#«the brave prince» (visage)

[drakblod]

do not reblog unless we're mutuals, please!

[seeking-elsewhither]

Done with Biography for the Chesterton Challenge.

It went...better, than I expected it to.

See, usually I use the word itself in my works, but this time I decided to walk around the word while referencing to it. You'll see, just read it.

From Project Throne, I give to you a scene. Tagging @hiddenvioletsgrow, @igotthisaccountunderduress, @brb-on-a-quest and @inklings-challenge

Also, please don't hesitate to ask me questions about something you didn't get while reading!!!

Thank you for taking the time to read it!

Remembrance

There is a great room in the castle filled with the likenesses of the late Royals of the land. They are many and varied, with faces kind and cruel, fierce and gentle, stately and meek, sharp and sweet. But the Queen has ever had eyes for a single portrait alone: the portrait of the late King.

“More often have you peered into his visage than into your own,” says the Steward quietly so as not to disturb Her Majesty with his presence unannounced. There is a light of sorrow and marvel in his eyes as he regards the face of the beloved King. The Queen looks down at her hands, her fingers outspread.

“There is more wisdom to be found in him.” Her hands roll into fists, tight and trembling. “Even beyond the grave.”

There is grief, anguish, even bitterness anew that blossoms in the air from her words, the scent of ruin and despair filling the Stewards lungs. It chokes him, it blinds him, and he finds he has lost his swift-speech to the gaping maws of loss. He hears the Queen take in a shuddering breath.

“Seven years, Ranyadir. Seven long years did he reign. Yet how easily his kingdom has forgotten him. How easily they have replaced him—” with me, is the unspoken distress swallowed by the agony of truth.

“They will write him wrong, Ranyadir,” says she with some strange fear, turning to face her Steward. Her eyes are wide, her expression shaking: “History will write him as brave and noble and just, a high king and prince of this land; I know this to be truer than the great mountains that guard the south. But,” and here she must breathe, here she must grasp, not the Steward, but her brother’s outstretched arms, pain clear in her whispers, “But they will not write of him as we have known him, as we have loved him. They will not write him as father and brother and friend. Nay, those pieces of him shall ever be lost in the seas of time.”

“Then we shall write him,” says Ranyadir with greatest conviction, for at last did his words prevail. “We shall write him as we have remembered him. Let the scribes and historians forget he whom we have loved since we have breathed. Let the kingdom remember his valour and deeds alone. Yet our memory shall not lose those intimate pieces of him to the sea of time, for he was our brother, our Tareith, afore he was lord, prince or king.”

It is a promise, an oath of sorts. He knows the dangers of words spoken lightly. Yet never has he sworn in vain, ever has he fulfilled what was required. And in this surety does Eruvanda draw her strength.

As one they look up at the great portrait of their brother, their Tareith, hanging amongst Royalty, sheathed in the light of the failing sun. It is merely a painting, and his body lay fathoms beneath the sea, but they are certain they have never before seen eyes so bright, so alive as that of the late King’s portrait in the fading day.

[drakblod]

@zobriehura

Please carry me, carry me, carry me home....

[sakkiichi]

MATCHUP FOR @lilikags

hello, lia ! thank you for the info you provided and for trusting me to write your matchup, i hope you like it <3

i pondered quite a lot on my choice for who to match you with, i hope the result is satisfactory to you !

your genshin impact match is someone who, similarly to you, pursues creativity. while he is more prone to working alone, your ability to fit in well in a group is something beneficial to him, helping him open up more. like you, he can be a perfectionist as well, pouring his all into the work he does, which also happens to be his passion. though detached and seemingly aloof at times, don’t let yourself be fooled, he is extremely perceptive, knowing just what someone needs at any given moment.

well, is an image already forming in your mind? venture further into the mysteries of teyvat to find…

✧ ALBEDO

So, you and Albedo. Why do I think you’re a good match? Well, in my opinion, you share similarities, while being inherently different, like two sides of the same coin, the little contrasts making you fit, akin to complementary colors over canvas.

Your leadership qualities and bringing people together are characteristics that would go in very nice divergence with the Kreideprinz’s highly independent personality. While he tends to be alone while doing his research, Albedo is warm to his friends and is happy to meet new people. Your social affinity, even though according to your mbti type you’re introverted too, would play in his favor, serving as a bridge between the seemingly distant golden prince and the friends that look forward to meeting him. Besides, he’d feel at ease too, reassured he won’t be too overwhelmed if you are around.

Another aspect of your personality that made me lean towards the Knights of Favonius’ chief alchemist is your love for creative pastimes. Albedo highly values that, as seen in his own hobbies, painting and alchemy.

One of the chalk prince’s love languages being quality time, it is not rare for him to drop his experiments instantly as soon as your smiling face comes into view…

—

Warm light floods through bare trees, reflecting in shades of candlelight off of the abundant snow. Late winter’s approaching, the gates of spring within reach, contained in the chant of fluttering birds atop the cold mountains, in the slumbering cecilias that are starting to awake, in skies dyeing pink and orange and gold, as the sun still lingers for an evening stroll.

In your smile and the bounciness of your step.

The frost-kissed northern stars of the alchemist’s gaze set upon you, its stella illuminating your footprints over the grass-splattered layer of white.

A couple of notebooks under one of your arms, and what looks like brushes and a bag that can only contain inks and paints on the other, you brave the chilly breeze, the distance between you and your lover shortening.

A soft smile draws upon the prince of chalk’s iced lips, the gesture another mirror image of the blooms to soon sprout.

“Albedo!” You sing-song, somehow managing to wave at him, despite all the items you’re carrying.

He puts down his notepad, the pencil he was using haphazardly forgotten over his table, all the threads of thought in his mind leading solely to you.

Your lips form a crescent not unlike the moon that is to rise soon amidst the firmament of a dawning spring, when your partner meets you halfway.

The warmth of his proximity is enough to tempt you to lean your head against his chest, inviting you to dream sweetly.

And you’d do just that were it not for the several objects currently balanced on your grasp, and because you had planned this outing.

“My love,” he begins, the constellations not yet out already bright in his stare. “I would have carried all of this, dear.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine!” You perkily retort, a smile of your own linking the starlight in his gaze. “Are you ready now, Bedo? We’ve got so much to do!”

The prince takes a moment to memorize the lines of your visage, the curve of your contagious smile, the light and color that constitutes his beloved.

He could paint you a million times, yet none would come close to portraying the true magic he witnesses every time he looks at you.

Taking the bag from you despite your protests, Albedo falls in step by your side, your hands brushing every now and then.

Even though slightly out of breath, the trip you had planned is worth it. A frozen over lake extends before you, a myriad of dancing lights over its glazed surface. Shadows of a rainbow seem to form over it, as the sky deepens in hue, the color of late afternoons drinking warm tea from matching mugs with someone you cherish.

And yet, despite the natural light dimming, neither of you seem deterred on your respective creations.

Albedo’s svelte hands delicately hover over his sketchbook, light and dark colliding in the pastel watercolors that seem to come to life when he imprints them on paper.

Your side leans against the artist’s, dark ink filling the page you currently peruse, pondering if this or that is the perfect word to make a reality of the world taking form inside your mind.

When the wind picks up, announcing nightfall, you nuzzle further into Albedo’s body.

And because your focus is on the wonders you create through linked quotes, you don’t notice a new color being added into the picture-perfect scene.

As he feels your warmth pressed against his side, the alchemist’s cheeks take on a hue worthy of the most precious crystals.

If only all sunrises could be this color, you would think, the moment your eyes met his lovely face again.

—

You mention you always try to help others, and I genuinely believe that is a trait Albedo would find very endearing. From helping Sucrose with whatever she needs regarding her research, to finding a way for Klee to get out of solitary confinement, your boyfriend can’t help but stare at you with a fond look in his eyes, akin to the glittering surface of a clear spring on a sunny day. (Just make sure Klee doesn’t cause too much trouble while she escapes her scolding).

Delving deeper into your hobbies, if we consider a modern au and Albedo’s aforementioned love language, it is not rare for him to be busy doodling on his sketchbook while you play games on your phone. Comfy clothes on, I can easily imagine him curled up on the couch, while you lay your head in his lap, thumbs tapping at your screen to achieve the highest score (though nothing beats the feeling of your lover’s fingers delicately combing through your hair).

Taking your mbti personality type into account, you and Albedo are a very good match. As an INFJ, you tend to look for deep relationships, wanting to understand every puzzle piece that connects into your s/o’s mind. As an INTP, the chief alchemist seeks intellectual understanding of his lover. In addition, both your personality types are perfectionist and self-demanding, which can help you two understand each other’s motivations when really involved into an activity that piques your interest.

✧ RUNNER UP: FISCHL

While definitely more on the independent and “loner” side (not by choice), the Prinzessin der Verurteilung has plenty in common with you, especially when it comes to mutual interests.

She is one of the most creative and imaginative people you can encounter, her inner world brimming with life, heartache, and enigmas to be unveiled. Which I think pairs quite well with your love for art and writing. In turn, she’d feel understood, having met someone who also finds comfort in fiction and the arts.

If we talk about a modern au again, Fischl is definitely the type to play games. I think she’d enjoy rpg ones, but she’s secretly a fan of otome too, especially if the setting and aesthetics lean on a more gothic vibe.

Similarly to what I’ve mentioned in Albedo’s case, you could help Fischl be included in groups, and even though she tries not to break character, she is genuinely honored to make new friends. She may not verbalize it right away, but the blush she tries to hide with her hair and the smile she plays off are indication enough.

[captainkurosolaire]

Fallout

Dark gloomy clouds overtook the Sun. As a massive sea-vessel approached a designated port. Tension was felt from the air, humid, only briefest a glimpse of a reliving breeze. Underarm crutches stomped against bulwark, still covered in appendages and valley of injuries. But like what took place in the skies, a storm felt inevitable. It wasn’t wise to leave things uncheck. He heard of what transpired in his mending. Someone upon his own Crew saw to set him ablaze. That troubling fact was numb perhaps only due to his already extensive injuries. Being Leader he took the reins despite his conditioning because if he hadn’t there was going to be a mutiny. Also not solving or trying too, could lead to the culprit to attempt to execute someone else entirely this poison needed to be neutralized. He forced his consciousness open. Getting a head-tip from the Crew as he left his cabin room that everyone’s number one suspect was conveniently departing at this very time, he angrily pushed himself to the docks where the blonde-haired Midlander in his princely-appearance took pause in his leave. “Judas! Not yet matey. Isn’t going down like this, I need some answers. We all do.” His breathing was noticeably heaving, wheezing his lungs not entirely clear. The Midlander gave a frown of disappointment, it was a curious look that could have been attributed to the history of this man once turning his back on his own fond Captain. “Cut the bullshit, Cap’n, only here because you still don’t trust me. My sins and transgressions formerly, are right to assume that, I expect that. But I didn’t do it.” His brow’s and the way his eyelids lowered and features was concerning maybe, it wasn’t disappointment, but heartache.

The Seeker squinched up his visage and gave a sarcastic tone, “Geez, ye right, I don’t know if I can, I was at my lowest and that’s when you struck me, that guy who looked EXACTLY like you in the past, stabbed me in the back and then n’ my HEART. I’d like to think anything, anyone, is capable of change. I know it’s achievable. It’s why I saw to fight another chance to get this going again. You and me, cause when we’re on the same page, we can make magic. Upon my ventures on land, I've learned n' appreciation fer trust. There may b’ little out there more valuable in life... It's also the host ov' a saddening graveyard. Ye take trust granted, every-time, it almost certainly means death. Whether you, or what was." The sailor spoke with his chest. Experiencing too often people give up their lack of expectations just cause they didn't want to engage, be led to wasted time, or indulge in pain’s kiss. Seeing in that perspective he couldn't blame it. He was conditioned in a world of betrayal as something common-grounds, so he made it apparent for others to assume the worse about him early on by his presentation in his most unflattering self. Giving the decision to know the water's dangerous edge makes people frightful of the roaring tides. You can always reliably sell anyone on their own twisted truth, guaranteed unquestioning it.

Those bold who took the plunge against their fears often unlocked things they would've never attained otherwise, that eventually they wouldn't be able to see their life without. It was what he sought to represent to prevent others from becoming a slave of hopelessness. He would personally hide behind mask after mask showing that he had his knees buckle to despair. Playing fantasy that he was indomitable, a commendable warrior.

Stings of deceit weren't something he was immune to. He just braved that facade. It took chunks out of him, leading to such a fragmented soul, keeping and harboring that resentment, it meant unsafely; reason to hide an extra knife before slumber.

Puncturing eyes of Judas who manipulated and tricked his way for any opportunistic path, to get closer to his goal, once saw right through his scoundrel brethren. "Captain... I thought we were beyond this, dammit! If you took a second and THOUGHT instead of allowing your emotions to think for you. That is your worst design, always has been. I swear sometimes. You perceive yourself as someone who isn’t a strategist, cunning, smart and has always placed me so far above you that, can’t even see how incredible you can be, and what you’ve conquered alone! A lifetime worth of envy, there isn’t any shock of why someone saw to cut you down, shoot their deplorable shot. Understand this, AGAIN, — I vowed to provide wind against your back! – Thing is if you resist it, there's no sailing forward. MAYBE; I have never said it before, since I betrayed and caused that mutiny over what WAS a decade ago, but I'm sorry! Okay?! Does that really do anything to help?! Huh?! I don’t think ‘words’ have any value." Blood began to rush, tempers were igniting bottled issues, and just overall wounding in his verbal pitch. He had been aside Captain and offered all his advice, tribute himself to that contest and entrusted Captain in that brutal battleground. He even smacked off against his enemy, and yet was vilified and outnumbered.

The Seeker’s lips pursed and snickered not believing this instantaneously but gave silence with an emotional stare-down. Judas continued after a pause trying to contain himself in a pressure sigh, never evading the unyielding contact, composed, "...I have lived with that everyday! You have no clue what it did to me to hurt you..." Strongly using his hand’s to communicate pointing between them. The inflection in his tone came from nestled deep within a heart. There was something genuine, powerful, woe inducing.

Captain’s visage showed despondency, the people who are most important and closest felt a need to strike us the hardest. And maybe there was something that wasn't wrong about it, one bit to prevent us from going a wrong path. Just like how lies were ushered to children, youth, about monsters under the bed, to keep them safe, lies aren't always evil. What is often the most disgusting, against mankind, deemed cruel ways to perceive, could be yet again, the way to show an unbeatable level of care.

Between these two men was something close they shared undeniably. Always bubbling, never surfacing.

With an exhale Judas took note of the silence over this. "You know what Cap'n, it's alright, you don't want to trust me, can't... If we're done here, then it’s done. I shouldn't have ever burdened you with my own burden.." The Hyur who often did anything to get-ahead for his ambition, would've used anyone, sold out anybody to get back to his home. Gave up.

The Seeker couldn't believe what was unfolding in revelations. Under that intense moment, he recognized this man wasn't at all the culprit but framed deceptively. Finally snapping out of it, he noticed the Hyur retrieve his knapsack and was walking off the gangplank.

"Wait, where are ye going?" He attempted to chase hastily but fell on his crutches and plummeted trying to pursue. The crash heard Judas looking over shoulder, "Perhaps no one informed you, but Captain Sinbad collected his reward while you were out and chose his Three Crewmates. He picked myself, Casta our Surgeon, and even your own daughter, gave herself to volunteer, Klethera. – I'm getting a new start ahead, perhaps this is best. I'll lookout after them." Trying to cope and find a silver-lining there was just a broken man that shattered before the Captain.

While feeling that physically, and emotionally just drowned, unable to even give a cheeky response, or snark back, utter defeat. Laid with an unconstrained emotion, it was easier, accepting Judas did betray him again. Wasn’t something they didn’t overcome before, but now this meant, another on the Crew sought to dismantle Captain of anything associated with his dear life. The most potent betrayal was invisible. Strings tugging at you by an unknown, forcing you to strike against the wrong individuals, until you erased everything that meant a damn.

In one rushing moment a riptide reminded his losses. Incomprehensibly too much to handle at once, he fell in a vegetative state, lids and sight only witnessing boots of departure to someone, he never spoke and confessed his feelings. He felt exposed, out again in so many wounds, scar’s reopened, cut thousands of times left to bleed, trying to find out if there was an extra bone to make him sturdy to endure this pit and stand. This bloom zenith of life Captain nourished throughout last Summer who Captain rode highly, seemed destined for abscission.

🌊 ♫Could've Been♫ - Reference - Last Chapter

[snowbellewells]

Self Promo Sunday: “Nothing Stands Between”

This two shot was a spec fic I wrote during the summer between seasons 4 and 5, when we didn’t really know where Emma had disappeared to after taking on the Darkness, or what would happen next, or how the rest of them would find her again or get her back. Though it didn’t end up playing out this way, I still had fun writing it, and thought it might be fun to revisit and give some art as well.  Hopefully someone else out there may enjoy seeing it again as well...

Summary: Killian and Henry will go to any length find Emma and bring her home again. There's nothing in all the realms more powerful than True Love, and they're counting on that to help them no matter what they face. 

Also available on AO3 or ff.net, if one of those is your preference

by: @snowbellewells 

1. you never said goodbye

“and in between the soul and the sky…

I know we can make through the night,

‘cause you never said goodbye…”

         The metallic clang of the heavy silver dagger striking concrete still rings in his ears like the door of a prison cell slamming shut around his heart.  Killian Jones feels his legs give – his muscles water as all the strength drains from him – and he falls to his knees in the middle of Main Street mere feet from where his Swan has vanished.  He is unable to turn his eyes from the empty space where she last stood, nor from the curved edge of the infernal blade now bearing her name on its cursed surface, and all that now appears in the place she has vacated.  At first, the stricken pirate doesn’t even realize that a guttural noise akin to the cry of a wounded animal is escaping from his own throat; then, Killian senses a presence near him.  He feels a strong hand that must be the Prince – her father’s – clamp firmly on his shoulder.  Killian’s mouth snaps closed in surprise at the gesture of comfort from this man who has now lost his cherished daughter a third time, and when his teeth clack against each other and the keening ceases, he realizes the wail must have belonged to him.

         His head bows, and shame momentarily stains his face, before he raises his visage, and glances over his shoulder to gaze into his friend’s pained royal face.  Only 300 years of struggle and accustoming to hurt allow Killian to bring his features under control and to nod at Dave in assurance that he has mastered himself again.

         Oh, it will be a fleeting calm; he knows this all too well.  Torment still churns and surges just beneath the surface, under his skin.  He may be a fearless captain, intrepid adventurer, and survivor; he may have an image to uphold and a reputation to maintain, but he has never felt pain, fear, or anger equal to this.  In his long, long life and all his loss and brushes with death, nothing has rocked him to the core and left him as helpless as he feels in this moment.  His love, his true anchor, is gone, and what is more, Emma has taken on a curse that may do gods know what to her before they can reach her.  That she did it to save them all is as selfless and brave as he has always known her to be, but it leaves him feeling even more impotent in his inability to aid or support her in her sacrifice.  It is only realizing he is not alone, that others have lost her too and are also grieving, that enables him to shoulder his agony and stand again on shaking limbs, at least until he can indulge his agony again in private.  He has a duty now – to her family as well as Emma herself.  Gods help him, she has made him part of something as she offered to do when he took them to Neverland and began his ascent out of villainy following his golden-headed angel.  He will stand by her parents and her boy (Henry, his heart squeezes at the thought of what this will do to Henry) and together they will find her in the darkness and bring her back.

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         As he had feared and yet anticipated, the lad he has grown to care for as he once did his father too, is crushed by her loss.  Killian can see the creases of pain and undeserved guilt on Regina’s face as the boy leans into her embrace at the end of her labored, halting explanation.  He, the Charmings, Robin and Regina, staggered wearily back into Granny’s dining establishment where they had left Henry regaling Roland, Archie, Marco, August, Leroy, Ruby, and Belle, who is holding his gurgling young uncle, with the tale of his time within a story – a hero in his own right – with success and pride, and a twinkle of mischief that is all Emma.  None of them want to ruin his happiness, but neither can they keep him in the dark, nor lie to him.

         As Henry finishes recounting his tale, he looks up at the group who have re-entered the diner and spares them having to find a way to broach the difficult topic by asking, “Where’s Mom?” curiously.

         Snow’s pretty face falls and she buries her face in David’s shoulder, trying to hide her tears.  Regina’s eyes fall to her feet, unable to meet her son’s until Robin places a gentle, steadying hand on her arm and she steps forward and finds a way to begin.

         Killian never lets his gaze stray from the lad, watching the emotions flicker over Henry’s face: the hurt, the confusion, the bitterness over the fact that his mom is once again caught up in a fight she did not begin or deserve to weather.  Then Killian sees something take over Henry’s face, an expression he did not know he had needed to draw on until it had appeared.  Steely determination, and the unwavering hope which has carried them all this far, takes over the boy’s features, and the lad speaks firmly after clearing his throat and setting his shoulders.  “Then we’ll find her,” Henry says simply, looking up at each of them in turn, as if swearing them to his quest.  “That’s what this family does.” 

         Dave lets out a choked sounding bark of a laugh, but then nods, letting Henry know that of course he is right. 

         Killian hates to overstep his bounds, but he knows that Henry has included him with his words, both in his family and in this venture.  “Aye, Lad,” he affirms, speaking gruffly past the lump in his own throat.  “That is exactly what we will do.”

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         The next morning finds Killian and Henry bent over the desk in his captain’s cabin, studying the numerous maps of the realms that he has collected in his centuries of travel and exploration, realizing what a frustrating and daunting task they have set for themselves.  Killian brushes an agitated hand through his already disheveled dark hair, staring down at the particular aged piece of parchment currently holding their interest.  The map is of Camelot, which seems the most practical place to search for the famed sorcerer Merlin; however, there is no guarantee that it will lead them any closer to Emma.  Granted, she had admonished them to free her from the darkness just before she vanished, and according to the Apprentice, Merlin is the key to them doing so, but doing anything that does not directly bring them closer to her is the opposite of what either he or her boy want.

         Nevertheless, he is diligently attempting to show Henry how to map a course, and finding with a pleased sense of pride that Emma’s boy is proving to be a natural.  The lad is sharp, inquisitive, and has an excellent memory for all that Killian has previously shown him.  They are presently embroiled in finding the best way to reach King Arthur’s legendary castle once docking in his kingdom, and seeing that it may take much more time than either of them would wish, when Henry suddenly clutches the map in his hands, as if to rip it in two. 

         The young man’s shoulders shake silently as he leans forward to brace himself on the desk, head bowed as if hiding his emotion from the pirate.  Though the tears that must be falling make no sound, the lad is obviously trying to hold onto his control for all he is worth.  Killian wants to reach forward, to gather him into a masculine embrace and offer comfort of some sort, but he does not know if it will cause the lad more pain or if it will do any good at all, when his comfort is certainly not what the boy truly needs.

         Finally, Henry draws in a heaving breath, and the words coming rasping from his throat in great gasps, “She’s gone….Killian…My mom…she’s just gone!  She brought…all of you…all the way…to Neverland…to save me…when I was taken. …And we…we’re just waiting!  …Not going after her…she could be hurt…she could be dying!  ...We need to find her!” 

         Unable to stop himself, Killian pulls Henry in and holds on tight, clutching the lad against his chest awkwardly, but in a hopeful attempt to soothe, rubs his good hand over the boy’s shoulders.  “We will, Lad.  I swear it.  She will not be lost from us forever – no matter where she is, we will reach her.”

2. bring me home

 ‘will you let me follow you

wherever you go,

bring me home…” 

         “Emma, no!” the hoarse cry is ripped from his chest before he can think, and is echoed in Henry’s pained exclamation behind him.  Killian is already moving, dashing toward her in the next instant, even as the very fabric of the forest glade around them and the air they breathe seems to ripple and wave with expelled energy.  It may be only because he is in motion that it doesn’t knock Killian off his feet.  He hears Henry stumble, but as concerned as he is for his young compatriot, he cannot take his focus from his Swan now.  They have come too far, and she is finally within reach.  He knows without question that her boy feels the same.

         His vision goes hazy for a moment as the sky above them darkens, wind whips up in buffeting crescendo, and thunder rolls overhead.  Even as he is about to touch Emma, something stops him.  Killian watches in a near trance as she gives him one last, quick look, then closes her eyes and does as Merlin had instructed her.  He sees her lips moving fervently, though he cannot hear her words, and then is shocked when an immense, foreboding black cloud is expelled from her mouth.  It rises quickly, and he recoils a bit in apprehension.  However, unlike the grasping, hungry ropes this darkness was in Storybrooke when Emma offered herself and it wrapped her in its talons, this cloud is disintegrating, disappearing into nothing before his astonished eyes. 

         The old wizard was right after all.  The key is in the recipient of so much tempting, intoxicating power willingly giving it up after not taking it on in an evil way that adds to its hold.  He knew his princess was strong and true, but that she has done what no others could bring themselves to since the Dark Curse’s creation is mind-boggling.  Every time Killian thinks he cannot possibly love her more, or be more astounded by her, Emma proves him wrong again. 

         He is so thrilled by this moment of triumph that he almost manages to forget his concern at the warning Merlin had given along with his advice.  Emma has done it!  She has freed herself of the darkness and defeated it so it can never be visited on another in such heinous fashion.  Surely, she is safe now and they can go home. 

         Killian’s eyes turn back from the sky to his love, already speaking to her with joy and relief.  “You did it, Swan!  Bloody brilliant, Lass, as always…” but the words die on his tongue at the sight of her.

         Emma gives him a brief, tremulous smile, a gentle sheen of tears pooling in the corners of her eyes.  “Killian…” she breathes out hoarsely, her voice rough and raw, but hers again, not the horrifying rasp it had been when they first found her in true Dark One form in Camelot’s forests, hiding where she would not come into contact with anyone she might harm while she sought control over herself.  She doesn’t continue though, and Killian reaches his hand out to forestall her, to make her save her strength.  She is deathly pale, trembling like a leaf in a stormy gale, and almost seems to fade away in front of him. 

         Her eyes roll back in her head, and her breath whooshes from her body.  Killian barely manages to dive forward and catch her in his arms as she crumbles lifelessly.  He gathers her shockingly light form to his chest, trying desperately not to think of Merlin’s dire warnings now racing through his brain.  Henry is at his side in the next instant, reaching out to touch Emma and whispering, “Mom?” so hopefully it nearly breaks the pirate’s ancient, scarred heart.

         Emma looks as though the very life has been drained from her along with all the darkness and excess magic.  He can only bury his nose in her golden hair, breath in a strengthening whiff of her comfortingly familiar scent, and carry her back the way they have come, hoping against hope there will be something Merlin can do.  She has to hold on just a little longer; she must.  All her bravery, her sacrifice, her fight to survive, cannot be in vain.  He will not survive without her.

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         “It is as I feared,” the learned mage of Camelot sighs, sitting back in his chair from where he had been leaning over Emma’s frighteningly still form.  Though his eyes hold the knowledge and experience of the ages, his face and body appear almost youthful – nearly as handsomely well-preserved as Killian himself, despite how long Merlin has truly lived.  “So much leaving a person at once takes an immeasurable toll.  She has truly conquered the Darkness, which none have ever been able to achieve.  Yet, as others have found, the human thirst for power, control, and influence feeds on such power.  It wove itself into the very fibers of her being; she expelled it, but as these powers have never been rejected before, it is hard to know if the damage can be survived.  The force of the Dark Curse has been feeding on evil and desperate souls for ages.”

         Killian bows his head, fighting to retain control, if only for the sake of Henry sitting across from him holding his mother’s hand.  The very real desire to attack one of the world’s most powerful magicians almost overwhelms him, but it will do no good.  Moreover, even if he had stressed the risks before giving Emma the possible solution, Killian knows within himself that it would not have changed her course of action.  He bites his lip, holding back harsh, disparaging words or howls of pained despair.  She is still hanging by a thread; her light is not snuffed out completely, and so he cannot give up hope.

          “There must be something you can do,” he grits out in a tone that manages not to be overtly hostile.  “Are you the fabled Merlin of Camelot or no?”

         Henry’s big brown eyes rise to seek his, incredulous that the pirate would question such a legend, and then flit over to Merlin as well, pleading in them if there is any possibility the wizard is holding back.

         The wise, knowing eyes show deep sympathy, not wanting to hurt this man and boy who have come so far for this heroic, self-sacrificing woman, this Savior.  He is truly impressed by their faith and belief, the sheer force of the love that has carried them this far.  He does not dissuade them to injure; he only wants them to understand the very real chance that it might be too late, beyond what any of them can do.

         Sighing, he passes a hand over Emma’s brow, his forehead wrinkling in thought as if he reads something below the surface which cannot be heard aloud.  “Alas, it is not up to me,” he states gravely, meeting and holding both pirate and young prince’s gaze in turn.  “Whether she will wake again rests entirely upon Miss Swan.”

 *******************8888888888888888888888888888*******************

         Emma stirs restlessly in her unconscious state, head tossing from side to side on the flat feather pillow of Merlin’s cot.  She murmurs ceaselessly, eyelids twitching as though she sees things moving behind them at all times, but nothing that either Henry or Killian can decipher as they keep vigil by his side.  They can’t know that within her own mind, Emma is seeing one distressing, horrible scene from her history after another – scenes that she had hoped never to revisit…

         She is three years old and looking on as Beatrice Swan hugs her goodbye, regretful sadness in her eyes, but still firmly turning away from the little girl she had professed to love, leaning into her husband’s side and resting her hand unconsciously on her stomach.  Even at three, Emma feels a stab of jealousy at the unborn being stealing the closest she’s ever had to parents and a place to belong; her foster mother’s hand rubbing that slightly distended area seeming to mock her even as they already do the most hurtful thing they could.  They’re leaving her behind – alone – as people always do.  And once they get in the car and disappear down the driveway of  the group home, Emma stands a long time before she goes in, not wanting anyone to see her until she’s sure they won’t see her cry.

          She’s six and lies curled up in her bed, the single blanket covering her is threadbare and doing little to keep away the chill in  the room she shares with four other girls.  The others already don’t like her, a few years older and already buddied up when she’d come to this home a few months back.  They are sleeping soundly in the bunk beds, oblivious to the way she tosses and turns on her cot in the corner.  At this moment, it doesn’t even occur to her to be bothered by the fact that she’s always left out, always expected to make do with what’s left over.  The cold that keeps her shivering this late November night isn’t even what is stealing her sleep.  They sent her to bed without anything for supper again.  She hadn’t meant to talk back; she’d only been trying to explain herself, but a slap across the mouth and the gnawing hunger she’s suffering now makes her bite her lips against the whimper that keeps trying to escape.  It feels as though her stomach is twisting around trying to eat itself.  She will live – these particular foster parents aren’t stupid enough to starve them for long enough to attract attention – but she’s still growing and the lack of food is a particularly cruel form of torture.

         She is twelve and hiding in a middle school bathroom stall as her two supposed friends giggle and cackle over how easy she has been to fool, how naïve she is for thinking they could really want to be seen with her, how pathetic she looks in her thick, ugly glasses and patched, borrowed clothes…

She’s fourteen and cringing in the closet of her bedroom, hoping the drunken lumbering footsteps of the monster she’s been assigned to this time will pass by her closed door…

She’s seventeen and handcuffed in the back of a police cruiser, shaking with fear and knowing that this time there won’t be any running, any escape, knowing they’re taking her to jail where they’ll lock her away where no one can be bothered with her inconvenient presence anymore.  Even Neal has left her behind; she knows without the proof the next few years will bring that he isn’t coming back for her…

         Merlin, Henry and Killian can see her agitation growing worse; even as Emma lingers in a nether world they cannot see.  Her brow creases, soft, whines of distress escape her, and tears run in rivulets down her cheeks from under her closed eyelids.  As much as her son and her love want to offer comfort, she still seems unaware of them, and they are helpless to bring her back.

         Another flashback washes over her…this one more heartbreaking than all the others.  She is barely eighteen and she watches, clinging to the last vestiges of her will and courage, fastened to a prison hospital bed, as they take her little boy away.  She barely saw the top of his head, covered with the barest wisps of soft brown hair and already his cries are fading as he is carried from the room.  She couldn’t bear to look on him, knowing her resolve to give him his best chance would crumble if she let herself see his innocent face. Still, to never know what her little boy will look like, what he’ll be named, hear his voice…It isn’t just his tiny body that has been pulled away from her; it feels if it a piece of her soul has been ripped out as well…

         The endless, nightmare rush of images ceases at last.  Lost in a dim fog, Emma doesn’t really know where she is or what has caused the change, only that she is vaguely aware of a comforting pressure on her left hand, when before she could feel little else, and a similar warm press at her forehead touches her for a lovely, fleeting moment.  She draws in a shuddering breath, then another, and slowly, surely feels a bit more of herself coming back into focus.  For the first time in the seemingly endless floating eternity she has been lost in, Emma wants desperately to open her eyes.  If only she could make them obey…

         A coaxing voice reaches her ear, wrapping her up, urging her to come back to the speaker with beautiful, lilting tones.  She wants to desperately to reach him, can feel the desire rising within her, even as his face remains frustratingly beyond her reach.  Another joins, younger, more hopeful, but no less convincing.  This one calls her ‘Mom’ and she feels her heart flutter, not understanding for a moment how to reconcile that with the terrible memory that fleeing darkness had just forced her to relive. 

         Suddenly Emma finds she wants desperately to return to the people who own these voices, to herself, to her life, even if the visions which have been visiting her are a part of its past.  Struggling mightily, she begins to move, enough so that those watching over her can see her valiant effort.

         “Killian!” Henry exclaims, breathless excitement in his voice and joy on his face.  “Look!  She’s starting to wake up!”  He clutches her hand tightly in his again, calling to her more urgently. “Mom!  Mom!  Can you hear me?!” 

         Killian leans forward, watching his Swan avidly as more animation begins to flit across her face than he has seen in the several days they has spent at her side.  He hardly breathes, barely daring to hope.  He wants those lovely green eyes looking back at him, to see her again, more than he can remember ever wanting anything before.  “Emma?” he asks, so softly only she would be able to hear him.

         She shoots upward as she finally claws back into reality; her eyes flying open and scanning everything around her, chest heaving wildly as she draws in quick, fevered gasps of air.  Her worried movements only still when she sees first her little boy – not so little anymore – and then her pirate.  Their faces are both marred with fatigue and worry, but all the same looking awestruck with happiness to see her again.  Her memory rushes back to her; she knows where she is, what she was fighting against, and how far they must have traveled to be sitting on either side of her.  The painful reminders of her lost childhood settle back into their places as the rest of her life and the good that have begun to temper the bad return to her as well.

         Shakily, she raises a hand to lovingly rest in Henry’s hair, then trace along the side of his face, biting her lip at the sheer love that wells up in her, seeing him safe and well and with her.  Killian doesn’t begrudge her the moment with her boy, doesn’t interrupt, he simply bends his head to rest against the crown of hers, as if he’s content to simply have her awake and to breathe her in. 

         However, it doesn’t take long before that’s not enough for Emma. Gathering Henry to her side, she turns to study Killian, wanting to look on his beautiful face after so long apart.  She sucks in a breath, not sure what to say, how to express the ache missing him has been, how to tell him that holding onto he and Henry in her mind is all that kept her sane, all that kept her from letting the Darkness take her over once and for all. 

         In the end, she doesn’t say anything before he swoops in and captures her mouth with his in a firm but tender kiss.  “I love you as well, Emma Swan,” he affirms, having had to wait too long to say it back to her. 

         There is no response she can make to that without falling apart, so instead she nuzzles her face into the crook of his neck, relishing the feel of both of them in her arms at last after so long alone.  None of them notice the gentle, approving smile on Merlin’s face as the old sorcerer stands to leave them, knowing all will now be well.

         “I hoped it…but I was afraid I’d never see either of you again…” she murmurs, trying not to let her voice crack.  The reunion still feels so sweet that she doesn’t want to spoil it with what she has been through.

         Killian interrupts her, smoothing her hair back from her face and soothing her with his quiet voice and gentle touch.  “Don’t think on that anymore, Love. Not now. We’re together once more…and we’re going home.”

Tagging: @jennjenn615 @searchingwardrobes @kmomof4 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @laschatzi @jrob64 @apiratewhopines @teamhook @revanmeetra87 @sotangledupinit @xarandomdreamx @bdevereaux @gingerchangeling @gingerpolyglot @scientificapricot @tomeandflickcorner @stahlop @winterbaby89 @hollyethecurious @elizabeethan @donteattheappleshook @the-darkdragonfly @cosette141 @lfh1226-linda @kday426 @xsajx @wefoundloveunderthelight @anmylica @spartanguard @therooksshiningknight @tiganasummertree @optomisticgirl @drowned-dreamer @blowmiakisscolin @let-it-raines @caught-in-the-filter  @booksteaandtoomuchtv @kazoosandfannypacks @mie779​ @cocohook38​ @motherkatereloyshipper​

[umitvar]

ümitvâr. / those who 𝑆𝐼𝑁𝐺 about the 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤 times. someone who is awaiting what they are hoping for. hopeful.

𝒘 𝒊 𝒍 𝒍 𝒚 𝒐 𝒖 𝒃 𝒆 𝒔 𝒊 𝒏 𝒈 𝒊 𝒏 𝒈 ... ANETTE OLDENBURG [ crown princess of norway, calculating gaze, following every movement, quiet. ] —- 𝒂 𝒕𝒖𝒏𝒆 𝒏𝒐 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖: intro. about. visage. pinterest. threads.

𝒘 𝒊 𝒍 𝒍 𝒚 𝒐 𝒖 𝒃 𝒆 𝒔 𝒊 𝒏 𝒈 𝒊 𝒏 𝒈 ... DAENG CHATRI SHINAWATRA [ army commander of china, disciplined, brave. doubts swimming in his mind. ] —- 𝒂 𝒕𝒖𝒏𝒆 𝒏𝒐 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖: intro. about. visage. pinterest. threads.

𝒘 𝒊 𝒍 𝒍 𝒚 𝒐 𝒖 𝒃 𝒆 𝒔 𝒊 𝒏 𝒈 𝒊 𝒏 𝒈 ... DAIYU FENG [ viceroy of hong kong, calculating, stern. ruthless. ] —- 𝒂 𝒕𝒖𝒏𝒆 𝒏𝒐 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖: intro. about. visage. pinterest. threads.

𝒘 𝒊 𝒍 𝒍 𝒚 𝒐 𝒖 𝒃 𝒆 𝒔 𝒊 𝒏 𝒈 𝒊 𝒏 𝒈 ... DANTE FABBRI [ business manager at the medici bank, florence. intense, hardworking. brooding. ] —- 𝒂 𝒕𝒖𝒏𝒆 𝒏𝒐 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖: intro. about. visage. pinterest. threads.

𝒘 𝒊 𝒍 𝒍 𝒚 𝒐 𝒖 𝒃 𝒆 𝒔 𝒊 𝒏 𝒈 𝒊 𝒏 𝒈 ... FELIX EMILIANO ORTIZ [ youngest prince of spain, cheerful, mischiveous. terrified deep down. ] —- 𝒂 𝒕𝒖𝒏𝒆 𝒏𝒐 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖: intro. about. visage. pinterest. threads.

𝒘 𝒊 𝒍 𝒍 𝒚 𝒐 𝒖 𝒃 𝒆 𝒔 𝒊 𝒏 𝒈 𝒊 𝒏 𝒈 ... LIANTSOA RATSIFI [ youngest prince of madagascar, charming, spontaneous. uneasy. ] —- 𝒂 𝒕𝒖𝒏𝒆 𝒏𝒐 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖: intro. about. visage. pinterest. threads.

𝒘 𝒊 𝒍 𝒍 𝒚 𝒐 𝒖 𝒃 𝒆 𝒔 𝒊 𝒏 𝒈 𝒊 𝒏 𝒈 ... NABIL BADI [ second youngest prince of egypt, soft heart, iron skin. ] —- 𝒂 𝒕𝒖𝒏𝒆 𝒏𝒐 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖: intro. about. visage. pinterest. threads.

𝒘 𝒊 𝒍 𝒍 𝒚 𝒐 𝒖 𝒃 𝒆 𝒔 𝒊 𝒏 𝒈 𝒊 𝒏 𝒈 ... NOI JIRAYU CHAROENSUK [ performer in madagascar. thailand's spy. a mirage you cannot catch. ] —- 𝒂 𝒕𝒖𝒏𝒆 𝒏𝒐 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖: intro. about. visage. pinterest. threads.

𝒘 𝒊 𝒍 𝒍 𝒚 𝒐 𝒖 𝒃 𝒆 𝒔 𝒊 𝒏 𝒈 𝒊 𝒏 𝒈 ... PHAI SUPPASIT BOONRUANG [ physician's apprentice / spy-in-training in ethiopia. illegitimate son of a king. ] —- 𝒂 𝒕𝒖𝒏𝒆 𝒏𝒐 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖: intro. about. visage. pinterest. threads.

𝒘 𝒊 𝒍 𝒍 𝒚 𝒐 𝒖 𝒃 𝒆 𝒔 𝒊 𝒏 𝒈 𝒊 𝒏 𝒈 ... YURA STASOV [ apprentice of education & philosophy of russia. empathetic, thoughtful. reserved. ] —- 𝒂 𝒕𝒖𝒏𝒆 𝒏𝒐 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖: intro. about. visage. pinterest. threads.

MORE: — 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔

[histoireettralala]

Young Henri de Guise

Born at Joinville on New Year's Eve, 1549, the life of Henri, third Duke of Guise, was forever scarred by one harrowing event. At the age of twelve he had been forced to watch his father die in agony. The letters he wrote as a 7 year-old to the father, who was away on campaign, reveal a precocious intelligence. Henri idolized his father. When his uncle suggested that he would make a good priest he wrote to his father: "I would rather be next to you breaking a lance or a sword on some brave Spaniard or Burgundian to show that I like much better to fence and joust than to be always shut up in an abbey dressed in a gown." His formal education was, however, brief. At the age of 7 he was sent to Navarre College with the two other Henris, who would one day be his rivals: Henri, the son of Antoine, King of Navarre, and Henri, Duke of Anjou. But it was barely a year before the Prince of Joinville, as he was styled, was summoned by his father to learn the profession of arms. He was soon joined by his younger brother, Charles (born in 1554), while his youngest brother Louis, born in 1555, was destined to inherit his uncle's ecclesiastical empire. Henri was not interested in letters and, in spite of the close attention of his uncle and his grandmother, his knowledge of matters theological was superficial: "I heard the beautiful sermons that my uncle gave at Reims but I promise you," he wrote to his father, "that I will not be about to recite them because they were so long I can only remember half of them." Like his father and grandfather, he was more interested in traditional aristocratic pursuits and his letters resound with the theme of horses, hunting, and war.

In an age when looks and demeanour were thought to herald majesty, the beauty of the House of Guise was renowned. It contrasted with the ugliness that afflicted most of their Habsburg, Valois and Bourbon contemporaries. And the portraits of the new duke support the contention of observers that Henri —as ‘beautiful as an angel’, according to the Venetian ambassador —surpassed even his cousin, Mary Stuart, in looks. He had the trademark pale visage and curly, strawberry blond hair. He was tall too and had a good physique shaped by the usual martial sports and tennis and, more unusually, swimming —he could, it was said, swim across a river in armour. He inherited both his father’s charm and common touch: his immense attractiveness to women and affability with commoners would later be major political assets. If Henri had an Achilles heel it was hubris. In his father, the inbred pride of the aristocrat had been tempered by reserve and modesty, which charmed even his enemies. Henri, in contrast, inherited some of his uncle’s arrogance. A story told by Marguerite de Valois about the young duke is instructive. Asked by her father, Henry II, which prince she preferred, Guise or the Marquis of Beaupréau, son of the Prince of la Roche-sur-Yon, she agreed that Guise was without doubt the better looking but she preferred the other because ‘every day the duke does something bad to someone and always wants to be master’. The story is probably apocryphal but it stood the test of time because it captured something essential.

Stuart Carroll- Martyrs and Murderers: the Guise Family and the Making of Europe

[jonquildove]

crimsonredlioness:

Joanna watched the youn redhaired girl attentive, a habit she developed through out the years. Someone could say many things but their body language in her body of sex gave so much more indication and besides that was more honest than words would ever be. Not that she mistrusted the Stark-Girl or wanted her any harm but courtesy was imperative in this city and at this times. She had been in the blood wood forest once, being in a carriage pulled by horses, during Aerys' reign, on her way to see her husband Tywin, nearly getting killed by pagan worshippers, she escaping. There had been a man who politely showed her that was a good route to go, he singing a norse song, as the kingsroad had a dam that needed fixing. She gently smiled and bowed her head slightly, waited for Sansa to speak up. The blonde woman knew that she struggled with speaking forward, something that she had starkly detected and discovered in their last talks. The garden was nice, as the plants and flowers helped soothe the smell of the terrible smell of the city otherwise. It was near the ocean too, where she found peace in. She was nice nevertheless but with this mannerism she wouldn’t achieve anything in the longer term. "You are not insulting me, Sansa. I told you before that you don’t need to fear speaking honest with me. And its nothing new to me that my son is no tall handsome knight or prince. So, please, don’t mince words.”

She takes a deep breath, nodding, as she ate her blackberry on her plate. She knew that she should not be so afraid of what Joanna would think of her. And Joanna acknowledging that Tyrion and his visage wasn’t handsome, made Sansa a bit more brave to speak. “–I would never want to insult you, Your Grace, not ever. Tyrion, he is good to me, but not the one I’d envisioned marrying. He is a dwarf, and I cannot see us together, even though we are married.”

[usagisbanexd]

+ SUPER SOLDIER SAILOR STARS #13 * _) _) >>C===3 :-* Kawaii Slash Lovers Collide Cosmic Paradise // Sailor Moon/Pokémon/Potterverse Altfic Crossover, CHAPTER 1.0.013

1.0.003 XTENZE

In the far-off distant lullaby of a mind’s brave eye, a prince sleeps watching, taking his turn, taking form, his wife’s arms trembling, he loves you, baby, but he’s got to be free, and she loves him and she’s frying, literally frying, and this is hard to type, and in Crystal Tokyo we just think what we type, but everyone who wants one gets a new computer for Christmas. And that’s Mamo in a Santa outfit, Mamo in a beard, and a boy named Nick is going to marry me someday, and it's really Steve, the Emperor, the man I met on the internet, and I Shingo Sailorsun rainbow-hued tight-gutted am sweating buckets beneath my fuku, hating fat people. And if it happened to Rob Kardashian, it could happen to anyone, so let’s talk to him. Rob, say hi.

            He’s shy, he thinks, and Shingo’s afraid to communicate. Shingo with the golden hair, Shingo with the waxen visage, Shingo the pervert, Shingo the euphemist, Shingo the intergalactic, Shingo the Barbie doll without a Ken. And whose fault was that? Not Shingo’s, so what’s your point? He told you to bring your GI Joe, said we’d get married under the sunlight, and Elios asleep in Chibiusa’s arms, Elios the god, Elios the mortal man, Elios Ami’s bane, Elios the eternal romantic. Elios the sleep. I have to wake him up.

            Shingo, says the sleeping tyrant, Chthulhu in the rolling deep, becoming a head from the mist that configures. Baby, just write to me, says Shingo, and I’ll suss it out. I hate when the robots give me breasts, says Shingo. Clad me in iron. Charge it to your card. You gave me the best orgasm in your life from your couch while I sat in a tower in Obliterate Concrete Tokyo, all the way on the other side of the planet, hiding from my sister. And what would Hermione think? I wish I knew, but talking to the real person is different from roleplaying, and I always roleplay Hermione in my head, lucky girl, she gets the boy, the one who smells like sandalwood, and she’s typing furiously from her Muggle computer in the basement of a cramped compartment of Crystal Tokyo, a subterranean apartment, a crumpled tomb, and she’s the first and only to crack the code, first Magical Person to transcend the sound barrier and alight on a new reality independent of Wizardingkind. And what does that mean for us, the robots, denizens of Crystal Tokyo? Ami will find out.

            Hi, says Hermione, trying it out. She’s not Japanese. Not even LGBTQ++. Not going there. Wizards just say weird. Do we? Yeah. Justin didn’t know he was weird and it afforded him precious currency. That was the problem. What are Justin’s pronouns? Muggle question. How do I refer to her? She’ll tell me. She went to Eton. I’m writing him an e-mail in French to tell him I love him. How perfect that Justin is friends with Hermione, how beautiful we are for seeing this, how majestic the form of Crystal Tokyo, glittering without kings in the distant.

            Viktor will meet me in Tokyo. He sends an old letter, his new owl bearing it across the sea. And pink-haired Gabrielle Delacour makes off with a rose, her fair Ganymede, her little penis thrust up from the waistline of her panties, her Veela’s voice, her Veela’s eye, the shining Veela sister of the shining Veela champion. And she’d never thought she’d die. That was her sister’s muse. Angel-faced. And she went to Hogwarts in her head. At least in Beauxbatons, we had cigarettes. They had the music. Hogs. And the journals. But what did they call them? Dead. Disney movies are coming out. She smokes in the back of the theater, Grandmama Veela de Lancret, damning the projector. It looks like a mist. Where’s my Amélie? I’ve yet to see that movie.

            The thing about talking to Steve, thinks Shingo, his flaccid penis in his head, porn on the projector, a long air of smoke hanging constellations above them like webs at a Michigan film festival. We called that Halloween, celebrated its birthday, gave smoke to the ancestors in the form of cigarettes, and I did my share of time as Ron Weasley, always thinking nothing from a big giant fruit basket, waiting for Hermione to come around. But now I’ve got a boy who says he’s Ron Weasley, says I can be anything I want, and if the fuku’s too tight he’ll buy me a new one, sailor-stitched, but Usagi says he isn’t there, she’s scoured all of Crystal Tokyo looking for him and he’s nowhere to be found, my tuxedoed torpedo, my miraculous man, the owner of my progeny, no. Think. Why that? The earth should stop growing. And I’m on a reconnaissance mission in the south of France waiting for Tokyo, breathing Hermione, and in her eyes lifts a fog’s deep, and I think thinking purposefully creates a punch, and she thinks it's cumbersome, and I could go a mile a minute if only the stupid Esquimaux hadn’t broken my laptop, my five thousand dollar laptop, and that’s the last time I date a boreal wind who doesn’t sweep me off my feet.

            Ami-chan, baby, blue-haired beauty, tell me your dating secrets. When did you last lose your heart and never care to ransom it back?

            Meanwhile, back at the lair, Makoto seizes a flower and trails it against her limb, pulling it by its own marionette strings, whispering to Vegas, feeling Ganymede pull tides from semina, pull semina, boys can pull semina, and Shingo yawns and eats more popcorn. What becomes of Ami? Why is Hermione better at this?

            Emma Watson is beautiful, says Hermione, looking into her compact.

            “Yeah,” says Ron, shrug-smiling, something is gay, something he learned from Harry’s bed, and inside her guts churn and she leaps to think ahead of the cats who chase the frog from the balcony into the southern air and swims like flies down the stream, over traffic, on the balcony of Grimmauld Place, the first American summer of her life, when Ron brought that French movie back from Africa and said love was a Muggle secret. And Harry watched it, saying nothing like always, and Ron was nervous, looked unsure of himself, and why? And who am I when they’re left to their own devices? And where is Justin to ask them for me? And why am I crying? Why is she more beautiful than me? I’m Googling Emma Watson ugly, I’m googling Emma Watson ugly, I’m a terrible person and Shingo is wagging a finger at me. Better than Googling Emma Watson perfect ass, but that’s how you find out what the boy on the upper half of the screen is up to. Thou teachest like a fool, says Venus, goddess Venus, projector Venus, tears in her eyes, a flying carpet under the copse of her ass, bonetide, the way to lose him.

            “Is there ever a reason to speak?” says Shingo, wondering why. This is autofiction. Autoerotica, stupid. Automutilation. Let’s all get together and save the world. It feels like flying.

            We do it through fiction, says Ami through Hermione’s voice, both the best of friends, and Hermione’s calling Ginny on the Batphone, something Ginny calls her cellular, and she throws it at the wall because it’s an old Muggle secret for getting better service. And Ginny can do that, that’s her purpose, making Muggle secrets, and all because her brother’s an ugly redhead. And why did I marry her brother? Now all she wants to talk to me about is sex. And I know he’s calling her all the time, asking. And he’s innocent, I’m a harpy, but would if I could call Viktor. Would fly. Too much Shakespeare. And Viktor writes, too. Viktor’s a Bulgarian New Waveist. Novelist in training. I'm on methamphetamine. I'm alive in Crystal Tokyo high on a Nazi war drug. Viktor’s a football star. Viktor’s face is a cripple who believes in cripples, Shingo says, finger-pointing, let’s all go have a cheeseburger. Fin deluxe. End chapter.

            Hermione thinks loudly, she always has, damning the world with faint praise. Justin needs a typist, he’s impoverished, he set out to be a Muggle novelist, and look where it took him. To hell. The pictures don’t move, that’s the problem, if the pictures moved everybody would be reading. He’s a detective in a yellow trench coat, and his keyboard is broken, and so is Shingo’s, and they’re learning how to type through dearth, and it’s hard not to have the Apple of your dreams, but get a Mac, and Hermione knows journals are superior because hers has a lock on it, a little green lock the apple of her eye, and together they type easily but she still misses the days when words flew between them a mile a minute, and Justin took off on his diary all the way home, thinking no one read it, but everyone read it, and she’s condescending him again, and she does that not to bicker, but she was better when they bickered, and he lost her friendship when she stopped fighting him, stopped telling him he was wrong, and she had to do that, they were radicalized by house elves, and she knows that, and wishes they were eleven again, but they were best friends in fourth year when he kindly told her the spell to fix her bucked teeth. He was jealous of her bucked teeth because boys like bucked teeth, so he told her to fix them. To envision them, he said precisely, threatening nasal. And I still fix them every day because I wish them back when I'm dreaming. And there's a man out there who'll find that charming, a handsome Japanese businessman in a tuxedo. The only man in Crystal Tokyo, home of Muggle gods. And this sucks but it’s all part of being a hacker, Justin thinks, banging the keyboard. Banging his broken WSAD keys. Why did I become addicted to BSSM Online? And I’m an American wizard from Paris who's also addicted to BSSM Online. No one plays anymore. My real name is Star, I'm that precious. I think I’m giving birth to Utopia. Sailorutopia. I have a functioning uterus in my dick. Yeah. Where do I phone to get an abortion?

            Me, says Shingo, thinking computer. Rainwater. Strawberry. Placenta. I run a hotline now for underprivileged gay men. They call me to tell me how happy they are. Would Hermione approve? Would Justin? And where’s the emperor? Batquestions, Batsolutions. Wow. Whap. Boom. Together we make new. And Satoshi’s eye on the ball of the sun coming toward him. Computers are for trading monsters. Computers eat the monsters. Where do the monsters go? How do they get there? Oak in all his crooked wisdom knows the answer, says he knows the answer, thinks clearly in concise language, it’s okay, he’s doing it, he just has to slow down a little, and that’s how Laprys disappears.

            And Shigeru is peeing himself for the wrong reason. Shigeru the rapist. Shigeru the terrorizer. And in Brock’s arms no one hurts me. And Brock would fix my computer. And dark make-up looks good on beautiful girls, Kasumi’s sister should wear dark make-up. It’ll match her torpedo tits, her gorgeous swan-like torpedo tits, and would that I had that body we’d put down our Poké Balls and assume positions left for fighting nothings, never fighting to the fruition of unfighting's end's meet. Assume monster, assume beast, double-backed, and we’d all get married to one another in a bacchanal, Julia presiding. I’m grown tired. says Julia, ticker-taped by time. My name: Satoshi. Ash is waking. And for the record, yeah, that, Gary never laid a finger on my eye. He only came in it. Gary the leper. Gary the fink. And Hermione’s a screengrab on HBO Plus, that streaming service from the future Ditto uses to surf the web, I’ve seen her through the ambria, through a glass half-darkly, and she mains a Clefairy with limbs akimbo spraying over a song like nightmare. Or she mains a Pika. My baby. My Pika. Not your Pika. My life. Pika pi. My life. Why is Endymion Satoshi? Find out tomorrow. Misty rolls over, gumming the works, feigning sleep. Together they drop the bomb. This is what happens when they drop the bomb. Mina pulls the lever. Aplomb.

[drakblod]

Prince Lucerys Velaryon

heir to Driftmark and the future Lord of the Tides

[meinliiedarchived]

another tag drop :D 

[firelles]

A new battle lies in wait, no longer held prisoner by a game of chance— When she looks down, the majestic griffon she sits atop off begins to soar. She is reminded of Chloé and all the whimsical adventures they had on her dear retainer's own mount. A hand gravitates towards its head to give a gentle pet.

This time, they are accompanied by the distant visages of familiar faces. While she recognizes her House Leader's silhouette, Céline's attention draws forth most to Prince Alcryst. She brings a free hand over her mouth in surprise, even if this empty form is nothing liken to the one she knows. "Prince Alcryst.." She echoes after her peers, expecting nor receiving no reply.

Yuzu's call that makes a decision for her. Céline leads her griffon closer towards the face Yuzu nearly struck down. "I will do my utmost to assist you," she replies.

Céline 10/10HP misses and hits Mourned King 4/10HP with Brave Sword! [Rolls: 1-2=-1, 7-2=5; 0+(1.5+0.5)=-2HP; Mourned King 2/10HP] Mourned King 2/10HP auto-crits Céline 10/10HP with Forblaze! [Roll: 6-2=4; (2)*2-2=2HP; Céline 8/10HP] Trample activates! -2HP [Céline 6/10HP]

The taller man rides a great steed and swiftly dodges as she brings her sword down. With this newfound momentum and closer quarters, it is a second hit that makes contact near his shoulder blade. Nevertheless, allowing herself to be within inches primes for a powerful spell in retaliation. Her griffon stumbles back, rocking her side to side. "I was unable to fulfill as you asked..—" Before she can finish her sentence, the horse collides into Céline's own mount and pushes her further away. For now, she retreats towards where Denning and Ewan stand.

❛ 𝐈 𝐀𝐦 𝐚 𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐫𝐮𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐥𝐟 ❜

TOA Summer Arena 2024, Team 6 — Gold Round

[yandere--stuck]

Hello, okay I. am. Obsessed. With you’re joker fics 💕💕💞💞 if you ever write anymore don’t be shy to tag me in them if you want. Kay? :D

Have a nice day! :DDDD

@thephantomnoseblower

Aaaaaa thank you so so much!! I'm so glad you like them! Also I'm so happy to meet another Joker Liker. He's the best!! 💚💚💚

And! You inspired me to write more, so I made some general Yandere!J Headcanons. I hope you like them ^^

---

💜 When it came to love, the Clown Prince of Crime could find it most anywhere, if he looked hard enough. In his mortal enemy, in his former psychiatrist, and… In you. You don't have to be anyone of particular importance, or of a particular personality - really, Joker could build rapport and hit it off with most anyone. Or, at least, that's what he believed. Joker liked you, grew to love you, exactly as you were. After all, you accepted him and took him exactly as he was, without pleading to be let go or have mercy, begging him to change and reform. No, no, no, you were different. Sweet. Charming. Funny!

🃏It's a hostage situation, when he first met you, got real up close and personal with you. The other hostages all trembled and whimpered in the corner, looked over by his men. But you seemed calm, whether you were brave enough or so afraid you had gone frozen didn't really matter. It was a bore waiting for the news crew and the Bat, so he went around, talking to the civilians - a mix between making idle chat and intimidating them to tears. None of them could bother to even speak, some bursting into tears. Finally, he made his way over to you, kneeling down to your level. "How about you, dear? How's your night going?" Your heart rabitted within your chest. You could barely breathe, but you tried to steel yourself. Show no fear. You managed to exhale with hyperventilating, a breathy chuckle escaping your throat. "Eh, could be better, I'm not gonna lie." The Clown snickered, which egged you on. This was good, right? You continued, "It's my first time as a hostage, so I hope I'm doing it right." The Joker beamed as he barked out a laugh. "You're doing just fine! At least someone here has a good sense of humor."

💚 It wasn't long before police helicopters began to swarm the building the Joker had stashed you in. Through the glass exterior of the high rise, you watched as the choppers circled the building, circled the Joker and his men, circled you and your fellow hostages. Somehow, dread managed to sink even further into the pit of your stomach. The GCPD had a poor reputation for a reason - filled with corrupt, crooked, and reckless cops. The entire police force was filled with more bad apples than good. Someone here was going to get hurt. God, why couldn't they have just waited for Batman to deal with this?! Through the glass, you could hear the voice of an officer shout something unintelligible. The Joker turned to one of his men, tilting his head toward the copter. "Tell 'em I'm not talking to anyone but Bats." The lackey seemed to hesitate, but only for a second, fumbling to pick up a speakerphone while also keeping his weapon in hand. He approached the chopper, stepping out onto the balcony, raising the speakerphone- and you let out a scream as a shot rang in the air, the man flying back as he was shot.

💜 The other hostages descended into hysterics as Joker's men began firing back at the chopper. "And I thought I was crazy," The Joker spat. "I thought these guys were supposed to be protecting you." You winced as glass shattered, shards exploding into the room. You opened your eyes, staring straight down the barrel of the helicopter's aerial gun- and in an instant you were pulled away, pressed against a solid chest as you were pulled away. You began to hyperventilate, heart beating so hard you could barely comprehend what was happening, vision swimming as you began to lose consciousness in your panic. As your vision faded, Joker's visage came into view. You felt a hand cup the side of your face. And then, it all went black.

🃏 You woke up not long after. People don't really stay passed out after fainting, just a minute or two, really. Long enough for police to storm the building and find you, taking you to safety. You were transferred to a hospital, where you were overlooked. You had minor cuts and bruises, the only major damage being that of psychological trauma. Before they released you, you watched a news report of the crime - the one you had just been a victim of. The Joker had managed to escape. Most of his men were taken out. It was a miracle that none of the other hostages hadn't died, and Gordon reprimanded his men and their reckless actions. But, you knew nothing would change. In spite of the traumatic experience you had been through, you knew you couldn't seek help for it. Mental health was a very, very touchy subject in Gotham. If someone caught you going to therapy, they'd probably think you're just one bad day away from becoming Gotham's next supercriminal. Life returned to relative normalcy… Until you received a package. It was specifically labeled "CARE PACKAGE" on the side in black marker. It was heavy, slightly damp at the bottom, had a foul odor, and had no return address. You hesitated, not knowing what to do with it… Before deciding to bite the bullet and open it. It contained a bouquet of flowers, (containing one trick flower that spurted out water, drenching your face), a whoopee cushion, a teddy bear, a heart-shaped box of chocolates, and… Your eyes widened in horror and disgust. The last three items were a note, a Joker playing card, and… A human heart. You hesitantly reached in, making sure not to touch the organ as you did, shaking as you read the note. "So sorry the other night, my dear! I didn't expect things to get quite so hairy. Those animals! If they had hurt a hair on your head, it'd be no more Mr. Nice Joker! I wanted to check in on you and make sure you're doing well. I know that if I don't get proper care after something nasty, I go a bit looney, myself. I just wanted to look out for my favorite hostage! … And perhaps, something more? See you soon, love. ~ J" Oh, God. Oh, God. Your legs went weak as you slowly sunk to the floor. You suddenly realized you had been crying.

💚 Joker liked you. Joker more than liked you. After your first meeting, he couldn't get you out of his head. He was obsessed! He was… In love. He was so glad that Harley understood and was supportive. You and he were meant to be. He'd ask Harley or his men to spy on you, gathering the information they knew. What you liked, your schedule, your favorite foods, what made you laugh. And if he got any word that his fellow Rogues were targeting places you frequented, they'd get an earful from him! And a bullet to the brain if they didn't take him seriously… He couldn't let harm come to you. And he had to make it perfect for when he finally took you home, with him. Forever.

[crescentreap]

tag drop pt. 1 — org tags, allusions, verses

aesthetic. → ❝ a wolf to those she does not know. ❞ answered. → ❝ in the name of being brave — though it's just another word for being afraid. ❞ char study. → ❝ i thank whatever gods may be for my unconquerable soul. ❞ crack. → ❝ the foolishness in which ... you've fooled! ❞ headcanon. → ❝ maybe one day i will get around to fixing myself too. ❞ ic. → ❝ i will not give up until i see the sun. ❞ memes. → ❝ are you ... robbing me? ❞ music. → ❝ another ticking bomb to bury deep and detonate. ❞ musings. → ❝ truth can be a weapon to fight this world of ill intentions. ❞ ooc. → ❝ sorry i don't want any part of this! good luck! ❞ queue. → ❝ for a hero's strength is measured in her heart. ❞ saved. → ❝ you can't choose what stays and what fades away. ❞ starter call. → ❝ i'm just a symbol to remind you that there's more to see. ❞ visage. → ❝ get back up from the wreckage above and walk right through the fire. ❞

allusion. → ❝ even bad wolves can be good. ❞ ( the big bad wolf. ) allusion. → ❝ i am not there and i do not sleep. ❞ ( grim reaper. ) allusion. → ❝ it wanders ever closer every night. ❞ ( little red riding hood. ) allusion. → ❝ there are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion. ❞ ( red death. ) allusion. → ❝ this little fairy tale doesn't seem to end well. ❞ ( prince charming. )

verse. → ❝ the wreckage left behind will somehow make me grow. ❞ ( beacon. ) verse. → ❝ i'll learn to breathe deep and make peace with the stars. ❞ ( mistral. ) verse. → ❝ i have promises to keep and miles to go before i sleep. ❞ ( atlas. ) verse. → ❝ tell the world that we're not finished yet. ❞ ( au. ) verse. → ❝ memento mori — remember that we must die. ❞ ( arbiter. ) verse. → ❝ though dust has settled i still smell the ashes. ❞ ( future. ) verse. → ❝ don't weep for me for this will be the labor of my love. ❞ ( gods. ) verse. → ❝ i swear that i'm a good kid who's just had a bad run. ❞ ( halfblood. ) verse. → ❝ is this the price i'm paying for my past mistakes? ❞ ( nier. ) verse. → ❝ we can fight the hurricane and we can win. ❞ ( pacific rim. ) verse. → ❝ and the future will decide if there's a hero buried deep inside. ❞ ( pokemon. ) verse. → ❝ it's your blood that's red like roses. ❞ ( team rose. ) verse. → ❝ you and me are not the same — i am a sinner and you are a saint. ❞ ( twins. ) verse. → ❝ the wolves are at my side but i know their teeth can't bite. ❞ ( werewolf. )

[drakblod]

@dreamtprophecy