#i mean grey is used for 'mourning a lost love' but maybe yellow is more broad than that

[pocketramblr]

If we keep gold meaning "vengeance", what do we think about plain yellow meaning "loss"

Edit: nevermind >:3c

[lonely-lost-soul]

First Lady of the Court

Part 3: Ghostbur (C!Wilbur Soot x reader)

A worn journal was opened, the pages faded and yellowing, a pen was placed on the parchment and the owner began to write. The sun rose over the horizon, and the wind nipped at the writer's skin, but they didn’t feel it. They didn’t feel many of life's sensations anymore, sometimes he felt warmth but it was always fleeting. He titled the page:

"Things I Remember", by Ghostbur

-The smell of bread

- L'Manberg

- The Revolution

- Bullying Tommy (he's a child)

- Sparring with Techno as a kid

- The wind

- Being president

- People cheering for me

- Fundy growing up

- Niki

- (Y/N) becoming my first lady

- The van

- Tubbo building everything

- Phil protecting me

- Sally the salmon

- (Y/N) the new love of my life

- (Y/N) adoring Fundy and treating him as her own

- Philza stabbing me to death with a sword

- A large explosion

-(Y/N) crying for me, I don’t like when she’s sad

- The taste of salt

- Air in my lungs

- Winning the election

- A ravine

- Techno's armory

- Books

- Tunnels

- Arrows

- ./..

-

- I don't know

The ghost’s head snapped up to attention, up until a few months ago he was lost in a void of darkness. Pieces were coming back together for him, he was once Wilbur Soot the president of the country he fought and died for, but now he didn’t have a purpose. He wanted to find Fundy, Tommy and Phil let them know he was here and alright, well alright for a ghost. But most importantly he wanted to find (Y/N), her cries wouldn’t leave his head. It was bad, a bad, bad memory, he’d taken to holding pieces of blue to make him feel better, but even that didn’t help his mood.

Eventually, Wilbur had found Fundy, who wasn’t that thrilled to see him, much to his disappointment. When he found Tommy he was slightly more thrilled and Phil seemed to be relieved yet mournful, Wilbur didn’t understand why, he did a good thing. However he had yet to find her, Phil seemed to be the only one who knew but he was giving him nothing. He didn’t know why was it because you didn’t want to see him? The thought made him want to cover himself in blue and beg for forgiveness. He managed to find a brand new buddy in his mourning, a blue sheep he had dubbed Friend. You would love her, (Y/N) adored sheep she would love Friend, she could be a forgiveness gift. Yet, nobody would tell the ghost where you were no matter how much he begged and pleaded, he watched as his once-prosperous country got rebuilt. Tubbo was doing a fantastic job as president, everyone seemed happy and Ghostbur accepted that fact.

A few days ago, Ghostbur sensed something was wrong. Phil was acting weirdly distant and even though Tubbo was trying to dodge his questions, he couldn’t fathom what was going on, until he saw you. You had come in wearing Alivebur’s old jacket and Ghostbur immediately froze, your hair was slightly messy and you looked tired. You were still you, same gorgeous, beautiful you, if his heart was still beating it would’ve skipped a beat. The only difference he could find was that your eyes looked deader than his own, and he was a ghost, it made him ache terribly. He wanted to float towards you, to welcome you with open arms but for some reason, he hesitated. He watched as Phil made his way over to you, he wrapped you in a hug and you hugged him back, the two made some small talk before Phil rubbed the back of his neck. Your brow furrowed and he watched you blink in surprise, you looked over Phil’s shoulder and right through Wilbur. The ghost would’ve flushed if he had blood, instead he settled on fiddling with the cuffs of his sweater before holding up a hand in a wave. You stumbled back away from him looking over at Phil who gave a little nod, Wilbur watched you shake your head and his heart sunk. His father reached out to you and your face scrunched up, you were hissing at him, clearly pissed off. Phil whacked you on the back of his head and you glared at the older man, Wilbur felt a small nudge on his arm, it was Friend. He took a shaky breath and ran his fingers through her wool, at least she had his back, when he looked up again you were marching over to him.

God, you were hot when you were mad.

“(Y/n)! Darling! It’s good to see you-”

“You son of a bitch!” You spat at him, eyes suddenly blazing with life and fire, Ghostbur felt himself falter and shrink into himself. “You think you can just come back here after what you did to us! How you treated us, how you treated me!” Ghostbur’s face fell, he didn’t remember hurting you, he refused to remember that memory, but the way he clutched his blue said enough. “I loved you! I wanted to marry you!” You choked out suddenly deflating as tears began to well in your eyes, you cursed and covered your face with your sleeve. “I cannot believe I’m crying right now.”

“You need some blue?” Wilbur said in a soft, tender voice different than you last remembered. You looked out over your sleeve finally taking in his ghostly appearance, he was wearing his big, round glasses, eyes a soft grey. Blue seemed to be pooling in the edges almost like tears, he had a shaky smile on his features, the yellow sweater he wore was one you’ve never seen before, a large red gash sat on his chest. He watched you swallow thickly and take a step back from him, “I don’t remember what happened to make you hate me so dear.” His voice quivered and he heard you whimper, “But I am so sorry...you can call me Ghostbur, I want to be different from Alivebur. Though his love for you still lives in me.”

Ghostbur watched you let out a heart-wrenching sob as you fell to your knees in front of him. You were clutching the L’manburg pin on your lapel, knuckles white, hands shaking in petrification. He floated beside you and wrapped you up in his arms, the hug wasn’t unwelcome but it was cold, Wilbur knew you’d feel no warmth from it but he hoped it’d bring you some form of comfort.

“I missed you. So much,” You admitted with a sniff, and Ghostbur couldn’t help but smile sadly.

“I missed you too,” He ran a hand through your hair and you leaned into the apparition's ghostly touch. Ghostbur glanced up at Phil who had a tense smile on his face as he nodded slightly at the ghost, it read don’t hurt her again, and Wilbur nodded. “Where have you been? I’ve been looking all over for you, you need to meet Friend!” His eyes lit up a little as he looked around for his blue sheep, “You’ll love her!”

“I’ve been living with Fundy,” You answered his question and his brows furrowed, but Fundy had told him he had no idea where you lived. “We’ve been taking care of one another, just like I promised you we would,” You responded flatly, your voice had a flat affect and Wilbur shuffled uncomfortably in the air.

Where was your spark? Your lust for life and the good things? Was this his fault?

No. No, it couldn’t have been, he refused to accept that outcome.

Alivebur loved you just as much as Ghostbur did, he felt that love so deep in his being it was almost suffocating. So, he’d never hurt you, you don’t hurt the people you love and that’s a fact. So why were you so sad?

“That’s weird. Fundy said he couldn’t find you!” Ghostbur huffed, shaking his head at his son's actions, “My silly, little champion.”

“Ghostbur don’t call him that, he doesn’t like it.” You stated gruffly crossing your arms and his frown only deepened,

“What do you mean he doesn’t like it? Of course, he likes it, he loves it!”

“No Wil he doesn’t. Stop it.” You hissed and he flinched, your face fell a little and you turned away from him. You shoved your hands in the pockets of the jacket, “I need a smoke.” You muttered and his jaw dropped,

“That’s bad for you! You know that!”

“So what? It makes me fucking feel better. You’re not my Wilbur. Stop pretending you give a shit about me.”

“I do care! I love you!” He argued desperately, “I know I’m not him. I can never be him but that doesn’t mean I love you any less. His love transferred to me, please...give me a chance.” You looked at him up and down and he’s never felt more terrified in his entire existence, he needed your hope, he could fix you.

“You don’t understand how much he hurt me.” You whispered completely vulnerable, “he went crazy, blew up a nation, and left me alone.”

He. Meaning Alivebur, Ghostbur was glad he was distinguishing the difference between the both of them. He didn’t remember doing that to you, after all, Ghostbur didn’t do that to you.

“I’ll never leave you alone. I can promise you that, with my whole heart I swear it.” He took your hands within his own, he knew you could barely feel his touch. You closed your eyes for a minute before reopening them,

“I’ll give you one chance. One. So help me god, if you ruin that chance I will never speak to you again. That’s a promise.”

Ghostbur swallowed thickly, nerves prickling at his entire being, “I won’t waste that chance, my dear.” You gave a stern nod and rubbed the back of your neck with a tired sigh,

“So...Friend?”

Ghostbur’s entire demeanor changed as he introduced you to the blue sheep that had taken a rather strong liking to him. The sheep nuzzled at your chest sniffing at your clothing choice, you hesitated a little before running your fingers through her wool.

“She’s very soft.”

“I know right!” he chimed wrapping his arms tight around his sheepy buddy, he buried his face in her wool. Ghostbur saw a weary smile spread across your face which made him smile back at you in return.

Maybe this could still work out for the both of you.

Months went by and you had set up residence outside of New L’manburg, everyone understood why you couldn’t make a permanent home out of the new country after everything that occurred there. In between watching over an exiled Tommy, Ghostbur would come by and visit you, even though you hated to admit it the ghost of your former lover had won you over. He was just so innocent so unlike the man who blew up his own country, so much like the goofball you had originally fallen in love with, you were enraptured. When New L’manburg blew up you weren’t surprised, there was a dull ache in your heart when you heard the news from a sobbing Ghostbur but you couldn’t feel sympathy. What you did feel sympathy about though was Phil’s uncaring attitude towards Friend, it was the first time you heard Ghostbur get legitimately angry.

It scared you more than you wanted to admit.

Even so, you confronted your former lover; he didn’t like sadness and tried to push the feeling away. You tried to comfort him the best way you could but he insisted he was fine opting to take his blue and forget his sadness. That was another thing, his quote on quote blue, it never did sit right with you. Hurt, sadness, and pain are hard emotions to face but they create character and depth and ultimately shouldn’t just be forgotten so easily, after all, how will you ever learn from your mistakes if you don’t experience sadness. Ghostbur didn’t want to hear your reasoning and still took towards using the blue, you eventually gave up trying to convince him otherwise.

You were sitting outside on your porch, rocking on your porch swing a cup of cocoa in your hand. Ghostbur was sitting beside you, head on your shoulder humming a soft tune to himself,

“Darling?”

“Hm?”

“Can I kiss you?”

Ghostbur had asked so innocently it made your heart leap into your throat. Thoughts of Wilbur and his betrayal flashed across your mind, you wanted to scream and say no. That you’ll never let someone like that hurt you again, you were too strong, you opened your mouth but the hope in Ghostbur’s eyes made you close your mouth. This wasn’t the Wilbur you knew, this was Ghostbur, sure he was the ghost of Wilbur but they were so different. Ghostbur made you happy, he made you remember what it was like to be a good person, made you remember what it was like when you first met Wilbur. He made you smile and laugh, and he genuinely adored and cared for your happiness. You found yourself uttering a soft okay before your brain could comprehend your decision, the smile that lit up across Ghostbur’s face was illuminating. He floated over to you and cupped your cheeks, his pale hands were freezing, but it felt good against your scalding hot cheeks. Ghostbur’s eyes softened as he stroked your cheeks with his thumbs, he leaned forward and captured your lips in a soft kiss, the kiss was cold but not unpleasant. You felt him melt against you, and press desperately on to your lips, you couldn’t help but let out a little giggle you felt him pull away. He had the cutest pout on his pale lips,

“Don’t giggle at my kisses!” Ghostbur sounded so offended, you only laughed harder. “Stopppppppp,” he whined leaning against you dramatically.

“I’m sorry Ghostbur.” You covered your mouth with your hand, “You’re just too cute.”

You watched him freeze at your genuine compliment, a smile broke across his features,

“No, you’re cute!” Ghostbur cooed floating around you and wrapping his arms tight around your waist. You leaned into his touch with bright red cheeks,

“You’re a goofball,” You whispered softly, he nuzzled his face into your hair,

“I love you.” You froze in his arms and tensed up, reality crashing back onto all at once. Did you really kiss your dead lover's ghost? The lover who was a fucking asshole to you and blew up an entire country.

Not a girl boss moment.

“You don’t have to say it back,” Ghostbur was quick to add, “I know how hard this is for you. There’s no pressure with me my dear, I just want you to know how I feel.” He pressed the sweetest of kisses to the side of your head. Tears gathered in the corner of your eyes, not out of sadness, out of shock. You couldn’t believe Ghostbur was once Wilbur, the same man you yelled and screamed at you before his death, Ghostbur was wonderful. Ghostbur was kind and sweet, gentle and tender, one day you’d be ready to say you love him, just not yet, not when everything is so fresh.

“Thank you Ghostbur. You don’t know how much that means to me.”

“Anything for you my dear.”

Months turned into years and you had officially fallen in love with your clingy ghost and his blue sheep. You knew he loved you to absolute bits, there were many occasions where Phil and Technoblade came up to you and begged you to get Ghostbur to stop gushing about you. You only turned red and smiled fondly, they scoffed but ruffled your hair, overall both were happy to see you smiling again. You hadn’t kept up with the dramas of the SMP, all your information was from Ghostbur, which happened to be not all that reliable.

You loved him but he was so naive, Tommy and Tubbo had defeated Dream, taken two of his cannon lives, and locked him in Sam’s prison. When Ghostbur told you a smile overtook your features, finally the bastard was getting what he deserved.

Isolation.

Tommy was growing closer with Ghostbur again too, which you couldn’t help but be happy about, he too deserved to heal from the trauma Wilbur had inflicted. You trusted Tommy, even when everyone else didn’t you tried to have his back and showed you he cared in his own weird way. Which mostly meant not stealing your shit, which you weren’t complaining about, today, however, he seemed tense. You both were walking the Prime Path on your way back to your abode, Tommy was loud and rambling, but they were different from his usual ramblings.

“Tommy?”

“What is it, women? I’m in the middle of my heroic story!”

“Are you alright?” You glanced at him out of the corner of your eyes and saw him go rigid. He cleared his throat shaking away his nerves,

“Fuck you talking about? Of course, I’m okay bitch. Don’t interrupt me again!” He scoffed nose high in the air, you narrowed your eyes and he shrunk under your gaze. “I just…” He rubbed the back of his neck, you thought about his resurrection and assumed it had something to do with that, your gaze drifted to the white streaks littering his hair.

“Hey...it’s okay. Just know I’m here for you,” You assured with a smile. You reached up to squeeze his shoulder, he looked shocked at the affectionate gesture,

“Obviously I know that! Don’t assume things bitch!” Tommy shouted shaking off your hand, you shook your head with a smile and let Tommy continue his story. If the young boy wanted to tell you, he would on his own terms. That night Ghostbur had come home absolutely shaking with excitement,

“Tommy, Tubbo, and Ranboo said we’re going on an adventure tonight!” Ghostbur was absolutely glowing, you couldn’t help but smile faintly at his antics.

“Don’t have too much fun.” You chastised teasingly, ghostbur giggled in delight as you pressed a kiss to his cold skin. “Stay safe, don’t let them bully you too much.”

“They don’t bully me,” he huffed but he leaned in for another kiss. Ghostbur had discovered he loved your kisses, even though they were probably cold to you all he felt was warmth. If he was a hybrid like his son his tail would be wagging, and if he was alive he’d be bright red. “I love you (y/n), of course, I’ll stay safe. I promised you I’d never leave you remember?”

You flushed and nodded, “I remember. I’ll see you when you get home.”

“Until then my dear!” He took your hand within his own and kissed the tops of your knuckles. You flushed pink and he sent you a cheeky grin,

“Get out of here loverboy! Don’t keep the children waiting!” You shouted as he floated out the door with a giant wave,

“I’ll be sending you kisses!”

“Ghostbur oh my god, go already!” You giggled with a fond roll of your eyes, he laughed loudly and floated out the door.

You should’ve told him you loved him. It’s okay, there would always be tomorrow.

You were getting ready for bed when Tubbo called you over the walkie-talkie, he was frantically apologizing and pleading for you to come to the crater that was L’manburg. Tommy then stole the walkie talking and started shouting about Ghostbur and your heart sink into your chest. He didn’t make a whole lot of sense but you put on a coat over your pajamas and ran in the direction of the once-prosperous nation. When you got there Tubbo and Tommy were a mess, Ranboo was trying to calm them down and Friend looked uncomfortable.

Where was Ghostbur?

You opened your mouth to call out to the boys when a pair of arms snuck around your waist. They were warm and real, pale hands caressed your abdomen,

“Hi, darling. Did you miss me?” Warm lips handed on your neck, “I missed you.”

Wilbur was back.

~~~ @blossom-702 @mayempress @thatguythatsshy

[chaseatinydream]

pirate king (29) || atz

“What?”

Time seems to slow, you can hear the blood rushing in your ears as your heart pounds frantically, utterly confused. What did he mean by he didn’t lie? Seonghwa’s whole family got hanged on false charges, and he had the gall to deny the truth?

Lucio Bartholomew’s smile is sad as he answers Seonghwa.

“Your parents were not hung on false charges, Hwaseong.”

If you were shocked, Seonghwa is utterly destroyed. You can see his pupils dilating in shock, almost swallowing the soft grey of his irises. Stumbling backwards until Wooyoung catches him by the arm, he stares at the official, mouth opening and closing soundlessly.

“You’re lying. They were the kindest people I’d ever known, the only blade my father had held his whole life was a kitchen knife. Don’t lie to me.”

Trembling, Seonghwa shakes his head desperately and buries his face in Wooyoung’s shoulder, as if doing that will change the truth. But Lucio Bartholomew does not lie. You can feel the genuine honesty in every word he says down to your very bones, and maybe that is what scares you the most.

“When I visited your parents in the eatery, I had an ulterior motive, you know?” Lucio says softly, staring at Seonghwa. The cook refuses to look at him, one of Wooyoung’s arms coming up to wrap around Seonghwa protectively as he glares down the official with venomous eyes that you hope are never aimed at you. “I had found out some information about them, so I went to investigate that. Did you know, Seonghwa?”

“Know what?” Seonghwa snaps, still unable to completely believe that Lucio Bartholomew is lying. The official looks at him seriously.

“Your parents were pirates, Seonghwa.”

The words have the impact of a punch, every wisp of air knocked from his lungs as the statement bounces around in his skull. They seem to have taken Seonghwa’s ability to speak as well, because he simply stares at the man in utter disbelief and shock.

“What?” The words slip past your lips. Lucio smiles at you, a little sadly. He holds a book in front of you, pages slightly yellowed with age. It’s a book of records, you realise, as you lean in to make out the writing on the paper.

Park Seonho and Eun Jung, pirates, to be hanged for theft, instances of piracy and betrayal of the Crown. Wanted for the murder of 57 people, the prominent of which was Levi Bastiville, former Commander of the Royal Navy Red Rose Fleet and his wife, which left their only son an orphan.

Seonghwa’s parents were pirates.

Pirates, who the Royal Navy had every right to execute.

Pirates charged with the murder of a married couple.

Pirates who had caused a young boy to grow up completely alone, devoid of any paternal love.

“You met him, didn’t you?” Lucio sighs, almost wistfully as he turns to Seonghwa. There’s something mournful in his eyes as he sets the book down. “He was the one who almost arrested all of you.”

Levi Bastiville’s son.

Leon Bastiville.

A shiver runs up your spine at the thought of the man, goosebumps racing over your skin as you felt the gun at your head once more, the way his fingers dug at your throat, the sheer lunacy in his eyes, the sadistic smile on his face as your captain had been whipped half to death in front of him.

And yet, Seonghwa could understand him now.

“He was left alone, completely without extended family. The orphanage took him in, but the other children bullied him for having come from a rich family.” Lucio tells you quietly, and you can see Wooyoung’s knuckles turn white. “He didn’t have the same sort of support and family you did on board the Treasure and he grew up twisted and sadistic, into the man you saw that day.”

A sob leaves Seonghwa’s throat.

“In fact,” The man continues softly, shaking his head dryly, “he was a boy much like you before the fateful day of the hanging.”

Seonghwa’s parents had destroyed lives, much like Lucio had destroyed Seonghwa’s.

And that itself is like a knife to Seonghwa’s throat.

“I was initially going to ask your parents to sell us information about other privateers as well as to check whether they might still pose a threat to Nassau.” Lucio continues, his words firm and unyielding. “I didn’t even think about hanging them for a life of crime they had so obviously left behind. But Leon found out, you see. He ran and told the town officials, and in the end your whole family was put to death.”

“It wasn’t you?” Seonghwa manages to ask between restrained sobs, Wooyoung patting him on the back gently. Lucio shakes his head honestly.

“I was merely the head of investigation.” He answers in return to Seonghwa’s question, and in that moment Seonghwa shatters into pieces.

“No…”

He’s been living a lie this whole time.

“According to the reports of Sir Lucio Bartholomew, the head of the piracy investigation, I find the Park family guilty of consorting with pirates and ****…”

Seonghwa remembers now.

The memory comes back, as if resurfacing from the bottom of the ocean where it’s lingered the last six years. It returns, clear and unblemished by time, no longer hidden behind his own biases and beliefs.

“...Guilty of consorting with pirates and p*r*cy-”

He had heard it that day.

“...Guilty of p*ra*y…”

He had chosen to forget that one memory.

“...Piracy.”

He had lied to himself.

“So, Park Seonghwa, are you still going to kill me?”

The gun falls from Seonghwa’s fingers and clatters to the ground. Seonghwa lets out a wail so painful it sends chills down your spine, as if there is someone physically torturing him from within.

“Seonghwa-hyung-” You begin to say, but Lucio begins to speak once more.

“I could give you the name and identity of the man did kill your parents and siblings.” Lucio says softly, his eyes resting on Seonghwa’s shaking form with sympathy. “But your parents did kill his wife, who was pregnant with their unborn child.”

Horror wells up in your chest and Seonghwa lets out a muffled scream into Wooyoung’s sleeve.

“I only imagine that he wanted them to feel the same pain he did.” Lucio continues, as if unaware of the agony ripping Seonghwa apart. “I’m not saying that he was right in what he did, but anyone would have understood why. He’s lived with the guilt for the last six years of his life as well. He still hears their voices in his head and hasn’t had a night of sleep since that day.”

You don’t know what is happening anymore. You can only watch as Seonghwa crumbles before you, Wooyoung holding onto him desperately like his only lifeline to reality. But you can see the fog in Seonghwa’s mind clearing slowly as he learns to accept the truth.

“I hate you.” Seonghwa manages to choke out finally, but there’s mixed feelings in his own voice. “I hate you for telling me the truth. But thank you.”

Lucio smiles gently, and to your surprise, Seonghwa doesn’t shy away from it this time. “I’m glad you escaped his wrath. What I can do to make amends is tell you where your family are buried.”

Seonghwa’s eyes go wide. Prisoners who have been hanged are usually just tossed into pits in the ground, not given the luxury of a proper burial.

“Thank you.” Is all Seonghwa manages to say, furiously wiping the tears from his eyes.

“Hate, Seonghwa, is the path of the devil. It is tempting, and it will attempt to entice you with all sorts of logical explanations and compelling reasons, ones that boost your ego and raises false heroes.” The official’s eyes are a little wistful as he and Seonghwa meet each other’s gaze evenly for the first time that night. “I wish I had known that before. That there is no prize worth the corruption of your soul. There is no relief in revenge, only more pain and destruction.”

“I understand.”

And he really does, because as much as he wants to hate the man who killed his family, he can’t bring himself to. His parents’ guilt and responsibility weigh themselves on his shoulders, just as much as the hatred towards the man who had murdered his parents had once been.

“So what are you going to do now, hyung?” Wooyoung asks Seonghwa, helping him wipe the tears from his eyes as he shoots Lucio Bartholomew a look. Even after finding out that Bartholomew isn’t the one directly responsible for the deaths of Seonghwa’s parents, he still looks like he wants to blow the man up anyway for giving his crewmate so much grief.

“I don’t know.” Seonghwa exhales, turning to look at you and Wooyoung. He looks a little lost, a little confused, like a man who’s reached the end of a road and doesn’t know where to go next. “Maybe go to my family’s grave and pay my respects.”

He glances back at the Lucio, who nods. “They’re buried by the sea, at the little fishing spot you and your family used to go to.”

“Thank you.” This time, his words are full of surety. And for the first time since he’s stepped into the room, his shoulders sag in relief, as if a massive weight has been lifted from him.

Wooyoung holds him by the shoulders, steering him out of the room gently.

You linger for a moment more, your eyes searching the room for a glimpse of the book that had started it all. But it’s not there.

“Are you still looking for something?” Lucio asks, and you whip around in surprise to see the official still standing there, a distantly sad look of regret on his face as he stares out of the door. Even though he was the one who’d turned Seonghwa’s life upside down, you can’t help but ask.

“Is there something wrong?”

The man snaps out of his little reverie, shaking his head.

“Oh, no… I just wish I could have had more courage.”

Courage?

“I wish I could have told that boy the truth.” Lucio Bartholomew looks at the doorway, but there’s something like wistfulness in his eyes. You frown at his words. What did he mean by the truth? Didn’t he tell Seonghwa the whole truth already?

“You should go too.” He gestures to the door, but you can’t help staring at him even as you leave.

Then as you shut the door behind you, you hear him speak once more, this time seemingly speaking to the empty room.

“Marie, my love, Janice, my sweet child…” Lucio Bartholomew murmurs softly, lost in a world that you can’t seem to see. “Please watch over that boy from heaven to atone for my sins.”

The door clicks shut.

[exodusmc]

Beautiful goodbye, refreshing hello

Genre: Soulmate au (?)

Words: 1074

Paring: Jongdae! x reader!

Warning!: Heartbreak(?)

a/n: I was listening to beautiful goodbye and omg, it’s still so touching :)

Gif is not mine 

Leaves shone bright yellow outside, autumn sun still lingering into the colder seasons. The sky held blue in its hues, flowing like wind with no clouds dancing yet. Fall hadn't really taken its grip on the land, it was still waiting to envelope nature and humankind in its arms. You smiled slightly, cheeks rosy due to just getting inside the warmth of your university, pages of melodies tight against your chest. They sang about new found love and time for healing, just like autumn came with new passion and chances to do good. You always loved the season, how it was so beautiful and refreshing. Not a single soul walked around you and you didn't mind it, the buzzing of life stilling for an afternoon. 

The set destination your heart had was the music room which was small and tucked away in the big building. It was your place, a safe haven with merely a sleek brown piano and the delicate scent of lavender. Fingers ached to press keys in a dance you wrote but as you walked through corridors and windows, something had your heart beating faster. Slipping down the last hall, made you realize why your mind bloomed. Soft piano reached your ears, coating you in a feeling of peace, until you heard the first words. 

They fell beautifully from the person's tongue, slipping between two sets of lips with sorrow of what was lost, maybe never there to begin with. They sang more, your heart swelling with their pain. Different tones moved around you and eyes closed as you listened. The papers in your hand dwelled upon the words from the singer, his voice falling into your own lines. Your text had held acceptance and moving on but their meaning slowly morphed the more you let him sing to you. Muscles ached to move, to fly with his fingers. You wanted to twirl for him, to let him steer your body in grace. Dance was not what you were going to do now but what you wanted. 

Pupils dilated in the light when you watched again, this time leaning to the doorway, to gaze, to see. He sat on the stole you yourself spent hours writing, playing. Hair brown and shoulders broad, clothed in a simple grey sweater. He played, voice filling the room and your bones. The words goodbye repeated themselves over and over again, head falling down for every time. Tears started to build in your sparkling eyes, under lip trembling in the power of raw emotion. You had never felt so affected by a song, let alone a voice. But there you stood, gazing and ready to break down. Wetness covered your cheeks, pain with it. He suddenly stopped pressing keys, deciding to scream his heart out in the most beautiful way you had ever witnessed. Let’s not forget our love, you and me. Hands held a cryinging soul as you watched with your own. Us, together. His last words echoed around you, a quiet sob escaping you. The boy turned around, locking himself with you. Eyes shining with tears of mourning but not dulling his amber. 

You suddenly felt embarrassment, your heart calming down from his power, realization hitting you. He had been playing and believing he was alone, while you had stared and inaved him. Pink dusted your cheeks, no longer because of the coldness. You instantly tried to dry your tears, which seemed to fall faster now that the melody of him didn't sound. 

“I-I’m sorry..I d-didn't mean to eavesdrop”mumbling, hair fell to cover you dripping eyes. You didn't see the small smile grace over his lips, while a lone tear rolled over his lashes. 

“It’s okay...I was just surprised”oh how you loved his voice when he spoke, dipped in honey and swimming with hues of a galaxy. 

You glanced up to see him smile with cured lips. He was gentle, he was a poetic, and the sun kissed him. Fingers held themself in a way that begged to feel a different set of digits. You took a step inside your safe haven, which was his space too. Both held the gazes with emotions that shouldn't be brought out in a mere second of meeting. 

“I like your voice..Would you mind staying here with me?”the question made him baffled but warmth spread through a chilled body. He smiled a little more, moving so you could sit down by the piano he just built emotion from. 

You wondered about him, abou what happened for so much pain, howere, sitting by him swept it all away. He was still by you, letting you feel him to your side. The boy was dazzling and he was shining, even as a carrier of unpleasant feelings. You touched keys and sang, comfortable with him hearing your own heart speak. You had never been the one to say what you felt through  conversations, choosing to move with them or write them in lines. He listened to you, while the sun shone into the room, making you sparkle in his eyes. 

“What’s your name?”you smiled down, not looking in his eyes but on his hands, which slowly moved to the place just besides yours. They pressed down gently, letting you follow his rhythm. 

“Jongdae. What’s yours?”he danced over the piano, you filling out his melody. 

“Y/n”smiles spread over both of your faces. His beautiful goodby morphing into a refreshing hello, a word which would be spoken from your lips. 

Jongdae watched you play like you knew his soul, his hands playing like they knew yours. He had never felt like this, he had never made someone else feel like this, and yet was it all he wanted. Sorrow may shine in his eyes but as the pain from april grew yellow with october, he felt like flying across the galaxy with you, still a stranger. 

“Hello then, it’s nice to meet you”you grinned at him with the stars in your eyes, fingers stopping for your gaze to find his. 

“You too..Shall we?”he asked, glancing to the piano and sheets of hearts. You smiled wider, the connection between souls forming in euphoria. 

You may not know Jongdae yet but sitting by your favorite piano and singing your feelings with him made everything feel right. Everything shone bright yellow, even as autumn came closer. 

[kitty-chan17985]

Again. It just had to happen again, didn’t it?

She already lost him years ago when he went back to the restaurant in a fit of rage, not thinking about what consequences would come to him, only wanting to take it out on the machines that once brought children and even adults so much joy. Not thinking about his wife, his five-year-old daughter, his sons, his oldest son’s partner...none of them. None of them were in any part of his thinking process as he destroyed the machines, setting their souls free...hiding away, he thought he could escape, not knowing that his already greatly emotionally damaged wife, still recovering from brain trauma from Foxy’s bite years prior, had followed him there, only to watch him be torn apart from the inside from the same incident that permanently scarred and damaged him for the rest of his life.

She was still recovering from the sight when she found work at the horror attraction. Years of silence on her end as she could never talk to anyone about her late husband, not even her therapist, not even her own son or his partner, not even her own daughter, brought her there. She’d been advised against it by Michael’s partner, who had still been recovering from the disappearance of his husband at the time. Still, she went anyway. She still remembers how William acted so much differently; driven mad by obsession, left as nothing more than emotions left behind by his monstrous side...she still remembers how it felt when two boards fell on her, breaking half of her ribs, nearly shattering her spine, breaking one of her arms and her nose, how it stung to not even be able to see her husband before she was yanked out of the destruction and fell unconscious for a week. She was hardly able to recover, hardly able to do anything, before Michael was scooped, before he went to work at the new place. She remembers running in there, having a brief heart-to-heart with a very dead but somehow walking and talking Mike about her being there being dangerous before being taken out, only to be confronted by her daughter after she found out about what her father was truly like. Of course, Skylar had insisted that Penny not push it, considering their mother’s sensitivities.

Then...it all burned. Again.

Letting the remaining kids mourn for a bit with each other, the completely emotionally ravaged woman wails into her pillow, letting out nearly two and a half decades worth of tears as she digs her nails into it. By now most of her face is wet, the room seeming even more glum than before. She never let herself sleep anywhere but their room...she was always so protective, selective over who came in and who didn’t. She only ever allowed the kids to come in, but anyone else received frantic screams to “just go away”. While the still living children try to find a way to calm their shattered mother down (with scoldings from the older brother, insisting that they not ask anything more about William’s past until their mother is okay), she pushes herself up and away from her pillow, her chest aching from the remaining soreness in her ribs and heartache she never knew could be so deeply painful. She curls up on the bed, her even longer brown hair an absolute mess, her eyes red and puffy from sobbing, her nose red from sniffling, her face pink from so much stress. She pulls her legs in tighter, her hands reaching under her mess of tangled locks. She had put on her usual yellow sweater, a white skirt, pink stockings, a pair of white flats, and her blue butterfly hairpin...the outfit she wore when they first got together...the first time she felt okay, the first time she felt truly happy and satisfied with life in years. She sobs as her throat had gone raw from wailing and screaming. She can’t stop the tears anymore. She’s been crying for over forty-five minutes and she hasn’t stopped...at this rate, she’ll be too dehydrated to eat anything. It’s not like she’s been especially good about eating since William died anyway.

She opens her previously squeezed shut eyes as she shakes violently, gripping at her cross and rings tightly. She falls quiet for a moment, thinking that maybe she’s finally done...but another burst of emotion runs through her as tears run down again. Throwing herself back down onto the bed, she pulls the covers up over herself, unable to handle the amount of grief she’s having to let out. She’s never cried this much...not since the incident with Fredbear, not since she woke up from that coma, not even since William died. She’s crying harder than she’s ever cried before, and she isn’t sure exactly why.

Why does grief hit her so hard specifically?

She winces and coughs as she keeps a grip on the covers with one hand, the other arm still stuck in a cast, unable to help the searing pain that goes through her sides now, a harsh reminder of this horror story’s beginning. She tries to settle herself down enough to stop crying, but she can’t now. Nothing can keep her from relentlessly sobbing, no matter how much she wants to stop. She feels a chill centre itself on her uninjured arm’s shoulder, her hand moving to it as she forces herself to sit up. That chill then centres itself on her hand, which she tries to think nothing of for now. She felt a similar chill when she went to the horror attraction, a similar chill when William died...a similar chill when she went to the now burned down restaurant. She sniffles as she lowers her head, her hair covering most of her face as she tries to settle her breathing.

“It’s okay, love...I’m right here,” an all too familiar voice sounds from behind her, startling her a bit. She gasps softly, wincing before looking behind her...only to find someone she ever expected to be there. A much younger looking version of her late husband, looking down at her, smiling at her. A see through copy with shorter hair, the old rectangle glasses he wore so long ago, still retaining the scars from the first springlock incident from so many decades ago, his once silvery blue eyes back to a much more vibrant blue colour, though still slightly greyed.

The hazel-eyed widow can’t help but go wide eyed from shock, the spectre still smiling at her as a see through hand rests itself on her cheek. She feels like her heart stops as she feels the chill move to the same cheek, staring in disbelief. She thought she had run dry of tears, but an even bigger stream of tears runs down her already tearstained face, her eyes narrowing as she tries to wipe the tears away, not wanting to lose sight of him. How...? Is...is his spirit still trapped here? If so...why is he so much younger?

“My, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he jokes, giving her a slightly concerned smile as she reaches up to where she feels his hand is, though her hand goes right through it. She sniffles a bit as she slowly works up the ability to speak.

“...h...h-how...a-are you still...t-t-trapped here...?” she asks. God, she sounds so pitiful. She sounds like a terrified child. His hand moves away from her cheek briefly, much to her displeasure as she tries to grab at it, forgetting that she can’t touch him. He moves to sit next to her on the bed without phasing through it.

“You don’t need to be worried about that, love,” he replies. “I’m not trapped so much as I am...wanting to stick around a while longer,” he explains simply as she bites at her lip, trying to keep tears from flowing so much, not wanting the sight of him to leave her. She doesn’t want him to disappear ever again...she doesn’t want him to leave. Maybe it was selfish, maybe it wasn’t fair to him to have her want to stay with her even after he’s been laid to rest, finally at peace with himself...but can one blame her?

“I...I-I’m so sorry, W-W-William...” she whimpers, her breathing shaky as she covers her eyes with one hand. “I-I’m so sorry...I-I-I...I-I wanted to h-help you...I-I-I wanted to keep y-you away from F-Freddy’s after you and H-Henry c-c-closed it down, I...I-I knew you’d...you’d go back, a-and...i-if I had just gotten th-there sooner, I–”

“Angel, please...stop blaming yourself. I went back because I was furious. I went back because I wanted to vent my anger. I wasn’t thinking about you, Penny, Skylar, or Michael...it’s not your fault I made a selfish choice,” he argues, though he keeps his tone calm as he rests a hand on hers. “I don’t hold any of it against you. There’s nothing you could have done in that instance. Even if there was...in all honesty, what happened there was deserved. I know you’ll disagree with me–”

“Y-you never deserved th-that...”

“–but I assure you, it was necessary. The suit became my prison, and for the longest time I turned into nothing but the monster I had become. But when you came back...something in me found clarity. The recent fire at the now destroyed Freddy’s...it freed me, it freed Michael, it freed Charlie, it freed my Elizabeth. The real versions of all of us finally have closure...and the monster that started all of this is finally where he deserves to be,” he says, his brow furrowing. “He is now in purgatory, but...I’m still here,” he finishes, smiling at her again. “I wanted to at least say a proper goodbye to the wonderful woman that showed me how to be me again,” he adds, cupping her cheek once more, planting a chilled kiss to her lips.

“D...d-does...d-does that mean...y-you’re leaving me soon...?” she asks, a pained look on her face as she asks that. She sniffles a bit, squeezing her eyes shut. “P-please...f-for as long as y-y-you’re comfortable w-with it...j-just...stay with me...” she begs quietly, whimpering softly. “I-I’ve...recently f-f-found that...A-Alzheimer’s runs in m-my family, and...I-I-I’m terrified that...in the n-next twenty or so y-years, I...I-I’ll forget everyone...I-I don’t want to...I-I-I never want to f-f-forget you, o-or Penny, or...or Skylar, o-or Michael...” she cries, her chest heaving as she starts to break down again. “P-p-please, just...s-stay...e-even if you can’t f-for long, I just...I-I never want to f-forget you...” she whimpers, her voice breaking as she squeezes her eyes shut. She feels the chill suddenly wrap around her, causing her to look up. His spectre wraps his arms around her for a hug as she moves to wrap an arm around him, though it’s more like her having to hold an arm up in an awkward place. She feels like she’s just hugging air, but she knows he’s there.

“I’ll be here for as long as you need me...but please, try to take care of yourself. And...be kinder to yourself. You’ve held a grudge against yourself for so many years. It’s time you let it go...”

She can hardly muster a response, just staying in place as he holds onto her. How he can hold her, she’ll never know, but she isn’t going to complain. Even if she can’t touch him, she’s glad he can still touch physical things...she’s needed this closure, or at least a goodbye. She never wants to lose him again. She knows he can’t stay forever, but she hopes he can pop in every so often...not just for her own sanity, but she’s sure he’d want to see his little girl again. For the first time in a little over two decades, she feels...okay.

“Don’t worry about me, love. I’m here.”

“I-I-I love you, W-William...dead or alive...”

“I love you too, Angel, so much more than you know.”

[aquilaaktuk]

Home

lmao basically i wrote this on a doc and i was like “ok lets post it to tumblr how about that” and i went to find it and i COULDN’T and i lost my shit because its literally nowhere else. turns out i forgot the title, so you may now refer to me as cosmic brain.  also its colour not color you fucking degenerate twats.

Hello, I write sometimes. This is about my OCs, how about that one, huh. I know the masses tend to trend toward fan content but I’ll post about my characters anyway because Fuck You (loving, if you care to read, derogatory if you scroll past (but if you follow me and scroll I still love you but I’ll give you a gentle poke and not hold it against you)).

Everything lies under the cut. I might write more. I probably will. 

She woke up, one morning, to the feeling of soft downy fur, bright orange eyes, and the rumbling, deep voice she’d found so much comfort in, in another life. Then she came to her senses, and the fur turned into grass, and the eyes were nothing but a rising sun (one of two, was this world’s quirk) and that rumble was nothing but a tree falling somewhere in the distance, yet another victim to a cruel bird’s whims. She prayed for it, as all good children must do. She prayed, and moved on.

There was another time, when she was trying to hunt for herself (in a past life, she would turn around, and there’d already be a fire set up for her, and a soft growl, reminding her that losing focus would spell death in a meaner universe (she only truly learnt the meaning of that after crying out like a small prey animal)), where she’d dragged her catch over to the little space she’d temporarily be calling home, and waited for the fire to start itself. Thank god she wasn’t one to forget her flint.

(She had her wits about her, she’d swear)

One night, it all became too much. She was used to unbearable heat, scorching blazes, and gentle warmth, but the gust of cold was far too powerful. She lit a small fire, as all good children must do, and warmed herself. It felt identical to what it used to mean, but it wasn’t the same (it wouldn’t be, not for a long, long time). She’d look into the small pire and sometimes she’d see comfort in the bright blazing orange, and it’d remind her of Home (home was at his side, home was curled against his paw, home was hearing him rumble, home was feeling his heat) but sometimes she’d see green in the orange.

What must it be like, to take down the last of your kin? She held the flower gingerly. In a past life, they would have coined a silly name for it, but now it was just another alien breed, all she truly knew was that it was white. She placed it down at the Resting Ground. She turned and saw green. She remembered what this soul felt like. He was like Home, but Home was a kind of heat that knew when they got too hot, and cared for her in a way she hadn’t felt since she was small (er). He wasn’t Home. He was red hot rage, a blazing inferno of anger and loss and love and fear and childish sorrow. She’d grown out of sorrow by then (she was also told that if she repeated something to herself enough, she could trick her mind into believing it was true) and said nothing as Home wept. Home was strong and she was confused, but she wouldn’t understand that strength isn’t only power and fire for a long time. 

(Strength is confronting your emotions, strength is being smart, strength is knowing you’ve lost before you’ve started)

She is not strong. She was never strong. She accepted this, and moved on (as all good children must do).

Once she was told a story. She doesn’t remember much of it (she doesn’t remember much of Home either, and sometimes she can feel the memory blurring, and she shed red hot tears trying to hold onto what little was left, as Home’s face blurred and the orange and blue mixed into an ugly grey) but she knew it was important, because she lived her life by it. A speedy creature challenged a slower one to a race. The slow creature won. The slow creature had their wits about them. (She did as well, she’d swear.) 

Home had told her of that story. She’d heard many others of much more interesting and compelling nature from others before and after then, but this one was special. Sometimes when she retold it to herself, she could almost hear Home’s gentle growl, and feel their warmth as she lay, cushioned by fur. (One day, she’d forget the story, and Home would be but a distant memory, and she’d cry for hours, because all she can remember is a faint blue streak and red hot rage. She asked herself why it was rage, and not love she could remember. Her mind told her it was because being afraid is more important than being loved. Fear protects you, love cannot.)

(It made perfect sense, so she got up, and moved on, as all good children must do)

She went to three Resting Grounds. She visited Home, she visited Home’s kin, and she visited Home’s favourite place. 

She cried for the place (it was burnt to the ground).

Sometimes the memories that scared her were the ones she mourned most, because after being scared, Home would surround her and warm her and comfort her, and now being afraid only lead to a feeling of emptiness. The threat was gone, but there was no comfort after. Just cold.

She visited one world, and met an enigmatic giant. They spoke to her of things that their home had taught them.

Their home had also left them alone.

They told her that they’d found a new home, and that they were happy. They thought, they willed, they cried, and they lived. 

(She tried, once. They were a mirror image of her, but taller and had horns. She died to an angry red glare, a gaze so piercing even Home might not have survived. The thought scared her.)

On the last day (of remembering) she fell asleep, and dreamt of a blue blur telling her to run. She woke up and walked, and that was one of the last days she ever lived. By this point home had lost meaning, she knew it was warm and soft and gravelly (in voice) but she couldn’t picture it, nor could she name it. Once this feeling of forgetting (or faded remembering) hurt her so much she couldn’t stand. It hurt her so much that the simple act of moving so that she wouldn’t get killed in her sleep became too much.

(Sometimes, deep down, she hoped she got hunted to death, but those days are behind her, and she’s scared to remember, because she might remember Home, and then she’ll hurt in places she didn’t know she could, and then all she could think about was Home and how much she missed him and how she wanted him back and why he had to go and how much it all hurt her and she almost hated him for leaving even though it wasn’t his fault and it was all hers because if she didn’t run to him then, if she kept her mouth shut maybe, maybe home would be here but he isn’t and she loathes herself for it. She hates herself and she hates him because he was supposed to be stronger than that, he was her pillar of support and oh god he’s gone and never coming back.)

---

And somewhere in a strange white expanse (he swore there were whole worlds here, but he can’t see them anywhere) an enigmatic red bird presented itself to him, and made him tell them all about his life. So he spoke of his shining yellow and his red hot rage (they were green, but the red stuck, because that was the colour of their blood) and then after all the anger and fire and mourning there was only one story left, and it was about his World.

And he missed her. He missed his World dearly. More than his shining yellow and his red hot rage (they were green, he reminded himself, stained red, but still green). He told the bird all about his World. The bird knew he loved his World. 

He felt the feeling leave, starting from his paws, and he knew it was an ending (not the ending, because in the ending they would still be together, just them versus the world) and he welcomed it, because there was nothing left for him to give. Everyone watched as blue faded to black, and they kept their indifference when his soul fell into the sky and returned to cosmos. 

[very-very-witchy-blog]

5 of Pentacles or why am I feeling so stuck?

The path of Pentacles is a path of our achievements here on Earth, working out our karma and getting a deep understanding of our roots.

This is where we make changes to everything that is material, starting from strictly financial concerns by changing the way we approach the matter, to the complete harmony with ourselves by understanding the actions of our ancestors and harmoniously connecting to the Divine.

The Earth-element people are quite connected to their possessions, they are quite hard working, patient, often striving for perfection.  When lacking balance, they might get overly possessive, developing a sick connection to what they possess, cold-hearted sometimes even cruel.

The guardian of the Earth element (South) is archangel Michael who is the most powerful of all angels. He is a warrior, a guardian, he assists in the situation when we need protection. He helps us overcome fear and doubts. He's a patron of justice. It's believed that earth people have a special connection with archangel Michael, and as an earth-element person I can 100% confirm it.

Now I would like to give a deeper analysis of a special card which is 5 of Pentacles.

As 5 of Pentacles persons, we are in the middle of the path which first of all aims to fix the financial situation. Even while frustrated and stagnated, at this stage, we do not consider losing for an option. We look for new nonconventional solutions. We can even suddenly change the route if we think this will bring us closer to the goal. ( Which might also be dangerous!)

At this point, we are able to change our perception of the material things  - we may learn not only see it as simply money but as an opportunity to reach the goal.

When it comes to the symbolism, I prefer artsy version. I usually use different decks for different types of situation as each of my decks has its own character, own language, own temperament if you can call it so.

Each one of them looks at the same situation from its own angle.  I'm gonna describe the four of them below.

Tarot del Fuego card carries very heavy emotions, it screams with despair. We see a close up of a persons face torn by spikes of roses, with tears all over, flooding the person and the card. This person not only suffers physical pain but also mourns a lost of a property. None of the things here suggest a change for better unless the ocean made of tears will wash everything away giving us an opportunity for a clean start.

Colors to pay attention to:

pink - person and material body

gold - power, abundance, money

red - stong emotions, aggression,

dark blue - love of order and being used to the eternal rhythm of life

blue -sensitiveness

brown - the sense of security, the ability to find support in life

white - purity, innocence, integrity

Pagan Tarot card shows us a scene in a bank with a girl waiting in line holding a pentacle in her hands. The whole scene radiates the hard energy of the difficult times. Additionally, there's a weird dude who seems to be pickpocketing our main heroine. But wait a minute, there's a sunlight coming through the window, symbolizing the change for better once we find our way out of the situation and walking out of it.

Colors to pay attention to:

brown - the sense of security, the ability to find support in life

white - purity, innocence, integrity

dirty - green - disappointment with life, loss of energy

grey-green - following the voice of nature

dark blue - order, higher feelings

Santa Muerte Tarot card shows us a man walking out of a frame full of skulls. This could literally mean walking over the heads to reach your goal, which on the first glance does not seem like a nice thing to do, but wait... What if you're the only one left alive? This card symbolizes your rebirth, a complete recovering from an old situation.

Colors to pay attention to:

green - rebirth, hope, experience, vitality

light green - lack of experience, forces of nature, rebirth

dark green - experience, regeneration, development

dirty - green - disappointment with life, loss of energy

grey-green - following the voice of nature

Zombie Tarot shows us a depressed hard time when we're trying really hard to find our warm place on Earth. We see a woman desperately burying in the dumpster, a crashed car, a totally demolished city.  But apart from it, we see the path is getting lighter and lighter, maybe because of the fire over the horizon. Still, the fire could be not only a destroyer but also a purifier. Some things just need to be burnt so that the new beautiful things can grow there. And who said you should walk over the horizon? Maybe your solution is just around the corner.

Colors to pay attention to:

brown - the sense of security, the ability to find support in life

steel - the power of will

yellow-brown - obedience that comes out of the experience

dirty grey - doubts, despair

light grey - a delicacy

blue -sensitiveness

sandy - patience

dark brown - asceticism

Additionally, to me, this card corresponds with the reversed Berkano rune indicating a setback in development, lack of creativity and growth, stagnation, loss of profits.

Now let's proceed to the numerological aspects of 5 of Pentacles.

The number 5 is unpredictable, always in motion and constantly in need of change for better. This potential brings a male energy.

According to planetary magic 5 is a number of Mars and Victory.

Mars is a planet of personal will, the energy that encourages you to make a change. Mars wants you to go out and make things happen. This is why it's often misinterpreted as a planet of anger and destruction. Mars is the planet of warriors, while warriors can both be defenders and destroyers,  Mars is the power of Victory.

To overcome an obstacle, to increase power and bring change call upon Mars energy. This is best done on Tuesday, use a red candle to draw Mars energy into your life. Just pay attention, it's going to be a bald change.

Astrologically 5 of Pentacles is associated with Mercury in Taurus. This aspect makes us care a lot about the material things and financial matters.  At the same time, it gives us the benefit of practical thinking, and, even tho it's probably not gonna be the most original solutions, it still gets the shit solved.

This post is a part of a Inernational Tarot Day celebration (8th of July) organized by Tarot and Kitties by Oephebia. Check it out for more!

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[dreamworksworddump]

Captive in the starlight

A/N: The Royal Kidge AU that I’ve been talking about! It’s here! Thanks to @hells-will-88 and @fitzcarraldonighthawk for being awesome Beta’s! Please read and review!

Her mother stares lifelessly at the pillow beside her, where her father used to sleep. A single, grey-brown hair rests on it, marring the smooth, white surface.

Katie squeezes her hand, hoping that maybe the sheer force of her will might draw her back to the land of the living. An angry tear rolls down her cheek and onto the white bed linens. Why does this have to fall to her? She’s not prepared; She’d never wanted this. “Wake up, mom. Please, come back for me.”

Her mother blinks slowly, and sighs. Her tangled hair falls into her face, and Katie sighs before brushing it back. She’d hoped that maybe today her mother would finally hear her, might actually wake up and wear her crown again today, but obviously, the gods must hate her, because she is just as comatose as she had the day before, and the day before that. Katie dips her head, pressing her forehead into her mother's soft side. She can feel her chest move with every breath, filling up with air, and then spilling it out again.

“I'm too young, I'm unprepared,” She sniffs. “I don't know how I'm supposed to replace you guys. I'm not ready.”

Katie’s the second born child, so it had never been more than a vague, and distant idea that she might one day have to step up. Since no one had ever expected her to have a chance to rule, she’d had free reign of her education. While she had studied alchemy and medicine, and how machine ticked and computed, her brother had memorized the traditions of their allies, and learned civics, and how to actually run their country. Katie can’t regret it; she loves knowing what she knows, but still, she wishes that she had’ve bothered to learn something, anything, so that she wasn’t so clueless.

“Mom, please.” She pleads, her voice barely a broken whisper.

Behind her, the door slides open.

“What?” Katie asks, her voice sharp enough to draw blood. Whoever it is doesn't speak until she dabs her eyes dry and turns to face them.

Shiro is waiting by the door, watching her with guarded eyes. He’d known her since she’d been a child, snot-nosed, and with a penchant for getting herself covered in mud and grass stains. He’s practically her only friend, the only person in this castle that she trusts to see her mother like this, and to see her cry.

She sniffs and sinks back down onto the bed, her ceremonial dress weighing on her shoulders as if it’s been sewn together with threads of lead. “Sorry. I just- I-” Katie takes a deep, shaking breath. “Is it time?”

Shiro nods, and offers his right arm. His right arm, taken from him just like Matt had been taken from her. He was lucky enough to come back; Matt was not.  “It’s time. Are you ready?”

Not at all.

To accept the crown is to admit that her family is broken, and comatose and dead, but as her advisor had told her, to continue being stubborn, to continue funding expeditions into Zarkon’s territory that only lead to more missing, more dead, would lead to the court thinking her unfit of ruling, and she would have a rebellion on her hands to deal with.

Katie slips her arm through his. Her sleeve doesn’t do much to soften the metal of his arm, but she doesn’t care; it grounds her, keeps her from running away like she wants to.  “Of course.” She lies, her voice shaking. “Of course I am.”

Shiro leads her through the winding halls in silence, shooting her concerned glances as often as he dares. The halls are empty, spotless. Almost every servant employed by the castle is in the main hall, or in the kitchen preparing the feast, and attending to the guests. It’s strange, not passing anyone by in the more public halls. He stops her in front of the grand oak doors, and pulls her into a bone-crushing hug.

She sinks into his familiar grasp as he whispers into her ear, “You may be my Queen now, but you are still a girl who’s just lost her family. You can still mourn them.” He pulls away, and adjusts her dipping collar before resuming his proper position beside her.

They continue forward, and Shiro presses the switch on the wall,  and the doors spill open, welcoming her into a room filled with heady scent of expectation. The chairs at the end of the hall are filled with the few commoners deemed worthy of witnessing this event- war heros, and off-duty guards- and their eyes feel like spotlights trained on her. Katie can feel the back of her collar start to grow damp with nervous sweat. She can’t let it get to her. She can’t mess this up now.

Katie sets her gaze on the throne at the end of the walkway, and starts to walk. The throne is beautiful; a creation grown rather than built; pruned and guided into the high backed chair it is now. Gold fills in the cracks and holes, and lines the green cushions pressed into the seat and backing. Her father used to sit in this chair, she thinks, and now she will. The emerald carpet stops just before the steps begin, a small lump there where the carpet has been pushed up. She takes a deep breath and turns around.

The crowd in front of her is a blur of color and movement, and she can’t tell where the chairs begin and the people end. The priest steps away from his position beside the throne, and stands beside her. His wizened, old hands clasp around hers. “Princess Kathryn, of the Holt and Sutton lines, do you stand before me, ready to take on the burden that your father has passed down to you?”

She swallows. “Yes, I am.”

The Priest coughs into his shoulder, turning the dark, red fabric a shade darker. “Yes, yes. Now,” He coughs again, louder, and then looks up to meet her eyes. “Will you recite the ritual rites?”

Katie nods. She’s known these words for years, since she was young enough to recognize them under her father’s breath when he had to deal with something hard, or echoing in her brother’s room as he practiced the words, over and over until they flowed like water from his mouth. The words come to her easily, but still feel like a mockery as she says them.

“The new gods killed the old, and bestowed upon us the power to rule ourselves. For the burden of this power was too much for the common man, Aphelia bestowed this power upon her son, and henceforth, the royal family has ruled Terra. As I ascend, I promise as my father's father has promised, and his father before him, that I will put my country above my own heart's selfish wishes. The life of my country is my own, and I will serve you because we are one.” Katie bows her head, and the priest sets the heavy crown upon her head. Rather than a pretty ornamental piece, like the type the Alteans wear, the Terran crown is made of heavy iron, meant to weigh upon its wearer’s head to remind them of the weight of their decisions. The crown is heavy; it feels like she’s being forced to the ground, and already, she hates it.

She straightens up, and turns back to her father’s throne and climbs the stairs, each step in tune with the pounding of her heart. Katie takes her seat. Her dress takes up most of the room in the seat, it’s many layers of satin and silk spilling around her. She looks up at the crowd staring back at her and meets the eyes of new Empress Allura. Her pink eyes are bright, set on Katie’s dress and throne and crown with curious eyes. Out of anyone in this room, she might be the only one here who is just as new to this as she is. The Altean Kingdom had been silent for nearly two hundred years, and had only joined the coalition after the Western war began again five years ago.

Katie’s father had attempted to become allies, if not friends, with the Alteans but his efforts had come to a halt when King Alfor was murdered in cold blood. Katie had only met Allura once or twice before, and that was before she was fluent in the common tongue, but she had seemed nice, and eager enough to make friends with her. She notices that Katie is watching her, and smiles, dropping her hand from where it’d been intertwined with the King of the South, Lance’s hand.

On the opposite side of the isle sit the Galran Princes of New Daibazzal, Prince Lotor and Prince Keithian. Prince Lotor watches her watching him with an amused look in his yellow eyes. He smiles, and his fangs glint in the light like swords. She shifts her gaze to Prince Keithian, who’d been a close friend of hers before the war had began. He’d been Keith to her, no titles between them, and she’d been his Pidgeon. It had been a relief to be around him, to be no one important except for being his friend. It’s been years since they’ve spoken, but nevertheless, seeing him offer a tentative smile is enough to banish the remaining butterflies in her stomach.

The Priest steps aside, and calls out to the crowd, “Praise be to our new sovereign, Queen Kathryn of Terra!”

The crowd cheers, the royals clap and grin, and Katie realizes that the easy part is over, and that the worst of it is just about to begin. The other royals, her peers, are supposed to present her with gifts, which often foreshadow their future relationships with one another, and are supposed to represent her becoming one of the ruling class. It’s going to take hours to receive every royal in this hall, which means hours and hours of forced social interaction on which the future of her kingdom and the success of her reign depends on. Of course, her brother would’ve found this part easy, fun even. Talking to people, remembering how to accept gifts depending on the culture, and figuring out which words to say? That was his thing. He was nice, and easy to get along with, and would’ve loved the festivities today. The only part of the day that he would’ve had trouble with was the incantation, because as well and as long as he had known it, he still somehow managed to mess it up whenever he recited it to someone else.

“Empress Allura, and the Southern King Lance of Altea!” The Herald calls as the applause dies down.

Katie fiddles with her hands, hidden behind the flowing curtains of her skirts, as Empress Allura stands, her dress flowing off of her body like water. Her dress seems more comfortable than Katie’s fluffy green monstrosity, but she still curtseys stiffly, as if trying not to displace her outfit. A strand of curly, white hair escapes from her bun as she straightens up, and she quickly brushes it back behind her ear. “It was a pleasure to witness your ascension, Queen Kathryn. I do hope that our kingdoms may continue to work toward our shared goals of peace and innovation.” Her words are warm, but crisp, and have a slight lilt, marking her as a foreigner. But beyond that, she speaks in the voice of a monarch, one who has seen too much, too young. This is the voice that Shiro’s been telling her she has, whenever she switches from her easy vernacular to the proper one demanded by the court. Katie can tell that there is a girl inside of her who’s just as nervous as she is.

Katie takes a gamble, and drops the proper script to speak like she normally does, like she would to a friend. “Me too, Empress. I hope that we can be friends more than anything. I know I sure could use one.”

Allura’s polite smile spreads into a warmer grin. “As could I.”  She steps aside, and Lance rises from his chair to join them.

King Lance is already wearing a warm smile, as he steps in front of her, and bows. As he stands, his blue tunic seems to shimmer in the light, like a lapis lazuli spun into cloth. “A pleasure, your Majesty. You look beautiful.” He steps aside, and gestures at the servants behind him. “I hope you like our gifts, though I doubt that anything that we could offer can rival your beauty.” He winks dramatically, and grins.

Allura rolls her eyes, but his words make her cheeks burn with embarrassment.

Two servants stand from their seats, and carry a simple metal chest over, holding it out before the three of them. Allura presses the glowing teal button on the front, and it pops open to reveal a folded dress made of the same Altean silk as Lance and Allura’s clothes are made of, dyed in the colors of the Terran flag: Emerald green, yellow, and white. It’s beautiful, and undoubtedly expensive, and Katie has no idea how to wear something as beautiful as that without feeling self-conscious, but she likes it anyways.

“Thank you, Empress. King Lance.” Katie says. “That was- That was beautiful. Thank you.”

Allura merely smiles, and nods, and then she and her court recede like the tide going out to sea.

“Prince Hunk, and Queen Shay of the Balmera.” The Herald calls. A man dressed in a simple yellow tunic and brown overcoat stands up, hesitating at his seat before the Balmeran woman beside him, Queen Shay, she presumes, whispers something encouragingly. He nods and then heads up to the throne, carrying a small chest in his ungloved hands.

The Balmerans had been enslaved under Galran rule for nearly a hundred years, and they had only recently been freed during the turmoil that had resulted from the recent split within the kingdom. She remembers now, Katie thinks with a start. Prince Hunk had been a lowly commoner who’d gone to the Balmera to trade. When he’d gotten there, he’d ended up invited to their ball, and just like a fairy tale, fell in love with the Queen, and she with him. It had been the subject of court gossip for months; how could she forget?

“Your Majesty.” Prince Hunk bows a little too deeply, and then straightens up, offering the chest to her as casually as one would offer a glass of mead. She looks at him curiously, and then unlatches it. Inside is a collection of vials and bottles, all labeled in meticulous and large handwriting. She catches a couple words- crystal shards, quintessence- before she closes it, and passes it over to a servant hovering nearby.

“An alchemy kit?” She guesses, some of her excitement leaking through her voice.

The Prince smiles sheepishly, and fiddles with the dull ring on his finger. “Well, uh, yes. I’ve heard many things about your work, about your personal library and the discovery of the new quartskill medicine system, and I thought that you might enjoy trying out this branch of science. I hope I didn’t overstep.” He adds.

“Oh, no, of course not. I love it, Prince Hunk. I’ve heard that you’ve made some innovations of your own. Perhaps one day I’ll be able to see them?” Katie really wishes that their audience would disappear; asking excitedly about machinery and mechanical carriages is not becoming of a new sovereign ruler, but that’s all she wants to do now that she realizes who he is.

Hunk smiles more confidently, and bows again before hurrying back to his seat. His wife smiles at him proudly, one of her hands resting on her pregnant stomach.

“Prince Lotor of West New Daibazzal.”

Prince Lotor stands, his cape swooping behind him in a cascade of purple. His hair is pulled up into a high ponytail that seems to rival Allura’s locks in length. Katie doesn't know him too well; their ages were far enough apart for him to avoid interacting with her whenever she came to visit, but the few memories that she does have of him are enough to back up the various rumors she’s heard floating around. Cocky, proud, full of himself, and a liar with a tongue of honey.

He bows before her, and kisses her hand. There are a strange lack of servants trailing behind him, and for that, she is suspicious. “Your Majesty, it is an honor to be here today, and to bask in the brilliance of your beauty. Please, enjoy the many gifts of my people. There are breathtaking, but never so much as you.” Prince Lotor moves to stand beside her, taking his place in the small gap between her and Shiro. She hears Shiro sigh exasperatedly, and then the quiet click of his boots as he steps aside.

The doors at the opposite end of the room wing open, and a procession of servants step into the hall. The guests turn around row by row and gape at the bounty that they carry. Shields that glimmer in the light, swords and knives and daggers inlaid with jewels and cast in silver and gold. Scepters that seem questionably phallic-shaped, and armor, so pretty and thin that it’s practically useless except for decoration. Katie isn’t sure how long it takes before they finally stop, but by the end of it, there are mountains of stuff around her, and her servants are barely making a dent as they hurry to take it away. She glances over at Allura, and she is positively fuming. Her ears are a bright red, and her glare looks like it could kill, if Lotor would ever look over at her. Shay looks mad too, although she does a better job of hiding it behind a stony expression.

They’re not wrong to be mad. Prince Lotor has outdone just about everyone with his show of wealth. His wealth which comes from the subjugation of so many people, especially the Alteans and the Balmerans.  

Still, Katie knows better than to make a scene and deny his gifts, or to say something about his underhanded insult. “Thank you.” Katie says as Lotor bows before her once more. “I appreciate your generosity.”

“Nothing less would do for a lady as fair as you.” He says smoothly, before returning to his seat.

Keith glares at Lotor as he sits down beside him, but his brother’s smile doesn’t shift an inch.

“Prince Keith of East New Daibazzal.” The Herald calls.

Keith sighs heavily, and stands, his crimson overcoat dragging on the floor behind him. None of his servants, or his court follows him as he walks up to her throne. His hands are empty. His gait is slow.

Katie knows him well enough to understand that he doesn’t want to be here. He tries to avoid his brother whenever he can, and to be forced to interact with him civilly during the duration of the festivities, well that’s almost too much to ask. Beyond that, she senses that there’s another reason for his unease, although she can’t tell what.

Keith stops before her throne, and bows. “Your Majesty. I-” He stops, and pushes aside his crimson tunic to pull a knife from his belt. Most of the room cannot see it, but the front row can, and their eyes go wide at the sight. It’s his mamoran blade, the knife that’s supposed to ‘hold his heart’. She’s not well versed in Galran culture, but even she knows the significance of him drawing it. He turns it around, and grips the blade, offering the handle to her. “I would like to ask for your hand in marriage. I offer you my blade, and my kingdom, and a life of love. Would you accept?”

Katie feels her heart stop.

Marriage? As in, marrying Keith?

She’d known that a proposal would be a possibility; she’s a single girl, of marrying age, sitting on a mountain of wealth and power. Who wouldn’t want to capitalize on her vulnerability while they had the chance? She just hadn’t expected it from Keith of all people. Shiro is tense beside her, and she knows that he can sense her confusion. What should she say? What should she do? Katie doesn’t remember the protocol for this. She doesn’t know what to say.

“Pidge?” Keith calls quietly, the nickname pulling her from her thoughts just as easily as it had when they were kids. “I know this is sudden, but, please. I’m trying to protect you. Please let me. Please trust me.”

A husband, and another kingdom to worry about; she doesn’t want anymore responsibility, but it keeps finding her anyways. The Terran Kingdom has been weakened by the war, by the loss of the royal family. Insurgents have already sprung up in the south, and Shiro has had to stop three assassination attempts in the last week alone. Katie is just a girl; she’s not ready, she’s nervous, she’s bad with people; but to marry Keith, that would be something that her parents would approve of, that her brother would urge her to do. Of all the choices that she has to make, this one should be the easiest.

Katie reaches out tentatively, wraps her hand around the hilt, and pulls it from his grasp. The blade is made of that strange, purple metal that only the royals ever use, and an oval gem is embedded in the hilt. It feels strange. It feels like him.

She lifts it high, high enough for the whole hall to see. A cascade of gasps runs through the room. “I accept your proposal.” Katie says clearly, her voice unwavering despite her nervousness. “I will marry you.”

Keith smiles, and bows to her once more. A hint of a smile flashes across his face before he looks away, avoiding his brother’s angry gaze. “Did you ever think we’d end up like this?” He asks as he turns around, heading back to his seat.

Orphaned, engaged, rulers of their kingdoms. No, she hadn’t expected that at all.

Ch.2:

[neusex420]

Detective Donovan Oliver Ryan.

I:

He wakes up at 4 am, earlier than he had to, but he couldn’t sleep again. It was happening with more and more frequency lately. The detective often rose before the sun, predictable, like clockwork. He had been dreaming of home. It’s a reoccuring nightmare he hates. The thought of that impossibly long stretch of beach is all that haunts him as he blinks away the exhaustion from his eyes. Bright spots on the ceiling dance in front of his vision. A case file was perched on his chest, a few of the papers crinkled at the ages, some scattered over the rumpled sheets besides him. Oliver had fallen asleep in his contacts, still perched atop the unmade duvet in a mess of white and grey cotton, reading through witness reports. None of them were actual witnesses, he grumbles bitterly. No one had actually seen them disappear.

No one had seen Alfie or Caroline disappear either.

Not even him.

It’s jarring, how similar the cases are, even if they’re quite different. Romero and Julia had no /him/, he tries to reason, no third, strange, inexplicable, unsolved mystery left behind. Their example, their disappearance, proved mystery enough. He couldn’t decide which was worse.

Oliver forces himself out of bed, even if it’s dark and cold and wet outside, a light rain storm creating a symphony of sound against the impossible stretch of glass he has for a bedroom wall. The horizon extends deftly before him, the ocean meeting the skyline in the warmest shades of dark blue. It was truly his favorite view. He doesn’t mind running against the rain, especially the warm kind of tropical rain they had here, the kind he prefered, so different from the chilly sheets of ice that seemed to always fall in Ireland in the early spring. He remembers hating March the worst, even if his friends disappeared in the summer, in June, after exams.

He likes the beach here, especially because it’s so different from home.

Suited up in a rain slicker and his jogging pants, he leaves the comfort of his flat and begins his usual route down the private stretch of beach sat near his and another condominium complex. He likes routine, falls into it easily, and finds the monotony of the beach helps him forget the dreams he hates. Usually. That’s almost the main reason he runs, he thinks, is the fact that it clears his head so thoroughly, makes it impossible to focus on anything else except the compacted, wet sand beneath the soles of his trainers, or the sea foam that occasionally veers into his path. Except today, he isn’t so lucky. He thinks of Caroline in particular. He remembers something new, the smallest of details; it was a red and yellow polka-dot ribbon that she wore in her hair, always a perfect bow, tied to keep golden tresses out of her eyes, especially in the summer heat. He had returned with it the night they disappeared, the silk crumpled in his little fist. He hadn’t remembered where his friends had gone, or what had happened to them, or why he had blood all over his tattered and torn clothes, but he had her ribbon. That had to mean something.

Though neither Oliver nor the detectives back home were ever able to figure it out.

He stops right as a wave crashes against the shore, startling him. His breath is far heavier than it usually is at this point in the run. Leaning forward, hands against his knees, he sucks air desperately into his lungs, attempting to dispel all thoughts of that damned ribbon, but he just bloody can’t. The empty beach that usually provides such solace to him only suffocates him further, the salt nearly acidic in his nose. He releases a sputtering cough before turning back in the direction he came, running even harder.

Luckily, he doesn’t remember anything else.

Kicking off his soiled shoes in the foyer, Oliver is greeted by a drawn-out meow and the blank stare of his cat’s yellow eyes carefully blinking up at him. He knows she’s hungry, demanding her breakfast, as he reaches to scratch at the scruff of tabby fur at her neck. She follows him into the kitchen, darting in and out between his legs, where he quickly arranges her meal, appeasing her consistent mewls. He goes for a shower after that, desperate to rid himself of any reminder of the failed attempt at a morning run. It seems that everything he used to enjoy isn’t working anymore. He needs to stop thinking about Caroline. There are two missing teenagers that deserve his focus and attention. Those traits were what had made him so good at his job in the first place, able to quickly climb the ranks in what felt like no time at all.

Why was it all coming back to him now?

-

He’s drunk, usually is after his long work days, though today proved exceptionally long, so Oliver found it only fitting that he get exceptionally drunk. He’d usually go to Lucky’s, where it seemed most of Key Biscayne’s police would go following the end of a shift, but he didn’t particularly feel like socializing with his coworkers all too much after the day he had. Nor did the loud, bumbling bar atmosphere appeal to him in any sense. So he went home, sat on his sofa, cuddled up to Ginger Snaps, nursed an entire bottle of whiskey followed by another of red wine his cousin had gotten him from a trip abroad, though from where he wasn’t sure. He didn’t bother reading the label.

After a while, the loneliness began to seep its way into the marrow of Oliver’s bones. He had forgotten about his phone, but notices the barrage of new messages left unread. Sasha’s name, printed in simple helvetica, flashes across the screen. Even though she didn’t have a contact picture, he could still see her face when he closed his eyes. Warm, honey brown irises and an alluring smile that makes his heart race. She was what Summer would’ve looked like if she’d been afforded the chance of growing older, Oliver had determined when he’d first laid eyes on the administrator at his fresh-out-of-uni job. It had been startling to see someone look so much like the girl he had loved and longed for, the girl he had mourned for over four years. But she was nice and charming and he couldn’t fault her for nearly being the most haunting physical manifestation of his past. Like she was Summer’s ghost.

So he slept with her instead. Maybe against his better judgement, but Oliver never swore himself to perfection. He made mistakes - and lots of them - though he couldn’t consider sleeping with Sasha to be a mistake either. He knew Summer would’ve wanted him to move on a long time ago if she had a say in his life after her passing, and it had been a while after meeting Sasha that he no longer felt guilty about desiring her, and fantasizing about her.

He responds after some time, inviting Sasha to his flat in a concise message, even if it’s late. He’s sure she’s had a few to drink herself already (and hopes she calls an uber because he hates when his mates drive drunk), though he still opens another bottle of whiskey, arranging it and two glass tumblers on his coffee table, poised for her arrival, even though she has yet to reply. He waits patiently, staring at the expanse of ocean separated only by thick paned glass. He wonders if Alfie and Caroline had drowned, caught up in some undertow, unable to swim against the current. Oliver thought of their tiny bodies lost afloat somewhere in those frigid waters they rarely ever swam in, lips tinged blue. It had been a long time ago. The Irish police didn’t have the money or resources American departments had for wild searches or man hunts. Two children could’ve easily drifted to sea, unnoticed.

Snaps hears the noise first, ears perked and tuned to the crunching of tires on the gravel of his front drive. Oliver waits for the sound of the car to drive away, though that doesn’t follow, and instead catches his doorbell ringing twice. Standing, he ambles to the door, opening it for Sasha.

“You know, I hate it when you drive drunk,” he murmurs, tone docile despite the implication.

“I’m not drunk,” she asserts, stepping into the threshold. He takes in her appearance and removes her cardigan from her shoulders, hanging it on his coat rack.

“You smell like hops and bar food,” he notes. He was a detective. It was his job to be observant. He wonders where she went before coming here, since it took her so long to arrive, though he doesn’t bother asking.

Sasha shoots him an appraising look before turning down his hallway. Oliver follows after her, lulled by the sound of her deep, honeyed voice washing over him like melting butter. “Trust me, I’ve sobered up.” He can tell something is bothering her though he decides not to prod, instead props himself against the wall in front of her and watches as she plops herself down on his furniture, pouring a casual cup full of whiskey. “You’re the one who didn’t respond… could’ve been fucking by now if you had responded.” The amber liquid sloshes against the side of the glass.

He chuckles, crossing his arms over his chest. “Right shame, innit? Guess m’only good for m’whiskey a shag, yeah?” Oliver can’t fight the grin that overtakes the bottom half of his features. He loved teasing her. She smirks back at him, shaking her head defiantly.

“And don’t forget your precious cat!”

-

It’s a few days later when the department holds a press conference and there’s an information session at The Shack that the detective is reminded of another part of his past. Oliver hates press conferences, hates having to stand before a crowd of civilians and answer questions he often doesn’t know the answers to, so he nursed as many whiskeys as the open bar provided, tilting his glass repeatedly for a refill. His partner promises her daughter will be there, ‘and she’s beautiful, though I swear I’m not just saying that ‘cause I’m her mom,’ and she hunts him down after a while, spotting him as he’d abandoned his place at the bar. She calls him Sherlock, Sergeant Mikayla Verdone, and he’s sure he would’ve made a move on her if he’d met her at a pub in her younger years. She was good at her job, most importantly, and Oliver liked her - not just as a partner, but as a woman. So he’s far from against meeting someone she’s raised.

He hadn’t expected her daughter to be Lexi though.

He remembers her from uni well, especially the late night trysts they often shared in his years as an upperclassman, the two of them locked away in the comfort of his off campus flat. She’d been spunky and fun, full of jokes that somehow matched his humor seamlessly. Though he had never been much of a partier, they met at one his football mates had managed to drag him to and had been promptly introduced by mutual friends. They’d begun snogging on the back patio before the night had even ended. Oliver found comfort in Lexi’s presence back then, found comfort even in the simplest of things about her, like the smell of her perfume, a rich scent with strong notes of gardenia and citrus. It washes over him even now, and he’s thankful for the privacy they’re afforded after her mum wanders off in search of her husband. He asks her how she’s been, and he’s genuinely interested in her answer. He missed her, even if he hadn’t realized it until then.

But unfortunately, life often gets in the way.

They chat for a while, light conversation about Lexi’s job at Sunset Academy and Oliver’s position as detective on Romero and Julia’s case. Neither bothers discussing the aforementioned case itself; Oliver knows he didn’t have the energy to after listening to the Sergeant read Sasha’s pre written statement to the press and public earlier in the evening. It’d been a lot for the department to admit that they hadn’t really gotten as far with the case as they should be by now, especially since most people were aware that if missing people weren’t found after the first 72 hours, they often couldn’t be found at all.

The thought that Romero and Julia might never be found nearly sickened him.

He notices Sasha from across the room. She watches them together, Oliver and Lexi, with a peculiar expression on her face, one that he can’t quite discern. He nods his head at her in greeting, turning back to Lexi with a kind smile. Part of him smug, the other curious; was she jealous? “Would you excuse me for a tick, love?” The two part, the detective leaning in to impart two quick kisses to each of the young teacher’s flushed cheeks.

Oliver has an inkling of a suspicion that this isn’t the last time he’s going to see Lexi in the foreseeable future, can feel it in the pit of his stomach. The feeling comforts him some. He hopes he’s right.

He doesn’t hunt down Sasha like he had originally planned to after leaving Lexi’s side, nor does he bother stopping to speak to anyone else, doesn’t have it in him to. He narrowly avoids Kellan near the appetizer table by slipping out a back door near the toilets reserved for wait and cook staff, stepping out into a back alley welcomed by the fresh, evening air. He pulls an old school silver cigarette holder from his pocket, one of his only momentos from life in Ireland, a gift left to him from his great-granddad from the war, and places a cigarette he’d rolled earlier in the day between his lips.

He thinks of Romero and Julia. What if they’d just wanted an escape from it all, just ran away?

What if Alfie and Caroline had just ran away themselves? Probably could’ve done it too, he figures. They were both quite intelligent for their ages, always receiving top marks; had a lot of street smarts too. The pair were more than capable, especially together.

The thought hurts, physically pains him - not that they could be out there after all this time he’s believed them to be dead, really, even though he has thought them to be dead until this very moment, but because they didn’t invite him to run away with them. Because they were out there somewhere whilst he was still stuck in this life.

He blows a plume of smoke out of his mouth with a sigh before muttering lowly to himself. “Bloody hell.”

[fireflyfish]

Quiobi, no.1 with Qui-Gon as a Sith and Obi-Wan as a Jedi?

Obi-Wan Kenobi’s world is black and white.

There is good and there is evil.

He is a Jedi and therefore he is good.

Raised as the last Padawan Learner to the venerable Grand Master of the Order, Obi-Wan has strived all his life to be the perfect Jedi, the epitome of the light. He has ruthlessly chased out fear and anger from his heart, has excised all that would tempt him down a darker path shaded in charcoal, ebony, and onyx. He knows the shades of ivory that mark the path of the truly righteous like the back of his hand.

He is an example to the Order, to those initiates who feel they will never be chosen, encouragement to those Knights who fear that perfection is out of their grasp, and a subtle reminder to masters to think twice about their preconceived notions.

If Obi-Wan Kenobi can become a paragon of light, the finest of his generation, Master Yoda’s true heir, then anything is possible.

Through the light all things are possible.

Except… that is all Obi-Wan can see.

There is no color in his world, no vibrant blues, no ruddy crimson or a delicate yellow. The world around him is as black and white as the lessons handed down to him from a grandmaster who has evolved beyond caring about the color of a flower or the particular shade of the sunset.

After 800 years of shades of grey, Yoda needs no gaudy, saturated rainbow to tell him that sunlight dappled through the leaves of a sweet oak in the Room of a Thousand Fountains is beautiful. He simply accepts the world that he sees as it is. He does not need color nor does he want it.

“A Jedi craves not these things, Obi-Wan,” Yoda tells him and Obi-Wan does his best to listen to his master’s wisdom, to tell himself that there is beauty in the shift from radiant white to ecru to charcoal and the inky wash of night time.

It works for the most part.

There are stories on the holonet, simple minded vapid tales of nonsense about soulmates and the gift of colors and Obi-Wan would pay them no mind if his friends didn't find them so hilarious. Luminara giggles at the florid language, while Quinlan cackles and makes bad jokes about rutting.

Even Padme, a younger Padawan Obi-Wan mentored in his final years as a Senior Padawan, enjoys watching them, her eyes lighting up as the soulmates, now united, take their first view of the world around them. They are exported to another plane and the show inevitably ends on a long and lingering kiss.

Obi-Wan thinks that's all a bunch of nonsense and would tell his friends so if he didn't know it would hurt their feelings.

“There is nothing wrong with wanting to feel loved,” Quinlan explains to Obi-Wan one night on a mission assigned to the two of them. “I know that old troll has your brains scrambled so that all you can do is eat, sleep and breathe the Code but I think he's wrong. We all want to feel loved, to feel like we’re a part of something bigger than ourselves.”

“What is bigger than the Order?” Obi-Wan asks gazing up at the distant stars, sparkling bits of light in the depth of a black void. “What is bigger than the Force?”

Quinlan shrugs. “I don't know. Love? Maybe that's all the Force is. Love. And when you meet the right person it can help you experience the Force in a whole new way.”

“I do not need a romantic partner to be complete, Quinlan,” Obi-Wan sniffs and Quinlan lets the subject drop and when Quinlan’s world explodes in color six months later, he does not mention it to Obi-Wan. But he does mourn the fact that his friend will never know that his eyes are blue, with hints of grey, that his hair has strands of copper mixed with honeyed wheat.

Time passes and the light becomes harder to find and Obi-Wan tries to shine brighter, to be better, to hold up a candle against the encroaching darkness. There is more now than ever before. Ink washes of ash and soot where there should only be pure, pristine white. The fog of war rises with rumors of darksiders, of actual Sith, drifting through the gauzy, hazy peace of the Jedi Temple.

Obi-Wan has never met them but his world is black and white, good and evil.

They are Sith and so they are evil.

The first hints are missions that go awry, ones where knights don’t come back, or come back grievously injured, their blood staining dove-grey robes black. There are reports of beings dressed in black with gleaming, horrible stars for eyes. Two of them, they say, a master and an apprentice.

The galaxy teeters on the edge of something, struggling to stay upright, to stay in the light, to resist the pull of the dark.

And then something snaps: an assassination attempt, an illegal seizure of territory, a starship blown up in “neutral” territory. It doesn’t matter what the exact act is.

It never does.

War sweeps through the galaxy and the Jedi are called to defend civilization, to defend democracy and to defend the light, and Obi-Wan Kenobi is on the front line.

His men tell him their color is yellow, like a life-giving sun. The other brigades and legions are a rainbow of colors that are lost on him.

What do the colors matter if those brave souls all end up the same, dead on the battlefield?

It doesn’t matter that fire is red-gold and white hot or that Padme’s 501st is painted blue like the Naboo sky at high noon.

What does any of it matter when there are Sith out there and the darkness is growing stronger?

And then one day, Padme finds Obi-Wan meditating in his room, and she is crying.

“I saw him! I saw him on the field!” she sobs into Obi-Wan, into the safe haven of her brother Jedi’s arms. “I saw him and… and… his eyes… I couldn’t look away.”

Obi-Wan nods, quiet, caring and listening. He has heard the Sith have arresting eyes, that it is like looking into the heart of a dying star. He has heard they are conventionally attractive but he has yet to meet either Master or Apprentice.

“Which one? The older or the younger?” he asks, his voice soft in the pale grey of the early morning light. Padme hurried to him as soon as her ship docked back in the orbital shipyards.

She manages to stammer out that she saw the younger, that he was tall and wild and that he looked straight at her.

“And… Obi-Wan, I… I… Oh I don’t know how to say it!” Padme curses, tears spilling anew. “His eyes! I saw them! And they… they… they were gold.”

For a moment, Obi-Wan is struck dumb, his mouth works but his mind reels, trying to make sense of this, trying to fit this very dark shade of grey into his black-and-white world.

Padme is good. Padme is a Jedi.

Padme is made of pure light.

She would never have a Sith for a soulmate.

And yet, she does.

“His hair is brown and their robes are black, like soot or scoring, and his blade is red and I know what red is and I don’t know what to do!” Padme sobs and Obi-Wan holds her in place, promises her it will all be alright and that they will find a way through this. He is her elder brother, her friend and confidant. He won’t tell a soul.

Who would believe him?

But as worried as he is for Padme, there is a part of him that is jealous, that silently burns with spite. She now knows that her eyes are brown, her lips are pink and her robe is the soft fawn of spring trees. Padme knows that there is another out there, one whose existence gives her life meaning and fills up an empty hole within her.

She finds out later that his name is Vader, well, Anakin and he loves her, has become obsessed with her. Padme loves him too, is just as obsessed, and they chase each other across the galaxy, fighting to win, to capture and to tame the other.

But the hole in Obi-Wan stays empty and his world stays black and white.

“Proud of you, am I,” Yoda confesses to Obi-Wan, late one night. “Difficult this war is, but shine like a beacon you do. The best of us, you have become, my Padawan.”

“Thank you, Master,” Obi-Wan replies but the words feel like ash in his mouth.

The world grows darker with each engagement, with battles lost and won. Padme vows that next time she will catch Vader and bring him to justice and Vader gives him messages for Padme that next time he won’t let her go.

Obi-Wan wonders if the two are incapable of working a comm but he dutifully delivers the messages.

He tells himself he is not jealous, that he is not lonely.

He is a Jedi and he is good.

He is wreathed in light.

Then comes Geonosis and battle to destroy the droid-making abilities of the Geonosians. Obi-Wan leads his 212th attack battalion from the ground, supported by the 501st and others. They make their way through seemingly endless waves of droids to come upon the target, a tall, organic spire carved from sandstone by the insect creatures. It is a hive and a bunker.

And they will hit it with everything they’ve got.

Obi-Wan leads a company in with him, Luminara leads the artillery bombardment from behind and Padme and her squads try to out-fly Vader in the sky. It is a dangerous battle, pitched between the light and the dark.

Obi-Wan can feel the galaxy hold its breath.

And then he sees him, the Master, the tall imposing figure he has somehow not seen until this day.

At first Obi-Wan thinks there’s something wrong with his eyes because the man cutting through Master Mundi’s troops is not dark so much as his aura is tinged with red. Obi-Wan shakes his head and scrubs at his eyes, assuming that his mind is playing tricks on him, that he cannot possibly be seeing red.

He doesn’t know what red is.

But the Sith moves with surprising speed and grace through the battle, mowing down clones and droids alike as they get in his path. His skin is flushed and his hair is warmer than grey but not black, what Obi-Wan suddenly realizes is brown.

And his eyes.

His eyes are gold rimmed in red.

Obi-Wan’s mind whirls as the world around him explodes in color, as blue practically assaults his senses from above and the sudden onslaught of yellow demands to be noticed, to be seen. The sandstone hive-bunker is a rusty, ruddy umber and the blade of his saber is azure.

And the Sith’s eyes are golden and his hair is brown with streaks of grey and he is looking straight at Obi-Wan.

There are only a few meters between them and in the chaos of battle, no one stops the Sith who storms over to Obi-Wan, his predator eyes narrowed and the line of his jaw hard in spite of the beard that fails to soften it.

“And who are you, Jedi?” the taller man asks, looking over Obi-Wan’s face as if looking for a key to unlock the mystery that has just been presented to him. “I’ve not seen you before.”

And to his credit, Obi-Wan attacks because he is a Jedi and he is good.

But his soulmate is a Sith.

One day Obi-Wan will learn his true name, whisper it in a moment of abandon and passion when he cannot fight it any longer, when their colors are too much, too much gold and blue, the red of soft lips and warmth of an indigo-edged night.

His name is Qui-Gon Jinn, and now Obi-Wan Kenobi’s world is full of color.