#does she mourn that boy or has she been doing that since she first saw his father in Snow’s eyes?

[godofstupidsentences]

The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes, Suzanne Collins / Antigone, Sofocles

How do you mourn a brother you wanted dead?

[lady-ashfade]

A Son For A Son

´*: ･ﾟ⋆˒ Deamons Bastard!Reader x Yan!Team black. Pt.2

╰･ﾟ✧☽ first fic here.

╰･ﾟ✧☽ summary: the queen has given a order, and craving revenge you expect.

╰･ﾟ✧☽ words: 1k

╰･ﾟ✧☽ warnings: blood & gore, murder and death, reader killing, reader being her father, uncanon events, poison, I just needed to make this.

╰･ﾟ✧☽ DONT READ IF YOU WANNA BE SPOILED: reader does in fact kill aemond in this and idk if you are happy about it, I want his head to take to my queen.

“I want Aemond Targaryen.” she stood before the council covered in dirt and who knows what.

It had been two weeks since the letter about the death of Lucaerys had arrived and you all had been the worst for it. and ever since she searched and searched for a sign of truth, desperate to be wrong. that her sweet boy was alive. you knew he was dead and you wanted everyone to pay for taking luke. you wanted aemond targaryen to pay. you took anger out on the ones you could, or roamed the sky’s to get your mind off of things. you would not act without her orders.

The resemblance you shared to daemon was close and terrifying for your foes. just as you had the idea to fulfill her wishes, your father did too.

“I don’t know what you’re planning,” the sound of your voice made his shoulders fall and a smirk appear on his face, one you couldn’t see. a dark cloak draped over his shoulders and matched the same one across your frame. “but I have a better one.”

“No.” you glare at the back of his head. again denied something worth your talents.

“You can’t tell me what do to this time father.” standing your ground as his eyes turn around, a look he uses when he’s serious. and for him it was like looking into a mirror, you carved blood just like he did and loved getting to spill it. even for no reason at all.

“I have waited around for a task, and she has said she wants Aemond. I mourn the loss of my brother too, and you can not keep me from whatever it is that you think you’re protecting me from.”

Hundreds of men died at the end of your blade at night as you slip throughout the shadows. you were a slayer, a assassin who followed your own roles but loved coin and the game. a story to tell children to make them weep and fear the dark. so how could he still think you are not ready.

“I have let you do what you needed, patrol the blockade against my wishes. or fly alone when our enemies wait to make us weaker” he lectures, “and I will not let them take you.” for a moment you saw a regular father begging for his daughter to stay safe. you aren’t just a daughter now but a soldier in war.

“I would never let them take me,” you step closer and give him a smug look, “I am your daughter after all.”

Instead of going himself, daemon sends you, for the head of the copycat prince.

the castle gates are easy to slip passed with the help of a guard who shares your hatred for the hightowers. and many times, you slip into the keep without getting caught.

“Something told me you’d be here,” his eye glanced at you amused from the cough as his fingertips spin a coin. “It’s as if the gods made me stay here.” aemond unfolded his legs and leaned forward on his knees. many years you hated the way he spoke to you like a interest of his to be claimed like his bitch dragon.

“Then the gods agree you’ll die tonight.”

aemond waited for this moment to finally fight you. he wanted to win and keep you forever as a trophy, a wife who was like him and everyone feared without a doubt. he wasn’t a fool, you are a skilled killer and he needed to bring his all. and some skills stayed in the dark.

a slice in his chest, in his leg and cheek aren’t as bad as he thought when he had you pinned down onto the table. the cold feeling of metal as his hands wrapped around your throat was refreshing. you didn’t try and fight back as he took your breath because the fight was won as soon as it started.

And he should have known you couldn’t be this sloppy.

curling lips up into a devil’s smirk, looking into his eye he feels himself weakened and his grip loosen. the power of letting a man win and wiping all power from beneath their feet was riveting and a hobby. Aemond leaned back and placed his weight onto the couch while trying to keep composure. “You honestly think i wouldn’t have a plan? Make my own rules?” you raise a brow and rub the sore skin of your neck, inching closer while standing up yourself.

“Silent reaper is the name they whisper about me, come in quickly without notice. I always kill my enemies without them awake, but you,” you point and lean down as his eyes become bloodshot, “I want to feel the most pain. And I will enjoy it.” within a few minutes his body starts to leak its own blood. he was quickly taken to death of course, you couldn’t hear his pleads but you’ll satisfy with his death.

guards fall silent when they watch you walk through the halls they don’t even announce your name. white locks lace your fingers and the weight of his head was little and you look like your father with the proud eyes of what you did. the sounds of your footsteps cause the council to glance over but stay with shock. non of them expected to see that and much less out of no where. though, your father seemed pleased and chuckled at the sight.

“The head of Prince Aemond Targaryen, your Grace.” Walking past Jace you set the bloody head on the table as people gawk and flinch. “the poison was my idea, hope you don’t mind.” a second later you yawn of exhaustion and boredom. you look at rhaenrya as her eyes glossed with the revenge you took for her.

“If you’ll excuse me, the ride back was tiring and I wish to get back to my book.” bowing down you flash a “polite” smile and walk away to your chambers with pride and a hand rested on your blade. with everyone wondering what else you would do for the queen,

Your mother.

[hughiecampbelle]

The Boys Preference: Being Becca and Butchers Child

Requested: Firstly HAPPY BIRTHDAY GIRL!!!!!! ﾟ+.ヽ(≧▽≦)ﾉ.+ﾟ. Secondly, could u write like some headcanon about being Butcher's child (like who is two years older than Ryan) and how other members from the boys (+ maybe Soldier boy, cause of season 3 and how he would interact with them :3) - anon

A/N: Thank you my love!!! In the headcanon I made reader 10+ years older so they'd be at least 18 by the time they found out about Becca and Ryan, I hope you don't mind!! That way they can be part of The Boys and grow up with them, if that makes sense? I also had a very similar request of a headcanon so I'm basing it off that so there's some background :) I love this request!!! Feedback is always appreciated 💜💜💜

Headcanon Pt. 1 / Headcanon Pt. 2

Butcher knew he couldn't take care of you. He was getting drunk every night, picking fights at bars, searching the city for your mom. Your perfect grades were slipping, you were getting into fights at school, you were emulating him. He knew how dangerous that was. First with your Aunt, then your Great Aunt, until you tracked him down all these years later. He still has a picture of you in his wallet, a baby picture that's creased and faded. You and Becca. You've grown up since then, though. And you're angry. He insist you go back to Judy, pretend you never saw or heard what you did, but you refuse. You want to pick a fight with him. You want to yell and scream and get out eight years worth of grief. He understands where you're coming from, he does. He never wanted to be like his father and yet, in so many ways, that's exactly who he was. Your relationship will never be what it is. That's not possible anymore. You have to learn to deal with one another now, in the present, instead of the happy kid you used to be, instead of the dad he used to be. It hurts you both to think about the past, who you could have been instead of who you are.

Hughie isn't really sure what to do with you. There's no doubt you're Butcher's kid. He's still relatively new to the team, so he just assumed this was something else Butcher hadn't shared with him. When he realizes no one knew about your existence, he's shocked. You, like your father, gravitate towards Hughie for reasons you can't put into words. You'll let him sit next to you when you're watching TV and maybe even talk to him if you're in the right mood. You don't shoot daggers at him like you try with everyone else. Similar to a cat, he's someone you can stand to be around. He comes to your defense a lot, especially when you stumble in drunk and pass out for the day. He's sure if any of them had been raised by Butcher, or at least the outside relatives, they would have turned out exactly like you. He can't blame you for being angry, or pissed, or hurt. He can see the hurt better than anyone else no matter how much you try to hide it. He thinks you just need some time and empathy to get straightened out. The least they can do is offer that, right?

Annie has no idea what to do with you. She tried smiling and talking to you, but you didn't want anything to do with her. She reminds you too much of your Aunt. She always said you should be happier, bubblier, that you were so smiley as a kid. You couldn't live in the past like her, with her. Too much had changed. Hughie assures her it's nothing against her, you're just getting used to things. She thinks it's sweet how you're attracted to Hughie. He's the only one you mildly respect and even, once in a blue moon, listens to. She doesn't take it too personally considering you're ready to rip your fathers head off. It could be a lot worse. Over time you see that Annie and Hughie are together and that definitely earns her some points. Annie can't imagine what your life must have looked like, all those years mourning your mother and father, all those years spent with relatives just doing their best. She understood why you were so angry all the time, so cagey and spiky. She doesn't hold it against you.

M.M. feels conflicted. Betrayed isn't the right word, but it's the closest thing he can come up with. He never 100% trusted Butcher. He was always going behind everyone's backs, doing what he wanted despite the good of the team, etc. He was destructive, combative, and spiteful. But, he thought they knew each other better than that. When he met you he couldn't deny you were Butcher's. Your mannerisms, the crazed look in your eye when you were upset, it all matched your father. He can't help but see you like how he sees Janine, even if you're much older: a victim of Vought. A generational curse. You're stubborn, and angry, and distant all because of what's been done to you, all because of Homelander. If your mom had been around, if Homelander had never done what he'd done, you'd still have your perfect family. He feels this need to protect you the same way he does with your father, even if you both fight him on it, even if you don't want or deserve it. He can't help it.

Frenchie doesn't trust you the same way he doesn't trust your father. He especially doesn't like that you and Kimiko are so close. She doesn't tell him anything about your conversations, knowing it would completely break your trust if she did. He believes Butcher would hide something as big and important as a child. He knows what your family can be like. Lying, drunken, selfish, vengeful. You're only a few of those things, not that he can tell the difference. You know Frenchie isn't your biggest fan, so you love messing with him, teasing him, rubbing it in his face that you and Kimiko are close. Similar to your father, Frenchie thinks this isn't the kind of place for you. You have no idea what you're getting yourself into. M.M. might feel fatherly towards you, but Frenchie sees you as a Mini Butcher, just another handful no one on the team can deal with. You yell and scream and fight and drink. That proves to him you're still a child despite it all.

Kimiko adores you. Despite the difference in circumstances, she sees a lot of herself in you. Ripped from your family, angry and hostile and doing everything in your power not to get hurt again. Besides Hughie, you'd warm up to her second. You're actually incredibly smart despite never applying yourself and pick up the signs pretty quickly. Whatever you can't sign, you write to her, wanting your conversations to stay secret. You show her the pictures of your mom that you kept all these years, telling her all about the good times you had before she disappeared. When you see Butcher you instantly grow hostile, angry all over again, and the person she saw, the person she was just talking to who was kind, and thoughtful, and smart totally disappears. When you blast your angry music she never minds. In fact, she quite likes it, adding it to her own playlist. She doesn't look at you like you need fixing or, worse, need to get out of here.

Bonus! Homelander always knew about you. Becca was more than willing to talk about you and Billy to co-workers. He even remembers taking that picture with you that one Christmas. He's kept an eye on you through the years, but you never seemed like the vengeful type. You never knew what happened after your father abandoned you. He does, however, use it as leverage against Becca. Remember the kid you left behind? Seems like she's got favorites. Becca agonizes over leaving you, but she was caught between a rock and a hard place. He uses you to keep her there, in her place. He gives her updates, usually to make her feel bad. You're kid drinks way too much, did you know that? Of course you didn't. He loves to tell her that Butcher abandoned you all those years ago. He loves to see that it absolutely kills her. He's not worried about you coming after him. You've got to work through your issues before you get to him and therapy for a lifetime couldn't get you an Butcher on the same page.

Bonus! Soldier Boy would actually get along with you. I think you'd have a Worst Dad Competition and though you're close, you definitely think you win. You two share a drink and you tell him all about your dear old dad. "No wonder you turned out like this." Ben says, pouring you more. Hughie urges you to slow down, but you have a high tolerance. Ben, to piss of Butcher, will always take your side in arguments and uses what you told him against him. "You dumped them off and never looked back. Now you're parenting?" Butcher absolutely hates it. You tell him about your mom, how much she loved you, how she was killed. You don't mention Ryan though, knowing Ben's go to answer would be to seek revenge. You have a lot of complicated feelings around your brother, but you still have a burning Hatred for Homelander. You make Ben promise he'll kill him. He does, even if it means killing his son. You two bond really fast. Neither Hughie nor Butcher trusts it or him, but you do.

[jaidenk-nox]

Elizabeth midford

Shitty 2AM rant on the Misogyny that Lizzy has faced since the very start but it's the perspective of someone who has witnessed the horrors of Misogyny in Spanish speaking fandom

I should mention that English is not my first language and I'm not very good with it either, so most of this was done with Google Translate and I tried to correct what I could, I hope it's at least readable

I've never seen enough people point out the fact that Elizabeth midford character also defies the "Girlboss" archetype, she is definitely physically strong and can protect herself, but she is A 15 YEAR OLD GIRL, who manages her emotions like someone her age would and also exhibits many neurodivergent traits. I have always been bothered by the way physical strength is misunderstood as a "girlboss" trait, the simplest example I can think of is Ran Mao, she possesses brutal and superhuman strength. but it doesn't make her a girlboss, in case anyone forgets Ran is a girl who barely reaches 18 years old and is exploited by an opium trader who also seems to be involved in human trafficking (implied in the manga). Is she really a girlboss? girlboss when her physical strength is more of a requirement to SURVIVE while working as an assassin and sometimes seductress (which u can tell she doesn't enjoy much)? Obviously Ranmao's social reality is very different as she is a woman of color from the underworld, unlike Elizabeth, who is a white woman from the nobility. However, her physical strength has always been a double-edged sword for herself. Lizzy longs to get married, like any other girl her age, she longs to be protected but says goodbye to it the moment Ociel returns.

I may seem a bit exaggerated, but the way your sociocultural background affects the way you perceive and treat a character has me slightly traumatized, I wish I could give proof of the horrible and degrading treatment that Lizzy has received from the Spanish-speaking fandom.

I am a trans boy of color who grew up watching my female relatives being encouraged to rip their hearts out of their chest from the moment they turned 8yo for the simple goal of caring for and protecting my cis male relatives. household chores, cooking for them, washing their clothes, taking accountability for their actions. Their freedom and childhood as little girls were taken away from them. but none of that was ever valued, I never saw anyone recognize it as sacrifice.

Elizabeth is not a woman of color, nor does she have those demands as a woman of nobility, but she SACRIFICED stuff to try to protect Ciel on her own way, I have seen many people underestimate her backstory in book of Atlantic because "High heeled shoes aren't reason to cry." Everything Lizzy has done for Ciel is devalued, all her suffering has been minimized. losing so many family members in such a short time, losing the boy you were raised to marry your entire life. People truly forget that lizzy is still just a child, that she has the right to mourn everything she lost that day. She had to mourn publicly as a noble girl,she probably heard that she would never be able to get married or would never achieve happiness, I've never seen any adult to stop and think about how heartbreaking and soul shattering that must have been as a 11yo

I have seen how EVERY thing Lizzy does is judged. how her behavior, personality and temperament are criticized. but other characters like Soma just get a pass while doing the same stuff, but this does not just stop at gender, but also at age. people HATE girls and afabs who act like children when they are literally CHILDREN.

How is it possible that Lizzy has faced such harsh judgment from the fandom when there are other characters like Maam red, Lau, Grell, Undertaker who are universally ADORED or atleast respected in the fandom.

I love u Elizabeth midford but ur character makes me violently ill omfg

[flowercrowngods]

part 1 | part 2 (these make one big story, you won't understand this part without the others)

day 03: first kiss

a/n: not sure if I vibe with this part, but I hope it's okay. also don't think you're getting fluff

A broken heart is such a thing that will make you live either in the past or in the future; never in the present moment. Lovesickness feels like a virus is attacking the very fabric of your universe, distorting time and space and leaving you floating; directionless and hurting. 

That is how Steve feels as he goes through the motions of his life, getting his kids ready for finals, for their oral and written exams, or planning end-of-year school trips. While school provides a great distraction and he has mastered the art of switching into teacher mode almost effortlessly, he feels like he’s just an inch or two beside himself. Beside where he should be. 

He’s dwelling in the past or mourning dozens of possible futures, an infinity of them that will end up unrealised, unlived, unloved. His heart is heavy all the time, his head hurting, and his phone chiming with an endless string of messages that go unopened, unreplied. 

It’s been a few weeks since the engagement party, since he last saw Eddie — who asked if he was okay, who has been asking to see him again, to hang out, have a drink, just catch up. But every time he does, Steve just hurts, and he finds excuses. 

— Sorry, it’s finals season, I’ll be spread thin for the next few weeks :(

Eddie had replied with a litany of sad, brokenhearted emojis that were at equal measures ridiculous as they were exactly what Steve was feeling. Is feeling. Will probably always be feeling, for the rest of his life and beyond. 

So far, Eddie hasn’t asked him to be his best man. Steve sort of doesn’t want to give him the opportunity for that. He’s cowardly enough to wish he could avoid Eddie forever if only that meant he wouldn’t have to see his face fall and crumble when he tells him, No. 

No, I can’t be your best man. I can’t make it to the wedding. I can’t make it, I can’t do this, I can’t stand by and watch as you show me and the rest of the world that your dream life is not with me. Never with me. I can’t hand you over when all I wanna do is hold you. Hold your hand. Walk you down the aisle and then sweep you up in my arms, just to run out, run away; anywhere, as long as it’s with you. 

It doesn’t make sense. There won’t be an aisle, there won’t be any sweeping, there won’t be a future for them. Never has been. Not like this. 

Although there was a brief moment in time where their futures almost aligned. Almost. The timing was never right, though, stumbling through the motions and currents of two lost boys’ emotions. But it was almost there, almost enough.

And it's what's been on Steve's mind all week, playing and replaying, tearing at him from the inside out, leaving him with a jigsaw puzzle of infinite pieces of could have beens, would have beens, and what ifs.

"You know," he tells Robin one evening, who has practically moved in now, claiming that broken hearts are best nursed together. "I was actually Eddie's first kiss."

To her credit, Robin doesn't drop the carton pizza at Steve's non-sequitur. She just swallows hard and looks at him in that careful way she has now, where she's trying to read him and ask his eyes to tell her what it is that she should say next. It's frustrating. It's the greatest kindness anyone has ever shown him. It makes him want to punch a wall, and it makes him want to wrap her in the warmest hug and never, ever let her go.

"You were?"

Steve just nods, his lips trembling as his throat closes up again.

"No," she says in the gentlest voice, taking his hand as she guides him to the living room couch. "I didn't know that. Do you wanna talk about it?"

He shakes his head, tucking his feet under her thigh and leaning sideways against the backrest of the couch. His head is heavy and he's tired. He's always tired, even though he doesn't cry as much anymore. It's been four weeks since the engagement party.

"No, I just, uh– Just wanted to say that."

She nods, her eyes boring into him for two, three, four seconds before she finally turns to her pizza.

He looks past her, his eyes unfocused as his mind travels back to that day when they were still in high school.

~*~

The day that Eddie told him he was gay. And Steve had asked how he knew, because he'd been wondering about his own sexuality.

"I don't know, I just know."

"Well, have you ever kissed a boy?"

And Eddie had blushed a little, charred with his feet in the dirt like he always did – still does. "No."

"Okay."

And Steve, ten years ago, had thought, why not kill two birds with one stone. "Would you like to?"

"Huh?"

"Well, I mean, I'm kinda on the fence about it? Sometimes I think I might like guys, but then other times not so much. But I've never kissed one either, so," he shrugged. "If you, like, want to? We can."

"You want me to kiss you?" Eddie sounded incredulous, but his eyes were very big, very dark, very vulnerable. And it was not a no.

"Only if you want to."

A grin split Eddie's face then and he raised his eyebrows suggestively, but there was something forced about it. "Well, what If I fall madly in love with you, Steve Harrington, hm? What then?"

"Oh, please," Steve had only snorted; the thought that Eddie would fall for him out of all people was just too absurd.

And then something had shifted between them, the air turned into something sizzling as Eddie's smile fell and he stepped closer to Steve, raising one hand to his cheek.

"Here goes my first kiss," he murmured.

"Ever?"

"If we discount Lisa from kindergarten, then yes."

Steve huffed, looking down at Eddie's lips, the moment strangely intimate – but not uncomfortably so. Being this close to Eddie wasn't something new, Steve was used to his friend's tactile nature. "Fuck Lisa from kindergarten."

"I'd really rather not," Eddie smiled before finally, finally leaning in and capturing Steve's lips in a kiss.

To this day, Steve is not sure why he went and deepened the kiss like he did. Was it because he knew this was Eddie's first and he wanted to make it good, make it last? Was it because something deep inside of him knew that he liked boys, too, and that he liked Eddie, even though that realisation wouldn't come for another year at least?

He doesn't know why, but he feels it on his lips still, the memory of their first kiss. Their only kiss. A spectacular one that ended with twin smiles after Steve showed Eddie how to move his lips, how to tilt his head, how to open his mouth to let him in. How to capture the little sigh that he would make.

Eddie had looked at him, a little dazed, and Steve grinned at him, delighted at his expression more than at the kiss itself.

"A-And did you," Eddie started, pulling his hands away from Steve and shoving them deeply into his pockets. "Did you get any closer to, uh, to finding out?"

"If I like guys?"

Eddie nodded.

Steve thought about it; about the kiss and how it wasn't as soft as making out with Nancy or Allison. How he would swallow their moans and run his hands along their soft bodies. Eddie wasn't like that. Eddie was just Eddie.

"I think I'll just stick with girls for now," he shrugged with a smile, patting Eddie on the shoulder and squeezing lightly when the other boy began to sway a little.

"Suit yourself, Harrington," Eddie said, shoving him a little. "But you're missing out."

Years later, Eddie had drunkenly confessed to him that he'd had a crush on Steve back then. For years. And Steve had wanted to ask about it, ask if it's still there, that crush, that connection on a deeper, closer level; but then Eddie told him, "Remember Chrissy? We're official now."

And all the words had died on Steve's lips. All those questions, or the confession that, Yeah, me too. Though Steve's crush on Eddie was much later, years after their first kiss, – and it never really ended.

Still hasn't. And it's not a crush. It's more. It's everything.. He's in love. In it. Caught, stuck, trapped inside, while Eddie and everyone else is on the outside, just watching him struggle.

~*~

Later that night, on his umpteenth re-run of the First Kiss Episode that's keeping him from falling asleep, leaving him frustrated and sad and wondering, his phone rings. Eddie's name pops up on the screen, the impersonal Eddie Munson feels like a knife through his heart. He couldn't bear any of the silly nicknames that Eddie's always had in his phone, and needed to go back to a clean slate.

It hurts, though. He watches, considering to let it go to voicemail – but he hasn't talked to his... to Eddie in four weeks. Barely even talked to him on his engagement party.

And even though there's a chance opening for Eddie to ask him or to talk about his wedding, Steve answers the call.

"Stevie," Eddie says, somewhere between a sigh and a hum, and immediately takes away Steve's breath.

"Hi," he rasps. His heart is racing, his hands begin to tremble and he's shaking even under the thick, warm blanket.

"Did I wake you?"

He hums a negative, not trusting himself to speak, and it comes out a pathetic croak, because God, he missed Eddie. Part of him was missing – part of him will always be missing now, he knows –, and it makes him cry. It's not a sob, not a wail, not anything that Eddie can hear or something that would alarm Robin in the other room.

They're silent tears, and he presses his face into the pillow. He should hang up.

"Stevie?" Eddie asks again, his voice so small, so gentle, so worried. "Are you okay?" And after a moment of Steve being unresponsive because he can't catch his breath without gasping, Eddie asks, "Are you crying?"

And just like a kid that tries to be brave through the pain after falling down, but breaks the moment someone asks if they're hurt, Steve lets out a tiny, broken little sob.

"Oh, Stevie baby," Eddie sighs, and he sounds so sad, so compassionate, Steve never wants to hear his name like that ever again. "Do you want me to come over?"

"No," he croaks pathetically, hitting himself once, twice, three times for not keeping it together. For not being strong enough.

I can't do this.

"What do you need?"

"Sleep," he sniffles, stupidly.

"Okay. Then I'll stay here and be silent company, yeah? Don't need to be alone. Is Robin there?" He hums again, affirmative. "Good. Want me to say something? Read to you, tell you a story? Play you some music or–"

"Eddie," Steve manages. I love you. "Just silence? But you don't have to."

"Nah, I'll stay with you," Eddie says before Steve even finished his objections. "Until you've fallen asleep, yeah?"

Steve just nods into his pillow, even though Eddie can't see or hear it.

He's watching the seconds turn into minutes as the time passes. He's so tired, but he doesn't want to let go yet. Not when Eddie is right there. Not when there's still the phantom feeling of his lips capturing Steve's, a memory that is ten years old and still as strong as the very first second.

He should have known, then. Should have leaned in for another kiss, should have told Eddie that he knows he's into boys now, too, and ask Eddie to keep kissing him.

He shouldn't have taken years.

He should have created a new world just for the two of them, with an infinite amount of futures, and all go them happy. All of them SteveAndEddie.

But he didn't. And he wants to apologise. For being so slow, for not knowing until it was too late. For pulling away these past few weeks when that's the last thing he ever wants to do. For not being strong enough; for being too weak.

I'm in love with you, he thinks. Over and over and over. Mouths it voicelessly into the silence between them. Says it out loud when after almost two hours, Eddie hangs up with a quiet, "Good night, Stevie. I miss you." He says it when Eddie's gone, the beep of an empty line the only response he gets before that cuts out, too.

And then he's all alone again.

tagging: @sexymothmanincarnate @mcneen @livsters @eddiemunchondeeznuts @abstractnaturaldisaster @steddie-as-they-go @hyperfixationgoddess @goodolefashionedloverboi @stxrcrossed186 @imzadidragonfly @eddiemunsonswife @bidisastersworld @ghost-ly-s @romanticdestruction @walkingaftermidnight07 @anaibis @rainydays35 @mightbeasleep @sunfloweringstories @korixae and thanks to everyone who said nice things about this 🤍🌷

come back tomorrow for: here come the tears (and hurt/comfort, maybe) | read part 4 here

[sharngapani]

What if we got married during the samudra manthan and we were both girls

haha just kidding.... unless... 😳👉👈

—

“Now then, let's get this Amrit distrib-” Mohini paused when she saw Lakshmi power-walking towards her.

“Wha-” there was a varmala around her neck before she could process what happened. But when she finally did, “Oh!”

Mohini handed off Amrit to the nearest being, put a varmala around Lakshmi’s neck and took back the Amrit so quickly that whoever had it couldn't even think about taking a sip.

“We’re married!” Mohini declared.

Everybody cheered for the newly wed couple. A few mournful ‘why couldn’t it have been me?’s could be heard among the crowd, who it was aimed at, however, was unclear.

“I never thought I’d see my father getting married.” Kama nearly shed a tear over the sight.

“Your what?”

He turned to see Vasanta gaping like a fish and realised his folly.

“My friend! I meant ‘my friend’! Since, you know, she’s an enchantress! We’re in the same line of work!” Kama tried his best to salvage the situation but to no avail. Both of them glanced over to the Asura side who seemed to have heard their conversation.

“Isn’t that Kamadev? Does anyone here know who his father is?” “I’ve heard it’s Vishnu!”

“Hmm, one of the Trimurti isn’t here. The guy who became the turtle. Where did he go?”

“Hey, wasn’t Lakshmi married to Vishnu? Why is she marrying Mohini now? Did he get cucked?”

—

The newly wed couple walked over to their friends, hand in hand. Saraswati hugged them both. “I am so happy to see you both together again. May you always stay by each others' side.”

“Hhr- ach-” Shiva tried and failed to speak, colour draining further from his already ashen face.

“He says 'congratulations!’ and so do I!” Parvati clarified, her hand still around her husband’s throat.

“I am sure you can remove your hand. The poison must have settled by now.”

Parvati looked sceptical of the idea but everybody’s encouraging looks were enough of a reassurance. She removed her hand to find his throat dyed blue, the poison frozen in place.

“Oh! The poison has turned your throat blue! Isn’t it the most beautiful colour, dear?” Mohini exclaimed, directing the question at her wife.

“Yes,” Lakshmi replied, absolutely not looking at said colour.

“You’re right. It is a very nice colour!” Parvati chimed in.

The compliment seemed to have improved Shiva’s mood a bit, bringing some colour back to his face.

“I hope you will not hurl the poison at our wedding,” Mohini whispered to Shiva, who opted to just shaking his head in reply.

“Congratulations but couldn't you have waited until the Amrit distribution?” asked Brahma, looking like every moment was aging him by a thousand years.

“No,” Lakshmi deadpanned.

Dhanvantari walked over to Lakshmi. “Congratulations on your marriage, sister! Though I didn't think you'd find a spouse right after being born.”

“Thank you! But this isn't my first time being born.”

“What.”

—

Mohini once again turned to address the crowd, who were starting to realise who she actually was. “Now now, boys! No need to start a fight. I am inviting you all to our wedding, where Amrit will be served during the feast!”

Everybody cheered louder than before, all suspicions completely forgotten.

“And to answer your question, my dearest asura, I am indeed cucking Maha Vishnu.”

“Did you hear that? She called me her dearest!”

[frenchoravocadotoast]

Cogito, ergo sum

from Latin "I think, therefore I am"

Basim Ibn Ishaq x GN!reader

Prompt: Basim survives the temple

Warnings: Implied NSFW at the end

Word count: around 4k (big boi)

The cliff is his safe space.

It has been ever since he first arrived at Alamut. You remember meeting the young man he used to be, a clumsy thief with a shy stubble that paled in comparison to the beard he’d grown throughout his training. It made him look wiser, you supposed. And wise he was, for he was educated by none other than the silence of the mountains and the sword of Roshan.

He was a smart man, but going into the temple was not a smart choice at all. Roshan had tried to stop him and failed. She walked out of the temple with a limp, holding her shoulder and her side as her head hung low in shame – defeated by her own student, her son, in a way. She couldn’t bear to look you and the other novices in the eye. 

But that was okay, because you couldn’t look at her either. You couldn’t look away from the mountain that stood tall before you all, the grinning cave that held Basim’s life over your heads.

He wasn’t coming back, Roshan said. You didn’t listen. Didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge the novice who tried to pull you away from the cave. You heard your mentor’s footsteps grow distant as the murmurs of the hidden ones mourned a new loss. You’d almost joined in their whispered prayer when you saw it – a wheezing figure stepping out of the cavern, hand pressed against the rock as they kept their gaze low. You rushed to meet them halfway.

It was him. Basim. The matted jet black hair was hard to miss, along with his beige and blue robes. His brown doe eyes flickered and met yours, but before you could reach him, he put his hand up and yelled at you to stay away. His stance had become defensive, a shaky hand resting on the handle of his sword, as his eyes watched you and your friends with wariness.

You frowned; called out his name and watched as the grip on his sword tightened. Those eyes of his didn’t regard you with the same warmth they used to. They were scared, angry, and untrusting. His lips that would smile so often were pulled down into a snarl and his brows were etched into a scowl. His body, once so sure and confident in his walk, trembled under your gaze. 

Before you could say anything, he ran. He climbed up the cliff with the expertise of a man who had endured years of training, or with the velocity of a lizard who feared for his life. The tails of his robes whipped in the wind when he reached the summit and disappeared from your view.

But he hadn’t run away. He lingered in his trusted spot by the cliffside. Rayhan would watch him from his tent and study his behavior. In the mornings, Basim would sit to meditate. It wouldn’t last long before he’d start to pace, hands in his hair before he’d yell up at the sky, fall to his knees, and throw rocks against the floor. After his fit, he’d try to sit still again, fail, and do it all over again.

When night fell, he’d crawl down the cliffside and rummage through the baskets of food you and the other novices had purposely prepared for him. He avoided you like the plague – whatever had happened inside that temple, whatever he’d seen, had shook him to his core. It was enough to haunt his mind even when one of his old friends attempted a conversation with him during one of his nightly visits, and he’d only granted them a glare. You kept your distance, watching from your seat near the fire, when he looked at you, frowned, and left to return to his cliff again.

It broke your heart. He loved that cliff, he’d found peace there during his troubled past, but now it only seemed to isolate him. But that was the point of meditation, wasn’t it? Keeping the world out, silencing your mind? If it worked for him then, why couldn’t it work now?

He needs time, Rayhan told you one day. You both watched from his tent as Basim had finally settled down after pacing for hours – he sat criss-crossed, hands resting on his lap as he breathed out. He lasted 3 hours like that. You found yourself smiling at the sight.

Maybe meditation did work.

Months go by. Winter greets Alamut with a snowstorm that would put the Gods to shame, but the canyon protects your stalls, tents, and beds from the howling wind above. You think the harsh temperatures will lure Basim down from his lair, but you grow concerned when the snow starts to pelt down on you and there is no sign of him anywhere. The spare pelts and blankets in your tent call out to you, and without thinking it much, you strap them to your back and go look for him.

You find him halfway through your climb. He was smart enough to flee from the icy winds in the mountains, and found shelter in a little panhole on the side of the cliff. He’s setting up his own tent when you call out his name. He turns to face you with a bewildered look, like it’s his first time seeing another human in his life, when you give him the folded blankets and pelts.

“You’re going to need these.”

He takes them from you, eyes flickering over your face, and whispers a soft thank you.

You give him a small smile, because those two words are enough to make your heart soar and jump around – but you don’t want to scare him. You’re about to leave when he says your name.

“How are you still here?”

You shrug.

“I never left.”

He frowns at that, although it’s not the same frown he wore when he first came out of the cave. It’s the kind of frown that tells you he’s thinking, mulling over your words, wanting to believe them. You believe them, because you know the Hidden Ones would never leave him behind like that; and without saying much more, you part ways again.

The snow melts and gives way to the blooming flowers. You’re helping Rebekah fix the handle of a sword when someone taps your shoulder – Basim stands behind you, giving you a quick smile that barely peeks out of his blue scarf. It disappears just as quick as it comes, but it leaves you breathless nonetheless.

He asks about Rayhan’s whereabouts, and you can only point him in the right direction as words fail you. It’s the first time you see him talking to others of his own volition; and when he leaves after voicing his gratitude, you turn to look at your blacksmith friend. She’s looking at you slack-jawed.

Basim starts coming down more often since then. Just a month ago, he’d joined you by the campfire while Nur told a story. You’d patted the empty seat next to you, and when his lips stretched into his usual warm smile, your heart squeezed.

You’d missed him.

Speaking of Nur, you saw him talking to Basim on the cliff just this morning. They were rekindling their friendship as Nur showed him the tapestry he’d been working on all winter. If he’d gone up there unannounced, maybe you could try talking to Basim too, right?

That’s exactly what you do. I’m in control of the story.

He’s sitting close to the edge, looking at the setting sun, when you stop behind him. He spares you a glance, as if he’d been expecting you, before patting the empty spot next to him, just like you had done with him. You carefully sit down when he speaks.

“It looks beautiful from here, does it not?”

You hum and nod. “I  can see why you like it so much.”

“It is very freeing to experience life from these heights. Down there, we’re so small.”

Your lips stretch into a smile – he’s starting to sound like himself again, with his wise and philosophical words. It itches at the thorn that’s been stuck in your heart since he grew distant from you all, and you find your words leaving you before you can register them.

“I missed you.”

His expression falters at that, and a saddened tint floods his gaze.

“I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

“I do. I was not myself when I left that cave.” he whispers, grimacing. “I was never myself, it seems.”

You stretch your legs out, nudging his boot with yours. He smiles wryly at your attempt to comfort him.

“What makes you think that?”

“What was revealed to me at the temple…” he gestures with his hand, but no words come out, and he promptly drops it. “My life was not meant for me to live.”

“I do not understand.”

“You must think me mad. Even now, I do not quite believe it myself.” he scoffs, eyes glazing over. “I was just a vessel, a fool fighting against nature.”

There is not much you can do for him, you think. Not much you can understand, either. Until Basim doesn’t fully capture what troubles his mind, you doubt you’ll be able to get through his defenses. But with him, it’s different. Basim sows and reaps, builds and destroys – the walls he’s built around himself stand tall before you, but they’re no match for him. They’re like overgrown weeds he needs to pull out. In his novice years, he used to speak of the power and danger of one’s own mind; and he seemed to be heeding his advice even after all this time, for he continued to speak despite your silence.

“There was this… machinery inside the temple. Nehal told me to open it, and when I did–” he swallows. “It was pain after pain, memories that threatened to claim me, fears that broke my very soul. And then, when I was begging for it all to end, praying to be let out– Nehal wasn’t there anymore.”

You frown. “Your friend?” he nods in response.

“She was never there.”

“She was gone?”

“She wasn’t real.”

He rakes his hand through his hair as he hisses through his teeth, like the revelation itself burdens his heart soul. You watch in awe at the raw display of emotions as he frowns and his hoarse voice speaks up once more.

“I lived a lie. It was all my fault. I killed the Caliph, I dug my own grave, led myself into the very trap fate had woven for me.” 

A tentative hand rests on his forearm, and you squeeze to break him out of his trance. Basim turns to look at you, bearing the look of a man drowning in despair and needing it all without knowing what he yearns for. 

“And yet, you live.” you whisper.

He sighs in return. “I live.”

“I understand why you were so defensive when you left the cave.”

He shakes his head, looking at the setting sun that paints the sky in a purple hue.

“I thought I was imagining you all. Sometimes, I fear I still do.” he looks at you, frowning. “If I believed Nehal was real my entire life, what was stopping me from believing you were real, too?”

“I don’t recall ever meeting your friend.” you think out loud. “Did she ever interact with anyone other than you?”

“She was a very private person.” he speaks like he misses her. “Nehal didn’t like meeting new people.”

You give him a sad smile. Even in the face of reality, it’s hard letting go of a beautiful lie.

“But you see us talking to other people. I talk to you, but also to Fuladh, or the merchants in Baghdad. They’re real - and I’m real too.”

“For the longest time, I thought maybe I was imagining it all. That you were all a fragment of my imagination.” he shakes his head. “I failed to see the line that separated reality from fiction. When I was in that temple, I thought my entire life was a lie. I was trapped in a void, but then I saw this light - and I ran and ran, thinking I could escape from it all.”

Basim is ranting now as the words come more naturally to him. His gestures become more frantic as he turns to look at you, eyes wide like the day you saw him stumble out of the cave.

“But then I saw you, and I thought I was still trapped. Eventually with time, I came to think you would all disappear.” he stops, and his gaze softens. “And yet, you’re still here.”

You whisper. “I’m here.”

His eyes linger on you for a moment, before he nods and looks at the horizon again. The sky is dark by now, and you smile at the memory of Basim teaching you and your friends about astronomy. He’d learnt it all when he taught himself to read in the House of Wisdom, but unlike the scholars that demanded an audience to witness their greatness, Basim taught for the pleasure of teaching. Whatever he’d read during his time in Baghdad or witnessed in his past lives had definitely made him wiser beyond his years. If there is a God, he’s been generous with Basim – all that knowledge has fallen into the right hands.

But his usual passion for the stars is dormant now. You glance at him, taking note of his silence as he resumes his meditation, and take that as your sign to give him some space again. You’re sitting up when you feel his hand grasping your forearm, but when you look at him again, he doesn’t react. But the hand doesn’t relent either, and so, you decide to settle down again.

It’s quiet between you, and it makes his whispered words so much louder. They’re a promise of a better future.

I missed you, too.

Summer comes and goes, and trees start to shed their yellowed cloaks again when Basim decides to move out of the cliff. It’s a misty morning, courtesy of the rainy weather in autumn, when you see him walking down the slope towards your tent. He’s carrying his rolled-up mattress and tent with him, sparing you a smile when you approach him with a big grin of your own. Perhaps your excitement is a bit too palpable, because his brows raise in amusement when you ask to help him carry his things – but you’re too distracted to notice, ranting about an oh-so convenient spot right next to your tent, and he promptly follows after you.

But the muddy slope demands a sacrifice, and your foot slips in front of you. Years of training abandon you as you reach for the slippery boulder next to you, but you miss once more. A hand holds you by your cloak, but it’s too late, you’re falling forward and hoping the mattress in your arms will break your fall, and then – the mattress grunts?

You look up, feeling the familiar fabric of robes under your cheek. Basim has taken the brunt of the fall, cupping the back of your head with his hand as his other arm wraps around you. It’s almost comical when you both look at each other, slowly sliding down the last inches of the slope as your robes get caked with mud. And then, he laughs.

It’s a low chuckle, but it makes his chest shake nonetheless – you can feel it reverberating beneath you, and you find yourself grinning at the sound. You’re sure it’s the first time you’ve heard it in over a year.

So much for a Hidden One, he says. You huff in response, shifting in his embrace when you feel the hoop of your belt digging into you, but not leaning too far away from him either.

His eyes are lidded now, and his smile has softened. You can’t look away. Basim’s hand reaches up and his thumb brushes the corner of your brow, removing dirt from your face, you assume – but all he manages to do is smear it even more.

You don’t really care about the mud, anyway. Something has changed between you two, and you’re sure he can feel it, too. It’s obvious in the way he refuses to let go of you, the way he looks at you. You tell yourself that the mud is heavy on your back, that it weighs you down and pulls you closer to him – and he doesn’t resist it either, especially not when his lips barely brush against yours. You’re about to press closer when Rebekah’s voice speaks behind you two.

“Is the floor comfortable?”

Winter is relentless once more. You’ve all hitched your tents closer to one another to preserve warmth, even knitted some more scarves to protect yourselves from the chilling bite of the wind. The bonfire is bigger than ever, it could easily give your location away to your enemies, but only fools would venture all the way to Alamut during wintertime and expect to survive – both the weather and a clan of trained assassins. 

You’re more than safe, both from outsiders and the elements. Your hidden blade is always strapped to your forearm, and as for the elements? There 's Basim.

He makes sure to save you a spot by the fire, and has a woolen blanket for those particularly colder nights. Sometimes, when he’s feeling extra nice, he offers you a cup of tea, too.

His tent is right next to yours and you always catch him reading a book late at night or early in the morning, swaddled under the bundle of blankets. He can always tell someone is watching him, and when he makes eye contact with you, he never fails to give you a wink.

It’s an ongoing thing. You really don’t know what’s happening – but you get your answers soon enough.

The fire that keeps Alamut warm needs to be fed, and Rayhan refuses to have people venturing out into the snowstorm alone to collect firewood. Thus, he sends you in pairs, for two people can look out for each other and carry more wood back to the tents. 

You’re used to the ruthless weather in Alamut – sandstorms are no match for you, nor the heaviest of rains. But there is something about snow that weakens and tires your body without even trying. You’re shoving the wood into your robes and arms before the cold catches up to you, but your movements become slower with each second, and Basim notices. He grabs your bicep and raises his voice over the hissing gale, signaling that it’s time to go back.

You don’t remember how much time you’ve spent outside, but when you return to the shelter, your damp robes are weighing down on you. The cold has seeped in, stiffening your limbs, and you promptly drop the wood close to the fire to dry for tomorrow.

The warmth in your tent has never been so inviting. The small torch lit by your mattress is the only source of light, bathing the space in a dim orange hue as you change out of your robes and put on some dry ones. It’s still cold, and the goosebumps on your skin make you hiss when the sensation of a hundred needles pricks your skin.

Someone clears their throat outside your tent before the tent flap is lifted – Basim is standing there, now wearing dry robes too. He smiles at you when you greet him and he nods at your damp clothes.

“I put mine by the fire to dry. Do you want to give me yours?”

You nod and he leaves with your robes in hand, but returns soon after with a bronze cauldron in hand and a towel on his shoulder. You eye him, confused, and it’s only when he sets it down before you that you notice the steam coming from the water inside.

“Nur thought we could use it to get warm.” he explains as he sits down next to you. He grabs the towel and dips it into the cauldron before wringing it out, getting rid of the excess water. 

“That’s nice of him.” you smile.

“It certainly is.”

He holds the damp towel out to you, but you frown.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You don’t have a towel?”

He huffs out a laugh at that, shrugging.

“He only gave me one. You take it.”

“No, no – you take it, Basim.”

“I have not come here to argue with you.” he whispers, and presses the towel closer. “Besides, you need to get warm more than I do. You seemed to be struggling out there.”

He 's right. The needles on your skin dig deeper when the hot steam dances before your eyes, so close yet so far away. You’re about to take the towel from him when you feel a soft warmth blooming on your temple.

Basim gently presses the towel onto your skin, eyeing your locks, now damp from the melted snow. Your body immediately reacts to the touch – the needles ease, your fingertips tingle, and against your better judgment, you lean into his touch. 

The cotton moves down your face, where Basim softly caresses your cold cheeks. Warm droplets roll down, but they soothe and feed the bumps on your skin, like flowers craving water after a dry summer day.

This isn’t something that the other paired novices did for each other when they went out looking for wood. 

But Basim isn't like the others, is he? He stands out from them in the way he thinks, speaks, cares for others, looks at you, touches you. 

The heat from the towel tickles your skin, or perhaps it’s your own cheeks burning at the revelation. He moves down to carefully rub the silky cotton around your neck, easing the cold that has nestled there and weakened your voice. His body leans slightly closer to gain better access, and his other hand rests on your knee for support. Without thinking it twice, you nestle his hand between yours.

It’s cold, much colder than you expected, but you feel it relax in your hold when your fingers intertwine with his. He continues to bathe your skin with the warm towel, eyes following every motion as your gaze is trained in your conjoined hands. It’s been minutes now, and you can’t feel him warming up yet, but your body is burning under his touch and attention. Your mind is foggy, your tongue loose, and your words tumble out before you can stop them.

“You should get warm, too.”

The towel pauses, but then you hear him hum. His eyes are on you now, lidded, you notice – and they slowly trail down the peak of your nose, down the cupid’s bow, all the way to your lips. They remain fixed there, fluttering when he notices you lean closer, and he whispers back.

“Maybe I should.”

Your lips brush against each other, just like that day at the muddy slope. But there is no one around to interrupt the two of you, no storm to keep you apart; and with a shaky exhale, Basim’s lips lock with yours.

He is a patient man by nature, but this kiss – it cries of overdue affection. You’re kissing like this is the only thing that can satiate your hunger, a hunger beyond the carnal dimension. It’s the kind of need that has been boiling up to this point for months, years, even – long before he’d stepped foot in that cave. It was always there, dormant.

The towel drops to the ground with a thump. His hands find your hips and cup your cheek as your breathing quickens, and he only spares you a second to breathe before he starts to pepper kisses along your jaw. Your hands find his scalp and you gently massage it with your nails, making him groan against your skin; and when his hand sneaks under your blouse, you smile at the warmth his touch now radiates.

The next time he kisses you, he tastes like glass. Like there are broken shards that cut his tongue and make his words bleed while he sings you praises. The illusion is broken, the mirror destroyed; for his touch is real, he is real, and so are you, and so are the kisses that you keep stealing from each other.

Your arms wrap together and bring you closer to each other as he pushes you back against your mattress. The cauldron is long forgotten, the warm water no longer needed as you both breathe the same hot air and look at each other like you’re drunk on wine. Soon, your clothes come off, strewn somewhere on the floor. You lose yourself in the embrace of love, lips swollen and unrelenting; and in the privacy of a flimsy tent, you and Basim become whole again.

[justsomerandom-nerd]

I saw a head cannons that maybe Mags knew Mizzen or Coral, but I raise you: her being Mizzens big sister. Her watching the screens with some flint of hope, that maybe just maybe her little brother makes it home. Her watching as Coral takes care of him in the arena, the way she desperately wishes she could.

And then he dies tragically, and she swears she will make his loss mean something.

The next year Snows changes take place, and she becomes one of the first volunteers. There’s more than just her life, there is glory in it. A moment of defiance, a way to bring home something to her district besides loss. A way to honor her brothers memory or go out in a blaze of glory.

And then she wins, but there’s a bitter sense of loss hidden in that victory. She embarks on her victory tour and sees the family’s of the other tributes- some but not all of which she killed. They’re just like her- mourning and empty with the loss of their children, their siblings.

The years go on and others follow in her footsteps. She’s among the first mentors. Most tributes never see home again, but sometimes she manages to bring one home. More kids volunteer as the years go on, the older, stronger ones. But those first couple, she still gets a few too young to stand a chance. Like her brother.

But then the 65th hunger games, she’s been doing it for years. She has a list of suspects in who might volunteer, knowing just how eager some have become for the glory they may bring their district.

He’s one of the youngest volunteers she’s ever seen- 14. His district partner fairs a far better chance, tall and broad shouldered, eighteen and out of school. He’s just a boy. When his hand shoots up, the crowd clears to show this defiant child, who strides forward with an unmistakable since of readiness. Eager, almost it. It sends chills down her spine.

Finnick Odair, destined to die like every other child thrown into the games.

She feels sorry for him. She can see her brothers ghost in his every movement, from the second he enters the arena she is thrown over five decades ago- she’s a girl again, watching her little brother fight for his life.

But against all odds, he wins it. He’s the youngest victor in the history of the games, and he quickly becomes a capitol darling. She’s glad- happy to bring him home. Their bound together from then on, and for once she feels like she has a family again.

Every year, they get on that train with two new kids, hoping one will make it home. Every year, even when one wins, they’re left mourning another fallen tribute.

She gets to watch as he grows up, watch him fall in love with a vicious girl- someone that reminded her of Coral with her pretty red hair and ruthless spirit, desperate to win. She watches as that girl changes to- no longer numb to pain, the horror in her eyes that possesses every tribute once they realize just how real the games are. She watches as that girl- Annie, become unresponsive at the worst possible time. She watches as Finnick uses what little power he has to convince the game makers to flood the arena.

Sometimes she calls him her brothers name- slips he ignores for her sake. And in turn she ignores what he does while their in the capitol- something she stopped having to do along time ago, becoming numb to the sensation of it. She only ever offers him a listening ear.

Sometimes she’s thankful her brother died rather than endure what comes after the games, the cruelties of having to relive it every year with a different set of kids. The horrors of being sold, being an object for purchase. But from time to time, she can’t help but see him in Finnick. She can’t help but see him in every twelve or thirteen year old who goes into the games, no matter their district.

[the-kinnie-in-me]

Okay, well then I hope you don’t mind me returning with yet another request. I can’t help it, I just really love your writing <3

I would love some headcanons for tasm Peter falling in love again for the first time since Gwen (god, just typing that made me tear up lmao)!

Take your time, have fun with it, and have a lovely day/night :)

A/n: This has been in my ask box for so long holy shit- I'm so sorry about that. I was on an intense writer's block and I think the fact that its Valentines' Day where I'm at kinda inspired me. This is not my best work since romantic writing isn't my cup of tea 😭 But I still hope you enjoy this-

𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐌! 𝐏𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐆𝐰𝐞𝐧:

⚠︎⚠︎⚠︎⚠︎⚠︎⚠︎⚠︎⚠︎⚠︎⚠︎⚠︎⚠︎⚠︎⚠︎⚠︎⚠︎⚠︎⚠︎⚠︎⚠︎

(I’m basing this off before he met the other Peters btw)

Let's start with some pre-relationship stuff-

I don’t really see it as love at 1st sight

It might take some since yk- his ex died because he couldn’t save her

How much time it would take would depend on how persistent you are in befriending him 1st

 There's definitely some remaining guilt and self-loathing so please be patient with him

He’s still a nice and friendly person so it isn’t that hard to befriend him 

In other words- You’re gonna have to buckle up since you’re about to experience the slowest slow-burn friends-to-lovers in history (Tho the fluff post and pre-relationship make it worth it)

Now onto the relationship itself

Aunt May adores you

She saw how you make her nephew happy after what happened with Gwen and approved of you immediately

“I saw how that boy mourned Gwen. I raised him for most of his life and it was devastating for me to see him like that. Then he met you, it was like it never happened and he was as happy as he was before. And I can’t express how thankful I am to you.”

We all saw how much effort he put into his and Gwen’s relationship- He would do the 1000% same thing with you

This is a bit angsty but- It just doesn’t feel the same?? THO IT DOESN’T HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH HOW MUCH HE LOVES YOU- When he was doing that stuff for Gwen he had a lot more self-esteem if you get what I mean?

HELP HIM GAIN HIS CONFIDENCE BACK

There have to be a lot of words of affirmation in this relationship homeboy needs it

After he gains his confidence it's mostly rainbows and sunshine

The reason why I say mostly? The topic of Spiderman.

I mean- He would tell you but he doesn’t want you to get involved 

He is very much persistent about that

He will give you every reason to not  get involved 

There’s honestly no win in this situation

If you don’t get involved you worry about him daily

*Peter enters your bedroom through your window*

“The hell happened this time?”

“They um- got me pretty bad”

You rush to grab the First Aid kit

“Yeah. I can see that.”

“Are you mad at me?”

“I’m not mad.”

“Are you sure…Because your tone kinda says otherwise”

*Sighs* “I’m not mad. Just stressed and worried because of you.”

If you do get involved he worries about you daily

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?!”

“SAVING YOUR ASS”

Or

“What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be out doing Spiderman things?”

“Yeah about that- Whatever I was fighting got away and it seemed pretty pissed. I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t gonna be petty and go after you”

I just realized the majority of this has been angst or about Gwen’s death in some way-

He doesn’t confront people when jealous

Poor boy just wants to leave with you beside him

He tries to hide it but it's kinda obvious

Tease him about it and see how long it takes for him to admit it I wanna test a theory

He is a total softy for you

Why can’t I find a bf like that on E-bay

A sane amount of PDA

Like hand-holding, falling asleep on him (albeit accidentally), and kissing on the cheek

He likes cuddling in private tho

Everything he does for and says to you just seems to be genuine-

A gentleman that was raised well fr

He will do so many things for you that it's concerning how fast he agrees,

“Hey Pete can you-”

“Of course”

This is entirely my opinion/ idea of him- I don’t see him calling you any pet names besides the occasional “babe” 

BUT- the amount of love and emotion traced whenever he just simply says your name makes up for it completely

Before I end this I just want to make 1 thing clear-

You are NOT a rebound 

He will do anything to prove that he never considered you a replacement for Gwen the moment he senses you feel that way

In his eyes, Gwen is his past 

In his eyes, you are his present and future

In his eyes, you are his everything.

[babyrdie]

More Deidamia posting!!!

And Pyrrhus is no longer a country boor nor yet growing strong amid filth like brawling sons of herdsmen, but already he is a soldier. For he stands leaning on a spear and gazing towards the ship; and he wears a purple mantle brought up from the tip of the shoulder over to his left arm and a white tunic that does not reach the knee; and though his eye is flashing, it is not so much the eye of a man in full career as of one still holding back and vexed at the delay; and his mind images something of what will happen a little later in Ilium. His hair now, when he is at rest, hangs down his forehead, but when he rushed forward it will be in disorder, following, as it tosses to and fro, the emotions of his spirit. The goats skipping about unchecked, the straying herds, and the shepherd’s staff with its crook lying among them where it has been thrown imply some such story as this, my boy: – Vexed with his mother and his grandfather for being kept on the island, since after the death of Achilles in fear for the boy they had sworn that Pyrrhus should not depart, he set himself over the goats and kine, subduing the bulls that scorned the herd – the bulls that may be seen on the mountain at the right. But when the oracle came to the Greeks that Troy would be captured by none other than the descendants of Aeacus, Phoenix is sent to Scyros to fetch the boy, and putting ashore he encounters him, each unknown to the other except in so far as the boy’s graceful and well-grown form suggested that he was Achilles’ son. And as soon as Phoenix recognized who he was, he himselfbe came known to Lycomedes and Deiodameia. All this is what art would teach us by means of this small picture, and it is so painted as to furnish to poets also a theme for song.

Imagines, Image 1. Translation by Arthur Fairbanks.

A thousand times he kissed her, then at last left her alone with her own grief and moan there in her father's halls. As o'er her nest a swallow in her anguish cries aloud for her lost nestlings which, mid piteous shrieks, a fearful serpent hath devoured, and wrung the loving mother's heart; and now above that empty cradle spreads her wings, and now flies round its porchway fashioned cunningly lamenting piteously her little ones: so for her child Deidameia mourned now on her son's bed did she cast herself, crying aloud, against his door-post now she leaned, and wept: now laid she in her lap those childhood's toys yet treasured in her bower, wherein his babe-heart joyed long years agone. She saw a dart there left behind of him, and kissed it o'er and o'er yea, whatso else her weeping eyes beheld that was her son's.

Posthomerica, 7.347-363. Translation by A.S. Way.

[...] The son of Achilles is named Neoptolemus by Homer in all his poetry. The epic poem, however, called Cypria says that Lycomedes named him Pyrrhus, but Phoenix gave him the name of Neoptolemus (young soldier) because Achilles was but young when he first went to war.

Description of Greece, 10.26.4. Translation by W.H.S. Jones.

‘So he spoke, and I again said to him in answer: “I have no report to give you of stately Peleus, but as for your beloved son Neoptolemos, I will tell you, since you ask me to do it, all the true story; for I myself, in the hollow hull of a balanced ship, brought him over from Skyros, to join the strong-greaved Achaians. Whenever we, around the city of Troy, talked over our counsels, he would always speak first, and never blunder. In speaking only godlike Nestor and I were better than he was. And when we Achaians fought in the Trojan plain, he never would hang back where there were plenty of other men, nor stay with the masses, but run far out in front, giving way to no man for fury, and many were those he killed in the terrible fighting. I could not tell over the number of all nor name all the people he killed as he fought for the Argives, but what a great man was one, the son of Telephos he slew with the brazen spear, the hero Eurypylos, and many Keteian companions were killed about him, by reason of womanish presents. Next to great Memnon, this was the finest man I ever saw. Again, when we who were best of the Argives entered the horse that Epeios made, and all the command was given to me, to keep close hidden inside, or sally out from it, the other leaders of the Danaans and men of counsel were wiping their tears away and the limbs were shaking under each man of them; but never at any time did I see him losing his handsome color and going pale, or wiping the tears off his face, but rather he implored me to let him sally out of the horse; he kept feeling for his sword hilt and spear weighted with bronze, full of evil thoughts for the Trojans. But after we had sacked the sheer citadel of Priam, with his fair share and a princely prize of his own, he boarded his ship, unscathed; he had not been hit by thrown and piercing bronze, nor stabbed in close-up combat, as often happens in fighting. The War God rages at all, and favors no man.”

The Odyssey, 11.504-537. Translation by Richmond Lattimore.

You see, I usually think that Deidamia was simply relieved by Neoptolemus' return, since she was convinced that he would die like Achilles. However, when I look at these two passages in particular, I can't help but think that she still lost him, even if not physically. The same boy who grew up among shepherds' children, who played with silly toys and who had an innocent name like Phyrrus isn't the same person who returned after committing unspeakable acts of violence, who delights in the suffering of others and who has a completely different name that is also associated with war (Neoptolemus). He used to be someone who ran on the grass, who laughed with other boys, who spent time with animals, who had fun with his toys, and whose name simply represented his beautiful red hair. How does a boy like that so quickly become the warrior that Odysseus described? He isn't the same person who runs in a foreign land, who boasts with other soldiers as he boasts of his victories, whose animals he now uses in chariots, who revels in death, and whose name represents how young this soldier is.

It becomes even more shocking when reading Sophocles’ Philoctetes, because in this play Neoptolemus is clearly still in transition. He is hungry for glory, and Odysseus manipulates him because he knows about this desire, yes, but he still risks his glory for values. He is willing to disgrace Odysseus and thus lose his chances of glory because helping Philoctetes is the right thing to do. Philoctetes is convinced to go to Troy not by Neoptolemus, but by Heracles (he appears shortly after Neoptolemus and Philoctetes agree to give up, claiming that this isn't their destiny).

NEOPTOLEMUS: I recognize what's best for you and me. PHILOCTETES: When you say that, you don't feel any shame before the gods? NEOPTOLEMUS: How can a man feel shame when he's helping out a friend of his? PHILOCTETES: Are you talking about some benefit for me or for the sons of Atreus? NEOPTOLEMUS: For you, of course. I'm your friend. What I say is spoken in friendship. PHILOCTETES: How can that be true? You want to hand me to my enemies. NEOPTOLEMUS: My dear man, in such troubles you must learn not to be so stubborn. PHILOCTETES: You'll ruin me with these words of yours. I know that. NEOPTOLEMUS: No, I won't. But you don't understand — that's what I'm saying. PHILOCTETES: Don't I understand how those sons of Atreus threw me aside? NEOPTOLEMUS: Yes, they cast you off, but you should see if they will rescue you again. PHILOCTETES: Never! Not if I must agree to go to Troy. NEOPTOLEMUS: What can I do then, if what I say will not convince you? The easiest thing for me is to say no more, and then you can go on living as you're doing now, without being rescued. PHILOCTETES: Let me keep suffering whatever I must suffer. But those things you swore to me, with your right hand in mine — to take me home — do that for me, my son, and don't hold back or keep reminding me about Troy any more. I've had enough of howling lamentations here. NEOPTOLEMUS: All right, if that's what you truly want, let's leave. PHILOCTETES: Ah, such noble words! [PHILOCTETES starts to move down from his cave] NEOPTOLEMUS: Plant your feet firmly. PHILOCTETES: I will — as firmly as my strength allows. NEOPTOLEMUS: How will I escape being blamed for this by the Achaeans? PHILOCTETES: Forget about those men. NEOPTOLEMUS: What if they destroy my country? PHILOCTETES: I'll be there... NEOPTOLEMUS [interrupting] What assistance will you give? PHILOCTETES: ...with these arrows which come from Hercules... NEOPTOLEMUS: What are you saying? PHILOCTETES: I'll stop them coming in. NEOPTOLEMUS: Then let's depart, once you have bid your island home farewell.

Philoctetes. Translation by Ian Johnston.

And Neoptolemus believes that this is being like his father.

NEOPTOLEMUS: Son of Laertes, I hate to carry out an order which it hurts to listen to. It's not my nature to do anything based on deceit. My father, so they say, was just the same. But I am prepared to take the man by force, no trickery. He's just one man on foot. He'll never win against so many of us in a fight. Since I was ordered here to work with you, I am not eager to be called disloyal. Still, my lord, I would much prefer to fail in something honorable, than to win out with treachery.

Philoctetes. Translation by Ian Johnston.

He really does become like his father, but in a different way. In a way, isn’t the father he knows the father Deidamia, her sisters, and Lycomedes knew? After all, what he knows about him probably comes mostly from them, though news of the war and rumors certainly reach them. And like it or not, wasn’t the Achilles these people knew a different person? In a way, the person Deidamia was mourning isn't even really the same boy she met 10 years ago. There are similarities, yes, but the same? Is he the same boy who, as in that poem attributed to Bion of Smyrna, sat with her in the moonlight, took her hands and praised her for weaving so well?

Dedamia mourned the death of a man she no longer knew and rejoiced at the return of a boy she no longer knew. Seeing things from her point of view…it's just horrible.

[alecsalamander]

Admittedly, he just assumes the unknown Utica number that calls his cell phone at 7pm on a Tuesday is Cătălina’s all but forgotten landline – she’s the only one from New York that would be calling him. “Bibio,” and he’d been doing the dishes when his phone had buzzed insistently, tucked against his shoulder now while he’s elbow deep in bubbles and hot water, “is everything okay?”

“Hi Jim,” his ex-wife says, and he very deliberately takes the minute of brittle, tense silence to dry his hands.

She sounds the same as she does in all his memories of her, or at least the ones he’s allowed himself to keep over the years. Says his name exactly the way she used to, back when they were in love; she says ‘hi Jim’ like nothing has changed. Like it isn’t the first thing she’s said to him since the day she ran off.

“Stefania,” he finally responds, and buries thirty years of hurt into the worn fibers of the tea towel. She’s been gone long enough that he’s stopped imaging what he would say to her, if he saw her again. Gone long enough that he’s long since stopped hoping she ever comes back. But she says his name like that in her low, honeyed voice and he’s twenty-two again, young and stupid and so full of hoping for things that it’s almost enough to make him forget how angry he is.

Almost.

“This is a… surprise.”

There’s a soft noise in the overwhelming awkward quiet that he recognizes is her, trying not to cry. Or, maybe, just getting over crying. He might still know her voice but he doesn’t know the rest of her tells, not anymore. “I know,” she says, “I know but… CJ,” and it takes him a moment, a sharp breath, to stop himself from hanging up right there. The name in her mouth is of the young boy she’d abandoned, of the unwanted wretch that pulled himself together by tooth and nail and sheer, stupid determination. He hasn’t been CJ in years. A lifetime, even. He does not hang up, and Stefania does not cry. “He died.”

A series of frantic voicemails and the longest plane ride of his life, hands clenching the arm rests because he refuses to clench them in prayer, screaming to a god that has long since abandoned his family. Cold wind and cold rain and the cold, hollow feeling that settled in his stomach like a stone, like a boulder, when he’d asked the cab to take him to the hospital. The seventeen hours of waiting, of mourning an ending that had not yet come, of grabbing hold of his family and pulling them close, closer, because they had barely survived losing Lacey and he knew beyond any shadow of a doubt they would not survive losing Cat.

There’s no word for a father who knows what it’s like to lose a son only to get him back again, no fancy term to describe the grief that lingers like a rot in a space that no one else can see. Jim was, for long enough for scars to form, a man who lost everything. “I know,” he says flatly, because it’s something they’re all still coming to terms with. “I was there.”

I was there, he tells her, because she wasn’t. Hasn’t been. She lost the right to cry over Jim’s son the day she left.

Another soft noise, like maybe she isn’t crying because she knows that. “He died and—”

“And he’s fine,” he stresses, because honestly? He isn’t. None of them are. Cat is alive and Lacey is home and all of them are caught up in the sorrow and the loss and the hollowness that doesn’t go away as easily as a loved one comes home.

Only time will tell just how much of them was left beneath the ice.

“I know,” Stefania says again. “I saw him last night.”

That definitely explains the otherwise confusing series of text messages he’d received. “He must have been thrilled to see you,” he grins as the threads of the towel tear under his fingers. He’d left marks in the armrest of the plane too, gouges from his fingernails ripping patterns into the fake leather. He thinks maybe Cat isn’t the only one who has survived by leaving claw marks in the world. It’s mean, and it’s petty, but his ex-wife is calling him after nearly three decades to unburden herself of a grief he carries like a bruise, like an infection, like a festering wound around his heart the rest of the world ignores.

“He has a daughter.”

He sucks in a breath turned sharp with surprise. He obviously knows this – he’s known Lacey almost as long as Cat has, and loved her just as long. What throws him is that Stefania knows this too; Lacey is not someone their family shares lightly. “You can’t possibly think I don’t that,” he says finally. He’s done sparing her feelings. She’d made her choices and stood by them all these years, and so had he – his just happened to be his son and the family he’d collected, piece by piece across the years.

She’s quiet. The open line of communication between them hangs fragile and delicate. And then, just as breakable, she whispers. “I think I made a mistake.”

James waits a second or two, and then he barks out a laugh. “If you’re calling me to have me tell you that you didn’t, I’m hanging up.” He's not going to soothe whatever hurt she's caused herself since leaving; if anything, he hopes it gets worse. There had once been a time where he held onto his anger for the marriage that she destroyed in the wake of her departure, for the future they had planned together and she had ripped away from him. There had been a time, back at the beginning, where he had been so angry for the hurt his ex-wife had caused him. And then Cat died, the first time, and he couldn't be angry anymore. Not for himself. Instead all of those feelings had crystalized into a fury that he knew would never be broken at the hurt she had caused him.

If he's learned anything at all since learning about magic, and about curses, and about the world now, it's that Cat and Wendy are hardly the only men who would rip apart the world for their child.

"You want forgiveness? You won't get it from me." From Wendy either, he doesn't say. Or from Lacey. He still won't say her name to Stefania, or be the one to bring her up; he hadn't known what it meant, back when his son first brought over the girl he cared for. Hadn't known she would one day have a room in his house and a firm grasp of his heart. He hadn't known, when he first met her, that he would be her grandfather. But he had known that she was special, not only for the way she brought back the parts of his son that had been buried under the rage and cynicism that he wore as an armor, but the way he knew from meeting her that he would do whatever was required to keep her safe. "You want to make it right with Cat? Good luck. But if you're just trying to feel better about yourself, I'm the last person you should have called."

He doesn't need to see her, or know her anymore, to know that she's nodding – agreement sounds the same across all distances. "He's okay?" she asks tentatively, like she isn't sure she deserves to know.

"He's safe," James doesn't elaborate, "and he's home."

A final pause, like the connection has broken; it's only the continued count-up on the screen of his phone that tells him the call is still active. "And," Stefania finally sounds like what she is – a stranger. "And he's happy, right? He's been happy?"

He leans back just enough to glance down the hallway to the living room, where he can just make out one socked foot dangling over the edge of the couch. He's not sure which of his boys it is, but it hardly matters – the three people he loves most in the universe are here, a well-deserved quiet evening at home, and the sounds of the movie are just loud enough that his conversation has gone unnoticed. Or, most likely unnoticed. He wouldn't be surprised if Wendy approached him later, since he's always had a knack for knowing exactly everything that happens around him, but the chances are good that Cat and Lacey will never know. The peace they've found since Alaska will remain undisturbed, and the home they've built together will never know the pain and loss of the childhoods they've spared their daughter from. "Yeah," he can't help the smile that creeps into his voice. "Yeah, he's happy."

[waitingforwinterwinds]

ASOS; Steel and Snow: 01 JAIME I (pages 18-32)

Brienne and Jaime, accompanied by Ser Cleos, begin the long journey to King's Landing under Catelyn's orders.

-

An east wind blew through his tangled hair, as soft and fragrant as Cersei's fingers.

I feel like this tells us so much about Jaime, but also nothing we didn't already know. The boy is besotted.

...Jaime... stop calling Brienne 'the wench'... and also stop talking like that kind of asshole just to try and regain some of your perceived power in the situation, you're not in charge, you're just being an asshat.

"Lady Brienne?" She looked so uncomfortable that Jaime sensed a weakness. "Or would Ser Brienne be more to your taste?" He laughed.

I mean that depends on whether you consider Ser to be a man's title or a knight's title. irl the female equivalent of Sir/Ser is Dame. Dame Brienne of Tarth.

But also if he doesn't stop heckling, I'm going to bust out the steel chair and bop him.

"Let Robert do as he pleases. I'll go to war with him if I must. The War for Cersei's Cunt, the singers will call it."

'Cunt' = 🥛

Oop, Jaime confirms he did not try to have Bran killed, and doubts Cersei was the culprit either, the suspects narrow!

We know who did it. But Jaime doesn't. I like that GRRM doesn't magical-hive-mind information, with as many characters as he has, it can be so hard to keep track of who knows what, and what the audience should know at any given point in time... actually, since I know from watching the show, I remember Tyrion had some very strong suspicions on who the culprit was, but I can't remember if he's wheedled a confession yet. That is the down side to only reading a chapter a day, by the time a play pans out, I've forgotten it was in the works, or the inverse, I remember that someone set a trap and forget it was already sprung XD

... okay, I'll admit it, Jaime's idea to give himself the Walter White aesthetic was a good one. Easy disguise with no magically appearing prosthetics, flips the traits he's known for and lets them stay lowkey on the journey.

A few one-room shacks came and went, perched on tall poles that made them look like cranes. Of the folk who lived there they saw no sign. Birds flew over head, or cried out from the trees along the shore, and Jaime glimpsed silvery fish knifing through the water. Tully trout, that's a bad omen, he thought, until he saw worse-one of the floating logs they passed turned out to be a dead man, bloodless and swollen. His cloak was tangled in the root of a fallen tree, its color unmistakably Lannister crimson. He wondered if the corpse had been someone he knew.

oooh, packed a bit into that paragraph. some lowkey world-building, a reminder that Shit Has Gone Down in the area, and a brief flash of humanising for Jaime. The wondering if he's known the dead feels like the first bit of sympathetic thought I've seen from him so far that's not self-or-cersei-centered. Oh, it's not exactly empathetic, like he doesn't sound like he's mourning this poor fallen John Doe, but it matters that he cared enough to wonder, implies connection to the Lannister men besides all being team Lannister. Jaime doesn't just know them, he knows some of them.

They sailed past villages but no villagers. An empty net, slashed and torn and hanging from some trees, was the only sign of fisherfolk. A young girl watering her horse rode off as soon as she glimpsed their sail. Later they passed a dozen peasants digging in a field beneath the shell of a burnt towerhouse. The men gazed at them with dull eyes, and went back to their labors once they decided the skiff was no threat.

You know what would have been hilariously ironic, but in the most frustrating way possible?

If that young girl with the horse had been Arya. If they had been so close to recovering Arya in that moment, but she noped out, there-by saving herself from the Red Wedding. (Assuming her recovery at this point doesn't change things like getting Rob caught up on the fact Roose Bolton is absolute (competent) garbage.)

Below, Jaime made out the smouldering remains of a large building, and a live oak full of dead women.

Hanging tree.

*suddenly, a volcano erupted directly under Roose Bolton and his forces, with more wrath and speed than expected, as if an angry god was responsible, the molten stone spewed forth and swarmed over those responsible for the atrocities, burning them to a crisp.*

Actually, fun fact, because lava and magma are liquid stone, the density means that human bodies would float, or, well, bob. The Golem scene from the end of the Lord of the Rings trilogy should be reversed, the Ring sinking and Golem bobbing back to the surface and slowly burning until his buoyancy is low enough for him to sink through the superheated sludge. I mean he'd likely be dead pretty quick from breathing superheated air before the meat really got cooking, so he would suffer for long, and that's assuming he survives the fall. People die from that height falling onto unbroken water and stone. guy totally should have died.

... sorry. too morbid?

Brienne moved the tiller and the skiff sheared left, sail rippling. Jaime watched her eyes. Pretty eyes, he thought, and calm. He knew how to read a man's eyes. He knew what fear looked like. She is determined, not desperate.

yay Brienne! Go! Go! Go! (and good job finally making some good observations Jaime... and he's already back to 'wench.')

... oh, but he's covering for Brienne's lack of cover by pulling aggro! Nice, TeamWork!

I mean, let's not start the bromancing just yet, at this point he's doing it because Brienne and her plan are his best chance at getting back to Cersei.

!!!! Brienne casts Rocks Fall, Everyone Dies! (well, not the TPK version, but she drop a rock "the size of a cow"! I love her so much!

Ser Cleos turned the skiff towards her. Thankfully, Jaime still had his oar. One good swing when she comes paddling up and I'll be free of her. Instead, he found himself stretching the oar out over the water. Brienne grabbed hold, and Jaime pulled her in.

See, it's moments like this that give me such confliction with Jaime, it makes me want to say "because at heart he is a good man, who, though he struggles with it, wants to do the right thing, to be the Good guy."

And then I remember he threw an eight year old child out a window to his presumed death with zero hesitation, and I think "well clearly not, actually."

Ahhh, our first Jaime chapter, it's a little jarring to see inside his head, how he cares so little for people in general, like, his whole world is Cersei (and maybe Tyrion and their dad?) and everyone else doesn't seem to register much, but at the same time, there is some level of care, Jaime does show a goodness despite his attempted child-murder and treasoncest. Whether his care is long buried for tragic backstory reasons, or whether it's something that's never really had a chance or reason to grow... I guess we'll see.

More importantly: Jaime&Brienne BROadtrip: Commence!

We'll see how it goes in comparison to the show.

[vie-r-nes]

Feliciano was just a little boy when the war exploded. He was cleaning Roderich's house arduously when HRE appeared in the door frame, his silhouette was clearly marked by the morning sun entering the house. Few words were exchanged as the blond made it clear that going to war was his duty and even if it scared him he was going to do it no matter what. Feliciano's overwhelming crying did not seem to affect him, much less his pleas clinging to his black tunic.

"Don't cry anymore, I'm coming back for you," he said with total confidence although inside he wasn't sure of that, he wanted to burst into tears at that moment, to tell Feliciano that what he wanted most was to be with him. A part of HRE wanted Feliciano to hold him tight and never let him go, to be in the safety of his arms, away from the desolation of war and the blood that was soon to stain his land and his hands. I always keep them"

But sadly those words were not enough to appease the boy, he was on his knees on the floor, clinging to his broom as if there was no tomorrow, crying without any shame because at the end of the day he was just a little boy who was seeing how his first love was torn from his life by a war he could not understand. On another day he would have gotten up to shake out his dress quickly for Roderich did not tolerate mess or dirt, but today when the whole world seemed to have come crashing down on him, the last thing he cared about was an immaculate apron. When Miss Elizabeta found the little boy his eyes were like waterfalls and his hands trembling, he had cried for what seemed like hours, so she gathered him in her arms with a gentleness worthy of a mother, resting Feliciano's head on her shoulder, her heart broke when she heard the boy's whimpers close to her ear. His arms were around the woman's neck as if he feared her departure as well.

" Feliciano" the woman said in the sweetest tone she could manage at that moment. She brushed her pale hands through the boy's brownish hair carefully in a small attempt to make him see that she was there, that she was real" I can't assure you that HRE is coming back…. But I know he's going to fight with everything he has to come back to you".

" But" But Miss Elizabeta" he had to stop for a moment to take a breath, to concentrate on the woman's hands in his hair, on her calm breathing" ¿Why does he have to go?¿ Why can't he be with me?" he closed his eyes tightly while trying not to hyperventilate.

" Oh, Italy…" her voice was filled with pain, she even clutched the child to her body " This is what we do, little one, we are born for our people and we are destined to die for them in every possible way, over and over again" Feliciano could not see it but the woman shed some tears too, as she felt a sorrow that seemed to never want to leave her.

He didn't want to talk anymore, anyway there were no words in his language or any other he knew to describe how he felt in the face of such a burden, crying seemed the only adequate thing to express it. It felt like being lost in the middle of nowhere with no one around you, but in a way it was something he should have accepted a long time ago, the same way HRE had done it, it seemed he had been a warrior since he was born. Not that little Feliciano was not a warrior, he was just used to a more beautiful kind of life than that of a murderer or a victim, art flooded his land as well as music and fun, why should life be so cruel to him that he barely learned what love was? Perhaps, in the future he could stop crying for that horrible truth, it was what he wished more than anything, because if he accepted it then he would not be terrified or hurt, he would only feel indifference and that was better than any other feeling, at least when it came to wars and his death. If it were so he could stop mourning HRE and see him as surely the rest of his people saw him now, a hero coming out of the darkness in armor brighter than the sun itself, to lead them away from the chaos of the enemy. But he couldn't, for now HRE was just his beautiful love heading into a brutal fight over subjects Feliciano didn't quite understand, he might even be a simple martyr that few would remember in the future. He wanted to spend the rest of his days buried in that soft bed with sheets as white as clouds, hidden from everyone and submerged in his own darkness, let himself be carried away by that depression that he was not supposed to know yet but was already becoming his friend. It accompanied him at night when he drowned his sobs with his pillow, or when he wrote tear-soaked love letters to a boy with an uncertain destiny.

Roderich was a righteous man, to a certain extent many could say that he was cold to Feliciano, but it was quite the opposite for those who knew him it could be clearly seen that he had a certain appreciation for the little boy. He longed for the order, joy and peace before the departure of Feliciano's golden boy, although the brown-haired boy could be somewhat clumsy or careless he had a spirit that brightened the house, made it look brighter and quality, as if suddenly a little sunshine was living inside the high walls of that old house. For that reason he tried to make Feliciano come out of his imprisonment, he had to guide him out of bed as if he were a doll that he almost dragged along the floor, he had no strength to keep that upright posture that Roderich so much forced on him, although that time it did not matter to anyone, it was a cause for celebration to see the child out of bed, but his bare feet against the floor caused him to shiver and his big eyes, brownish as the sweetest chocolate had lost their brightness. Weeks went by making small advances like getting him to eat more than just a piece of bread, or when he drank water, or even when he made it to the bathtub just to take a long bath in the warm water.

He had no choice but to adjust to his new life without seeing the little boy with hair as golden as the sun and eyes like the ocean, he had to resign himself to wait for news, it was impossible that this war would last forever, so he only had to pray to God for his love to return safe and sound, never in his life had he kissed a rosary as much as in those times. The weeks went by like a breeze thanks to Elizabeta and Roderich, they were in charge of keeping him busy, giving him cleaning tasks all over the place, leaving it spotless with wet rags and brushes. They gave him time to rest in the sun just as he did when his brother and grandfather were by his side, they helped him carry an easel along with a small chair and his painting tools, they were pleased to see that the boy was able to paint his beautiful landscapes again or even sometimes his talent was shown by making portraits that were proudly hung in the main room. Although the pain still clung to him at least he could breathe without feeling that he would soon die, he could walk around the house without crying in a corner, now it was more bearable, Roderich told him that with time it would hurt less and less until finally it wouldn't hurt anymore, Feliciano knew it was a lie as he knew that this kind of thing never stopped hurting, but he still appreciated how the older boy tried to cheer him up in his own way. He wondered if Roderich realized that he couldn't believe him and was just ignoring him so as not to make everyone even sadder.

But soon that little peace of mind he had gained after months was shattered in a matter of seconds without warning, he was quietly cleaning the living room of the manor house, he was focused on sweeping soon because maybe if he did everything right Roderich was going to let him out for a while to play in the garden. He could barely see a guest arrive at the house, he wanted to go and see who it was because it wasn't usual to see visitors thanks to the character of the owner of the house but he knew that if he did Roderich would get angry so he just stood there occasionally looking towards the door where the man had gone in. He knew it must be something special the man was saying as it had taken him a long time to come out, he was able to sweep and wash the floors calmly, they even began to dry slightly as the man finally came out, marching towards the door with an extremely serious expression. He waited for his silhouette to disappear completely before moving closer to the man and woman standing in the doorframe. This time there were no rays of sunlight coming through the window, the house seemed gloomy and the little boy noticed it immediately. Roderich and Elizabeta called him with softer voices than usual, as if they were trying not to wake him up, she even extended her hand for the boy to take while Roderich made room for them to pass into the room.

"Feliciano, sit down," Roderich asked kindly, "Today we found out something important," the man couldn't look the little boy in the face as he spoke so he had to walk around the room.

She was frustrated by this attitude, the last thing the boy needed was for them to walk away so she approached him to crouch down to the level of his face, she could see the fear in the little boy's eyes. Her hand instinctively went to his cheek, caressing it tenderly, her eyes showed a great sadness, even her movements felt different to Feliciano.

" The war is over," she said softly, trying to keep her gaze fixed on the boy.

" That means that… HRE is coming back? " for a moment his eyes shone like two stars, it was that little childish innocence that was still lodged in his chest, his hands rested on Elizabeta's and although her lips were quivering he tried to give her a smile that she would never forget because it would be the last time she would see her little Feliciano like that.

" No, Feli, he's not coming back…. I'm so sorry" she whispered again only this time it felt like she was shaking him out of his dream world and into reality.

" But, he told me… He promised!" he brought his trembling hands to his dress grabbing the hem of his skirt to hold onto it until his knuckles were white, his body cowering in the seat in an attempt to disappear from the world.

What started as whimpering ended up being a loud cry that left him breathless but at the same time made him scream from the pain of having lost his love in a stupid war that no one was going to remember. His hands let go of the dress to cover his red face because of so much crying, his head hurt, everything was spinning as if it was some kind of nightmare, even the voices of Elizabeta and Roderich were distant, as if they were only a memory as well as HRE. Knowing that he was never going to see or hear him again made him want to die at that moment because now he was just a blend of inaccurate memories in his head that would eventually become so mixed up that he could not even remember the way the boy laughed or cried.

[thatndginger]

I entirely blame @chaifootsteps for reblogging exactly 1 post about ClanGen warrior cats game because I have spent all day playing it - completely ignoring both my life and my husband - and now I'm gonna talk about it

my thirteen year old self is so proud

So first off it has been over a decade since I considered myself a warriors fan so I was not expecting to be invested in this as much as I have been? the randomly-generated story-based stuff is like crack to me and good lord does this thing deliver

for example: very early on my clan adopted a barn cat they found. He (Harewhisker) ended up being a great mentor to his first apprentice. Then, one day, he gets captured by twolegs and disappears. The clan has a whole mourning vigil for him and tries to move on. Then, a whole-ass year later, Harewhisker shows back up one day with a message that he's finally finished his long journey. I honest-to-fuck gasped when I saw that notification.

And the scandals? Of cats just showing up to camp with kits and "refusing to talk about it"? I had a cat die because he was protecting a kit from a snake. Another lost a tail and had a whole-ass burial to come to terms with the loss. She still gets phantom pains.

another example: my leader, Hawkstar, found a mate early on, and boy howdy do they love each other. None of my other cats have as high relationship stats as these two. They have a whole gaggle of kits together. But then the mate, Troutstride, gets his leg injured by a twoleg trap and eventually loses it entirely. He still soldiers on, sending out little notifications every day that he's going on patrols and hunting and all. Until Hawkstar pulls him aside and tells him it's okay to retire and let others carry the load. It was an adorable notification. Now Troutstride hangs around camp with a paralyzed-from-birth cat and dotes on the kits.

On the surface, the game is just a simple random-generator storytelling game. And it kinda is. But the amount of work that's gone into giving the game depth and variety is fucking phenomenal. I could play this game for days and not get bored, I think.

[sleepy-achilles]

The Family of Destruction- Home

Part two of Leon's first death and yes I was listening to the song one of us from lion King whilst writing it. Bite me.

------------------------------------------------------------------

Mourning when your son has been on TV since birth is difficult. It's even more difficult when your son is the victim of a cult crime. The whole world thinks the house was old and faulty and just caught fire, which taker scoffed at when he saw the news as that's exactly what they said when his parents and baby brother were taken from him, only those there know the real cause.

John hasn't been the same since. Taker doesn't blame him, he held the boy he saw as a brother as he died. It also doesn't help the others using it to get a rise out of him during promos. John's angry and upset. And he's making sure everyone knows it.

Cassie, she's the only one taking it somewhat well. She's convinced herself he'll come back, claiming dad always does, so will Lee.

Taker can't bring himself to destroy the girl. She's 15, she has school and the fact she's still doing well since she began believing he'll come back taker can't do it. He'll pay for her therapy bills, hell he'll start sending her now.

Shawn? Shawn is a mess. He won't speak, he won't eat. He does his matches and then goes back to the hotel. Taker doesn't remember the last time he even looked at shawn.

Taker? Takers angry at himself. Hurt at the world. Its his fault this happened. But he never asked for this. None of them did. He's put his anger to rest by rebuilding their home. Again.

Unlike John, people don't dare to mention Leon's name to either taker or Shawn. Last time someone did they received a very hard sweet chin music.

It's been 4 months and Taker doesn't know if the pain will ever go away. Taking harder and riskier moves only helps so much.

-----

Taker leans against the ropes, keeping his head low as he catches his breathe back. He listens as a Leon chant begins. Something the fans have done a lot and taker does appreciate it, he does, it helps keep Leon alive, it just hurts him so damn much.

"Chant his name all you want! He is not one of us!" Paul calls. Takers head snaps up, his locking with the fat man on the stage. A man he hasn't seen since he brutally murdered his son. "You bastard" taker growls pushing off the rope. He stumbles slightly causing Steve to catch him. "Undertaker, do I have great news for you? The skeleton Prince is now the skeleton King!" Paul cheers. Takers eyes water at this, his head tilting slightly as his jaw clenches. He always knew Leon was different, he just didn't know he'd be cursed aswell. "No." Taker chokes. "Take a look at what I found" Paul smirks pointing to the tron. Taker lifts his gaze and his world changes.

The camera zooms onto Leon's grave as the dirt shifts and moves. A hand suddenly shoots out, startling the camera man. A bruised and bloody hand. "Help him!" Paul orders. Kanes hand appears, grabbing Leon's and pulling, digging at the dirt. Leon gasps as his face is freed. His face covered in his iconic skeleton paint. His hair blonde hair black and his streak white. His eyes keep flashing between fully white, fully purple and normal.

"Holy shit" Steve gasps. Taker can feel a panic build in him. Leon's alive? Leon's like him? "No" Taker whispers. "Taker what the fuck is going on?" Steve demands. "Hol-hold on" Taker chokes holding his hand out. Steve watches as takers eyes roll back, tears rolling down his face.

"....le......o....n?"

"...w........l....e.."

"Le...on?"

"Leon!"

Leon's eyes snap open at the sound of his father's voice. "Your alive and I don't know where to find you. Come home to us, please." Taker pleads. Leon's eyes scan the room he's tied up in. Hooded figures. No Paul. No kane. He looks down at the metal restraints holding his arms to the wall. "Hes awake" one states, except Leon instantly knows its not English, its Latin. His years of training and hearing his father and uncle speak it together have immediately translated it to English for him.

He'll thank them one day.

"Master said to leave him. The hexes will keep him weak." The other states. Leon lift his gaze to the hexes. He tilts his head slightly and watches as a invisible finger starts to slowly draw through the hexes, breaking them. The fools don't even notice. Leon? Leon can't help but smile at his new power.

He looks back down at the restraints and tests them. A sudden strength runs through him and he breaks them. The hooded figures stop and stare at him shocked. Leon just tilts his head. 'This will be child's play' he smirks before stepping forward.

--

"Shawn!" John gasps as he forces his way into shawns hotel room. Shawn doesn't move. He just stays laid in bed, staring out of the window. It's his day off, he'll spend it how he damn wants. "Shawn! It's Leon!" Shawn sits up immediately and looks at John. "Leon? What about him?" Shawn's voice is rough from lack of use. "Hes alive, They are showing it on Smackdown! We have to get to the arena now!" John tells him. "You drive." Is all Shawn says before dragging him out.

-

Leon looks at the knocked out bodies on the floor. His gaze then turns to the skeleton blade placed on display like a trophy. Leon feels his scar itch even at the thought of what that blade did. And yet he still steps towards it, as if it calls for him.

He raises his hand and closes it around the bone handle.

"Return to us leon"

His eyes glow purple. 'Return home..' he thinks to himself. He scans the area one more time before it fades to black.

-

It doesn't take them long to get to the arena. It takes Leon even less time.

Taker opens his eyes as Paul rants and raves. That's when the lights turn out. "Taker?" Steve asks. "Not me.." Taker whispers. Hope fills taker. 'Hes received my call.'

The lights turn back on and that hope quickly turns to dread. Leon is stood behind Paul and whilst taker is glad he's alive, he sure as hell doesn't look it. His nornaly Ash like tan skin is a dead pale kind. He has deep black circles around his eyes. His hair is thin and wiry. He's thin, his bones visible. But taker knows this is his boy.

Leon tilts his head and that's when taker catches the blade in Leon's boney hands. "Leon! No!" Taker yells. Paul's eyes widen and he jerks forward and turns around. Taker doesn't hesitate to climb out of the ring. He stops at the bottom of the ramp when Paul moves to the side.

Shawns arms are wrapped around Leon. Leon is suddenly not the same person he saw five seconds ago. Leon is himself again. No longer dead looking. Zombie like. The blade falls from his hands as his eyes turn normal. He leans back against his Papa and closes his eyes. "My baby" Shawn whispers as he rests his cheeks against Leon's shoulder blades. "My baby is back to me" shawn whispers, tears escaping his eyes. Leon lowers his head, bringing a hand up rest against his papas.

"Home"

Shawn opens his eyes at the rough voice. He lifts his head slightly and watches as Taker rushes up the ramp, pulling both into a hug. "Welcome home" Taker whispers against Leon's once again full head of hair. "Welcome home." Taker repeats.

---------------------------------

Cassie smiles widely at her brother. "I told them you'd come back" she states. Leon just looks at her and nods. He hasn't spoken much since his return. Only the word home. "Dad's been working nonstop to rebuild the home. It looks amazing!" Cassie adds. Leon just smiles at her before turning his gaze to meet takers in the rear view mirror. Takers been keeping a close eye on him since he returned. He's not the only one who saw Leon in that state. The whole world did. The media believe wwe have just upped their special affects. Everyone at wwe have questions, but so does Taker. He doesn't know what to say to people. He doesn't even know what to ask Leon.

Shawn? Shawns completely ignoring anything that happened that day. He's just happy to have his family back.

Taker knows better than to push Shawn. Especially now.

He stops the car outside their rebuilt home. Charlie barks in the back seat. "Home" Leon whispers. All three glance at him. Taker wasn't sure how he'd react to seeing the house. But it was worth a shot. They climb out of the car, shawn last. Shawn hugs himself as he examines the house.

Flashes of it on fire shoot in his mind. But no. That's not where shawns trauma really lays. Unlike taker, he's not scared of the fire, just of those who set it. Those who use it to take the lives of others. Those who set the fire and then use a more cruel method to take a child's life.

Shawn turns his gaze too Leon who's staring at the house. Shawn steps closer and notices that Leon isn't staring, his eyes are rolled back. "Taker? Taker!" Shawn yells. Taker jerks forward and catches Leon as he falls back. Cassies eyes widen and Charlie growls, but not at them, at the woods. Taker looks towards the woods and his eyes immediately land on the shadow watching them. He looks away as a hand grabs his arm.

Taker looks to see Leon staring at him. "Leon?" Taker asks. "Sorry." Leon mutters standing on his own. "Im okay. I didn't mean to scare you lot. Its just been...a tough few months." Leon admits. "Its nice to hear you say more than home" cassie smiles. Leon nods and looks towards the woods. "He will cause no harm." Leon states. Shawn and cassie look at him confused. "Not to us. He's here to protect us. A little deal I made when I was down under." Leon adds. "I knew you'd goto hell. Hunter owes me 50" cassie states. "Of course he did." Shawn huffs. "The devil's a good guy. I understand the world differently now." Leon tells them.

Taker examines his sons. There's something different to it than a week ago when he rejoined them. "I understand." Leon tells him. "You shouldn't." Taker states. Leon just hums and looks back at the house. "I know. Now you and kane aren't alone. And now I'm home." Leon shrugs.

"Im glad your home and I'm glad we are all together again" Shawn states.

Taker glances at the shadow again as his family make their way inside. "Whats going to happen next?" He asks quietly.

[sleepyselkiesims]

Part 40

Sage came by the house again, crying her eyes out. Amidst all the household drama, there hadn't really been a chance for the original family to mourn their loss. So, the benevolent god had an idea...

Well. This is everyone. The remaining members of the OG Queen family.

The benevolent god figured the seven sisters could use some familial comfort after losing their mama and founding legacy member. And it had been too long since they'd all been in one place.

Out of all of them, Apple understood best how lucky they were to have gotten so much time with their mother. Most kids weren't practically the same age as their parents for so long in sims world!

Arista and Thyme were surprisingly nonchalant. Maybe the glasses gave them some emotional protection.

Adrina and Attina took the loss the hardest; Attina disappeared somewhere to cry, and Adrina spent an hour crying to Ariel.

Sage had run off to whisper secrets to someone behind the grocer's stall, and at that point the benevolent god realised the family was still too hard to round up and were just making each other sadder or leaving.

Downhearted, Ariel set back out on an adventure. Apple had told her about yet another cool fishing spot she'd found, and Ariel could never say no to new worlds.

Unfortunately, Ariel was so depressed she didn't notice her surroundings at all. Even the giant mushrooms didn't attract her attention!

Still, she did manage to stumble her way to possibly the most beautiful portal she'd come across.

But before she answered the siren's call of adventure yet again, she had herself a good hard cry.

She cried her way through the portal, and didn't even notice her arrival in a magical new realm, or the inhabitants watching her.

Normally Ariel explored alone, for safety reasons, but this place didn't seem like a threat. And she desperately wanted to be on good terms with the people in her life.

Fresh out of drama club, and trying to cling to her bravery, Melody finally agreed to join her momma for an adventure. Under normal circumstances she would've said no, but they were both hurting so badly, it might do some good to try finding common ground.

What Ariel hadn't planned for was just how huge the magic realm was! Melody couldn't find her, but she did find a gardening room! It was perfect for her!

The gardening room provided a good opportunity to really let out her feelings. She sobbed and sobbed over the plants, watering them with her tears.

In another life, perhaps, her tears were as magical as the plants. And if anyone, say, got their eyes scratched out by thorns trying to climb her tower, or stabbed in the gut in her tower, her tears could heal them.

Yikes, you ever cry so hard that not only does it water crops, but someone has to come mop up after you?

Ariel had gotten a little distracted by her need to dig-dig-dig, so it would be a while before she could find where Melody was amongst the floating islands.

In the meantime, Melody had a heart-stopping moment while wandering around; for the first time in her life, she saw a boy. She'd met Christopher of course, but uh... yeah, she really only knew women. She was intrigued!

But then she ended up having a meltdown over a sandwich in front of an old mage. Melody left the building real quick after that.

Finally remembering they had phones, Ariel and Melody agreed to meet by the second portal on the right, straight on til- uh, down the stairs.

Their reactions to passing through the portal summed up their life philosophies; Ariel felt rejuvenated, in her element! Melody just felt uncomfortable and wary.

As Apple had promised, there was the fishing spot! And finally, the first mother-daughter bonding activity that these two had done in ages!

Who else could get to say they'd fished on the edge of a magical floating island! So cool!

But uh... well, outdoorsey activities were more Ariel's thing. Melody's skills tended to be indoors-based. At any rate, fishing was definitely not a new favorite activity. It didn't take long for her to call it quits and head back to the safety of her tower.

Ah well, more fish for Ariel!

Bonus

Melody wannabe