#happy last week of pride month!!! see you in wrath month

[chororine]

🌈pride flags colour picked from futurama characters🌈

[cyanide-latte]

TWST ficlet: Happy Birthday, Idia!

Words: 1,990

Warnings: None (though this does end sort of abruptly, oops. Also if you squint, you can technically see those hints of Phoenix Fire shipping.)

Characters: Idia Shroud, Ortho Shroud, Wei Renqiao (my OC), Oisín Anbás cameo (@tixdixl 's OC)

Ignihyde dormitory wasn't known for having the most lively students among its number. They were notoriously reclusive, almost to the same degree that they were known for their diligence. But, with the event of their Housewarden's birthday upon them, a low buzz of chatter accompanied the normal hum of technology typically heard in those halls. The subject of the conversation remained tightly shut up in his room and as such all the dormmates felt the need to—all things considered—exchange their thoughts on the matter, if only in brief.

And only briefly; many of them had long since learned to avoid the decided wrath of Ortho Shroud and keep any disparaging opinions about Housewarden Idia quiet around him.

The younger Shroud in question was preoccupied, as it was, alongside his dormmate Oisín Anbás as the two of them assisted a third dormmate who was, yet again, biting off perhaps a bit more than he could chew.

The finishing touches really didn't need to take this long. Really, he could have counted his work done a week before. But Wei Renqiao was nothing if not thorough, and he took immense pride in his work. He was finishing up the final adjustment—it had to be just right—and barely even glancing up as he gently instructed his two friends where needed to tend to the food being cooked. It had taken so many months of hard work, but…but…

There. Finished at last.

"Wow…You look pretty proud of yourself, Ren!"

He shouldn't have startled at the comment but he did, and had to take a second to re-center before he offered a smile at Ortho.

"I suppose I feel entitled to, in this case," he answered, lifting an eyebrow. "With how much time I've put into making this."

"Can we see first?!"

[I'm sure you'll see it before long, Ortho,] an electronic text-to-speech voice interjected as Oisín spoke up. [But I would also like to take a look before it disappears into Idia's room forever.]

Ren didn't miss the accompanying "OwO" face that followed the last remark, and let out a soft chuckle. As if he wouldn't have shown the two of them before handing over his gift. Not when they were the only two who actually knew about it. Without another word, he stood and unfolded his project for them to behold, immensely pleased when he saw their reactions.

"That's amazing! He's gonna love it, Ren, I just know it!"

[He ought to; knowing him, he's going to see it and realize just how much you put into it.]

It was an effort for Ren to keep the smug sense of satisfaction off of his face. Having the reassurance and praise of the two of them only drove it home for him that he'd made the best possible call for a gift.

The only thing left to do was present it to the recipient.

"Thank you both again for the help," he added, turning to nod at the food they were still tending. "This shouldn't take too long, and then we can serve that up."

[Not to worry,] Oisín responded. [We have this covered until you get back.]

"I know you do," Ren said, and this time he didn't keep the smile off his face as he folded the gift back up and began to head down the hall. "Why do you think I asked you two in the first place~?"

Okay yeah, he was definitely letting some of that smugness slip out.

Without another word, he stalked down the halls with his head held high and his gift secure in his arms. Truthfully there was some part of him, deep down, that was anxious over the possibility of his hard work being rejected. Saying he'd spent months on it was no exaggeration; in fact, it was closer to an entire year, given when he'd first been struck with the idea for the gift coupled with the fact he had to learn entirely knew skillsets in order to make it. Still, he'd put everything into it and he knew Idia well enough to be sure he would recognize the effort.

The conversation between dormmates was dying down, and much of it cut off abruptly as he passed. Ren struggled to hold back a sigh of exasperation. Over a year of sharing space with these guys and still they flinched away like they were expecting him to suddenly lunge at them. It wasn't like it was his fault he looked the way he did. Still, maybe for once this wasn't a bad thing, since it meant they'd likely shut up and back off of Idia.

He found himself outside the door in question shortly, and braced himself for…well, sadly, the usual. Given Idia's grumbling for the past month, Ren anticipated he probably wasn't hoping to treat the day too differently from normal. Actually no, scratch that. Good chance he'd act more antisocial than usual because of what day it was. This time Ren did sigh, but raised his hand and knocked on the door all the same.

There was a loud "eep!" from inside, followed by the barest hint of muttering Ren couldn't make out the words to. Yeah…yeah. He'd called it.

"It's just me," he said loudly, letting some light irritation enter his voice. "Can I give you your gift, or am I going to have to ambush you at some other time?"

A long pause followed, and Ren swore he could feel a sense of embarrassed guilt emanating from the other side of the door. Eventually, he heard a soft shuffling sound, and then the door slid open with a whooshing hiss. Amber eyes framed by gently undulating flame-like hair looked up at him apologetically from where Idia cringed and hunched by the door.

"H-hi, Ren…" he whispered. "You didn't- I mean, y-you—"

He gave the elder Shroud brother his most unamused, withering look, and Idia's mouth snapped shut with another squeak of alarm.

"Do us both a favor, and don't be ridiculous," he said, ducking his head a few inches and entering the room. The door whooshed shut behind him and Idia retreated a couple of steps, shuffling his weight anxiously from one foot to the other. "You know I'm not going to try to force expectations on you like someone from other dorms."

He avoided saying Riddle's name specifically, but he was sure they both instantly thought of him, given the brief flash of annoyance that crossed his Housewarden's face. Still, it vanished quickly and Idia simply nodded. He knew full well that Ren was more than willing to work within whatever accommodations he needed or requested, and as such, there wasn't going to be an imposition on his time or comfort, especially not on a day like his birthday.

"So, uh…"

Ren didn't miss the look he gave the bundle in his arms, and already he saw Idia's eyes widen. Willing himself to keep his face neutral, he extended the object towards him and simply said, "Happy birthday."

Idia didn't even show an ounce of hesitation as he took the tapestry and unfurled it, lifting it high so he could see the full design. It was sideways, so he had to adjust for a moment, and that allowed Ren to really take in the growing expression of awe and slack-jawed excitement on that thin, pale face.

"Th-this- this is—!"

"The Sled Over Heels season two frame from the episode where Ai won the unofficial race against her rival Tsubaki from the Shaftlands? Yes."

It wasn't just the frame from the episode that everyone loved and referenced as the "victory" frame; that one simply depicted Ai, battered and bruised but triumphant, punching the air and grinning the grin of someone who never had the intention of losing a confrontation to a rival with warped scruples. Everyone knew that frame, and pretty much everyone referenced it. But that wasn't Idia's favorite frame from that particular episode. No, he loved the specific scene of victory, the gorgeously painted moment where Ai swooped in for a last-second win, face full of determination and wildness as her sled sent up a spray of snow while balanced heavily on only one runner. He'd gushed at length about that scene and the sheer beauty of that painted cel, that moment, the emotion it evoked.

And at the time he'd talked to Ren about it, the other young man had known then that nothing else would do. It was highly unlikely the actual animation cel was floating around out there for purchase (and even if it had been, it was no contest that Idia probably could have more easily bought it for himself than Ren could have bought it for him,) but that was fine. Ren would dedicate himself to recreating it to the best of his ability, and he had.

"This is mixed media."

"Excuse me?"

Idia moved his arms to give the tapestry the gentlest snap for emphasis. "This!" he said. "There are a few different techniques that went into making this. This wasn't just something you took a screenshot of and shipped off to a company that makes print-on-demand merch." He paused, then lowered the tapestry slightly and gave Ren a searching look, a rare moment of direct eye contact. "You sew? Screen-print? Embroider? What all went into this? I didn't know you could do any of that."

Ren tilted his head, folding his arms and arching a brow as he did so. "Interesting assessment of what you see," he remarked. "Right about some things, slightly off the mark on others. And I didn't say anything because everything I did here other than the most basic of sewing skills, I had to learn to do to make it."

Idia frowned, like he was about to ask exactly what he'd gotten wrong in his guess, but instead turned his attention back to the tapestry and continued to look at it. He stayed quiet for a bit, the awe still present in his expression and bearing, even as he studied what he saw like he was trying to mentally pull it apart to examine all the pieces. This time, rather than the smug pride, a warmth settled into Ren, a sort of relieved, quiet joy that his gift was being received even better than he could have hoped for.

"You just…learned different techniques to make a fanmerch tapestry?"

"If it was worth acquiring the skills for, why not? I can always use them again later."

"How long did you work on this?"

"Started maybe a week after you had that long talk where you told me about that particular frame of animation."

Startled, Idia half-jumped and looked up again, eyes going wide.

"Wait, that means you would have had to have been working on this for close to a year!" he blurted out.

"Just about," Ren confirmed, lifting his shoulders in the barest casual shrug.

This got a ducked head as Idia brought the tapestry up to his chest and mumbled a thank-you that, quite frankly, Ren allowed some selective hearing to filter out the self-depracating, you-shouldn't-have-wasted-this-on-me, I'm-undeserving tone and utterances.

"You're welcome," he answered, turning to head back to the door. "By the way, we made ginger garlic noodle soup, if you want any before you get too deep into a raid or quest."

He saw Idia's head jerk back up. "Wait, was that what I was smelling when you stepped in? You made that soup too?"

Ah, yes, there it was. No matter how much he wanted to be left alone, not even Idia could resist the siren call of one of his favorite dishes from Ren's hometown.

"Happy birthday, by the way," Ren answered, grinning in an unspoken challenge as he left the room to head back to the kitchenette, not needing to wait around to hear Idia rushing to put on slippers to follow.

Taglist: @elenauaurs @inmateofthemind @ramshacklerumble @tixdixl @winterweary

@distant-velleity @rainesol @thehollowwriter @theleechyskrunkly @twst-migraine

@natsukishinomiyaswife @the-trinket-witch (DM me if you'd like to be added or removed from the taglist for my TWST OCs stuff)

Dividers used

[pirate-of-the-southern-isles]

Fanfic's snippet - How Hans became a pirate

Hans is telling the story of what the hell is he doing here to Anna and Elsa after three years of the events portrayed and from his own perspective, mind you.

Just like he expected - when he got back home, there were hard days waiting for him. Weeks. Months.

When he got pulled out of a jail-boat, he was in all seriousness expecting to be executed. Especially since he didn’t exactly initiate his father into his original, brilliant plan beforehand, so whatever he did in Arendelle, he did it on his own account. Well, to be honest, even if he would have done so, his father would probably deny everything anyway.

It wouldn’t be correct to call what happened next a trial. Guards took him to the king, the king read Anna’s letter and he got so mad that Hans could almost sense a blade on his neck. In the end, a whole family was called into a throne room and the judgement was passed. Nobody tried to defend him, including himself, because he knew that whatever he would try to say for himself, it would only make things worse. Anyway, he was oficially stripped off all his titles, a chance for a throne even if all of his relatives would die of plague, his possesions and all his privileges. He could still live on the castle’s property, as his father mercifully allowed, but as a servant. More specifically – a stable boy. Hans knew he should be happy that it was the end of it, but he saw his brothers’ faces, immediately knew what exactly was waiting for him and thought something along the line of „a death wouldn’t be the worst option, actually”.

But what was the worst, was his mother’s face. And the fact that she, as always, said nothing.

Hans liked horses, but his brothers… well, he didn’t want to go into details, because he really didn’t want to remember all this.

„This” lasted three long, excruciatingly painful years. The king’s wrath didn’t pass, no one seemed to be advocating for him, every message from across the sea was as meaningless as any other. There was no chance to escape, because even the most unwanted princess from the smallest and most insignificant of kingdoms wouldn’t want him as a husband. And no one was going to let him go to the Brotherhood of the Isles' hermitage, which started to seem like a really nice place to be. He also didn’t manage to gain the other’s servants friendship – everyone was treating him as he was a carrier of some highly contagious disease. Maybe because everywhere he went, there was a probability that one or more of his brothers will follow to make fun and/or a punching bag of him. And it seemed like it will be like that till the end of his miserable days.

One night, he went to sleep. Not in his own chambers, obviously. They gave him some sort of a closet next to the stables. In theory, it wasn’t a cell. In reality – of course it was. Especially since he wasn’t allowed to leave it on his own.

Anyway – he was woken up by a cannonball which went straight through the wall and almost decapitated him.

When the dust settled, he saw Layla for the first time. She entered through the hole, her saber in one hand and a colt in the other, her hat crooked. She looked like someone fully ready and happy to throw hands.

„You” she said, when she finally noticed him in all this mess. „Where is a treasury?”.

Hans had no idea how to react in a situation like this.

„How… how did you manage to break it?” he finally asked, being stunned. Not to mention – almost deaf. These walls were his father’s – and the whole Isles – pride and joy, built of the finest, famous black stone. Nothing should be able to…

„See how nice our cannons are?” she asked, coming closer and putting a tip of her blade under his chin. „And if you don’t want us to load the next one with you, tell me where a treasury is”.

„And why do you think I know…?”

„Oh please, that nice little pyjamas that you have is most definitely not jail’s clothes.” She rolled her eyes. „And also, we know bloody well that it is not a prison, because it is in the entirely different direction. So?”

 „Are you a pirate?” he asked, just to be sure.

Hans looked at her saber. Then at her. In her… eyes. Then at the hole in the wall. Then at the other one, mirroring it, in the place where a heavy, iron door with five locks and a chain used to be. He could hear someone screaming nearby. When he squinted and looked through a gap again, he saw a ship on a sea, suprisingly near. The darkness of a night was being chased away by raging fires. He could see a flag. A black flag.

„Oh, you are so smart!” she smiled ironically. „That’s why they keep you here?”.

„I have an offer”. He evened his breath; the saber’s blade was still near his throat. „Let’s parley”.

For a moment she was looking at him like he was speaking gibberish. And then she started to laugh and laugh madly.

„You, sunshine, read too many books”. She scoffed. „It doesn’t work like that, you can’t just say „Parley!” and expect to be protected from all the evil!”.

„I imagine, but I have an offer which you may want to hear”.

„Sweetie, I didn’t come here for a tea party, make it quick or I will gut you”.

„You can gut me” he said, all calm now, slowly getting up from what used to be his bedding; he has made the decision already, now all he needed to do is to execute it. „or I can lead you to the treasury and even more, I can open it. Because I know where my father keeps his keys”.

She blinked. He managed to suprise her, it was a big step ahead.

„Father?”

„I am Hans Westergaard, not so long ago one of the princes of the Southern Isles” he introduced himself; he didn’t bow his head, because the blade under his chin was still making it impossible. „And I will gladly help you, under one condition”.

She glared at him, visibly annoyed.

„You are not exactly in a position to make any conditions”.

„As we have just established, I am. Unless you prefer to toil with this treasury on your own. And I have to warn you, it has a really great lock and a really solid door.

„You know what, I just gonna cut you a little”.

„Wait!” he put his hands up defensively. „It is a good deal. You can cut me, I don't have anything against it. If you still haven’t noticed, I am not exactly in the best place right now and I don’t see any changes in a foreseeable future. But we can go, I will open that door wide and you will take as much gold as you want.

She sighed.

„And the condition?”.

He went all serious.

„You will take me with you on your ship”.

---

The Pirate of the Southern Isles, chapter 3

As told by Hans himself, when Elsa asked what the hell happened and why is he there, on a ship, instead of in some dungeons.

[creatiview]

[ad_1] “Something’s happened,” I told my wife. She is a veteran of watching me try to fix my body. I told her: Where before my brain had been screaming, screaming, at air-raid volume—there was sudden silence. It was confusing. Would it last?I went alone that night to a Chinese restaurant, the old-school kind with tables, and ordered General Tso’s. I ate the broccoli, a few pieces of chicken, and thought: too gloopy. I left it unfinished, went home in confusion, a different kind of sleepwalker. I passed bodegas and shrugged. At an office I observed the stack of candies and treats with no particular interest.Decades of struggle—poof. Apparently the Mounjaro molecule targets the same hormone as Ozempic, plus a second one, so it doesn’t just stimulate insulin production but also boosts energy output.“I urgently need,” I thought, “an analog synthesizer.” Something to fill the silence where food used to be. Every night for weeks I spent four, five hours twisting Moog knobs. Not making music. Just droning, looping, and beep-booping. I needed something to obsess over, to watch YouTube videos about. I needed something to fail at every night to feel normal. And I was also manic, dysregulated, and wide-eyed, sleeping five hours a night, run-walking, with pressured speech; my friends, happy for me but confused, called me “cocaine Paul.” I bought more synthesizers off a guy from Craigslist, meeting him in Bushwick, Brooklyn, with a grand in cash. A body is not designed to lose 25 pounds in eight weeks, starting during the holidays. Beep. Boop.With the relief come new anxieties. What if it stops working and I slide back into the vale of infinite noise? Compounding that, these drugs are hard to get, both because of supply chain problems and because they are being prescribed off-label for weight loss instead of diabetes. I can’t get a steady prescription from the pharmacy. I’m developing a rationing plan, stretching from an injection every seven days to one every eight or nine to build up a stockpile.I can see my anxiety mirrored in the wave of reactions starting to appear—op-eds, TV segments, people explaining why it’s good, actually, that the vast majority of those using this drug lose a quarter of their body weight. On social media, fat activists are pointing out that our lives were worthy even without this drug. The wave of opinion will not crest for years.And that’s fair because this is new—not just the drug, but the idea of the drug. There’s no API or software to download, but this is nonetheless a technology that will reorder society. I have been the living embodiment of the deadly sin of gluttony, judged as greedy and weak since I was 10 years old—and now the sin is washed away. Baptism by injection. But I have no more virtue than I did a few months ago. I just prefer broccoli to gloopy chicken. Is this who I am?How long is it before there’s an injection for your appetites, your vices? Maybe they’re not as visible as mine. Would you self-administer a weekly anti-avarice shot? Can Big Pharma cure your sloth, lust, wrath, envy, pride? Is this how humanity fixes climate change—by injecting harmony, instead of hoping for it at Davos? Certainly my carbon footprint is much smaller these days. Are we going to get our smartest scientists together, examine the hormonal pathways, and finally produce a cure for billionaires?When I let the domain name for my diet blog expire, I accepted that there was no technology that could change my biological responses to my own satiety. Now there is, and the part of me that tracked every meal, searched for solutions in apps and programs, wrote code, and took notes is obsolete. Was that time wasted? God, yes. But I did learn a ton—about nutrition, about exercise, about myself. All of those lessons are a joy to apply now, without the panic of self-destructive hunger.Lately I’m finally less manic. Still losing weight, but much more slowly. Exercising more. At night I play with my synthesizers and watch online classes in music theory.

Headphones on, processing all those years of futile effort. As I fiddle with knobs I am sometimes angry, sometimes ashamed, and often grateful. I don’t know how long this post-appetite era will last, or how it will end. Just that, once again in our lives, everything has changed.  [ad_2] Source link

[meteor752]

The Double life children, small headcanons

Guys…..I grew attached

And this is what happens when I grow attached to Characters that has little to no pre established character (See The Barduil fam, Knox), I think about them a lot and then I talk about it here.

Anyways, the AU is essentially that in addition to the dl gang sharing lives, they also share a child that just showed up one day unprompted, here’s the link to the post

But yeah, here’s some additional things about the babs, enjoy

Also, tell me who’s ur favorite, I wanna know. Personally I really like Johnny and Liana, but I’m curious about what others think

Liana is younger than everyone else, as while they all popped in a few month old, she was still just an unhatched egg. She’s bullied for this

Jassy has naturally striking white hair, but she dyed a streak in it green to have something in common with Joel

The full moon’s take a lot out of Gertrude, leaving her exhausted both days before and after. She was completely feral during the first few, leaving Ren to help keep her away from everyone so no one is hurt. They both have a lot of scars from this

Novo got too close to Weretrude once, giving him a big ol nasty scar on his forearm. He takes a weird sense of pride in it

Jekiv is completely enamored with death and corpses. He likes to study zombies and skeletons, see what differs them from each other and from other players. When they’ve perished, he takes parts from them, like teeth or brain matter, and keeps them as decorations. Sometimes he makes jewelry out of it, which clashes weirdly with his bright pastel clothing

A part of Novo’s fucked up mental state comes from how both of his parents tortured each other, sometimes in front of him. It sorta messes up your mind to see your dad nearly freeze to death in front of you, or see your mom’s shoulder form an open stab wound, especially when you’re just a few years old

On a lighter note than all of that previous shit, Johnny absolutely fucking loves goats. The ranch goats are his buddies, all of them have names, and he’s very protective of them. If anyone would dare to try and trick them into loosing a horn, they’d be faced with the ‘Tek wrath’, as his pa Jimmy had dubbed it

As a kid, Liana spent a lot of time trying to fly, injuring herself multiple times doing so. It was first until she was six that Grian broke the news that she’d likely never be able to fly, as her wings were too small to carry her. Liana ran away at the news, upset at her dad, and ended up at Martyn’s place who looked after her for a few days until she was ready to see her dad again. Grian almost had a heart attack multiple times during those days

Jassy Naruto runs. She’s also allergic to onions. Just putting that out there

Martyn had almost no involvement in raising Jekiv. He was like a dad who walked out to get milk and never came back, except he lived not too far from there, so it was kinda awkward. Jekiv reject everything to do with his dad, even small things like refusing to dress in green and hiding his blonde hair, just so he has no affiliation to him.

Wes is a total cuddle bug. Like I’ve said before, the guy has a lot on anxiety, but just relaxing and holding something softly helps him immensely. Jekiv is more than happy to assist with this

Despite not having a last name, Liana has almost ten middle names. This is because the only way Grian could compromise and get his way with the name, was if Scar chose the middle name. He went a little overboard. Liana’s full name is Liana Sharina Ace Xelqua Sage Aurelia Francesca Octavia Jellie Monroe. She absolutely loathes it, because it can’t fit cleanly on any business card

Pearl didn’t have much custody of Novo, just every other week, but when she did and had to do something then Tilly was Novo’s babysitter. The lad absolutely loves the dog, even if she’s old by now, and she was always very gentle with him as a kid

Scar tried to do something similar with Liana and the Jellies, but they’re a lot more lazy and negligent, plus Liana is a tiny bit allergic so it was not a good idea. Like many things regarding his daughter, this nearly gave poor Grian a heart attack

Johnny has a flame bite. What I mean by this is that whatever he bites gets a serious burn, almost second degree if he bites hard enough. This was discovered when he was roughhousing with Gertrude, and accidentally bit her. She still has the burn scar on her arm

Speaking of dog gal, she runs on four legs! Well, only when she really gotta go fast, but yeah she a doggo! She’s extremely fast too, even beats Etho and Jassy’s Naruto running

Wes was bit by one of his dads horses as a kid, and has been afraid of them ever since. Has never brought this up with them though, as he doesn’t want to seem silly over a stupid fear

Jassy used to steal Etho’s mask all the time as a bab. Sometimes she’d wear it (despite it being way too large for her) and sometimes she’d just nom on it. Etho absolutely adores his daughter and everything she does, so he’d let her do so without any qualms (This was the reason behind some people seeing Etho’s face for the first time). Joel was usually the one who took the mask back, because he’s fully immune to his daughter’s puppy eyes (He’s not, he’s just stronger)

While Liana is a brilliant businessman and a total silver tongue, it does help during her deals to have Jassy (Badass ninja gal with a cold steeled gaze) standing behind her, sharpening her blade.

Novo has a very weird Frankenstein of an accent, mixing together Scott’s Scottish and Pearl’s Australian. This makes him sometimes incomprehensible, even to his parents. This paired with Johnny’s mysterious country accent that just came out of nowhere made them very good friends as children

Despite Johnny being part demon and Wes being part Imp, aka different species, the two are very similar to each other in terms of physical attributes regarding their species. They both got horns, a tail, sharp fangs, and unnaturally colored eyes. Johnny has a bit more fire imagery going on that Wes, but despite that the two are similar af. They quarrel about this often, fighting over who has better and sturdier horns, who’s tail is stronger and can lift more, who can kill down the best using just teeth and claws, etc. It’s a dumb friendly rivalry they both enjoy

Liana spends a lot of time styling her hair, trying to make it all prom and proper like a true business man. This effort is all futile however, as she inherited Grian’s extremely fluffy hair, and it will all just puff up within twenty minutes no matter how much hair gel Liana puts in it

And now, on a less light note, the deaths

Major tw warning for the shit being written here, it will be describing pretty gruesome deaths in close detail, so be warned

Johnny was the first to go. He was sitting down by the salmon river with Jekiv, fishing, when it happened. His chest was penetrated by a long sharp object, taking the breath away from his lungs as his mouth filled with a thick metallic liquid. Jekiv could only stare on in shock as Johnny choked to death on his own blood, the open wound on his chest lined with faint purple. It was first when he opened chat and saw the death messages, that Jimmy had been slain, that the death was explained. He knew that he needed to get the information to everyone else, that their lives was directly tied to their children’s lives, and he needed to give them that information fast. Too bad he wasn’t fast enough

Gertrude was with Novo when it happened to her. The two were on the way up Pearl’s tower, joking between themselves, when a sharp pain struck Gertrude’s head. She was so shocked by the sudden pain that she let go off the ladder, falling down to the ground with Novo screaming out her name. Gertrude was dead before she hit the ground, her skull pierced open and blood dripping down her face. Her iconic sunglasses that she never took off laid beside her, cracked. Her mouth was hung open in a silent scream, pleading for mercy of the pain that would only hit her in death. Novo cried over her body, confused over what had happened. His mother found him an hour later, and had to physically drag him away

Realistically you’d think that after the death of two children, the people would calm down with the killing. And yeah, two couples do! The yellow lives are rational, they know that both theirs and everyone else’s children are in danger, and that the killing would help nobody. The red lives on the other hand crave blood. The crave violence and gore and death. Their minds barely register that the kids could be in danger, all they are set on is killing off the yellows and killing them as fast as they can.

Liana was by herself when she died. She was watching over the remaining Jellies, scratching their furry faces and trying to keep them in the area of red velvet keep when her head suddenly feels like it explodes. Her ears are hurting so bad they start to bleed, and her eyes bulge out of her skull as the roaring pain stop her from doing anything apart from writhing in pain. The loud noise eventually rips a hole in her eardrums, ruptures her lungs, and leaves her lifeless corpse to bleed out, the Jellies nudging with their little noses, trying to wake her up

Jassy was in the newly constructed fort tower when her death occurred. She was with Wes, still mourning Liana’s death when her dads left for the Nether. It should’ve been a safe journey, they were both highly skilled if not a bit chaotic, so she didn’t expect anything to go astray. That was, until her arm suddenly started burning in a way it never had before. Johnny’s bites hurt a lot, but it paled in comparison to what she felt in that moment. And the feeling didn’t stop, instead it spread up her arm, and formed on her leg, and her back, and everywhere. She didn’t notice she was actually on fire until Wes screamed, the flames coming into her vision when she looked up at him. She screamed out for him, for her dads, for Impulse and BDubs who were standing not too far away frozen in fear, but the burning didn’t stop. Her skin melted off, and bones turned to ash, her whelps of pain becoming strange gargles as the flames ate her up. When she finally grew silent, left behind was only a burnt corpse, doomed to end just the way everything in her father’s path did.

Wes, newly traumatized by witnessing his friend’s death, stuck to his dads after the passing of Boat Boys. The three were left alone on their team to fend off against two separate families, one of which containing two fully unhinged individuals, so it was a bit frightening to walk around. Of course they were attacked, but Wes’ death was quick and easy. BDubs was stabbed by Pearl, accidentally taking Impulse down with him, and Wes died close to his family, almost painless.

Jekiv on the other hand…..After witnessing Johnny’s death just a bit earlier, Jekiv was a fucking wreck. He looked like his step brother Novo, the way he was twitching and staring out into nothing for hours on end. His parents tried to stay out of the killings, hiding in the deep dark while Jekiv was tucked away in Scott and Cleo’s secret bunker, but when they turned red it was hard to resist the temptations. Martyn carelessly went after Pearl, aiming to finally get a victory in one of the seasons and to prove the Watcher’s wrong, but the dogs were too much for him. Jekiv could feel the wolf army, the offsprings of that fucking dog that Pearl always took everywhere, start to nip and bite away on his rotting skin. Chunks of it disappeared in large bites, and he screamed out for help, help that couldn’t come. The feeling of being eaten alive was slightly numbed by the fact that as a zombie he was unable to feel everything, but even with that in mind it was absolutely horrifying for him, and incredibly painful. He could feel the dogs tear his arms off, bite away at his inner organs, rip off his skin, and all he could do was cry. He was eventually saved from a very slow and painful death by Cleo’s fall, which instantly broke all three of their necks.

And then there were only one. Novo had stayed hidden at the base of Pearl’s tower through most of the red siege, staring at the place where Gertrude had died. Her body had been taken away to be buried with her fathers by box, but there was still some blood and bone splinters left in the grass. He stared at chat, letting out a dry sob each time a death message hit, knowing that his friends went with them. Liana, the only one who could keep up with his crazy nature, and always followed along when he had an idea. Jassy, with her infinite patience and wonderfully dumb puns. Wes, who would carry Novo away from any form of danger he put himself into, acting like the caring and loving mother he never had. Jekiv, his brother, the only person Novo considered family, despite that he absolutely loathed him. All of them, gone. Novo left the tower when his father told his mother to meet at spawn. He walked past Tilly on the way there, his caretaker, the best listener when he needed to cry. His parents were both at spawn, staring each other down. Talking. Novo couldn’t hear them, his ears were still ringing from all the explosions that had gone off earlier. He was too far away to see their facial expressions. He tried to call for them, but either they didn’t hear him or they simply ignored him. Nothing new. It was first when his father placed tnt by his feet that Novo really started to panic, picking up the pace to run to them both, stopping whatever madness that was happening between them. He couldn’t. His father screamed something, his mother called out for him. Novo just wailed, as the explosion finished him off, quick and easy.

And then they were gone. Seven lonely souls, all created through forged bonds between people who were made for death, made to kill for entertainment. The fourteen would all move on after the season, build their bases, create their empires, compete in their tournaments. They would forget about the things that transpired on that server, their friendships would reforge and they would all move on with their lives. And seven more stars would be added to the eternal night sky, seven stars who in the big scheme of things were nothing, but in the moment were everything. Seven stars made to be remembered, but doomed to be forgotten.

It got poetic there at the end lol. If you made it here, hi glad to have ya.

I genuinely love these seven dumb ocs, they make no sense and idk how they work but they’re lovely. I might write something about them at some point

If you would be wondering how old these guys all I have absolutely zero idea. In my mind they’re pretty old, like early twenties, and idk if that means that Double life went on for twenty years or these babies just age quickly. Probably the second one tbh.

But yeah, hope you enjoyed this, I certainly did I love writing gore and cool deaths. Don’t forget to tell me who the fave is, because I’m curious, and have a great day!

[bubbledumbbinch]

Hi, there! I'm new here! Can I get the dorm leaders' (including Jamil's) reaction to their fem! s/o who suddenly passes out due to stress and when she wakes up, she tearfully confesses that she was traumatized by their Overblots. What can they do to comfort her? Fluff/angst combo. Please and thanks!

Yes yes! I will only be including the people who have overblotted so far so no Ignihyde or Diasomnia yet!

I also am sorry I just didn’t want to make s/o faint in all scenarios? I did in most tho!! Sorry >< I hope this is okay!!

Also also, sorry I haven’t posted in SO long!! I just came back from 2 vacations including a week long trip to Disney world!!

Warnings: angst, spoilers for everyone’s chapters I guess?

Riddle Rosehearts

In the following weeks of Riddle’s overblot, he was working to try to be a better leader to Heartslabyul. However, old habits don’t die very easily. You saw Riddle’s wrath once again when he scolded some students who had gotten into a fight and had promptly used his unique magic.

“OFF WITH YOUR HEAD!!” His voice resounded off the walls and the harshness of his voice brought awful flashbacks into your mind. Then, everything went black.

When you wake, Riddle is over your body, his large grey eyes were scanning over you panicked. When he asked what happened, you broke down and told him that you remembered his overblot and fainted.

Riddle’s guilt would skyrocket. He never intended to hurt so many people including one of his closest friends Trey and especially not you. Even after a few weeks he didn’t realize it would weigh so much on so many others.

Riddle would turn red from shame while hiding his face in the crook of your neck. As he starts to chant “I’m sorry”s over and over, he starts to sob shakily, also making you start to release the tears that were in your eyes.

Riddle takes care of you personally - brings you to bed, attempts to cooks for you, studies with you, anything he can do to gain your trust back.

“I- I’ll be better. A better person. For you, for everybody in Heartslabyul, for me.” Riddle was hiccuping from crying. You kissed Riddle’s cheek and stroked it, trying to wipe his tears from his face. “I know, Riddle. I can see you trying every day and you’re getting better and better.” It was true. You personally saw him interacting with students and knew his relationship with everyone was improving. With time, things will get a lot easier to process emotions and the feelings from that eventful day.

Leona Kingscholar

Leona’s practice session for Magift wasn’t going as planned. You noticed he was getting angrier and angrier with his poor plays while sitting on the sidelines.

When he finally had enough he grabbed the disc and turned it into sand, growling in anger. He shouted at his teammates and physically threatened them.

You felt your heart stop as your boyfriend continued to scream. The last thing you saw before falling was Epel’s shocked face as you hit the ground.

When you woke up, the team members were all circled around you, only to be scared away by Leona’s growling.

When you admitted you had PTSD from his overblot, he looked away in shame. The beastman didn’t say much - it’s not like he COULD say anything. He knew he was wrong at that moment but he was only frustrated at the game.

Leona tries to spend more time with you by pulling you into his arms when he naps. He mumbles softly about being sorry and telling you he loves you. You know that it’s a lot for him to even do that, so it means a lot to you.

As Leona held you in his arms, you couldn’t help but tighten your arm’s grip on his. “My little herbivore… I’m sorry..” It was a whisper. Almost quiet enough to the point of you not hearing it. Soon after, the soft rise and fall of his chest indicated he was asleep. Leona’s pride was high. He never expressed his feelings through words - but feeling his arms embrace you protectively, you knew how sorry he was and how regretful he was to make you feel so upset.

Azul Ashengrotto

It had been a few months since you’d seen Azul overblot. You figured everything had gone back to normal - you were dating steadily, which was going well, and Azul treated you well.

One day though, he lost his control. Under his own stress and when his business affairs weren’t going as well as planned, he blew up and you heard him scream at someone from the outside the VIP room - all too familiar to the yelling he did when he overblotted.

You felt stuck - your feet were planted outside of his office and your nerves got the better of your motor functions. You knew you loved Azul but that moment when you saw his insecurities and too much power getting a hold of him, you were truly scared. You barely remember registering any memories as things started to fade.

“Shrimpy wake up!!” You were suddenly being shaken about, earning a gasp from you. Azul sighed next to Floyd and Jade. He asked you what had happened - he found you outside his office in a daze.

Once you truthfully told him about your memories of his overblot his expression fell. Azul was emotional and his feelings of rejection would flare up. You would need to tell him you still love him because something in him will tell him you don’t.

Azul spoils you a bit and makes sure you are not present or in the area, working in the lounge only when he isn’t dealing with complicated contracts.

Azul is also happy you weren’t traumatized due to the fact you saw his octopus form - he was very worried about that possibility.

“Angelfish, tell me, what is it you want? Anything, I’ll give it to you, please just forgive me…” Azul tearfully grasped your hands in his, glasses fogging up. It was seldom at times you saw Azul break his smile. “A-Azul, you can’t just give me something to make me forget. I need to process this and I wouldn’t be surprised if other people need to, as well. Just… be there for me.” You spoke, rubbing his cheek with your thumb as your hand cupped his face. Azul freely let his tears run down his face. “Of course, angelfish. I promise.”

Jamil Viper

You were simply looking over at the view of the desert sand from the common room of Scarabia. It wasn’t long after Jamil’s overblot.

Things have changed in the dynamic of the dorm - him and Kalim were closer now that suppressed feelings could be free, Jamil gained the trust back from most if not all the members, and you both started dating.

The more you stared into the distance, the more it reminded you of that fateful day. Visions of the dark red stormy sky invaded your thoughts while you swore you could hear Jamil’s sinister laughter growing louder and louder.

Memories being hurled from the dorm to the cold desert sand invaded your senses as you fell to the ground.

When you opened your eyes, you flinched back when you saw Jamil so close to you, making his eyes look hurt. Jamil would surround you with soft pillows and a silk sheet he must have borrowed from Kalim.

Once he finally pries your feelings out of you after you don’t want to tell him the truth, Jamil looks pained. He didn’t want to hurt you.

Jamil would give you time to think, knowing how much alone time is valued. Whether you want him to give you space or spend time with him is up to you.

“I’m, I’m sorry, y/n…” his eyes dropped to look at the floor, ashamed. “I’ll give you some time alone to think about our relationship, if that’s what you want.” The weight he added to the bed was lifted as the raven haired boy started to walk away. “No, Jamil, please stay with me.” Your voice seemed to shock him. He turned and looked at you, surprised. “I like you for you. I know you were having a hard time, and it was scary for you too. We can get stronger together! So please… don’t leave me.” You pleaded, cursing your voice for sounding weaker than you intended. Jamil’s brown eyes softened and a smile, a genuine one at that, made its way to his face.

Vil Schoenheit

Surprise surprise, Vil was checking the internet search results to see who the most beautiful one of all was. Vil had recently shot a movie and the trailer had come out an hour prior.

When the phone had still said the name he dreaded, he threw his phone down in frustration, making you flinch. He didn’t even know you were in the vicinity, you were in the hallway looking into his room as his back faced you in his room.

When you spoke his name softly, he replied callously in his response, making you freeze. His demeanor was mean to say the least, his eyes looked tired and he just looked angry.

It reminded you all too much of his overblot, which happened a few weeks back. You slowly backed into a wall and started to whimper.

Vil would realize his errors quickly and come running to your aid. He coos and strokes your hair, telling you he was sorry for lashing out. When you tell him it reminded you of his overblot, guilt racks through him.

Vil hugs you tightly and apologizes over and over. He would definitely be one to spend an entire day devoted to spoiling you, taking you to your favorite restaurant, giving you personalized facials, and shopping with you.

Vil knows this won’t resolve the issue, but he’s going to let you know how much you mean to him and how sorry he is, over time.

Vil looked over your shaking form with trembling hands. His soft, slender hands came to grasp your own. “Y/N, Y/N please answer me..!” You could only look away. “Vil, it reminded me of your… your overblot! I’m sorry…” your tears flowed freely now, staining your cheeks. You always thought you looked ugly when you cried so this only felt like salt in the wound. When Vil looked at you now, his eyes were looking into yours, deeper into you than what you physically offered. “I… that must have been scary for you, Y/N. I’m truly, so sorry. You had to see an ugly side of me that I never want to come out again.”

[popculty]

🎧 New Episode: ‘Killing Eve’ Fans Fight to Bury a Deadly Trope

When the critically-acclaimed TV series Killing Eve shocked viewers by ending with the oldest homophobic trope known as Bury Your Gays, it re-opened old wounds for the LGBTQ+ community. But fans are turning their betrayal into action, to ensure the next generation of queer viewers get to see happy endings for the characters they love - and themselves. (photo credit: @evilvillanelle)

This episode was a global, collaborative labor of love. Huge thank you to @anevolutionarynecessity for being such an integral part of this project, and to @loving-villanelle for your tireless engagement with The Discourse. Thank you @horde-princess and @doks-aux for your contributions to my favorite segment, “Queers Read Mean Tweets About the Killing Eve Finale”! 😉

Wherever you are in the stages of grief, I hope you find sympathetic rage/comfort in this episode. You are heard, famdom, and our fight is not in vain. 🏳️‍🌈✊

🎧 Listen here, or check out the interactive transcript below 👇

✨ Follow the show: Twitter | Instagram | Youtube

🙏 Support future episodes of independent pop culture criticism by joining our Patreon!

SJ: Gay Pride is over, bebes. Buckle up for Gay Wrath Month!

[upbeat punk/rock music kicks in]

This is The Popculty Podcast where we are somehow still fighting for the radical idea that queer characters deserve happy endings too. I'm your host, SJ.

[music fades out]

It's been dubbed "the worst ending of any TV show in the last 12 years," and "the new Game of Thrones." (Ouch.) It's the physical manifestation of that meme where the back half of a horse has been drawn professionally, and its front half has been completed by a two year-old. Vanity Fair proclaimed it "atrocious." Yahoo! Entertainment called it "tired and unforgivable." "Insulting to the audience," said Vulture. Variety declared it "a total betrayal of what once made it great," and Bleeding Cool marveled that, "it didn't so much end as just...stop -- As if the writers just threw up their hands and wanted it over and done with." A conclusion so nonsensical and abrupt, it spawned conspiracy theories of a secret ninth episode - which never materialized. A petition to have head writer Laura Neal arrested for hate crimes has gotten nearly 5000 signatures. And another petition to have original showrunner Phoebe Waller-Bridge rewrite the episode accumulated 10,000 signatures in two weeks.

I'm talking about the Killing Eve finale that aired on April 10, 2022, which saw the main characters, Eve and Villanelle, embrace after accomplishing their series-long goal of defeating the evil organization known as The Twelve, only for Villanelle to be shot multiple times by an unseen shooter and bleed out in Eve's arms as the words 'The End' appeared across our screens, abruptly cutting to black. Four years of 'will-they-won't-they', four years of the relationship evolving from toxic to pure, and it was all for...THAT?? In its final two minutes, Killing Eve went from being one of the queerest shows on TV to a brutal morality lesson, killing off every single queer character, except for Eve, in one of the oldest and most damaging homophobic tropes, known as Bury Your Gays.

I mentioned Bury Your Gays tangentially in our Jessica Jones conversation on queerbaiting and queer representation, but we never really got into the history or the context behind it. Bury Your Gays has been an insidious staple of American film and television for both mediums near-entire existence. As AJ Willingham writes for CNN, in an article called 'The Harmful Trope That's Still Haunting Queer TV,' queer or queer-coded characters being "punished" by death was once the legal norm in entertainment: “In the 1930s, efforts by the Supreme Court, local governments and conservative censorship groups led film industry leaders to establish the Motion Picture Production Code. The Hays Code, (as it became known), effectively forbade depictions of homosexuality, which was considered a form of sexual deviancy. The code mandated that, ‘the sympathy of the audience shall never be thrown to the side of crime, wrongdoing, evil or sin.’ So characters could be (subtextually) coded as gay, but only if they were portrayed negatively, and received some sort of punishment. Bound by these rules for decades, gay characters on screen were evil, conniving, and ultimately doomed.”

The Hays Code was eventually replaced by the MPAA rating system in 1968, but its effect on pop culture is still deeply ingrained. And you have to remember that up until 1973, homosexuality was considered a mental illness by the American Psychiatric Association, and homosexual acts were federally criminalized in the US until 2003. Even as the number of LGBTQ characters on our screens has steadily increased over the past few decades, the majority of those have been side characters, not leads, and most have met untimely ends, often for the story progression of those straight leads.

Now, we're not saying that no queer characters can ever die in media from now on. Of course they can. We want them to be treated as human beings, same as any other character. The problem is that they're not treated the same, in two distinct ways: For one, they're killed off at a disproportionate rate compared to their straight counterparts. And two, the way they're often killed is markedly more brutal than their straight counterparts' deaths. For example, you will almost never see a queer character pass away peacefully in their sleep, or die of old age with their loved ones. Much more often, you will see them suffer an agonizing death from AIDS, in the case of gay male characters, or be brutally murdered, in the case of lesbians. For the latter, this often takes the form of the lesbian or bisexual female character being shot out of nowhere-- usually, notably, by an angry white man. Think Tara in Buffy the Vampire Slayer, think Lexa in The 100, think Root in Person of Interest. And now, think Villanelle. According to a list compiled by Autostraddle, to date, over 200 just lesbian and bisexual characters have been killed on screen. Considering the fact that there have only *ever* been a few hundred lesbian and bi characters in all of TV history, that's a mortality rate of like 80%. The mortality rate for straight characters, meanwhile-- of which there are arguably far too many-- is closer to 20%. So you combine the scarcity of queer representation with a high grisly mortality rate, and you've got a repeatedly traumatized demographic, who keep getting attached to the one or two characters they can identify with, only for that character to be murdered, often moments after finding happiness for the first time.

Queer characters *can* die without it falling into Bury Your Gays - Hannibal, The Haunting of Bly Manor, and the “San Junipero“ episode of Black Mirror are all really good examples of how to kill a gay character in a respectful, satisfying, and inevitable way. To be honest, I would have actually preferred that the Killing Eve writers had buried *both* gays respectfully, than one gay carelessly, like they did. I, along with many other viewers, kind of expected-- and would have been satisfied with-- a Thelma and Louise-type ending. Instead, we got a finale that “re-traumatized an entire community that was finally starting to believe it deserved better.”

When the entire world is already so hostile to queer folks, often our only refuge is in fictional worlds. When those fictional worlds reveal themselves to be just as cruel, dangerous, and bleak as the real world, where is our safe haven? For queer women, the lack of representation, combined with lack of opportunity to tell their own stories, puts them in a double bind. As one viewer put it, "Being gay and having next to no queer writers telling our stories is like, do I want my queer (female) characters to be sexualized by straight men, or killed by straight women?"

Straight women like season four head writer and showrunner Laura Neal. Ninety years after the Hays Code's explicit categorization of queerness as sin, that notion is implicitly reinforced by Killing Eve-- which utilizes a conversion subplot and religious iconography in Villanelle's death-- and explicitly confirmed by Neal, who insists it was necessary for the "rebirth" (her word) of Eve - the previously straight main character.

Even *if* you can set aside the big-ass BYG elephant in the room, the final episode of Killing Eve was a microcosm of the final season itself, in that-- it was a damn mess! Nothing made any sense. Things established in previous seasons were confoundingly ignored or reversed. Every creative decision was like a slap in the face to the series' very premise. From day one, the show had been about Eve learning to embrace her darkness, only for the writers to insist on her "rebirth" and "cleansing" at the literal last minute. Why this emphasis on a happy ending that looks "normal", when the whole point of the show has been that both characters-- and all of us-- contain light *and* dark, and they deserve to be loved for both?

From a narrative standpoint, the choices made were mind-boggling. We talk in screenwriting about constantly delivering what we call "inevitable surprises" to the audience. A good writer doesn't telegraph their plot twists, but when those plot twists happen, the audience should feel like, "Ahh, of course!" It should feel right and satisfying. This wasn't that. It wasn't original; It didn't deliver on its own foreshadowing (Scorpion and The Frog metaphor, where'd you go?); It didn't even make logistical sense-- You know, Eve has Villanelle's blood on her shirt, but the bullet didn't hit her...? Where was the shooter? They are literally on the water! And it certainly wasn't what fans wanted.

Despite a writers room largely comprised of comedy writers, and despite OG showrunner Phoebe Waller-Bridge setting a decidedly cheeky tone for the show in season one, season four is downright cynical. For all its claims of being about freedom, choice, and rebirth for women, it actually seems to be telling its largely female audience repeatedly that any attempt to break free of a cycle you've been trapped in is futile and will only end in death or loss. Which is not a revolutionary or helpful idea. But it is, ironically, a perfect metaphor for show that ended up continuing the cycle of re-traumatizing already marginalized viewers, when it had the opportunity to break that cycle.

In her excellent piece for Vulture entitled 'Killing Eve Chose Cruelty,' Angelica Jade Bastien further points out the strain of racism embedded in the show throughout its run, from its all-white writers room, to its lack of interest in the title character's interiority compared to her white counterparts. Eve herself was an Asian woman who defied the passive Asian woman stereotype, only for the show to punish her for that subversion. On top of letting its characters and audience down, the final season is also a direct betrayal of the original creators' vision for it. Author Luke Jennings has voiced his disapproval of the ending, and Phoebe Waller-Bridge, who first adapted his book series for television, infamously stated back in season one, "Every moment in the show exists so that these two women can end up alone in a room together. Really, it would have been a betrayal of the audience if they didn't come together in the end." She said it best.

Look, I could go on about the show's devolution of fashion, color palette, and cinematography. I could talk about how by the end, the production value was so bad, you couldn't tell Cuba from Margate. But enough from me. I'm actually going to let the internet speak for itself, in a segment I'm calling "Queers Read Mean Tweets About the Killing Eve Finale." It's like that bit from Jimmy Kimmel, except, you know, gay. Take it away, Twitter!

Queer Reader #1: (@alicia_desousa) Killing Eve really said "it was just a phase." [Twitter chirp]

Queer Reader #2: (@bertimic) Season four of Killing Eve felt like a homophobic corporation doing a pride event. [Twitter chirp]

Queer Reader #3: (@bigswisses) Killing Eve having Villanelle and Eve deliver the most passionate kiss in all of television history after five years of sexual tension, and then saying their relationship can be interpreted as platonic? Just say you hate gay people and go. [Twitter chirp]

Queer Reader #1: (@ke_sufferer) Whenever I think I'm overreacting to Killing Eve, I remember that Villanelle was brutally murdered at a gay wedding so the straight side character could get her job back. Eve left screaming in suicidal despair. Bonus Christian imagery. Conventionality and homophobia prevail. [Twitter chirp]

Queer Reader #4: (@fkacernes) Killing Eve season four did more for Christianity than the Crusades, and you really hate to see it. [Twitter chirp]

Queer Reader #5: (anon) The way they made Eve an allegory for biblical Eve and Vill the snake tempting her from the Garden of Heteronormativity with the fruit of queerness...? I expected subversion of the Evil Gay trope in the end, not an adaptation of the 1966 novel Satan Was A Lesbian. [Twitter chirp]

Queer Reader #6: (@killingeveeditx) I'd love to hold my girlfriend's hand in public, but I'm afraid the Killing Eve writers room will have me shot. [Twitter chirp]

Queer Reader #7: (@doks-aux) Wait, wait. [record scratch] I don't go here, but you're telling me Killing Eve is based on a series of novels that ended with the main characters in lesbians ever after, and the show specifically chose to ignore that helpfully provided conclusion to deliberately bury the gays?? Oh my God, ya'll. I'm so, so sorry. I only knew your fucked-up little gals from gif-sets, but I was really rooting for them. [Twitter chirp]

SJ: Now, I've never been a lesbian, but as a queer, non-binary trans person who hosts *this* podcast, their fight is very much my fight. And the most frustrating thing for me personally is that I've already fought this fight - six years ago, to be exact. And frankly, I thought we had won it. After The 100 fiasco-- or as I call it, Lexapocalypse-- I along with thousands of other hurt and outraged fans turned our grief into action. We mobilized to raise awareness of Bury Your Gays through every available avenue, emailing, sending letters, and tweeting, educating the TV industry of their complicity and perpetuation of the trope. We raised $160,000 for the Trevor Project, and established the nonprofit LGBT Fans Deserve Better, with the mission of responsible queer storytelling. Together, we created The Lexa Pledge, which acknowledges the damage of BYG, promises to include queer characters in larger roles, and to consult with sources within the LGBTQ community when writing queer characters, among other things. The pledge was signed and adopted by 15 current shows. That was a huge win. And for the past few years, thanks in large part to those efforts, queer rep on TV has steadily gotten better.

Which is why what Killing Eve did is so shocking. Gaining all that ground just a few years ago, and suddenly it feels like we're back at square one. All those calluses I'd built up to protect myself from getting too attached to any character that remotely felt like me were finally starting to fall off from disuse. And now I've just been tricked into watching yet another queer character I had grown to love be shot to death in her sobbing girlfriend's arms - reminding me of Lexa, and Tara, and Root. It's like the same fictional bullet just circles the Earth constantly, seeking out every lesbian character, putting them in their place as soon as they get too happy, or too comfortable, too close to a normal life. A giant, cosmic reminder that, "if you relate to this character, THERE IS NO FUTURE FOR YOU." As if we ever had a reason to imagine otherwise.

We all thought Killing Eve was different. From the beginning, it gave us its word it *was* different, introducing us to not one but two complex queer women caught on opposite sides of an international thriller. The way it let them be unapologetically dark and messy, and unapologetically attracted to each other, despite their differences and circumstances, was something new. This show baited us, promising to subvert tired tropes, and then played right into them. And as I watched those final minutes, I felt like an idiot. Psychology Today just published an article on the lasting effects of the finale on the queer community, three months later. The author, a licensed clinical psychologist, PhD, and queer and trans person of color themselves, normalized fans feelings of stress, anger, exhaustion, grief, and betrayal. They liken the experience to being dumped out of nowhere and then ghosted, or having a friend you considered a woke ally suddenly say or do something super racist. They write that, "Both situations require a person to question everything about the relationship. Should I not have trusted the writers in the first place? How could I have missed the likely reality that they never understood queer lives and stories to begin with?" I was once again made to feel stupid for having faith that the writers of one of my favorite shows would do the right thing. And THAT pissed me off. So I did something about it, because clearly, the fight isn't over after all.

Once again, the community rallied. Once again, we spent the next weeks in action mode, sending emails and letters to the network and production company, tweeting and messaging those responsible, again educating them, since they apparently missed the previous memo. No response. We demanded acknowledgement of the harm they caused. Crickets. Article after damning article came out, but they had nothing to say for themselves. With The 100, the showrunner eventually apologized, and they even brought Lexa back for an episode as a peace offering. This time, amidst continued calls for an apology or redaction, there was no sign of humanity, whatsoever. I sent follow-up emails, canceled my subscription to AMC+. I talked to many other fans who were doing the same. None of us was getting anything back, beyond an auto-reply. The network knew they were in the middle of a shitstorm, and they made the executive decision to pretend they weren't and just hope it would blow over. When it didn't, after a month and counting, then-- all of a sudden-- some of us did start getting replies - dismissive, patronizing and curt. Along the lines of, "We're sorry you weren't satisfied. That sounds like a you problem." The showrunner doubled down on her stance in subsequent interviews, and the writers meanwhile reveled in the backlash as some sort of badge of honor, mocking fans online. AMC and BBC America continued to promote the final season as if it were being well-received, except instead of live Q&As with cast and writers, everything was pre-recorded, to preempt any audience criticism or questions, and the comments were disabled. It was a one-two punch of silencing outcry, followed by gaslighting. A Trumpian playbook of 'deny, deny, deny.' It truly felt as if we were screaming into the void. Things have changed in six years, and not for the better. This time, we realized there would be no apology, no renewed pledge, no amends to the community. There would be nothing... *Except* for what we make ourselves.

When our repeated appeals to GLAAD-- the organization whose literal mission statement is to improve the depiction of queer characters on screen-- went unanswered, we realized we could not count on seemingly benign institutions to have our backs, when their very existence is built upon conflicts of interest - close associations with the same industry we are often fighting. We were in this alone, and we would just have to make ourselves heard. But in recognizing their limitations, we realized our extent. GLAAD's betrayal was the final straw for me. That's when I decided what I could do-- this episode-- to ensure that those who are hurting would be heard, to provide a space for anyone who had been stonewalled by the TV powers that be could say their piece, and to highlight the efforts being done to ensure this never happens again. When I asked folks online to share what this show and these characters meant to them, one of the people I heard from is Viktorija. She has written extensive critical analyses of Killing Eve over the course of its run, including an eye-opening piece on how the show has been queerbaiting us from the beginning, and she was often one of the most thoughtful voices I encountered in the post-finale discourse.

Viktorija: My name is Viktorija. I'm 27 years old. I was born in Serbia, and grew up in Canada. What Villanelle means to me is defying convention. Villanelle is such an important character, particularly for Slavic cultures, because so many are still entrenched in homophobia. And so many of us, like me, are still closeted, unfortunately, where we don't feel safe to come out to our closest circles, or, you know, social pressure doesn't allow us to come out. Despite this, Villanelle symbolizes hope. I think she gives us a sense of freedom and independence. And, you know, whether you identify with her charm, or her rude humor, her style, her flamboyant kills, just the panache that she carries wherever she goes, and her deep capacity for love, you can recognize the power of finding strength within yourself to overcome anything. And so, in situations where I find myself sad or angry, or just feeling trapped, I think about Villanelle and I think about how she overcame so much so that she could love Eve. Villanelle symbolizes defying convention, and confidence, and overcoming no matter what, so that you can live your life, on your own terms, and live freely. That's why she's important to so many people around the world - Across cultures, across time, and across homophobia. Villanelle transcends her fate. And she will continue to inspire generations of women to be who they really are.

SJ: That global resonance Viktorija talks about, that Villanelle had with viewers, was everywhere I looked in the weeks following the finale. Reactions poured in from every corner of the world. A group of fans started collecting these responses, and on May 23, the Killing Eve Open Letter Project was published online. The result is a nearly 100-page PDF compilation of 306 responses gathered from South Africa, Ireland, the Philippines, Argentina... Viewers of every gender, from dozens of different countries are represented in this document, along with the impact the show and its finale had on them, in their own words, I reached out to the Killing Eve Open Letter Project, to see if they would like to say something for this episode. They asked to remain anonymous, which I totally respect, but they did want to contribute and sent the following statement, which they asked me to read on their behalf:

"We started the Killing Eve Open Letter Project as a way for viewers to grieve. It serves as a physical manifestation of fans who are not only processing what they saw in the finale, but also discussing how Killing Eve helped shape their lives. As the introduction to the letter mentions, fans of Killing Eve thought the show recognized the weight and responsibility of having a queer audience. We thought we had finally found a show where its queer leads weren't destined for suffering. Which is what makes the ending such a punch in the gut. None of us expected such a critically-acclaimed show to have a Bury Your Gays ending. It's safe to say that Killing Eve impacted hundreds, if not thousands, of lives worldwide. While collecting responses, it was amazing to see so many people talk about how the show has helped them over the years, especially through the pandemic. Yet those same responses were also some of the hardest to read. Countless people detailed how the finale not only hurt them, but betrayed them. Over the years, Killing Eve became a refuge for those of us who yearn for representation. Those who searched endlessly for a show where they could see themselves reflected back on screen-- sometimes even parts of us that we hadn't even begun to discover yet. And in the end, not only did the show let us down, it truly betrayed the trust we placed in it."

The Open Letter Project perfectly demonstrates how the industry's silence forced us to get creative. If those responsible won't respond to us in private, we'll call them out in public. Billboards were a huge part of the public awareness campaign during our first fight, and one group of fans saw the need for them again now.

AV: Hi, this is AV. I'm from Canada. I use any pronouns, and I'm Two-Spirit. I came up with the idea to put up billboards about the Killing Eve ending, because the Killing Eve ending was *an atrocity*. It was absolutely horrendous. I know I myself felt very hurt after watching the ending, especially with the religious undertones. It was so harmful, so terrible. And after it ended, I went online, like everyone else, and I saw just how hurt people were. And it ranged from wherever you could imagine - Different places in the country, all age ranges... I just couldn't believe that people from like 18 to 50, and from the United States to Uganda, people were hurting about the Killing Eve ending. And so I felt like something had to be done. So I suggested the idea to make Killing Eve billboards, and a lot of people helped me with that - Mainly Ines and Kate, who helped make the GoFundMe account, because we didn't want to deal with overseas finances, as I am a Canadian and the billboard was put up in the Thames. We put up the billboard because this trope cannot continue - Not in the year 2022. Straight people don't have to go through this every day. Heterosexual people get so many diverse, creative stories. And the one time we finally get one, it becomes tainted with this Bury Your Gays ending. And that is just not acceptable anymore.

SJ: The first billboard went up at 53 Aldgate High Street in London, on June 7. I'll be posting pictures of it on social media - It's amazing. 400 meters from where Villanelle was killed, it says in large letters, in the Killing Eve font, "LET THE TROPE SINK TO THE BOTTOM OF THE THAMES. End 'Bury Your Gays' in media."

The Killing Eve Open Letter and Billboard Projects are just two examples of fan resilience, ingenuity, and collaboration that I've witnessed in the months following the finale. In working on this episode, I encountered so many other fans discovering how they can use their skills to help heal the community. Laura Neal may have killed Villanelle, but they brought her back to life - with comics, fan fiction, gif-sets and fan videos that gave Eve and Villanelle the happy ending they deserved, effectively retconning that bullshit finale out of our collective memory. I've seen incredible street art - murals of the kiss painted across rooftops. I've seen #VillanelleLives appearing on signs and T-shirts at Pride parades, and memorials to her sprouting up across London - flowers piled up at Tower Bridge, where she was killed, with handwritten letters telling her, "You were never evil." A memorial fund was started for the Trevor Project, the world's largest suicide prevention and crisis intervention organization for LGBTQ+ youth. On their homepage, they write, "We hope for a future where queer characters are not treated as disposable, and our tragic stories are told with the same reverence and respect as non-queer characters. LGBTQ youth are disproportionately impacted by these harmful tropes. Young people rely on fiction as a vehicle of self discovery, and it's for them that we should be speaking up when we see popular media continuing to make the same mistakes."

Between the (previously) escapist realm of Killing Eve and the real-world news, it's hard not to feel like 2022 has set us back 50 years. And I'll be honest, this episode almost didn't make it. Months of fits and starts; me trying desperately to maintain my sanity, let alone focus, while the rights of women and trans folks were being gutted in the country I live was...challenging, to say the least. But every time I started down the mental path of, 'How can I focus on a TV show right now?', I just go online, and the lasting effect of that TV show would hit me like a brick wall. And as the host of a podcast about the importance of representation in pop culture, I knew I had to see my part through.

Years ago, when then-Vice President Joe Biden unequivocally announced his support for same-sex marriage, he said he thought the TV show Will & Grace probably did more to familiarize the American public with gay people as human beings than anything else. This might sound like an exaggeration, but I think that's a fair assertion. As television historians have noted, TV is a unique medium, in which families allow fictional characters into their homes every night, enabling them to relate to those characters as they would a friend - Which was a revolutionary step in storytelling as empathy-building. The fact that American approval of same-sex marriage is currently at an all-time high, at the same time we have the most queer characters on TV, is not a coincidence. This is why I talk about representation so much. This is why I started this podcast. The thing is-- as this whole Killing Eve fiasco has reminded us-- representation cuts both ways. When it's done well, it can save lives. But when it's done poorly, it can cost them.

Which is why I pulled myself out of surgery recovery three weeks early to rejoin a fight I've fought before, in the hopes that one day it will end and we will be able to move on to other important battles; in the hopes that Gen Z won't even know what BYG is. I think that's why any of us are doing what we can in response to this mess. And hope is what I want to leave you with, dear listeners, because here's the thing:

Even without a response from the network, we have seen and will continue to see the results of our hard work. In the weeks following the finale, AMC Networks saw its stock fall to an all-time low and lost thousands of subscribers. Our letters and emails may have gone unanswered, but they haven't gone unread. Those responsible can log off Twitter, but they still have to live in the real world. They have to pass the billboards shaming them on their way to work, and the memorials to a queer icon they signed a death warrant for. They have to explain to their board members why they are now forced to cancel that Killing Eve spin-off due to-- ahem-- lack of viewer interest, to put it mildly. Primetime Emmy nominations were announced this week, and for the first time in three years, the show was rightfully ignored in all categories, except for double Lead Actress nods. And honestly, shout-out to Sandra Oh and Jodie Comer for their incredible acting and chemistry, in a show that did not deserve them.

Eve: Relationships are out a lot of work. They require effort. And you will have tough times. Sometimes you'll feel like you're losing your way, and sometimes you'll feel like you're losing each other. But the beauty in your relationship will be found in the ways you reunite. Have you ever heard of Kintsugi? Okay, Kintsugi is the Japanese art form of gluing-- stay with me here-- It's a way of gluing broken pots back together with gold. It actually strengthens the pot. It's a way of bonding to create something new. Something completely your own.

SJ: The final season of Killing Eve invoked many allegories it never followed through on - allegories which ended up being about us, the audience. In the wake of the finale, this community picked up the broken pieces of our imagined futures for these characters, our shattered faith in a show we trusted, and we started gluing them back together - with art, with words, with action. We rewrote this story, which is *our* story, reclaiming the happy ending we were robbed of yet again, of which other narrow minds could not conceive. True to the meaning of Kintsugi, we mended our broken pieces into something more beautiful than the original, something stronger - wholly new, and wholly ours. Not until we are allowed in the room to tell our stories authentically will they be treated with the care they deserve. And so our fight continues. And this podcast's mission statement has never been clearer or more necessary. To the community, I see you - all your hard work, your pain, and your resilience. To the networks, showrunners, and writers, it is past time to do better. Do your homework, hire queer writers, and-- for the love of God-- bury your tropes, instead of us. 'Kay?

[”Bury It” by Chvrches feat. Hayley Williams kicks in]

This was the most collaborative episode I've ever done, and it literally would not exist without the people whose voices you heard. I want to thank Viktorija, for being the first person to reach out to me for this episode, and for sharing what Villanelle means to her. You can follow her on Tumblr @anevolutionarynecessity. I want to thank AV for talking to us about the Killing Eve Billboard Project, as well as Sanna for putting us in touch, and the entire Killing Eve Billboard team, for their ongoing efforts to educate the networks and the public about the harmful legacy of Bury Your Gays. Listeners can help them reach their fundraising goal, which will allow them to roll out more billboards across the UK and US, by donating to their GoFundMe. I also want to thank the Killing Eve Open Letter Project for writing in especially for this episode, and for all the work they've done on behalf of fans. Thank you to the entire fandom for these long months of discourse, fanfic, fan art, et cetera, that has gotten us all through. Thank you Twitter and Tumblr-verse, for all your incisive and hilarious takedowns, especially the @loving-villanelle Tumblr and all y'all linked (above) for some of my favorite tweets. And a very special thank you to my Sapphic chorus, my queer readers, for giving voice to those tweets - Julianna, Laurel, Alyssa, Glenn, Trisha, Lisa and AJ.

Links to everything mentioned in this episode, as well as further resources, are embedded in the interactive transcript on Tumblr at popculty.blog. You can also find me on Twitter @popculty, and on Instagram @thepopculty. If you enjoyed this episode, please leave us a review on Apple podcasts - It really helps other people discover the show. You can also directly support the show by joining our Patreon for as little as $2 a month. Throwing us a couple bucks helps cover operating expenses and gets you some sweet perks as a thank you. Check it out at patreon.com/popculty. A huge shout-out to our sustaining patrons: Suzy, Mary, and Alexandra. Thank you all so much for your continued support. This episode was written, produced, and edited by yours truly. Thanks for tuning in, and please take care of yourselves - There's a lot of shit going down right now. This is Popculty, reminding you that self-care means watching that life-giving kiss on a loop and pretending the last few minutes of Killing Eve never happened. Until next time - Support women directors, stay critical, and demand representation.

“Bury it, bury it, bury it, and rise above...”

[song crescendos and concludes]

[beep]

Queer Reader #1: Killing Eve having Villanelle and Eve deliver the most passionate kiss of-- oops, let me take it again. Sorry. [beep] Killing Eve having Villanelle and Eve delivered the most passionate kiss in all of television history after five years of sexual tension, and then saying their relationship can be interrup-- [sigh] "Interrupted," oh my gosh.

[beep]

Queer Reader #2: Killing Eve season four is like your homophobic aunt rewrote the last two paragraphs of your gay romance novel. [beep] Killing Eve says, "You better stop hanging out with that butch girl, or everyone will think you're a lesbian." Byeeee! [beep]

[amor-immortalem]

An Alternate Path

Genre: Angst

A/N: Originally this was supposed to be a two-part mini fic but people asked about a part three. I wasn’t sure where else to exactly go from there since the end of the second part felt so final for me. But then, inspired by a comment on the 2nd part, I began to think about how it would have gone if Arella hadn’t been revived with Mammon’s blood. Think of this as the bad end to the AU. This is the final part.

obviously spoilers for the lesson 16 incident and for lesson 50 (i think… correct me if Im wrong)

Replaced part 1

The Good/True End

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He sits in his room starting at the dried blood on his hands, heart aching from the loss of his mate. It had only been mere hours since Barbatos had taken her body to prepare for funeral rites but to the Avatar of Greed, it had felt like centuries. Why? He’s asked himself this question over and over. Why didn’t you check on her sooner? Why didn’t you call or text? Why didn’t you notice? Why didn’t you feel something was wrong through your pact?

As much as he wants to, Mammon has no more tears left to cry. His human is gone, never to return and it was the fault of him and his brother. He should have been there sooner. Should have reminded her how much he cared. Should have done a lot of things. He had every opportunity to, but he squandered all of it.

He rakes his hands through his hair as they whys replay in his head. The demon doesn’t have an answer for them- none that would satisfy them, at least. He lets out a yell as grief turns to rage and nothing of value is spared from his violence. Items and trinkets knock from their shelves, furniture overturned, by time the second-born was done, his room looked like a war zone.

It’s only then that Mammon collapses to his knees and lets out a broken wail as he can hear the restless cawing of his crows outside.

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Levi is alone in his room, having shut himself away hours ago. Laying in his bathtub bed, the Avatar of Envy loses himself to his thoughts and the view of the water above him. He can’t help but think about what would have happened if he had put his foot down when Asmo approached him to recruit him in helping his little matchmaking plan for Melissa and Satan.

And then his thoughts focus in on the other human. If she had never come, if they had never welcomed her into their lives through the exchange programme... Arella would still be alive. She’d still be sitting here, playing video games and helping him decide which anime he should choose to watch when there was a conflict of time slots. They’d still be talking about their Husbandos and Waifus just as they always had. But she’s not here. She never will be anymore. All because he didn’t have the spine to act like the older brother and tell Asmo no. Because he allowed his younger brother to monopolize his time.

His best friend is gone and he was part of the problem that led up to that. Levi has never felt so much self-hatred before and, just like with Lilith, he doesn’t know how to come to terms with the loss of another person so dear to him. For now, he’ll just lay here and waste away like the filthy, yucky otaku he is, wishing there was a way he could go back and undo it all or hoping that this was all just some horrible nightmare that his brain has conjured up.

“She’ll be back in the morning... right? She’s just sleeping over at the castle, right?!”

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Beel just eats. He eats and eats and eats to make the pain go away but just like his endless hunger, the pain never stops. He feels so empty inside that the only other option is to gorge himself until he physically can’t hold it anymore and vomits before he goes back for more until the cycle repeats and he runs out of food. The loss of their favorite human is killing him now- the grief of it squeezing his heart like an anaconda.

If he would have just gone to invite her to that new café she had wanted to visit with him only an hour sooner, this could have been stopped. But he didn’t. He didn’t and that’s what cuts deepest. He should have noticed when she stopped coming to dinner, or skipping breakfast, or not joining the student council for lunch day after day. He should have realized something was wrong then. But he chose to ignore it, thinking it was just one of those ‘moods’ Arella had told him about human women experiencing at certain times of the month. He thought he was helping by giving her space these last few weeks but Beel knows now that he was dead wrong.

Who would be his food buddy now? Who would let him drag them all over town in order to try out restaurant after restaurant, café and café? Sure, he had Belphie to take with him but his younger twin never really showed the same excitement when it came to trying out all the different food and drink options on the menu. The demon doesn’t realize he’s crying until the tear drops hit his hands. She only needed one of them to take a moment to see her and none of them could be bothered do just that.

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Belphegor only wants to sleep. He wants to sleep and never wake up again. In his dreams is where Arella is, happy, smiling, laughing. That laugh will haunt his waking moments forever as he realizes that for the second time, the Avatar of Sloth has caused her death. Belphie was only one of two brothers who rejected Asmo when they asked him to help with that damn plan of his. It had been too long since he and Arella had napped together after school or plotted something with Satan as part of the Anti-Lucifer league. How he missed those days.

He can feel the tears pool in his eyes as he curls up into a ball on the bed in the attic. He wonders if he had just stayed up here forever instead of trying to trick Arella into setting him free, would this hole in his chest disappear? As he buries his face into the body pillow Arella had gifted him for his birthday this year, he cries himself to sleep- indulges himself in all the good memories they had made together after she had forgiven him for everything he had done to her.

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Asmodeus is lost. They stare and stare at their skincare products trying to will themself to start their nightly skincare routine. How could they have been so foolish? The passage of time is so different to humans than it is to demons. They had only meant to take a month to match Satan and Melissa up so how had it turned to eleven already?! The Avatar of Lust wants to scream. Both at themself and no one at all. Hot tears still sting their eyes as they shapeshift. They change and they change and they change forms- any number of features forming and then shifting away as they try to find a look that they won’t recognize themself in but it doesn’t work. Asmo’s not able to look themself in the mirror for the rest of the night as they just crash down on their bed. They want to mark up their beautiful body into some hideous to match the feelings crushing their heart. Asmo wants to do something- anything- to themself to experience even a fraction of the pain Arella must have felt but all the demon feels now is just hollowness.

Their phone is vibrating on the bed next to them- a call from Solomon. No doubt he could feel Asmo’s distress through the pact they share but the Avatar of Lust is too tired from hours of ugly crying and most certainly not in the mood to speak to anyone- pact master or otherwise. The phone goes unanswered.

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Satan has his head buried in the books. He’s been at this for hours- there must be a way to bring her back to them! Melissa is with him, bringing whatever books he asks for in his search as she too is eager to bring the lost human back to this plane of existence. There was so much they wanted to do with her. From watching cheesy mystery dramas together to forming a small book club consisting of just the three of them, none of that would come to pass now.

As book after book turns up dead ends, the demon just buries his head in his hands. It feels pointless now. Who was he to play God with life and death? The thought of never seeing his friend alive once more is enough to break the Avatar of Wrath as his shoulders shake with violent sobs. He wants to go on a rampage- destroy the whole city but what would that fix? It certainly wouldn’t bring her back.

As the demon continues to cry, Melissa only wraps her arms around him and he returns the gesture. She runs her fingers through his blonde hair in an effort to calm him and it seems to work, if only for a little while. She pulls a chair up to sit next to him as she holds his hand in hers.

“Tell me about your favorite memories with her,” They girl begins, “We can’t undo what was done, but we can keep her memory alive by sharing the good times.”

And so, they talk late into the night, Satan smiling at all the memories of Arella that he holds close to his heart.

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“Hi this is Arella! I’m sorry I can’t get to the phone right now but leave a message after the beep.... Beeeeeeeeeep”

The sound of his brother’s laughter followed by Mammon calling Arella a dork in the background can be heard at the end of the greeting on her D.D.D.’s voicemail. The Avatar of Pride can only smile with tear-stained cheeks. He was beyond intoxicated, having just finished his fourth bottle of demonus for the night. He can feel the anguish his brothers have been going through all night and it only makes his sorrow deeper.

When Arella first arrived, all Lucifer cared about was keeping her alive long enough to make it through the year. She was unimportant to him outside of the viability of the exchange programme. Back then, he would have laughed at himself for the state he was in currently. She was just a human. Why did it matter if she lived or died if it didn’t affect the exchange programme?

But she wasn’t just a human. She was their human. She was special to him. And now she was gone. There was no second chance. There would be no merging of timelines to keep her alive. Fate was cruel, but sometimes Diavolo could be crueler.

Lucifer knew his longtime friend had a reason for this. He was teaching the brothers a lesson with her death. As much as it hurt now to lose another part of this family, things would get easier as the years went on regardless of how horribly they all would miss her. This was a lesson he and his brothers would not soon forget.

Cracking open his fifth bottle of demonus, the first-born scrolls through devilgram, saving pictures on her profile to be used in the memorial service. One of Arella with each of his brothers and himself and multiple pictures she’d taken with all eight of them from their adventures throughout the years that they’d all been together.

He lets his mind wander back over the last eleven months. All the red flags he had missed with his rose-colored glasses. They all made sense to him now. All the time she spent isolating herself from them, skipping meals, leaving either incredibly early for school or incredibly late for school. She was trying to get them to notice her over Melissa. He regrets their last interaction from a few months back. The way there had clearly been something wrong, yet he chose to lecture her about attending RAD on time as to not disgrace Diavolo. How he wishes he could take it back.

As the only brother save for Belphegor not conscripted to help Asmo in his ridiculous plan, Lucifer should have been the first to reach out to her. He may have been buried under paperwork, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t just sit and talk while he worked. He regrets not calling or checking up on her.

A video plays on her devilgram. It was from one of the nights they had spent up in the human world last summer.

“Awww, come one, Lucifer. It won’t be that bad. We’ll have those flowers from the fairy rings and make it back in one piece. I promise to keep Mammon under control so we won’t cause any trouble.”

The Avatar of Pride clicks out of the app as he feels more tears gather in his eyes. He can’t do this right now. Not tonight.

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Her service was beautiful- Or at least that’s what Lucifer tells Mammon as he and the rest of their brothers return home. Mammon wanted to go, he really did, but with it only being a few days removed from her death, the second-born couldn’t bring himself to go. It wasn’t because he didn’t love her or didn’t want to celebrate his mate’s life but it was still far too painful for him.

Part of him was still in denial over it too. Somehow, he’d managed to convince himself that she wasn’t gone. She was just stuck up in the human world and had forgotten her D.D.D here so he couldn’t call her. The logical side of him knew it wasn’t the case and every time he was reminded of it, it threw the Avatar of Greed into a deeper pit of despair. He’d spent some nights since she’d passed alone, crying himself to sleep begging for his human to come back to him others he would just lie awake, tracing over where her mark from their pact had been etched into his chest, set right over his heart.

Suddenly years have gone by now. His brothers have made peace with her passing but Mammon cannot. Visiting her grave never helps to ease the pain either, but still he goes. If Arella’s spirit still lingers, no doubt she would be upset if he didn’t go. It would only serve to prove her dying thoughts true when they couldn’t have been further from the truth.

“Hey, Treasure... Miss me?” There’s no one here but Mammon and a tombstone. “I miss you... everyday... So much changes every year... Both Asmo, Levi, ‘n Satan got kids now... little girls for them and Levi has a boy...” He pauses to take a shuddering breath as the cold wind blows. “Can ya believe it? The first kids born ta this family and their both girls and then we got a boy... sweet little things too- alla ‘em.  I wish ya coulda been there ta meet them... Actually, looking at my brothers with their kids, it makes me wonder what ours woulda been like, ya know? And I wish none of this woulda happened... you deserved so much better than me ‘n I knew that. We all knew that. But ya chose me anyway and look where it got ya... Six feet under... If I could go back and do it all over again I would. I woulda told ya what was goin’ on. I woulda spent more time with ya. I woulda... woulda proposed... made sure you knew how much I loved ya everyday... I know ya probably can’t hear me, but I’m so sorry... for everything! I love you so much that I can’t move on and I won’t. If I die single then that’s fine by me.”

As he cries, thinking he’s alone, Arella watches from her seat on her tombstone. None of the brothers knew it but she’d been watching all this time. It wasn’t until she passed that she realized how deep their feelings ran and part of her wishes she would have waited just a bit longer before leaving for the human world that night.

She tries her best to let them know she’s there- that she loves them and is watching over them with Lilith, but she’s not strong enough to do more than move small objects around. She hopes that they’d notice but they never do.

As she hops off of her tombstone, Arella crouches down next to her mate. The best she can do for him is conjure a warm breeze as her spirit leans over to press a kiss that he’ll never feel to his cheek. Upon the breeze, he can hear a soft whisper of a reply.

“I love you too.”

And it's that reply that reassures him she’s there and she always will be. He hopes maybe in another life they’ll meet again and get to have the happy ending they never got to have in this one.

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

taglist: @gayassfuckinghomosexual @joyvlee

find more on my masterlist

[astaroth1357]

Long Distance Longing with the Brothers

Want a little angst and sweetness? I love how this turned out and I think it’s a new favorite for me. I honestly should wait to post it... But I have no patience, I love it too much. Weirdly enough, thank Taylor Swift’s new album for giving me this idea. Go figure. 🤷‍♀️

Warnings: Angst, implied starvation

Intro:

The brothers knew it was going to happen eventually. The year can't last forever, and at some point they were going to have to say goodbye to their human for the break… But that didn't make the situation any easier. Nobody likes being so far from the one they love. It was only a matter of time before our boys are reaching a breaking point...

Lucifer

Lucifer has never really had a reason to not to work before… Like, yeah there are those days where things get stressful and he takes a step back, but actually taking an extended period of time to just... not work? A "vacation" if you will? He’s never had the desire. What would he even do with himself?

Well, for the first time in literal God knows how many centuries, he had an answer for that question. He was going to be with MC.

And that's exactly what he told Diavolo when he finally accepted that missing the MC was negatively affecting his work. 

He wanted a… "vacation."

Diavolo had never once thought Lucifer would ever ask, and to be fair the man never thought he would either, but he's more than happy to give his friend a few days off to visit his dear human.

Whatever brief hit that his pride took by having to admit that he needed a break was more than made up for by finally seeing the MC again. He knew he missed them, painfully aware of that fact, but just the sight of them waiting to meet him outside the portal was enough to nearly take his breath away…

His first vacation was sure to be paradise. 

Mammon 

Oh, the distance was killing this poor boy. Any day where he can’t have the MC on his arm feels worse than when he's on a losing streak…

Speaking of a losing streak, he's been stuck in one for a whole month without his beloved partner in crime with him. Did he lose his lucky charm or was he just too down in the dumps to gamble well? Anyone's guess.

Well he got fucking sick of it. He wanted to see the MC, ASAP. But how would he get to the human world…?

It takes a week but he gets an idea. It took another for it to actually trigger.

Like clockwork one of the witches he's regularly in debt to, one that just happens to be a bad gambler herself, summoned him out to give her a little extra luck. Usually, he'd just kick whatever slot machine she’s parked herself at and be done with it but this time he's got to ask… How long does that summon spell last, eh?

He made a new sort of bargain. She gets to take Goldie out for a spin if she gave him some time in exchange… 24 hours to be exact.

He didn't waste a second after striking the deal because he had a lot of flying to do.

The MC probably didn't expect to hear frantic knocking on their door at the break of dawn, nor to find a beat tired and disheveled Mammon leaning outside it….

But he embraced them for all it's worth anyway. If it meant feeling them in his arms again, he'd trade away the whole world if he had to...

Leviathan 

He… didn’t do so well with the distance. Like at all. He'd mope around the house, constantly bemoaning how unfair things were. Not even his favorite games can give him any joy because those were the games he used to play with MC…

Sneaking in the occasional video call was pretty much the only thing that could make him smile anymore. Just seeing their face felt like getting a cold drink in the middle of a scorching desert… But he wanted more.

Thankfully, the MC themselves gave him a really, really good idea…

For two weeks straight, Levi seemed to get out of whatever funk he was in to help out around the House… Like, really help out. Suck-up levels of help out. It creeped everybody out...

After a time he finally approached Lucifer and made a simple request. There was an anime convention going on in the human world soon and he'd like to attend…

The ulterior motive for this little visit is practically written on the wall, but he'd been acting so damn unnerving for the past two weeks Lucifer just gave him permission to make him stop.

When the MC agreed to meet him on the opening day, they said they'd be dressed up as someone he'd recognize. Frankly, he was expecting Henry or maybe Ruri-chan but he was completely floored to see them waiting for him dressed in a familiar black hoodie with coral-like horns on their head and a carefully crafted serpent's tail behind them.

To this day he still can't decide what made him happier: seeing the love of his life so adoringly dressed as him or finally feeling their body collide with his after they came running to each other outside the convention hall...

In the end it probably doesn't matter because for that whole day alone, he finally felt like he had everything he could of ever wanted right there with him.

Satan 

Satan's not one for idle moping so when he felt that yearning in his chest finally hit a tipping point, he didn't whine. He didn't complain. He got up and did something about it.

Teleportation magic is tricky to master and dangerous to perform even with sufficient skill. One wrong move and you could end up smearing yourself across three different continents…

But like that would stop him.

He pulled out every book he could find on the subject, researched for days, then practiced for weeks. First on books and apples, then on some of Lucifer’s belongings.

He had to keep making new excuses to throw Lucifer off the scent (especially after he started sending some of his shirts away to different parts of the house) but after some time, it finally paid off.

Satan was probably the last person the MC would have expected to see show up in their room randomly one night, sitting casually by a lamp and reading a book like he didn't just master time and space just to come say hi.

But who was going to be all that picky when they could finally shower their nerdy cat-lover in all the love and kisses they've both been missing for months now?

Asmodeus 

If you took Asmo at his word, then the sheer depths of longing and despair he was experiencing while the MC was away could far outweigh that of anyone else to ever have existed in the history of all time.

He was the Avatar of Lust, desire was in his nature. Couple that with a burning need to have his lover as close to him as he possibly could and it was safe to say he was losing his mind!

This might have been the reason Solomon finally gave in after his 16th-ish time trying to beg the sorcerer to help him. He really was quite pitiful in this state...

When Solomon told Asmo that he could smuggle him out of the teleportation gate between the Devildom and human world ONLY if he could magically disguised his appearance, he was kind of expecting Asmo to refuse. This was Asmo he was talking about. He honestly thought that he'd rather die than deprive the world of his beauty so selfishly…

The world is full of surprises, ain't it?

No matter where they were, no matter what they were doing, the MC was suddenly mowed over by a "stranger" running at them at top speed like an Olympic sprinter. It’d probably have been pretty scary before Solomon lifted the enchantment shortly after to reveal their demon’s gorgeously familiar face.

Solomon wasn't going to let him stay too long, lest he incur the wrath of Lucifer, but Asmo couldn't care less. Be it a thousand hours or a few short seconds, he could always find a way to make his time with the MC last a lifetime...

Beelzebub

Fun fact, Hell freezes over a little every time Beel says "I'm not hungry…" No. Seriously. A freezing wind blasts across the entire Devildom like the realm itself gets a sudden chill...

So imagine the levels of panic that went through pretty much everyone there when his appetite started to fail him.

It's not like the poor baby could help it, food just tasted so much better when the MC was there that eating without them was like trying to digest actual disappointment… He got tired of trying after a while.

A few days of this behavior were worrying, but when he started to get a little thinner the family went into an uproar, starting with Belphie but soon spreading to the rest of the House as well.

Lucifer's soft spot for the twins may have influenced his decision. I mean, it was awfully generous of him to get Diavolo to approve of an fully sanctioned, planned meeting between Beel and the MC. He probably wouldn’t have offered that to anyone else...

Not that Beel cared about all that background favoritism anyway. Hell, on the day that he was finally allowed to see them, he couldn't be bothered by anything other than holding the MC close and hoping they'd never let him go again.

His appetite did return to him eventually, of course, but as long as he had his human with him even the cheapest street taco tasted like a fine five star-meal.

Belphegor 

Frankly, Belphegor was sick and tired of missing people.

Ever since the Celestial War he missed Lilith. When he was stuck in the attic, he missed Beel. And now that the MC was away he was supposed to just sit patiently and miss them too? No way. Not happening. Something about that had to change.

It wasn’t the first time he'd gone to Lucifer in an angry huff, but admittedly he had more ammo than usual...

There was a… discussion between the two. It went on for a couple hours… There may have been some words to the effect of, "Don't you think you owe me?" exchanged… 

Honestly, it was kind of amazing Belphie didn't end up in another attic "timeout" by the end of it. But he got what he wanted, so what's to complain about?

With a little persuasion on his part, Lucifer managed to get Diavolo to approve of a weekly visit for the two, SO LONG as Belphie stayed on his best behavior in the human world.

There wasn’t really much worry about him acting up, though, since he'd have his nap buddy back. It would be pretty hard to be a threat to humanity when he was too busy staying snuggled up to his favorite person until well past noon...

[pomegranates-and-blood]

Atfǫr (Ivar’s PoV)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Atfǫr: method, execution (law), attack (Old Norse)

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Summary: Ivar’s perspective of what’s happening on Strepshire. Stretches over chapter 33 till 35-ish (chapter 35 picks up a lil bit after the end of this one)

Word Count: 3.9k

Warnings: Mentions and descriptions of death, war, and wounds.

A/N: Friendly reminder, so that you’re not caught off guard later, that in this universe Sigurd is alive, living in Bamburgh (Northumbria) married to Blaeja.

Long before Ragnar took him to England and Alfred taught Ivar to play chess, Ivar learned to play hnefa-tafl with Floki.

Ivar remembers, as if it were yesterday that he was spending time with him and not years since Floki had left them; how with the laugh that was uniquely his Floki would taunt him about his wrong moves, and when Ivar would get angry and refuse to play anymore, the boatbuilder would still set the pieces back on the board.

Sometimes it took days, sometimes it took hours, but Ivar always dragged himself back to that chair and called for Floki to join him for another match. Without fail, he was there, sitting across from him with that glint in his eye and taunting him to make his next move.

He remembers those days, and Helga’s quiet laugh as she passed by Floki, her hand over his back and her kohl-lined eyes on the board. And he remembers the first time he won was because of Helga.

It was some years before his father returned, and Ivar remembers the bubbling anger inside him at how Floki had managed to outsmart him for days on end when playing hnefa-tafl. He remembers Helga kneeling next to him so she could be on level with the table, and he remembers her hand over one of the pieces.

“Floki always gives up half of his defenders in the beginning,” She told him, a smile that, like all her smiles were, had a sadness to it. “Even he is predictable, Ivar. Everyone is.”

And she was right. Floki’s moves were predictable in hnefa-tafl, and Alfred’s moves were predictable in chess. And Stithulf’s moves are predictable in war.

And it is easy, at least for him, to see pieces on a board, even now.

It feels strangely reminiscent of the time they faced Aethelwulf, taunting the Saxons with only the presence of the army. It certainly feels the same to Ubbe, it seems, who by the third time they almost taunt Stithulf into attacking grunts a breath and tells him it is easy to do this all day when you’re sitting on a chariot, brother.

Still, they make enough time to let the few men they send inside settle and prepare the tunnels to wait for Stithulf, and when tomorrow comes they will make him face them while pretending not to know of the tunnels he will send his best through.

There’s familiarity in the way Ivar and Ubbe lay on the grass near the camp and overlook the city just like they did before York, only this time Hvitserk isn’t with them, only this time so many things have changed that it is almost as if they aren’t the same men.

“Hvitserk did good in finding about those tunnels.” Ubbe comments, and all Ivar offers in response is a grunt.

“They won’t be able to ambush us, but we still need to try to keep the Arabs inside that city,” He tells him, “Fighting them in open fields gives them a victory.”

“That is not something you’d have learned in Dublin.” His brother intones, and Ivar rolls his eyes, turning to lay on his back on the grass.

After a breath, Ubbe does the same, and they lay side by side looking up at the darkening skies.

“Of course I listen to her. Unlike you, I intend to keep my wife with me.”

He ignores the jab at him, only sighs.

After a few breaths of silence, his brother asks, “How is she, by the way? I haven’t seen her in…months?”

“Weeks.”

“Still.”

“She’s…” Ivar shrugs, and at the lack of words offers, “She threatened me to keep me from reaching Valhalla for as long as she has breath if I don’t return.”

Ubbe laughs, but still asks, “Do you think she can do that?”

“I don’t intend to find out.” He sentences, before sitting up and grabbing his bound legs to move them behind him and crawl back to camp.

At his back, Ubbe clears his throat.

“I am happy for you. Proud of you,” His brother tells him. Ivar stays silent, he doesn’t really know what to say to that. Ubbe chuckles, “You…you chose well, Ivar.”

“Better than you, certainly.” He taunts, but his smile is something less cutting than it should be, less mocking than he intended, as he returns to camp.

Late that night, when the few men they sent ahead have already set up within Strepshire, when the tunnels Hvitserk learned about are already theirs and await the Saxons’ ambush through them; Ivar lingers by the map of the city and its surroundings that his brother managed to find before he was to leave Kattegat.

He hears the steps he knows by memory now, and doesn’t turn to acknowledge Ubbe as he walks in. The older man takes a seat nearby, a horn of mead in his hand.

“There’s enough of an opening by now. We can send our men in during the night, wait within the walls.” Ubbe offers, but Ivar doesn’t hesitate to shake his head.

“You have to be careful, Ivar,” Floki tells him, holding the piece he took like a trophy between them. He narrows his eyes, but the man continues, “The fort will hurt you -and me- once the game starts. You can easily be trapped and cornered inside the walls.”

“No, we fight on open fields. The Arabs are going to be in those tunnels, we can take care of the Saxons outside the walls.” He orders, and for once Ubbe doesn’t argue.

“If those mercenaries join him outside the walls…”

“We will know. They stick out.” Ivar tells him, the conversation so similar to how they planned to defend Dublin from those foreigners of strange weapons and stranger tactics.

“I will take the flank. They will count on them to unbalance us, right? Well, I have fought them before, I can lead my men against them.”

Ivar doesn’t take his eyes off the map, but he does betray a mocking smile,

“Look at you, brother, taking advice from a Greek witch.”

Ubbe lets out a huff of laughter, and it is in that small moment of quiet, in that small and private moment past all the pride and the jealousy, that Ivar admits, only to himself of course, that he has missed his brother, missed what he thought lost when he almost killed Sigurd.

____

Ubbe pushed his men to cover the opening in the city’s walls, keeping the Arab mercenaries trapped inside and at the mercy of the long and thin streets, easily ambushed with each wave they send in.

And on the open fields outside Strepshire, the Saxon army takes heavy losses, and Ivar watches raptly as the armies clash. Pieces on a board, but so much more entertaining to watch.

He sees the commander call for retreat across half a battlefield.

Alfred’s eyes lift to meet his for barely a moment, and he retreats his hand from hovering over the knight and grabs his King, moving him away and closer to the Queen. And Ivar doesn’t know much of this game the Saxons play yet, but he knows when the most important piece retreats, he has won. It is only a matter of time now.

Ivar knows it is Stithulf. He would recognize the man anywhere. Both his death and his life haunt Ivar more than he would ever admit.

It is the man that threatened his kingdom, the man that tried killing him and his brothers, the man that his wife vowed revenge against. More than almost anything, he wants him dead.

Yet he is also the man that, just by breathing, keeps you with him.

The Saxon lives in a state between dead and alive as much as you do, as much as Ivar does, it seems.

“I want that one,” He tells his men, eyes on the Christian that at the sound of his voice turns to meet his eyes. Ivar smiles, his voice a hoarse yell when he orders, “And I want him alive!”

And something familiar shines in the Saxon’s eyes. Fear.

And Ivar wonders who it is Stithulf fears, truly. If it is him, or you.

And it fills Ivar with a strange sort of thrill, to imagine that his wife, the woman that looks at him -and only him- with softness and warmth and what he could fool himself into believing is love, is the woman that across a sea, with nothing but the implication of her wrath, manages to make a man like Stithulf fear.

You’re smiling down at him, a smile that reminds him of that first time he saw you, of blood dripping down your lips and the war cry of a Valkyrie, “What a pair we make, then. The Viking King and the Greek witch.”

They don’t need Stithulf to retreat, and he signals his men to let them go and cower. They will strike again soon, and even if they can get far enough, they will meet again.

Now settled comfortable inside the city, Ivar walks the narrow streets, still littered with injured or dead men, towards the dilapidated building where he was told they kept Stithulf, trying to ignore the building pain in his legs at forcing himself to wear the braces for too long now.

They keep Stithulf in a darkened room, hands and legs bound with rope and arms tied to a wooden pillar at his back. Ivar takes a seat in front of him, toying with the crutch as he observes the older man.

He hadn’t noticed, though he realizes now he should have guessed, that Stithulf was not only scarred by his last encounter with you, but blinded. His eye is white and unseeing, surrounded by still-pink scar tissue.

Ivar leans closer to the Saxon, who keeps a defiant eye on his.

“That plan of yours, how is it going?”

“I’m not Bishop Heahmund, I won’t entertain your ramblings, heathen.”

That does make him smile. The fool thinks he gives nothing away by offering resistance, when he actually shows his hand more than he ever could with an open stance.

Ivar leans back with a downward curve of his mouth, “I am willing to entertain yours. So, tell me, why do all this?” He motions with his free hand all around him, “You had to know you’d lose.”

“Why did you and your brothers gather your Great Army and marched on England? Why did your wife vow to take my soul with her to her Hell?”

“Revenge? Not very Christian of you.”

“The seat of power of my home is occupied by Vikings, the last of my King’s blood was abducted by a son of Ragnar,” Stithulf’s eyes hold a certainty, a fire, that almost surprises Ivar. “Revenge is all I have left.”

“Bamburgh is not occupied, it is legally my brother’s. And your princess’ marriage to Sigurd was the work of Ecbert, no…abduction.”

The Christian laughs bitterly, mocking, “Ah, and your wife is willingly staying by your side? Tell yourself all the lies you wish, heathen, we both know the tale is other.”

“And what is this tale?”

“That none of you beasts, you…sons of Ragnar, can hold on to anything. Not land, not love, not each other.”

But you do not care to be called a beast, a monster, do you? One such as you knows better than to expect love, I suppose.

The anger starts in his chest, an old blend of too many things that it is easier to name wrath, and Ivar feels his nose furrow in a snarl, his teeth gritting together.

With the anger comes the restlessness, the need to make the pain and the anger take form, the desire to hurt back.

And he gathers, out of all the things you’ve forgiven, you could certainly forgive him for killing Stithulf instead of bringing him to you alive, couldn’t you?

For a few moments he lingers on it, he lets himself be lulled by the siren song of silencing the iron-willed Saxon once and for all. To silence his voice and all the others that agree with him.

But your voice is clear in his head as if it were being spoken by you again, as if you were sitting across from him and looking into his eyes and whispering, while he still lives, I have reasons to stay here.

And he stays frozen, lingering on the realization that bound and helpless lies the man that he promised you as a gift, that the one thing keeping you in Kattegat could be dead soon, that the promise could be fulfilled and you could be gone before winter is over. And so Ivar stays there, frozen for too long trying to think of all the possible outcomes, as if this were but yet another battle, but finding himself unable to think of anything other than a life without you in it.

Gone is the woman that had an axe to her neck and still asked if she should be impressed, and pleading eyes search his, “You cannot do this, you cannot expect me to-…don’t put chains on me.”

The answer was always there, wasn’t it? Even if you say you can’t choose, the choice has already been made.

You turn to face him, steeled resolve shining in your gaze, arrogance in your posture, “You won’t be the first man to try to chain me. My very blood makes me belong to them. Athens, and Sparta, Greece; it’ll summon me to return sooner or later.”

It was never even a choice, was it? You were always going to belong to them, you were always going to love and need and choose them.

A deep breath, and you meet your gaze, a resigned sort of strength making you give him your answer, that is as unwavering as your voice, “I would leave.”

He stays frozen, for so long it seems, that even Stithulf grows bored of the silence.

“I assume you’ll be taking me with you to your home?”

“It won’t do you any good to assume anything.” Ivar tells him, curving his mouth downwards in a nonchalant grimace, trying to dispel the thoughts from his head, trying to focus on the present.

The older man only keeps his eyes on the nothingness ahead, as if he can see a ghost in his mind’s eye.

A ghost that with a knife in her hand and his neck within reach chose to scar him, a ghost that with a smile talked in a foreign tongue and promised him suffering and death.

“She made you promise her my head, didn’t she? And you agreed,” Stithulf chuckles, and he almost sounds proud, “Too smart for her own good, that witch. And too beautiful for ours.”

Ivar doesn’t bother hiding his disgust, toys with the idea of blinding Stithulf’s remaining eye. What was that story you told him? Walk the Underworld blind, deaf, and dumb, so that all the dead know…

Instead, he mocks, “Are you going to sit there and talk about my wife?”

“Well, I am sitting here with nowhere to go, and you aren’t talking about anything.”

“I thought you weren’t to entertain my ramblings.”

Stithulf only shrugs as well as he can with bound arms, keeping his one good eye on Ivar.

“Plans change.”

“Ah, like your plans involving your Bishop. You sent him to die to Kattegat’s border.” Ivar tells him, eyeing him from the corner of his eye as he pours himself a drink.

“Leofric? It was his choice, a choice he made once he was no longer needed. He is-…” Stithulf stops himself, considering his choice of words, and looks at Ivar inquisitively. All he offers in response is a small smile and the lift of his eyebrows over the rim of his cup. The Saxon amends, “…was a man of God, he lived by Christian teachings, he died for the Lord and so he shall be-…”

Ivar decides to ignore the rest of his words, rolling his eyes and letting his head follow the movement. For a man that claims to not be anything like Heahmund, Stithulf seems to love the sound of his own voice as much as the other man did.

But there were things Leofric said before dying that Ivar still needs answers to.

“Your Bishop, he said something about dead men breathing.” Ivar interrupts, eyeing Stithulf carefully, looking for any give in his expression.

The Saxon only stares at him, impassively, “Are you one to fear ghosts, heathen?”

He looks into his eyes, both blinded and piercing, and he doesn’t see a man. But he doesn’t see a piece on a board.

He sees a dying fire, he sees a choked flame, he sees an ending. He sees the last flickering light that’s keeping Ivar from the darkness.

And he cannot let it go out, not yet.

Even though Ivar will deny it until Valhalla calls to him, it is infuriatingly easy for you to get him to grant you whatever you wish.

You need only look at him and offer a soft and secret smile, or a touch of your hand on his arm, or a whisper of his name, and he is pathetically gone, ready to grant you whatever it will be that could keep you happy, safe.

You asked him without words to know where the place you were in was located on a map, long before he knew your name, in some old hut in Aneridge. And as if the Gods themselves moved his hand, he pointed to the location of the small town, growing a little warm at the sight of the softness in grateful eyes that looked up at him.

You ask silently for his attention with your chin resting on his shoulder, with your fingers skimming over his arm, with your hand on his. And, lovesick fool he is, he answers each of those summonses without thinking twice about it; turning to you and meeting your gaze.

And he likes to think -no, no, he knows, because he knows you, because…he knows- that in the last kiss you shared while it was still just the two of you, before the people set watchful eyes on you and the titles laid heavy on your heads; you asked him for the same thing he asks the Gods: for more time.

And so he leans forward, holding onto a knife, one of a set of five of which one still is kept safe by you.

Ivar’s eyes look into Stithulf’s grey one, and he watches the Christian squirm and groan as he retraces with the knife the scar you gave him, drawing blood and pain.

As he restarts the count, he breathes life to the dying embers.

“Run,” He tells him, the next movement of the bloodied knife cutting the rope that binds Stithulf’s legs, but not the one on his wrists. “We will meet again.”

And when the sun rises and the men wake up, they will hear him demand to know where the Christian has gone to, maybe they will even see him punish some undeserving fool.

And he will ignore Ubbe’s knowing stare, and he will set sail home and lie through his teeth, and live in this borrowed time a while longer.

Just this winter. Just one winter with you, and he’ll readily face spring and whatever it brings then.

____

Ivar never really saw love. Or experienced it. He doesn’t really know what it is like to love, or be loved, other than his mother, and Floki, maybe.

But he never witnessed it either, and that’s what he dwells on as the ships approach the docks. For a lifetime of watching, of being witness to how other men achieved the things he once believed he never could achieve himself; Ivar never really saw love.

His father was never there, and even when he was, it wasn’t love what kept him and Aslaug married. It was a quiet respect, a strange rivalry kept at bay by something other than themselves.

He hasn’t seen Sigurd in years, but even before it all fell apart, Ivar knew it wasn’t love what he and Blaeja had. It was companionship, a blend of resignation and relief at how out of all the possible outcomes, they happened to be bound to one another.

Floki did love Helga, he knows that, and he knows Helga loved him. But it was so drowned by the quiet sorrow, the way Helga would look at Floki, and it was so jarringly painful, the way Floki would look at his wife.

And Ivar still remembers the edge in that Greek’s voice as he called your name, he still remembers the look in your face as he died in your arms. But in quiet nights you’ve told him that was never love, that was illusion and guilt.

So, he doesn’t really know what love looks like, or what it is.

He doesn’t really know if the way your eyes have a strange shine to them and you smile despite yourself as you meet his gaze from the docks is love.

But he wants it to be.

And he understands the poor fool that believed every lie you told him, including that you loved him. Because you do not need speak a word other than his name, and Ivar is willing to close his eyes and pretend what you said were words of love.

He doesn’t have time to dwell on it, and grow angry at himself for still craving useless things, like softness, like love.

You are standing in front of him, wide smile and the faint shine of tears in your eyes, and he realizes in the quiet that you bring that he has had this small voice whispering that it would all turn out to be a mirage all this time.

Because this is real, because this is his; Ivar’s hand is certain on the back of your head, and he brings you to him and claims your mouth.

There’s a soft sound against his lips that sends a thrill of warmth down his spine, and your hands are warm against him as your mouth moves against his own, as you surrender to his kiss.

In the warmth you bring he realizes there truly was a part of him that believed that when he returned everything that had changed before he left would turn out to be nothing but a dream.

Your hands are on his chest, and your eyes focus on them for a few moments before you lift your gaze up to him.

“I missed you, Ivar.” You tell him, quietly, easily. You say it in a breath, as if it is simple. And it is simple, he gathers, though it doesn’t feel like simple in the way his chest pulls tight at the words.

He leans down and kisses you again, seals those words against his own lips, finds a way to make the promise they whisper more than words. And he kisses you -or you kiss him, he doesn’t think he minds the difference- until your lips are bearing the mark of him, and your breaths are labored.

You blink, dazedly, as if awakening from a dream, and it feels Ivar with pride to be able to disarm you, at least partly.

“How many…how many injured?” You ask, for the first time looking around you, “Your brother, is he…?”

“He’s well,” He tells you, and searches your eyes before adding, “Stithulf still lives.”

And Ivar may not know what love looks like, but he does know what relief looks like. And that surely shines in your eyes at his words.

____ ____ ____

Hope you liked it, thank you so much for reading!!

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius @heavenly1927 @toe-vind-ek-jou @xbellaxcarolinax @pieces-by-me @angelofthorr @samsationalwilson @peachyboneless @1950schick @punkrocknpearls @ietss   @itsmysticalmystery @revolution-starter @chibisgotovalhalla @the-a-word-2214 @fae-sedai​ @crazybunnyladysworld   @funmadnessandbadassvikings (won’t met me tag you bb)  

[kazimakuwabara]

Between Humans and Demons

Summary: A s Kuwabara gets older, he starts to notice the differences between himself and his demonic friends. A harrowing moment reminds him, that the differences don't really matter.

******

He closed his eyes.

The sound of metal wrapping around metal flooded his ears.

Even with his eyes closed, he was dizzy; could tell that he was rotating in the air, as the collision broke all around him.

Something shattered and sharp, sprayed against his face and dug into his skin, either falling away or embedding into his face. 

Another crunching sound, and then Kuwabara was hanging suspended in the air, kept in his seat by the seatbelt that held him flush in place. His eyes were still closed, but they didn't need to be open to feel the spirit of the driver, and the other two people in the car with him, snuff out. Three candles being blown out in a slow breath.

Kuwabara should have gone with them.

Somehow, Kuwabara was alive, and something told him that that was strange. That he too, should have been snuffed out.

"Kuwabara!"

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

Kuwabara had been thinking lately about the differences between him and his friends. The difference between being a human and a demon.

It had never really bothered him before, not as much as it had this year. But he was forty now, and things were more noticeable in his middle-aged years, rather than the twilight years of his youth. 

As a teen, he had momentary thoughts of his friends' strength versus his own, but he had never dwelled.

But something about this fortieth year had made Kuwabara aware that he was becoming different from his friends. No... he was always different, wasn't he?

Still, he had never thought about it, so much as he had this year. He had never... noticed it before.

There were all these... these incidents that just kept... pointing it all out.

Like last month, when Kuwabara had taken Yusuke to a new Raman stand. Yusuke had wanted to scope out the competition, and Kuwabara had wanted to try their spicy cheese Raman bowl. The food had been good, and Kuwabara teased Yusuke about his lack of innovation in coming up with a new style of noodles. Yusuke had been glaring at him when the cart owner had smiled at Kuwabara and said, "You and your son get along pretty well, don't you?"

Yusuke had started choking immediately, and Kuwabara had started laughing.

The cart owner was pulled away by a new customer before Kuwabara could answer, but when he turned to Yusuke, he saw his friend didn't find the situation funny.

The look on Yusuke's face was uncomfortable, a little angry, pained... and sad.

Kuwabara closed his mouth.

They paid for their bowls and left, Yusuke uncomfortably quiet as they walked side by side.

When they passed by a store with a large window, Kuwabara looked at their reflections. Kuwabara, no longer sported the pompadour he was so proud of, but kept his hair shorter, his curls hard to manage at this length, and graying around his ears. He'd grown into his face and large frame, and while still strong and fit, there were wrinkles near his mouth, especially when he smiled; wrinkles in the corner of his eyes, and the furrow of his brow. 

Time had slipped by, and Kuwabara had aged with it. 

Yusuke hadn't.

Yusuke looked as young as any of the fifteen-year-old kids Kuwabara taught at his school. 

He looked like he could be Yusuke's father now.

Kuwabara turned away from the reflection, and hooked an arm around Yusuke's neck, and dragged him in for a noogie.

He ruffled Yusuke's hair until, Yusuke was red-faced and angry, and Kuwabara forced a laugh so convincing, he fooled himself.

Yusuke laughed right along with him, and the cart owner's comment, wasn't brought back up.

Two weeks after that incident, Kuwabara had been hanging with Kurama in his greenhouse.

Kurama was tending to his plants, currently plucking purple blossoms from yellow-green stems with ease, telling Kuwabara about the latest trouble Hiei had gotten himself into. Something about refusing to have a birthday event, and incurring Yukina's wrath-which was all quite funny.

Kurama had missed a flower, and Kuwabara reached up to pluck it to offer it to his friend.

The petals pricked Kuwabara as sharp as needles, and chill followed by an intense pain began to burn his way down his fingertips.

"Kazuma, No!" Kurama shouted dropping his basket of flowers and lunging for Kuwabara's hand. He plucked the leaves of the same plant and immediately began to rub it on Kuwabara's smarting fingers, while encouraging Kuwabara to sit down.

Felling all too nauseous, Kuwabara was happy to oblige.

"I'm so sorry! I should have said something... this plant is a demonic variety of Poppy, and is extremely harmful towards humans. Very toxic, and with a mind of its own to cut the human flesh..." Kurama rambled, looking mortified over his mistake.

"Oh well... that's friendly..." Kuwabara grumbled, the chill and pain ebbing away as Kurama rubbed the leaves over his fingers.

"It's a common flower in the Makai... I just forgot..." Kurama mumbled. He paused, and let out a little sigh, "Well, as with most toxins, the antidote is normally within the same body of the toxin, and the leaves of this flower are the remedy for any damage it could do. We'll just have to be... I'll be more careful next time about warning you what I'm doing."

Kuwabara remained quiet as Kurama went on about what he was using the plant for, and the good uses the plant could provide. Kuwabara just quietly tried not to think about if he had been Hiei or Yusuke, the plant wouldn't have done anything to him. Tried not to notice that Kurama, like Yusuke, could pass for his son. He failed on those counts, but when Kurama turned to look at him Kuwabara smiled wide and told him not to worry about it.

"No harm no foul, Kurama. I just wanted to help... I should have been more careful, I know what type of plants you keep!" Kuwabara said, intentionally tilting his head and smiling at the fox. Forcing a goofy grin he knew Kurama to be weak to.

When Kurama returned it easily, Kuwabara felt that he had at least gotten that right.

And just a week ago, Hiei had taken Kuwabara by surprise.

It's not like it was a huge deal, but he had been startled by Hiei materializing in his classroom when his students were gone for their next class.

"Ah Jesus! Hiei, shit... you startled me!" Kuwabara had grumbled, heart, hammering in his chest as Hiei stared at him.

"...You didn't sense me coming?" Hiei asked, tone accusatory and a little disbelieving.

Kuwabara's spiritual awareness had reached its height in his mid-twenties, and he was very proud that even for those that tired... couldn't hide their presence from him. Kuwabara had been pretty smug the first time he revealed Hiei's carefully hidden location once outside of Genkai's shrine. Hiei's offended but impressed look still gave Kuwabara a sense of pride any time he thought about it.

Kuwabara sighed, "Maybe I'm just too tired or too old to detect you now..." he rubbed a hand over his eyes, and thought about the weeks of finals prep he had been doing lately for his students, "...Maybe just too busy..."

Hiei placed a wrapped bundle on the table, "Tired perhaps. And busy... clearly. But you're not that old." He said the words like he was offended.

"Old for a human," Kuwabara had grumbled, leaning back in his chair.

Hiei looked at Kuwabara like he had grown another head, "What are you talking about?"

Kuwabara sighed, and shook his head. He glanced at the bundle Hiei has set down on his desk and pointed, "What's that?"

"Yusuke and Kurama have been complaining you've been skipping meals because of work. Yusuke put you a bento together," Hiei answered, still giving Kuwabara a strange look.

Kuwabara smiled, "Aw... you guys love me."

Hiei made a disgusted sound, his mouth curling into a snarl.

Kuwabara laughed and opened the bento, tucking into the lunch before Hiei could say anything else.

Hiei watched him quietly, and Kuwabara turned to him, his cheeks stuffed full. Covering his mouth, Kuwabara mumbled out a muffled thank you.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Hiei asked reluctantly, "Your mood... has been off."

Kuwabara swallows slowly, and thinks of how to answer. Glancing at Hiei, Kuwabara takes in his young face, and shining red eyes. What does Hiei see when he looks at him? Has he changed a lot? Does Hiei notice the changes? Does he know what it means?

"Do I feel... weaker to you? Like... am I not as strong as... before?" Kuwabara asks before he can stop himself.

"...You're always weak," Hiei snorts immediately, and Kuwabara rolls his eyes in annoyance.

Hiei's hand is on his shoulder, and startles him, "But it's the same weak you've always been," Hiei's voice is low, and serious.

Anxiously, Kuwabara meets Hiei's eyes, and Hiei is studying him trying to figure out what has caused Kuwabara's impromptu question.

Kuwabara stuffs some rice into his mouth, "Sorry Hiei... I know I'm being weird. I'm under a lot of stress from work... just ignore me."

Hiei let out his own sigh, and headed for the classroom window. Looking uncomfortable he grumbled, "You should know by now, after all these years, you are one of the few people I can't ignore. Take care of yourself."

Hiei is gone hastily after that, but the warm feeling from his words sticks with Kuwabara all day.

Like a warning, all these little things kept piling up. Pointing out that there was a gap between Kuwabara and his friends. Kuwabara was aging, and he couldn't tell if that meant he was falling behind, or rushing forward without his friends. Whatever it was, it all led up to one thing, one path. He was different than his friends... and he would be gone long before he would ever see their first gray hair.

In this year, in which he had turned forty, he wondered if he was the only one that knew.

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

"Kuwabara!" 

Kuwabara opens his eyes in time to see Hiei ripping the door of the passenger side car off... what's left of it.

Kuwabara hurts all over, and he can feel blood dripping from his head. 

Hiei reaches inside the car, bracing Kuwabara's shoulders, and rips the seatbelt apart with ease. Hiei catches Kuwabara's full dead-weight, and pulls him from the wreckage of what is left of the car. As Hiei hauls Kuwabara out, and settles him on the ground, Kuwabara gets a good picture of the fatal collision. Two cars had wrapped around each other, blending into one another in a harmony of a deadly wreckage.

"How...?" Kuwabara mutters, his head pulsing and aching, a red foggy cloud hazing his vision.

The section of the car Kuwabara had been pulled from seems oddly intact compared to the rest of the vehicle, and Kuwabra strains to remember a detail he knows he's missing.

Information comes slow, but it paints a picture of how Kuwabara had come to be this way.

It was late. The finals were over. He and the other teachers went out to celebrate. A beer and some food. Their designated driver got behind the wheel... they'd been safe.

They had been driving for only a few miles when a vision had prickled Kuwabara's senses. A car, full of drunk party-goers running a red-light at top speed. Their driver didn't see them coming. Kuwabara had known what was going to happen before it even happened. He had closed his eyes; there would be no time for warnings. Before he had closed his eyes, just a second before... a black blur had been in front of the car, his energy flaring up in front of him...

"Hiei... did you jump in between two colliding cars?" Kuwabara slurs, his voice very soft.

He looks at Hiei, everything spinning and moving violently. It's as he wants to puke that Kuwabara recognizes he has a concussion. He focuses on Hiei, rather than the bile climbing up his throat, and takes in the demon's expression. Hiei is bristled and clearly rattled, his eyes wild, and his aura flared with protective fright.

"You were going to die! That... that vehicle was going to colide with yours..." Hiei is livid, and scared in a way Kuwabara rarely sees from him. He stumbles over the word vehicle in a way that reminds Kuwabara that Hiei had once struggled with the concept of a car, and its function.

Trying to focus back in the present Kuwabara slurs, "You been following me?"

"I've got to keep an eye on you! And lucky I did! You would have died! You can't die!" Hieis hold is tighter, and Kuwabara is pressed into Hiei's side. 

Kuwabara can feel a tremble in the shorter demon's body. Under Hiei's breath he hears a soft, "We can't..."

Hiei doesn't finish, but Kuwabara finishes the sentence for him inside his head, 'We can't lose you.'

So, Kuwabara is not the only one to notice the difference between he and his friends. They've clearly noticed... and they care. Kuwabara is not alone in his concerns that he's been trying to keep to himself. He never was. After all these years... you would think he would know that by now.

Kuwabara needed to have a talk with his friends. This was not something they could walk around. It was all too fragile. Rather than dodging the painful shards of what is to come... Kuwabara thinks instead, they should acknowledge it.

"I've got to get you to Kurama," Hiei forces some steadiness in his voice, and tries to move Kuwabara, regaining Kuwabara's focus.

"No, Hiei... you've got to leave me here-" Kuwabara whispers, because he can't will his voice to be louder.

"What are you-"

"Human laws are different... If you take me away from here, and its found out I left the scene... I could get blamed for all this. I need to get seen at a hospital and say what happened here," Kuuwabara softly interrupts, turning his bleary gaze to the wrecked cars. He fumbles for Hiei's arm and squeezes his arm, "You have to go. You can... can call for help for me, but you have to leave me here-"

Hiei's expression is pained and twisted.

That is the last thing he wants to do.

Kuwabara smiles, "You saved my life... but I can't leave the scene. I've got to... people need to know what happened." He gestures towards the wreckage, and then moans as it stirs some pain in his ribs. Fractures, maybe?

Hiei birstling with anger, sets Kuwabara down on the ground. He growls, "Fine. But I'm not fucking going anywhere. And you're going to be fine, or so help me I'll rip your spirit from Koenma myself."

Kuwabara wants to laugh, but his head hurts too much, "It's a concussion... and I've been banged up worse before. I'll be fine... Go Hiei. Please call for help."

Hiei closes his fists, and disapears.

Kuwabara takes a deep breath, his body tingling as he uses his own energy to assess the more damaged parts of his body... though honestly, thanks to Hiei, Kuwabara thinks the worst thing he has, is a concussion.

He doesn't need to be psychic to know what's going to happen next. What happens after Kuwabara's taken to the hospital, and after his three closest friends are at his side.

They're going to talk about this uncomfrotable distance, that Kuwabara has only just noticed, has sprung up betweent them, but has always existed. A distance that really isn't so large. Kuwabara's getting older. Things are changing. But he's not being left behind, or going on ahead.

They're walking their different paths together, all trying to keep pace. Yes. They'll part ways eventually, proably sooner than any of them woud like.

But as Hiei just proved, clearly they'll be willing to jump into one another's path to keep each other safe.

As the sound of sirens fill the air, and Hiei appears again, eyes burning bright with grim determination, Kuwabara feels settled for the first time in a long time.

Really, human or demon, different or not, it doesn't matter. Clearly, they can still care about each other, and still worry about the same things. The passage of time, or a difference in strength won't change that.

  End

[come-on-shitty-boys]

// the king. oikawa tooru //

Warnings: mentions of death

Word Count: 1.9K

Notes: This is the final installment of the mini-series “Soldier, Poet, King” influenced by the song of the same name by The Oh Hellos.  I might make a second part to this or maybe just do a little drabble to finish it off?? i have to add the header later because my dumbass F O R G O T to make one and i wanna sleep ;-;

“You’re a monster.”

“I don’t care if you’re my husband.  I want nothing to do with you.”

“I refuse to sleep in the same bed as you.”

“You’re just like your father, only caring when it benefits you.”

Each hateful comment that you threw at him pulled the air from his lungs.  He’d never been talked to in such a way, but now, hearing those words drip like poison from the lips of his own wife was like a punch to the stomach.  Tooru knew going into the marriage that things were going to be rocky, but he didn’t expect it to be this bad.  He thought that given a few weeks, he’d be able to win you over with his charming personality and the two of you could enjoy a happy life together, ruling over one of the most powerful nations.

But, that was so far from the truth.  Any attempts at physical contact were shoved away.  Conversation was cut short by a snide remark from you, leaving the young king to sit with all of the gnawing guilt in his chest.  Because, every word that you uttered, he believed to be true.  He was a monster.  Well, maybe not him specifically, but his family was a completely different story.

There was a reason that the Oikawa family was the head of such an immense kingdom, one that stretched farther than one could ever fathom.  A feared kingdom and one with riches beyond your wildest dreams.  An intimidating military with ranks upon ranks of well-equipped soldiers.  Yes, that was the Riviere Kingdom, a kingdom that burned fear into its people and a king to match that scary demeanor.  The king that had worn the crown before Tooru, his father, was as ruthless as they come, building the once small kingdom into the powerhouse that it is today.  Smaller surrounding nations were on their knees, begging to be spared, but they were only swallowed by the overwhelming military force before there was even a chance to protest.  And that was the game for years.  Smaller nations were taken in, allowing the nation to swell in size and power, allowing it to move on to even bigger targets.  It was monstrous.  

But, it wasn’t like Tooru could do anything about it now.  What did you want him to do?  Give everyone their land back and let them break off into their own countries again?  They would starve and die.  People had become reliant on the aid of the kingdom, so who was he to just whisk that all away from them?  Everything was years in the past, he had barely been born when his father's rampage had reached its peak and he was only seven when the final obstacle was conquered, too young to think any ill of his father’s ways.

The Gledria Kingdom had been the goal from the very beginning.  It was the biggest and best, but late King Oikawa couldn’t have that, could he?  Tooru could remember that overwhelming swell of pride that his father carried as the royal family of the newly-fallen kingdom knelt before the king in defeat.  A king with weary eyes, dark circles and heavy wrinkles from years of stress, a queen with gentle features and lips that probably had the potential to carry the sweetest smile, and between them knelt a young girl, likely no older than the young prince himself.  Her eyes were puffy and there was a glisten of snot streaming from her nose, the fear evident in her body as she knelt there trembling.  

“I’d like to make a deal,” the fallen king states simply, his voice as commanding, steady, as if he was the one in charge.  “Your son, is he betrothed already?”

Tooru’s cheeks turned hot, the attention suddenly being turned to him.  “He’s not.”

“Then I would like to offer my daughter’s hand.  Before you refuse, I want you to think about what this could mean for you.  You are free of the burden of an even grander kingdom by letting us walk free and rebuild our home.  Not only that, we are now aligned with you, your majesty.  Our children will act as the peace treaty between our two kingdoms.”

It had been a tempting offer, one that was not refused.  And for ten years, the deal remained in tact.  The two lived in harmony, only engaging with one another when it was necessary.  But, things got boring and the death of King Oikawa was coming sooner rather than later.  It was his last mission.  Put an end to the Gledria Kingdom.

Tooru could still remember the look on your face when you were dragged into the castle on that fateful day.  You had been so eerily easy.  There were no tears, no pain, just emptiness hidden behind those deep eyes.  Your dress had been tattered, hair had been matted and tangled.  You looked like some kind of creature that Prince Tooru had only read about.  He could do nothing but watch as the handmaids took you away to clean the blood of your people off of your shell of a body.

Even now, years after the fall of your home, there was still hate and bitterness, but Tooru couldn’t even blame you.  On the night of your wedding, you had refused to speak to him, let alone consummate your marriage.  Shortly following the death of his father, when Prince Tooru was given his new title of King and you were crowned as his queen, there was nothing.  No words of celebration, no smiles were shared.  The tension in the air surrounding the young pair never dropped.  If you ever looked at him, it was only through narrowed eyes.  If you ever spoke to him, your words stung like a thousand wasps.  You were cold to him, refusing to even give him a chance, refusing to believe that he was not his father, refusing to believe that they were anything but the same.

The people noticed it in only a matter of months.  It was like the clouds had opened up and the sun was finally able to shine through.  After years of war, there was peace in the kingdom once again.  Aid was given to those who had lost everything and King Tooru was adament on purchasing his silks and fabrics from within the Riveire Kingdom to help support his people in an effort to get them back on their feet.  Festivals that had long since stopped from fear of the late king’s wrath, now filled the squares all over again.  From within the castle, there were nights where the merry cheers and laughter of people down in the village carried on the summer air as they rejoiced in a new sense of freedom that they hadn’t felt in a long time.  

And it was those nights that he was able to feel closest to you.  It wasn’t much, but every night that the music could be heard, he could find you on the balcony that extended from the bedroom that the two of you were meant to share.  Your hair would sway gently in the warm breeze, face aglow with moonlight, letting the night consume you in all of its beauty.  If he listened closely, he could hear you humming along to the tune of some song that he had heard you hum a million times, but would never tell him the name of.  Some nights, if he watched you long enough, Tooru could watch you slowly start to sway as you get lost in the song that echoed in your head.  

“We should go,” was all he had said to you.

It caught you off guard.  There was a sudden abruptness to his words, but the gentle tone that he always used when talking to you never left.  “What are you talking about?”

“A festival.  We should go sometime.  It could be fun, don’t you think?  Mother would never let me go when I was younger.  She thought commoners were filthy and when my father started his reign of terror, the festivals and parties stopped all together.”  Tooru leaned on the rail of the balcony a few feet away from you, giving you your space, while still being near you.  The fact that you didn’t immediately move away felt like a win in his book.  “Have you ever been to one?”

You simply nod.  You’re silent for a long time, he thinks the conversation is over until he sees your mouth open.  “We used to go all of the time.  If my father knew there was going to be a festival, he would take me.  We would dance and he’d lift me up and spin me around.  He would buy food and drinks for everyone there, so every single person could have a good time and not have to worry about expenditures.”  Tooru looked over at you as your words trailed off.  A soft smile graced your features.  It was the very first smile that he had ever seen from you, but it fell quickly.  “But that was before-”

“Yeah.  I know.”

“I really don’t think you do.  Do you really understand what your father did to us?  To every single kingdom that fell on their knees before him?  My people were slaughtered, Tooru.  I watched my parents die because your father betrayed them and you stand here and genuinely expect me to see you in a different light.  You may not be your father, but you’re still an Oikawa.  You carry all of that bloodshed on your shoulders now.  You could be the kindest king in the world, but nothing is going to reverse the past.”

“You’re right and I wish that there was something that I could do to fix everything.  If I could go back and stop him from doing what he did to your kingdom, I would do it in a heartbeat, but we didn’t know that it was coming either.  But, Y/N, we can’t keep living like this.  If you don’t want to love me, I can live with that, but I beg that you let me show you that I am more than just my father’s son.  I’m an Oikawa and that’s something that I can’t change, but I can change the feelings that come with hearing that name.  I wish nothing but the best for my people, our people, but that has to start here.”

“What are you saying?”

“Let me take you to one festival.  We can dance until your feet tire so much that I have to carry you home.  I’ll spin you around until you’re so dizzy that you can’t see straight.  We can eat and drink and laugh until your stomach hurts.  You don’t have to say yes, but I want to show you that I am King Oikawa Tooru and I am not the same person that my father was.  So, what do you say?  Will you do me the honor of being my dance partner for just one festival?”

[scotianostra]

I can see this being another one of those love/hate posts but here goes, Happy Birthday to the man most refer to as "Chef Ramsay" 

It's easy just to dismiss Ramsay and say you don't like him due to the TV shows he appears in, I ask you to read the full post and make your mind up on him afterwards. 

Gordon James Ramsay was born on November 8th in Johnstone in 1966, Raised in Stratford-upon-Avon, England, after he moved there with his family at the age of 5. Ramsay's first love was soccer, and he set his sights on a professional sports career. A knee injury put paid to his aspirations and he returned to college for a degree in hotel management. 

After finishing his studies, Ramsay placed himself under the direction of some of Europe's top chefs. He apprenticed with Marco Pierre White at Harvey's in London, worked for Albert Roux at Le Gavroche, then worked under master chefs Jol Robuchon and Guy Savoy in France. Gordon Ramsay has been called a lot of things in his life. Nice guy probably isn't one of them. 

Ramsay is more known for his temper and scathing outbursts in the kitchen. However, despite his unconventional management style, he is without a doubt one of the best chefs in the world and has several successful restaurants to prove it. 

An interesting wee fact you might not know about him is that he has size 15 feet, which require all his shoes to be custom-made for him, perfect for booting the arse of all those people in his kitchen!! I love the memes that are posted around the internet, most of which are too offensive to post here. 

As for his temper and atitudes, I think most of it is an act and have heard he is not too bad when the cameras are not rolling. 

Gordon and his wife, Tana, have their own charitable organization. The Gordon & Tana Ramsay Foundation works closely with organizations like the Great Ormond Street Hospital and the Louis Dundas Centre for Children's Palliative Care, and helps provide funding and support for these groups that touch thousands of lives across the UK.

Both organizations support children with medical conditions that necessitate prolonged hospital stays, and their work with GOSH has allowed for the purchase of cutting-edge medical technology, along with providing financing and accommodations that allow families to stay close to their children while they're receiving treatment. GOSH alone provides aid to around 255,000 people a year, and the Ramsays' foundation also supports Cancer Research UK, the Scottish Spina Bifida Assocation, Action Against Hunger, and Meningitis Now.

Not content to just let his reputation do all the hard work in getting people to donate to his charities, Ramsay is a regular contender in triathlons and marathons across the country, raising money. 

Gordon Ramsay might be known for one F-word in particular, but he's not above changing it up a little to benefit a good cause. His "F is for Fundraising" slogan is a part of The Gordon Ramsay Appeal, which benefits the Scottish Spina Bifida Association. Events include the "Ladies Who Give an F" luncheon and bra auction, and he's also lent his name, image, and support to the association's year-round fundraising efforts.

He's been working with the charity for years, and his 2008 appearance at an 8-year-old's violin recital at the Scottish Spina Bifida Young Building made headlines and brought him to tears. 

It's easy to imagine Ramsay is the same, obscenity-shouting chef at home as he is in most of his television appearances, but according to an interview in Men's Journal, "I've never cursed in front of (my children). Never, ever."

The concerns came up a lot when he was preparing for MasterChef Junior and mothers were worried their delicate little darlings would be subjected to Ramsay's well-documented wrath. But Ramsay insists he doesn't swear in front of his own children and that they don't curse, either.

Gordon was beaming with pride last month when his son, Jack, joined the Royal Marines, the whole family turned out to wish him well as he left them to start the notoriously tough 32 week training camp.

[discopiratetanis]

The words you want to hear [geraskier week 2020 | Soulmates]

TITLE: The words you want to hear | Read on AO3

AUTHOR: ficsfordummies | TanisVs

PROMPT DAY #: 1. Soulmates

SUMMARY: “They will say those words to you, my dear. Your soulmark is what you most want someone to say to you. It represents how much your soulmate loves you and cares about you. That's why only you can see your soulmark until they say it, if anyone could see them, they could trick you into thinking it's your soulmate when it's not. They are words that must be born from the heart, do you understand?”

WORD COUNT: 4795

BOOKS/NETFLIX/2002 SHOW/VIDEO GAME: Mostly Netflix.

TRIGGERS/WARNINGS: N/A (Well, there are a lot of headcanons)

RATING: M for future chapters.

ADDITIONAL NOTES: Written for @geraskierweek​ No beta. So here we are! This is my little contribution to the lovely and beautiful Geraskier Week 2020 initiative. It will be my only work for it, a three-chapter fic with the first prompt (soulmates) topic as its core, I hope you like it ❤️❤️❤️

I don't care about your songs if you're dead

Jaskier had read those words over and over throughout his childhood. The phrase was written with rough thick strokes, as if someone had carved the letters into his tender and delicate skin of his left forearm when he was a baby. And the ink. The words were made of dense, deep black ink, but in the light of the fire, candles or the sun itself, it sparkled with gold and grey if Jaskier turned or moved his wrist, like the scales of an iridescent fish. 

“Those are all markers of your soulmate, Julian, it represents them,” His mother had told him when Jaskier had described the appearance of his soulmark when he was five.

“How will I know who my soulmate is, mother?” Jaskier had asked then.

His mother had smiled at him, softly.

“They will say those words to you, my dear. Your soulmark is what you most want someone to say to you. It represents how much your soulmate loves you and cares about you. That's why only you can see your soulmark until they say it, if anyone could see them, they could trick you into thinking it's your soulmate when it's not. They are words that must be born from the heart, do you understand?”

Jaskier had wrinkled his little nose at that time.

“Yes, mother,”

“And remember,” she had said too. “Soulmates are persons meant to be together, yes, but you can’t or should force a soulbond. If someone will be meant to be with you, you have to build a strong relationship,”

“I… understand,”

“You’ll meet a lot of people in the future, my dear, don’t worry about that now,”

“Yes, mother,”

And Jaskier had not worried much about the subject until he turned fourteen and his father began to pressure him to study more seriously. He was the son, the only son, of a viscount, and they might not be of the highest nobility, but the family had status and his parents expected Jaskier to be even more literate than many of the sons and daughters of the high nobility. For that reason, Jaskier went to Oxenfurt, and though he was too young to attend higher education classes, Jaskier took the opportunity to start to take the first step to find his soulmate. 

He knew that if his soulmark spoke about songs, then he must study something that would lead him to write poetry and music. So he chose the faculty of Trouvereship and Poetry, to his father's disgust and his mother's resignation. He studied there for three years, arduously, tirelessly, determined to be the best. And yes, he was the best of his class, and of his promotion in all faculties. His teachers told him that he would write peerless poetry, that his music would be remembered forever. He believed them. Jaskier graduated with honors, and hit the road with seventeen, still too young, too innocent and kind.

Then he came face to face with reality.

Outdoors of Oxenfurt nobody liked his music o his poetry, and far away from his family and their commodities, Jaskier suffered hardship. He went hungry, cold and sometimes he had to make dubious deals to avoid dying. Many times he thought about returning to the nobleman's life, but then he would roll up his left shirt sleeve, would look at the words, those crude but precious black words that sparkled with amber and gold under the light, would take a deep breath and would keep going.

For whoever that had to be his soulmate.

Then he met Geralt of Rivia, the infamous Butcher of Blaviken whose stories he had heard since he was a child, and decided that the witcher was the best inspiration he would probably find in his life. So he followed Geralt everywhere, without realizing he had taken the second step to find his soulmate. 

* * *

It had been half a year since they last saw each other. Jaskier had become more confident, but only because his new growing fame made him more secure and have more coins in his pouch. He had to thank Geralt, of course. People loved stories about witchers who, although they might seem like men of terrible behavior without morals and without principles, in the end had a heart, saved people and cared for the weak. Geralt had once told him that all that was stupid, but Jaskier had ignored him.

The truth didn’t lead to greatness.

“So, what if I invite you to ale in the next village tavern? You are going there, right? You could tell me about your latest adventures,”

“Hm,”

“Ah, yes, that one was very interesting and funny,”

Geralt was walking, guiding Roach by the bridle, with his heavy cloak waving softly behind him. Jaskier had one much more fancy and lighter that it didn’t hide his rapier and back-daggers at all, with his elven lute hanging from his shoulder. His pace was prideful, lordly.

“So, I heard of your affair with the striga in Temeria,” Jaskier said, much more serious, less cheerful, and looked at Geralt with curious. 

He had grown a few inches in the time that they hadn't seen each other, but Geralt was still much taller than him. Geralt said anything, not even a grunt, and the road remained silent, a silence only broken by the happy chirping of the spring birds. Jaskier saw the grim gesture Geralt made at the mention of the striga, and didn’t press. He walked beside him until they reached the town ahead.

Then, when the first villager noticed Geralt was a witcher, Jaskier went to the tavern alone.

It was the witcher’s life. He knew that.

“A selkiemore, uh?” Jaskier mumbled while writing in his journal.

The tavern was full of a crowd of townsfolk listening to the man who had contracted Geralt that morning. Jaskier had his belly full of warm food and a decent ale, so he felt with enough energy to try to write, or at least think, about his next great song. Toss a coin to your witcher it was good, very good, and people loved that song, but he didn’t want to become stagnant. He needed more successful songs. 

Songs. 

He slightly touched his left forearm, over the doublet sleeve. Then he remembered why he was there, in Cintra, and remembered the letter the chamberlain of Queen Calanthe had sent to him a month ago. It was a great honor to be the main bard in the court of such an important queen during her daughter's betrothal. But he knew that it was risky. Because in his obsessive spiral of finding his soulmate sooner rather than later, Jaskier had meddled in other people's marriages, even though they were not married to their true soulmates. And some of those people were nobles. And he knew that, at least, his beloved Countess of Stael was going to be in the ceremony. 

With her husband.

So he was fucked up.

A little.

Jaskier was thinking about that while he was writing the description of the monster according to the words of the fat farmer who had witnessed the fight between Geralt and the selkiemore. He smiled when the man said that Geralt was dead, because he didn't believe for a moment that the witcher was going to die in such an absurd way. So he laughed when Geralt entered the tavern, covered in blood, guts, and shit as if nothing had happened. It wasn’t the first time. He made the crowd sing Toss a coin to your witcher, knowing Geralt would groan, tired and disgusted. He collected a few coins. Geralt took a tankard of ale from a table and drank, spitting it half a second later. Jaskier snorted and leaned on the counter of the tavern.

Then he took a deep breath, and when Geralt approached him, he said:

“I need a favor,”

Geralt looked at him, silent, serious, and saw the apprehensive face Jaskier was making without realizing it. So the witcher tilted his head a little while viscous droplets of blood dripped to the floor.

“Tell me,” 

* * *

“Wow, what a night, right?”

Jaskier trotted behind Geralt, who was striding along the hallways as if the Destiny itself were to appear in the palace to grab him by the neck and force him to claim his Child of Surprise before he or she was even born.

“This is your fault,” Geralt snarled, ablaze with anger.

“What? My fault?” Jaskier protested, irritated and incredulous. “Excuse me, but I’m not the one who chose the Law of Surprise as payment here, you know,”

Geralt stopped dead suddenly, break-breathing, still furious, with a remarkable frown carved in his forehead. Jaskier sighed, facing him, his lute hanging from his shoulder like always, and didn’t flinch when Geralt glared at him with amber fire.

“If you hadn’t brought me here, I wouldn’t–” Geralt whispered, still wrathful.

Jaskier pressed his lips in a thin line, feeling a hot and unpleasant sensation in the pit of his stomach.

“Don’t you dare to blame me for what had you done, Geralt, you heard me?” Jaskier mumbled back, not with the same anger but with determination. Geralt huffed, looking away from him. “You could have asked for money, for lands, for anything other than that, but you preferred the Law of Surprise,”

“I know,” Geralt growled again.

Jaskier let out a deep breath, an exhausted and long sigh. They were in the middle of an empty and lonely corridor, with the rumor of the music at the party fluttering even there. Geralt sat on a nearby stone bench. Jaskier sat beside him, thinking.

“You knew it?” he asked after a minute in silence, with Geralt staring intensely at the floor.

The witcher shrugged a little before straightening and leaning on the wall with a grunt.

“Of course not,” he mumbled, calmer. “How could I have known it?”

He sounded resigned. Jaskier threw him a sympathetic glance and felt guilty anyway. He had been a little selfish because, of course, he could have defended himself against aggrieved husbands and wives, but… He wanted to go with Geralt to the party. Maybe it was really his fault. 

Maybe.

“Well, think about it,” he said. “If I hadn’t brought you with me, Calanthe would have killed that man, you saved a life tonight,"

"You would have done the same, I saw you fighting before,"

Jaskier parted lips, feeling his cheeks burning.

"Oh, yes, but I'm good at duels or like… two against one, even three against one, but an entire squad of soldiers? Thank you, but no," he saw Geralt smiling from the corner of his eye. Jaskier swallowed. "So as I was saying, you saved a life tonight, and saved Pavetta from soulrotting."

Soulrotting. He could recall when his mother had told him about that concept. He was eight at that time, and one of his mother's maids had lost her husband, her soulmate, in battle. Jaskier remembered that day. The scream of agony had heard everywhere in the Lettenhove fortress. 

"How do you know they are soulmates and not two simple lovers?" Geralt asked, slowly, looking at Jaskier.

Jaskier shrugged.

"I don't know for sure, but…" he hesitated, feeling his soulmark heavier than before. He touched his left sleeve and dragged his fingers a little over it. "If my mother would be about to kill my soulmate I would scream like that too,"

"That was magic,"

"You know what I mean," Then Jaskier looked at Geralt and met those golden eyes. Something inside him tingled. Geralt looked away a second later, with a grimace. Jaskier swallowed slightly, still caressing his sleeve. "You wouldn't do it?"

"Do what?"

"Defend your soulmate against everyone and everything?" 

There was a silence, a big and dense silence that Jaskier didn't understand and couldn't explain. He felt it heavy and… bitter. Geralt sighed, grunted. Again he sounded tired and resigned.

"I suppose, I don't know," Geralt murmured.

Jaskier blinked, confused.

"What do you mean you don't know?" he asked.

Another silence, thicker than before. Jaskier frowned, knowing that he shouldn't push him, but…

"Geralt?"

… but surprisingly, Geralt answered without snarling at him, his voice full of exhaustion.

"Witchers don't have soulmates, Jaskier, "

The third silence wasn't heavier than the previous two. It was strangely soft, although uncomfortable and somehow… painful, agonizing. Jaskier didn't know and knew at the same time why he felt as if someone had punched him in the guts, ripping all the air from his lungs. 

"Oh," he mumbled, and wet his lips, suddenly sad. "How do you… How do you know? You don't…?"

He knew it was a dumb question. But Geralt, again, answered with much more patient than Jaskier would expect.

"I don't have a soulmark, no. Witchers don't have words on his arms," Then Geralt got up, without looking at him. "Come on, let's get out of here,"

He started to walk, not so fast than before, towards the end of the corridor. Jaskier watched him for a second, still feeling… sad, and got up too to follow him. He sighed, clenching his left hand in a fist. 

* * *

Jaskier turned the rapier in his hand, elegant, keeping his balance. He stabbed the air and backed away, then he cut an imaginary opponent, spinning on his heels, chaining block, feint and attack movements again and again. When he stopped he was out of breath, sweating. Then he lowered his rapier and sheathed it with a loud sigh. 

Geralt, sitting against a tree near the edge of the clearing, discovered he was holding his breath until then. He thought, he noticed, he always noticed, how gorgeous, how stunning, was Jaskier when he trained, when he used his sword, when he was such concentrated and full of harsh and intense energy. It didn't have anything to do with the strength Jaskier detached when he sang or when he tricked someone with his silver-tongue. Geralt couldn't say what oh those attitudes he liked more.

"Geralt?" Jaskier's soft voice made him blink. He saw the bard smiling, cheeky. "See something you like?"

Geralt blinked again, watching him. Jaskier had his hair slightly wet, his forehead pearly with sweat, his cheeks rosy. He was on his too much tight trousers and on his shirt, only on his laced, cute and luxurious shirt that was mid-open, and Geralt could catch a glimpse of part of his pecs and, of course, his chest hair. He felt how his throat went dry in seconds, and looked away with a loud grunt.

Jaskier laughed and sat beside him, at his right against the tree. He had rolled up his sleeves so his left forearm brushed with Geralt's right arm. Geralt stared at the clearing, knowing that in that blank skin was a soulmark, the words that Jaskier wanted the most to hear from someone. 

Someone.

A claw gripped and tightened his heart and, somehow, his right forearm burned with an old and long lost memory.

* * *

Jaskier mumbled a curse, crossing out the last word he had written. Tiny drops of ink fell to the sheet, mottling the parchment of his not-yet-finished new song with a myriad of little black stars. He thought in silence with the feather under his chin. He lasted three seconds. Then he sighed and left the journal on the table, tired, upset. 

The tavern was empty except for the owner, Geralt and himself. It was early anyway, and neither of them expected to see anybody until noon.

The silence was weird. 

"What's wrong?" 

Jaskier looked up. Across the table, Geralt was watching him, with that frown that Jaskier knew meant the witcher was a little worried.

"Nothing," he mumbled, grabbing Geralt's tankard and taking a sip. When he saw Geralt arching an eyebrow, he groaned. "Nothing, really, don't worry," 

He took another sip, and that allowed the witcher to snatch the journal Jaskier had left on the table. He opened it on the last page. He made a grimace, confused at first, curious at second. Jaskier let out a new tired sigh and take a third sip of ale.

"I know," he said, sarcastically. "It's horrible, a complete disaster,"

"It's not," Geralt replied, absent.

"Geralt, I don't doubt that with age comes knowledge but I know you don't have any idea of music or poetry, so don't try to cheer me up with empty flattering,"

Geralt turned a page, ignoring him. The journal was full of lyrics, old and new, and sheet music, both finished and incomplete. Or at least that was what it looked like, Geralt wasn't sure. Jaskier was right, he didn't have any idea about music. But what he liked wasn't the music notes or the attempts and tests for rhymes. 

No. 

It was his handwriting.

It was fluid, thin, delicate. Like the course of a quiet but sometimes playful river. Its stroke was slightly bowed to the right because Jaskier was right-handed. There were words crossed out everywhere. Geralt thought it was pretty.

And that it was... familiar.

Familiar.

Suddenly he felt his inner right forearm itching, a not quite unpleasant sensation. Geralt rubbed that specific zone of his arm, above the sleeve of his shirt, and frowned, uncomfortable. Jaskier, locked in the ale tankard, didn't notice that. Geralt left the journal on the table with no words, and took a deep breath.

He knew where he had seen that type of handwriting before.

He knew very well.

* * *

"You can't come,"

"Don't be ridiculous, Geralt,"

"Oh, I am the one who is being ridiculous?"

Geralt secured the straps of his swords and checked out that he was wearing them tightly to his back. Beside him, Roach huffed a little uneasily, sniffing the air of tension between the witcher and the bard. Geralt searched in one of the mare's saddlebags and extracted a couple of bottles filled with a green and silver liquid. He put them in his pouch and turned around.

Jaskier was facing him, arms crossed, with a clearly indignant and annoyed frown. He had his rapier, his silver rapier, hanging on the left side of his hip, his daggers, his also silver daggers, on the right side. His lute was safe in their room, upstairs, inside the inn. Geralt thought Jaskier should be inside the inn too, safe, without wanting to go with him to do his job. Geralt huffed as Roach had done before, patted the mare on the neck and walked away past Jaskier, towards the location where the monster that he had to kill was supposed to be.

Jaskier followed him.

"You can't face an entire pack of drowners alone,"

"Ah, you know how to do my job better than me, it's that so, bard?" Geralt hissed. "Should I tell you how to write music now?"

He didn't want to sound mean. He didn't want to be mean. He knew Jaskier was worried, he could smell his fear. But...

"No, but I can help you, you know I can help you. At least with that type of monster. I have silver, and I am fast, faster than most of the men, you always say that,"

He always said that. It was true. Jaskier was a great warrior, and Geralt would trust him with his life, with his eyes closed. But not with that, not with monsters. Not with something that could rip off his flesh in a blink and eat him while he was still alive. 

He didn't want that. 

He couldn't live with that.

They were in the middle of the street, rain splashing furiously as if the gods were angry. There was water running everywhere, pouring from everywhere. The perfect scenery for a bunch of creatures that lived in the sewers.

"Come on, Geralt," Jaskier grabbed him by the arm, trying to stop him. Geralt didn't flinch and pushed the bard off, grunting. Jaskier groaned too, frustrated, and trotted until he surpassed the witcher and got in his way.

"Please, let me help you with this," Jaskier said. No, implored, begged, pleaded. Geralt caught the heavy and thick scent of fear, but it wasn't just fear. No. It was panic, pure and electric terror. Jaskier feared for him, but it wasn't the first time Geralt had to hunt monsters, leaving the bard behind. Geralt avoided Jaskier and he kept walking, faster. 

The rain raged and one lightning ignited the sky like a fierce and bright snake. Then, just then, Geralt felt again a hand grabbing his arm, and this time the witcher stopped.

The thunder rumbled violently and it was as if a dragon was roaring.

The clutch on his arm was strong. Geralt didn't look back, didn't look at Jaskier. He breathed in, deep, and sensed the fear more intense than before. Another lightning. Another thunder. Geralt tried to let go, but Jaskier tightened his hold. Geralt felt a growl being born in his chest. He could get rid of the grip easily, he was stronger, but he was also tired of those arguments. Jaskier should understand why he couldn't go with him. 

"Jaskier," he said, low, slowly. A warning.

"Geralt," Jaskier replied, arrogant, stubborn.

Geralt inhaled deeply for a third time, and noticed that fear was no longer the only smell there, under all the rain. But he couldn't recognize the new scent, not yet. It was bitter but also sweet. Geralt growled.

"You can't come, it's not negotiable,"

"Why?" More obstinacy. "It would not be the first time,"

 "Drowners aren't like bandits, or like a single monster I can make be focused on me," Geralt tightened his teeth, closed his eyes for a second, and then opened it still without facing Jaskier. "You could die," 

There was a two seconds silence, only broken by the violent storm. 

"So are you," Jaskier replied, and his voice was softer than before, weaker.

"It's my job, not yours"

And I don't want you to die, he should say, I want you to be safe here, where I could return to you later, he should say. He thought about the drowners, he thought about their claws and fangs, their viscous, horrendous skin and faces. He knew it wasn't the monster's fault, really, but… 

"Well, If we are talking about jobs–"

"Jaskier," Geralt growled, again, getting angry, angrier. He still didn't look back, at him.

"No, come on! If we are talking about jobs I have one, you know?"

"Jaskier, " The growl grew up.

"Remember? That one in which I sing and people throw me money?" Geralt stepped forward, only two steps. "You remember it, right?"

"You're wasting my time,"

"Because I have been neglecting my job only for you! Because you insist on not telling me anything of value for my songs, and–"

"Jaskier, "

"And! I thought, well, I understand, he is not good explaining shit, he doesn't want to talk, so if I watch how he fights and hunts monsters I suppose I can manage with that, but no! Also no! How do you want me to do my job, witcher?"

And then, the third lightning sparked in the sky, enormous, violent. And something in Jaskier voice made Geralt to burst. He faced the bard, finally, his amber eyes flaming with hurt fury.  

"Jaskier, I don't care about your songs if you're dead! Do you understand that or not?!"

The third thunder erupted immediately after and devoured the other sounds. It lasted at least four long seconds. Four long seconds in which they looked at each other under the dark rain with no words. Then, slowly, Jaskier loosened his grip. And Geralt noticed his expression. Jaskier looked down, frowning a little, his hands trembling, his lips pressed in a thin line. Geralt saw him swallowing, hard. A strong and powerful scent cracked around him.

But the bard said nothing.

So Geralt took that as an advantage and turned around to walk away. He didn't say anything either. He felt strangely tired, tensed. He didn't look back, he had a job to do.

 * * *

It took him four days to clean the sewers from drowners. Geralt emerged to the surface covered in green-black blood, murky water, and shit, so he seemed like one of the monsters he had killed down there, in the guts of the city. It wasn't the first time, and it wasn't the first time he had to come back to the inn covered in dirt like that.

When Geralt arrived into the room he shared with Jaskier, he found him leaning on the windowsill, reading something. At the sound of someone appearing, the bard looked up and turned around. He arched his eyebrows in surprise.

"Geralt!"

And in relief.

Jaskier moved toward the witcher with two steps and hugged him tight, exhaling a heavy breath and resting his forehead on his chest. Geralt went stiff, not because Jaskier was hugging him but–

"Jaskier, you are going to get dirt," Geralt sighed.

Jaskier squeezed him a little before releasing him and looked at Geralt with his bright and pretty blue eyes.

"I was worried," he mumbled. 

He had mud in his forehead, in his right cheek, and in the front of his fancy doublet. But he didn't seem angry. Geralt breathed in and caught the pale scent of flowers, ink, and wood that followed Jaskier everywhere, alongside something soft and sweet under all his own dirt. He grunted, weakly.

"Sorry, it took me longer than I would think, "

"Right, uh…"Jaskier hesitated, looking away, and headed to the door. "I will ask the innkeeper to prepare a bath for you,"

Geralt watched him go, knowing that their fight was not resolved. He sighed again, feeling exhausted, hungry. Then he glanced at the piece of parchment that was on the windowsill, forgotten, and he felt curiosity. It had been folded and unfolded many times, and it had a red wax seal that, when he examined it closely, he recognized it. 

It was the blazon of the Lettenhove. It was a letter. 

Geralt backed off and decided not to pry more. It was Jaskier's. And whether or not he wanted to tell him, it was none of his business.

He rubbed his right forearm unconsciously. That thought made him feel… more tired.

Gerald needed two rounds of hot water to get rid of all the shit he was covered with. With the third bath, he let himself get enough relaxed to lingering in the water doing nothing more than leaning against the edge and wall tub with his eyes closed. It was already night, so Jaskier had lit a few candles around the room. The bard hadn't talked much in that time except for two or three nervous jokes about the dirt water Geralt had been spraying everywhere when he was leaving his two previous baths.

Geralt knew Jaskier was ruminating something.

He didn't want to push him. 

But he also wanted… 

He opened his eyes, slowly, and saw that Jaskier was with his back turned to him. He counted five seconds, determined to talk about the discussion they had had four days ago, determined to be the one making the effort to fix things this time. He parted his lips, just about to say his name, to call him.

Then Jaskier turned around and faced Geralt, serious, but at the same time nervous. Geralt smelled something uncomfortable, something anxious and painful.

Something sad.

He shut his mouth.

Jaskier took a deep breath. He hadn't changed his clothing yet or cleaned his face. 

"Geralt, I…," he said, hesitating, licking his lips, avoiding his gaze. He exhaled, long, as if he didn't know how to say what he wanted to say. Then he bit his lower lip. Geralt stared at him, feeling on edge, vulnerable for the first time in a long time. "I want to ask you for something," Jaskier looked at Geralt, and Geralt nodded. 

Then Jaskier sighed one more long breath, biting his lips again, looking away, again, and crossed his arms, almost hugging himself as if he needed someone holding him, as If he needed a shield. 

"I…"

The bard frowned a little more, and Geralt saw that frown trembling. Jaskier clicked his tongue and, this time, locked eyes with the witcher. Geralt felt the intensity, determination, and… grief.

Grief.

He knew what Jaskier wanted to ask. He should have known in the first moment he had seen the letter with the Lettenhove emblem. He had no doubt.

"You want to hire me," Geralt said, low, soft, calm. "You want to make a contract,"

Jaskier parted his lips.

"Yes," he said.

And Geralt saw, saw, how just then Jaskier looked and walked away, out of the room, squeezing, clasping, his left forearm with tight and shaky fingers. 

[vicecityhq]

██████████████]99% LOADING...SUSPECT INTO THE APD DATABASE...

WITNESS(ES) SAY HE REMINDS THEM OF: the Italian Mafia, the sound of Lo-Fi beats, a coffee house . With a slight resemblance to NAKAMOTO YUTA of/the NCT 127.

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FULL FILE:

Last Name, First Name: Maiko, Akuyoshi ALIAS: The Crow Realm of birth(if earth, nationality): Japanese Age: 73 Date of Birth: October 31st, 1948 Gender: Cismale Preferred Pronouns:  He/Him Species: Demon Occupation: N/A Sexual Orientation: Bisexual

VISUAL FILE:

Skin Color: Pale Eye color:  One dark grey almost black the other black with red, white and gold flecks in the iris Scars:  two burn scars on either temple, faint scars on his wrists and ankles from long term restraints Piercings:  10 up his right ear from lobe to the top, 5 on his left ear (double lobe, cartilage, helix and daith) Tattoos:  Many sporadic tattoos up his arms, and a few on his chest, hip and back. Hair color:  jet black with a white/greyish streak in the front Abnormalities:  his eyes, and his hair color is natural Horns/ wings/ etc: Transformed form: Akuyoshi’s transformed (demon) form is a four eyed creature with two long black horns coming from his head, dark shadow like wings sprout from his back. The corner of his mouth extend into a sharped tooth grin and his nails grow to abnormal lengths.

PERSONAL FILE:

RELIGIOUS BELIEF:  N/A SINS:  greed  /  gluttony  /  sloth  / lust  /  pride  /  envy  /  wrath VIRTUES: chastity  /  charity  /  diligence  /  humility /  kindness /  patience /  justice KNOWN LANGUAGES: Russian, Japanese, English and Below Average Korean SECRETS: The reported terroistic attack on the KGB agency was carried out solely by him, he was in the wind before they could find him. SAVVIES:  Guitar, Tinkering/fixing things, Cooking, Assassin work Powers & Abilities: Darkness manipulation, minor pyrokenisis, the ability to possess the living(any 'undead' creatures are immuned), life draining, Infrakenisis (with limitations due to being on earth), Demonic Psionics (with limitations due to being on earth), and able to summon creatures from hell.  Expert Stealth, Assassination Tactics, Knowledge in various tranquilizers and poisons, Knowledge in various ways of body disposal, Advance knifing abilities (this includes throwing knives, regular knives, swords and katanas). Traits: patriarchal & mysterious

BACKGROUND CHECK:

Date of Birth: October 31st, 1948 Date of Death: [ if applying for an undead character ] Crime Record: He hates most authority figures, the ones that use their power over others to control them. He’s on many watch lists for assassination of political leaders (rumored), various counts of murder (alleged), various counts of torture (alleged) and a connection to a wealthy and quite suspicious operation worked out of the human city (also alleged), he has never been convicted. He is also technically the sole suspect of the slaughter of 25 KGB agents, 3 high ranked scientists and 2 high ranked psychologist back in 1964.

Background/Biography:

tw: this passage includes vague descriptions of murder, mind control, non-l conscentual impregnation, drug use, sexual abuse, rape, abuse of a minor, blood , parental death, death during childbirth and torture.

Once you are locked away by fiery bars, too powerful to be allowed loose in the human realm or any other, when some from even the darkest depths and realms fear your name on their lips you find yourself, aching to create the chaos you so desperately seek. Cursed to spend the rest of your days roaming the underworld in a special sanctuary for the protection of other hellspawns...and the world,  with no way of getting to those realms, in fear of their ultimate destruction what could you possibly do to sate your disgusting lust for those around you to suffer. Easily, he would say, a powerful demon whose name they refused to utter, you create someone else to do the job for you. Sure possession is an option, but all it takes is some divine force to remedy that, especially when it comes to humans, so you….steal a vessel, create living breathing flesh to carry out your sadistic tendencies while you watch from the depths of Hell. All you need is someone to hold it, just for nine months.

Akame Miako’s obsession with the occult lead to her being that vessel. An only child to a hardworking and quite wealthy family in her village she seemed to counter the intense loneliness with spell books and rituals, stories of demonic possession and seances peaked her interest and she went as far to invite one into her home...kind of.  Akame didn’t think the stories were true, easy access to summon something that even some other demons feared was far fetched for a mere mortal like her, besides even if she did , she was sure it’d be harmless, as harmless as demon could get. The translation from Latin to Japanese was a bit murky, she did all the things she was supposed to do, shut the door, lit the onyx colored candles and chanted his name. It tasted foul on her lips, metallic and sour as if blood had suddenly come up her throat like bile. The room grew in heat and sweat matted her jet black hair to her forehead, with all this build up the young teen would think that something was bound to happen right? But simply only the candle blew out, casting her room into darkness only set alite by the moon, of course she was right, it was all hullabaloo probably something conjured up by her great great gran something to spook their little village.

But what Akame hadn’t known, was that she’d open the door for exactly what He want ed, she would become his vessel, allowing him to breathe life into flesh another piece of him roaming the planet. It only took a few weeks for her to notice the signs, a usually healthy 18-year-old spent her mornings vomiting crimson, and her nights in searing abdominal pain, maybe a plague was sweeping through their village once more, it wouldn’t be the first time and sure wouldn’t be the last, but it had only been Akame who was harboring this, torturous disease. She hid it for as long as she could, not wanting her parents to worry, time off work meant a dwindle in their status and that was something they couldn’t afford, it wasn’t ‘til her mother founder her, writhing in pain on the floor that the village doctor was called, with a diagnosis no one was expecting, Akame was pregnant. There was no way of convincing her parents that she hadn’t gone against her pledge to wait ‘til marriage. They hadn’t believed that she was some Virgin Mary and she couldn’t even explain it herself. But, an unwed mother and her father’s place in the countries politics was something that they couldn’t afford, they’d locked her away until the babies birth, and it wasn’t until then when they found something was horribly, horribly wrong. It was a taxing birth, the room creaked and groaned, disembodied voices filled the empty space, her stomach twisting and contorting as the creature fought its way out of her. It tore her apart, as it crowned, and Akame was not equipped to handle it. Her feeble and young, she perished as the baby was born leaving her parents in mourning, and the doctor in fear. What was it? Why had it come with jet black hair and dark eyes? Why had it rejected the doctors blessing, crying and wailing as if the prayer was causing it great pain? He could only advise its remaining living relatives one thing, get rid of it.

The Miakofamily wasn’t to keen on killing an  infant, in fact they flat out refused, telling the doctor there must be some way to get it far away from them without causing it any harm. They traveled for years, keeping the demonic entity at arms length before an unsuspected visitor received a tantalizing letter. The man was stone cold, with a charming smile, he had a weird accent and shining blue eyes, he’d pay them good money to take the now toddling child into what he called, a ‘school of reform for lost boys’. They took the bate, and the money, almost sad to see it go but happy to be rid of something that they were sure harbored some evil, the thing that killed their daughter, their only child. He said he’d rid it of whatever evil’s that may have come with it, that where it was going it would emerge a new man, and maybe one they would want to communicate with again. Masked by pearly gates and brass door knockers, they weren’t told about the extensive training, and weren't told about the weapon he’d become. How they would abuse him, strip him of his identity and show him how to use his striking looks for his own gain. They didn’t tell him about the monster he’d become, the new man that they’d create on their own accord. And he excelled, climbing in their ranking and leaving bodies and broken bones behind him. His body filled, cut clean, and he followed orders to ever ‘t’. He was reformed sure, a weapon now, molded to their perfect standard, used and abused, raped and pillaged for their own use somewhere in the world, they wanted a monster, masked by something so beautiful and enticing, and so he became one, using his powers at their will. It was a team full of creatures just like him, western Asia’s super weapon.

They assumed that he would continue to stay obedient, assumed he’d bend to their every will, for the rest of his life, but they were not careful, and let him in too close. He became conniving, manipulative, a teacher’s pet with a vendetta against the system and so he took the teacher’s job. Worked his way up until he was eye to eye to those that made him. And then, he destroyed them, and oh, how Olympus has fallen. He left with his life, though he cannot say much for the others. They had taken it all from him, he had no memories of what was before them, no images of family, of what an actual life was. Just a name. His grandfather was long gone, not that he knew, not that he cared, but he took what was given to him, a bank account, frozen until he was eighteen, when he was supposed to return, about 110 million yen,  what was left of what they had, a supposed consolidation for abandoning the child,  his grandmother fine  and comfortable and she came looking, more than once she came looking and each time he left, ran far away from her, he didn’t know her never knew her, not like she wanted. He had become something absent of emotions, absent of memories, he was just a surname, but a name he could not live up to. Thus, he became someone else, just as they wanted.

He wandered on his own a bit, finding solace in the underground, and a band of misfits just like him. But touring, guitar shredding and becoming a confidant didn’t scratch that itch they had created for him. The itch to draw blood, hear torturous screams and extract the information that he wanted. The woman he had met had humanized him, made him feel less of a robot, less of a monster, showed him that he could make genuine connections even if they felt idle or like autopilot. Though, those thoughts still persisted, so he sought out ways to cure his hunger, more like the chef that could cook up such a feast had found him, a tragic case, sucked into another tragedy.

INTERVIEW QUESTION (para sample): “Just run us through what happened that night”. - Officer

Akuyoshi spit on the ground and slumped back in his chair. The officers furrowed their brows, though fear was apparent of their faces. “We know who you are.” One of them spoke in English, the demon only erupted into a dark laugh, one that drained the color from the younger officers face. “Good.” His Russian accent was sharp, cutting through them like sharpened blades.

“If you want information, you wont get it from me.” He said tilting his head back, wet, sweat covered strands falling from his face. The ex agent had already began picking the lock on the cuffs behind him, brow ticking as they came unlocked. It was in a blink of an eye, blood splattered his face and the ceiling, the elder officer going to the ground with his hand grasping at his throat in panic, the one that was left only looked at him in horror, frozen in place and unable to run to safety, and Aku took the opportunity, taking both of his cheeks in his palms before twisting his wrist, the sound of the snap satisfying.

He disappeared in a cloud of dark smoke, before appearing before the camera that filmed the interview room, “Bozhe pomiluy svoyu dushu,” he said darkly, the word echoing off the walls like the demon’s father had began to ascend before he snatched it from the wall the last thing the overseers seeing was his large smile spreading towards his ears.

[legolaslovely]

Mine

A/N: HAPPY FILI FRIDAY! I’m so excited I could get this out in time to celebrate this week. And I’m really happy with how this turned out. Hope you guys enjoy!

Pairing: Fili x Reader

Word Count: 3,727

Warnings: flufffffff with some angst for plot

Summary: Kili and (Y/N) pretend to court for Kili’s sake and Fili doesn’t know how to feel about it.

Fili and Kili, once brothers in arms, now brothers in their best robes, strode through the corridors side by side, their individual colors hanging from their shoulders and their coronets placed over their neatly braided hair. One wore a smirk while the other frowned deeply, dreading the night to come.

“You seem thrilled,” Fili said, looking sideways at his brother.

“The only part of this night I am looking forward to is the end of it.”

Fili chuckled. “You should be grateful Thorin went to all this trouble-”

“To throw a ball with the specific goal of finding me a dam to court? Oh, yeah, Fi. I’m so grateful.”

Fili nudged him, making Kili sidestep a bit and glare. “Don’t be such a brat.”

They came to the end of the corridor. To the left was the way to the Grand Hall, but Kili took a sharp right without missing a beat. He didn’t acknowledge Fili’s grunts of protest until he stood in front of a familiar door. “We have to pick up (Y/N) first,” he said before knocking.

Fili’s face crinkled in confusion. Sure, (Y/N) was their closest friend, but he didn’t think she’d be invited to the ball. Nor did he think she would have wanted to attend. But out came her voice from the cracks in the door to her chambers, inviting them inside.

Kili walked straight through, sitting on (Y/N)’s bed with a plop that sent the woodwork creaking. Fili, however, was stopped in the doorway, the use of his legs momentarily stolen by the sight of (Y/N) in a dark blue gown. The silken fabric fell from her shoulders, billowing around her arms and cinching at the waist. It flowed behind her in a curtain as she floated about the room looking for the hair clip she was always misplacing.

“(Y/N), you look beautiful,” Kili said. His head was currently laying off the edge of the bed and he was seeing her upside down. (Y/N) shot him a quiet thank you and laughed at his hanging tresses as they just touched the floor.

“Yes, you-you look… I didn’t know you were attending tonight,” Fili managed.

She spun, making her dress fly about her legs and then swarm inwards again like a hive of bees. “I was planning to. That is, if I can find anything to set my hair with. Do you see my clip anywhere? I just… I just had it over there…” She continued pulling out drawers and pushing them back in, lifting blankets from the bed and setting them back down, checking every flat surface she could see. She even rolled Kili over on the bed to make sure he hadn’t sat on it.

As (Y/N) paced, Fili heard something skid across the floor. She passed the bed and he saw the silver clip glinting in the light of the window. He bent to pick it up, but as he did so, (Y/N) turned quickly and fell over him. He snatched the clip and caught her with his other arm, placing her back on her feet and steadying her. “Found it,” he said.

“Mahal, thanks,” she sighed. She straightened a part of his robe she’d ruffled and turned to her mirror, whipping her deft fingers through her hair to twist the sides back and braid them together down her spine.

Fili sat next to Kili’s head and watched her. “I’m glad you’re coming with us tonight. You can keep me company while Kili goes off dancing with every dam in Erebor.”

“Actually, (Y/N) is coming to keep me from doing just that.” Only when his brother dragged his gaze from (Y/N) at the glass did Kili continue. “I’m escorting her. We’re courting,” he said with a proud smile on his face. Even upside down, Fili could see every tooth in his mouth.

“We’re fake courting,” (Y/N) said, eyeing Kili through the mirror.

That was the moment Fili realized she was wearing Kili’s colors. His chest tightened. “Why?”

“Because I love Tauriel. We’ve been courting for months and until Uncle accepts that and stops holding these balls to find me a dam, I will keep finding a way to get out of them.”

Fili knew this. It was a topic that often came up in their conversations. But (Y/N) was never involved. He looked to her through the mirror. “And how did you get roped into this lie?”

She shrugged, fastening the clip and whirling to him, sending a look over her shoulder to study the back of her gown. “I wanted to go to the ball.”

He stood and met her, anticipating her question, and tucked in the laces of her gown for her. “I didn’t know you had an interest in them. You should have told us. I would have brought you.”

“And stop every dam in Erebor from falling at your feet?” she asked, taking Kili’s outstretched arm.

“Yeah, Fi. Maybe you’ll find a lover this evening,” Kili said, leading (Y/N) into the corridors. Before the door to her chambers was closed, (Y/N) turned back and reached for Fili’s hand, dragging him next to her so the three of them walked to the Grand Hall in a row.

“Are you sure you want to risk Thorin’s wrath?” Fili asked in her ear. “If he finds out-”

“He won’t,” (Y/N) said. “I love your uncle, but he’s clueless about this stuff.” Fili watched her thumb fiddle with the embroidered pattern on his sleeve as she spoke. “As far as he knows, Kili and I have been courting for a fortnight and in a couple days we’ll tell him it didn’t work out. No harm done, really.”

Fili hummed as the three of them approached the tall doors to the hall. “I hope for your sake things go according to plan.” He dropped his arm and stepped back as Kili announced them, but (Y/N) waved Fili closer.

“Stay with us.”

He couldn’t help but obey. Her hand brushed his side as she again looped her arm through his. It almost made him shiver, but he ignored the sensation and pushed his shoulders back as the doors of the hall opened and he and his brother led her through.

Fili watched (Y/N)’s eyes blow wide as she took in the Grand Hall in all its glory. Her excitement made him see it all afresh- the chandeliers holding hundreds of candles, the tile floors that shone with their reflections, the tables full of glorious food and drink. Her fingers flexed around his arm, squeezing it tightly and pulling him closer. For a moment, he selfishly wished he didn’t have to share this moment with anyone but her. But he shook the thought away.

“And to think you both complain of these balls,” (Y/N) said.

Kili scoffed, but Fili said, “They’re usually not as striking as this. Sometimes they can grow boring quickly.”

As they walked through the floor to the high table, the row of three had to break. (Y/N)’s arm stayed wrapped in Kili’s but she kept Fili close behind with a tight grip on his hand. He knew she was probably nervous and wanted both her experienced friends near. That was all, he convinced himself.

When there were less dwarfs to wriggle through, she turned to Fili. “They wouldn’t be so boring if you danced once in a while.”

“Fili is the last dwarf you’ll see on the dance floor,” Kili said, making (Y/N) laugh.

Fili rolled his eyes. “You will see me on the floor when I’ve found the right partner.” He heard Kili hum and met (Y/N)’s smile as she flicked it over her shoulder.

He watched Kili and (Y/N) greet Thorin before moving to their places at the other end of the high table. (Y/N) bobbed a graceful curtsy and Thorin took her hand, saying something to make her laugh. Pride fluttered in his chest as he watched those around him gaze at her in wonder. Was that the dam who helped reclaim Erebor? And now she’s at the high table? She must be marvelous company. She must be of the upmost importance to the royal family.

She was.

Fili followed, bowing to his uncle and shaking his hand. He barely listened to Thorin speak of his hopes of Kili finding a dam to wed on this night. He was busy watching (Y/N) thank the servant who adjusted her chair for her and placed a silk napkin on her lap. Her hand rose to squeeze Kili’s arm as her lips moved a mile a minute in her excitement. When she leaned her head back to laugh at his brother, Fili interrupted his uncle’s musings and excused himself, moving to join them.

He sat at the end of the table, on the other side of (Y/N). Her cheeks were already rosy from the few sips of port she’d had and her nervous hands kept smoothing her skirts under the table. He grabbed her fingers before they could slide away again and she spun to look at him. He leaned to her ear.

“There’s no reason for you to fret tonight. You are radiant and adored by everyone in this room. You can do no wrong,” he said.

“I feel like everyone is staring at me,” she whispered as if anyone would be able to hear her except Fili. “But I know at least one who is not. One who has been staring at you since we arrived.”

He was lost in the scent of her hair, unable to detect the meaning of her words. “Hm?”

She nodded her head and Fili followed her gaze to a dam on the edge of the floor who was indeed watching him. “Do you know who that is?” (Y/N) asked.

“I don’t believe I’ve seen her before,” he said, conscious of (Y/N)’s hand still in his.

“That is Princess Mevine. She and her family were driven out of her lands and into the Iron Hills after the orc attacks many years ago. They’ve yet to rebuild, so they live with Dain. Word has it that she’s very smart and kind and it’s plain to see she’s very beautiful…”

Fili hummed. “Why are you telling me this?”

She leaned back in her seat, huffing. “Are you daft? She’s been watching you all night! She’s obviously extremely interested in you, as you should be in her. You should dance with her, she’s practically begging you to ask her.” Her hand slipped from his grasp.

“Oh, n-no. I’m not- I don’t dance at these things-”

“Well, you should. With her. Kili and I are going,” she said, rising from her seat and taking Kili’s hand, ignoring his protests. “Join us and ask her!” she whispered in Fili’s ear as she passed behind him.

Fili let his shoulders hit the back of his chair and the remaining port in his goblet past his lips. He would not be dancing with anyone tonight, he decided. Instead, he would sit and sulk and watch (Y/N) have a wonderful time with Kili. But as the music began, even though she was with a dwarf other than himself, (Y/N)’s giddiness brought a smile to his face.

Kili bowed, losing his balance as he straightened, making him side step and making (Y/N) giggle behind her hand. She have him a low curtsey and Fili could see in her face that she was mocking the custom. Then the music swelled and the groups of dancers weaved in and out of each other, keeping their eyes glued to their partner’s. Well, that was the goal, anyway. Kili’s eyes were glued to his feet and he bumped into the dwarf next to him twice before the dance was over.

(Y/N), however, was the epitome of grace. Fili was amazed at her skill, but knew her too well not to notice her fingers twitching anxiously at her side. She stepped in to circle Kili, shoulder to shoulder, and she sneakily elbowed his side and bit her lip to cover her smile. In return, he grabbed her hand and pulled her to him with more bluster than necessary, sending her crashing to his chest. She swatted his shoulder but her laughter floated to Fili’s ears as the dance ended.

As the couples on the floor applauded the musicians, Fili watched a server enter the Grand Hall from the kitchen door. He carried a tray of the cream covered melon rounds Fili knew (Y/N) went berserk for. He slid out of his seat and into the kitchens, stealing an entire plate of them for himself and winking at the cook. He popped one in his mouth before sneaking back into the hall and setting the dish down in (Y/N)’s empty place.

He expected her back by now, there was no way Kili would stick around on the floor for another dance. He looked through the room, barely seeing Princess Mevine grinning hopefully at him. (Y/N) wasn’t on the floor, she wasn’t at the table, he didn’t see her in the corridors… oh no.

“Ooh! Are these those cream balls Rava makes?” Kili asked.

Fili swatted his hand. “They’re not for you. How could you leave her alone with Uncle? Do you know what he’d do to her if he found out she’s been helping you deceive him?”

“Who are they for?” Kili asked, gesturing hopelessly toward the treats on (Y/N)’s place. Fili’s glare kept him talking. “Uncle loves (Y/N). Even if he did find out about our trick, all the blame would be mine. He’d never hold anything against her. Now, why does she get all the cream balls?”

Fili took his brother by the arm, pulling him toward the other end of the table where no guest or servant would hear their conversation. “What? Fi!” Kili whined. “What do you have to say that’s so secret even the desserts can’t overhear?”

Fili sucked in a breath. “I… I love her. I love (Y/N).”

Kili’s eyes blew wide. “What? You do? That’s great! I…” his entire face fell. “I didn’t know. Fi, I didn’t know or I would never have pulled her into this fake courting thing. I’m so sorry, brother. I didn’t mean to-”

Fili shook his head and set a hand on Kili’s shoulder. “It’s all right, Ki. I’m not angry with you. If anything, I’m angry at myself for taking this long to say it out loud.”

“Now that you have, you have to tell her,” Kili said. Fili’s face scrunched and he shook his head, but Kili wouldn’t let him speak. “Ask her to dance. Fi, you’re the best dancer I know! Go sweep her off her feet.”

Fili looked over his brother’s shoulder. Thorin had kissed (Y/N)’s hand and she was making her way back to them. “(Y/N) is not that simple. It would take much more than dancing to make her fall in love with me.”

“But it’s a start,” Kili said.

Fili nodded. “I’ll return shortly. Don’t let her leave.”

He spun and ran down the stairs to the floor where the musicians were huddled, deciding what to play next. Fili nodded his head to the smiling dwarfs he passed, pushing his robes down as they fanned out with his speed. He whispered in the lead musician’s ear and shook his hand before climbing back to the high table.

“I love these things!” he heard (Y/N) sing as he neared her. “They’re delicious! Who brought a whole tray? Fi, did you do this?”

He smirked and reached out his hand. “Come with me.”

“But-but the cream balls-”

“Will still be here when you return,” he said as she reluctantly took his hand.

As he pulled her away, she wagged a finger at Kili. “Those are mine. Every single one of them. I know how many are there! I will know if you take one!”

Fili couldn’t help but roll his eyes. On the bright side, he thought, if things didn’t go well between them, he’d know how to win her forgiveness.

He led her to the center of the floor and nodded to the musician he’d spoken to. Loud, soaring music boomed around him, but it didn’t drown out the raucous beating of his own heart. He pulled at his robes, pulling the fabric taught and defining his strong, sharp shoulders. After a deep breath, he asked (Y/N) if he could have this dance.

She squinted at him above a growing smile. “I thought you didn’t dance at these things.” But she laid a hand on his shoulder.

“I do when I have the right partner.” He took a firm hold of her, wrapping his arm around her waist until his hand could spread against the center of her back. His other hand was tucked behind himself.

She lifted her skirts. “In that case, I’m honored.”

After she spoke, the music settled into the number Fili had asked specifically for. The strings seemed to bounce as the couples around them prepared.

“The Waltz!” (Y/N) said. “This is my favorite.”

“You don’t say?” He began rocking her side to side on the beat, also deciding this dance was his favorite. He’d have her all to himself.

The beginning of the dance didn’t call for much movement on his part, but he was fully aware he’d get his chance later. Now, he simply watched (Y/N), leading her and assisting her as she circled around him, never letting go of his hand. She spun about, to his left then his right. Each time, her skirts spread out flat and caressed his legs until she returned to him.

After her last turn, he took her hand and pulled her into his embrace, his arm again wrapping around her back and his other fingers tangling in hers as she let her skirts drop. His motion was so smooth, so technically correct, it made (Y/N) float into his arms. He smiled, feeling her breath catch and then release with a shaky exhale.

Now it was his turn.

He led her across the floor effortlessly. He weaved in and out of other couples, constantly turning, but the only dizzying effect was (Y/N) herself. The warm light of the chandeliers above danced in her bright eyes and sent colors to her hair even the sunlight didn’t bring out. His feet swept the tiles as hers drifted over them, barely making contact with the speed Fili was carrying her. She trusted him completely. He was the rock in the middle of her wild ocean of skirts and shy smiles.

His chest felt tighter than ever, but instead of being filled with fear or envy, he was now filled with joy and pride. If every candle was blown out at this moment, his beaming grin would release enough light to continue the Waltz. As long as she was in his arms, he could do anything.

But of course, it all ended too soon. The music died and all came still. Those around them were applauding loudly, not for the musicians, but for the dancing prince. (Y/N) let out a breathless laugh. “You’re a marvelous dancer, Fi,” she said. For the first time since Fili had met her, she couldn’t meet his eyes.

“Are you all right? Did- did I go too fast?”

“Oh, no! You were… it was perfect.”

“You’re the one who was-”

“But I must return to Kili. And you, I see, have another dance partner waiting,” she said, referring to Princess Mevine who was never too far from Fili. “You could steal her heart with just one dance.”

“My heart is already taken,” Fili said.

“It is?”

He smiled at her, running his thumb over her knuckles. “Come with me?” he asked. When she nodded, he led her out into the corridors, which were drafty compared to the stifled Grand Hall. He untied his robe and set it on her shoulders, waving away her chorus of protests. They were completely alone. The entire kingdom was inside while they’d stolen away. The music echoing from the doors made his courage swell. He lifted her chin. “My heart is already taken.”

“That’s wonderful, Fili. By who?”

He breathed out a laugh. He felt her fingers trembling in his and wondered if it was from the sudden cold or from nerves. “Since we’ve known each other, you’ve been able to read my mind. Can’t you do so now?”

“I-I didn’t want to assume.” His warm stare urged her to say more. “I didn’t want to assume that just because I loved you that-that you felt the same.”

His stomach shot into his throat and for the second time that night, he couldn’t perceive what she’d said. So, he whispered, “I do love you.”

The force of her embrace knocked him back a few steps. She hugged him fiercely, wrapping her arms around his neck and gluing her cheek to his hair. “I love you too, Fi,” she said. He felt her breath hitch in her chest as he returned her affection. Then he set her down and kissed her as he’d been dreaming of doing all night and for many nights previous.

When he pulled away, he didn’t expect to see the quizzical look she was giving him. “What is it?”

Her hands slid down his chest. “Have you been eating my cream balls?” She pushed him softly and laughed as he rolled his eyes.

“Maybe. Should you steal another taste just to be sure?”

“Maybe,” she muttered before kissing him again. She hummed happily and kissed his cheek as well before she pulled away completely.

“We should return before Kili eats all of your treats,” Fili said.

“And before Thorin notices I’ve run off with the wrong nephew.”

He wrapped an arm around her waist and led her back to the doors of the Grand Hall, shaking his head. “This is the last night Uncle will stand in the way of love. His way of thinking will soon push Kili away.”

As the doors opened, Fili’s gaze went straight to the high table. Thorin had his nephew in a tight hug, slapping his shoulder with affectionate, but loud whacks. Their foreheads met and they shook hands.

“It may not be a problem after all,” (Y/N) said, curling into Fili’s side as he led to the high table and fed her a cream ball.

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