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doodle-pops · 13 days

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House of Feanor | Returning Home After War/Travelling

Request: hi mina i'm so happy you're back! i would love a group headcanon with the house of feanor when they return to their love after being apart for a long time, fighting away from home. angst and fluff are so welcome!! thank youuu :) - Anon

A/N: You asked for both fluff and angst anon, so I gave both :) Maglor’s part was the only one that differed from everyone else’s. Other than that, enjoy!

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖ Feanor

Feanor’s return after his long yearly trip to Aulë forges would be facilitated by the overwhelming relief and joy of you throwing your arms around him for a tight hug. The rush to the door after the servants announced his return would lead to your feet rapidly pattering across the floorboards and launching yourself into his arms.

“I’ve missed you so much, my love,” you would whisper, tears of happiness glistening in your eyes. “Every day felt like an eternity without you.”

The sensation of his arms tightening around your waist as he draws you for a bone-crushing embrace, lifting you off the ground and burying his face in the crook of your neck to deeply inhale your scent would take him back to comfort and home.

“There’s not a day gone by where I didn’t miss your scent and presence,” he murmured into your skin. “I felt so though I would have gone insane without you.”

“Well now that you’ve returned, promise me that you would never leave for such a long period.”

“I promise, but why don’t we retreat indoors. I wish to spend every second granted within your presence from this day forth, melda.”

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖ Maedhros

You’re impatient, nervous and fearful of his return. What if he came back in shambles, broken, unrecognisable, or worse, dead? He couldn’t do such a horrid thing to you; not when he swore to be at your side forever. All the promises to protect, love and cherish each would have gone out the window—

“My Lady/Lord Y/N, Lord Maedhros has returned.” The servants were barely able to get all their words out before he flew out of your chair and down the staircases to be greeted by the sight of him dismounting his trusty steed. You didn’t grant him a chance to acknowledge your figure with a smile before barrelling into his body.

The coldness and sturdiness of his armour embraced you first before you felt his entire body wrapping around your frame. You didn’t know who was shedding tears from all the sniffling and sobbing, but you were glad to have him home after months of being away.

“Don’t ever leave me again! I don’t care about the wars you have to fight—let’s go somewhere far away from here and spend eternity,” you wept into his chest plate.

In return, Maedhros tenderly smiled into your hair. “Whatever you desire, my love. So long as I can be with you forever.”

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖ Maglor

You would be sitting by the window, listening for the familiar sound of the return of Elrond’s footsteps, when you heard the sound of multiple approaching. This time, among Elrond’s, there was a dragging sound against the earth along with weary muttering. Pulling the curtain to catch a proper view of the guest Elrond brought, your eyes captured the unmistakable sight of a familiar mop of inky hair.

Contemplating whether to jump out the window, you rushed out of the house and greeted Elrond, stopping them in their path to stare at the stranger. The eye contact that brought realisation, joy, uncertainty and timidness was a moment you’d never wish to forget.

“Welcome home, my sweet minstrel,” you whispered, your heart swelling with joy at his return with tears in your eyes as he rushed to his other side to hold him up and assist Elrond with guiding him into the house. “I’ve missed you more than any song.”

He would resist the urge to react to your warm welcome, yet the feeling of being loved and appreciated after all those years of being missing, invoked the tears to cascade. His sobs would confiscate his apologetic mumblings of missing and leaving you; regretting the moment he disappeared.

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖ Celegorm

You would be waiting by the hearth, as you had been doing for the past few weeks, awaiting his return from his year-long hunt with Oromë and his trusty companion, Huan. Picking at your nails and neatening them since there wasn’t anything else in the house to tidy, you slumped into the blankets and found yourself drifting off to wonderland with the sound of rain in the background.

Having fallen asleep for some time, the aroma of fresh herbs and meat waffled through your nose and aroused you out of your slumber. There, squatting by the hearth and turning the pot of stew was your beloved. His hair slick back into an intricate braid and a few beads at the ends and dressed in a clean suit of clothes. The earthy scent radiating off him mixed with the herbs left you yearning to bury your nose in him, and deeply inhale.

“I see you have finally awoken, sleepy beauty,” he grinned while turning his head to meet your affectionate ones. “I took the liberty of making you one of your favourites to celebrate my return. Would you like a bowl?”

Shaking your head, you instead, opened your blankets to invite him into your personal space, which he did not hesitate to accept. With a quick drop of the spoon, he walked over and found himself curled up at your side, enjoying the touch and warmth he missed during his hunt. “I think I’ll have to start shortening my hunts from now on. I miss your warmth far too much.”

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖ Caranthir

You would be waiting for Caranthir’s return, impatiently, after he departed with his brothers to raid Doriath for what was rightful their family’s own. Day and night you sat before the window facing the entrance of the castle, asking the guards for any news of the situation. No response would be given to ease your worry, causing you to continue your day and night watch from the window.

Though it wouldn’t be until one night when you fell asleep in your chair you saw him return. He came riding in his full armour and flanked by his first officers holding torches as they entered the castle grounds. Everyone cheered their return and praised their efforts on their quest, yet you found yourself unable to move from your seat out of the fear of the bloodshed they committed. You saw the blood covering his armour while he moved through the crowd to ascend and greet you.

“I have returned home, arimelda,” he greeted with sorrow on his face and stood a foot away from you.

Finding the strength to rise out your chair, you approached him with cautious yet with the underlying emotion of joy. “Moryo, is that you? Have you truly returned to me? I have missed you!”

However, the moment you stepped forward to embrace him, you awoke to the gentle nudging of Moryo hovering over you. The sight of him cladded in clean robes and a bloodstain free appearance left you appalled from the dream you had, nonetheless, you launched yourself into his arms, crying.

“You’re back! Please, please, please, please don’t ever leave me again! I thought you weren’t coming back to me! Don’t leave me again!”

Stunned at the suddenness of your gesture, he softly smiled and nuzzled your hair, whispering words of reassurance. “I promise to never leave you, my love. I’ll stay for as long as you desire.”

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖ Curufin

Curufin’s return was one of peace as he entered through the doorway during the crack of dawn. Sauntering through the quiet household, he placed down all his gadgets and trunks of gifts he returned home with for you and your little one, and marched into the kitchen, wanting to surprise you both with a treat. Quietly that morning, the atmosphere was filled with the aroma of herbs, sausages, eggs and baked goodies as he busied himself with a look of concentration.

Caught up in the rapture of making you all a hearty breakfast, he jolted with a curt yelp the moment your arms encircled his waist, and you leaned in to hug his back. “I didn’t know you were an excellent cook, Curvo? Who taught you how to make all these delicious treats?”

Snickering at your comment, he turned around in your arms and made a quick observation over your shoulder before leaning in for a savoury kiss. Your body melted the moment upon contact, as did he, from the sweetness that dripped from his gesture. It was true that absence made the heart grow fonder, and you were pleased to witness it with Curufin.

“There are many things that you still do not know about me,” he hummed as he broke the kiss to plop a piece of strawberry in your mouth. “That is why I chose to surprise you like this. Do you like it?”

“I do,” you grinned and leaned in for another kiss. “But I prefer the real meal in my arms this morning. We missed you every day; you were gone for too long.”

Frowning slightly, he pondered on the right words to reply, to satisfy your needs. Then with great thought, he responded, “Well, you will have me home for an even longer period. Father is working on other things, so he gave me time off to spend with my family. So, tell me, what would you have me do?”

“Hold me a little longer…before the little gremlin steals all your time.”

“Very well then.”

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖ Amrod

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting a golden glow across the rolling hills, you stood at the edge of their homestead, eyes scanning the distant path for any sign of your beloved. You had spent countless days waiting, each one blending into the next, filled with a mixture of hope and worry. But tonight, something felt different.

When a familiar silhouette appeared on the horizon, your heart leapt in your chest. It was Amrod, his red hair catching the last rays of the setting sun, making him look almost ethereal. Tears sprang to your eyes as you broke into a run, your feet carrying you as fast as they could across the fields.

“Amrod!” you called out, your voice catching in your throat as you drew closer.

Amrod turned at the sound of your voice, a weary but radiant smile spreading across his face. He opened his arms wide, and you collided with him, burying your face in his chest. The scent of him—earthy and familiar—was a balm to your frayed nerves.

“You’re home,” you whispered, your voice muffled against his tunic. “You’re really home.”

He held you tightly, his own eyes shining with unshed tears. “I promised I would return to you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “And here I am.”

They stood there for a long time, wrapped in each other’s arms, the world around them fading away. You could feel the tension in his muscles, the weight of his experiences still clinging to him.

“Come inside,” you said finally, pulling back just enough to look up into his eyes. “You must be exhausted. Let me take care of you.”

Amrod nodded, a grateful smile on his lips. “As you wish, my love.”

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖ Amras

The first light of dawn broke over the horizon as you stood on the front steps of your cottage, your heart heavy with anticipation. Amras had been gone for what felt like an eternity, and each day without him had been a struggle. You had tried to keep herself busy, tending to their home and the land, but the ache of his absence was always there, a constant reminder of how much you missed him.

When you finally saw a lone rider approaching in the distance, you held your breath, your eyes straining to make out the familiar figure. As he drew closer, the sight of his copper hair and the way he sat in the saddle told her everything she needed to know. It was Amras, your Amras, returning at last.

“Amras!” you called out, your voice breaking with emotion as you ran towards him.

Amras dismounted swiftly, his own expression a mixture of relief and longing. He caught you in his arms, lifting you off your feet as he held you close. The feel of his strong arms around you, the warmth of his body, was like coming home after a long and arduous journey.

“I missed you so much,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “Every single day.”

He buried his face in your hair, inhaling deeply. “And I missed you,” he replied, his voice thick with emotion. “I thought of you every moment we were apart.”

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look into his eyes, hands cupping his face. “Are you alright?” you asked, her gaze searching his for any signs of injury or pain.

Amras nodded, his eyes softening as he looked at you. “I am now that I’m with you,” he said. “The journey was long and hard but knowing I had you to come back to kept me going.”

With tears streaming down your cheeks, you kissed him gently, lips brushing against his in a tender, reassuring gesture. “Come inside,” you said softly. “You need to rest, and I have so much to tell you.”

He smiled a genuine, unguarded smile that lit up his entire face. “Lead the way, my love.”

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖ Celebrimbor

Upon Celebrimbor’s return home after war or a long journey, you would be overcome with a whirlwind of emotions, ranging from relief and joy to a subtle undercurrent of apprehension. As you stood at the threshold of your home, waiting with bated breath for his arrival, every passing moment felt like an eternity, each heartbeat echoing the rhythm of your longing.

Finally, the sound of footsteps heralds Celebrimbor’s return, and you rush forward to greet him, your heart pounding with anticipation. When you catch sight of him, standing tall and proud, weariness etched into the lines of his face, your heart breaks and swells with love all at once.

Without a word, you would envelop him in a tight embrace, your arms wrapping around him with an almost desperate fervour. You would bury your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of him, a blend of sweat and metal and something uniquely his own, a scent that fills them with a sense of homecoming.

“I missed you,” you would whisper against his ear, your voice trembling with emotion. “I missed you so much.”

Celebrimbor would return the embrace, holding you close as if afraid to let go, his touch a comforting anchor in the storm of emotions raging within him. “And I missed you, my love,” he would murmur in response, his voice rough with exhaustion and unspoken emotion. “More than words can express.”

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thedansemacabres · 7 months

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A Modern Understanding of Dionysus Hestios

Photo from a vineyard I worked on.

[ID: A close-up image of a Chardonnay white-wine grapevine with three clusters. The clusters are green with some red. Bright green leaves cover the top of the clusters, while below a black irrigation line is visible. The ground below is covered in woodchips, except for a single plant below the clusters].

HESTIOS IS A FUN YET OBSCURE EPITHET OF DIONYSUS. We can infer some of its context due to Zeus Hestios, that being a protector of the home and hearth. This epithet of Dionysus is a favourite of mine—for my home and hearth, he is a household deity as I am a viticulturist and winemaker. My life and livelihood is partially bound by grapevines as I currently work at an orchard that is establishing a vineyard and my responsibility is to make it happen.

The context of this epithet is little known beyond a passage in Pausanias’ iconic Description of Greece:

Pausanias, Description of Greece 1. 2. 5 (trans. Jones) (Greek travelogue C2nd A.D.) : "From the gate to the Kerameikos [in Athens] there are porticoes . . . containing shrines of gods, and a gymnasium called that of Hermes. In it is the house of Poulytion . . . [which] in my time it was devoted to the worship of Dionysos. This Dionysos they call Melpomenos (Minstrel) [i.e. of Melpomene, the muse of tragedy], on the same principle as they call Apollon Mousegetes (Leader of the Muses) . . . After the precinct of Apollon is a building that contains earthen ware images, Amphiktyon, king of Athens, Dionysos Hestios (Feasting or Of the Hearth) and other gods. Here also is Pegasos of Eleutherai, who introduced the god [Dionysos] to the Athenians. Herein he was helped by the oracle at Delphoi, which called to mind that the god once dwelt in Athens in the days of Ikarios."

Dionysus Hestios is mentioned in Athens, along with his myth of his devotee Pegasos bringing his cult to the city. Other than references to Zeus Hestios, I have not found any more context for this epithet beyond protecting the home/hearth. Therefore, this aspect of him will be a contender for a strong upg basis.

In my times in wine, I’ve gathered my own gnosis of Dionysus Hestios. He is a protector of the hearth, but in my personal experience, the table wine aspect of Dionysus.

TABLE WINE IN THE MODERN WORLD

Table wine is named exactly for what it is, a wine that sits at your dinner table and a key part of a meal. Italy especially is famous for its cheap table wines, many of which I’ve had at my own tables and dinners. Most commercial wines these days are made to be drinkable on their own—while table wines are uncomfortable and harsh on the tongue. With food, they transform, turning these harsh and bitter wines into something truly enjoyable. It also makes the food taste better. For anyone unknowing, that’s why wine and food pairing is a thing. Unfortunately, the table wine market is slowly beginning to crumble—most modern wine drinkers enjoy more of a good tasting drink instead of a complement of one’s meal. If you have the chance, I recommend buying some and trying it in pairings—it’s a dying market, sadly, and one that has an ancient history behind it.

While table wines slowly fade, there is always a place for them in our lives. I myself have fond memories of a terribly bitter wine being served at my family’s table, and while I hated the taste, I’ve come to fall in love with them in recent years. Dionysus Hestios as a god of the home is a god of table wine, the happy smiles and festive memories of people having their Chianti with some steak or pasta. It’s the thrill of a good food pairing, a decanter, and the hundred years history of people making wine for the common folk instead of just for the aristocrats and their “noble” grapes.

Dionysus Hestios, Hearth warmer, master Of your craft, joy becoming Protect our heart and wine, Let us dance and joy, Under your blessings Of the woody grapevine.

References

DIONYSUS CULT 1 - Ancient Greek Religion. (n.d.). https://www.theoi.com/Cult/DionysosCult.html

#dragonis.txt #dionysus deity #dionysos deity #dionysus worship #dionysos worship #dionysus devotee #hellenic pagan #hellenic polytheism #hellenic paganism #paganism #witchcraft #witchblr #vinum

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caligvlasaqvarivm · 9 days

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Hey I know this isn't on-topic for an Eridan blog but you're the best HS theorist I know <3 so do you happen to have any theories about WHY Gamzee faked god tier? I always see theories about how he could be a real god tier too, or about how he manages to be immortal even though he's not god tier, but I cannot find any discussion of WHY he bothered with that ruse in the first place!!! He didn't even fool anyone, unless we count Caliborn for like 2 secs before Hussie told him the truth, and all he got for his trouble was shot!

I think it's mostly a gag, but this is the Analyzing Homestuck blog, so: I think it's because Gamzee wants to look like an adult to impress Caliborn.

Gamzee's lusus is physically neglectful.

But you were never taught that on account of a lousy upbringing. Your custodian was always out to sea.

And several things stem from that neglect - the first, his indoctrination into the Clown Cult, the second, his extensive and all-encompassing drug usage, and the third, his poor social skills, which leave him ostracized by his teammates.

Let's first take a look at what, exactly, that religion entails:

You belong to a RATHER OBSCURE CULT, which foretells of a BAND OF ROWDY AND CAPRICIOUS MINSTRELS which will rise one day on a MYTHICAL PARADISE PLANET that does not exist yet. The beliefs of this cult are SOMEWHAT FROWNED UPON by those dwelling in more common lawnrings.

TC: I PeEpEd oN A PlAcE Of 6 tRiLlIoN HeMoS TC: AlL Up aT OnE RoCk, BlEeDiNg aS EqUaLs TC: It's eAsY To sEe iF YoU SeArCh aLl yOuR FeElInS TC: ThAt pEaCe hApPeNs fIrSt, AnD MuRdEr's tHe sEqUeL TC: It's tHe bEaUtY Of tHe cArNiVaL, tHe mAgIc's iN TeNtS

TC: all my life i believed at a fuckin paradise to come what held the most baller, darkest of carnivals to join. TC: AND A PROPHECY TC: to tell all about a band of rowdy and capricious minstrels steeped in the good harshwhimsy. TC: THE MIRTHFUL MESSIAHS WERE FORETOLD TO BE CRASHING THAT FUCKING PIE STAND AND BRING THE HOLY RUCKUS. TC: like a giddy fuckin ninja one wheeling head long at the hugest fuckin horn heap shangri la's got to see. TC: I'M TALKING ABOUT THE VAST HONK, YOU BLASPHEMOUS MOTHERFUCKER. TC: what i believed in it to be was so beautiful, us and them all mellowing in tents, bumpin sounds, tossing back the faygo and soaking the miracles up our faith sponges, while the special stardust rained down at our elixir sticky faces, like a bunch a fuckin fairy powder from religion space. TC: IT WAS GOING TO BE US AND MOTHER FUCKING THEM. TC: them and mother fuckin us. :o(

In essence: Gamzee's cult believes that there will be a Vast Honk, which will kill all trolls; however, "a band of rowdy and capricious minstrels" will usher in/create a new paradaisical planet of nothing but good vibes and chill times, where the "mirthful messiahs" will get to enjoy eternity.

There's pretty clear parallels here to the Christian concept of the Rapture, which fits in with the Garden of Eden/Original Sin themes of the Dancestors and the Second Coming thing Karkat's got going on. But, more importantly, it's also pretty directly just... what SGRUB/SBURB are all about. Their original population all dies, but a bunch of kids band together to create a new universe, with new planets, where theoretically live out the rest of their godhood in peace and happiness.

Were it not for the casteist influences as a result of being a cult largely followed by highbloods, there'd pretty much be nothing inherently objectionable about Gamzee's belief system - it's fundamentally hopeful, and, in fact, when he raps about it to Tavros, part of it is outright about "equalizing" the hemocaste (they all bleed as equals, see). Tavros agrees:

AT: tHE SLAMS WERE TRULY PRIME, aND, AT: yOUR RELIGIOUS VIEWS, tHOUGH i DON'T SHARE THEM, aRE, AT: rEASONABLY INSPIRATIONAL, AT: i THINK i'M IN THE PROCESS OF RELEASING AT LEAST ONE TEAR,

Next, we'll look at the sopor usage and ostracization together, because I think they're interlinked. People on Gamzee's team are friggin' mean to him.

CG: MIRACLES ARE LIKE POOP STAINS ON GOD'S UNDERWEAR. TA: eheheh makiing fun of people2 reliigiion2 i2 the be2t thiing two do.

GC: NO TH4T SHOULD BOTH3R YOU, TH4T R34SON GC: WHY DONT TH1NGS L1K3 TH4T BOTH3R YOU?? GC: NO WOND3R V4NT4S C4NT ST4ND YOU

CT: D --> What you do appear to know is e%actly how to ma%imize my livid contempt for you CT: D --> With your revolting language and your sense of decorum CT: D --> At such breathtaking odds with the richness and perfe%ion of your b100d CT: D --> I just hate you so much

CA: that is the wworst fuckin advvice CA: wwhat an awwful thing a you to say CA: MAGIC ISNT REAL STUPID STOP BELIEVVIN IN IT

On the whole, the team treats him as the party joke, if not outright worthy of derision. The one person on his team who IS nice to him, Tavros, ghosts him after Gamzee is too forward and asks to make out with him. He's deeply lonely, and what's more, his introductory narration is littered with pessimism.

You'll be doing one thing then something else hits you just like that and you roll with it. That's what you do when life hands you lemons. You sure as fuck don't make lemonade because who the fuck knows where that fuckin' shit comes from?

Someone is bugging you. This is exciting. You're always down for shooting the wicked shit with anyone that who'll put up with you.

That last one makes it clear that Gamzee is also aware of how much people on the team don't like him.

I'm also of the opinion that "Soft Gamzee" was always fake and never existed, which is outright stated by Hussie from the book:

The best explanation for why Gamzee says he's scared of Vriska, in my opinion, is this: he's flat-put lying. It's a good way for him to maintain his cover as 'Soft Gamzee.' It also provides some ammunition for those who, against all sense of good taste and judgment, want to continue to believe and assert that Gamzee is a decent guy with sensitive emotions and vulnerabilities before he undergoes his Muderstuck awakening. He was none of those things, ever.

But there's evidence for this - Gamzee has actually always been kind of casteist:

AT: i THINK i'M IN THE PROCESS OF RELEASING AT LEAST ONE TEAR, TC: Me tOo, BrO, yOu mOtHeR FuCkIn kNoW ThErE Be sOmE Of mY EyE's RoYaL JeLlY To gO WiTh yOuR EmOtIoNaL pEaNuT BuTtEr. AT: wHOA, aHA, hA,

He's trying to be affectionately so here, but given Tavros's "whoa, haha," reaction, it seems like it's still a pretty out-of-pocket thing to say. Especially in light of GamRezi, it's pretty easy to read him as making passive-aggressive digs to Terezi here:

TC: I'm OuTsIdE kEePiNg An EyE oUt HeRe FoR tHe OlD gOaT. TC: yOu KnOw HoW iT iS wItH fAmIlY. GC: NO, NOT R34LLY! GC: 4DURRRR DURR DURP TC: Oh YeAh...

TC: hAvE yOu EvEr EvEn SeEn ThE oCeAn? TC: oR i MeAn SmElLeD iT... TC: SoRrY. GC: >:[

His reaction to Eridan is also "indulge emotional theatrics," but depending on whether you believe Eridan killed his lusus, it's debatably justified. I'm just going to mention that that's also there.

His constant assertion that Karkat is his best friend, which isn't reciprocated until after murderstuck, also kind of reads as a palecrush to me. This is supported by the fact that Nepeta has always had pale GamKat on her shipping wall - which I believe is more representative of how people feel and what they want than whether a romantic pairing is viable, as part of her Heart (and NOT Blood) powers.

He won't stop referring to Karkat as his best friend, really awkwardly changes the topic when the conversation has led to him having to acknowledge that Karkat is closer to Sollux (whom Karkat calls his best friend):

TC: yEaH mAyBe BuT hE's YoUr BeSt FrIeNd ThOuGh So It'S aLl CoOl. TC: AnYwAy I tHoUgHt ThIs SoUnDeD lIkE a PrEtTy BiG mOtHeRfUcKiN dEaL mY mAn. TC: aAaUuUhHh... CG: WHAT. TC: Aw BrO nEvErMiNd, I jUsT fUcKiN dId LiKe To ScArE tHe ShIt OuTtA mYsElF hErE. TC: tHeSe DaMn HoRnS.

(Sidebar about the usage of "best friend," Karkat pretty much outright says he's unreliable when it comes to who his best friend is at any given moment LOL - he spends pre-murderstuck insisting Sollux is HIS best friend. King of mixed signals.)

EB: who is gamzee? CG: HE WAS MY BEST FRIEND. EB: really? i thought terezi was your best friend. ... CG: GAMZEE WAS MY VERY GOOD FRIEND, WHO WAS THIS GOOFY LOVEABLE BULLSHIT CLOWN UNTIL HE WENT PSYCHO AND KILLED SOME PEOPLE. I LIKED HIM A LOT. CG: I DON'T KNOW, I GUESS MY BEST FRIEND IS REALLY JUST THE GUY WHO I HAPPEN TO BE FEELING MOST SENTIMENTAL TO AT THE MOMENT, IS THAT A FUCKING CRIME.

If we take Hussie's statement that Gamzee lied when he chased Vriska (whom he doesn't like) away from his horn pile -

GAMZEE: VrIsKa hEy yOu wAnT To uH… VRISKA: What? GAMZEE: ShIt, I WaS AlL GoInG To aSk iF YoU WaNtEd tO HoP In tHe hOrN PiLe fOr a bIt oF MoThErFuCkIn sHuTeYe, BuT… GAMZEE: I DoN'T ThInK I WiLl cAuSe i'm pReTtY MuCh sCaReD Of yOu, SoyEaH. VRISKA: Aww. ::::)

Then it stands to reason he's also lying about being scared of Jack so he can prevent Eridan from providing Karkat with emotional support:

CA: this is a lot a pointless fuckin rubbish and isnt no emotional help to him or me either for that matter CA: put kar on TC: UuUuH, i cAn't rEaLlY ThInK AbOuT InTeRvEnInG, tHe bLaCk fRoWnInG MoThErFuCkEr kInDa sCaReS Me

So, personally, signs point to Gamzee always having been a lot shiftier and meaner than he let on.

Naturally, that begs the question of why he's pretending to be nicer and higher than he actually is (not that he isn't high, but he's definitely more cognizant of what's going on than people both in- and out-of-universe give him credit for). Well, the answer to that is pretty simple: it's because he loves his friends and wants to get along with them.

You like to chat a lot with your pal Karkat, who is usually pretty cranky, but he is your BEST FRIEND. You have a lot of OTHER GREAT FRIENDS who you also like a lot.

Gamzee's story pre-murderstuck is a pretty tragic one about a kid who never got to learn proper socialization and has whacked-out religious beliefs, whose neglect from his lusus has left him with deep loneliness, who desperately wants to fit in with his friends, especially the lowbloods, and therefore feels the need to hide how pessimistic and angry he actually is under the guise of drug usage and not retaliating against the constant digs they make at him.

I also feel like I have to specify that Gamzee was already a pretty angry, mean, troubled kid prior to Murderstuck, because it helps to clarify his actions after being influenced by Lil' Cal. The nonlinear nature of the story kind of confuses the sequence of events, but it seems to be as follows:

Dave blasphemes against Gamzee's religion so hard that Gamzee has a total crisis of faith.

Gamzee has a breakdown and gets so pissed off that he oopsie-daisy'd a jester puppet into John's room on Prospit.

Gamzee, with his faith lost ("and now i don't know what to think about the spiritual fantasies i had"), Tavros dead, and thus in a very emotionally fragile state, is contacted by Doc Scratch and given instructions (likely to kill his friends and paint his wicked pictures in their blood). At some point during this, he falls under Lil' Cal's influence, too. As every person we've seen under LE's sway has very compelling, natural reasons for acting the way they do, I think it's better to see Lil' Cal's influence as influence and not mind control. It brings out the worst in its victims, but only what was already there.

This seems to give Gamzee a new belief system to replace/supplement the old.

TC: i've been kicking the wicked ignorance on this shit. TC: BEEN MOTHERFUCKIN SLAUGHTERING THE WICKED IGNORANCE, BRO. TC: all up in lifelong denial about my calling. TC: AS A DESCENDANT OF THE HIGH MOTHERFUCKIN SUBJUGGLATORS. TC: we are higher than you, brother. TC: WE ARE HIGHER THAN MOTHERFUCKIN EVERYBODY. TC: honk. CG: GAMZEE CG: PLEASE NO TC: and now i'm the last one, so i finally motherfuckin understand. TC: I FINALLY GOT MY MOTHERFUCKING UNDERSTAND ON TO WHO THE MIRTHFUL MESSIAHS ARE. TC: they were always both me. :o) TC: AND ALSO MOTHERFUCKING ME. Do:

Remember, his original belief system actually emphasized equalizing the castes - in death, anyway. It also never specified that the Mirthful Messiahs would be specifically highbloods. The hint that Gamzee had internalized casteism was always there, but now that his belief system has been supplanted by this new one, delivered by Doc Scratch (the story's Devil figure), his casteism becomes full-blown:

GAMZEE: heheh. GAMZEE: CHECK IT THE MOTHERFUCK OUT. GAMZEE: it's the peasantblood. GAMZEE: HEH HEH. GAMZEE: fuckin heh. EQUIUS: D --> Peasantb100d EQUIUS: D --> Is that a joke GAMZEE: if your blood. GAMZEE: IS A RUNNING MOTHERFUCKING GAG. GAMZEE: then soon. GAMZEE: IT WILL BE RUNNING. GAMZEE: through my motherfucking fingers.

TC: shit was motherfuckin poison, didn't you know? CG: UH... CG: NO? I MEAN, I WOULD NEVER EAT IT, BUT TC: THEN GET MOTHERFUCKIN SCHOOLFED ALL ABOUT THE WICKED NEWS, PUNCHLINE BLOODED MOTHERFUCKER.

Basically, the religious boy had a crisis of faith and was tempted by the Devil into becoming his servant - into desiring utter oblivion for everyone except his own continued existence within the one doing the destroying, rather than a paradise of love, friendship, and hope. And this new faith is what carries Gamzee through to the end of the comic:

KARKAT: HE STARTED GETTING SO UNBELIEVABLY SELF SATISFIED AND PIOUS, LIKE WAY MORE THAN HE EVER WAS BEFORE. KARKAT: LIKE HE'S JUST SO COMPLETELY CONVINCED HE'S FOUND HIS CALLING, THAT THIS SESSION IS THE GATEWAY TO THE PROMISED LAND WHERE HE'LL FULFILL HIS DESTINY. KARKAT: HE'S SO CAUGHT UP IN HIS IDIOTIC SCHEMES HE COULDN'T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT ME ANYMORE. KARKAT: WHATEVER. AT LEAST HE STOPPED KILLING PEOPLE.

So where does that bring us WRT the fake god-tier ensemble? Well, god-tiering in general is kind of a metaphor for becoming an adult - SGRUB/SBURB sets out for its player a quest directly tied into their maturation into adults, and god-tiering is (normally) supposed to sit right at the end of that questline, a semi-permanent state achieved at the end of adolescence. Characters who DO manage to god-tier without having naturally reached that point in their questline, especially Vriska, Dave, and Rose, have struggles that deal directly with "growing up too fast" - Vriska with the expectation that she be a vicious murderer, Dave with having never addressed his trauma and abuse, and Rose with having missed out on a loving relationship with her mother because she insisted on being more mature than her.

Gamzee's relationship to Caliborn is that of a parent:

ARANEA: It is just as well that cheru8 parents a8andon their offspring. Raising such a child 8y the familial standards of any race would 8e a monumental challenge. ARANEA: Nevertheless, it would seem there were those who tried. ARANEA: Details in my research suggest our villain had a num8er of acolytes oper8ting in the shadows, preparing for his arrival.

Kurloz also directly states that Gamzee's role in their religion is to serve and mentor their young lord:

KURLOZ: I COME BEARING THEE FINAL JOLLY ACCOUTREMENT MY FAITHFUL INVERTEBROTHER KURLOZ: THY BARDLY REGALIA IS DONE AND FUCKING DUSTED BY THE SPECIAL STARS THEMSELVES KURLOZ: ON THIS DAY THE DARK CARNIVAL REJOICED AND SAID IT WAS MONEY KURLOZ: NOW BRING TO LIFE OUR WICKED RUSE WITH APLOMB MY NINJA KURLOZ: OUR LORD AWAITS YOUR SERVITUDE AND TUTELAGE AT ONCE

And even beyond the religion aspect, Gamzee would take this job mother fucking seriously...

... Because his own parent failed him. See, we tie it all back to the beginning! Gamzee putting together a shitty fake god tier outfit is because he wants to be a good parent to Caliborn, an adult figure he never had in his own life, and god tiering is symbolic of that. And I think the saddest part is, he still didn't really manage to do that... because, perpetuating the neglect he faced from his own lusus, he wound up locking the two in a room and leaving them alone - possibly out of exasperation.

ARANEA: We will pro8a8ly never know who these scurrilous conspir8tors were. 8ut it is evident that at some point the cheru8 was locked in a room, either out of exasper8tion, or for its own good, until it was old enough to enter the session.

Like, I feel kind of bad for Gamzee, y'know? Especially since, alongside Eridan, he's one of the trolls the fandom seems to understand the least, and his story is also one of being failed by his family, society, and friends. This winds up turning him towards the worst parts of himself - the religious fundamentalism, the casteism, the emotional isolation - and away from the good - the fact that he loved his mother fucking friends, enough to wish upon them eternal paradise.

#homestuck #gamzee makara #homestuck analysis #homestuck lore #idk what to tag this #also i give up on fixing the colors. sorry

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fanaticsnail · 7 months

Text

Sway - Part 2

Part 2 to the Dance Series. Truthfully, I didn't think this was honestly where the plot was going to take me; yet here we are!

Word count: 6,158 (barely proofred)

Part 1 here, Masterlist here

(Thank you @sordidmusings for brainstorming with me and helping me with formatting. You're a gem and I adore you)

A melodical laugh escaped your lips as the blue-haired Captain of the Buggy-Pirates spun you one last time in the master ring of the large red and white tent. After applauding the minstrels, both of you once again turned to each other, you lacing your arms around his neck and him placing his hands on your hips in response. All smiles, playful and flirtatious held to the lips of both you and Buggy the Clown as you embraced.

Bringing his face towards you, he stooped into you; resting his head against your neck. His chin placed itself on your clavicle before he sighed in contentment, placing then his forehead against your shoulder as you held him against you. You smiled into him, resting your cheek atop his red and white bandana and smoothing your hands over his neck as he raked his hands upwards to circle around your back to embrace you closer against him with both of your eyes closed.

You were the only two people existing in this world you created within the arms of one another to the sway of the music. That was, until, you reopened your eyes; holding them half-lidded as they met with the intense amber eyes of the guest of your captain. You quirked your head at him, furrowing your brows as you witnessed him rise to his feet and beginning his descent from the wooden bleachers to the circular space of the ring where you and your crew engaged in dance amongst each other.

You felt another sigh flee from the lips of the man you were currently embracing, drawing your fleeting attention back onto him as he released you from his tight embrace to meet his eyes with your own. He gazed with his oceanic teal eyes at you, bright and playful attitude with contentment and adoration displayed within his irises.

“Thank you for the dance, beautiful,” he sighed in appreciation, pressing his forehead against your own while fleeing his gaze to your lips before flittering them back up just as hastily; “make sure you keep them all on their toes, I want to watch you dance.”

“Aye, sir,” you smirked at him in a low tone, nudging your chin upwards to break his forehead from its proximity to yours with a playful smirk and arch of your brow.

“Oh-,” Buggy growled slightly under his breath, reaching his white gloved right hand to capture your chin within a firm grip; a playful twinkle taking residency within his eyes, “-you are killing me tonight, sweetheart.”

“I aim to please, Captain,” you jested in return, a small wink shot to him from your left eye as you fled from your proximity to him, remaining only joined by your right hand holding his left. He held your hand in his grasp, stooping to a low bow while placing his brow atop your knuckles in humble appreciation of your attention.

After relinquishing his hold on your hand and turning from you to retrieve an ale, you cradled your right hand with your left and smoothed over the tingling flesh in an attempt to sooth the giddy feeling rising in your chest. You shook your head slightly, dropping your left hand from its clutch while remaining your right elevated as you spun on your toes to a new melody erupting from the minstrels.

Your right wrist was caught to halt your spin by the mysterious guest your Captain had visiting with him, the firm grip pulling you into his chest.

“Allow me to cut in for the next one,” his voice purred to you, the tone he used posing as more of a statement rather than a question. You arched your brow in response, brandishing your arm in a swift rotation to break your right wrist from within his firm grip and circling it around before raising your palm to fall adjacent to your face. You crouched your legs, swaying your hips to the new beat as you prowled your steps to circle the hatted gentleman.

“Ask me properly,” you stated, nudging your chin to the air and quirking your brow at him as a playful taunt, “and I may allow myself to be swayed.”

He arched his brow to you, his hawk-like gaze baring into your flesh at the taunt. He took a moment to himself, deliberating on his next move before he extended his left leg behind himself and bringing his arms out to the side in an elegant and regal bow. Completely taken aback, you placed your right hand against your heart as you witnessed him rise again to his feet and extend his left hand out towards you with his head bowed.

“Will you allow me to sway you?” he asked with a smirk, an air of arrogant confidence falling from him in waves. Your eyes widened at his comment, completely taken aback now by his words. His smirk widened at your fluster, prompting him to take another step toward you to close the distance between you.

You trailed your eyes over his body, trailing from his stance to his thighs before raking them over his torso peeking through his open, leather great-coat. “Sword-master,” your thoughts informed you. He had the stance of a swordsman; from the confident aura, to the muscular and athletic build of his body down to the way he held you fixed within his concentrated gaze.

Rolling your neck to relieve the tension, you rotated both of your shoulders before narrowing your eyes at him and taking his outstretched left hand within your right. He immediately twirled you twice to test the way you felt within his experienced arms, an action to which you executed elegantly. You placed your left hand against his shoulder, your index and smallest finger remaining within the air as you allowed him to equip himself with you.

The first thing you noticed as you fell into his firm proximity was not only the intensity of his gaze and firm hold on your body; but the way the aura of confidence was tangible with the scent that rolled from him.

From his meticulously maintained facial hair, and the way his clothes clutched purposefully against his body to remain intentional and deliberate with every swift action; it was no wonder in your mind that he kept a steady hygiene routine. The radiant scent that fell to you in waves was a mixture of an oceanic salted sea spray, subtle hints of saffron and white peach with undertones of dried tobacco and sandalwood accompanying him. The breath falling from his lips harmonised with the scent, dark plum and cherry with a mixture of peppercorn; the familiar aroma of expensive red wine you were scarcely accustomed to.

His scent was welcome to you, as you were much commonly accustomed to the stale smells of partially dried clothes, salt from the ocean air, and musk from sweat from hours of vigorous physical training to maintain in peak performance state being the scent amongst the crew. You fluttered your eyes closed as you allowed yourself to fall victim to the man currently brandishing you within his arms, inhaling his confidence. Offering thanks to your prior self for your earlier routine of showering and reapplying oils and perfumes to yourself once you changed from your acrobatic uniform before exiting the green room, you reopened your eyes as this man held you within his arms.

“You’re well versed in many dance styles?” he asked with a quirk of his brow as he swept the room with you held firmly within his arms. You broke from your thoughts and side stepped at his confident direction.

“I am, my lord-?” you trailed off in question, as the gentleman currently wielding you was yet to properly introduce himself to you.

“I’m known by many names, my lady,” he smirked, bringing his face in closer proximity to yours; your foreheads almost meeting beneath his feathered broad-hat. He held your gaze as he bore down against you, prompting your body to bend in an outward arched extension as he dipped you low; bringing your back upwards in a quick snap, stealing the breath from your body in shock and exertion before he again whispered to you; “you may call me Mihawk in leu of ‘my lord’, should you so desire.”

You felt your jaw become slightly slack at his deliberate flirtation, feeling a similar heat pooling within your chest and rising upwards to flood your cheeks. In the regular dance nights you held with the Buggy-Pirates; you had managed to respond back onto your dance partners the similar display of their movements as a mirror would to a reflection. The dominant aura falling from the sword wielder was completely foreign to you, especially in consideration regarding your immediate former dance partner: Buggy, your captain and ring master.

Although the blue-haired jester be the captain and leader of the great outcast crew, you found his actions very apprehensive and completely unintentional in direction: catering truly to the mood and manner of his troop while holding himself within the spotlight, centre stage. Dancing reactionary with Buggy came easy to you as you felt yourself lead more under his hesitant ministrations to build his confidence up with your body. Flirtation and playfulness is how you would describe such actions; many a brisk touch of reassurance to him as to indicate all was well and absolutely reciprocated.

This man was something alien to you, his aura something you had not encountered for a long while; and you found yourself relishing within it. He swooped his hand around your neck, prompting you to roll and dive your hair beneath his touch as he turned your body away from facing him to gaze outwards. He clasped his hands around your hips and waist, hoisting you close to himself, flush with your back pressed against his torso. You felt his breath on your neck as you rose your arms upwards to rake your fingertips over your forearm before maneuvering them around his broad-hat to fall against his neck.

He held his right hand against your waist, prompting you to lay your own atop it while trailing your left hand over his jaw slowly and circling it outwards for him to take within his own. Extending your right leg in a swift kick outwards, you found him twirling you in his arms; releasing you from his grip to spin you against him. Reaching forward with his left hand, you allowed him to hoist your right thigh to hook around his hips, pressing his forehead against your own and holding firm his gaze into your eyes.

“You are-,” he breathed, floating his gaze down to your lips as he subtly clenched his jaw, “-spectacular.”

He dipped you again, falling his gaze to your chest as he slowly rose you back upwards. You unhooked your leg from his hips and turned with him, completely succumbed to his every step and attuning your body to his every whisper of movement. You found your eyes closing, listening truly to the music resonating throughout the large tent and to the prompts he displayed to you with his body.

“And you are-,” you smirked at him before you twirled away from his break, prompting him to almost stumble at your movements, “-overly confident.”

Mihawk inhaled a deep breath through his nose as he felt the indication of a subtle mischievous chase befalling from your movements, revelling in the challenge you posed to him. He found a small smirk breaking through his lips as he prowled towards you, bringing your body back to him with a swift motion of his left hand, holding you once again within his arms.

“It is in my nature, darling,” he purred against you, bringing his lips closer to the right side of your jaw. You found yourself giggling at his action, his facial hair tickling against the sensitive skin of your neck and jaw. You brought your left hand up to hold firmly against the scruff of his neck, your lips a whisper away from colliding within the seductive and confident dance but holding firmly away; bodies spinning together while joining foreheads once more.

“When I’m in your arms, I’m yours: your dance partner, your woman. You have my complete and undivided attention always, sir. I’m yours.”

Your words echoed within the mind of Buggy the clown, who’s face was becoming increasingly more beat red beneath his grease-paint the longer you remained clutched within the arms of Dracule Mihawk. His jaw began to ache with how tightly he clasped his teeth shut against themselves. His gloved fists became balled as he sat atop his throne, witnessing how truly fluid and natural your bodies fell within the arms of one another.

He found himself melting as he heard your melodic giggle fall from your lips in reaction to something the warlord had said to you. Although it pained him to watch you engage in flirtation with another man, particularly Mihawk of all of the choices available to you, he couldn’t bring himself to tear his sights away from you both.

His eyes widened and his brows upturned as a rotation of inadequacy befell his mind, invasive and intrusive thoughts of self-doubt falling over him in crashing waves. He chose to do nothing as Mihawk dipped his beloved and favoured acrobat low; clutching her thigh within his firm grip and falling his face to almost initiate contact to the diaphragm beneath her breasts. Her hands fell to lace within his dark locks, raking slowly at the curls beneath his broad-hat.

Yet, he again; chose to do absolutely nothing but sit and almost sulk atop his wooden throne.

It was like he was witnessing the destruction of his favourite pub; burning under the radiance of a raging fire and having the vast quantity of sea water to smother the flame: yet choosing to watch the blaze, becoming bewitched by its beauty. The way Mihawk had absolute control over the engagement, flourishing her as he would a blade; wielding her with expert precision and control: Buggy simply couldn’t get enough of watching the both of you engage in the dance.

He ordered you to dance, expressing his desire to be entertained by witnessing you within the spotlight and in the arms of his crew. He got what he had wanted, so why is he feeling so upset about it? The way Mihawk stalked you, followed by the way you deliberately retreated confidentially away from him only to fall yourself into his outstretched arms once more had a hold over Buggy’s very breath. He didn’t know how to feel, being a rival of Mihawk in a romantic exchange was not something he foresaw himself engaging in; especially as he had yet to pursue a relationship with you romantically.

You had always sought him out to engage with him, reciprocating his physical ministrations and encouraging him with a gentle touch or a caress against his skin. Seeing the way you engaged and thrived within the arms of another, particularly one with as much confidence as Dracule Mihawk, had his throat closing with a foreign restlessness. Should he be experiencing such a huge feeling of jealousy? Why was he happy at the same time?

Almost sensing an air of uneasiness, you stepped your feet backwards to release yourself from Mihawk’s embrace once more; twirling gracefully to face away from him and gaze into the stand. Mihawk stepped closer to you, prompting you to retreat in equal strides away from him, only to feel his grip on your waist, pulling your neck to recline against his shoulder to gaze into your eyes. You noted in your peripheral vision where the uneasiness was falling from, your captain nearly on the edge of his seat as he held his gaze firmly attached to you.

“I feel I must draw our dance to a close,” you uttered to him, spinning within his arms with your hands raised above your head to give your dance partner complete control over your rotation.

“And why may that be?” he voiced his concern in a voice above a purred growl. He zeroed in his gaze to follow your own; landing on the silhouette of the flashy-fool himself as his leg began to twitch and bob in what you assumed to be agitation.

“Oh, I see,” he purred against your jaw, prompting your eyes to flitter closed in response, “you harbour affection for your captain.”

Your breath hitched in your throat, prompting you to draw yourself away from the arms of Mihawk; him reaching down and instinctively clasping your hands within his own and lacing your arms around yourself in a criss-cross motion.

“He is my captain,” you muttered your confirmation through clenched teeth, “and I am his acrobat-.”

“-His favourite acrobat,” Mihawk chuckled his corrective taunt against you, spinning you again to face him in his arms again, “and I-,” he twirled you once more around in his arms before drawing you to press flush against his torso; “ –am simply entranced by you.”

The music halted as the minstrels concluded their serenade, bringing the dance to a complete stop as applause rang throughout the red and white tent of the circus. Mihawk raked his hands over the mid of your back and moulded your flesh beneath it. Your eyes widened at the intensity of his embrace, finding yourself slowly sparking an inkling of minor infatuation. His aura was so clearly dominant, the way he held you against himself completely deliberate and intentional.

He released you from his grip, stepping backwards with a confident smirk adorning his lips. Cheers and applause did not sway your wide eyes from the hawk-like gaze of the swordsman in front of you, despite the uproar in praise to the minstrels. You could not help the way you felt, relishing in his adoration of you; a complete stranger to you completely bewitched by your movements as he swayed you within his arms.

You looked past the hatted warlord to see your acrobatic partner returning from the sidelines, his hand capturing the songstress in a gentle touch with red lipstick littering his face; the same hue smudged against the lips of his new lover. You scrunched your nose up as a wide smile came over your face. As Mihawk no longer held your gaze, he drifted his sights over towards the blue-haired captain; who’s eyes were demonstrating absolute rage, uneasiness and something Mihawk couldn’t quite process. Joy? Could it be subtle and empathetic happiness? Surely not.

You returned your sights to the man you shared a dance with and bowed lowly as you addressed him, “thank you for the dance, my lord Mihawk.”

Rising again from your stoop, you reached both of your hands forward, confidently clasping his left hand within your fingertips. You brought his knuckles to your lips, grazing them lightly against your mouth with a small smile. The warlord’s yellow eyes widened at your unbridled affection directed to him, turning his gaze from you to then look at the smirking face of the painted clown-captain; arching a blue eyebrow upwards at the gesture you presented to him.

You released his knuckles from beneath your lips and hung your hands low in front of you, continuing to cradle his hand within your own.

“This is where I take my leave,” you smiled at him, releasing him from your hands with a polite nod; again making eye contact with Jac, your acrobatic base. Jac’s eyes seemed partially glazed over, a love-struck expression held onto his lips and eyes as he walked in toe with his new lover coyly glancing to the minstrels she performed with earlier.

Mihawk was left standing partially dumbfounded as you whisked your body past his, his mind attempting to process your affectionate action as his eyes found again the teal gaze of the man that prompted his initial visit in the first place; who was simply cackling at him with his head tossed back.

In a few quick strides, the great warlord was within proximity of Buggy the clown who’s laughter had teetered off into a small chuckle.

“What entertains you, clown?” Mihawk arched his eyebrow, speaking with a bored tone with a small hint of agitation.

Buggy rose from his throne to gaze at the dancers as they began to commence with another round to the music; his prized acrobat now wrapping her arms around her partner and swaying with him.

“Oh, nothin’,” Buggy shrugged with a smirk, walking over to the bar area of the circus tent with Mihawk in tow, “you just now get to see why she’s my favourite, is all.”

Buggy grasped the handle of a tankard and poured some amber fizzed liquid into it, foam bubbling at the top as it rose upwards in the vessel. Once he filled it, he turned to lean against the bar on his elbows so he could watch his troop continue to spin with each other.

“She’s-,” Mihawk halted his words as he watched you reach up your thumb and swipe the digit over the lips of your acrobatic partner to remove the red tint from it playfully; “-enchanting.”

“Isn’t she though,” Buggy confirmed with a sigh, tilting his head to the sword master before trailing his eyes back to the ring; raising the tankard to his lips and taking a long gulp of the cool liquid. Mihawk reached behind the bar, continuing to hold his gaze firmly on the acrobats dancing in the arms of one another as he flittered his hand downwards to clasp the neck of an undescriptive glass bottle.

He brought the bottle to the front of his torso, breaking the small blade wrapped around his neck away from its leather strap and in a swift motion; utilised the dagger as a sabre to rid the neck of the bottle from its cork. He didn’t bother with a glass this time, his foreign nerves almost giving him away as he brought the glass tip to his lips and took a swig from the bottle; immediately disgusted by the awful sour flavour.

“What kind of wine do you call this?” Mihawk growled in revulsion, turning his sights back to the clown.

“Uh-,” Buggy tore his eyes away from the acrobats, looking down at the dark bottle within the hands of the intimidating warlord, “-the red kind, I think?”

Buggy urged his body closer to the man beside him and tilted his head at the bottle before howling a large and unbridled laugh at the warlord; “balsamic vinegar-” he wheezed; “-it’s balsamic vinegar.”

Mihawk downturned his lips, gritting his teeth in disgust at not only drinking directly from a bottle; but now burdened by the fact that he had openly invited ridicule from the blue-haired captain beside him for unintendedly drinking salad dressing as a balm for his nerves.

The cackle from the clown died down into a soft teeter, following a swift chug from the tankard to relinquish the substance from the vessel and pool to the belly of the genius jester.

“Alright, big boy,” Buggy said, clapping his hand on the shoulder of the intimidating sword master at his side, “let’s get you something you can actually drink. Save that for the salads and cooking onions.”

Buggy casually leapt over the bar and crouched down to retrieve a bottle of red wine, clicking the screw cap and expertly pouring the liquid quickly into a steel goblet. Mihawk rolled his eyes at the enthusiasm and nickname, disinterestedly reaching out to clasp the goblet within his outstretched hands. Buggy smirked, placing the vessel within Mihawk’s grip and turning his sights back to the acrobats as they spun together, hips joining before the base tossed you within the air and catching you effortlessly.

Mihawk took a sip from the goblet, grimacing as he did so and placing it back atop the bar.

“I preferred the vinegar,” he snarled, turning his gaze at the corner of his eyes as he witnessed another member of the crew hold his arms out as if to motion for an embrace from the woman occupying his thoughts. Buggy cackled at the comment, reaching for two shot glasses and pouring from a half-drunk rum bottle to fill them to the brim. He coughed, alerting Mihawk to the new offering; a gesture to which Mihawk readily engaged with. The gentlemen raised their glasses, chinking the rims together.

They both watched as you turned back to your base, swaying your hips towards him as he gestured for you to run into the arms of the other man. The steady movement of the rhythm and melody fleeting from the stage of minstrels had your movements and motions reflected as slow and deliberate.

You smirked at Jac, your base, before turning towards Cabaji; hearing the approaching footsteps of your partner behind you as you fled yourself into the approaching man’s arms. You felt the two firm hands of your acrobatic partner hoisting your hips backwards towards his body while joining your hands with Cabaji; following the direction of your two partners with poise and ease.

Cabaji circled his arms around you, spinning you while side stepping away to ensure Jac had an opening to steal you from his grasp. Reaching down to grasp your wrist, you turned your neck to relinquish the hands of Cabaji from your body as you allowed Jac to twirl you into himself.

The other dancers parted from your movements, opting to witness your fluidity and cheering at each time the two men managed to successfully steal you from the arms of one another. While the acrobat was able to direct you and you actively listened and engaged with his confidence, the way you managed to balance Cabaji’s reluctance and hesitancy was an artform in and of itself.

Buggy’s Adams-apple bobbed as he swallowed the collected saliva within his throat, his mouth remaining dried at the same time as he watched you. Mihawk’s jaw clenched once more, placing the small shot glass back onto the counter; wordlessly gesturing for the painted captain to refill it.

Not a word was spoken between them as they poured shot after shot of the amber liquid, drinking the spiced rum and wincing a little at the burn as it ventured down their throats; completely enchanted by your movements within the arms of the two men.

You sat yourself atop the open knee of Cabaji as he knelt himself to the ground, bringing your lips close enough to flirtatiously almost brush with the knife wielder with your hand caressing his cheek; reaching an outstretched hand to wordlessly beckon your acrobatic partner to steal you from his arms with a curl of your finger.

“Fuck-,” Buggy sighed with his mouth falling slack.

‘-Damn it,” Mihawk cursed under his breath.

Jac clasped your wrist within his fingertips, twirling you away from the blade thrower with ease; towering over you as he did so. The three of you were all smiles, laughter and joyous within your flirtatious interaction.

Buggy and Mihawk continued to brood in complete silence as they witnessed how you balanced and matched the energies of your two completely different partners, both competing for your attention and you managing to effortlessly provide it to each of them with ease.

Cabaji clutched his hands around your waist, prompting you to raise your arms as he spun you into the awaiting arms of Jac, who grasped your hands in response. Cabaji relinquished his hold on your waist, trailing his right arm up to graze across your left arm and clutched your wrist; Jac spinning you around to face away from him while remaining joined at your right hand. Almost wordlessly, the two men began to explore not only dancing with their lady, but maneuvering their bodies to dance with each other in an act of pull and push as neither acted in more dominance than the other.

You arched your back and whipped your hands away from their gasp, dancing to the side of the arena and watching the two men interact and spin with each other before you rejoined them in their movements. The taller acrobatic partner clutched the waist of the knife thrower as he held your wrist and hand within his; all laughs toppling from the three dancers and the crew around cheering them on. Mihawk narrowed his eyes, deep in thought. Buggy again cleared his throat, this time to actively clear it; not to alert Mihawk of any intention.

As the music concluded, the three of you spun one last time in the arms of each other before falling into a warm embrace between the three of you. The knife thrower spun you within his arms before the acrobat reclaimed you and hoisted you into the air. Applause and cheers fell to the air as a compliment to the minstrels and three dancers, to which all involved bowed in response.

You turned from the arms of Jac as he waltzed back over to his new muse, her warm smile and laugh falling from her lips as he approached her.

“You dance well, Cabaji,” you offered in compliment to the man who just wielded you in dance.

“Thank you,” he uttered with a nod of his head, “I couldn’t resist the offer of a trio, especially considering Jac mentioned it earlier on.”

“He actually suggested it to me, too!” you smiled while nodding your head, “honestly, I can’t resist a challenge like that.”

“Agreed,” Cabaji smirked. He bowed again to you in thanks for the dance, leaving you alone in the circular ring of the big top.

“I need a drink,” you sighed to yourself, dancing in an isolated twirl before making eye contact with your captain and his broody visitor. You shot the blue-haired captain a wink before raising a warm smile to your lips and tilting your head; wordlessly asking him if he approved of your dance.

“I’m in love,” Buggy whispered, shaking his head as he unintentionally admitted his feelings to not only himself but to the hatted man in front of him.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Mihawk uttered with an arch of his brow, prompting the blue-haired captain to furrow his brows in a frown and hoist himself up to sit atop the bar.

You watched the interaction between the two of them curiously, witnessing the plotting and scheming going on behind the teal eyes of your captain as he communicated in a low tone with his guest. Apprehensively, you continued your approach towards the bar; your eyes wide and innocent, praying you weren’t interrupting an important meeting between them.

“Permission to approach the bar, captain?” you smiled at Buggy as he jumped back down behind the bar.

“Absolutely granted, sweetheart,” he said as he eagerly gathered a pitcher for you to drink from.

You smiled at your captain as he gathered ingredients to pool together a drink for you, gazing at you lovingly before flittering his teal eyes towards his hatted guest. Mihawk leant his crossed elbows against the bar and hunched over his shoulders, tilting his head down to shield his yellow eyes from sight.

Buggy watched as you shifted your attention to the broody warlord next to you, furrowing your brows at him curiously. As you began to raise your left hand to grasp the shoulder of the man next to you, you halted your movement and looked to the painted face of your captain.

As a relationship was not established between the two of you prior, you felt no need to search his gaze for permission to touch his guest; but chose to do so regardless. As you met back with the eyes of your captain, his eyes softened to you as he gasped out a breathy whimper between his lips; reluctantly lowering his head in a slight bow, lightly nodding his apprehensive approval in tow. You tilted your head at his reaction before continuing to bring your hand down atop the shoulder of the shrouded gentleman beside you, him tensing immediately under your gentle touch.

Feeling his tension, you made to release him from your grip; only to find him turning to face you and clasping his wrist around your hand to bring your palm to his lips and caress them with his mouth while maintaining heavy eye contact from his unblinking yellow eyes. Your breath hitched in your throat as you made to tear your eyes away from the enchanting hold Mihawk held you in to look towards your captain, but finding yourself unable to do so by the way he was looking at you with complete undivided intensity.

You felt a shift in front of you, the fingertips of your right hand now being clasped by your captain as he reached forward from the bar and grazed your knuckles with his red-painted lips.

“O-oh-,” you gasped in shock, flittering your wide gaze between the two men currently openly sharing affection with you; taken aback and completely by surprise at their actions.

The smirk of an overly confident Dracule Mihawk, followed by an almost pleading and doe-eyed expression from your captain was more than you had bargained for when approaching the bar to quench your thirst after vigorous dancing.

“What are you-?” you began, only to have your words halted by the warlord in front of you.

“-Your dancing with your two crewmen inspired us, little muse,” he began, dropping your hand from his firm grip to rest both of his hands against your hips and draw your body to be placed flush against his open torso. The radiant heat from his exposed flesh once again warmed your body, his scent again overcoming you as he circled his bearded chin to hold your firm to his gaze.

“I don’t understand-,” you began, now completely disregarded by your captain.

“-yes you absolutely do, Sweetheart,” your Captain informed you, now hopping to crouch himself atop the bar once more; completely halting your drink preparation to instead bring his white-gloved hand to capture chin within his thumb and four fingers.

Your half-lidded eyes gazed up to meet the blue-green hues of your painted captain who was looking cautiously down at you, lowering his head to apprehensively gaze at you through his long, blue eyelashes. Again, a small lump began to form in your throat at the sudden intensity being demonstrated by these two men.

Before this night; you had no idea your captain harboured such strong feelings other than friendship with you, and the other man you had only come to meet over this past evening.

“I’m not sure what you want me to say, sir,” your lips trembled in response, becoming slightly overwhelmed by the attention drawn to you. Attention from engagement with your craft was one thing, you relishing under the praise and attention of your captain and ringmaster alone as you trained your body hard for his amusement. To have this attention on you for simply being yourself was a feeling completely foreign to you.

“Say yes, darling,” the feeling of warm breath against your neck, the whisper being spoken against your sensitive flesh below your earlobe from the bearded individual holding you firmly against him. Your eyes fell shut under the feeling against your skin while your chin remained supported by your captain, a small gasp escaping from between your lips.

“Yes to what?” you asked, feeling a tingle of approaching flesh against your lips as your captain bore his lips down towards your own.

“You can balance us both,” Buggy’s lips spoke against your own, completely overtaking your mind with his words. You furrowed your brows, eyes remaining fluttered closed as you processed the direction from your captain, him again uttering a whisper away from contact with your lips; “please say you can.”

Your mind became dizzy in its overwhelmed state, the feeling of both of the men’s attention holding firm against you completely encumbering your body. As if sensing your uneasiness, the broad-hat wearing, yellow eyed individual held up his hand to halt your captain’s advance; displaying absolute control over the situation with his actions.

“If it’s too much, dearest, say the word and we will stop,” he murmured, stepping away from you and continuing his firm hold against your painted captain.

Taking a moment to collect yourself, you looked between the two men before glancing to the bar and viewing the fruit-forward cocktail meticulously prepared by your captain. You reached towards the vessel, clasping it in your dominant hand and bringing it towards your lips. Inhaling the sweet scent, you tossed back the liquid and downed the entire contents; swallowing the alcohol without tasting it fully.

You scrunched your eyes shut, overwhelmed by the attention and flooded of the alcohol within your system as you took an apprehensive step towards the two men.

“State your terms,” you uttered, reopening your eyes and beaming your intense stare at the two of them; “I am listening.”

#one piece #opla #opla fic #x reader #one piece live action #captain buggy #buggy x you #buggy the clown x reader #buggy fic #dracule mihawk x reader #dracule mihawk #mihawk #mihawk x reader #opla dance series #dance series #buggy #buggy x reader x mihawk

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prythianpages · 7 months

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Give 'Em Hell | Part One

beron's daughter OC x eventually Azriel

Masterlist

Summary: Beron is celebrating his son's first name day when he learns about a threat to his desired line of succession. His true firstborn.

Warnings: mentions of child loss

A/N: This is the villain origin story of Beron's daughter. I plan for this to be a short series but I also don't really have this planned out well like my other series lol, I'm kind of just going with vibes for this one. After listening to The Buttress's 'Brutus' this came to mind so it will be inspired by Julius Caesar's story and revolve mainly around Saoirse and Eris, who are siblings. Azriel will join later on in the series as the first 2-3 parts will focus on reader and the Vanserras.

In the heart of the Autumn Court’s grand palace, the air hummed with vibrant festivities. It was a day of great joy, a celebration for the name day of the High Lord’s firstborn son and heir. The halls were adorned with tapestries of blazing amber and crimson leaves, their intricate designs catching the radiance of the fiery torches that lined the corridor.

Flickering candles and enchanting crystal orbs dangled from the vaulted ceilings, casting a warm, golden glow upon the gathering below. The joyful chatter of courtiers and nobles mingled with the melodic tunes of minstrels performing lively songs. Excitement surged through the crowd as they anticipated the official naming of the new prince, the air crackling with a promise of a prosperous future for the court and its people.

The grand doors opened and the High Lord of Autumn, Beron Vanserra, was the first to emerge. His wife and Lady of the Autumn Court, Aurelia, followed behind him. In her arm, was the autumn court’s new bundle of joy. A beautiful and healthy baby boy with hair as red as hers and amber eyes as bright and earthly as hers.

As they walked forward, the crowd dispersed, bowing their heads in respect. They curiously sneaked a peak at the boy, filled with anxious excitement to catch a glimpse. Lady Aurelia tightened her hold on her babe protectively. It had been a year since the announcement of his arrival and she had feared losing this babe as she had with her first. Her firstborn had befallen to a strange illness and she sadly did not survive past her first week into the world.

But this time, things were different. The child was born a male and healthy. He was fiercely monitored and protected. The securing of an heir to a High Lord of Prythian was one of great matters.

High Lord Beron sat himself on the throne, his dark brown eyes cold and fierce as Lady Aurelia stood beside him, her amber eyes were timid and wary. They were husband and wife but not equals. Never equals.

“I give thanks to all.” Beron’s voice was deep and powerful, echoing throughout the grand hall. “For gathering to celebrate my first born son. My heir. Eris.”

“Eris,” a murmur swept through the crowd like a breeze, the name mingling with the crackling excitement of the gathered court.

With a graceful motion of his hand, the lively melody swelled, encouraging some to sway and twirl to the music. High Lord Beron gestured for his son and Lady Aurelia hesitantly passed the small child into his arms. He placed Eris on his lap, embracing the young heir, and together they observed the vibrant dance of the Autumn court from his throne.

A cloaked figure approached the throne, bowing his head as he reached the foot of the steps.

“Soothsayer.” High Lord Beron acknowledged with a solemn nod, allowing the figure to rise back up. He never bothered to learn his name, despite the Soothsayer being a part of his court for decades. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I’ve come to enlighten you, my lord.” The Soothsayer replied, his voice possessing an air of icy calm. Lady Aurelia, who remained by her husband’s side, tensed.

High Lord Beron’s brow furrowed, a scowl etched onto his face. He did not believe in prophecies. They were nothing but nonsense to him. But something in him prodded him to entertain the man’s presence. The Soothsayer had, afterall, predicted the accurate arrival of his son.

The Soothsayer’s gaze fixed upon the child on his High Lord’s lap and a smile graced his face. “Eris shall grow to wield unparalleled strength.”

Beron gave a disgruntled hum, finding little amusement in the Soothsayer’s words. The notion that his son would grow strong seemed more a matter of course than a profound prophecy. Eris, as the heir to the Autumn Court, was destined for greatness.

The Soothsayer’s demeanor shifted dramatically. His eyes rolled back, their irises disappearing into a haunting white void as he surrendered to the profundity of the prophecy.

“The Vanserra line will be fruitful and flourishing as Autumn’s greatest harvest, for they are born with the greatest fire in their veins. But it will not last. Not all will thrive as some will die. Two will soon become three until there are finally eight but one will not be true to you and only one shall come to be. It is the one that possesses the phoenix's heart that the Mother will favor. She shall reign, the true firstborn.”

Beron’s eyes widened for a faltering moment before he rose sharply to his feet, handing the child that had begun to grow restless back to his wife. His gaze blazed with fury, taking the Soothsayer’s words as a threat. Tendrils of flame escaped from his finger tips, rushing to wrap around the Soothsayer’s neck to silence him.

But the Soothsayer did not falter, despite the burning ring around his neck.

“She will emerge from the ashes that aim to entomb her, ever lingering near. A course that cannot be averted. Beware… the ides of March.”

Beron’s eyes continued to rage, the fire in them burning ardently, as the fire around the Soothsayer’s neck tightened. It tightened and tightened, suffocating the male and burned through his flesh. He didn’t stop until the Soothsayer’s head dropped to the floor in a sickening thump, his body following along shortly.

Lady Aurelia let out a cry in shock, her hand flying to her son’s head, shielding him from the grotesque scene. The couples that had been dancing and swaying to the music came to an abrupt halt, eyes widening at the dead body before the throne to the Autumn Court but the music continued to play.

High Lord Beron finally peeled his heated gaze from the dead male, eyes darting around the room. “Did I say to stop?”

Not wanting to meet the Soothsayer’s fate, the crowd began to dance again, compelled by fear. Beron then turned to his guards as the Soothsayer’s words repeated themselves in his head and sunk in, bringing forth a familiar ache in his chest. One he had thought he had destroyed years ago.

His mind was consumed by memories from his past as he gave hushed and urgent orders to his most trusted men.

For the rest of the night, the High Lord of the Autumn court maintained a scowl and an air of fierce composure. The flames that danced restlessly from his fingertips betrayed the inner turmoil he harbored. He did not rest, until days later, when his men finally returned.

High Lord Beron was sharing a quiet breakfast with his wife and son when he turned to address his men. “Is it done?”

“Yes, my High Lord.” One of his men replied with a bow. The men behind followed. “Not a single survivor left.”

Beron’s lips curled into a wicked smirk that sent chills up Lady Aurerlia’s spine while little Eris shifted in her lap.

“Good.”

Grief is the price one pays for love. It’s more than missing someone. It’s an overwhelming sensation, one that often takes a piece of you with it, leaving one with a gaping hole in their chest.

It starts with denial, you pretend that the loss is not real until the pain that it carries becomes too much and anger floods in. The “what ifs” and “if only” nearly drown you as you bargain, wanting to postpone the sadness, the confusion. And then it’s peaceful in the deep and quiet depression. The arms of the ocean of grief’s depression carry you in until acceptance comes along like a bittersweet lullaby with a small sliver of hope–a life ring that may pull you out of grief’s cold depths.

But Saoirse’s mother never reached the final stage.

Instead, her mother slowly disappeared into the unrelenting depressing grip of grief. The depths of it were so deep no hand or life ring could reach. All for love.

Saoirse vowed to never fall in love. How could she when it was love that drove her mother so mad she lost her sanity?

Saoirse shuffled through the vast meadow. It was a canvas of autumnal hues, serene and enchanting, resplendent with vibrant flowers. Golden, russet and crimson blossoms swayed gently in the breeze, their petals swirling among the tall, amber grasses. Sunlight dappled through the tree branches, casting a warm golden glow. She picked out the prettiest of the flowers, making sure to grab her mother’s favorites–red chrysanthemums–before carefully wrapping them into a beautiful bouquet held together with a thin cloth and ivory ribbon.

When Saoirse entered the comforts of her small, humble home, she was greeted with the enticing scent of apple and cinnamon and the warmth of the roaring fireplace in the living space. She found her mother sitting in a rocking chair close to the fireplace, facing the window. A blanket had been gently draped over her lap, her fingers fidgeting over the warm fabric.

“Happy birthday, mother.” Saoirse greeted with a faint, fragile smile.

She approached her mother, placing a soft kiss on her forehead and the bouquet of flowers in her lap. Her mother’s shaky fingers clung onto the bouquet but her green eyes were distant.

“You took my heart when you left. Without your sweet kiss, my soul is lost…”

Saoirse’s smile fell and she felt her heart ache. She hated seeing her mother like this.

“She’s been like this all day.” A weathered voice chimed in solemnly.

“My city’s in ruins.”

Saoirse turned, her gaze landing on her sweet grandmother. The woman who had sacrificed everything to run to her daughter’s aid all those years ago. The woman who rose shortly after her high status fell, working hard to provide for her and her daughter. The woman, who when she found out her daughter was pregnant, delicately took care of her, raising Saoirse as if she were her own. Her eyes, usually warm and sweet, were green pools of sympathy as Saoirse’s mother’s voice faded into the background.

“Come on, rise up. Come on, rise up.”

“Dinner’s almost ready.” Her grandmother said, inkling her head toward the kitchen. “I made apple pie for dessert.”

They ate dinner in silence. With the help of her grandmother, Saoirse had guided her mother to the small dining table, just big enough for the three of them. Her mother continued to sing, green eyes still vacant as she was tormented by her memories. She had fallen into another bad episode, where the memories ran through an endless loop in her head. The song falling from her lips was her only solace.

“My city’s in ruins.”

Silver lined Saoirse’s eyes, making her dark brown eyes glisten. Eyes that she unfortunately inherited from her father, if she could even call him that. She was grateful it was the only trait they shared.

Saoirse hated the male that helped bring her to this cruel world with a burning passion. Everything was his fault. Why her sweet grandmother’s hands were calloused, roughened by the hard labor she was forced into. Why her mother was drowning in her depressive, almost vegetative state, refusing to heal from all the damage that had been done. All the damage he had done.

Saoirse had also fallen victim to the torturous depths of grief, mourning the loss of the mother she never got to know. Similar to her mother, she found herself stuck but it was not grief's depression that suffocated her. It was the ardent flames of anger. They ran so deep they flooded her veins, igniting her with a terrifying desire to burn everything to the ground.

“Sersh.”

Saoirse snapped out of her thoughts, eyes finding her grandmother, who glanced down at the table. “Shit, sorry.” She muttered.

“Come on, rise up. Come on, rise up.”

As she drew back her heated hands, a shiver of discomfort ran through her. The scent of singed wood tickled her nostrils and the once pristine table bore the mark of her growing abilities, its surface marred by a thin layer of char. Her grandmother’s soft chuckle met an abrupt halt.

Their heads swiveled to Saoirse’s mother, whose voice had ceased mid-song. With a shared look of concern, both Saoirse and her grandmother called out to her simultaneously.

“Margot?”

“Mother?”

Silence hung in the air after Saoirse’s call to her mother was met with no response. Her mother, Margot, remained wordless. Her emerald eyes widening in sheer disbelief and lips pressed into a taut line. She appeared as though she had seen a ghost.

The silence was suddenly interrupted by a blood-curdling scream. A scream that did not originate from within the house, a scream that elicited a tumult of more anguished sounds, echoing chaos.

Saoirse leaped to her feet in a panicked rush, rushing out the door in urgency. Her eyes scanned the landscape of their small village, her eyes widening with dread at the horrifying sight that unfolded before her.

The village, the place she had called home all her life, was engulfed in an all-consuming blaze, flames licking at everything in sight. More screams sent her heart racing. She didn’t know what to do, where to go, who to help first.

She found her neighbor, who desperately carried a bucket of water, and ran to him. “What is going on?”

“I don’t know.” He answered, his voice frantic. “They say it’s a wildfire from the drought but it started in the granaries. Get your grandmother and mother and run.”

Saoirse nodded as she turned around in haste, making her way back to her home. The flames danced freely in the village, their fierce, unwavering embrace swallowing everything in their path. The once-charming cottages, adorned with vibrant fall flower boxes, now stood cloaked in orange and red. She held her hands up toward the flames, beckoning her powers to ignite. Perhaps, she could manipulate the flames to turn away from the village.

Nothing happened and it was then that a terrifying realization dawned on her. This was no ordinary fire. It was fire sparked from magic. Saoirse willed her legs to run faster as plumes of smoke twisted upward, smudging the sky with a toxic charcoal hue.

The air grew thick with the smoke and somber chorus of crackling flames. Villagers, gripped by fear and despair, dashed frantically. Like her neighbor, they hauled buckets of water in a futile attempt to quell the unrelenting blaze.

She was almost home when she heard a sudden and loud sequence of snapping. A massive tree limb plunged directly in her path, sending her stumbling and crashing into the fallen leaves below. Panic surged as a terrified scream escaped from her lips, watching in horror as the tree she once climbed as a child splintered and fractured. It’s trunk plummeted, crashing over her house with a resounding, earth-shaking roar.

“Nana!” She cried, crawling to her burning house.

The smoke burned her lungs as she rose to her feet. She hurried to the door of her house but there was fire everywhere, keeping her from entering. Her hands extended once more, a desperate attempt to summon her powers. She could feel a trickle of blood run down from her nose at the exertion. Nothing.

With another desperate cry, she kicked at the door, not caring if the flames engulfed her. “Nana!”

She could hear the faint sound of coughing. “Saoirse!”

“Nana,” she almost cried in relief but no matter how much she kicked and threw herself against the door, it would not budge.

“It’s alright, my sweet Sersh.”

Tears welled up in her eyes. No. She refused to accept this.

“No, it’s not! I need to get you two out of there.”

She continued to kick and scratch at the door desperately. Blood trickled from her hands. "Please," she begged. To the Cauldron, to the Mother. Anyone. "Please."

But there was no answer. Only silence. A deathly stillness that enveloped around her, choking her just as the flames threatened to.

Her shoulders slumped and she collapsed against the door. Her vision blurred from all the smoke and tears. The fire’s glowing fingers reached out hungrily as it continued to sear over. More trees collapsed. The once tranquil village was now a chaotic scene of devastation. Saoirse let her eyes close as she gave up. Broken sobs wracked her body.

She wanted the flames to swallow her whole.

Saoirse did not know how much time had passed but the sounds of the roaring fire gradually came to stop. She sharply sucked in a breath, regretting it as it burned her lungs and brought her into a coughing fit. She had curled into herself and was no longer leaning against the door to her home.

When Saoirse finally opened her eyes, she realized it was because there was no longer a door. There was no longer a home. She was met with the devastated landscape of the village. Her home, it now held only desolation.

She was the only living body among the piles of ashes and splintered bones. They covered the ground like a blanket, a silent witness to the fire’s destruction. Her clothes had burnt off, leaving her skin to be tainted by the stains of ash and smoke. Tears were caked onto her face.

Despite the intense heat that had engulfed her entire village and burned through her clothes, she remained unscratched…untouched by the flames that ravaged everything around her ruthlessly.

The flames had flickered in a strange familiarity. This was no wildfire as she had confirmed earlier. This fire had burned and blazed through the village with a purpose. To destroy her.

She knew her existence would not be a welcomed one. It had never been a matter of if but when. This could not be a coincidence, not when the High Lord’s son recently celebrated his first name day and was christened as Autumn’s heir…

Her father had found her. This fire was meant for her, to burn her alive and silence her forever. But she did not burn. The fire inside her blazed brighter than the inferno that had been sent to her.

All she had wanted was to live her life in secrecy and peace with her grandmother and mother at her side but now...

The two people she cared and loved the most were dead, taken from her. She lost everything...because of him.

She felt a heat surge through her body. Her skin, her veins, her bones. A spark of light burst forth from her chest, right where her roaring heart was. There was a tiny, defiant glow there. A stark contrast amid the gray surroundings.

Come on, rise up, the spark beckoned her and then her legs were moving before she could process the command.

She emerged from the ashes, standing tall amidst the lingering smoke. Her mouth held the taste of sorrow, intertwined with the metallic tang of blood. Her once dark brown eyes now burned a vibrant gold, flickering with an inner flame.

From the glowing ember within her chest, wisps of fire snaked out, coiling around her shoulders and forming fiery wings, a vivid and brilliant display of life and rebirth. Each beat of them stirred the ashes around her in a magical whirlwind.

She was a phoenix, a breathtaking manifestation of flame and ash, and she was burning with an insatiable thirst for revenge.

A/N: the song reader's mother was singing was my city of ruins by bruce springsteen. I picked it bc I really liked the lyrics and while it's a worship song, I did find it was fitting to her mother's and beron's story. Adult Eris along with Lucien and the other brothers will make appearances in the next parts.

#acotar imagine #acotar #azriel shadowsinger #acotar fanfiction #oc x azriel #gem #acotar x oc #azriel x oc

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brothersonahotelbed · 9 months

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quitting college to become a part-time village healer in a faraway magical kingdom and doing minstrel activities on the side. who's with me

#loquitur

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outofangband · 6 months

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Could you expand on what Morgoth said about the Valar having harems in Aman??? I’ve never heard that before and whether he’s lying or not that’s wild. Like, was it just something he causally dropped in a generally menacing speech or what, I’m trying to figure out in what context he would even bring that up!

Yeah no problem!

I was half joking about him saying there were harems in Valinor but well, he certainly talks about elves being used by the gods for similar purposes.

Warning: this passage contains sexual harassment and implicit threats of sexual violence. The language is flowery but it’s still in my opinion one of the more disturbing passages from Tolkien, in this regard at least.

From The Lay of Leithan

Of what avail here dost thou deem thy babbling song and foolish laughter? minstrels strong are at my call. Yet I will give it a respite brief, a while to live, alittle while though purchase dear, to Lúthien the fair and clear, a pretty toy for idle hour

In slothful gardens many a flower like thee the amorous gods are used, honey sweet to kiss, and cast then bruised, their fragrance loosing under feet, but here we seldom find such sweet amid our labours long and hard, from godlike idleness debarred

This goes on like this for another few lines before Lúthien interrupts

It’s worth noting that this is not the first time that he makes references to the idle lazy and indulgent atmosphere of Valinor, in Tolkien’s earlier texts. In the Book of Lost Tales part one Morgoth similarly speaks directly to the Valar through their herald, complaining of the brutal labor he must undergo which they are interrupting, accusing them similarly of laziness and decadence.

So yeah something he casually drops in a genuinely menacing speech more or less sums it up in my opinion.

I think he’s probably wrong but I’m actually undecided if he believes himself lying. I could see him truly believing the other Valar partake in this and that he has been cast out from this privilege, or that the other Valar truly treat the elves as he does but are better at papering it over in pretty settings.

On the other hand he could very easily be deliberately painting a cruel and wicked portrait of Valinor and the gods to Lúthien on purpose, he taunts her for being naive earlier in this scene, I can definitely see him spinning this story purely out of malice.

#the silmarillion #the lays of beleriand #morgoth #melkor #Lúthien #in the iron hell #musing and meta #cw abuse #the hidden hours

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phoenix-before-the-flame · 4 months

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Sending a headcannon and I got carried away:

Our Dragon-Parented Dragonslayers needed to learn modern Fioran (or whatever languages Earthland X777 had) after arriving in the future and Natsu's the one with the biggest grasp of it.

---

These kids were from 400 years in the past when there was a huge dragon-feud going on. If Nirvana and Dragnof are any indication, multiple civilizations fell during that time and with it the loss of several languages. Whatever language they had been taught (which was likely at least one form of dragonic at the time...because dragon parents), it's probably considered extinct in X777.

But thing is I think Natsu may have been the only one to get lessons on how to read and write Fioran.

Gajeel? He got stuck in Phantom Lord, which (to put it nicely) had a sink-or-swim philosophy towards it's members. He probably picked up on a bit on his own, but likely also struggles reading job assignments and won't let anyone know he is (side headcannon: our favorite linguist Levy helped him out once she found out he was struggling).

Wendy? The kid who first got adopted by a runaway prince from another dimension and then by a 400 year old ghost? I don't think either of them know Fioran themselves, much less could teach it. On the bright side, she probably also knows ancient Nirvit.

The Two Sabergoofs? Same case as Gajeel. Rogue's hit with a double whammy since he supposedly hung around Phantom Lord before getting yeeted to Sabertooth's guildmaster. Though this probably leads to a few complications once Sting is guildmaster and has to start filling out paperwork.

So much to everyone's surprise, out of all of them Natsu - who got seven-years worth of supportive family at the orphan daycare - is the one who can read/write in modern language best.

It's not a unique headcannon by any means but one of my favorites. Thoughts?

Y'see this is what im talkin bout, some good ol' analysis stuff.

I had a post aaaaagggeeees ago (if i find it back i may link it) bout like a crack situation where the team got forced to speak their first languages and natsu n wendy got stuck speaking their og ancient fioran languages and no one could understand wtf they were saying (and they couldnt understand each other neither bcus i had it that they were speakin different dialects of ancient fioran but details.). But i am gettin off track.

I always hc that most of the slayers didnt end up in Fiore when they got shot to the future, itd be kinda boring if they all ended up on the same continent. So Gajeel for me landed in Bosco so he learnt Boscan first as his modern language before he made his way to fiore to learn the language there by osmosis. I think Gajeel as a character especially to me with his spying skills and generally personality is super discerning with his desire to know information. So i think he's largely self taught with everything when he was on his own and knows 2 languages fully- Boscan and Fioran- but his fioran is weaker especially when it comes onto the writing part. And he vaguely knows phrases and terms from a bunch of diff languages.

Wendy landed closer to the border of Fiore and Seven before mystogan picked her up. I'd like to think that the language in Edolas and Earthland is largely the same orally (but it'd have a whole different written language) so he managed to teach her how to speak modern fioran but write in modern edolas. Which was a weird disconnect when the team found out down the line lmao. When he left her with cait shelter she picked up that additional language (which is a purely oral language) and is probs the only person left in modern fiore who can speak it (Levy loves her for it)

Sting got yote to Caelum before somehow making his way over to Minstrel then Fiore, he speaks a weird combo package of slangs from all 3 and he's not fully fluent in all of em (fioran is his best) and sometimes when he can't remember a word in one he'll supplement it with a word from another. He's ironically better at the written languages with them than speakin em.

Rogue met Sting in Minstrel briefly (didnt stick around with each other and then ran into each other again in fiore) but Rogue never picked up on Minstrel's language easily so he only picked up on fioran when he eventually made his way over. He knows brief smatterings and terms from other languages from his time hanging out with phantom lord but is only fluent in just the one.

Natsu's the only sucker who landed squarely in Fiore and was picked up by Makarov who had him fluent enough in speaking modern fiore before he got him back to the guild. He didn't get around to starting him with writing so that was a task for the others to teach and get him up to speed (to varying success. His handwriting sucks ass). I also like to think he hung around a decent amount with Levy when he was younger (he liked listening when she read her stories aloud) so he has a weird mixed bag of being able to read and understand a whole bunch of random language bits despite not actively trying to learn em.

Ok byyyyeeeeeeeeeee

#fairy tail #fairy tail headcanon #dragon slayer headcanon #gajeel redfox #wendy marvell #rogue cheney #sting eucliffe #natsu dragneel #hi hylian i got carried away :]

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cacodaemonia · 11 months

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As we're all very aware, we live in a time when open hatred of many marginalized groups has been growing. And as many others have said, it's super fucking important that we stop fighting amongst ourselves over relatively minor issues when there are people who quite literally wants us dead, or at the very least, silent and subservient.

Punching down and sideways to attack the people who are 99% on our side might make us feel superior for a little while, but it's important to ask ourselves if attacking other marginalized people helps anyone.

With that in mind, I wanted to remind all of us that language, culture, and iconography all change over time, and not everyone keeps up with those changes at the same speed.

As an obvious example, 'they' is now a much more commonly used singular pronoun than it used to be. It's meaning has expanded and changed subtly.

Another example is the comedy genre in general: movies and TV shows from even a few years ago relied on humor that many of us now see as tasteless at best and dehumanizingly cruel at worst.

Then you have things like reclaimed slurs. For some of them, their meanings have changed multiple times.

We've also got all of the microlabels among queer folks, which are rapidly multiplying and evolving. Many of them didn't exist 2 or 5 or 10 years ago, but now they might be the most central part of someone's personality.

Pepe the frog is an example of an image whose meaning has radically shifted in a short period of time. What was originally a harmless cartoon was appropriated by the US alt-right movement and is now considered a hate symbol (though the ADL acknowledges that 'the majority of uses of Pepe the Frog have been, and continue to be, non-bigoted').

On the opposite end of the spectrum, you have characters like Mickey Mouse and Felix the Cat, who were designed to be minstrels. Now, of course, almost no one associates Mickey Mouse with blackface or racism.

Those are just a handful of examples involving the English language and the internet's largely American-centric culture, but there are obviously many, many more. All of this is difficult enough for native English speakers to keep up with, but we should also bear in mind that, for many folks, English isn't their native language.

I've seen awful harassment by queer people against another queer person just because her English wasn't perfect and she used a term that, at that time, wasn't considered the correct one by the people who attacked her.

We should also keep in mind people who have other language or cognitive difficulties (I'm honestly not sure how to phrase this, so please don't assume I'm being derogatory or cruel—I am one of those people).

Even for those of us with the best of intentions, all of this can make online interactions feel like navigating a minefield because many people exclusively engage in paranoid reading of everything from novels to shitposts.

I think all of us would be better served if we stepped back for a moment to consider questions like, "Does this person have malicious intentions?" and "Is this something that causes real harm to real people or does it just bother me, personally?" and "Will calling this person out or shaming them help anyone?"

A lot of us are on the same side, and we might have slightly different beliefs, but we don't need to be enemies. Wasting our outrage on each other is exactly what our real enemies want.

#take a deep breath #and remember that not everyone is out to get you #you are not the prince with a thousand enemies #(ya like my watership down reference eh?)#marginalized groups #these groups aren't monoliths either - your way is not the only correct way just as mine is not the only correct way #a lot of us are on the same side #let's act like it #general human wank #racism #alt-right #queer stuff #paranoid reading #reparative reading #not sure how else to tag this #long post #internet culture #outrage culture

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thelordofgifs · 6 months

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End of Year Fic Recs

Thank you @sallysavestheday for the tag and the kind rec 💕

Recommend up to 5 series or multi-chapter fics from 2023 that everyone should read (multi-year WIPs count, if the last update was in 2023).

Recommend up to 5 single chapter fics/one-shots (long or short) from 2023 that everyone should read.

Recommend up to 5 fics NOT from 2023 that everyone should read (oldies but goodies).

Recommend up to 5 of your own fics (completed or WIP) from 2023 that everyone should read.

Five WIPS from 2023:

we will make this place our home by @leucisticpuffin. 200k, AU, kidnap fam. The loveliest softest 1970s AU! It feels like reading all my favourite cozy childhood books and the characterisation is impeccable (Maglor my DARLING). Cannot recommend enough.

seabird by @welcomingdisaster. 24k, AU, russingon. "Give me a quick russingon prompt for smut week," Lena said. I obliged. This happened. Anyway the dynamics are so so good and the characterisation is so so good (Maedhros you little IDIOT) and the suspense!! is so good!! Everyone go and read it immediately.

ashes, ashes, dust to dust — the devil's after both of us by @that-angry-noldo. 9k, AU, Finarfin and Maedhros and Maglor. Maedhros and Maglor come up with a plan to capture the High King of the Noldor in return for the Silmaril. SUCH good m&m (I am a single-issue voter ok!) and incredible Finarfin/Eonwe dynamics as well, I cannot wait to see where this fic goes next.

Atandil by @eilinelsghost. 105k, canon compliant, Finrod/Bëor. The best worldbuilding, THE most gorgeous flowing heartrending prose, absolutely incredible characterisation... I am so so obsessed with this series you can't imagine. Still weeping over part 14 a month later.

And Love Grew by @polutrope. 8k, canon compliant, kidnap fam. A newer WIP, but I'm already so hooked! So far the characterisations of all the Fëanorians have been delicious and there are SO many compelling OCs as well.

Five one-shots from 2023:

Sea-Bells and Sunlight by @actual-bill-potts. 4.5k, canon compliant, Finrod and Lúthien and Beren. Lúthien finds both Finrod and Beren in the Halls of Mandos. LOVE the shifting dreamlike nature of Mandos here, and my darling Lúthien is so so perfect. Also all the Finrod feels... aahhh.

Somewhere To Return To by @searchingforserendipity25. 4k, canon compliant, Maedhros and Maglor, russingon. Just the softest loveliest most heartbreaking post-Thangorodrim fic. LetMaedhrosNap2k23.

the world to come by @arrivisting. 4k, AU, Fëanor/Nerdanel. A chilling imagining of Arda Remade, featuring some incredible Fëanor characterisation and the most gorgeous beautiful prose.

Quicksilver by @clothonono. 26k, AU, Indis/Míriel. Beautiful beautiful writing and wonderful characterisation. One of the fics that made me adore Indis.

What Will the Kinslayer Lord Do Next? by @tanoraqui. 3k, canon compliant, Maedhros and Maglor. Ok this is a spin-off of The Minstrel and the Star which you should also read because it's excellent but. again. SINGLE-ISSUE VOTER. and this is a top-tier m&m fic, all that tenderness and grief and bitterness and some delicious musings on the Oath and Silmarils.

Five older fics:

and one man, in his time, plays many parts by @lintamande. Canon compliant, Maglor and his younger brothers. One of my favourite Mithrim-era fics.

seven years of holidays by @jouissants. 10k, AU, kidnap fam. Elrond and Elros find a strange elf in the woods. Excellent kidnap fam dynamics and absolutely beautiful prose.

A reason to live (a reason it is not permissible to die) by Chestnut_pod. 27k, canon compliant, Eärendil/Elwing. Absolutely incredible Sirion worldbuilding and a wonderful depiction of Elwing.

elves, once by @ceescedasticity. 43k, canon compliant. THE most horrifyingly plausible theory of how orcs came to be. Both heartbreaking and fascinating.

It's the New World, Darling by @avantegarda. 107k, AU. A truly delightful 19th-20th century AU of the silm. Nothing makes me laugh as much as Victorian!Fëanorians.

Five self-recs:

The hard bit!

Ilimbë. 15k, canon compliant, Fëanor/Nerdanel. I still think this is the best thing I've ever written! Check it out if you're interested in Greek mythology, or in baby Fëanor making an idiot of himself.

the fairest stars. 78k, AU, Maedhros & Maglor, russingon, Beren/Lúthien and more. Probably my favourite of my fics, if not objectively my best. I know I love to hate on tfs for being completely insane, but I'm also pretty proud of it. It's got some of my best m&m, a rather in-depth exploration of the nuances of the Oath of Fëanor, and SO SO MANY cliffhangers. A silly bullet point fic that is also somehow the one I've put the most thought and effort into over the year.

in the breaking. 2k, canon compliant, Maedhros & Maglor. Still very fond of this one.

Inflection. 9k, canon compliant, kidnap fam. A very difficult one to write, but I'm proud of the result.

The Stranger. 928 words, canon compliant, Maedhros and Maglor. A very tiny little ficlet, but I like how I captured the post-Thangorodrim dynamics here.

Going to tag everyone I mentioned here, if you'd like to share!

#silmarillion #fic rec #my writing #tag game #a lot of fics here! go forth and feast #missed sooo many incredible fics off this too

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aria-ashryver · 6 months

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I Cannot Bear To Hold You With These Unworthy Hands

Book: Blades of Light and Shadow

Pairing: Aerin x m!human!MC (Dorian Silvertongue)

Words: 2.4K

Summary: After the night they spent together, Aerin weighs his troubled thoughts, trying to muster the strength to leave the bed, leave the tent, leave Dorian behind.

(or; Aerin writes his stupid little letter)

Ratings/Warnings: Teen - brief allusions to the fact that Aerin and MC have just slept together; brief mention that Baldur was abusive; brief mention of self-inflicted injury

A/N: A little ✨Aerin angst✨, as a treat! I haven't written for him (or Blades) before, so I'd love to know what folks think of the style and characterisation! Also, if you enjoy atmosphere (and being in pain), this piece was written to Adam Skorupa and Krzysztof Wierzynkiewicz's A Nearly Peaceful Place

@choicesficwriterscreations

Aerin was a smart man. He knew that. Prided himself on it, in fact. He’d always been quick-witted, clever, his rigorous education obvious to anyone he spoke to. There wasn’t a puzzle he’d ever come up against that he couldn’t unravel with ease.

Until Dorian.

The celebrations in Riverbend had continued well into the night; beyond the confines their tent, Aerin could still hear the light refrain of a flute, the slow, poignant swell of a fiddle, as a pair of minstrels played their longing to skies littered with stars. It wasn’t so loud that he couldn’t sleep through it; beside him, curved protectively around him, Dorian’s breath had evened out into the slow rhythm of true sleep.

Aerin felt him sigh against his skin. His body was warm with rest and the lingering heat of their lovemaking. Not for the first time, Aerin marvelled at how utterly, hopelessly stuck he was.

Not in the least because, even asleep as he was, Dorian didn’t seem as though he would deign to let him go any time soon. The man had a build borne of long years of physical labour and swordsmanship; those iron-banded arms hugged Aerin firmly against his chest, one arm looping around his waist, the other curving around his shoulders. He held him so sweetly, so securely, that it seemed that Aerin’s half-baked escape plan would fall apart at the first hurdle — namely, ever getting out of this blasted bed.

An alarmingly vocal part of him hoped that that would be the end of it.

Because that was the other thing that gave him pause. Try as he might, Aerin simply couldn’t make up his mind.

He should go.

Right?

Right. He should go.

Leaving the party, leaving Dorian —a gasp hooked in Aerin’s lungs— it was the right thing to do.

A breeze shook the walls of the tent, the burnt gold silks cracking and shuddering in the wind. How much nicer it would be, to just stay in the bed.

It was warm, inside. Next to Dorian. Everything was soft linen sheets and warm wood, the tent’s furnishings humble and plain, but comfortable. The candles burned low at the small table where they’d sat together and shared a cup of wine earlier that evening.

They’d talked for an hour or two after slipping away from Riverbend’s quaint little festival —Dorian had laughed at his own jokes, as he was wont to do, and he’d grinned at Aerin’s acerbic wit in a way that had his stomach tripping over itself— and then Dorian had kissed him like there was nothing and no one else in the world at all.

Like the answer to every question he’d ever had was as simple as that.

How easy it would be to pretend. To stay here, his head nestled on his lover’s chest, listening to the slow rise and fall of his breathing. How easy, to forget the outside world existed.

Aerin’s mouth twisted in a bitter smile. It was exactly the sort of irony he ought to have expected, he thought. All his life, he’d been trapped. Trapped by Baldur’s abuses; trapped by the minutiae of courtly decorum; trapped in a role wherein no one would ever see him as a person, merely an idea, a ghost of a farce of a mockery of what they all thought a “Prince” ought to be.

Then, when the abuses had worn him down to nothing, and he’d thought to seize some measure of independence for himself… It had been mistake after catastrophe after vainglorious disaster that had won him nothing but regret and a year-long stay in a cold cell.

Now that he finally, finally had the freedom to make decisions for himself, now that he had a chance to atone and do some good with his wretched excuse for a life, well.

How ironic that that very freedom was little but another cage.

Self-loathing was a demon that pressed him bodily into the sheets, turned the warmth around him hotter by degrees until it was suffocating.

Doing right by Dorian meant being worthy of him. And being worthy of him meant he’d have to shatter the nascent trust growing between them. He’d have to betray Dorian, again, after all the kindness he’d shown him.

They had been three days out from Riverbend when the party had set camp one night, and a whip-thin fox had darted across the edge of the clearing. It was clearly wild, its hackles raised in gnawing hunger and fear, but Dorian had simply grinned and hunkered down with a strip of dried meat in his hand.

It had taken him most of the evening, but eventually Aerin had returned from gathering kindling with Mal to find the creature eating the meat right out of his outstretched fingers. Another half-hour of gentle coaxing and it had chirruped and curled up right in Dorian’s lap.

Mal had rolled his eyes, shaking his head as if he found the whole thing laughable. Expected, even. As though he knew how little chance anything —anyone— had of resisting Dorian’s charm.

As Aerin had stroked disbelieving fingers through the creature’s flame-red pelt, he’d finally understood that the gut-deep pull he’d been feeling since their first kiss by the lake was some combination of a deep, pervasive sadness… and a potent yearning.

An unabating ache.

Teeth, and claws, and snarling wildness; none of it seemed to bother Dorian. A deep-rooted instinct to lash out in self-defence, stemming from a life of fear and pain, it was simply no match for his easy smiles and slow coaxing. Once Dorian Silvertongue set his sights on something —on someone— they were all but his. Aerin yearned for Dorian to tame him, as patiently and painlessly as he had the fox.

When they’d packed up camp the following morning, the fox was gone, but the feeling lingered.

And when they’d happened upon a particularly tricky patch of forest trail not long after they’d left the clearing, Aerin hadn’t been able to resist taking Dorian’s outstretched hand.

For a fleeting moment, Aerin let himself imagine he could stay.

That the pair of them weren’t tangled up in a mess of his own making; that the hand Dorian had held so gently wasn’t covered in blood he couldn’t wash clean.

That maybe they’d lace their fingers through one another’s to stroll along the piers of Port Parnassus, taking in the markets and the brisk night air. That they could be just a pair of travellers, unremarkable, unburdened save for the kiss of salt upon their skin as ocean mist sprayed up from the docks.

Laughter on their lips as an unexpected swell left them drenched.

Perhaps he’d get the chance to get back at Dorian for those godsawful sausages he’d had them all eat at the festival tonight — they could taste the fare from various street vendors, feed each other unfamiliar fruits and spiced wine of dubious vintage.

…He’d buy Dorian a handcrafted ring to replace the one he still wore on a chain around his neck. One that wasn’t a mark of Whitetower, of the Valleros family, but just him.

Just Aerin.

An honest gift from one beating heart to another, both of whom had known far too much pain and burden. A mark of a new beginning.

Dorian’s skin was hot beneath Aerin’s cheek; stifling a gasp, Aerin pulled back, blotting away the few errant tears that had begun to pool on his chest.

He stared long and hard at Dorian’s sleeping face. The way his hair fell in his eyes. The bruised shadows beneath them. The rasp of stubble at Dorian’s jaw that even now he could feel burning against the delicate skin of his thighs, his neck.

Dorian’s shifted slightly in his sleep, his fingers spasming on Aerin’s skin, clutching at him in a way that had a flurry of butterflies alighting in his stomach.

Frozen, Aerin caught his lip between his teeth, scared to move.

Hoping Dorian wouldn’t wake.

Praying he would.

It would be selfish of him to stay, he should go. He was a smart man; he knew he should do what needed to be done. It was the right thing to do.

Never mind that even thinking of walking away from the one good thing he’d ever had in his accursed life felt akin to shoving a knife into his own chest.

He’d done that, once.

The Nerada stone hadn’t wanted to budge, the rituals he’d undertaken to free himself of Shadow corruption were long, and laboured, and exhaustingly brutal, but he’d taken that pain as penance.

Somehow, it hurt less than the thought of Dorian waking to find that Aerin had betrayed him yet again.

Sand hurtled through the hourglass as Aerin let his looming choices fall by the wayside.

He knew he was running out of time.

But right now, all he wanted to do was memorise exactly how it felt to be held.

It was with a slow reluctance that Aerin drew his unworthy hands away from the only person he’d ever loved. Easing out of Dorian’s grasp, he slipped from the bed. Located his smallclothes in the jumbled pile of leather and linens and weaponry on the floor. Pulled those on. His trousers and boots, those too.

The heat of Dorian’s skin still warmed his palms; an echo that he knew would fade all too soon. He tugged his tunic on over his head, hopeful the clinking music of buckles and straps might rouse him from his slumber, dreading whatever excuse he’d make if it did.

Aerin knew Dorian hadn’t been sleeping well since his escape from the Ash Empire. Most nights he’d wake with a scream catching in his throat, a skittering panic in his eyes that Aerin knew well himself. More cruel then, that the fates would have him sleeping so peacefully tonight, the marks Aerin had left on his throat a brand, a traitor’s kiss, a ghost edge of a knife wound.

Aerin finished dressing.

Dorian slept.

He crossed to the nightstand, poured himself a glass of water from the decanter. Tried to swallow past the tightness in his throat.

Still, Dorian slept.

Would he think of him, Aerin wondered? Would Dorian ache for him the next time he bedded down alone?

…would he even be alone?

Aerin clamped his jaw shut against a swell of sudden nausea. He knew Dorian was open with his affections, and he’d thought he didn’t begrudge him that —what he shared with Mal was strictly physical, at least on Dorian’s part, though his blossoming relationship with Nia hadn’t survived their confrontation with the Dreadlord— but for a moment, bitter, ugly jealousy made him feel ill.

Would this second betrayal be enough to carve Aerin’s name out of his heart for good? Push him back into Nia’s arms?

Aerin swallowed.

Perhaps it was better that Dorian hate him. He didn’t deserve his kindness, much less his love. Not after everything he’d done.

Dorian was a blazing comet streaking through the night sky; Aerin the empty void he lit with his passing. He didn’t regret the night they’d shared together; far from it, he couldn’t remember ever being happier. Just this once, Aerin had longed to blaze up alongside him, lost in his fire, in his light.

Just this once, he’d wanted to cling to him as he burned.

It had been better than anything he’d ever dreamed.

Aerin set the glass down, his hands shaking around the decanter as he poured himself a second glass of water.

Of course he had to leave. How could he kid himself that he could have a place amongst the great heroes of Morella? Him — a hero? Who was he trying to fool?

Jaw clenching, Aerin took a seat at the table, drawing some papers and ink from his satchel. He laid them out with slow precision, hating himself, hating the world, hating everything he had to do.

Behind him, Dorian gasped in his sleep; it was an agonised shock of sound that cut Aerin to the quick. He leapt to his feet, crossing the tent to perch on the bedside as Dorian jolted himself awake.

‘P-please!’ Dorian gasped. ‘Don’t. Don’t!’

‘It’s alright,’ Aerin said.

One of Aerin’s hands came up to cradle Dorian’s face; the other rubbed soothing circles against his chest. Dorian’s hand flew up to clutch at his wrist.

‘Aerin?’

‘I’m here, it’s okay,’ Aerin murmured. His heart clenched painfully as Dorian’s sleep-addled gaze locked onto his and immediately grew less panicked. ‘You’re safe, Dorian. I’m right beside you.’

Almost before he’d finished speaking, Dorian’s eyes drifted closed — but not before he’d slid his hand higher to lace their fingers together where Aerin’s hand still cradled his face.

It was almost too much.

It would be so easy to sink back into that bed, sink back into a sense of belonging he didn’t deserve.

Aerin sucked a strained breath against the tightness in his lungs, gently extricating himself from Dorian’s grasp. He didn’t know if it was some ill-begotten vestige of Shadow, lingering in his chest even now, or if breathing was simply beyond him where Dorian was concerned.

Every time they met each other’s eyes, the air in Aerin’s lungs turned to pitch.

Perhaps… he could stay? Dorian’s love would alight him, and the pitch in his lungs would blaze and burn, every breath between their kisses turned golden and glowing with light and fire.

Perhaps he should leave.

Let it cool and harden. Let his lungs solidify. Let him never draw a joyous breath again.

He should leave.

He sat at the table, his pen poised above the crisp parchment. He stayed frozen in place for so long the ink dripped from the nib, pooling into a dense, black blot on the page. It soaked into the paper, the sight eerily reminiscent of tendrils of shadow bleeding into smooth, pale skin.

Aerin choked down the tears, the bile threatening to rise, and scribbled down the only useless words he could muster.

Dear Dorian,

I apologize for leaving so abruptly, especially without saying goodbye...

...what a Gods-forsaken joke.

Drying his eyes, Aerin stole one last look, not knowing if he would ever see Dorian again. He wanted to kiss him goodbye. Wanted it so desperately it burned. He wanted Dorian’s eyes to flutter open at the first touch of his lips; for his hand to snap out one more time to clutch at Aerin’s own; for him to whisper please.

Please, Aerin. Don’t go. Stay with me.

Dropping the folded parchment on the table, his fingers trembling, Aerin turned to leave, knowing he was a jester, he was a fool, he was the realm’s most miserable joke.

#blades of light and shadow #bolas 2 #aerin valleros #aerin x mc #choices fanfic #playchoices fanfic #choices fic writers creations #cfwc fics of the week #cfwc lgbtqia+#🏳‍🌈🏳‍🌈🏳‍🌈

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