and made me laugh a lot out loud.
“You’re quiet,” she observes. “That’s a first.”
“Yeah, well, the Turks beat it out of me. Gave you a run for their money.” He waggles his eyebrows. “So what is this? Whips and chains? Are we doing the whole boat-sex thing? I heard Shiv and Tom are looking for a third —“
Gerri finds what she’s looking for: a black leather binder. She drops it on the bed and begins paging through it, and Roman cranes his neck enough to recognize that it’s just full of documents, not like, dick pics. “I’ve given some thought to what you proposed a few weeks ago, and I agree that we should make things official in some way,” she says, and he blinks.
“Uh,” he says. “Which — what part of it?”
“Take a look.”
Gerri closes the folio and hands it over. It’s deceptively heavy, and the print on these pages is way too fucking fine, he thinks, paging through it. “Is this some kind of, like, Fifty Shades of Roy sex contract? Because it’s not that I’m not into it, but I think there’s a strong argument for going paperless —”
“Strictly speaking, this isn’t legally binding,” Gerri says. “Just something I threw together with regard to our business arrangement going forward. But with no respect to the family — the past few weeks have really illustrated that no one should take anyone at their word right now. Give me a little more than your word.”
Evacuation strategies for a yacht on fire by devourthemoon.
11k words. Gerri x Roman. Post s2. Explicit.
After the events of s2, Roman and Gerri fake being married as a professional alliance, only, y’know, maybe it’s not so fake. This fic is just so, so much fun, and messy in the best possible way. The author nails all the character voices, and the sex scenes are just the right amount of hot and ridiculous, and I just love it all a lot too.
Kendall estimates it will take an hour for the first articles to go up. Some rapid-fire blog without oversight—the New York Post, maybe, or wherever those Vaulter hippies have skulked off to—will slap a catchy headline on it and report his words verbatim. Give or take a gif of his face when he switches to script number two. New York Times, Washington Post, AP, those fuckers take longer. They like to bleed the story like Middle Ages plague doctors for its marrow, fact-check and add context and analysis and as many backlinks as their servers can handle. Still, a couple of hours, and his face will be plastered on every major news outlet. His voice will play over the nightly talk shows. He’ll trend on Twitter. A few more days, and he’ll be the star of analysis segments, podcasts, weekly briefings. Maybe, fuck it, maybe he’ll trend on Twitter again.
It’s been years since Kendall read Shakespeare. But that shit sticks with you, gets under your skin and emerges when you least expect it, like eczema or Keynesian economics. He knows how the media will spin this. Kendall Roy Attacks CEO Logan for Years of Corruption. Prodigal Son Disrupts Family Legacy to Restore Credibility. That’s how Hamlet ends, right? And Macbeth, Lear, Othello, Romeo and Juliet, even Titus fucking Andronicus. The spilled blood sinks into the ground, the seedlings sprout forth from the soil, and a new castle is built on the bones. Order out of chaos, or at least close enough an approximation that the tabloids will buy it.
Legacy for profit by owlinaminor
Post-2.10. Kendall Roy.
Kendall through Shakespeare analogies – just - - ooooof. It's a beautiful, lyrical character study that weaves through Roy family history and teases at a future none of them are even sure they want. It's gorgeous writing.
For the next few days Shiv would have to keep the pressure on Kira like an open wound because there were other women, victims that Nate’s people were going to find one by one as soon as that phone call disconnected. Mo was her father’s friend, good friend, for a long, long time. Nate and Gil, Sandy and Stewy, too many sharks in the water and the share price probably dipped to a new low but she would never check a stock ticker. Her husband’s nerves fraying at the edges on national television. She had promised a woman she’d never met before that she would kill roughly one third of the top male executives of her family’s company. Her company.
The last look Rhea gave her before she shut the car door was concern close to fear—no longer the same woman who heard their pitch in the safe room, who laughed with her at Argestes. Rhea had only looked into the abyss; she got cold feet and she didn’t even know what it’s like to grow up in it.
Her family’s company is hers, will be hers. Even from a whale fall, new life would spring.
Feed his flesh to wayward daughters by reogulus.
2k words. Shiv Roy. Set during 2.09.
This entire fic is set around Shiv bribing Kira not to testify, and god, it is so good. It’s bleak and rough, and really hones in on the complex ground Shiv walks as a character. It's another brilliant study of what it takes to be a Roy, and the way they make the awful choices in order to fulfill this legacy that they don't even know they want.
Kendall sets down his fork. “So. Tell me. Is it everything you wanted? Is it what you thought it would be?”
Roman stills. He never does that. He’s constantly a menace in motion, slouching and fidgeting, worse even than Kendall at his amphetamine peak. “What? The view from the tippy-tippy-top?”
“His regard.” Kendall wipes his mouth with the edge of the white cloth napkin. It comes away pink from the steak. “Dad. He’s all yours now.”
Roman still hasn’t moved. Finally, he lurches, like corroded machinery come uncertainly to life. “Yeah, man. It’s fucking tight as hell. I love every beautiful daddy and me moment I was a good enough little boy to earn.” He snorts. “Fuck you.” His face goes curiously slack then, like something Kendall’s own face would do. An intermission in the performance, an energy cut. Something genuine finding its way to the surface. “Why don’t you tell me. When you got everything you wanted, how the fuck did that make you feel?”
Nauseous, is the first word that springs to mind. Sick. Scared. I’ve never had everything I wanted, there’s that. I’ve never once had a single fucking thing I wanted. There’s that, too.
Interim leadership by arbitrarily
2k words. Roman + Kendall. Post s2.
I love Roman and Kendall scenes generally, but this one which features Kendall and Roman meeting for the first time a few months after the press conference in 2.10 is just a bit magic. The push pull dynamic that's just inherent to them mixed with the genuine affection and brotherly love is really special, and arbitrarily embraces both in equal measure. It's a great little fic.
There are lots more of course, and I'd also recommend checking out other works by these authors, but I hope this is a good place to start! :-)
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Eden’s Prodigal Son Part 4- Know No Better [Andy Dolan x Reader]
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3
Summary: You weren’t sure what kept you coming back to Andy Dolan. All you knew was that you kept coming back. And it only got worse before it got better.
Warnings: swearing, little bit o’ violence , drug use, fluff, angst, mentions of pregnancy
WC: 2.0k
A/N: Unlike the previous parts, the next couple of parts for Eden’s Prodigal Son will take place in the present with a few significant flashbacks. Thank you for reading! -Juno
GIF by kissxmedeadly
It never rained much in Eden. But when it did, it poured. Andy sat on the edge of the bed in his home, suitcases packed for yet another few months in LA. Except this time, he would have nothing to look forward to upon his return. Why? Because you were completely done with Andy Dolan. And he knew that.
His ears were ringing, his heart left his chest and went back and forth between his throat and his stomach. How could he be so fucking stupid? His eyes continuously scanned over the last text message that you sent to him and it burned him every single time. How could he?
I hope you have fun with her.
How could he have fun with her? He didn't want her as much as he wanted you. Anyone with eyes could see how obsessed Andy was with you, but he was so fucking stupid. Fear of commitment maybe? Maybe that's what did it? What was suppose to be just a fling from time to time while he was in LA, turned into something more. Something he didn't want. And now he was stuck. And now he's going through the headlines that exposed him.
"Fuck!" He shouted, abruptly rising to his feet and throwing his phone against the wall with all his force. He watched as it shattered into tiny fragments and he was thankful that he reminded to back his phone up the night before. He needed a new phone anyways. For a few moments he finally felt at peace, not being able to impulse look at things.
"Everything alright, mate?" Ben questioned as he barged into the room upon hearing Andy's scream. He looked back and forth between Andy and his broken phone and he immediately knew.
"I need a few of those." Andy stated simply, referring to the bag of green pills that he had in his hand, specifically for Andy, by his request. Ben knew better to try and argue with him when he was in such a state. He obliged, opening the bag and pouring 2 onto Andy's hand. He'd never leave him with the whole bag. And like usual, this was how Andy coped. "Are we leaving now?"
"Yeah.. yeah."
***
"Are you sure you don't want to see-," Hedwig began, but you quickly gave her your answer. No. You did not want to see Andy Dolan one last time despite the intense history. You never thought that you could be this broken, but here you were. You clung to his hoodie that he had left at your place, like your life depended on it. Tears fell heavily from your eyes as you laid your head in Hedwig's lap, the two of you on the couch.
"You told me you fucking loved me!" You screamed at Andy, your fists pounding into his chest, tears steaming down your face, ruining your makeup.
"I do fucking love you, Y/N!" He grabbed your wrists in an attempt to slow you down, but you weren't having it. You managed to snatch one of your wrists from his relatively strong grip, returning a swift and sharp smack to his face.
"Love me enough to get someone else pregnant?!"
"I think I'm going to be sick." Your legs couldn't carry you to your bathroom fast enough. There were too many memories of him, everywhere. You kicked him out of your home so fast that night, he didn't have time to grab anything. You turned your sink, splashing your face with the cooling water. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."
"It was a fucking mistake!" That's all he could say. Because it was. One drunk and sloppy hookup turned into an unexpected pregnancy for both Andy and his party.
"A fucking huge mistake, Andy Dolan! You have a fucking one year old and we've been together for 6 months and I find out through a news article. For fuck sakes Andy, you didn't think this one out did you?"
"I was going to tell you.." He mumbled, knowing how bad he fucked up.
"Fucking tell me?! It's been a year, Andy!" You shoved him back, watching him stumble to stay on his feet. "I gave you everything."
The tears fell faster than you could catch them and decided that trying to wash them away was a waste of your time.
I hope you have fun with her.
The last text message that you sent to Andy a week ago. He texted you several times after that, almost every day for the next week until you had to put him on do not disturb. That's the thing about Andy. And the thing about you too. He was never able to leave you alone and you the same.
Y/N please talk to me.
I miss you.
I love you... please.
It was a mistake. I fucked up. I know. I should of told you, but I was scared. I'm not even ready to be a fucking father. This was before we even got together and I know a lot of things were said and were done, but we're all human, yeah?
Please just talk to me, Y/N. I don't want lose you over this. I know it's a pretty big deal, but I'm not hiding anything else. I promise.
I'm sorry...
He tried to call you a few times as well, but God knows why he would try to do that. Eventually he just started calling to hear your voicemail, anything, that could keep him closer to you. You caught yourself going through your camera roll one too many times, reliving all the memories.
You should of known. Andy was way too popular, way too good-looking to just settle down. You should of known. Right? Maybe you should of just stayed friends, but like a fool you fell for it. And fell for it. And fell for it. And now it's killing you.
"Y/N..." Hedwig's soft voice spoke from behind the door as you walked out of your bathroom, a sobbing mess. "Can I come in?" God bless her, huh? What would you do without your dear Hedwig? She was always in the middle of you and Andy. She was there for every small moment, every big moment, every argument. She was your rock and you were hers. You opened the door for her, still not able to control all of your sobbing.
In the distance you could hear small chatter. You forgot that tonight you had invited every one over for yet another small get together. But, you didn't know that you would be like this when the time came.
"C' mere." She spoke, engulfing you into her arms, letting you cry it out.
"I love him." You sobbed. "So fucking much."
"I know." Hedwig held you tighter. "He'll regret it. Andy. He's... fuck.." She knew what she wanted to say and although it was true, she could never bad mouth another friend. Burying your face in the crook of her neck, you screamed, letting some amount of stress leave your body for the night.
"I'm so-,"
"No. You're not. You're in love. It's okay to be in love. This is your first heart break. And it won't be your last, especially dealing with Andy Dolan, but the two of you just need some serious time apart." Hedwig cupped both sides of your face in her hand, making you look at her. She pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead before pulling you back into a hug. "He'll realize how much of a gem he let slip through his fingers. But you have us. And I know we're no Andy, but we love you just as much."
"I love you."
"I love you too."
***
"Jesus Christ, mate." Ben growled, aggravated with Andy's intoxication as they traveled through airport security. "The no-fly list suits you well right about now, doesn't it?"
"Fuck off, yeah?" Andy chuckled, running his hands through his hair as he clumsily put his things in a bin to go through the scanner, nearly knocking the stack next to him over. Ben sighed, furrowing his eyebrows and he got his things together as well. This was the first time airport security scanned two people in the body scanner at once, Ben having to physically hold Andy in the position they requested. Embarrassed, they couldn't leave the area fast enough to start walking towards their gate.
"You fucking listen to me. And you listen to me good, aye." Ben spoke, abruptly dragging Andy into a nearby family bathroom, locking the door behind him. He slammed Andy up against the bathroom wall, spraying the water bottle he was carrying in his hand all over his face. "Wake the fuck up, okay?" He slapped him around a few times, Andy not sober enough to even attempt to fight back. And even if he wanted to, he deserved this. "Wake the fuck up, Andy Dolan." Andy choked slightly on the water that managed to get into his mouth, spitting it back up and coughing.
"Fu-,"
"Fuck off. I know, hm?" Ben opened another water bottle, spraying it on him as well. "You want to know the one thing you're good at? Driving people the fuck away.." Ben held Andy by his now soaking shirt, glaring into his eyes that screamed nothing but pain, regret, anger, and sadness. "Everything you have now, Dolan. I HELPED YOU GET. It's not just about you okay, dick head? As your agent this is MY life too and you are on track to fucking ruin it."
Andy was silent and in a daze. The bathroom was spinning and he swore he was looking at Ben 4 times, but all the words were registering. Ben was right for the most part. Andy was good at driving people away. People that weren't you, but now look, it is you. Tears were beginning to form in his eyes and he could feel his throat swell with sorrow.
"Your public image matters. Remember that. And for fuck sakes, mate. You don't fucking need her." Ben continued. "You're a fucking superstar. You can have any one you want. Mad at you because you got some irrelevant broad pregnant and the two of you weren't even together?"
"Stop.." Andy growled.
"No. I'm not going to fucking stop. She's done nothing, but distract you. That's all she has ever always done. I'm sure she's had her fair share while you were away. Did you ever think about that? She just got lucky to not get knocked up by the next bloke, huh? People make mistakes. You need to get over it. And she needs to get over it. You have a fucking full career ahead of you."
He let Andy go, rummaging through his bag for a new shirt for him to match the current style of his outfit. When he got re-dressed, his administered eye drops for the now teary-eyed man whose eyes were covered in red streaks. When the opportunity presented itself, they finally made their way to their gate, no conversation between the two of them until they would land in LA.
***
"We should get married y'know." You suggested to Andy, snatching his attention away from the joint that he was rolling.
"I'm sorry.." He chuckled. "But what? We should what? Y/N we're 16."
"Hear me out first, silly." You giggled at your idea.
"Okay, crazy. I'm listening."
"We only get married if we can't find the one. Someone has to be responsible for me when I die. And and. There are some pretty good benefits to being married." Andy glanced back and forth between you and his joint before he busted out laughing. "You're laughing, but it's such a good idea!"
"You really are crazy, you know that?" He handed you the joint and the lighter, always letting you have the first pull now that the two of you started smoking together. "But of course, Y/N. As long as we don't find the one. I will marry you so that someone will be responsible for us when we die. And for the benefits."
"I knew you'd understand."
But you are the one.
Taglist: @jimmason @angelicmichael @9layerdevilfoodcake @ferndolan @dorklydefined @littledemondani @king-with-no-crovvn @chicaluna2410 @waitinvain
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Of Tybalts, Composers, and Prodigals
Kageki Shoujo, the excellent anime about young women attending school to become part of a famed all-female acting troupe, spread the love around during its airing, giving significant screen time for each of its supporting girls in addition to the leading ones, Sarasa and Ai, and right through the final episode which aired this past weekend (spoilers ahead). In it, the results of the auditions for a short Romeo and Juliet scene were revealed, and class president Sawa discovered that she lost out on the role of Tybalt to Sarasa.
When conferring with her teacher, Andou, about the audition, Sawa mentions the famous play (and later Oscar-winning film), Amadeus, comparing herself unfavorably to its lead character, Salieri.
For those who haven’t seen the movie—and it’s worth the watch as a study of what ungrace can do to a man—Salieri is both the lead and antagonist. A semi-biographical film, it follows the court composer as he becomes maddened with jealousy at the young Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, an improper and immature genius whose talent naturally and far exceeds his own. Sawa sees herself as the diligent Salieri who nonetheless comes up short, while Sarasa is the talented Mozart who replaces her with ease.
Although Sawa emphasizes her own shortcomings while making the comparison, something unkind is still inferred, which is that she believes Sarasa doesn’t deserve the role, laid out especially as Sawa explains that Amadeus is about talent versus hard work. In her mind, Sarasa is all or mostly talent, lacking the work ethic and other attributes that Sawa has. Unfortunately, for a young woman with a good and noble heart, this interpretation demonstrates that she’s headed in the wrong direction, more closely toward Salieri’s heart than she realizes, for a more accurate take on Amadeus is that it’s about what happens when one lives by legalism and pride, leaving no room for grace.
Much the same occurs in the parable of “The Prodigal Son.” This beautiful passage is always worth rereading, but I’ll summarize to get near its end, where Sawa’s story begins to align with it.
A son asks his father for his share of the family estate, takes the money, and wastes it on “wild living.” Now destitute and living without even his culture and religion, he decides to return home to beg to become his father’s servant. However, his father surprises him by running to his son, embracing and kissing him, and throwing a feast. The son’s elder sibling, though, is not amused by the forgiveness and festivities:
The older brother became angry and refused to go in. So his father went out and pleaded with him. But he answered his father, “Look! All these years I’ve been slaving for you and never disobeyed your orders. Yet you never gave me even a young goat so I could celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yours who has squandered your property with prostitutes comes home, you kill the fattened calf for him!”
It’s interesting to note that Sawa isn’t so upset as the older brother in this tale, but she, too, is stubborn and unforgiving. She knows that while on the surface, she’s proclaiming that Sarasa deserved to win the audition, inside she doesn’t feel that’s so. It’s she who deserves the acclaim.
Likewise, the brother lays out his qualifications: “All these years I’ve been slaving for you and never disobeyed your orders.” Sawa is just as obedient, guiding her class throughout an eventful first year at Kouka. She studied hard, rehearsed frequently, and delivered a glittering performance—for all this, both the excellent audition and her character, she deserved to be cast as Tybalt.
There’s much more to be said here that your pastor likely already has, and which I can do no better expressing. Instead, I want to focus on one line that I haven’t heard preached much on before, and which applies more directly to Sawa. While the father says two things in response to his elder son, the latter is much more famous, ending in “… this brother of yours was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.” But he precedes those words with these:
“My son,” the father said, “you are always with me, and everything I have is yours.”
When I read the parable, I usually get the feeling that the elder brother kind of gets it, but remains upset after the discussion with his father. Forgiveness probably took a long time, and resentment may have existed throughout the rest of his life toward his sibling. But then again, maybe it wasn’t so. Maybe that one line meant everything to him: “You are always with me, and everything I have is yours.”
What a beautiful thing to hear. There’s intimacy there. There’s true fatherhood there. There’s such love and generosity, a “Remember, you are everything to me,” as well as, perhaps, an understanding that the father and son are much the same in character and integrity.
In Kageki Shoujo, as Sawa struggles with her feelings about herself and toward Sarasa, she’s met by someone similar, too, her senpai, Tomomi, one who has guided her through the year. The conversation they have is significant.
Tomomi gives an example to explain to Sawa that she, too, is more the diligent type. And perhaps more importantly, she demonstrates that she sees Sawa. She sees all the hard work, all the effort. Much like the father sees the elder son, the senpai sees her kohai, and it brings Sawa to tears.
Sawa has been understood, and in that moment, it doesn’t matter whether she lost the role or won it. In that sense she’s given grace: Sawa is not an utter failure because she didn’t win the role over the more talented Sarasa. The end product doesn’t matter. Her heart does.
That’s where the focus must be, at least if Sawa is to do what’s right. Her tendency toward justification by the pride she has in her hard work has started to turn her into something she doesn’t want to be. She likes Sarasa, and doesn’t want to feel toward her as Salieri felt toward Mozart. Thankfully, the words from her senpai, along with those from her teachers, helps push her toward toward forgiveness and humility.
Salieri doesn’t choose such a path. He has his moments in Amadeus where the power of Mozart’s music seems to be transforming him, but his poisoned heart, built on decades of a legalistic and proud foundation, is ultimately unable to erase the bitterness and envy; in the end, he literally goes mad. He tries to commit suicide. And he curses all those around him. Salieri’s pride and ungrace is his undoing.
Sawa could go down that path, too. In a school as competitive as Kouka, it wouldn’t be surprising for a student of her intensity and caliber to be changed by the lack of results, the lack of celebration for who she’s determined to be. If not for a sensitive teacher like Andou and a caring senpai like Tomomi, she could have turned the other way and become full of rage, like the Salieri she has always feared she is.
Of all the character stories in Kageki Shoujo, I related most to Sawa’s. I, too, see Salieri within me. I’ve been that someone who “does things right,” who may not have talent but makes up for it in other ways. Can you relate to that? Have you ever felt like Sawa, Salieri, and myself, that you’re “deserving,” especially compared to others who gain recognition and reward but whom you feel aren’t worthy of such glory?
Thankfully, we don’t have to find an end like Salieri’s. Like Sawa and the brothers, we have a senpai, a teacher, a father who shows us that everyone is worthy of love, even the Mozarts, prodigals, and Sarasas. And just as profoundly, that we—the Sawas, Salieris, and elder brothers—are worthy of that love, too, not because of what we do, measured in success of failure, but because of who we are to him:
“You are always with me, and everything I have is yours.”
We are forgiven. We are loved. We are seen.
And because of that, we can be transformed into an image of love more like the father, away from resentment, pride, and our own strength of will, and toward grace and rest—toward becoming the artist, the masterpiece, which we were always meant to be.
=====
Kageki Shoujo can be streamed on Funimation.
#Anime#Christianity#Kageki Shoujo!!#Kageki Shojo!!#The Prodigal Son#Envy#Grace#Jealousy#Articles#Author: TWWK
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Praesidium Pt II: Talionis
A/N: Sooo...Merry Crisis one and all. Secret Santas are supposed to be fun and tailored for the recipient, yeah? Here’s hoping they enjoy given how the first thing they said to me after reading part one was, “Where’s the rest of it?” Mafia AU continuation where the endgame changes slightly. Thanks again to @dymphnasprose for the lovely banner (the raging dumpster fire that is tumblr won’t let me load the gorgeous gif banner you made for me D:<!!!)and for keeping my ass on track and on time with this shit. You know how I feel about deadlines.
TW: Non-Con, Kidnapping, implied drugging, sensory deprivation, gunplay, spitroasting, bondage, rope, fuck or die, forced cuckholding, coercion.
====================================================
The cabinet meeting adjourned per usual custom; the ministers in their bland, off the rack suits filed out of the chambers, their slow, humming chatter fading with every step taken out onto the polished marble. Shinsou straightened his tie and cast a wary eye to his phone, the vibrations buzzing through the laminated table like a hornet. Your number burned through the screen in starlight pixels-- it wasn’t like you to call him during a recess. Typically, you waited for him to call knowing just how arduous the arguments between old men could become when given a public forum.
“Yes, love?”
The familiar keening of your whimpering through his smartphone in reply sent a chill through him so cold it could only be described as hiemal. Almost frantically, your voice hitched and another breathy moan caught in your throat. Mangled pleas for release, for an end to the madness building in your core were punctuated by those same haggard cries. Shinsou froze at his desk in the auditorium, fixated on the harsh panting he knew was accompanied by the heaving of supple breasts and the telltale flush of your imminent end. He ached against his navy blue Dior suit pants, transfixed by the haunting song of tortuous pleasure you sang in his ear. Throat dry, Shinsou dropped his voice and tried again. “Kitten, I’ll be home shortly if you can keep edging for that long.”
“I’m sure you’ll find she’s about as far from home as she can get. Doubt the little princess can last much longer.”
Shinsou held his breath and the dread found a new way to boil the acid in his stomach. Through gritted teeth, he growled under his breath as your wailing continued to soundtrack a less than touching moment between surrogate father and son. He could hear the smug smirk as the formidable Boss Aizawa continued to taunt you closer to the edge.
"If you've hurt her--"
"Wouldn't dream of it. You're coming home, and not that over-indulgent highrise you've made your love nest in. Time is of the essence, Hitoshi." An unmistakable scream, your scream left him paralyzed as the line went dead. Though his mind raced, Shinsou had to will his feet to carry him through the maze of bureaucrats and journalists hindering him from his car. He knew the way to the compound without thinking. Muscle-memory had him weaving through city traffic to the outskirts of town, the memory of your scream a silent echo in his ears.
He knew Boss Aizawa was capable of anything, and that knowledge had his blood run colder the closer he drove to his family's homestead. Yamada and his perpetual grin was nowhere to be found when Shinsou pulled in, a surprise for the political upstart. An empty house for an organization as large as his was never a good sign. He ran through the maze of hallways, each door the same heavy ebony and gold lacquer, until he found the one room he never dared enter even as a young orphan running the streets. The silence of the compound left his ragged breathing suspended in a palpable dread. Hitoshi drew up his courage, caught his breath, and rapped his trembling knuckles against the door.
"Ah, the prodigal son." Boss Aizawa smirked and waved him in with an air of affability not unfamiliar to the young politician. Aizawa rested a hand along your hairline, gently running his fingers through your sweat-matted hair. Curled into his lap with heavy black cord caging your limbs in familiar lovers' knots and a bolt of black silk covering your eyes, you rested soundlessly as if unaware of the monster whose slacks you rested against. Shinsou slid into the room and closed the door behind him, the lump in his throat growing the longer his violet eyes traced the track of his surrogate father's fingers. "Couldn't stay away, could you?"
"Let her go. She has nothing to do with this."
Aizawa chuckled darkly, running his wandering hand to trace the gentle slope of your back and waist. "You're right," he mused, rubbing the reddened globe of your ass. "Her involvement is inconsequential. Nothing more than a pretty, little obstacle, really." Shinsou was fixated on the tender way Boss Aizawa danced his fingertips along your skin and choked back bile and rage as the mafia head continued to calmly voice his proposal. His onyx eyes darkened and a cruel glare frosted over his rugged features. "You've grown overly comfortable with the freedoms I've so graciously allowed you to indulge in these past months, Hitoshi."
Your brow furrowed slightly under the harsh grip on your thighs prying them apart to reveal the glistening secret between them. Shinsou chewed on his tongue, watching his mentor pull your lower lips apart with calloused fingertips. As much as he wanted to rip Aizawa's hands off of you, as hard as he tried to look away he knew it was a far better alternative than seeing your gray matter and bone splattered on the drywall behind him.
"Enough. Let her go."
"If only it were so simple, Hitoshi." Aizawa curled your hair around his fingers and gave a rough pull, arching your neck painfully back as your mouth flew open in a choked cry. "What I don't think you understand is this…" His smug grin burned against your skin, his thick fingers slid inside your slick walls stretching you through your waking moments while your husband watched on, helpless to intervene. "...Everything you own is mine. Everything you've built and become is because of me-- I own you, Hitoshi." Each syllable dripping with thinly veiled irritation punctuated another curl of those blood-stained fingers up into your dripping maw. Still oversensitive from earlier abuses, you wailed as Aizawa forced you to spread yourself open onto his lap for your husband to observe in silent disgust.
"It's simple, Hitoshi: you come back into the fold, and I'll let her go." Shinsou clenched his jaw and watched the gaping maw of your pussy accommodate his mentor's thick digits. Aizawa's free hand snaked its way around your pretty throat and gave an experimental squeeze, your gasping stirring his cock to life under your squirming core. "Refuse and she breathes her last." Stone-faced as ever, Shinsou watched impassively, his rage building in his chest like a war chant pounding a warning across the distance. The tighter Aizawa squeezed the angrier Shinsou became, all too happy to ignore the faint zip and sudden strangled moan pulled from your wanton lips as a foreign cock sheathed itself inside a stranglehold all your own. "Looks like you need more convincing," the dark-haired boss grunted. He rutted into your writhing body, pulling careless cries of frantic pleasure with a casual smirk.
Shinsou stepped closer, reaching out to put a stop to the madness, only to be stopped by the clicking of a hammer cocking from a discreet sidearm. He dropped his arm to his side and looked on at the familiar quiver in your thighs signaling the beginning of your many ends.
"'Toshi, please," you whimpered, desperate to reach that peak. On closer inspection, he could see the dark outline of noise cancelling earbuds resting in the shells of your ears, no doubt playing something soothing and wordless to supplement the drugs dulling your senses. Just when he thought to silently thank his mentor for the small mercy Aizawa's thrusting intensified. The high, keening scream Shinsou took pride in coaxing was a stiletto to the heart when you sang it for another man under such duress. Your cream coated Aizawa's cock, adding another layer of traitorous lube to the act. As the boss ran his aquiline nose along the column of your neck, Shinsou traced the curve of your parted lips with his ultraviolet gaze.
"I'm waiting, Hitoshi." Aizawa held the barrel to your temple and groaned at the full-body shiver that tore through your bound frame on his throbbing length. His finger rested on the trigger, each thrust bringing the reality of potentially losing you to a stray bullet in the midst of his mentor's passion sinking to the forefront of Shinsou's mind. Frozen, the politician swallowed hard and hung his head in defeat. It was one thing to insult him by kidnapping and fucking his wife, but dangling the prospect of losing you was an injury he doubt he could fully recover from. "Be a shame to ruin something so beautiful, but if this is how you demand to be taught, who am I to argue?"
Another moan nearly sent both men over the edge, Aizawa's finger squeezing the trigger reflexively. Fear was a beast clawing through Shinsou's chest, moving through him to grab the gun and pant out in desperation.
"Alright! I'll do it. Just let her go."
Aizawa released his hold on the firearm and allowed it to slide barrel first into Shinsou's shaking hands. With both hands free to manipulate your body to his whims, Aizawa redoubled his efforts. For the first time since childhood, Shinsou saw true joy light his mentor's hardened features. He might have felt a twinge of relief if he wasn't balls deep inside his ignorant wife's dripping cunt.
"Was that so hard? I'd say let's shake on it like men, but my hands are a little full at the moment." Aizawa shifted your weight forward, mouth hungry and open, waiting to be filled as saliva tracked down the corners of your lips. Shinsou hesitated, eyes flickering between your parted lips and Aizawa's empty black eyes. "Guess sharing your whore should suffice."
As if it was all the permission needed, Shinsou dropped his designer trousers and buried himself to the hilt in your throat. He tossed the handgun aside and gripped your hair as he lost himself in the moist contractions as you gargled another aria of wanton moans. With every stroke Aizawa took to bruise into your twitching cervix Shinsou backed off to allow you the half-beat to breathe before abusing your gag reflex. Halfway through you began to realize something was amiss as you clawed against your husband's bare thighs. Shinsou yanked roughly on your hair and continued to bite back his disgust with the situation. He was supposed to be better than this; he swore he was done with Aizawa and his gang, that he was done being a thug at his mentor's beck and call. Your grip left angry trails of heartbreak along Shinsou's pale legs as your body betrayed you.
The pace was brutal-- pounded rhythmlessly from behind, you felt pressure let off as thick, hot ropes painted along your back in viscous pearl. Head thrown back, Shinsou wasn't too far behind, his grip soon wrapping around your throat. With the fight fucked out of you long before reason sunk in, strength left your limbs leaving you limp between the two thugs. Growling out his release into your belly, Shinsou's grip softened and he lovingly rubbed soothing circles on your cheek with his thumb. Lost in the dark sensation of freefall, you succumbed to unconsciousness.
Warm light and the smell of dark roast roused you from sleep. Tongue thick and body numbed from your rest, you stretched futilely back into your pillows. Shinsou sauntered in, unhurried as ever, with a steaming mug to greet you with an apologetic peck.
"What's the occasion?" Your husband darted his gaze away with uncharacteristic sheepishness. "It's not like you to not send your assistant to fetch my coffee."
"I wanted a more personal touch this morning, kitten."
You hummed gratefully into the brew, soaking in its warmth and Shinsou's company with a smile. Your body ached curiously in muscle groups you forgot you had, sparking flashes of remembrance as he began packing an overnight bag for the two of you. "'Toshi…" you began. "I had the weirdest dream last night…" Your husband froze over his collared shirts and cufflinks as you mused over the morning paper. As he packed your counterfeit passports and offshore account information carefully between dinner jackets and evening gowns, you sighed in contented ignorance. Perhaps it was better you didn't find out how significantly the cost of living had increased overnight.
Tags: @thewheezingwyvern
#bnha aizawa#bnha shinsou#bnha smut#bnha mafia#the smut pile server#reader x shinsou#shinsou x reader x aizawa#shinsou x reader x aizawa smut#tw: gun play#tw: non-con#tw: spitroast#tw: drugging#tw: kidnapping#tw: coercion#tw: fuck or die
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careful son (you got dreamer's plans)
Wilbur gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes.
Wilbur was dead. Now, he is not. He can't say that he's particularly happy about it.
Unfortunately, the server is still as tumultuous as ever, even with Dream locked away, so it seems that his involvement in things isn't a matter of if, but when.
(Alternatively: the prodigal son returns, and a broken family finally begins to heal. If, that is, the egg doesn't get them all killed first.)
Chapter Word Count: 8,147
Chapter Warnings: swearing, referenced past suic.ide, referenced past character death, mentioned nausea, blood
Chapter Summary: In which things start coming to a head, and not everything is going according to plan, but they’re trying.
(masterpost w/ ao3 links)
(first chapter) (previous chapter) (next chapter)
Chapter Nineteen: wake the beast
His mind races.
If the enchantments are gone, someone must have destroyed them from within their bounds. Tubbo said as much, said that it was the only way. And now Ranboo stands by Dream’s side. Ranboo stands by Dream’s side, Dream’s hand on him, and he would not have thought it of Ranboo, of the awkward kid who so often sticks close to Techno or to Phil, of the person who they both obviously care for. He would not have thought it—and that was his mistake. He should have been more watchful, more vigilant, should not have dared to let his guard down in the slightest, because this is what it gets him, time and time again—
(all eyes on him and his people turn against him in a blink in a second and a sentence and he feels dead even before the arrow tears through his heart)
(and it was never meant to be, says a trusted friend and he is numb numb numb even as his comrades his friends his brothers his family die around him and he has been betrayed and he dies terrified and knowing that he has failed and the memory of that first death has never left him nor the pervasive thought that it could happen again that any valued companion could hide a traitor’s heart)
“Ranboo wouldn’t,” Phil says, as if reading his mind. “I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but Ranboo wouldn’t.”
“Just because you think someone wouldn’t doesn’t mean that you’re right,” he hisses back. “People stab each other in the backs, Phil. It’s what they do. You ought to know that.”
Phil looks at him, eyes wide and wounded, but he pays him little mind, creeping forward to peer further over the side of the roof. He stays low in an effort not to draw attention; the longer Dream doesn’t know where they all are, the better.
“How did you get in?” Eret is asking below, their voice steady, commanding. They are still a monarch in their own castle, though the wolves are inside the gate. Beside them, Sapnap takes on a battle-ready stance. There’s no sign of anyone else yet, and Wilbur is torn between hoping that the others will be out any moment and praying that some of them have the good sense to stay inside.
(because he closes his eyes and sees Dream shooting Tommy dead where he stands and he sees the blackstone walls of the final control room and he sees the vine pull Tommy away from him and Dream lunging for him with an axe and it is all too easy to imagine a sword at Tommy’s throat at Tubbo’s throat at Fundy’s throat and he won’t let that happen but he couldn’t prevent their deaths before but he has to now he has to)
Dream laughs.
“I’ve said before that I’ve got eyes everywhere,” he says. “It still counts if the eyes don’t know you’re watching through them. I have to say, that was a good trick, with those enchantments. But people go wandering sometimes. All I had to do was wait until Ranboo stepped back outside.” He tugs Ranboo closer to him. Ranboo moves with the pull, completely unresistant, like a rag doll. “Don’t worry, I’m taking good care of him. We’re great friends.”
Wait. That almost sounds like—
He turns to Phil again.
“Can he control other people?” he whispers.
Phil shrugs helplessly. “I’ve got no fucking clue,” he says. “But Ranboo sleepwalks. I dunno, maybe that would make it easier. But Ranboo would never betray us of his own free will.”
The cacophony of whispers in his mind, the storm that swirls and tosses and insists that he has been betrayed, that the world is out to get him and that this only confirms as much, quiets. Dies down at Phil’s insistence and at the scene before him,
(and you would not have allowed this months ago would not have allowed someone to talk you down did not allow anyone to talk you down so perhaps you do not quite know what better means but that is not to say that you have made no steps toward it toward that nebulous and far away goal even if you have difficulty in recognizing it you are different from how you were you are)
because Phil could be right.
(and it would make sense, perhaps, because even from here he can see the way that Ranboo’s eyes stare straight ahead, unseeing, and it is not like how he met him in the corridor last night but it is how he was in the Egg’s chamber, and he has wondered for quite some time now how Dream knew to break out of the prison when he did, how he knew to take advantage of their ill-fated attempt, and maybe there has not been a willing betrayal at all)
But if Ranboo is an unwitting accomplice, is somehow under Dream’s control, then that only complicates matters further. He’s not sure how many complications they can afford before all their planning falls apart at the seams.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re right, we need to move.” He glances back down at Dream. He’s still talking, though it doesn’t sound like anything too important anymore. Nothing they didn’t already know. “He likes to monologue. We can use that.”
Phil nods, and together, they inch back along the roof and toward the stairway. He breaks into a run as soon as he’s sure no one below will see or hear them, and Phil keeps pace with him. They careen through the hallways at breakneck speed, and the further they get back into the main corridors, the more people he can hear, moving about, their footsteps rushed, their voices frantic.
“Wilbur!”
The shout echoes, ping-pongs off the stone walls, loud and overwhelming all else. That is no surprise—Tommy has always known how to make himself heard, even when the moment does not call for it, and he trained himself a long time ago to respond to Tommy’s voice above all others.
(because even when they were younger, even when they were children, brothers by choice taken under Phil’s wings, Tommy always looked to him before anyone else, before Techno, before Phil, and that was even before the other two began leaving so often)
(for better or for worse, your little brother has always believed the sun shines through your eyes and you have him caught in your orbit just as surely as he has caught you in his and perhaps you are twin suns circling one another but then again perhaps not because you crashed and burned and you know better than to believe that it was anyone’s fault but your own and no one’s gravity was powerful enough to help you not when you denied them all)
(though your beliefs once rock solid are shaken and unsteady and the fault lies with you to be sure but you have always assigned yourself more blame than you ought so sure are you that you are at the center at it all that you are on a pedestal the spotlight shining down and some of the fault is yours but not all not all and it is growth to accept responsibility but also growth to let some of it go to let slip from your shoulders that which is not yours to carry)
Tommy all but barrels into him, panting, and he reaches out on instinct to steady him, placing his hands on both his shoulders. Tubbo follows shortly behind, but at a slower pace, his face pale and wan.
“You weren’t in your room,” Tommy gasps out, “you weren’t—where the fuck did you go? And the bell, we heard the bell, and Tubbo said he could feel the enchantments going down, what the fuck is—is he—?”
“Dream is here,” he answers, glancing back and forth between the two of them. “Inside the gates, and he’s not alone. The vines haven’t reached the castle proper yet, but they’re making an effort.”
Tommy draws in a sharp breath, and Wilbur hates this. Hates that this is happening, that any of them are being put in these positions at all. Hates that Tommy is confronted with this danger time and time again, that Tommy never seems to get a rest, never seems to have time to heal, that he and Tubbo both have never had the opportunity to escape the solder’s uniforms that he dressed them in, he in all his misguided hopes and dreams.
But he’s thought as much before. It never stops the hated thing from occurring.
“So is that it, then?” Tubbo asks quietly. “It’s all coming down to this?” His voice is bleak, and Wilbur wishes he could understand all the weight behind his words
(a weight that comes from being a soldier a spy a president an executioner a leader of so much rubble, that comes from exiling his best friend for the good of his nation, that comes from being trapped in a box with nowhere to run, that comes from no walls being strong enough and no weapons powerful enough to protect himself, that comes from seeing it all come crashing down again and again and being helpless to stop any of it, and it is easy to allow Tubbo to slip to the sidelines when Tommy is so much louder, so much more overt with his fears and his pains, but Tubbo has been hurt just as surely, and he needs to remember that, when all of this is over, needs to remember that Tubbo needs healing and safety just as Tommy does, and he needs to remember and so he will)
but now is not the time to over-analyze, to pick through tone and cadence until the true meaning is laid bare.
“What about our plan?” Tommy says. “What about—do we still try? Or do we just have to go down there and—”
He’s trying not to act panicked, is trying to disguise his quick breaths, his shaking hands. Is trying, and failing, and Wilbur continues to grip him by the shoulders, even if it doesn’t seem to do anything at all.
“We were too slow with it,” he says, blunt. “We’re being pushed into reacting rather than instigating ourselves. But we have to work with it. We don’t fall here. We fight—”
“We go through with it.” The voice is confident, steady, brooking no room for argument. He looks past Tommy’s shoulders to see Techno striding down the hallway, hair loose, armor already on, shining netherite sword in hand. He doesn’t know if this is his typical gear or spares—he doesn’t remember whether anyone thought to pick up his scattered inventory or not, when he died. But it doesn’t seem to matter.
“Do we?” Tubbo asks. “Seems like it’s gone a bit pear-shaped, Technoblade.”
“Yeah,” Techno says, “but we were plannin’ to lure some of them away from the Egg anyway. They’ve practically done our job for us. Sure, we’re on the defensive, which isn’t—I won’t lie, that isn’t fantastic. But we can still work with this, as long as we’re quick.” He draws up short next to everybody and levels a stare right at him. “Phil and I will go out there and help hold them off. Wilbur, can you do this?”
He knows what he’s asking.
“Hold on,” Phil says, “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. Maybe we get someone else to—”
Techno shakes his head, visibly frustrated. He doesn’t have the context that Phil now does, doesn’t know what the Egg whispers to him, doesn’t know that he nearly gave in, doesn’t know that he did.
Wilbur sort of regrets telling Phil any of that, now, in retrospect.
“Who?” Techno says. “Who else, Phil? The options are they go try and make that omelet, or they stay here and hope that we can hold off Dream and his goons. If the castle is breached, I’d feel a whole lot better knowin’ they’re not in here.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Tommy jumps in. “What do you mean, they? I’m not hiding in this fucking castle, Technoblade, what the fuck are you on?”
“You’re not fightin’ Dream,” Techno shoots back. “Don’t try to argue with me. You’re not. You’re not gettin’ anywhere near him. So your choices are, you go with Wilbur, or you stay right here, inside.”
Tommy gapes, mouth working. There is some kind of realization dawning behind his eyes,
(and there is only one realization to come to, really, and that is that Techno does care about him, that Techno is trying to protect him in his own clumsy way, and it doesn’t make up for everything or for anything, really, but they’ve already made a start already laid the foundations for forgiveness, and he can only hope that Tommy sees it that way)
but there’s no time. Even though this feels like it’s all happening far too quickly, there is no time. There is no time for any of this.
“I can do it,” he says, and prays he’s not lying. “I’ll take Tommy and Tubbo with me. They’ll be safe, Technoblade.”
He meets his brother’s eyes, and sees there
(determination and anger and hope and a thousand cuts crusted over and not stitched closed and perhaps a lingering flicker of gold from a death that is sure to have scarred him even though he hasn’t spoken on it and will likely refuse to do so but there is trust there against all the odds there is trust in Technoblade’s eyes trust in the eyes of the brother who he has called his twin who he has used and strung along and not apologized to nearly enough but despite it all there is trust)
an emotion too deep to interpret.
“Why are you talking like that?” Tommy demands. He shrugs off Wilbur’s hold. “Why are you talking like you might—”
Die is almost certainly the word he intends to finish that sentence with, but he cuts himself off.
“I know they will,” Techno says. To his side, Phil sighs, closing his eyes, and then, Techno looks to Tommy. “Technoblade never dies, Tommy. Don’t worry so much. Dream’ll get what’s comin’ to him.”
Tommy flinches. “I’m not worried, dickhead. Who’d worry about you?” His voice cracks.
(Dream’s axe buries itself in Technoblade’s throat, and the red blends with the rest of the room)
“If we’re going, we need to. Like, now,” Tubbo says. Ever practical. Ever responsible.
“We do,” he agrees.
(it’s not a farewell it’s a see you later but he hates that phrase because you never know when it is a farewell, no one ever does, and a see you later never gives the closure that people so sorely need)
(and he never said goodbye in any way that counted)
They’ll be heading for opposite stairwells then, from here. Phil and Techno will go for the front, he and Tubbo and Tommy for the back. This is a separation, even though so much of his mind is screaming not to let them out of his sight, to not allow them to split up, not when there’s every possibility that this will end poorly, will not go in their favor.
(this will not be the end the story will not end here and they will see each other again there is war and there is the other side and there is a new sunrise and they will live to see it)
“Wilbur,” Techno says, and then, he’s pressing something into his hand. He looks down, and it’s a totem. Golden and whole, eyes of emerald. He looks back up.
“I have another one,” Techno says. “For me or Phil. This one’s for you. Or Tommy, or Tubbo. Call it insurance. But dying at all would be pretty cringe. Y’know?”
“I know,” he says, and closes his fingers around the figurine. “So don’t you dare. Either of you.” He flicks his gaze to Phil. Phil nods at him, and the same message is reflected in his eyes.
“That’s the plan,” Phil says quietly. He’s been quiet, this whole time. Tommy makes a soft, choked noise, making an aborted movement as if to step forward. But then, Techno and Phil are turning, striding down the corridor, to where the sounds of battle outside are growing louder by the second, and they’ve lingered here for far too long. Somehow, he doesn’t regret it.
(it’s not a goodbye but just in case it is, just in case, just in case, he has braced himself for the worst)
“They’re going to be alright,” Tommy says, voice pitching higher. “They’re going to be alright, aren’t they?”
“Technoblade never dies,” Tubbo repeats quietly. “And Phil doesn’t either.”
“They’ll be fine,” Wilbur says, and tries to believe himself, tries not to think of Dream lying in wait for them, Dream who has already managed to kill Techno once, Dream who is making what he surely believes will be his final move, the checkmate of his game,
(but this is no game)
Dream who may no longer be a god but is surely something other than human, something stronger, something else. And it has been a long time since he was able to truly believe his family invincible. The events of the past few days have only compounded that.
But there is no time for these considerations. They are all in it now. In his heart of hearts, he knows that this, come what may, will be the end of the ordeal. Someone will come out victorious this morning. And if it is to be them, they have no time to delay. So he jerks his head in the direction of the back stairwell, and his walk becomes a sprint, Tommy and Tubbo following behind him, their footsteps pounding against the floor. He takes the last few stairs at a jump.
(a realization, sudden as he impacts: he forgot to tell Techno their suspicions about Ranboo, but it is too late to turn back and catch up, and surely Phil will, surely, and it’s probably for the best that he did not say it aloud in the presence of the other two, because Tubbo and Tommy both seem to be friends with the boy to some extent, at least, and it would be unwise to cause them more anxiety, unwise to present them with yet another problem that they can do nothing about, especially when they may already be running full-tilt into their deaths as much as he will attempt to prevent as much)
As far as he remembers, the swords were left in the throne room, on the table where they were dropped, where a god bent reality to place them. So that’s where they need to go. Get at least one sword, and then, it’s off to the Egg, and he can only hope that he will have the strength to do what needs to be done. It was not meant to be him in this role. Was meant to be someone else, someone more resistant to the Egg’s call, because even he can admit when someone else would truly be a better fit for the task. Someone like Techno, who discards the voice as just one among many, or someone like Puffy, perhaps, who, as it turns out, has fallen under its sway once and uses that to form her resolution to never allow it in again. But they left it too long, and their base is under attack, the assault happening on their enemy’s terms and not theirs, and Dream must be held at bay here. The best fighters are needed.
So he’ll take up the sword himself, drive it into the Egg’s shell before it has the opportunity to tempt him. Hopefully the rest will fall into place.
(though when, when is it ever that simple?)
And then—
“Tubbo!” someone calls from down the hall. “Tommy!” And then, a beat of hesitation, and a slightly softer, more hesitant, “Wil!” And Fundy is running toward them, from the direction they’re heading toward, armor half on and half off, and he supposes he should be glad that he received any acknowledgment at all. “I was looking for you guys. I don’t know what’s going on! What’s going on? Are we under attack? Is that what’s happening?”
He’s frantic, panicky, his words falling out rapid-fire, and—Wilbur can’t leave him here. Separating from Techno and Phil was bad enough, and he knows that they’re capable warriors, have decimated armies between them, that their monikers are no empty threats. Fundy—Fundy can take care of himself. He has proved that much, even if the thought makes his heart wrench painfully, even if he blinks and still sees his darling boy interposed over the man he has become, even if his mind struggles to accept that his child has grown up without him,
(perhaps in spite of him but that hurts worse so he refuses to let the idea linger)
even if the feeling of failure is absolute, all-encompassing, chains wrapped around his chest and squeezing. Even despite all that, he knows that Fundy is strong. Is grown. Is far from the days where he needed a father’s protection. But he cannot leave him here, in a castle that might fall to the enemy. Cannot leave him where Dream might get his hands on him. Cannot abandon him again, even if it’s what’s expected, even if it might be what Fundy wants. He cannot, and perhaps bringing him to the Egg is a worse idea, but Fundy can defend himself from dreamons, knows all the same tricks as Tubbo. He could be of help, perhaps.
(though that is an excuse because the desire to bring him along to keep him in his sight is far from rational is born of fear and protectiveness because even if Fundy hates him even if Fundy wants nothing to do with him he wants to see him safe and some part of him still believes even after everything even after disowning each other even after the betrayal he felt in the ravine as Fundy licked the boots of a tyrant and even after the betrayal Fundy must have felt in turn after he refused to believe him and tossed his efforts aside even after all of that he still believes himself the most capable person to keep his son safe and he must see with his own eyes that he is well)
“Dream’s attacking,” he says, and does not slow to a stop, even as Fundy comes up to them. Instead, he grabs Fundy’s wrist, ignoring his startled noise, and changes his momentum, taking him along with them. “We’re enacting the plan as best we can. We’re going to the Egg. Will you help us?”
Fundy doesn’t reply for a moment, and the only sounds are their feet against the stones. They’re deep enough in the castle that the battle out front no longer reaches their ears.
“You want me?” Fundy asks. “Really?”
(the doubt in his voice is an arrow to the back is water rising around his ears is sinking and falling and hitting the ground too hard)
“Of course,” he says, and even though now is not for a conversation like this, he opens his mouth again, and starts, even as they keep running, “Fundy, I—”
But then, he stops abruptly, because suddenly Eret steps out in front of them, their shoulder bleeding heavily but their posture still erect, still lordly, still every inch a king. And Wilbur should despise them, but now is not for that, either, so the anger washes away, and he skids to a stop in front of them and feels only confusion for the fact that they are here and not outside, where he last saw them.
Eret steps forward, and proffers to him a sword, gleaming, electrified with an otherwordly aura, the presence of the universe contained in glowing runes and the sharpened point, and—ah. So Eret had the same idea.
“Good luck, all of you,” they say. Wilbur takes the sword, and for a moment, his fingers brush against theirs. He does not recoil from the contact.
“How is it looking?” he asks.
“Not amazing, but not terrible,” Eret answers. “I came to find you and to down a potion. It seems to be only the six of them at the moment, seven counting Ranboo, which I’m not sure whether we should or not—”
“What do you mean, counting Ranboo?” Tubbo demands. He shakes his head, trying to convey now is not the time without so many words, and Tubbo subsides, though reluctantly.
But Tubbo’s always been good at compartmentalization.
“—and they don’t seem to be trying to surround us,” Eret is continuing. “Not yet, at any rate, so if you go out ‘round the back, you should escape detection. Though I find it unlikely that they left the Egg completely unguarded. This has trap written all over it.”
He nods. It has occurred to him, of course, and Eret’s words only solidify his belief. If Dream wanted to take them all out here, now, he’d be smarter about it. He wouldn’t announce his presence, wouldn’t focus his attack in one spot. This maneuver is just asking for someone to escape, to head for the Egg, and he can only hope that they’re several more steps ahead of Dream than he believes them to be. If they are not, then Dream will be proven correct, and it truly will be checkmate.
Really, it all comes down to whether he knows they have these swords or not. Whether he knows that dreamons are not invincible. Whether he knows the universe has intervened.
(humming a tune)
“So, it’s a regular day, then,” he says. “I assume you’re taking the other?” He indicates the sword, and Eret’s lips twist wryly.
“That was the original plan, wasn’t it?” they say. “One for the Egg and one for Dream.” Their posture shifts a bit, almost imperceptibly, but suddenly they remind him far more of a soldier than a monarch. The soldier that they were, once, under his command. “We’ll handle things here, Wilbur. You all take it to the Egg. We’re finishing this today.”
He regards them. There is no sign of duplicity in their bearing. But then, there never was before, and perhaps it is not a good idea to allow them to take the second sword after all, because how sure can he truly be that—
No. No, he will not spiral down that road. Not now, not today. He is making a choice. And trust is not entirely built on choice, not really, because trust is a fragile thing, formed gradually, of shared experiences and opening up far more than he is comfortable with, but in an instant? In a singular moment? He can choose to trust. Can choose to have faith. And he doesn’t know whether Eret has earned it or not. But he doesn’t know that he has, either, and he will not be the one to deny them the opportunity to grow. To be better. He will not.
(and just maybe it truly is time for the old song to receive another revision)
“Yes,” he says. “We are.” And he meets Eret’s eyes, as best he can behind the glasses they perpetually wear. “Good luck, Eret.”
Eret smiles at him, small but genuine. And then they, too, turn on their heel and run off, back to the front, back to the chaos. He has stared at a lot of retreating backs today. He hopes that’s not an omen.
But then, he’s not one to believe in omens.
“Wait, we’re just going to let them go?” Fundy asks. “On their own?”
“They won’t be on their own,” he replies. “And neither are we.” He looks to the other three, to his son, visibly shaking, to Tubbo, face set in a hard expression, to Tommy, who is desperately trying to mask his fear. “You heard them. We go out the back and circle back around to the Egg’s chamber. Tubbo, Fundy, is there anything you can do to hide us on the way there?”
“We can try our best,” Tubbo says. “Right, Fundy?”
“Oh! Um, right, right, yeah, we can do that,” Fundy says.
“Then equip everything you need, and let’s go,” he says, the general’s orders coming easy in this moment. He still holds the sword in his hand; it weighs on him more heavily than it should, but he doesn’t know whether it’s the material it’s made out of or his mind playing tricks on him, something to do with a metaphor about the burden of responsibility. Heavy lies the head that wears the crown; heavy falls the hand that bears the sword.
He only hopes that the blow he strikes will land heavily enough.
--------------------
It is easy to leave the castle. Too easy, perhaps, and all of his nerves are a clamoring mess, insisting that this is wrong, wrong, wrong. In this, at least, he is inclined to listen to his instincts; nothing in war ever comes this easily, and Dream is too smart to leave them such a simple way out unless he wanted them to take it. Wanted someone to take it, at least. Perhaps not them specifically,
(but you have never been one to believe in coincidence)
but the danger of falling into a trap is very real and present. Because it is, undoubtedly, a trap. Of what kind, he doesn’t yet know.
They slip out the back entrance. Fundy and Tubbo have a muttered discussion
(and Fundy keeps shooting looks at him, looks that he has to force himself to ignore, because he doesn’t know what they mean doesn’t know what Fundy wants from him and if Fundy would tell him what he wants then he would burn the world to give it to him even if what Fundy wants is for him to leave him alone he will do it no matter the part of him that such a deed would crush because it is no one’s fault but his and it is about time he began to respect his son’s wishes)
and then begin chanting under their breaths, words in a language that he does not recognize, but soon after they start, the static recedes from his mind, the Egg held at a further distance—and it is probably concerning that he didn’t notice that it was there again in the first place. Tommy sticks close by his side, staring at the other two with an unsettled expression and every so often brushing his fingers against the sleeve of his coat, as if reassuring himself. At any other time, Wilbur would tease him for it. As it is, he rather likes the reassurance himself.
The vines are crowded, clustered, making their progress slow. They writhe on the ground like snakes, or like worms, wriggling and oozing, and though they don’t actually seem to be secreting any sort of substance, sometimes he blinks and sees them covered in blood. But at least, they don’t seem to be interested in them, all of them stretching and straining and growing toward the castle, even before Tubbo and Fundy begin their incantation. And after that, some of the vines part before them, rearing away from their approach.
Picking their way through them is still difficult. And whenever he looks at them for too long, nausea rises in his throat.
But they manage to arrive at the entrance to the spider spawner completely unimpeded, and he stares down into the familiar hole. He’s been here thrice now. Both visits before, it all went terribly, horribly wrong. The first time, he was dragged out screaming. The second time, he stumbled into the sunlight having just watched his brother die.
“Third time’s the charm?” Tubbo suggests.
“Shut the fuck up,” Tommy returns, though there is little heart in it.
“Are we actually going down there?” Fundy asks.
“You don’t have to,” he says. “None of you three have to. You could all stay up here. It might be safer. I don’t know.”
He doesn’t want to force them to confront the Egg again. Doesn’t want to bring them back to that room. Or in Fundy’s case, doesn’t want to expose him at all. Doesn’t want him to have to confront the evil that lies down there. But he can’t guarantee that it would be any safer for them to remain above ground. Can’t guarantee that no enemy would come along.
He can’t guarantee anything. He doesn’t like the feeling.
“Like hell,” Tommy says. “You are not going down there by yourself. What kind of idiots do you think we are?”
“Yeah, big man, you’re not going in without us,” Tubbo says. “Not after—literally everything that’s ever happened down there.”
“What did happen down there?” Fundy asks. “I mean, I know Techno died. You guys told me that. But like, what else? I guess it was bad?”
He closes his eyes.
He’s already told his father. Tommy and Tubbo have been there for all the worst of it. But does he really want to tell his son?
(he can look at you no worse than he already does though you’re not sure that’s true and you do not want to see his reaction to knowing just how much of a wreck you still are the wreck that the Egg appeals to and you do not want to see horror on his face and you do not want to see pity and you do not know which would be worse but you would take cold anger over either of those)
“It got the best of us, and of me, specifically. Multiple times,” he says. That will do. Not a lie, but not too specific. But Fundy’s ears twitch, his eyes narrowing, and he knows that he’s about to ask for more details. “Now’s not the time to get into it further. We need to move.”
“It’s never the time,” Fundy mutters, and it takes all of his self-control to prevent himself from flinching, because that—is not about this, surely. But Fundy subsides, and Tubbo has stepped up to the edge of the entrance, staring down in concentration, and Tommy has a sword in his hand. Not the sword, but a sword, netherite and clearly well-used.
He has the sword. And a bow. No armor, though the rest of them are all kitted out. Full netherite. They’re as safe as they can be
(though that didn’t save Technoblade)
and they have no more time to waste.
So down they go.
The room containing the spider spawner, enchantment table and anvil and all, is choked so completely with vines that it is difficult to see past them. But there is a clear path, leading right to the Egg’s chamber, possible for people to traverse, and it has so obviously been left open as a walkway that even his instincts fall quiet, because it doesn’t get more clear than that. No sense in his mind shouting trap! at him over and over again when the bait is plain as day.
“This sucks,” Fundy says. But he makes no move to retreat.
(he thinks he might want him to, actually, thinks he might want all of them to go back, to climb back out and into the morning sun, despite the danger that no doubt still exists above, because there is danger and then there is danger, and though he wants to keep them all safe keep them all close to him he does not know that this is a danger that he can protect them from and perhaps he should have admitted as much earlier and perhaps this was all a mistake the greatest mistake he has made since his return and perhaps they need to run they all need to run and perhaps he cannot do this at all perhaps it is only hubris that has led him here and perhaps Icarus would have learned his lesson had he been granted a second chance but it seems it seems that he has not that he is facing the red sun knowing full well that it will melt his wings and he is only pretending that there will be any other outcome and)
Tommy snorts. “You can say that again,” he says, but he just sort of sounds tired.
“Nowhere to go but forward,” Tubbo murmurs. “You taking point, Wilbur?”
He can delay no longer.
He nods, and strides forward, wincing every time he treads on a vine, which is about every other step. The air grows warmer, more humid, more stifling. Each breath requires more effort. The air becomes a red haze, shimmering and distorted like heat coming off metal or pavement on a sweltering day.
The Egg’s chamber is more cluttered than he remembers it. The red vines sway gently, and make no move to attack them, to strangle them as they
(Technoblade dangling a snap of his neck and then a moment later the brilliant gold the phoenix rising the god deathless until he was not)
step inside. The Egg itself is unchanged, sitting in its corner. Blood red. Almost innocuous.
Static presses in around him, just barely kept at bay by the enchantments that Tubbo and Fundy laid. And even those will give out within minutes. He’s not sure how he knows,
(you do not bring a sword to a duel of bow and arrow and you do not hope to lay down magic against a dark void thing in the thing’s own lair)
but he is sure of it.
And the Egg is not alone.
“Fuck,” Tubbo murmurs. He echoes the sentiment, but all his words are caught up in his throat and tangled in his chest, a web beyond saving, beyond saving him or anyone else, thread that is too coarse and too rough and too fragile to have any hope of mending this.
To one side, there is a boy, one that he vaguely recognizes as Purpled. He seems bored, watching them with sharpness, but also some degree of indifference. But Wilbur cannot focus on him, even though from what he knows, the kid is a dangerous mercenary.
Flanking the Egg itself, there is Jack Manifold. And there is Niki.
Jack Manifold seems unchanged, though the lenses of his glasses are both red, now, where he was sure that one was blue before, and his expression is set into something harsher than he ever recalls him being. But then, he never paid too much attention to Jack Manifold. Niki, though, Niki—the bags underneath her eyes are prominent, dark and deep, and he almost takes them for thick eyeliner at first. Her face is more lined than he remembers it, her hair a different color. And her eyes are red. Red like fire, red like blood, red like the shards of a shattered mirror, red like a thousand broken things.
Around her shoulders, she wears the hood of his coat. Slowly, his hand comes up to feel around his shoulder blades, and finds the hood missing. He’s not sure how he never noticed that before.
(he gave her one of his coats, didn’t he?)
They both grip swords. Purpled has one too.
(there is a creature living in his chest, wounded and desperate and howling, but for once it does not slam against his ribcage, seeking its freedom, but curls up in a corner, whining, pitiful)
“The Egg said you would be coming,” Niki says, and somehow, her voice is both flat and trembling with restrained emotion. “It said—you were back.”
His tongue lies like lead.
“Niki?” Fundy asks, and steps forward. He shoots out a hand to hold him back, to keep him from going too far, and Fundy glares but does not fight it. “You’re really with the Egg?” And at the same time, Tubbo starts on something: “C’mon, Jack, why’d you think joining up with the breakfast item would be a good idea?”
Tommy, conspicuously, remains silent.
“Why wouldn’t it be?” Jack Manifold snaps. “Tell me, Tubbo, what other options did I have? Did you even think to come and tell me about literally anything that’s been going on? No? I don’t think so.”
“We’ve been overlooked,” Niki says, and her voice is quieter, but there is no softness in it. Only anger, and he does not know whether the emotion is the Egg’s or hers. Or both. But he would deserve it, if it was hers. He knows that. “Forgotten, cast aside time and time again. Abandoned by the people who were supposed to care about us.”
(the creature whines again at the word at abandoned at abandoned because he didn’t mean to he wasn’t thinking about abandoning anyone he just knew that they would be better off without him without him and his corrupted creation without him to drag them all down because he was the villain he was)
“But the Egg’s going to give us what we want,” she continues. “Joining it was the best choice for us. The best choice for me.” And she speaks it so defiantly, as if daring him to argue, and there’s a trap in that, a trap in trying to tell her that it’s not a good thing, that she should have chosen something different. Because he has no right to dictate Niki’s choices. Nobody does.
But that includes the demonic egg.
“What’s it going to give you, Niki?” he asks, finding his words at last. Jack scoffs, and Niki’s eyes flash.
“What’s it going to give me?” she parrots. “How can you think that you of all people have the right to ask me that? I mourned you, Wil. I mourned you for so long. It was hard to eat, hard to sleep. For the longest time I couldn’t even accept that you were gone, that that—that ghost took your place and forgot all about me. But that’s—I don’t need you. I don’t need your promises, and I don’t need your lies. I’ve got the Egg on my side.”
(that’s wrong wrong wrong because he never forgot about Niki not even once even when he willfully let the rest of his memories slip through his fingers like the blue that stained his skin even then he never forgot the scent of freshly baked bread never forgot her smile her steadfastness and never forgot missing her either missing her when it was too dangerous to come for her when one wrong move would mean getting her killed never forgot stepping up and offering his final life for hers because she was always worth so much more then he ever could be and even when he forgot everything else he never forgot a thing about her)
(and the irony of her statements is not lost on him, because perhaps he is a liar perhaps he is built of empty promises promises that scattered like ash in the wind over the cliff top but if he is that then what is the Egg)
“We’ve got the Egg on our side,” Jack says. “You want to know what we want? It’s simple. We want Tommy dead.”
The words land like a rockslide. Or too much TNT.
His fingers twitch, a second away from calling a weapon to his hand.
Tommy is still silent.
“You what?” Tubbo says. “Jack?”
He sounds like he’s hoping it’s a joke. But Jack just crosses his arms.
“We’re tired of him doing whatever he wants and not facing any consequences,” Jack declares. “He keeps on getting away with everything. He literally killed me and didn’t even apologize for it! And he was one of my best friends! I went to hell and had to claw my way back out, and that’s his fault.”
“Everywhere he goes, there’s conflict and suffering,” Niki says, and her voice is filled with less hatred than Jack’s, but that’s not saying much. “Until he’s gone, there will be no peace on this server.”
“We’ve tried before. We even tried to nuke him, and somehow we managed to fuck that up,” Jack says. “It never seems to work. But with the Egg’s help, it will. We’ve made sure of it.”
“You tried to—oh my god,” Tubbo says. “Oh my god, did you—did you actually—I trusted you!”
“And I trusted you,” Jack says. “You’re a good sort, Tubbo, really. I do like you. ‘S why I never wanted you to find out like this. But in the end, you still let me down. I don’t hold it against you, because everyone does it. The only one who ever looks out for me is me. Niki and I have that in common, see? But Tommy needs to go. And I’m sorry if that’s going to hurt you, but I’m not sorry for doing it.” He pauses. “And if you join the Egg anyway, it can make sure it doesn’t hurt, actually, so you should really consider it.”
Tubbo’s face is a mask of horror, tears glimmering in his eyes. There’s something here that he’s missing. But now hardly seems like the time to ask.
“He never takes any responsibility,” Niki says. “He needs to. For once.”
Beside him, he hears Tommy draw in a shaky breath, and—he’s not actually believing any of this, is he? But he’s not denying it, as he might expect, and looking to his face, to an expression that reads like sorrow and resignation but no shock at all, he realizes that Tommy knew, to some degree. Knew that Niki and Jack have been—have been trying to kill him, and he’s just accepted that, and that breaks Wilbur from his stupor, draws him from the sea of guilt that he’s been swimming in ever since he laid eyes on Niki’s face. Because he has wronged her. Has hurt her. And he needs to make it right, as best he can. But that doesn’t mean she gets to take it all out on his little brother.
“Never takes any responsibility?” he repeats sharply. “Never—do you know Tommy at all, Niki? Or did you forget the time he was exiled and abused for the high crime of—oh, let me see, griefing someone’s house? Or the time he was chased out of our nation for the fact that he was my running mate? Or the time—I mean, are you even hearing yourself? You think Tommy doesn’t take responsibility? You think Tommy’s never suffered? He’s a teenager, Niki! And he’s been through worse than any teenager ever should be. You can’t blame him for things that were never his fault in the first place.”
Tommy stiffens. And for a moment, she seems to waver, glancing at him, and then at Jack, frowning. For a moment, he thinks he might have broken through. But then, she hardens.
“I’m sick of everyone making excuses for him,” she says. “I won’t take it any more. And you—you have no right.” Her voice breaks. “I think we’re done talking.” Her fingers flex around the hilt of her sword, and that is all the warning he receives before she charges forward, weapon held high, Jack at her side, and he goes for his bow, goes to take a shot,
(though it might fly wide because he doesn’t know that he can bring himself to injure her even for Tommy’s sake and he thinks he will if he has to but whether the fortitude it will take is beyond him is difficult to say)
but then a weight hits him from the side, sending him flying, and he pulls his head back up, expecting to see the vines twisting, dancing, slamming into him, but instead, it is Purpled, now standing over him as he’s sprawled on the ground, sword in his hand. And he’s between him and Tommy, him and Tubbo, him and Fundy, and now Tubbo is yelling and there is the clash of metal on metal as Niki and Jack attack, as Niki and Jack go in for the kill that the Egg has promised them, and he is on the ground and Purpled blocks his path, blocks his way, blocks him from helping them.
“Sorry, Wilbur,” Purpled says. Cool, casual, perhaps vaguely apologetic. “Business is business.”
And then, just as he’s pushing himself to his feet, unsteady and desperate, the enchantments give out. The protection that Tubbo and Fundy attempted to give them, gone.
So, here you are, the Egg says, and here I am, as I ever am and always will be. Hello, void child, will you let me bring you home?
#mcyt#dsmp#dream smp#dsmp fic#wilbur soot#tommyinnit#tubbo#technoblade#philza#eret#fundy#nihachu#jack manifold#/rp#cat writes fic#long post#yet again another cliffhanger lmao sorry bout that#next few chapters are gonna be. A Lot
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Prodigal Son and why Living Shouldn't Be Controversial
Originally posted 1/27/2021
After my last post I wasn’t sure what I would write about. Several of my upcoming posts are research intensive and potentially controversial so as far as I’ve gotten on them was to put them in my book for blog post ideas and that’s about it.
And then Season Two of Prodigal Son aired. So what am I doing? A research (not so intensive) and potentially controversial post. At least I’m on brand.
For those who don’t really know the show: In its second season Prodigal Son is the story of ex-FBI profiler Malcolm Bright who was fired for his risk-taking habits and came back to the NYPD at the request of Captain Gil Arroyo. Malcolm Bright is also Malcolm Whitly, the son of the influential and extremely wealthy Whitley family. The Patriarch of the Whitly family, Dr. Martin Whitly, a convicted serial killer known as “the Surgeon”, is currently in a secure psychiatric facility. His son Malcolm put him there. Malcolm now works for the NYPD under Gil’s team that includes Detectives JT Tarmel, and Detective Dani Powell and Medical Examiner Edrisa Tanaka. While not solving crimes, Malcom must deal with his tenacious television reporter sister Ainsley Whitly and their wealthy, hovering mother Jessica Whitly. As well as his father who is trying to make his way back into his family’s life via Malcolm by assisting via telephone with certain cases.
Except for the Whitly’s (who while wealthy are probably not very good role models), the entire main cast is made up of people of color: Filipino, Black, Asian. While the first season was introductions to everyone and dealing with Malcolm’s lost memories regarding his father, the father/ son dynamic, cultivating a loyal fanbase and potentially starting some ships both purposefully and accidentally (I’m looking at you Brightwell and Maldrisa shippers), this second season started off with a bang. Something that might have been relegated to a side plot, I feel, had become larger than this season’s overarching plot and will end up and absolutely deserved to be in equal standing.
In the first season, we are introduced to JT, the by the book detective who doesn’t like Bright in the beginning but by the end of the first season, they’re…okay. We also meet JT frankly adorable wife Tally and discover that he’s going to be a dad.
In season two, months have passed, and JT is acting Captain while Gil is out on medical leave. He brings Bright in on a case involving a justice killer. At the end while back up is being sent to Bright’s apartment for the final conflict, Dani rushes up while backup is on its way and JT is right behind her. He arrives moments before the back up and when they arrive, he directs them up to the apartment. What happens instead is something we’ve all seen on the news this past summer. The first cop that arrives tackles JT and presses him against the wall, baton at his throat telling him to stop resisting. The terror in JT’s eyes is startling as he realized that these officers, the one holding him and the other five who have their guns trained on him are not going to let him explain that he’s a cop. It isn’t until Dani runs out holding her badge and Malcom following close behind, both of them yelling to stand down, that he’s a cop does the office let go of JT and step back. Back at the station, Gil is furious and wants to take it to I.A., but JT insists it won’t do any good and he needs to think about it. He has a family now and he doesn’t want the retaliation. The scene ends with Gil, Dani and Bright supporting his decision and telling him they have his back. JT is emotional and for good reason. The people who are supposed to be working with him just tried to kill him.
Episode two didn’t let up; in the middle of a chase, Gil tells JT to call for back up and what happens is enraging. As JT calls on his police issued walkie for backup, the person manning the other end tells him that the line if for police use only and uses the term “boy” before disconnecting. Later, it shows JT and Dani standing outside the office watching Gil yell at the dispatch for not sending officers for a potential hostile situation. JT decides to not file a report mentioning that he has a family to worry about and he must work with these people. It is harassment and emotional terrorism at its worst.
In the first episode this season, Dani and Bright are talking and Dani mentions the institutionalized racism she’s been dealing with. With this show being categorized as a police procedural, showing this sort of dangerous institutional racism within the police force is both tricky and important. While police shows have mentioned an episode or two of racism within the force, it’s usually an episode and the one bad cop is taken to task by the white Captain and the entire thing is brushed over. The good thing about this show is so far, all the people in power we’ve seen on the force have been people of color. It also makes it harder to pull the “white savior” role as Bright, while on the team, has no real standing with the NYPD and could be kicked off cases in a heartbeat. Jessica, with all of her wealth and ties (or not, make up your mind Jess) to Gil, can’t really do anything expect throw money at the issue. The brunt of the conflict will lie between Gil and his team facing the police force including these cops who “are just doing their job” and the veil of secrecy that lies within the Thin Blue Line. It’s not something that can be erased in a five-episode arc and I really hope it’s not. The racism within the department has been established, it can’t be erased with the firing of the cop who attacked JT and it can’t be addressed with the Commissioner coming in to make everyone go to training to make it all magically go away.
The showrunners spent the entire first season introducing us and making us love these characters and given the current climate of the world, this was a bold and correct decision, one that needed to be addressed. I know there is talk on message board stating that this season is too “political”. Black Lives Matter, is not political, institutionalized racism within the police force is not political. Men and women of color that are on police forces are risking their lives to do good and make streets safer and do not deserve to wonder if they’re going to take “friendly” fire from one of their own. This year we’ve heard too many stories of officers who were threatened out of uniform and officers who spoke up only to be removed from duty. This isn’t a new thing. Nobody should be murdered for living their lives, for sleeping, for complying with proper police requests.
Personally, as a white person, watching these scenes hurt. Watching JT’s reactions hurt. Hearing someone who was supposed to have his back use a term that has racist undertones when said as it was, made me furious. Which is what it’s supposed to do. But this is also a dangerous road the showrunners are taking. There is no clean and easy way out of this, to have it discussed and “fixed” isn’t reasonable nor believable anymore, to ignore it after three episodes isn’t doing it justice. I don’t know how this will turn out, but it absolutely needs to be addressed this season. To the extent of having it a plot equal to Malcom’s covering up a murder and hiding the body without getting caught.
If you want more information or want to get involved, please look at the websites linked. It shouldn’t take a television show to spread awareness, but if it does, so much the better. People are starting to get involved with activism because media and it’s good (sometimes). Television should start a conversation, that’s when it’s working best.
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A Murderer's Cell
A Prodigal Son fanfic by IzzIsAnAuthor (izzygrace07)
References to memories discussed in 2x03 - "Alma Mater"
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Malcolm's fist pounds against the door as he hyperventilates, body trembling with fear. The closet walls suffocate him without moving an inch. It's such a familiar feeling, the exact one he felt during his time trapped in the janitor's closet at Remington Academy. His rational and irrational thoughts fight for dominance in his head, and right now, the nonsensical ones are winning and fill his mind with death.
It's not like anyone would hear his knocking; it's nearly midnight, and the precinct is empty. The murder case he is investigating is similar to one that went cold thirteen years prior, and he needed to grab those files and run them by their current information. Malcolm hadn't thought much of it when he walked into the closet of old case files and rummaged through a few boxes. He didn't know that the door would close on him, shrouding him in darkness.
Malcolm had frozen immediately, unable to comprehend the situation before him. When reaching blindly for the doorknob, he had been shocked to discover that the knob was missing, leaving only the rose behind. Pushing on the door did nothing, and he didn't have the space he would need to kick it open. With nobody left in the building and the doorknob missing, Malcolm was experiencing his biggest fear first-handed: alone in the darkness, trapped in a box with nobody around to hear his cries for help.
The Remington Incident hadn't been this bad. At the very least, there was minute light that helped him see. Yes, he was dangerously dehydrated, starving, and soaked in his sweat, tears, and urine, but Nicky had been merciful enough to let him see. Now, Malcolm can't help but imagine the same scenario; only now, he'd have to survive those three days with his vision inhibited. Dying in darkness, in pain and disgusted with himself, and with nobody around to find him for days was undoubtedly terrifying.
Eventually, Malcolm's sobs turn into silent tears. He leans his body against the door and continues to knock, not nearly as forceful as before, while his free hand trembles wildly at his side. The resignation takes over much faster than the last time he was stuck like this, taking only a few minutes instead of the first six hours of his Remington captivity. This feeling must be what defeatism is, the feeling of complete resignation. He doesn't experience this very often, only ever falling into it when a killer manages to elude him, manipulating the profile and taunting him as more victims get claimed. During those times, he had Gil, Ainsley, or even Dani talk him through it, reassuring him that everything would turn out fine, that profiling isn't an exact science; Malcolm isn't to blame.
Except he is, so his abusive mind tells him, and this is his punishment. He's let so many lives slip through his fingers because he wasn't good enough, fast enough, or intelligent enough to find the monsters responsible. If he had only said the right thing or noticed the essential details a little sooner, he wouldn't have to watch parents lose their children or kids become orphans. He's killed more people than the Surgeon, the man who he promised never to become. After his father's arrest, Malcolm refused to let himself go down the same path, dedicating his life to saving lives instead of taking them. With how much he's failed, he deserves to wither away in isolation, to rot in this cell, like the murderer he is.
Malcolm takes a couple of steps back and leans against the shelves of case files, sliding down to the floor. Every breath is shaky and laborious. He knows that the room walls are secure in the back of his mind, and he has plenty of oxygen. The precinct would open tomorrow, someone would come into the closet to look for files, and Malcolm would be free from his prison. It's not wishful thinking; it's a fact. Yet, at this moment, all he can see is the ceiling collapsing above him, ready to crush his body under the rubble. His breathing feels too heavy, wasting away his air supply. Worst of all, he imagines the precinct opening tomorrow and having plenty of people present, yet nobody notices that he's missing. Even if they did, it's not like anyone would care enough to look. He could bang on this door for hours and catch their attention; they might even figure out that he's in there. They could leave him locked in the closet like Nicky did, knowing fully well that he's suffering behind the door.
When the door opens and the room floods with light, Malcolm doesn't notice. Tears blur his vision, and all he can hear is his own hyperventilating. His fingernails dig into his wrist, desperate to stop his hand from shaking. Somewhere in the distance, he can make out words, but they're impossible to comprehend.
"Bright? Kid, what happened to you?" The voice is familiar, and Malcolm can almost put a name to its owner. "It's okay, Kid. You're okay. Come on, let's get you in the open. Malcolm, can you hear me?"
His first name is what shocks him back into reality. Nobody at the precinct calls him Malcolm except for two people, and only one of those two calls him Kid.
Malcolm blinks away the tears as much as he can, the blur fading from his sight. It isn't easy to see the man before him, the light from the hall making silhouettes out of his features. However, he can see the outline of facial scruff and well-maintained hair, and the recognition finally sets in.
"Gil," Malcolm breathes. A hand takes his own and gently pulls him to his feet. He staggers, his head spinning from the lightheadedness, and nearly falls over. When the throbbing of his head calms, he nods to show he's okay. Gil places a hand on the back of Malcolm's neck, guiding him out of the closet and into the light of the precinct.
He's led to a random desk nearby, practically throwing himself into the chair. The clean air that comes with the open space is heavenly, as if it is a gift from God himself. Gil grabs another chair and pulls it over to Malcolm, sitting across from him.
"So," Gil starts, "are you gonna tell me what happened, Bright?"
"There's not much to say," Malcolm mumbles, a slight waver to his voice. "I walked in the closet, and the door closed on me. That's it."
Gil sighs. "That's not what I mean."
When they found Malcolm in that closet at Remington, the shame erased any sense of relief. New York society already thinks that the Whitley family is dangerous, and that's just with Doctor Whitley's reputation hanging over his head. Malcolm should have known what Nicky would do, just like he should have known what his father was doing to those women. There are so many horrific things that Malcolm could have prevented, but he didn't because he wasn't good enough.
So, when Malcolm was found three days after Nicky trapped him, he told the doctors and police officers that the door shut on him. It was just a freak accident, and nobody was to blame but himself. With that story, nobody thinks of him as a failure or a weak man.
"...Do you remember when they found me at Remington?" Malcolm asks hesitantly.
Gil nods, his eyebrows furrowing. "You could have died in there," he laments. "I can't believe it took the police three days to find you. It was your damn school! We should have looked there first."
The guilt weighs heavy on Malcolm's shoulders. His disappearance worried so many people, and even now, it's obvious how blameworthy Gil feels about the whole thing. But it's not Gil's job to know that kind of information; that's what Malcolm is supposed to do.
He falls into silence upon hearing Gil's words. The worst thing he can do for Gil is to tell him the truth behind the incident.
"I knew you were claustrophobic," Gil continues, "but I didn't think it was that bad. I haven't seen you cry like that in a long time, Kid."
Malcolm lets out a soft chuckle and directs his gaze to the ground, wiping his palms against his slacks. "That was pretty embarrassing."
He jumps when Gil's hand rests on his knee, squeezing comfortingly. Malcolm glances up and finds Gil watching him with protective eyes. It nearly makes him shrink in his seat, overwhelmed by the sudden change in demeanour.
"Bright, you were traumatised," Gil states. "You were on your death bed. If that happened to me and I had been the one stuck in there, I would have freaked, too."
Malcolm gives a slight nod. He doesn't mean to, but he lets Gil's words go through one ear and out the other. They've been said before by anyone who has ever had the displeasure of seeing him in this state. It's bittersweet to have their sympathy when they have no idea why he's terrified.
"...Nicky Covington." He doesn't hear himself say the name, but he must have, seeing Gil's confused reaction.
"What about him?"
The trembling of Malcolm's hand worsens with the question, and he slams his stable hand over it, squeezing his wrist. Gil grabs both hands and pulls them apart, holding onto them both. It gives Malcolm a sense of security, keeping his mind down on Earth.
"It's okay," Gil says tenderly. "You can tell me, Malcolm." The earnestness in his words makes Malcolm's heart skip a beat. All these years, he's kept the truth behind the Remington incident quiet, choosing to exact revenge on Nicky in such a psychopathtic manner. He should have told Gil the truth back then; Gil would have been there to help him through the shock. He would have gotten Nicky put behind bars, unable to hurt another man.
Instead, he acted as his father would have and tried to kill him. Now, he's tired of having that skeleton in his closet.
"Nicky Covington, he..." Malcolm clears his throat. "The door didn't close on me. He locked me in there when he found out about my father." He looks down shamefully, refusing to meet Gil's eyes. "I lied to the police about the whole thing."
The silence is deafening and sends Malcolm's heart racing. He can feel his pulse clogging his throat, making it difficult to breathe. The usual berating voices he hears are abnormally quiet, waiting anxiously for Gil's reply.
"I know."
Malcolm blinks a few times and intelligently replies, "...What?"
"Kid, did you think I didn't investigate at Remington after they found you?" Gil says incredulously, shaking his head. "The janitor was bribed by the Covington family to lie about the locks. They didn't automatically lock like he said they did; an outside force would have to do it. They paid off the courts to keep quiet, of course, but at the very least, I got a good idea of what happened." He sighs, rubbing his thumbs over Malcolm's hands. "You know you're not The Surgeon, right?"
Malcolm nods halfheartedly. "I know. I do, really, but... Those women--"
Out of his peripheral, he sees Gil lean forward, trying to catch his eye. "You were a kid, Bright. No kid wants to believe their dad is a bad guy. It wasn't your job to catch him; it was ours, and we did."
When Malcolm opens his mouth to argue, Gil sticks up a finger, silencing him. "As a consultant for Major Crimes, you're bound to see people die. It's just a fact. But when you see people die, Malcolm, you want to catch the killer and lock them away. That's what makes you different from Martin Whitley; you do your job to protect people from criminals like him."
Malcolm feels a smile forming on his face. He squeezes Gil's hands. "Thanks, Gil."
Gil stands up, pulling Malcolm up with him. "It's late. We've got a case to work on tomorrow, so get some sleep, alright?"
"Never," Malcolm says, beaming. He may not believe Gil's words to the fullest, but at the very least, he can try to accept them: he isn't the Surgeon. He's Malcolm Bright, and he isn't to blame for what happened to him.
#prodigal son#my writing#fanfiction#claustrophobia#alma mater#trapped in a closet#near death tw#phobia tw#original post on archiveofourown
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Scarface’s Tony Montana vs. Michael Corleone: Which Al Pacino is the Boss of Bosses
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Scarface hadn’t been made when Pete Townshend’s 1974 song “The Punk and the Godfather” came out, but The Godfather certainly had. The Who’s anthem was a musical allegory about the rock scene, but the lyrics might as well be interpreted as a conversation between Michael Corleone and Tony Montana. Possibly right before they rumble.
Al Pacino played both men in both movies, and in each film, he begins the story as a punk. But in The Godfather, at least, he grows into the establishment. Michael becomes don. Tony was a shooting star on the other hand, one on a collision course with an unyielding atmosphere. Both roles are smorgasbords of possibilities to an actor, especially one who chased Richard III to every imaginable outcome. Each are also master criminals. But which is more masterful?
The obvious answer would seem to be Michael Corleone because he turned a criminal empire into a multi-billion-dollar international business, and lived to a ripe old age to regret it. Cent’anni, Michael. Tony Montana doesn’t live to see the fruits of his labor, but his career in crime is littered with the successes of excess.
Montana is a hungry, young, loose cannon, just like real-life’s “Crazy” Joe Gallo, who went up against the Profaci family in the street fight which Mario Puzo and Francis Ford Coppola used as inspiration on The Godfather. Gallo stand-in Virgil “The Turk” Sollozzo (Al Lettieri) did a lot of damage while he was trying to muscle in on Don Vito Corleone’s territory, selling white powder. Montana leaves a larger body count in the wake of his cocaine empire career.
Scarface is Pacino’s film. The whole movie is about Tony Montana and his meteoric rise through money, power and women. The Godfather is a mob movie, crowded with top rate talent in an ensemble case, but it belongs to Marlon Brando. While Michael inherits the position by The Godfather, Part II, he shares Godfather roles with Robert De Niro there, and people come away feeling a little sorry for Fredo. Michael isn’t the focus of an entire film until The Godfather, Part III, and by then folks were only distracted by his daughter. Tony Montana owns the screen from the moment it opens until his last splash in the fountain under the “World Is Yours” sign. The picture was his.
Making Your Bones on First Kills
Pacino brings little of the wisdom of his Godfather role to Scarface’s title character. This is by design. Every crime boss has to make his bones. In mafia organizations, real and cinematic, the button men on the street are called soldiers. And every soldier has to go through basic training before they’re ready to earn their button. Michael gets assassination training from his father’s most trusted capo, Pete Clemenza (Richard S. Castellano) before he goes out to enjoy the veal.
Scarface doesn’t give us many details of the crimes Tony was involved in while still in Cuba, so he makes his cinematic bones executing General Emilio Rebenga in the American detention camp for Cuban refugees. The two scenes are polar opposites in all ways but suspense.
When Michael is sitting at the dinner table with Sollozzo and Police Captain McCluskey (Sterling Hayden), he lets Sollozzo do all the talking, easing him into comfort before pulling the trigger. Tony barely lets Rebenga get a whimper in during his first onscreen hit, which plays closer to an execution. Tony covers the sounds of his own attack with a chant he himself begins. It is a brilliant overplay, especially when compared to another scene that resembles The Godfather, with Tony killing a mid-level gangster and a crooked cop towards the end of Scarface.
A major difference between the two roles is best summed up in a line Tony says in Scarface. He learned to speak English by watching James Cagney and Humphrey Bogart. Montana comes from the Cagney tradition of broad gangster characterizations. In The Godfather, Kay Adams (Diane Keaton) asks Michael if he’d prefer Ingrid Bergman. The young soldier has to think about it. This is because Pacino is miles removed here from Bogart, who played Bergman’s lover in Casablanca. Pacino’s two gangster icons approached their criminality differently, and Pacino gets to play in both yards.
Pacino remains on an even keel in the Godfather films, but gives a tour de force of violent expression in Scarface, which burns like white heat.
The Handling of Enemies and Vices
In Scarface, Pacino gets to be almost as over the top as he is in Dick Tracy. His accent would never make it past the modern culture board at The Simpsons, but he pulls it off in 1983 because he says so. Pacino bullies the audience into believing it. It’s that exact arrogance which makes us root for Tony Montana. We don’t want to be on his bad side. But the chilled reptilian stare of Michael Corleone is a visual representation of why Sicilians prefer their revenge served cold.
Michael is diabetic, and is usually seen drinking water in The Godfather films. Sure, he has an occasional glass or red wine, and possibly some Sambuca with his espresso, but Michael always keeps a clear head. Tony, not so much. He makes drunken scenes at his favorite nightclubs, and not only gets high on his own supply, but gets so nose deep in it he develops godlike delusions of superheroic grandeur.
Montana is impulsive, instinctive, and decisive. Tony kills his best friend Manny Ribera (Steven Bauer) immediately upon finding him with his little sister Gina (Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio). Michael waits until his sister Connie (Talia Shire) is on a plane to Tahoe before he has her husband killed in a hit years in the planning. Later Michael hangs his head silently as the shotgun blast which kills his brother, Fredo (John Cazale), echoes in the distance.
Tony, meanwhile, continues yelling at Sosa’s right-hand man long after his brains are all over the automobile’s interior.
Clothes Make the Man
Tony is written to be charismatic. Even coked out of his mind, he’d be a better fit in Vegas with Fredo’s crowd than with wet blanket Michael in Tahoe. Tony sports white suits, satin shirts, and designer sunglasses. Michael accessorizes three-piece ensembles with an ascot. This isn’t to say Michael had any issues with getting somebody’s brains splattered all over his Ivy League suit.
Designed by Theadora Van Runkle, Michael preferred dupioni silk. That’s smart. The dark navy wool chalk-stripe suit Tony wears in his death scene was designed by Tommy Velasco and carries the class of a tuxedo. It was after 6pm. What do you think he is, a farmer?
“I’m the guy in the sky, flying high, flashing eyes. No surprise I told lies, I’m the punk from the gutter,” Roger Daltrey belts out on “The Punk and The Godfather.” This is exactly against the no-flash advice Frank Lopez (Robert Loggia) tries to impart on his young protégé in Scarface. Tony was raised not to take any advice other than his own. He also ignores his consigliere’s advice on several occasions. When Manny reminds Tony the pair of them were in a cage a year ago, the rebel gangster says he’s trying to forget that, he’s going after the boss’ girl.
“I come from the gutter,” Montana proudly contends. “I know that. I got no education but that’s okay. I know the street, and I’m making all the right connections.”
By contrast, Michael attended Dartmouth College and then dropped out to join the Marines after the attack on Pearl Harbor. Michael is both intelligent and well-connected, loosely modeled on Joseph Bonanno and Vito Genovese. He also accepts the wisdom of his father, who most closely resembled “The Prime Minister” of New York’s Five Families in the 1950s, mafia boss Frank Costello.
The Better Family Man
Pacino’s Don Michael Corleone has access to all his family’s connections, stretching back to the old world. He learns to expertly pull the strings of powerful men, like his father did, but as he grew, he bent. Michael is friends with senators, meets with the President of Cuba, has money in the Vatican, and confesses his sins to a Pope. Michael was insulated throughout his childhood and criminal career. If Tony gets in trouble, he has to get out of it himself, or with the help of a handful of low-level operatives.
Michael is the family rebel, risking his life and getting medals for strangers. He also gets to be both the prodigal son and the dutiful son. He gets the fatted calf and pays the piper. He even tips the baker’s helper for the effort. Michael comes back to both of his families, crime and birth, with a vengeance. He is there for his father the moment he is needed. Michael is the better family man. Tony’s mother is ashamed of him, and he completely ruins his sister’s wedding. Michael’s family means everything to him, and while he still manages to lose them, he actually maneuvers his two families well over rough waters for a very long run.
Tony Montana is the rebel’s rebel. Even before he tosses off his bandana at the dishwasher job to make a quick score, we knew. He was born bad, in the cinematically good way. This also makes Montana a natural at crime. In The Godfather, Michael has it in his blood as a Corleone, but has his heart set on college, a straight career, and a shot to bring his whole family into the American Dream, which for Montana only exists as a wet dream.
Tony never gets past the hormonal teenage phase of his love of America. He wants to love his new country to death. He is turned on by the dream. He wants to take it. Not earn it. No foreplay necessary, as he claims his latest victim’s wife as his own.
Managerial Skills
Michael is pretty good with his underlings, when he’s not having them garroted on the way to an airport or advising them to slit their wrists in a bath. He promises Clemenza he can have his own family once the Corleones relocate to Las Vegas. He lets Joe Zaza (Joe Mantegna) get away with murder as the guy he sets up to run his old territory in The Godfather, Part III. Michael doesn’t keep turncoats like his trusted caporegime Tessio (Abe Vigoda) around for old times’ sake, and he doesn’t suffer fools at all. It may seem he cuts Tom Hayden (Robert Duvall) loose a little fast, and without warning or due cause. But if he was a wartime consigliere, he would have seen it coming.
While Tony Montana may have a competitive and fast-tracked entry program for new workers (“hey, you got a job”), he’s also the guy who shoots his right-hand man Manny for marrying his sister. Tony exacts a brutal and dangerous revenge for the death of his friend Angel Fernandez in the Miami chainsaw massacre, but doesn’t lift a finger when his cohort Omar Suarez (F. Murray Abraham) is hanged to death from a helicopter by drug lord Alejandro Sosa (Paul Shenar). Michael does have a tendency to have his soldato kiss his ring, but he’s not entirely a .95 caliber pezzonovante.
Read more
Movies
Scarface: Where Tony Montana Went Wrong
By Tony Sokol
Movies
The Godfather Coda: The Death of Michael Corleone Proves a Little Less is Infinitely More
By Tony Sokol
One of the most important skills a boss must exhibit is how to delegate, and Corleone is a minor Machiavellian master at his delegation. He whispers orders from behind closed doors. Tony is more hands-on. The only reason he tells Manny to “kill that piece of shit” Frank is because he’s already humiliated his former boss into a shell of a real man.
Montana is in the trenches with his soldiers and sets standards by example. He shoots a guy on a crowded Miami street in broad daylight. Montana is a born triggerman and only reluctantly delegates the duty. He has 10 bodyguards when Sosa men raid his mansion fortress. He takes the invading force with one little friend, an M16A1 rifle with a customized grenade launcher. But it sure doesn’t help the employees getting murdered outside.
A Handle on Finances
We don’t know what kinds of criminal activities the Corleone family were involved in between 1958 and 1979. Still, Michael had proven himself a traditionalist and a bit of a prude, so he spends most of his career shaving his take from harmless vices and avoiding drugs, which he sees as a dirty business. But through whatever means, by The Godfather, Part III, Michael has earned enough capital to buy himself out of crime.
Michael gambles successfully on Wall Street, keeps the Genco olive oil company going, and invests in hotels, casinos, and movie studios. He’s got to be pulling in a billion dollars a year in legitimate business. He makes enough to pad the coffers of the Vatican, and his share of Immobiliare stocks pulls in another $1 billion.
Tony looks like he’s earning about $15 million a month. But it doesn’t look like he puts much stock in his future. He makes no investments, only purchases. His only visible holding is the salon his sister works in. But we also have to take into account that he built his empire from scratch. Michael inherited his. And while the head of the Corleone family can blackmail a U.S. senator with a tragic sex scandal, Montana fares no better than Al Capone with tax evasion.
Who Would Win in a Mob War?
Scarface is as violent as the 1932 Howard Hawk original. Blood is a big expense, and 42 people are killed in the 1985 film. It came out amid other over-the-top action blockbusters like First Blood and the contemporary reality of the South American drug trade. So, it would seem, the film has far more violence. But they are easily matched.
The Godfather has a horse’s head, Scarface has a chainsaw. Michael’s brother Sonny (James Caan) gets machine gunned to smithereens at the toll booth, Tony blows the lower limbs off his would-be assassins at a nightclub. Omar is lynched in a chopper, the upper echelon of the mob is taken out by helicopter fire in The Godfather, Part III. Tony and Michael each get to kill a cop.
Both mob figures survive assassination attempts. Michael loses his wife Apollonia in Sicily in a car bombing meant for him. He also avoids the trap Tessio sets at the meeting with Emilio Barzini (Richard Conte), on his turf, where Michael “will be safe.” Tony lives through his initial professionally ordered hit, as well as being saved by Manny from certain death by chainsaw.
While Michael Corleone is able to take care of Barzini, Victor Stracci, Carmine Cuneo, and Phillip Tattaglia – the leadership of the five families – at the end of The Godfather, Tony Montana can only put up a good fight. The Corleone family would win in a protracted war against Montana’s cartel, but there is a possibility Tony would have outlived Michael while the battles raged. Expert swordsmen aren’t afraid to duel the best in the field, but they’re scared of the worst.
As far as crime tactics and strategic villainy, Michael Corleone plays a game of chess. Tony Montana plays hopscotch. He wins by skipping cracks in the street, but he only rises as far as the pavement.
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The post Scarface’s Tony Montana vs. Michael Corleone: Which Al Pacino is the Boss of Bosses appeared first on Den of Geek.
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today (of all days) - pt 5
Surprise!!! Through encouragement of friends I’ve decided to release one chapter a day to finish this story off the day before prodigal son returns! So the next one will be the plus one coming out tomorrow and a bonus chapter coming Monday. Hope y’all like this one!
The knock is soft and hesitant, Gil almost misses it while he’s combing over files. He checks the time with a huff, he should probably get dinner soon anyways. Maybe he’ll roll by Malcolm’s and make sure he’s eating, knowing all too well that he’s throwing himself into this case just as hard, if not more, than he is.
He stretches himself out before walking to the door, mindful of Icarus who has half the mind to trot beside him to try to dart out the door if he opens it too wide. He opens it slowly, foot placed in front of the ginger cat to keep it back.
Jessica stands in front of the door, a bag in one hand and a drink tray balanced on the other. She sucks in a breath and he can see her carefully planned speech falling apart. This was the first time he’s seen her since that day in the station, when she admitted she was talking to Martin again. When he offered to be her ear again. She swallows heavily only able to get out, “Can I come in?”
“Yeah,” He nods. “Of course.” He steps aside letting her slip by with ease. She smiles down at Icarus who takes the opportunity to rub along her legs. He knows if she hadn’t had her hands full, she’d be scratching his head right now. “Is that?”
“Mel’s diner, yes it is. I got the cherry pie too.”
“How’d you know, I was just about to make dinner.”
“You and Malcolm have remarkably similar eating habits. Meaning it’ll be the last thing on either of your agendas until either a case is finished or someone snaps you out of it.” She settles everything on the table, pulling the food out of the bag with an almost robotic motion. He recognizes it, her mind and body has flipped into pure survival mode. She’s able to mask it when talking but her body language gives it away.
He sits on the couch next to her, eyes trained on her face the entire time. “Jess?”
She tenses, her eyes closing as she’s found out so quickly. Her posture deflates and she drops her head into her hand. “Please.” Her voice comes out more tired.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong.” She tries to hold him at arm's length, instead focused on her food but he takes her hand in his. She may not have come with the vintage bourbon like usual but he can see through it all. Mel’s is her comfort food. After a rough day, they’d bring Malcolm and Ainsley there, enjoy the atmosphere of anonymity. The noise of the customers was always enough to drown out her own demons. He’s more than able to see through it all.
“Talk to me.” He says, his voice soft as he runs his thumb along the back of her hand.
She sighs, tipping her head back. Her jaw clenches, emotions bubbling to the surface that she forces back down again. “I’m writing a memoir.” She doesn’t look back at him, she knows what his reaction will be, or she thinks she does.
“A memoir?” His eyebrows furrow and he shakes his head. “You said you’d never give in. That they could say whatever they wanted but they wouldn’t get a word from you. What changed?” She sighs, in the way she did any time they were brought up. “Birdie.” He nods in understanding.
“She’s been cut off. She’s emptied all her assets and she came to me… to publish her own book.”
“Why not just pay her off?” She’d done it before. Paid reporters, journalists, and other nosey bastards for her family’s privacy. She paid good money so that it was never leaked that Malcolm had changed his name. As far as the public knew Malcolm Whitly had faded into obscurity.
“They were going to publish with or without her. Another author would take helm. We’d be exposed. I checked the information and it’s true. The publishing company is desperate. They’d already been looking for a writer who would take the chance for years.” No doubt, any writer who stepped up that would risk Jessica Whitly’s wrath would be one without good intentions. The book would be a slander on her family. No amount of burying the story would protect her, Malcolm, or Ainsley from that blowback. And Martin would revel in that chaos.
“So you’re taking the reins.”
“I don’t have a choice.” He wants to argue with her. That there’s always another choice but here, he finds it difficult. With Jessica writing it she’s telling her story, It’s not going to be tampered with by a second party. When it hits the shelf she’ll only do interviews with people Ainsley trusts, no Barbara Walters situation ever again. No second hand writers will hound Malcolm or Ainsley for their comments, knocking down boundaries that her kids aren’t even aware exist most of the time. It’s not about them. It’s about controlling the narrative.
The words feel awfully familiar. “Do Malcolm or Ainsley know?” She doesn’t even need to answer by the look that passes over her face, fond exasperation with some worry.
“No, and I intend on keeping it that way for a while.”
“Jess.”
“Ainsley will just talk about how this is a good thing. She’s always excited about stories. Having them read mine is,” She lets out a bitter laugh. There were aspects of the aftermath that she kept from them. How it tore her apart more than she would ever admit. It was only recently that Ainsley got a peek past the incredible intricate persona Jessica put on for others. “Then Malcolm, he won’t like it at all. He’ll worry. He has enough on his plate right now. I’m not going to pull either of them into this if I can help it.”
“They will find out eventually.”
“I’ll keep it a secret as long as I can. I would appreciate it if you would too.”
“I won’t tell. But I think you should.”
“Not,” She shakes her head and he can see she’s trying to blink away tears. “Not yet.”
“There’s something else, isn’t there.”
Jessica laughs but nods, “The publisher pitched a name today. He wants to call it The One Who Survived. Bullshit, if you ask me.”
“Jess,” He moves to place a hand on her shoulder but she stands, anger flaring up with the movement.
“Why does it always go back to him?” She asks, he’s not sure if she’s looking for an answer but she continues before he can make a sound. “I raised two children. Both of which were stellar students. My son went to Harvard, worked with the FBI. My daughter is a critically acclaimed journalist and a newscaster.” She rakes both hands through her hair pacing across the living room. Atlas watches from a perch, his tail flicking with interest. “I have contributed to hundreds of foundations, I am a businesswoman. Why, why am I only the ex-wife?”
Gil steps up, his hands settling on her shoulders. She stops her rant, eyes falling on him in the same shocked and vulnerable gaze when he holds her. They haven’t been this close since… He pushes that to the back of his mind. “This is your memoir Jess. Not theirs. You’ve got the control here. Use it.”
“But-”
“But what? They’ve been asking for 20 years and you’re finally giving them what they asked for. It’s your story.”
“Where do I even start?”
“Wherever feels right.” She lets out a slow breath and for a moment they stay like that. Standing in the remains of a connection that never dies. Her movement is slow, when she finally does, making sure that he stops her if he wants to. Her arms wrap around his torso and she tucks her head into his chest. He returns the hug, holding her close with his chin resting on top of her head.
“Thank you Gil.” She mumbles into his shirt. He runs a hand down her back in a comforting gesture. Having her this close makes his heart race and he’s certain she can hear it too. They’ve missed out on so much time. But for now he’s just happy to have her back again.
“Always.” He whispers, dropping a kiss to the top of her head.
#prodigal son#gilica#jessica whitly x gil arroyo#gil arroyo x jessica whitly#jessica x gil#jessica whitly#gil arroyo#take some fluff#before more angst tomorrow#5+1 Things#5+1 fic#notgonnarememberthis fics#fanfic#prodigal son AU#today (of all days) pt 5#today (of all days) part 5
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