#she was always meant to be the raven queen the way she killed me dead

[yashley]

So sad. Do you think I do not understand the sorrow of responsibility?

[rphelperblog]

An Enchantment of Ravens Book Quote Rp Meme

by Margaret Rogerson- feel free to edot or change pronouns for rp service

“Why do we desire, above all other things, that which has the greatest power to destroy us?”

“Ah, but you were not a pawn. All along, you have been the queen.” 

“The ability to feel is a strength, not a weakness.” 

“Walking along a blade’s edge was only fun until the blade stopped being a metaphor.”

“If you must stare at something for hours on end, I’d prefer it to be me alone.” 

listen. The teapot is of no consequence. I can defeat anyone, at any time.”

“An extra twenty-four hours was nothing. Yet, it was everything. I might live more tomorrow then I did all the years of the rest of my life combined.” 

“When the world failed me, I could always lose myself in my work.” 

“Yes—I am in love—here’s the proof!” or was it always caught up in a wretched tangle of ifs and buts and maybes?” 

“I was alive in a way I never had been before, in a world that no longer felt stale but instead crackled with breathless promise.” 

"That's the worst declaration of love I've ever heard!” 

“One raven for uncertain peril. Six for danger sure to arrive. A dozen for death, if not avoided. The enchantment is sealed.” 

"Yes, you're the loveliest bird."

“Soft and sharp at once, an aching tenderness edged with sorrow, naked proof of a heart already broken.” 

“They looked like a pair of cupids who had decided they liked shooting people with real arrows better. They were horrible. I loved them so much.” 

“You are empty,and cruel.”

“Didn't they realize their lives were worth more than the dubious affection of one silly man?” 

“I couldn’t decide whether the idea owed itself to vanity, a depressing lack of creativity, or both.” 

“But isn’t absurdity part of being human? We aren’t ageless creatures who watch centuries pass from afar. Our worlds are small, our lives are short, and we can only bleed a little before we fall.” 

"Is that so terrible? You say it as though it's the most awful thing you can imagine. It isn't as though I've done it on purpose. Somehow I've even grown fond of your - your irritating questions, and your short legs, and your accidental attempts to kill me." 

“And we wouldn't live happily ever after, because I don't believe in such nonsense, but we both had a long, bold adventure ahead of us, and a great deal to look forward to at last.”

“Ah, I see. In that case, well-behaved ravens. They will mind their manners.” 

“What must it be like? To meet someone, to forge a connection, all in the span of one golden afternoon—only to find out that for her, each passing minute was a year. Each second, an hour. She would be dead before the sun rose the next day. A keen, quiet pain twisted my heart.” 

“This wasn't like me. So many years of being cautious, and in a matter of minutes I'd started slipping up.”

“Yet no matter what they were doing, everyone in the forest waited with an indrawn breath, waiting for the taste of autumn, the smell of change, the first news of a king and queen unlike any the world had known before.” 

“But that was the problem with the old me, I was coming to realize. She'd accepted that behaving correctly meant not being happy, because that was the way the world worked. She hadn't asked enough - of life, or of herself.” 

“Perfect subjects make for less interesting work.” 

“Fair folk are impossible.” 

“That’s irregular, coming from a human who can’t even eat a raw hare.” 

“Oh, you cannot imagine the power your kind holds over us. How very much we envy you. There is more life in your littlest fingernail than in everyone in my court combined.” 

"do you ever wonder what it would be like to be something other than what we are?” 

“We need to talk about what you said last night.” 

“I hate it when people tell me that.It’s never good.” 

“I wondered if my head and heart would ever reconcile, or whether I'd just cursed myself to relive this moment for the rest of my years, half assured I'd made the only choice available to me, half always whispering if only, the whole of me filled with bitter regret.” 

“Once, a Whimsical poet died of despair after finding himself unequal to the task of capturing a fair one's beauty in simile. I think it more likely he died of arsenic poisoning, but so the story goes.” 

“The thought of seeing judgment - or worse, disappointment - on her face when she looked at me next made me want to curl in on myself and never face the world again. I had no way to prove that the love him and I felt for each other was real and that we deserved every desperate, foolhardy inch of it, and I was already tired, so tired, of bearing its weight as a failure. A crime.” 

“This was a look that would make time stop, if it could. Soft and sharp at once, an aching tenderness edged with sorrow, naked proof of a heart already broken. Here I stood in a dragonfly dress, holding his arm, and he knew our time was almost over.” 

"You are like a living rose among wax flowers. We may last forever, but you bloom brighter and smell sweeter, and draw blood with your thorns.”

I love you wholly. I love you eternally. I love you so dearly it frightens me. I fear I could not live without you. I could see your face every morning upon waking for a thousand years and still look forward to the next as though it were the first.”  

“You mean the connection’s never occurred to you before? Do you have any critical thinking skills at all?”

“I’d always scoffed at stories in which maidens pine for their absent suitors, boys they’ve hardly known a week and have no business falling for. Didn’t they realize their lives were worth more than the dubious affection of one silly young man? That there were things to do in a world that didn’t revolve solely around their heartbreak? Then it happens to you, and you understand you aren’t any different from those girls after all. Oh, they still seem just as absurd—you’ve simply joined them, in quite a humbling way. But isn’t absurdity part of being human?” 

“He was astonishingly vain even by fair folk standards, which was like saying a pond is unusually wet, or a bear surprisingly hairy.” 

“If an unfamiliar dog follows you at night, don't stop to look at it. If you wake up to find a cat you don't recognize sitting in your yard, watching your house, don't open the door. And most of all, if you see a beautiful horse near a lake or the edge of the forest, never, ever try to ride it.”

[esther-dot]

my dark Sansa fic (because antis always made that sound like so much fun!) or a rewrite of the Dany and Sansa convo in 8x02 if Sansa were manipulative 

The Dragon Queen was small, tiny really, even in her furs, that she seemed but a child. The woman smiled, hopefully, that too struck Sansa of childishness. Hope was a risk few survived. Even so, Sansa felt a small pull towards the woman, as if her dainty hands had reached into a part of her she’d neglected to sheath in ice.

“I fear that our introduction left much to be desired.” The Targaryen smiled; the Stark mimicked it, poorly. “The North, you, need not fear me. I love your brother. I would learn to know and love all his family and his people. I would learn of your ways, I understand your struggle, and I will fight for you all.”

Sansa could only arch an eyebrow at the outpouring of the girl. It should be endearing, effusions of love and concern, loyalty. To be the most powerful woman in Westeros, the most powerful person in the world, and to understand so little. Foolish, foolish child.

The Queen moved closer to her, believing her silence meant she listened, “I would make your brother my consort and heed his advice in making decisions for the good of all my people. I count you, all the North, as mine. And I am loyal to my own.”

“Your Grace, these are words. Words have failed me my entire life. We understood each other perfectly in our first meeting. You have my brother's devotion; there is no need to seek mine."

The dragon recoiled. "The North holds you in a place of honor, that even their king did not ascend. If the Lords do not believe you accept me, they will not." "That is perceptive of you." The testament to her standing failed to move her. "What can I do to assuage your fears?"

Sansa smiled with real feeling this time, not even attempting to temper it. "I have no fears."

"I will defeat Cersei Lannister. I will send you her head if you wish it." "Her head? No, a second head is not necessary. My own is quite sufficient. Cersei Lannister is a vile, cruel woman; I am not Cersei. I want her dead, but a raven will suffice. I will not see the bodies of my enemies treated as they treated my family’s, no matter how many times over they have earned their fate.” Sansa leaned closer, her hand resting on Daenerys’s wrist. “Rumors are that she took to her twin's bed, that it was Jaime Lannister who fathered her children. That it was his sons, the blood of your father's murderer, who sat the throne. And now he's here, under my protection, under my brother's --your lover’s-- protection.”

The Queen flinched, her smile remained fixed, but something new flickered in her eyes, doubt, and Sansa, with a wolf’s instinct, saw the weakness, the faltering step of the injured, the small hand clenched in anger. “That is cruel, isn’t it? To finally have the man who took everything from you within your grasp and be denied justice? I lost my father too. I know your pain. To have it disregarded…” she took Daenerys’s hand, and stroked her fingers gently across the back of it, as if offering comfort in sincere understanding of her pain. “Crueler still that it is the man you love who stands between you and what you want. What you deserve.”

Daenerys’s chest rose and fell visibly, those innocent eyes darkening in pain.

Sansa leaned closer, “I may be a Lady rather than a Queen of legend, but you and I are more alike than you know. I was eleven the first time I decided to kill a man. He was my betrothed, and I meant to watch him fall to his death, even if I followed. I was stopped, but no one stopped me when it came to my second husband. I heard you killed your first. There’s nothing like taking a life from someone undeserving of it, is there? When I killed Ramsay, I could taste the blood on my tongue. I hope I always taste it: justice. Oh, but you loved your husband, didn’t you? He wasn’t cruel?” Sansa continued, not waiting for a response, “Maybe you can taste the kingslayer’s. Not now, but later, in the heat of battle, flame, a dragon’s claw, and blood. Does it horrify you that I should say such a thing?”

Daenerys was dazed, she did not know where Sansa would have learned of her husband. Had Jon told her? Had she even told Jon? Tyrion? Had she told Sansa? She could not remember their first conversation, if she had been foolish enough to give this—this creature—any part of herself. Why was Jon denying her what she deserved? A life for a life, she was owed it. Her head was throbbing, and she tasted the metallic tang, the flavor she loved—oh, how she loved it—and told herself she would have her fill soon, not vengeance: justice.

A soft thumb pressed her lip.

“You’ve bitten your lip, your grace. You’re bleeding” as Sansa swept aside a drop of blood, and then wiped it on a cloth, staining the snow-white material with a smear of red. Her fingers returned to Dany’s, the faintest of taps on the back of Dany’s hand. “I leave the pursuit of power, intrigues and maneuverings, to men like Tyrion. Your hand is all brilliance and machinations, while I am but a Lady, who worries about food and clothing. I am not Cersei. I am no queen to be conquered. Any power that I might have had is lost. I am only a façade of strength now that all my assertions on behalf of my dear brother prove me to be so extraordinarily naive. A lifetime of lessons cut into my body, and what good did it do me? I am just a little bird, who mustn't fly far beyond the nest for anything stronger than a breeze might carry me off. It took Arya slitting the throat of Lord Baelish to set us free. He came to our aide, but he threatened us, and so the dagger made him smile one last time. His blood I don't taste, but I hear it, running from his throat, as if it was as anxious for his death as I. It pooled on the floor, and when I sit at table, I conjure it, because it makes me smile. Watching the life leave the eyes of those who wronged you, who used you, there is nothing sweeter than that. But, I am no Cersei. There will be no treachery against allies, no secret plans.” Her fingers closed around Daenerys’s, “I would never allow a sibling of mine to stab a Targaryen in the back.”

Daenerys struggled to breath. Her skin was burning beneath Sansa’s cool hand, and for all the Lady of Winterfell’s soothing words of powerlessness, it was Sansa that the Lords turned to, it was Sansa that Jon turned to; Jon may have bent the knee, but the North was not his to give away.

Sansa declared herself a harmless girl, yet her grip was not that of a songbird, but a bird of prey.

“I heard my brother rode a dragon. How extraordinarily generous of you to give such a gift to another. I wonder that you would risk your beast growing attached to anyone but you. Love changes even the most hardened of us, does it not? We give and give, and what do we receive in return? Sometimes I think we bestow it on those wholly undeserving. We can never win the affection we crave, the more we seek it, the more they deny us. Almost as if the more we love, the less they love us in return. I was once told, ‘love no one but your children.’ If only our hearts listened.” Sansa stopped her tapping. “I’m surprised that the dragon permitted Jon to ride him. I always thought it was necessary to be a Targ—ah well, perhaps blood matters not.”

The slow throb of her heart stuttered, and then rushed ahead. It had been strange that Drogon allowed Jon to approach him, strange that Jon had managed to ride Rhaegal, but surely it was their love of her that allowed—Jon was not—

Sansa withdrew her hand, pushed herself to her feet, “You must retire to your chambers, Your Grace. You’re shaking from the chill in this drafty room.”

Daenerys found herself ushered to the door, seething, uncertain which words, which implication, which insidious idea to respond to—

Sansa opened the door, gently placed her hand on the queen’s elbow, “I know not why you think it would disturb me that my brother loves you. Why you assure me how you value him. We are not rivals for his affection.” The Northern girl leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the pale queen’s cheek, a whisper that held a trace of a laugh, “After all, I am not Cersei; he is no Targaryen."

[smallblip]

Gift for @free-pancakes both because she drew me the loveliest thing for this au and also because I love her. The bed’s cold without you😔 please come back home🥺💖

A thousand burning suns III

A thousand burning suns III

Her parents named her Mikasa after the strong resolve of the Ackermans. If anything, Mikasa lives up to her namesake. After all, she’s what remains of her family. She thinks about this as her fingers skim the scorched wall of her family hall- the spot where Levi’s portrait once resided.

Her fingertips come to rest on a spot where the paint is stubborn- in it, she sees the greys of his irises.

I found your daughter. She’s grown now. She says, the last grain of anger slipping through her hands like sand. He had left her alone. Alone to bear the responsibilities of being an Ackerman. And yet, Mikasa finds herself wondering if his daughter looks anything like him. I will fulfil my promise to both of you…

—

The girl is a strange mix of of her father and her mother. Behind her smile, a resolve that can only be an Ackerman’s, and behind her calamity, a storm that can only be conjured by a Zoë. And Mikasa’s breath is caught in her chest when she realises the girl has eyes are that are grey like Levi’s.

Mikasa draws her sword before her- the girl with the fire that can change the world. And her tribe kneels behind her- with her.

I am Mikasa Ackerman. Princess of the old tribe of Hizuru. Sister of Levi Ackerman.

And I pledge my allegiance to you.

—

“You don’t look like my father…” the girl says. She has the bluntness of both her parents combined and Mikasa rolls her eyes.

“My father had two wives...”

“Politics?”

“Foolishness.” Mikasa corrects. She doesn’t yet know what to think of the girl. All she knows is that her place is beside her. She doesn’t dare second guess her own decision. To do so meant the destruction of her people. “Just like your parents…” she adds.

And the girl laughs. She understands- there’s no denying that she’s the product of said foolishness. But a foolishness so beautiful she grows up with stories that furnish her parents’ absence. The girl grows up on love that transcends the melancholic ache of loss.

And Mikasa sees this. She sees this in the way the girl speaks to her following. Gentle like her mother, with a strength only Hanji wielded. And she feels the guilt clawing angrily at her guts. She had hated Hanji. Hated her brother because of Hanji. She never understood how a princess from across the sea with wild hair and the most boisterous laugh she’s ever heard had managed to bewitch her brother. The Ackermans have always been loyal. They’ve always been. Her father- to his dying breath- had been loyal, even her mother who had charged into battle with him. But everything changed when the Princess from the port kingdom set foot on their shores.

She remembers Hanji’s smile, which she regrets not reciprocating enough. But Hanji never minded. Even when Mikasa’s scowl intensified as Levi continued to get closer to Hanji.

This woman will be your downfall. The words never quite materialised, but Levi hears it nonetheless- he sees it in the disappointment on Mikasa’s face when she catches him slipping out of the queen’s quarters in the middle of the night.

But she holds her tongue only because she’s never seen her brother quite so-

Alive.

Her brother who has only moved at the whims of the crown. Her brother who had never been selfish. Her brother who had taken the blame for all her mischief, her misdeeds since they had been children.

Mikasa holds her tongue.

—

“You are a pain… Just like your mother…”

Mikasa says to the girl one day. And the girl laughs, the same rambunctious laughter, so much so that Mikasa aches. But Mikasa maintains her frown, chides the girl when she rides off in front of her. She’ll have to learn that a leader follows their own orders.

And Mikasa can’t help but think of Hanji. Of her carelessness, her inquisitiveness, her insatiable appetite for the world. Of the bouquet of gardenias and hyacinths that Hanji had given her when they rode out to the valleys.

Mikasa learns gardenias mean you are lovely, and hyacinths mean please forgive me.

The supply routes have been compromised. The guards have overrun the underground but the girl insists on dropping supplies. “They won’t last the week,” she says, resolute, “we are doing this.” It’s a close brush but the girl makes swift work of the guard before he can swing his sword.

“Focus Mikasa…” the girl teases and Mikasa, past her own shock, shakes her head in annoyance, “you’re a pain just like your father!”

But the supply routes have been recaptured. The guards will try again, but for now the vigilante network can hold them off. The girl- her resolution- the reason people have sworn their loyalties. She demonstrates the brilliance of a thousand burning suns.

You are just like your mother… Mikasa says again later when the girl leans her head on her shoulder. Thank you…

—

Levi grew up in the underground. His father sent someone to fetch him and his mother when he realised Kuchel had borne him a son. He meets his step-sister for the first time at his parents’ wedding. Little Mikasa Ackerman, hiding behind her mother’s dress.

And Mikasa remembers looking at him- the boy from the underground- raven hair like hers, but eyes that have seen much, much more. She remembers the thirteen years between them. She remembers her hand in his when they had announced her parents’ deaths, and later, Kuchel’s death to an unknown disease. She remembers the smug lift of his lips when he had owned up to breaking one of the vases in the palace when it had been her. He was beaten. She sees the extent of the wounds this kingdom can inflict. And she knew it’s her and Levi against the world.

But he falls in love with the Queen, their Queen, of the crown her family has sworn to protect.

Hanji is expecting…

Levi says to her one day. And Mikasa waits in anxious anticipation. She doesn’t want the words to come. Because everything will change.

The child is mine…

The world stops spinning. Mikasa wants to cry. She lets a tear slip when he tells her she has to run away. When the baby is born she has to run away to her mother’s tribe. To fight their wars and serve as their Princess. And they will protect her. They will keep her safe.

But all Mikasa has ever known is her and Levi against the world. Her heart sinks.

And it aches when she finds Hanji alone one day, looking at the stars, and Mikasa can think of nothing but her own anger and Hanji’s impending doom.

But Hanji calls out to her, with a smile that has never wavered in her presence. And Mikasa goes to her, sits with her, and listens as she talks about the stars. But her eyes stray to the slight curve of Hanji’s belly.

“You want to feel her moving?” Hanji asks when she catches her looking.

She nods, and Hanji takes her hand in the warmth of her palm, placing it on the swell. There’s a smile that breaks on Mikasa’s face when she feels the baby move. This child, made with so much love that death will trail in her wake. This child can only be brilliant.

Mikasa looks at Hanji, and she realises she has never admitted how beautiful her Queen is. She understands why Levi would fall for her. There’s a certainty in her steps, comfort in her mannerisms, and a charm that comes easily to her. There’s a slight curve of her lips- this smile- just for her brother’s lover.

Hanji cradles Mikasa’s cheek in her hand and the warmth spreads and Mikasa will regret not apologising to Hanji. Not telling her she’s sorry for being so cold. For acting out. But the moment has passed and there’s jauntiness in the way Hanji smiles back at her-

“I hope you get to meet her one day…”

—

After they take the castle, people are shouting through the streets- the king is dead, the king is dead, the king is dead! And the kingdom thaws from its endless winter. The night begins with music, with a steady flow of wine, with dancing.

The three flags raised above the walls bear witness to the festivities. They represent the alliance of three kingdoms-

The flag of the Zoës, her mother’s people, who have sailed across the sea to fight her war, to fight in memory of her mother,

The flag of the Hizurus, a tribe revived and restored to its former glory by its Princess,

And the Wings of Freedom- the flag of the resistance.

The throne room needs to be cleaned out, but for now, Mikasa leads her inside, fetching her a crown from the vaults. The girl knows it was her mother’s. The crown now sits on her head.

Welcome home, Princess.

—

Your mother loved this place. She called it “Little Sea”.

Mikasa tells her when they are at the lake. The weather is mild enough to sit on the grass and they are talking about everything. When Levi and Hanji had been killed, their bodies were burnt so as to avoid attempts at martyrdom. But the servants had scattered their ashes into the lake.

I want to tell you about your parents- of Hanji Zoë and Levi Ackerman.

Mikasa says. And she does. She tells her how her father, who never had any interest in girls, fell in love with Hanji Zoë. Oh how terrible he had been at wooing her, how clumsy he had been. Oh the suffering of everyone who had to bear witness to her brother’s attempts at romance. But she fell for him regardless. And it feels nice to finally admit that it was a love that was meant to be. That had to be. It’s a good love, she thinks, and Levi deserved a love like that.

“Your mother… She made my brother very happy… I’ve never seen him so happy…”

“I heard he wore a perpetual frown…”

“The ugliest one…” Mikasa giggles, “but she made him smile…”

The girl beams, and Mikasa sees Hanji- her effortless charm and the sense of comfort that follows. If anyone deserved to be happy, it was Hanji.

As the sun sets, the girl, the last of Mikasa’s family, reaches her hand out to her. Mikasa takes the girl’s hand, looking back only to set the bouquet down where the water meets the earth. For all the words left unsaid-

Camellias for admiration,

Blue salvias for I think of you, and

Hydrangeas to mean thank you for your forgiveness.

[all parts in Masterlist]

[highlighter-goblin]

Why does the disabled chick look like a teen but sound middle aged?

Oh look it’s the seven dwarv’ents.

This short kid sounds like the do the roar kid.

Short kid is a little shit. I hate him.

Oh god I’m scared for this is the thanks I get. That song makes me wanna kill myself.

OoOoOoO wOw SpHeReS aNd BoOkS!

Oh god it’s the magic dickwad.

Ohhhh she’s “qWiRkY”

“I CaRe ToO mUch” babes that’s autisim.

OH SHIT DEAD PARENTS CLUB! SHE HAS A DEAD DAD!

Oh yay the sphere room 🙄

This is a lullaby, not a song in a musical. Also still shit lyrics.

Hey I’ve had a good idea! Take a shot every time you hear a shit lyric or see/hear a reference to a past movie! Let’s see how wasted we get!

Mid harmonies.

He’s getting sketchy…

Oh wow scar ass moment.

Man I wanna punch his smug ass narcissistic ass face.

God he’s such a prick.

HELL YEAH FACE CAKE!

There’s always next time… 💀

I’m bored already.

These songs are so fucking bland.

She can’t really sing.

Yeah these songs sound AI generated.

And THIS was meant to be the next let it go??

Oh yay time for marketable plushie star thing!

I wish they kept the twink version of the star… 🥲

Ok the star thing is pretty cute.

OH SHIT NIGHT OF THE LIVING MUSHROOMS

Oh no…

The goat now sounds like a middle aged man. Yayyy…🙄

The squirrel is singing? And the trees? And the whole ass fucking Forrest?

Another shit song.

“YEYSSS”

What the fuck goat guy?

The deer is a stoner?

Disco in the Forrest

WATCH OUT WORLD HERE I ARE! I FOUND IT!

“Thanks for not eating me John.” “No worries Bambi.”

Bwahhhhh! “Careful my mother was shaved for that yarn”

ARSON!!!🔥🔥🔥🔥

Oh no the spooooky book…

🎶he’s eeee-villll🎶

Oh my gosh the star is acting like my little brother!

Aww he made himself a widdle costume 😍

Did you see what just came out of that ones bu-?

Nooo don’t take the chickens 😢

What are you? Five?

WHAT THE FUCK AM I WATCHING???? SPONTANEOUS CHICKEN DANCE NUMBER????? THEIR JUGGLING EGGS?????

Awww the star gave the boy who lost his wish a widdle heart!

This is the most dysfunctional friend group ever.

God he’s acting like fucking hitler.

Heheh fire 🔥

Awww ok I love star. Everyone else on the other hand…

Oh no…

This song…

Kill me.

What a dick.

These lyrics make no sense.

Oh so that’s why the video looks like that! To avoid spoiling the plot!

14 out of what? Looks like a population of at least 10,000.

Worlds worst villain song.

Dictator? More like DICK-tator!

Oh shit he just killed part of her soul!

YAY ATTEMPTED MANSLAUGHTER!

I’m playing Roblox too this is so boring.

PLEASE PROTECT THE BABY

Oh yay angsty self sacrifice

“Happy birthday raven!” “I can’t swim!”

More soul sacrifices!

PLEASE LET HIM ACCIDENTALLY (or intentionally) CAUSE HiS WIFE TO DIE!

KILL HER! KILL HER!

Oh wow fairy godmother fit reference.

BACKSTABBED BY YOUR FRIENDS! Heh, I know how that feels! (Oops trauma dump!)

Heh the star made himself a widdle mustach!

Oh no he’s making evil minions now…

WHY DOES THE GOAT KEEP DOING BUTT STUFF????

WAIT THE SHORT ONE IS CALLED GOBBO???

Oh no. Not another song…

Pfft it’s a serious song and star is goofing off like baby groot at the start of GOtG vol.2

YAASSS REVOLT!

Come on Queenie say I wanna help!

*star giggles like a chew toy*

YES DO KICK OUT THE SHORT ONE

Peter Pan, Mary Poppins, sleeping beauty, all dead.

HOW THE HELL DID FIVE TEENAGERS AND A GOAT FIT IN A ONE CUBIC METRE SPACE????

Babes the best way to rid this dude of evil is a good old tactic called ‘bullet to the brain’

The goat can’t count…

Pfft deer in headlights joke

Yeah jump to your potential death…

FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!

Bro just got takled by a bear!

‘Here lies billy, mauled to death by rabbits’

Nooo don’t hurt the baby 😢

NOO THE BABY 😭😭😭

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

THE BABY IS DEAD 😭😭😭😭😭😭

NOOOOOOOOO

FUCK YOU MAGNIFICO 😡😡😡😡

“There is no Santa, there is no tooth fairy, and there is no queen of England” ass speech

COME ON START A REVOLUTION FOR STAR! THEIR THE ONLY ONE I CARE ABOUT!

COME ON GIVE ME BLOODSHED!!!

Worlds shittiest reprise.

COME ON SAVE STAR SAVE THE BABY

COME ON STAR YOU CAN COME BACK JUST LIKE WILLIAM AFTON!

YES STAR IS FREE!!!! THE BOI IS SAFE!!! AND MAGNIFICO IS DEAD! (Sorta)

Wonder how many wishes involve goin’ down to pound town?

Knockoff overweight kristoff your apology means nothing you backstabbing prick

Short guy still being an ass.

KILL HIM! KILL HIM! KILL HIM!

Aww old guy’s wish came true!

Oh god the goat’s wish is just zootopia.

Bippity boppity boo bitch.

I would have loved twink star boy but toddler personalitied dog toy works.

WAIT TJE GOAT IS ONLY TJREE WEEKS OLD?????

Of course the most obvious hidden Mickey ever.

Soundtrack 2/10

Charachters 1/10

Star 10000/10

Visual design 4/10

Writing 2.5/10

Overall (minus star bias) 2.4/10

This sucked. Except star. I love star. Then again I like Pokémon like snom and grubbin. Smol, round, and goofy.

Also I’m pretty sure if I made this a drinking game I would have died of alcohol poisoning by now.

Yes Disney reference all the beloved franchises your grubby little corporate mitts bought.

Ok bye.

Gonna try and watch Disney’s Wish. Give me luck and give me strength

[vanillann]

5 star conversation (r.p)

one person for more parts so i had to do it!!

reggie peter x gender neutral!reader

word count: 3.2k

5 star conversation masterlist

“This place is so much better!”

Alex was spinning in the center of the hall, the 5-star hotel in Dallas was much better than the last motel we stayed at a few weeks back.

“I’ll be happy to use my own bathroom,” Julie swiped her key card, throwing her head back with it turned green and allowed her in the room.

“Goodnight,” she sang into the hall, not wasting time before shutting the door to pass out on the white fluffy soft bed, as the last performance was a long one with a meet and greet after.

Everyone was exhausted from crazy fans and loud music for the first time in a long time.

“I’ll see everyone in the lobby at 9,” Flynn waited in the hall for everyone to confirm.

“Why don’t you ever yell at Julie and (Y/N) about time?” Luke challenged her, hand on his hip as he looked at her with a pout.

“Because I don’t feel bad throwing them out of bed,” Flynn smiled, turning to her own door and not waiting for Luke’s response.

“Hey!”

“I love you (Y/N),” she yelled over her shoulder, smiling and waving to the boys as she most likely would be out cold too.

“That’s my cue, I’ll see everyone at 9:30 most likely.”

Alex pushed my shoulder lightly, walking past me to his door that was beside mine, the same layout he always did when he stayed at hotels.

We don’t talk about the motel.

“Goodnight (Y/N),” Reggie wrapped his arm around my shoulders, hugging me from behind while one of my hands squeezed his.

“Night,” I clocked out, still not recovered from the night spent under the sheets with the raven-haired boy. He let go, moving to his door across the hall and moving in as if nothing was different.

“Something happened two weeks ago.”

I jumped, I had completely forgotten Reggie and I wasn't the only person in the hall, Luke and Alex giving me little smirks as I stared at my door.

“Nope,” I swallowed, swiping my card and rushing into the room. I could hear Alex and Luke laughed but I didn’t care enough to give a witty remark.

My wits had walked into Reggie's room far away from my side, along with my sanity.

“Most definitely,” I mocked Reggie’s voice, throwing my bag on the queen-size bed, this time all to myself and no smiling Reggie walking me like something the gods had sent down.

“You most definitely ruined my standards.”

I probably sounded crazy talking to myself, pacing the room before I fell backward, staring off at the ceiling. I thought back to the little touches and the smirks that were shared between us in two weeks.

“I hate Luke Patterson.”

I didn’t hate Luke, he was like an older brother, but I did hate him. He pushed me off the diving board before I had my goggles on and now there was chlorine in my eyes.

I lost track of time, everything slowing down the longer I stared up at the ceiling, wishing it was the nasty brown popcorn ceiling from the motel so I knew Reggie was laying beside me.

Why did he have to be perfect?

A light knock on the door brought my attention back to this world, my mind wondering if it was worth it. I was probably Alex looking to talk for a few hours and tease me about Reggie.

I rolled my eyes, rolling off the bed and prancing to the door. Alex would listen if I needed to rant, and that I really needed right now. I didn’t even think, swing the door open to see a black leather jacket-clad back about to walk into the door across from me.

“Reg?”

He swiftly turned around, his cheeks flushed as he looked me over up and down.

“You have your shoes on?”

“Yeah I hadn’t changed yet,” I shrugged, crossing my arms and leaning against the door frame as I waited for his eyes to stop darting around the hall.

“Oh, good?”

I nodded slowly, watching as his shoe tapped against the floor of the hotel hallway. I was about to step back into my room when one of his arms reached out and grabbed my sleeve.

“Are you tired?”

“I mean I guess not? Reggie-”

He gave a small smile, pulling on my sleeve and using his other hand to push my hotel room closed behind me. His face so close to me, his breath running over my cheeks and I felt myself feel like I was on fire.

“I saw this diner on the corner and looked it up. It has one star and-”

“A one-star diner? That could kill us,” I laughed lightly, trying to pull my arm back but his eyes were begging me to hear him out.

“Well I’m already dead and-” his smile was large as his eyes searched mine, both of us probably looking crazy as he stood in the center of the hall.

“I don’t have a jacket Reg,” I did my best to stop myself from going, I didn’t need more of a reason to fall for the perfect bass player. I didn’t have it in me to be heartbroken by him.

“Wear mine,” he let go of my sleeve but I didn’t move as he shrugged his jacket off his shoulder and placed them over my shoulder with a goofy little smile plaster across his lips. The leather was warm, but I suppose that could have been how nervous I was in the current moment.

“I guess we’re getting a late-night snack,” I spoke as happy as I could, screaming at my heart to stop hitting my rib cage.

“Yes!” He made a fist, doing a small happy dance as he skipped down the elegant hall of the fourth floor of the hotel. I smiled, trying to look on the bright side of falling for the sweet boy.

I quickly jogged to reach his side, his little skip in his step was making me feel things I didn’t understand. Maybe that was the scariest thing, not understanding the feelings. I knew my feelings for Reggie, of course, but why did I have to feel like this about Reggie? Why could I have fallen for anyone else in this world? Falling for Reggie meant never falling out, cause you just can’t not adore him. He remembered the little things, like my favorite type of diner or my favorite photo with my friends. He said things that made your heart shore, even if not a soul but you would understand. The number of times he had said “most definitely” with that little smirk to me was making my brain break at this point because everyone saw the little smiles but nobody knew why, and something about that made it more fun.

“You coming?”

I didn’t realize I had stopped walking in the middle of the lobby, I didn’t even remember the elevator ride down. I nodded my head, smiling as he held the door from the hotel for me, his bright smile lit up the dark streets of the city.

The traffic was light and I could see the lights on in the small diner, obviously not busy by the looks of the small parking lot and I was shocked you’d find such a sad diner so close to the fancy hotel we were staying at.

I was walking the closest to the road, Reggie on the other side of me as he spotted the crosswalk. Suddenly I felt him slip behind, his hands on my shoulder for a second and gone the next. He now stood closer to the road, obviously looking ahead and not at me.

“What was that about?”

“I didn’t want something to happen and you fell into traffic, this way it’s me and not you.”

Oh, I hated him so much right now, stop making me love you!

He couldn’t do this stuff and expect me not to fall head over heels, because he looked like that and he spoke like that, and he was perfect. We found the crosswalk, both looking both ways before skipping across it into the small diner parking lot with smiles across both our faces.

Reggie held open the door for me, the small rusty diner was definitely one star by how messy and weird the place felt. The booths had holes in them, the tables had inappropriate drawings in sharpie and the only other person in the place was an older man who was doing something illegal by the way he looked Reggie and me up and down, and a few workers.

“Reg-”

“Trust me, okay?” He pulled at my arm, smiling as he found a booth in the corner of the small diner, and giggled when I pouted at it.

“You can have the corner seat, I know they’re your favorite.”

Why do boys like Reggie have to look and be amazing? It was so hard not to confess everything, but I thought better than to do it in a small one-star diner.

“Can I start y’all with a drink?” The strong southern accent wasn’t uncommon for the state of Texas, I had heard plenty in the crowd during the show.

“A water,” Reggie spoke but I stopped the lady before she wrote it.

“A coke is fine,” the lady nodded, writing coke instead of water, and went back to the back of the diner.

“That was rude,” Reggie pouted as he took the seat across from me, his arms crossed over his chest as his eyes scanned me.

“Never order water from these places, always something bottled that can’t be contaminated,” I pointed to the sink, which was turned on filling a small pan with almost brownish water. Reggie cringed, nodding his head and looking at me.

“You don’t need to die from water too,” I smirked across the table, laughing when Reggie swatted his hand at me jokily.

“You can’t let me live my own death down,” he smiled as he shook his head, smiling when the lady bought out two bottled cokes and a single menu.

“We are cleaning our menus, hope you don’t mind sharing.”

She left us with that, the cokes at the end of the table and a menu in the center. Reggie didn’t move it, opening it and leaning his elbows on the table to read it. His flannel clade arms were nice, something I had grown safe with as he seemed to bring his brand off them.

“How about a burger?”

I zoned back in, smiling when Reggie pointed to a cheap burger at the bottom of the menu with questioning eyes.

“I was thinking more of a hotdog,” I smirked, laughing when he flopped back into his seat before sliding out.

“I’m leaving,” he spoke, my hand reaching out without thinking and grabbing his wrist. I didn’t think much, looking up at him with pleading. His once angry, or what I thought was angry, formed into one of pure bliss. He was sitting on the edge of the seat, our eyes telling our story for us.

“You can’t leave me here,” I broke the tension, smiling when he slid back into the booth across from me and leaned closer to me from his seat.

“Why’s that?”

I thought over my options, did I tell him? Do I tell him I wanna spend the rest of this tour having a sleepover in a motel with him? Do I tell him I’d drink brown water for him?

“What if this diner’s food kills me?” I came up with the idea on the spot, hoping he wouldn’t question me too much on the topic. It wasn’t a lie, it could kill me, the water was brown after all.

“Then you’ll come back to me,” he shrugged as if it was obvious. My heart was definitely fighting my ribs now, trying to jump out and confess everything in this small diner.

“Y’all ready?”

The lady from the earlier harsh voice brought me from my daze, my breath barely coming back and Reggie hurried to find something on the menu for us.

“Some fries and two slices of key lime pie,” he spoke, sliding the menu across the table and winking at the waitress. I felt my heart drop slightly, the woman rolling her eyes but the smallest bit of a smile on her lips.

“Fries and pie?”

“They can solve all the world problems,” Reggie shrugged, his attention back to me as soon as I spoke. My heart fluttered more once I recognized the soft Train song, Marry Me playing through the small diner.

“We don’t have a problem though.”

“We do, we haven’t spoken as much since the motel,” Reggie raised an eyebrow at me like he knew he had caught me red-handed. He was chewing on his bottom lip, waiting for me to say something.

I stopped talking to you because I’m convinced you’re the love of my life.

“Flynn’s had me busy with social media stuff,” which wasn’t a lie. I had officially been handed all social media as Flynn couldn’t do it all anymore, and since I already did the merch it would make sense for me to be in charge of the social media.

“I’m still mad you posted that photo of me,” Reggie pouted, the photo in question was when Alex and Luke drew all over his face in a sharpie while he was sleeping on the floor of the tour bus.

“The fans loved it, it’s been added to many edits,” I smirked, shrugging my shoulder while I looked up at the ceiling of the diner.

“I bet you loved it too,” Reggie leaned back on the table, his face seemed to get closer every time he did. I could smell the cologne running off him, almost making my head spin until I remember I’d been smelling it all-night because of the jacket.

“It’s my lock screen for a reason.”

“Really?” I didn’t say anything, pulling out my phone and proving it. Reggie smiled, asking me to open it to show my home screen. I did just that, putting my fingerprint on the phone to reveal the photo of Alex using my head like a drum set, Julie in the back caught completely off-guard.

“Here,” the fries and the two-piece of pie were placed on the table, the two forks and a bottle of ketchup beside them. I closed my phone, reaching over to pop a fry in my mouth.

“Well aren’t you just the cutest,” Reggie commented, taking his own fire and nibbling on it, looking at me while he did so. I ignored him, looking at my phone that was now ringing beside me. A photo of Luke and I doing finger-guns at the camera flashed across my screen, my eye-rolling into the back of my head as I picked it up.

“Yes?”

“Did you finally run away from us?” I could hear the pout in Luke’s voice as he spoke.

“Yep, I’m halfway to Ohio by now,” I rolled my eyes, reaching for one of the forks but Reggie moved it from my reach.

“You suck,” he spoke, my attention elsewhere as I still wanted a piece of my pie.

“Tell Reggie he sucks too.”

I swallowed roughly, trying my best to keep my voice normal as we spoke.

“What?”

“Neither of you are at the hotel, we thought you two e-roped,” I heard Julie in the back yell “it’s eloped” but I ignored it as I finally got my fork out of Reggie’s hand.

“We’re at the diner on the corner,” I watched Reggie pout once I revealed the location we sat at, waving him off as I took a piece of the pie and shoved it in my mouth.

“That place looks creepy.”

“It is,” I finally rested the phone between my shoulder and head, reaching for another piece when Reggie started moving the pie around the table.

“Weirdos,” I heard him speak, the smirk was screaming through the phone.

“Do you need something?”

“Yes, you both confess-” I rolled my eyes, moving my phone from where it sat, and hung up on Luke. Reggie laughed, watching me place the phone on the table and reach for the pie again. I heard it ring but simply hit the little red button.

“I want my pie Reg,” I pointed my fork in his face, but instead of being a normal person and giving me the pie, he bit down on my fork. I was so shocked at his actions I didn’t even realize he pulled the fork from my hand.

“Did you-”

“Yep, you gave us away so no pie,” he took my fork, letting it sink into the green fluffy pie with a little smirk on his face.

“I totally can’t stand you.”

“Then sit on me-” as soon as Reggie spoke he panicked, trying to take his words back but I was almost on the floor laughing. His cheeks were flushed red, his eyes wide as he looked over my face. He was perfect in the harsh light of the diner, trying his best to fix the words that fell from his lips.

“A way with words I see,” I managed to get out the words in-between giggles. His own laughs were slowly slipping past his apologies, his smile back to normal.

“Always, how do you think I wrote Home is Where my Horse is,” he bit back, him finally letting me take a bit of the whipped cream off the top. For a one-star diner, the place wasn’t horrible, if I didn’t get food poisoning that is.

“Lots of inspiration,” I smiled back, popping another fire in my mouth and laughing when he shrugged.

“Can’t say that I never had a horse.”

“Did you want one?”

“Ever since I was a young Reginald,” he spoke, a fake posh accent with his words. I smiled to myself, a joking plan already forming in my head.

I heard the door of the diner open, the familiar sound of Alex's panicked voice was nice yet frustrating. Luke winked at me, jumping as he slid into the seat beside Reggie, Flynn running to sit beside me.

“I thought you left me,” she latched onto my arm, cozying close to me with a little smile. I laughed at her antics, leaving a small kiss on her head as Julie took the seat beside Luke and Alex took the open one next to Flynn.

“You both ate the food?”

Reggie shrugged, typing something slowly into my phone he had grabbed off the table. Luke tried to speak but Reggie moved and covered the phone from his eyes.

When he finished he locked it, sliding air across the phone and pointing at it. I smiled, putting my fingerprint in my phone, which opened to the notes app.

We got busted, next time don’t tell Luke ;)

I smiled, the zoo unleashed as I read over the words. Maybe we’d been in a one-star motel and diner, but I never felt like the five-star giggles filled the room.

He said next time.

Crap, he said next time.

permanent tag list:

@kittykylax @itstaylorcale @head-over-heart @marvel-rhapsody @accioxtina

julie and the phantoms taglist:

@willex-owns-my-heart @sunsetcurvej @g7aesthetic @who-even-is-galileo

reggie peters taglist:

@miisacore

[retromotherfuckers]

Six Years (Part 3)

Pairing:

Past/Eventual Bellamy Blake x Fem!Kane!Reader, Platonic!Octavia Blake

Summary:

Octavia knew who she was now, but you couldn’t figure out what the hell you’d become.

Warning: 

so much mf angst, themes of addiction and depression, self-destructive behavior and a tiny bit of comfort in there

Word Count:

2k (i got a little ~carried away~ lol)

A/N:

IM SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG. i wasn’t happy with the og thing i had down so i literally just rewrote the whole thing in a few hours and it’s sm better than it would’ve been. me holding off posting this did wonders and i’m more confident in it too even tho i kinda think i suck at writing but also kinda don’t idk my self esteem varies wildly

Merry Christmas Eve Eve to those who celebrate ❤️

the gif (and all the other ones) are not mine and i take no credit for them

if you want to be tagged in any of my works, send me a message or an ask and i’ll add you :)

@shipshipshipau

The girl with aqua eyes - although now they were more of a spotted gray - had only seen one moment of weakness from you. It would be the last time Octavia had seen you, and you, her. 

“We’re surviving!” She had started shouting, as if she believed that set in a lower tone, her words would be construed as lies. “The human race is surviving! That’s what matters!”

“He wouldn’t be okay with this, and you know it!” Your voice broke involuntarily as it rose to match hers. You shook your head as you tried to desperately stop the ache in your chest as you brought her - probably dead - brother up. Tears clung to your eyelashes, waiting for you to blink so they had permission to fall. Your throat had been closed for a while now, and the rest was merely a weak cry. “If this is the price that we have to pay...maybe we shouldn’t be.”

You’d never know if it was the crack in your demeanor or your choice of words, but either way, her eyes softened when you spoke.

“Look at me.” You did as told and she gripped the back of your neck in one hand, pulling your forehead so close it almost came into contact with hers.

The air changed as Octavia came alive under the monster she wore for armor. Her mask coming off allowed you to let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. You would begin to regret not smashing the helmet to bits while it was off and vulnerable.

“You have to stop listening to them,” She said. “It’ll tear you apart. It’s better they get to live to hate us than die slowly and love us-”

“They don’t deserve this either, O-”

“We bare it, so they don’t have to. You’re the one that told me that. You can’t back out on me, now. I can’t do this without you.”

For so long you were okay with her needing you to do the dirty work. Besides the first time - when you did it together - she’d give the sentence and you’d see it through. Every single time, it felt like it was killing you more than them, but that didn’t matter, did it? If you weren’t going to do it, who would?

It was the last thing Octavia had asked of you and you had no intention of letting her down.

Bellamy didn’t know what he would see when they finally dropped him down into the bunker, but it definitely wasn’t that. Surrounded by more death than he was prepared for, he couldn’t help himself to not move his gaze around the arena. The fences between him and the living reminded him of the cages the Mountain Men held him in. The walls were stained deep with crimson, leaving the dull concrete behind it unrecognizable. He looked to the blonde at his side, and they asked each other the same silent question:

What the hell happened down here?

His whiskey shaded orbs kept moving, albeit reluctantly. They stopped on Marcus Kane, who looked so much older than last time. His hair and beard were inches longer and grayer than the natural brown he used to have. He was so pale, it was unnerving - almost as if he was close to death. They connected eyes briefly and that’s when the younger saw the deadly weapon held to his neck by the hands of-

No.

Your back was facing him, but it didn’t matter how long it had been, he’d never miss you. The locks that adorned your head were longer too, almost to your waist. The natural shade was faded though, like you had aged twenty years instead of six. He watched your shoulders heave and your hands start to shake as Kane talked to you.

He couldn’t pull his eyes from the impure red that dyed your skin and clothes.

While you were distracted, he chose to act, protecting Marcus from his own flesh and blood. He didn’t miss the gears in your head turning as your gaze landed on him. He saw your eyes sink into a trance of recognition and a deep sort of longing overtook your senses. The melancholic need you had tried to numb for half a decade came back in full force and held no mercy.

You remembered how he always smelled of the forest after the sky wept. You remembered how sure but gentle his touch was on your skin. You remembered how his remarkably soft lips would feel when they pushed against yours as they begged for more at every turn. You remembered how it felt to be wrapped in his arms, listening to his heart thump as he assured you everything would be alright, even if he didn’t think it would be.

Was that gone forever, now, too?

Bellamy noticed something else, though; something he didn’t recognize. Something he’d never seen before.

Something that scared him.

It had been hours since and neither of you had bothered to find the other. Getting everyone out was a great distraction for him. Talking to his little sister, whose eyes seemed to hold the same thing yours did, was another.  She had explained to him and Clarke that Wonkru had deemed her Bloodreina and you, Ripa. So, no, nothing as special as death from above or the red queen or the commander of death, but death, nonetheless.

People have done well not to forget that.

When Clarke told him you still hadn’t come out and no one had seen you, however, he didn’t have a choice anymore.

The halls were those of nightmares, spirits lurking around every corner and it was cold and empty. He knew the lights were kept low to save power but it felt almost purposeful, like they were meant to scare you. To tell you not to act out or some kind of monster would jump from the shadows and make you pay.

But he didn’t know if it was you or his sister.

A chill slithered up his spine.

If someone told him this wasn’t real, he’d do anything he could to believe them. He wished that he was seconds away from being shaken awake by Raven or Monty, and they would tell him it was just another nightmare. He wished he was still on the Ring, praying ignorantly to anyone that would listen that his family on earth were still okay. 

Breaking him from his thoughts, a yellow lamplight caught his attention. At the end of the windowless corridor, it shone out of a slightly ajar door. Using every ounce of strength he possessed to not walk away, he pushed it open. It cried at the motion, diminishing any and all remnants of silence that swallowed the floor.

His eyes found you catching yourself from falling caused by a failed attempt at standing. A half empty bottle of whatever works in one hand, the other one holding you up against the bed frame. The high-pitched creak pulled your attention to the front of the room with a furrowed brow and he allowed himself to take in your appearance.

A wrinkled, cotton shirt sat on your chest and it was a different one than before; faded white and thin, yet cleaner than the other one which was colored with blood. Your hair was damp - the result of taking a shower - but lazily tied back in a half-assed effort to get it out of your face.

You stared at each other for a minute. A million things were hitting your slow-moving thoughts at once, too much for you to even try to comprehend. He finally took one step towards you, parting his lips to say something but no sound came out. He was stumped, hundreds of words flooded his mind but not a single one sounded good enough.

Nothing he could say would make what happened in the arena okay.

It was unbearably painful. There he was, finally right in front of you, and you had no idea what to talk about. No idea what to start with, end with, bring up, discuss, laugh about, cry about, scream about. Nothing was good enough to say to the man that kept you alive for such a long time, such a long time ago. 

Too long ago.

You inevitably broke the silence, though your words came out cracked and in a slur. A defensive and humorless scoff left your lips, an effort to cover up the discomfort. Or it was because you were too drunk to shut yourself up. “You gonna say somethin’?”

“I don’t know what to say.”

You didn’t know why, but you hoped he’d sound different. It was childish and irrational, but you hoped that you could say you both changed too much and he would have nothing to hold against you.

Because no matter how far away it seemed, sometimes you could still remember what it felt like to be that innocent seventeen-year-old that hadn’t lived yet; what it felt like to be that girl who still couldn’t stand her father. To be that girl who sprained her ankle within ten minutes of being on earth for the first time. To be that girl who hadn’t made a friend aside from Clarke and Wells in her whole life. That girl who had just kissed a boy for the first time.

The girl who was loved and not lost yet.

“Well, that makes two of us.”

Where the hell did she go?

That made the room spin, and you had to blink a few times to make it stop, taking a seat on the thin mattress. You took a drink, making the liquid slosh from the base to the neck of the bottle and back again. When it settled, you rested your head between your shoulders as you heard him say your name. It bounced off the walls in the room, hitting each one again, and again, and again like it was a bullet waiting to find its target. You had wanted the word to fall from his lips for so long that you’d forgotten what it sounded like. You had forgotten what he sounded like, and you fucking hated yourself for it.

Then you realized he said, “Ripa,” and those four deadly little letters crushed your throat and stole the air from your lungs.

That name hadn’t felt right from the start, but it was what you had been simultaneously promoted to and reduced by. The only person who refused to call you that over the years, was your father. For two thousand days, he made sure to steer clear of it.

That’s not who you are and I know it, even if you don’t.

A sudden and hauntingly raw sob escaped, and you knew his eyes were on you in an instant.

“Don’t call me that,” You begged, meeting his gaze for the first time since he entered. Breath picking up, you were practically terror-stricken at the idea that all you were to him now was a murderer. You vigorously tried to shake the thought away, squeezing your eyes shut as everything that kept you numb seemed to vanish into thin air. “Y-You can’t-Not you too. Please, not you.”

Bellamy’s hand brushed your cheek and tears rained freely. You immediately leaned into the familiar and delicate warmth and you really fucking hoped this wasn’t your mind playing a trick on you.

“It’s okay, Y/N.” When he spoke this time, his words sounded choked too. His other hand cradled the back of your head as he pulled you into his chest and just...held you. “It’s okay.”

It was like you were standing at the edge of a building, teetering the edge before accidentally falling. Only, before you could plummet to your death, someone caught your hand, and it occurred to you that you really wanted them to pull you back up.

“Please don’t leave me again.”

Your voice was just so, so weak. Beaten down and broken.

“Never.” He said it with so much confidence and finality, you almost had to convince yourself it was real and not a dream. “I promise.”

[victoria-daydreams]

Of Vices and Virtues

Chapter Four: Enter Sebastian Shaw

AN: I don’t know about y’all but this has been a great week! The Orange Menace is out of the White House!

Word Count: 3.1k

Trigger Warnings: none

Chapter Five: A Place to Call Home

We sat on a concrete bench outside the destroyed CIA headquarters, waiting for Charles and Erik to return. The sun was just rising over the tops of the trees, illuminating the wrecked building. Alex had his head in his hands and Sean was hiding behind his sunglasses in hope no one could see how much this was affecting him. Raven hadn't regained her usual perkiness and Hank still appeared lost in his thoughts. None of them wanted to talk about what had happened. All needing time alone to grieve over Darwin's death.

I used Raven's shoulder to rest my head on, my head was pounding as if someone were taking a jackhammer to it. And my body, it felt like someone just flattened me out with a rolling pin, my body ached everywhere. I watched as a sleek, black town car screeched to a stop in front of us, Raven quickly stood, letting Alex scoot over, and let me use his shoulder to rest my head.

"Raven!" Charles called, hurriedly making his way through the debris to clasp his sister in a hug.

Erik and Moira hurried over to the boys and I, "Are you okay?" Erik asked worried.

I winced as I lifted my head, "Is that worry I detect, Lehnsherr?" I rasped out, my voice scratchy and strained, but still managing to give him a half-smile.

"She's recuperating, she has multiple bruises and a black eye too. She's lucky she doesn't have a severe concussion, only a mild one," Hank informed him, Erik fluttered his hand over my badly bruised temple and eye. He clenched his jaw.

"We've made arrangements for you to be taken home," Charles instructed with very little authority in his voice, and I turned my attention to him. There was a moment of silence as his words sunk in.

"No," I gave Charles a hard, determined stare.

I have a black eye. I have a black eye! Call me shallow, but Shaw ruined my face, one of my most prized possessions. Not only that, I almost ended up like Darwin, dead. There's no way in hell, I'm returning home with all of these points lined up without getting revenge. Shaw made this personal the moment he walked through the rec room door and laid his eyes on me.

"We're not going home," Sean chimed in.

Charles looked back and forth between the two of us with a hawk like gaze.

"What?"

"He," the redhead gestured towards Alex. "Isn't going back to prison,"

"He killed Darwin!" Alex protested.

I'm glad Alex has accepted that this isn't his fault. There's no way he could of known that was going to happen.

"All the more reason for you to leave," Charles insisted. "This is over,"

Raven settled a hand on the telepath, "Charles, Darwin is dead, and we can't even bury him," Raven started. Alex winced and hung his head. Maybe he's not quite as over it as I thought. "Claudia was knocked unconscious, and we were scared she would never wake up. She nearly died Charles," Raven finished exhausted, as Charles looked at me.

Erik finally spoke up, "We can avenge them," his words catch us off guard.

Sean and Alex both looked up with hopeful expressions on their face. Vengeance? That's something I can get behind.

"Erik, a word please," Charles sighed, dragging Erik out of earshot. It wasn't a question but as always the request was polite belying Charles obvious indignation. We watched in silence as they had a heated debate, before Charles sighed and walked back towards us. "We'll have to train," he announced. "All of us. Yes?"

"Yeah," Alex is the first of us to say anything. He's quickly followed by a chorus of "yeah's" and "yes's".

"Well, we can't stay here," Hank pointed out. "I mean, even if they reopened the department, it's not safe," he sighed a sigh of defeat. "We've got nowhere to go,"

We're all quiet.

"Yes, we do," Charles smiled at us.

~~~x~~~

"Rich people always know where to build their houses," I thought as I surveyed Charles family's estate from the edge of his porch.

His home was a huge sandstone manor house with thousands of glass stained windows which peered out onto the massive, picturesque English lawns and fountains of the gardens surrounded by sunlight and the distant sound of radio dishes humming in the background. We were in New York, but this was very different from the bustling city of New York that I'm accustomed to, packed full of tourists.

"Whoa..." I say under my breath, staring up at the mansion in front of me.

It's enormous not to mention beautiful.

"This is yours?" Sean asked in a very disbelieving tone, dumbfounded at the huge mansion.

"No. It's ours," Charles corrected him, a smile on his face.

We're quiet for a moment.

"Honestly Charles, I don't know how you survived. Living in such hardship," Erik's stated, his voice laced with sarcasm.

"Well, it was a hardship softened by me," Raven stated, moving towards Charles and being kissed lovingly on the side of her head.

"Come on," she sighed, "Time for the tour,"

We followed Raven inside, waiting for the building's full grandeur to sink in. The Xavier mansion was huge, I don't think I can stress that enough.

Raven had dragged us everywhere in the house. She showed us every level of the home, I was almost positive about it. I had never been to a mansion before, and I didn't really live in a large house beforehand. I had lived in a small house with my family, but it was big enough for the six of us and then when I moved away to New York, I lived in a small apartment complex.

I was sure that Charles could fit in an entire school in his home if he wished. Raven's room and the boys rooms were farther down the hallway. While Charles, Erik, and I were in a different corridor away from the young mutants.

I was in a room almost fit for a queen. The large four poster bed stood in the middle of the room with two cherry wood night stands on each side. One crystal vase filled with red roses adorned the night stand on the right side, whilst the other crystal vase stood on top of a round table cherry wood table in the center of the room. A chandelier hung right above said table and landscape paintings all over the dark walls. Lastly, there an ornate chair that was set by the large Edwardian windows that had bright light penetrating through, this house must have been passed on from generation to generation.

"There's a bathroom through that door right there," Raven instructed, pointing to the door on left-hand wall of the room. "And here are some soaps and shampoos for you. Also, some of my old clothes, they should fit for one night. Until we can buy you some more clothes," she added, handing me the basket of soaps. "I hope this is alright,"

"It's perfect," I breathed out, dumbfounded and overwhelmed at the wealth laid out before me.

Raven smiled nodding her head and exited the room, leaving my door cracked. My eyes jumped form one item to another in the basket. Coconut scented soap. Vanilla shampoo. Lavender conditioner. Kiwi body scrub. Lavender-scented body oils. Strawberry-Vanilla moisturizing cream. A pink washcloth. A brush. Pajamas that looked so soft. So comfortable. A towel that was so white and fluffy I dared not touch it. I walked towards the bathroom, opening the door and turning on the light, and I was in awe. The bathroom was white with gold trim around everything. I felt out of place and filthy in the spotless expanse of porcelain and granite. I had never seen such a beautiful wash closet in all my life.

This bathroom was meant for queens, I was sure of it. I snapped out my trance and set everything down where it was supposed to be. I began unpacking my suitcase and putting my clothes in a drawer and closet, I barely brought anything with me, so most of my clothes fit into one drawer and some in the closet.

There was a knock on my door, "It's open," I called, turning around after closing the drawer.

Charles walked in, "I'm just checking to see how you're settling in," He said, slightly closing the door behind him.

"I'm fine, thank you," I replied, a small smile on my face. "My head is killing me though...along with the rest of my body,"

"Shaw did this?" Charles asked, as he gently grasped my chin and observed the bruises on my face.

I winced slightly as my face was still tender, "No Charles, I ran into a door," I deadpanned, rolling my eyes. "Yes, it was Shaw," I answered, as Charles let go of my chin. "Who else could've done this?" I added walking in front of the mirror on the vanity dresser and looked at my marred face, it was black, blue, purple, and every in color in between. "God, I look terrible," I commented, tilting my face in different angles.

Charles walked over to me with his hands in his pockets, Charles stood in front of me slid one hand out of his pocket. He reached out and tucked piece of my hair behind my ear. "You should see my view. I think you look beautiful," Charles complimented softly, smiling at me slightly. I scoffed and stepped away from him, nodding my thanks. Heat flushed my cheeks and I lowered my head, a small smile gracing my lips, "Come on, don't hide from me now," Charles joked, gently lifting my chin up.

He grinned widely and I narrowed my eyes at him and crossing my arms, "I bet you say to all the girls you meet. What's next? Are you going to point out how 'groovy' my mutation is?" I questioned, smirking now.

Charles shook his head and chuckled, "Raven told you that didn't she?" My smile only grew bigger. "Damn, I suppose I can't use my famous line on you,"

"Well, if this is your way of flirting Charles," I began, knowing full it was. "I must say, this is a vast improvement," I smiled mischievously.

"Mmm, I'm glad you noticed," Charles chuckled, matching my playful tone.

"Charles wants us to come downstairs. It's dinnertime..." Raven announced as she burst into my room, trailing off.

Charles snatched his hand from my chin and let an awkward cough as I thanked the lord above for the hue of my skin, feeling the hotness across my cheeks.

"Thank you Raven," I squeaked out, embarrassed.

Raven's eyes darted between the two of us for another second, "Your welcome..." she responded slowly, before leaving the room.

Charles and I stood in an awkward silence for few moments before he finally broke it, "We should go and eat dinner," Charles suggested awkwardly, extending his arm to usher me out of my room

"Dinner sounds like a lovely idea," I commented, and quickly shuffled out of my room and into the hallway.

We all sit around the dining table in silence. It's huge, and even with seven of us sat around it we barely fill half the table. The scraping of silverware against expensive china echoed throughout the room.

I picked at my plate of food.

"Training starts tomorrow," Charles announced. "It's going to be a long day tomorrow. So, please, everyone get plenty of sleep tonight," he instructed, his eyes traveling across the table at all of us.

"What's the plan tomorrow?" I asked curiously, before taking a sip of my water, my eyes meeting Charles' over the rim of the cup.

"It's going to be hectic, I won't lie, but I'm going to work with each of you tomorrow to the best of my ability," Charles explained, his face lighting up at the idea.

"Well, there's only one of you, Charles. Should be interesting to see how this plays out tomorrow," I replied, mirth creeping into my words.

"I know, we have a lot of work cut out for us," Charles smiled widely, as if he had just found the best treasure in the world.

After dinner finished, all of the younger mutants were settled in the living room, happily buzzing with excitement at the thought of tomorrow. While the adults, excluding Moira she went to report in with her boss, were in the kitchen. Charles and Erik wanted to know what happened the night of the attack and in return I wanted to know what happened in Russia.

"Your powers didn't work on him?" Erik asked curiously.

"There was so much death and chaos around us, I was too scared to even try," I answered, a frown forming on my face. “Glad, I’m not a telepath though, the helmet he was wearing would’ve rendered me completely useless,” I remarked, and Charles arched his brows. "But did I know what he wanted," I recalled, as I bit the nail of my right thumb. "What happened to Shaw being in Russia?" I asked, leaning back on the counter with my arms crossed.

"I guess he changed his mind," Erik answered vaguely.

I rolled my eye, "Gee, you don't think I know that," I retorted, pointing to my black eye. A smile stretched out on Erik's face and he threw his head back with a laugh. "Laugh all you want, Erik,” I stated, shaking my head. “But seriously, Shaw's wants were very specific," I stated grimly, Charles had been staring off but he met my eyes at my comment.

That shut Erik up, "Why do you say that?"

"He has to be stopped," I insisted, tearing my eyes away from Charles' and looking back at Erik's which were fixed on me already. "He wants the humans dead. But what he wants, his plan, it'll kill us all," I stated grimly, and an unsettling silence fell upon the three of us over my startling revelation.

~~~x~~~

I huffed and fell back onto the soft and warm comforts of what is now my bed. I touched the fabric on my new bed, breath hitching as I felt how soft it was. It was silky and smooth and felt like a cloud. Just like the bath towel. Heart pounding with excitement, I crawled under the covers and wrapped myself in them tightly. I felt safe. Comfortable. The most relaxed I had ever been. Like nothing could touch me.

I stared up at the white ceiling, and reflected about the past 48 hours, it all seemed so unreal. A light knock on my door disrupted my thought, and and the door opened slightly. It was Raven. She smiled sweetly at me, closing the door and proceeded to walk in and sit on the edge of my bed as I pushed myself from up laying down into a seated position.

"Are you doing okay, Dia? I hope you don't mind me calling you that,"

I shook my head and moved over so Raven could fully sit on the bed.

"This more than okay...this is amazing," I laughed lightly.

Raven laughed and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, "Yeah it is" she agreed smiling. "Oh yeah, I came by to see if you needed any more spare clothes? Your suitcase seemed fairly small and doesn't seem life you packed enough to end up living here!"

"I wouldn't want to bother you with that. I'll be fine for now," I protested, waving my hand.

"Nonsense. I'll bring you a few clothes from my closet and then we can go shopping sometime this week!" Raven explained excitedly.

I threw my hands up in surrender knowing I couldn't talk Raven out of going shopping, but I did slightly furrow my brow because I had a sneaking suspicion that going shopping was not her main reason of coming in here.

"Raven, why did you actually come here? I know it wasn't to talk about shopping," I began, with a grin on my face. "I didn't even need to use my powers to figure that out," I added, proudly grinning.

Raven mirrored my expression before lowering her face and letting out a laugh, "You've caught me," Raven stated, raising her hands in mock surrender too. "Well, I was just curious about something..." Raven started, but trailed off and shrugged her shoulders.

"About what?" I questioned leaning forward, curious to know what Raven was getting at.

"Do you like him?" she asked, with an eager smile on her face.

"Who?" I asked, confusion clearly written on my face.

Raven made an obscure and vague motion with her hands, "You know!" she exclaimed, practically squealing.

I coughed, before slowly answering the question, "Well, Charles is pretty handsome. As is Erik. They're both attractive,"

"I KNEW IT!" Raven yelled, jumping off the bed, "YOU TOTALLY THINK CHARLES IS HOT!"

"Shut up, Raven!" I whispered harshly, pulling Raven back down onto my bed. "They could hear you!" I exclaimed, almost forgetting that Erik's and Charles' rooms were only a few doors down from mine.

"Oh yeah, like Charles totally doesn't think you're hot too. He stares at you all the time, when you're not looking. You two should just make out and get rid of the sexual tension,"

"There's no sexual tension, Raven," I argued, rolling my eyes. "That's ridiculous," I stated, shaking my head in disagreement.

"So, you and Charles totally weren't staring at each other's lips earlier when I opened the door?" Raven interjected, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "You could cut the tension with a knife, Dia. You two totally have a thing,"

I laughed, "You're crazy Raven,"

"I barley know him, how do I know if I like him or not? I don't. You're basing everything off of physical attraction, I'm attracted to someone for their mind and personality," I explained, almost as if I was lecturing her, "Not, that I'm looking for commitment. I'm not really looking for anything right now," I shrugged, giving Raven a half-smile. "Speaking of..." I trailed off, looking at Raven expectantly. "You and Hank, huh?" I asked teasingly, wiggling both my eyebrows.

Raven blushed, "We weren't talking abo-"

Laughter bubbled out of me, "You liiiike him, you liiiiike him!" I chanted over and over, pointing at her.

Raven didn't object as her face started taking on another, darker, shade of red.

I was genuinely happy for what felt like the first time in forever, talking to a new friend about trivial things like crushes, just to have fun. I had never felt that kind of happiness with my friends back in the city, who never truly understood what I was feeling, I could truly never be myself. But now, it's different I'm around people who understood my struggle, and chose to not embrace it, but not blatantly ignore either it. It was different to just let go for once. I almost felt in that moment that I could live a normal life.

Almost.

Chapter Six: Training Day

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 15: Midnight Manhattan]

A/N: Hi y’all! Thank you so much for your patience and support. I think it’ll be worth it...this chapter has something you’ve been waiting for. Only three more chapters left after this one! 💜

Chapter summary: A family visit turns awkward, Chrissie loses her cool, Roger and Y/N have a difficult conversation, John tells the truth.

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, babies, miscarriage, cute kids, drama, angst, more drama, more angst.

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @loveandbeloved29 @maggieroseevans @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @joemazzmatazz @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye @namelesslosers @inthegardensofourminds @deacyblues @youngpastafanmug @sleepretreat @hardyshoe @bramblesforbreakfast @sevenseasofcats @tensecondvacation @queen-crue @jennyggggrrr @madeinheavxn @whatgoeson-itslate @brianssixpence @simonedk @herewegoagainniall @stardust-killer-queen @anotheronewritesthedust1 @pomjompish @writerxinthedark @culturefiendtrashqueen @allauraleigh​@deakydeacy​

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! :)

They say losing a child will destroy a marriage, and you’re sure that’s often true; but it didn’t destroy yours.

Roger is the only one who can truly understand—who can feel that same aching and eternal, ravening absence in his bones—because he’s the only one who lost her too. He mourns with you, he stays awake through long nights with you, and when the future seems too oppressively bleak to imagine he drags you back into the light with tired daybreak smiles exchanged over mugs of tea and songs plucked on his acoustic guitar by the roaring fireplace, stories and jokes, walks through the green trellises of Hyde Park and the marble halls of the British Museum filled with ancient treasures stolen from Egypt and India and the Yucatan Peninsula, Italy and Greece, leaving craters of hollow memory littered across the planet like the imprint of the asteroid that killed the dinosaurs.

Together you bury her ashes in the garden behind the Surrey house. John brings you a pot of white calla lilies, and when the weather warms you plant them beside the small black stone carved with two names you never speak: Joan Aurora. Together you watch the blossoms grow up and grow old and wither back into the earth like everything does when the clock runs out, when the universe claims back the debt of life we borrow thinking that we own it. And through it all Roger is so persistently kind and patient and present that you’re willing to try for another pregnancy, despite the odds stacked against you like moving boxes, despite the crushing heartache that another loss would entail; despite your fearful, growing suspicion that in both casinos and the genetic lottery, the house always wins.

It never happens again, and you reach a sort of peace with this; but it’s a peace that makes you feel small and immaterial, like when you think too much about how vast the universe really is, like when you wake up restless before the dawn and wander out onto the cracked cobblestones in the garden as the sun burns the darkness off the world from east to west, watching the stars as they vanish in a sky bloodied with another world’s light.

A year passes, and then another, and then another; and every February 15th John sends you a new pot of white calla lilies to plant in the garden where other people’s children play.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Look, look, look!” Laszlo frenetically waves a crayon illustration in front of your face. On his head is the hat you knitted for him, green and featuring a large white L and with sprigs of fluffy brown hair like John’s peeking out around the edges. “I can draw like Daddy!”

It’s November 24th, 1981, and Queen is in Montreal. The band is playing two sold-out shows, one tonight and one tomorrow, and Brian and John have flown in their families for one last visit to tide their wives and children over until the touring break at Christmas. Laszlo is six years old now, Anna nearly five, Lena three, Antoni—fast asleep and presumably dreaming of such complexities as Hershey’s chocolate bars and Care Bear plushies—two; and there have been no additional Deacon children, a fact which seems to be the source of some disharmony between John and Veronica. What Laszlo has drawn with his rainbow of Crayolas most closely resembles a very chubby banana, but with black spots like a Dalmatian’s.

“Oh my goodness, you’re a young Picasso!” you exclaim. “It’s amazing! It’s a...it’s a...a...” Don’t fuck this up, don’t fuck this up. “It’s a...giraffe...?”

“Yeah!” Laszlo confirms, grinning.

Oh thank god.

“Very impressive,” John tells you. “I would have guessed pineapple with leprosy.”

“It’s not a leopard, Daddy,” Laszlo says seriously.

“Yes of course, I didn’t say leopard, I said leprosy, which is entirely different—”

“It’s not a leopard!” Laszlo insists.

“You heard the kid, Deaks,” Roger says, winking. “No leopards. Come over here, kiddo, let me see the nice giraffe...oh yes, it is so obviously a giraffe, you can tell by the expertly placed spots...”

“You’re so good with them,” Veronica marvels, perhaps not quite approvingly, noting how Antoni is dozing peacefully against your chest, a red hat stitched with a massive A snug over his jumble of auburn hair. “He never sleeps for anyone. Not even me.”

“Being comfortable to nap on is one of my many talents.”

“It’s true,” Roger notes, smiling, combing through the knots in his brittle bleached hair.

“No, no, no, don’t try to be modest, you’ve always been fantastically good at caring for people. I remember Brian was half dead when you brought him home from that hospital in Boston.” Chrissie is sitting on the floor of the dressing room with Anna and Lena, helping to facilitate a glamorous wedding for Barbie and Ken. Teddy and Evelyn, both four years old and with massive mops of dark ringlets, are scribbling on coloring book pages of screeching dinosaurs and plunging prehistoric comets above tangles of jungle treetops.

“Hmm,” Veronica agrees lukewarmly. “You’ll be a wonderful mother to your own one day.”

You wince, bite your lower lip, peer down at Antoni’s pacific little face. His eyes, when they’re open, are a greyish blue like John’s. Chrissie kicks Veronica’s ankle and glares at her. Brian glances over from where he’s tuning his Red Special, one rangy leg propped up on a chair.

“Not so sure that’s in the cards,” you demur.

“Keep praying, dear,” Veronica offers. “The Lord will provide in his own time.”

You blink at her. She stares pityingly back with infuriating, weepy eyes. Everyone is suddenly very quiet, except for Freddie; he starts humming Another One Bites The Dust and taps his white Adidas sneakers in rhythm.

“What uniquely helpful advice,” you reply.

“Well, surely one doesn’t need biological children to be fulfilled in life,” Roger tells Veronica lightly, like it’s a warning.

She looks thunderstruck, like this is such a novel concept, like Roger just shared with her the secret to time travel or immortal life. “Perhaps not, but you know...it’s so terribly important for most women.”

“How feminist,” Chrissie quips, lighting a cigarette, flicking the ashes away irritably.

John leans into Veronica. “Stop it,” you can just barely hear him say.

“It’s interesting you would bring up timing, Veronica,” you observe. “We were all so discrete about yours.”

Freddie snorts, tries to pretend it was a sneeze, smooths his moustache as he studies himself in the mirror.

“I’m just trying to help, love,” Veronica claims innocently. “All this can’t be good for you, this ceaseless globetrotting. Almost never waking up in the same place twice. The stress of it!”

“What do you want her to do?” Roger snaps. “Sit at home nine or ten months out of the year and, what, scrub the windows until I come back? Take up watercolor painting? Knit the world’s largest quilt?”

“I’m just saying that less physical and emotional strain might help with the situation.”

“Because you’re a freaking doctor, right?” Roger flares. Chrissie kicks Veronica again.

“People should spend more time close to home,” she continues, undaunted. “There’s nothing more important than family. Look at me, I should have another on the way by now, but the band’s schedule is simply murderous...”

“Trying for a football team?” you inquire. And in the same moment you realize: This isn’t about me at all. This is about her and John.

Freddie is still humming, modelling his Superman tank top and tight white jeans in the mirror, cinching and re-cinching his belt, sliding a red sweatband unto one wrist. The kids—all except the unconscious Antoni—are giggling and pushing each other around on the slippery linoleum floor, seemingly oblivious. John whispers something to Veronica, his face dark and furious.

“John should be home more,” she bursts out. “For me, for the children—”

Roger scoffs and rolls his eyes. “For christ’s sake, lady, he’s not your bloody lapdog!”

“You don’t really need him,” she protests, almost pleads. “He’s just the bassist, he thought this would be a hobby to fill his time on weekends when he was in school, he didn’t sign up to live this way and Queen could find another bassist and you don’t need him—”

“We do need him! He’s not just some bassist! He’s a genius and he’s irreplaceable and there’s absolutely no Queen without him, we swore to it, I’d leave if he ever did!”

“You did what?!” Brian exclaims. Freddie hums louder, stomping his sneakers to the beat, mock-boxing with his reflection in the mirror. John raises his eyebrows at Roger as if he had assumed Rog wouldn’t remember that, assumed he had never really meant it. Roger, flushed, fumbles with his lighter and finally lights a cigarette on his third attempt.

Antoni stirs, his eyes fluttering open, and Chrissie swoops in to take her turn holding him. She bounces him on her hip as she sashays around the dressing room, casting fierce scowls alternately at Veronica and John and Roger.

“You don’t understand,” Veronica hurls at Roger, lashing out like a cornered animal, her voice raw and splintering. “You’ve never sacrificed anything. Everything you’ve ever dreamed of just falls into your lap. No heartache. No consequences. You don’t know what it’s like to be one of the people who get burned.”

“You don’t know anything about me—!”

“Look, I get it,” you tell Veronica. “You want John to yourself. Anyone would. You want a normal life. But that’s the tradeoff when you love someone brilliant, isn’t it? You have to learn how to share them with the world. Because the world is so much better off with them in it.”

Veronica glowers, venomous and spiteful. She’s wearing makeup tonight, quite heavy makeup; she’s started doing that with increasing frequency. “I have no intention of sharing a husband the way you’ve had to.”

Roger stands, stalks to Veronica, towers over her, blows smoke into her stunned face. “Ma’am,” he says quietly, so the children won’t hear. “Go fuck yourself.”

“Okay, darlings!” Freddie flits over, pulls Roger away, fluffs his hair and straightens his black smock-like shirt as Roger glares around Fred’s shoulder at Veronica. “Fabulous. You look like a ten-year-old about to make a papier-mâché vase for his mum in art class. I adore it. Off you go.” He pushes open the door to the hallway and shoves Roger through it.

Roger nods for you to follow him, and you do.  

John frowns as you pass him. I’m so sorry, that expression says.

You shake your head in reply. Not your fault.

Roger slips his arm around your waist as you disappear into the hallway with him.

“That fucking miserable, judgmental, delusional, dogmatic bitch—”

“Shhhhh.” You cup his feverish cheek with your left hand, weighty with the ruby ring he gave you four years ago in New Orleans, and yank the white bandana out of his back pocket with your right. Then you knot it around his neck, smiling. “There. Now you look a little more rock and roll.”

“You’re not mad?” he asks in disbelief. “How are you not mad?”

“She’s clearly very unhappy. I feel sorry for her.” You tug on the bandana gently, fondly. You can hear Chrissie chastising Veronica behind the closed door of the dressing room. “Don’t let it ruin your show.”

“No, I would never.” But his eyes are still distant, unsettled, anxious in a way that is rare for him. “You are a freakishly good person, you know that?”

“I try. Don’t forget to smile so I can get some good pictures.”

“Oh, I’ll smile plenty. Just like this.” A grin splits through his face, and the Roger you know and love is back: bright, triumphant, flashing the daggerish points of his canine teeth. Then he draws you into him and kisses you, his rough hands in your hair, his lips smiling against yours. “Love of my life,” he whispers, rather pensively.

He shakes out his right arm—the one with the jagged scar along the soft vulnerable underside, the one he broke in a stairwell in Yokohama in the spring of 1975—and stretches the hand a few times. And you find yourself wondering, as you always do when he seems distracted like he does now, before he starts staying out late into the night, before he starts coming home drunk or high or not at all: Is he getting bad again? Is he?

I would never have to worry about that if I had married someone like John.

You fling that thought, that inconvenient and perpetual thought, back into the shadows where it came from; like a pebble tossed into the misted tree line of a forest, like a shell pitched into the sea.

“Rog, are you—?”

“I’m fine,” he cuts you off like a blade.  

~~~~~~~~~~

There’s someone screaming out in the hallway.

You reel out of bed in the darkness, step into your slippers, yank on your fuzzy white robe. The digital clock on the nightstand reads 4:11 a.m. Roger and Brian had stayed for one more round of drinks at the club when you and Chrissie left to go back to the hotel, Chrissie to relieve her nanny from kid duty, you to quiet a budding headache. You note—with a vague, drowsy sort of dread—that Roger is not in the bed beside you, his hair a disheveled blond mess peeking from beneath the covers, snoring softly, his calloused hands outstretched towards yours. Beyond the door there are earsplitting clashes of broken glass, thumps and pounding footsteps, people shouting. And now you can recognize Chrissie’s voice, shrieking and wrathful: “Now you’ve done it, now you’ve really done it, you’re going to fucking kill her!”

You throw open the door to see Roger crouched against the hallway wall, covering his head with his hands; he is surrounded by shards of glass, tiny hotel shampoo and mouthwash bottles, Bibles ripped from nightstand drawers. He’s dripping with what smells like a combination of every kind of alcohol you’ve ever tasted, and maybe some you haven’t as well.

“I wish she’d never fucking met you!” Chrissie screams, launching a bottle of Grey Goose from the minibar in her room at Roger. It explodes against the wall just above his head, and glass and vodka rain down on him. Brian is unsuccessfully attempting to coax Chrissie back into their room as she ignores him. “I wish she’d never stepped off that fucking plane because the day she agreed to come to London with you was the worst day of her life!”

“Will you stop?!” Roger yells. “Jesus christ, Chris!”

“She saved you,” Chrissie hisses, landing an elbow into Brian’s gut and sending him flying backwards. “She saved your life and this is how you repay her, you disgusting degenerate bastard!”

A bottle of Captain Morgan hits the wall and detonates two inches from Roger’s face.

“What’s going on?!” you shout at Chrissie, your arms crossed over your chest.

A few rooms down the hallway, a door opens and Freddie wanders out in a pink kimono. After a moment, John and Veronica appear from their own room in their pajamas, rubbing bleary eyes.

“I couldn’t sleep so I phoned my mum and guess what’s on the cover of the News Of The World this week.” Chrissie points at Roger. “Go on. Tell her. Tell her what you did.”

He knows; he doesn’t say anything, but he knows. You can see that he does. It’s lurking in the shallow cerulean pools of his glistening eyes like a shadow, like a ghost.

“What did you do?” John asks him, mystified.

Roger doesn’t answer. He’s looking at you, at Chrissie, back to you. It isn’t often that Roger is fearful, acutely and bone-rattlingly afraid; but he is now.

“Fine, you don’t want to own up to it? I’ll do it. I’ll tell her, you coward.” Chrissie spins to you. “Dominique Beyrand is seven months pregnant.”

I’m surrounded by goddamn mothers. “Okay. Good for her.”

Chrissie waits for it to hit you. And then it does.

Oh. Oh.

“Bleeding christ,” you hear Freddie sigh, rubbing his forehead. Veronica covers her gaping mouth with one pale hand, and she doesn’t look smug or vindicated or condemnatory; she looks terrified. John is watching you, you can see him on the periphery of your vision; you are dimly aware of him edging closer as you gaze at Roger, your eyes wide and blurring with tears, your throat burning.  

You can’t understand it, can’t imagine it, and then suddenly you can: his fingers threading through her glossy black hair, his lips skating over her neck, promises whispered through nightscape phone calls, haphazard lies whispered to you; reckless, small-boned, doe-eyed children with Dom’s olive skin and Roger’s sharp little canine teeth.

This is the part where I wake up. This is the part where it turns out to be just a hellacious dream.

But you don’t wake up, because this is real.

“Oh,” you exhale, brainlessly, helplessly.

Roger doesn’t sputter some desperate apology, he doesn’t beg you to forgive him. He stares at you with huge, starry blue eyes, booze dripping from his hair, surrender etched into the concave slump of his back and shoulders.

You ask him, already knowing the answer: “It’s not just a fling, is it?”

“No,” he replies miserably. “I thought it was, but it isn’t.”

You nod, those first hot tears spilling down your cheeks. “Okay,” you concede, your words brittle and fracturing. “I’ll file as soon as we get back to London.” File for divorce. File this entire misadventure away in my mind as a horrific and juvenile mistake. Shred the good memories into oblivion so I can’t remember how alive he once made me feel.

That seems to bother Roger, jolts him into urgency. The white bandana is still tied around his neck. “You don’t have to do that—”

“Are you fucking joking?” you pitch at him. “Are you not done humiliating me yet? Am I not ruined enough? Do I somehow still look remotely whole to you?”

John’s hand closes around your wrist. “Don’t,” he tells you gently.

Roger begins: “I never wanted to hurt—”

“But you did,” you seethe, tears slithering down your face. It’s sinking in now, it’s becoming real, it’s materializing from years of gnawing distrust into fact. They were all right about him. They were always right. John’s arms circle you, holding you back as you struggle against him. “You fucking did and I forgave you like an idiot just so you could prove to me over and over and over again how exceptionally little you cared.”

“That’s not true—!”

“You’ve done enough!” Chrissie roars at him. Brian wrestles a bottle of Don Julio out of her grasp. “You deplorable slut, can’t you see that you’ve done enough?!”

Freddie approaches Roger, dusts the glinting flecks of glass out of his hair, wrenches him staggering to his feet.

“Come on,” John murmurs, towing you towards your room. Veronica is tracking him with blazing eyes. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Go ahead, Roger!” you shout as John drags you away, as Roger is corralled into Freddie’s room. “Get clean for her, get clean for her children, tell her she’s the love of your life and marry her and give her a ring but don’t forget to remind her that none of it means a single fucking thing—!”

John stumbles with you into your hotel room. He slams the door behind him, and the world goes deathly quiet. You reel aimlessly, collapse onto the edge of the bed, dazed, staring at the bland landscape paintings on the wall, ticking down the mental list of things you’ll need to get from the Surrey house: photographs, paperwork, John’s sketches, the conch shell from Ostia.

What about the calla lilies? What about her grave?

And there’s another list as well, whether you want there to be or not; a list of things you’ll never feel again.

His teeth grazing my knuckles, his palms cradling my face, his raspy voice as he writes songs on quiet nights, the way he loved our daughter, the way he sets souls alight like wildfire.

John just stands in the middle of the hotel room, heaving in ragged breaths, his hands on his waist. And for a long time, neither of you speak at all.

“Do you want me to stay?” John says finally.

“You can’t,” you reply, thinking of Veronica and the children.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“No. I’m fine. I want to be alone.”

He comes to you, lifts your chin with one careful hand, touches his forehead to yours before he leaves. “You are never going to be alone.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You hear the key clatter in the lock, and your hotel room door creaks open. You’re laying on the floor after Queen’s second show in Montreal, staring blankly up at the ceiling, counting the black dots in the tiles like stars, imagining constellations of monsters and heroes and doomed love.

John appears above you, his brow furrowed. He shuttled all of Roger’s things to Freddie’s room after you packed them up this morning, then he took Roger’s key. “What are you doing?”

“Fantasizing about my own death.”

He checks his watch. “Will you be done in twelve minutes?”

“What happens in twelve minutes?”

“We have to leave for the afterparty on a yacht.”

You groan, sitting upright, rubbing your sore and sleepless eyes with the heels of your hands. “I can’t do it, John. I don’t have it in me tonight. I can’t mingle with all of those obnoxious music industry people. ‘Yes, hi, hello, yes it’s true, I am the sad barren soon-to-be-ex-wife, oh what a charming nineteen-year-old model mistress you have on your arm there, I too was once young and desirable and disastrously stupid.’”

He smiles. “You’re still somewhat desirable.”

“Thanks.” You reach up, take his hands, let him help you to your feet.

“You realize if you don’t go I’m going to have to hide in the corner and compulsively eat miniature quiches all by myself.”

“Your enchanting wife isn’t attending?”

“She wanted to stay with the children. Also, she hates me.”

You chuckle. “She doesn’t hate you. She passionately does not hate you, which is the problem.”

“So you’ll come with me.”

You mull this over. “Can I get so drunk I forget I exist?”

“Sure. If you promise to stay near me and away from the water.”

“Yes, I suppose that you, as a convicted felon, would be high on the list of suspects if I was to go overboard.”

“Losing you would be the worst thing that ever happened to me. Who would I call to post my bail?”

You laugh as you beam up at him, knot your fingertips through his hair, see your silhouette reflected in his greyish eyes that today remind you of storm clouds, of torrential autumn rain, of thunder. “Okay. Fine. I’ll go to your torturous yacht party.”

“Aww, what a tragedy, being forced to enjoy all the trappings of stardom” John teases, and then you can see the regret wrinkle across his face; because people don’t joke about things like tragedies around you anymore.

“It’s a hard life,” you agree. “But it feels a little easier when you’re around.”

You slip into a dark blue dress and heels and your bomber jacket that doesn’t match at all. John meets you in the hallway in a black suit. You share a limo with Brian and Chrissie, who chatter nervously about anything they can think of that doesn’t involve Roger or marriage or children or love. Bri points out constellations through the open moonroof as frigid Canadian air pours in and rattles your dangling diamond earrings, whips through your hair. John smooths the runaway strands, rests his arm across the back of your seat, smiles in a tranquil sort of way and actually appears to pay attention as Brian narrates the stories of the stars and their celestial families: Pegasus, Aquarius, Pisces, tiny Triangulum, the lightning strike zigzag of Lacerta, Perseus.

“You look gorgeous,” Chrissie tells you, and she seems to mean it.

“Thank you,” you reply politely. “If only I was also French and fertile.”

The yacht is docked on the bank of the Saint Lawrence River, an island of roaring laughter and music and twinkling strands of lights in an ocean of night. John leads you onboard, waves at the photographers who douse you in flashbulb luminescence, stands with you by the railing at the stern of the vessel as it pulls out into the river. Periodically some palpably accomplished stranger will appear, shake John’s hand, start asking him about You’re My Best Friend or Another One Bites The Dust or Under Pressure; but mostly the two of you are left alone. You drain flute after flute of pink champagne as John nurses his Manhattans, debating the merits of the various appetizers; you—ever the proud Bostonian—are partial to the bite-sized lobster rolls, while John prefers the Swedish meatballs speared on puzzlingly tropical toothpick umbrellas.

Roger is on the yacht too of course, and every once in a while you catch a glimpse of his blond hair or his blush-colored polka dot suit, hear his voice carried on the cold November wind; and you ignore this as much as you can. Twice he starts migrating towards you, and you and John pretend not to notice, dart through the crowds to the other side of the boat, your hand clasped in John’s as he weaves relatively anonymously through ballgowns and suits and reporters’ microphones. And he peeks back at you, grinning, and says: “I bet you’re thrilled no one knows who I am tonight.”

Chrissie steals you away briefly to keep her company when Brian gets snared into an excruciatingly dull interview about Queen’s next album; and when Brian comes to collect her, John greets you with a fresh glass of champagne in one hand and his fourth Manhattan in the other.

“You better make sure you don’t go overboard, Mr. Deacon,” you say, taking the champagne flute and resting your forearms on the yacht’s railing as waves break against the hull. Freshwater mist peppers your cheeks, your collarbones, the backs of your hands. Through the speakers pluck the opening notes of Hotel California. “Oh god. This song.”

“Fond memories?” John asks with a smirk. “That whole night is a blur to me.”

“It makes me think of sharks for some reason. And the Olympics.”

“It makes me feel...” He considers this. “Overwhelmed with self-loathing.”

“That’s ridiculous. You’re the least loathable person I’ve ever met.” You sip your champagne, gaze out into the moonlit currents that run from the Great Lakes to the Atlantic Ocean, to the shores of every place you’ve ever called your own. “How long did Dante live in exile from Florence?”

“Twenty years.”

You whistle. “That’s a long time to be away from home.” The fingers of your left hand clutch the railing, which is gold and sturdy and stingingly cold. “I feel a little like him sometimes. Except as you get older, home starts to feel less like places and more like people.” You twist off your ruby ring, glance down at it fleetingly, and toss it out into the glistening black waters of the Saint Lawrence River.

John looks over at you. “It’s really over, isn’t it?”

You nod slowly, mournfully. “Yeah. It’s really over.”

“And how are we feeling about that?”

“Relieved. Petrified. Exhausted. Mostly I’m just sad.”

“I’m sorry,” he says sincerely. “For everything.”

“Why? None of it was your fault.” You sigh, shake your head, peer out into the river, into the night sky, into the stars. “Maybe this is a good thing, you know? A blessing in disguise or whatever. I can move on knowing I did everything I could to salvage the marriage. I can be free. No more waiting up at night for someone who isn’t coming home. No more searching through pockets and suitcases for white powder or used needles. No more News Of The World headlines.”

John is still staring at you.

“What?” you ask, smiling warily.

He downs the rest of his Manhattan, twirls the glass as the ice cubes clink against each other. Finally, he says: “I could have given you a very different kind of life.”

Your lips, slick with gloss and tingling with sharp carbonation from the champagne, part to ask John what he means; but then you know. Your voice is a quivering, astonished whisper. “It was about me. You’re My Best Friend.”

“Yeah, it was. And most of the others were too.”

It was about me. All those years ago, that song was about me. And it still is.

“John...”

“I watched you fall in love with Roger, watched him fall in love with you. Watched this agonizing fucking dance that you do...he can’t give you what you want, you can’t be happy with less...and I just kept waiting to wake up one day and not want you anymore. And it never happened.” He laughs, briefly, bitterly. “I mean, for christ’s sake, I refused to propose to the mother of my child until I was sure you’d stay with Roger because I thought...I thought...you know, maybe. Maybe one day you’d change your mind. And I wanted to be there if you did.”

You gaze at him, soaking him in, unambiguously aware that there is no part of you that is afraid, no part of you that is shuddering or surrendering or apprehensive; there is no instinctive chorus begging you not to fall in love with him. There’s no sensation of falling at all. It feels like you’re somewhere you’ve never left.

“I know that next to someone like Roger Taylor I don’t look like much,” John confesses. “That I don’t feel like much. That I don’t light anything up the way he does. And if you can’t imagine a future with someone who isn’t him, someone who isn’t like him...then I completely accept that. But you’re always going to feel like home to me.”

You’re My Best Friend. You And I. Spread Your Wings. In Only Seven Days. Need Your Loving Tonight.

They were all about me. They were always about me.

“John...”

You don’t know what to say. You know exactly what to say.

From the crowd, a man dressed in a blue pinstripe suit and holding a Cuban cigar bellows for John. He whirls, offers a shy wave, trots over to say hello. But as they discuss concerts and albums and tours, John’s eyes meet yours through the sea of strangers and cigarette smoke, through the shifting shadows cast by flickering incandescence and moonshine.

And you watch him as the constellations and all their stars rage above, the same stars that in the time of Dante sailors read to point them home.

[siderealxmelody]

The Sundering of The Aes Sidhe

The Aes Sidhe were a diverse and proud people. If asked they claim their powers came from the elementals around them. It is said they are a people crafted by Da'at itself to bring balance to the world.

They held a prophecy of their own:

When The Dove was killed by The Raven, The Aes Sidhe would cease to exist.

Aes Sidhe Scholars poured over ancient texts, trying to understand if the words meant animals or people. It was only when the daughters of Asmodai and Noreah that the prophecy finally made sense.

It was said upon seeing his daughters Asmodai exclaimed:

"I have beheld true beauty on this hour. Danu, my darling smiles up at me chiseled from ivory. Anu, my sweet gazes up at me molded from ebony. I need not wish for any more paintings for how they could compare to the Dove and Raven before me?"

Courtiers and scholars rushed to the Palace. Many demanded Anu be killed, others asked for her to be raised away from the palace. Asmodai and Noreah outright refused. It was Noreah who quelled any words though, coming to the royal balcony only days after her birthing. It is said though she was pale and still bleeding, her voice rang strong and clear:

"We will not show such blatant favoritism and prejudice to our own children. They are ours and they will be raised together. To suggest otherwise is speak the will of cowards."

The girls were given the same teachers and both soon came to be adored by any who met them. Danu was lively, and always smiling. Anu was erudite and able to best even the Scholars who taught her.

It said that though Danu was the heir apparent she wished to rule with her sister. A request that everyone honored. After all, they were better together than apart.

As The Tel-Assar's instability and threats began to grow, both went to Morozko's court. Anu and he engaged in hours long political discussions.

Danu was free to wander the castle, this is how many think she and Indech first found each other. Their friendship wasn't a secret, but to be anything else would throw their worlds out of balance.

Still as Indrch grew more and more furious of how Morozko handled matters of state - the closer he and Danu became. It is said they exchanged thousands of letters in a week, that both found in the other what they lacked.

In the aftermath of Vairya's horrible act Indech and Danu married and consummated their union in secret. For a time the world hung frozen, there was not much anyone could do but simply survive.

As the Fimbulwinter began the Aes Sidhe thought of their own survival over power. It was in this time that Danu came to Anu with her secret. She and Indech had married and had a child. The baby was old enough now to come to court, won't she debut him?

Anu was disgusted by her sister, how dare she sully their line with a Tel-Assar? And not even one who was worthy of them. Indech was a power-hungry monster, who was to say he hadn't seduced her into this? Whose to say he wasn't like his Kin and this was all an elaborate rouse to understand the secrets of The Aes Sidhe?

Danu refused to see reason and departed for Indech and hers home deep in the mountains of Gog Sheklah. It was protected and the seat of Indech's power.

Anu pulled her back and the sisters's argument turned violent, ending with Danu dead on the ground. As news spread of what Anu had done, the Aes Sidhe splintered.

Those who found it horrifying and unjust wished to protect Indech and his son. They became the Titans. It is these people that claimed Zahak as the descendent of Danu. They claim not only is Zahak the true heir of the Throne of Thorns (as the name suggests, it was a throne made out Thornwood). The Throne was an holy relic with the shavings of it used to help Aes Sidhe contact their ancestors. It is believed that wood could make any poison and cure any ailment, but the one who will bring about the unification of The Aes Sidhe once again.

Those who agreed with Anu and her actions became the Fae. It was this faction that swiftly took control of any and all lands once belonging to the Tel-Assar. Anu's grief over her sister turned into rage. She worked with the Chimera to kill as many Tel-Assar as she could.

Those who refused to chose, who wished to honor one of Danu became the Cubi. One of Danu's last words was to help keep the balance, for isn't that what they were designed for?

Indech's son ingratiated himself with the people that now called themselves Titans. He spoke of the ways his father died to protect their people. He began the first trials and let himself fade into obscurity.

His son was Zahak who lead a war against the Fae and Grisha who fought against both his grandparents. Zahak may have died but his sons survived. Lazar and Juris ran from the ruined kingdom and to the seas. Lazar guided Juris to the Gren Family, hearing their prayers for a child on the wind.

Once Juris was safe with them Lazar slipped back into the seas, becoming the ancient sea monster Rusalye. He watched out of his younger brother as he sailed along the seas and borne down on any enemies of the Grens.

Juris Gren would come to meet Ludamilla and Aleksander in due time. The three of them would become close friends. It was Juris who begged Aleksander to stay his hand in the wake of her death - though his advice went unheeded.

He was locked in Aleksander's shadow prison for his troubles.

Danu - The White Queen, The Dove, The Ivory Queen, Sankta Danu of The Wellspring

Anu - The Red Princess, The Phantom Queen, The Queen of Air and Darkness, The Raven, Sankta Anu of The Doors

For anyone who cares about the other side of things....

@xdarklingx

@thequillandthesword

@truthuncovered

@siiinfully

@rebelliousfamily​

[conaionaru]

Honor and Blood (Ivar the Boneless)

I'll run to you

Synopsis: 

Warnings: Ivar, Silas, toxic family, mentions of murder, angst

Tags:

@xbellaxcarolinax​ @shannygoatgruff​ @didiintheblog​ @lol-haha-joke​ @youbloodymadgenius​ @heavenly1927​ @queenbeeta​ @astridbaby​ @chynagirl13​ @thereareendlessopportunities

P.S. I did some edits of Ivar x Vanya. And I found the perfect song for them (where the title of this chapter comes from) and made an edit of that as well.

I don’t own the gifs. Also, thank you for your support. I really appreciate it. If you want to be tagged please write me<3

When Vanya was a little girl, she dreamt of marrying a noble Prince and becoming his Queen. She imagined a huge castle and her father visiting her as often as possible. Even her mother was proud of her for being a good Christian wife.

Never did she dream of being here, drifting on a boat with a sore shoulder, woozy from mead with her sleeping heathen son in her lap. Why must dreams always be so wrong?

But truth to be told, she loved the life she lived now. Well, not right now, but the last year. Her experience in Kattegat was perfect. Despite his short temper, Ivar was a good man. He loved her unconditionally, protected her, and listened to her. His brothers were kind to her, and she trusted them with her life. Even Sigurd, with who she sometimes butted heads. She had a friend and found a mother in Aslaug and Helga.

She missed them so much. Two days on the water made her want to cry. She cried nowadays more than the babe she gave birth to. He seemed content; he loved watching the ravens fly over their heads and played with her hair when she held him.

How funny it seemed to her that she loved sailing when she came here. Now she yearned to stand on dry land and sleep in a warm bed wrapped in Ivar's arms.

Whenever Vanya didn't think of home, she thought of Silas, especially what she would do to him. She had been meek and peaceful for so long, forgave him everything he did to her. But that changes now; he didn't just hurt her or degrade her. He tried to kill her and her son. His knights murdered an innocent woman. He would pay the blood price for it.  

The raven made a sound and left their usual circling spot. Vanya watched them go and perked up. Land. It meant land was near. She put her child into the nets and rowed towards the direction the birds flew.

Her shoulder screamed in protest, and she felt it reopen as her dress got wet with blood. She ignored it and kept on rowing. She was out of food, and the mead wouldn't last more than two cups. They needed to find water and food.

Ivar laid in his bed, sweat dripping from his forehead, the whites of his eyes blue. His legs hurt too much today; he had to stay in bed but couldn't sleep at all. All he could do was lay there in pain and think of all the ways he will torture Vanya's attacker. He prayed to the Gods that she was still alive. Two days ago, she went missing, and everyone was losing hope.

Aslaug had no visions, and Hoenir was no help. He dragged himself to the Seer yesterday, but all he got was vague answers. "You know the answer, Boneless." He knew Vanya had grown stronger and that she promised to protect their son. But so did he and now, he doesn't know where she is or if she is even alive.

He promised her that no one would ever lay a hand on her again, and he failed. If he ever saw her again, he wouldn't let her out of his sight.

"Drink the tea, Ivar. It will help." Ubbe ordered, walking into the room, looking at the untouched cup on Ivar's bedside. Right next to the tea was the carved figure of Fenrir and Vanya's serpent necklace.

"Did you find her? Anything?" Ivar begged as his brother wiped his damp forehead.

Ubbe shook his head and put the rag down. "A fisherman's boat went missing two days ago. Mother thinks Vanya might have taken it. So we sent some boats out to look for her. But if she drifted out into the open..."

He didn't have to finish the sentence for Ivar to understand. If Vanya drifted away, the storm that was gathering would sink her ship and drown them both. Hoenir saw her drown, what if he was right and she would? No amount of sacrifices would bring her back then. He would be alone again, with Aslaug the only one to love him. Ubbe might love him, but there are moments he must wish his brother wasn't alive.

The times he had to carry him or stay at home because Ivar was in pain. Having to check on his legs and eyes all the time. In everybody's eyes, Ivar was a burden; he was aware of it. Vanya was the only one who didn't care or look down on him. In her eyes, Ivar was perfect despite his shortcomings. Over time, she grew used to his temper and pain. She comforted him, held him, whispered sweet words into his ear as he fell asleep.

She loved him, and he left her alone after she bore him a son. He didn't even get to hold him. His perfect son, who had his eyes and hair. His healthy boy. Ivar hated himself, but he hated the world more.

"How long we have to keep looking? It's been two days now. The corpses must show up soon." Pæga complained, pulling off his boots and sinking his feet into the bowl with water.

Silas glared at the knight and stabbed his dagger into the table. "Boats were sent out to search for her, a fisherman's boat went missing, they think Vanya is in it. If she survived and they find her... My sister saw your faces. She isn't so stupid to fall for a few farmers in your clothes. If you get caught, then it means my death as well." He spat at his knights while Stithulf sat in the corner, sharpening his sword.

"I doubt she is alive. She doesn't strike me as a survivor. Vanya was sent here to wither and die, to brake and suffer. She might have charmed her way around Kattegat. But smiles and gifts aren't going to save her from death. She was hit with an arrow; I saw her sink. All they will find is a dead child in the boat. Vanya is dead, and you are the only possible ruler of Slegia."

Stithulf stood up after his rant and walked towards his King. He lifted the crown from the table and put it on his head. "A crown for a King. The one true King. Vanya will never wear this thing; neither will her children; I made sure of it."

Silas nodded and proudly pushed his chest out. The knight was right; he was the King, and Vanya was dead. First, he dealt with her; next is his mother and her new husband. Then his uncle and Wrosan will be his. The victory was certain.

Vanya hauled herself from the boat and pulled it on land so the tide wouldn't wash it away. Her son stirred in his little bed while Vanya collapsed on the ground, exhausted.

The ravens left them alone, and she had no idea where to go. This part of Kattegat was unfamiliar to her. So as she laid there, she prayed to the Gods to show her a way to get home. But no sign or help came.

So she wrapped herself tighter in her cloak and took her child with her heading west, the other way than she drifted off. She needed to get to a familiar location: the hunting hut, Floki's house, or even the forest before Kattegat.

Vanya walked with her son in her arms, without a pause. She managed to find some berries Helga taught her were edible and a stream of water. After she ate, she fed her son and carried on in her way. Her feet were sore, and her son was becoming too heavy for her weak arms.

Other than wilderness and silence, there was nothing around her. Every tree looked the same, and the shade they gave her made navigating with the sun harder. She shivered as the winds grew colder.

When her son whimpered in her arms, she froze. Her being cold wasn't that bad. But to him, it meant death. So she carefully put him on the ground and took off her cloak and swaddled him in it. Her thinned down frame shook in the cold winds while her son burrowed himself into the new warmth.

Vanya looked down at his little content face and smiled. All of this hardship was worth it if he was healthy and alive. This life she created and carries inside her, that she spent hours bringing into the world. It meant everything to her; it hurt to admit that her mother was right. A mother has no choice but to love her child; only a monster would ignore her own blood like that. But the thing Siflaed was wrong about was that Vanya did love Ivar. Despite everything she heard about him and his people, she grew to love him no, her people. Kattegat was her home now; she was born to live here; she knew it.

And when she returned, she would never leave again; she would remain and raise her son. She would see all the other sons of Ragnar start their own families and see Aslaug grow old. Hold Bjorn's adorable children and gossip with Torvi and Brynja. She would sit on the bench in front of the Great Hall, sewing a dress together, with Ivar by her side with their son in his arms. Vanya would come to visit Helga and Floki more often like she promised she would and try to make Margrethe less afraid of Ivar. He wasn't the monster; everyone made him out to be; her husband had a lonely heart with high walls made of anger.

She remembered the story of Eve and the Devil. The way the serpent tricked Eve into eating the apple and be banished from Eden for it. She also remembered the story one of Siflaed's lovers told her of the Greek goddess Persephone and the pomegranate. How Hades offered the fruit to her, and she stayed with him as his wife.

But Vanya didn't feel like Eve; her husband was no evil serpent leading her on. He was Hades, the god known for his dark demeanor, but a good husband. She wasn't a meek Christian like Eve, Vanya was Persephone. A good heart with love for nature, married to a man of shadowed behavior who everyone feared. But they both held darkness and light, she wasn't just a maiden who plucked blooming flowers, and Ivar wasn't just an angry heathen with a quick tongue. Her tongue was as equally sharp as his and his love as real as hers. They were King and Queen of the Underworld, Prince and Princess of Kattegat.

With determination, Vanya strode on, thankful for the shoes she managed to put on before her escape. Walking barefoot on top of lightly dressed would have meant her death. She could hear an owl hoot somewhere behind her until it flew past her and landed on a branch. "Frigga." She whispered as the bird stared at her with yellow eyes, it's white feathers standing out in the treetops.

"Have you come to take me home, All-Mother? Odin's ravens looked over my son and me on the boat, and now you have come for us. Goddess of mothers and queens, of war, wisdom, and strategy. I beg you, take me home." She begged the hooting white owl that took off and landed on another branch, waiting for the ginger to follow.

Vanya chuckled at the sight and followed after the frequently stopping bird. "This better be Frigga, or I will die. That's your descendant on the line, Odin. Don't let me die, All-father, All-mother."

Everyone stood gathered in the Great Hall in the evening, waiting for what Aslaug had to say. Silas stood in the corner of the room, surrounded by his armed knights. "My brother Ivar was graced with a son three days ago. But his son and wife were ripped away by a murderer, who sneaked into their hut and killed the wet nurse." Bjorn announced watching the faces of everyone present.

Floki and Helga leaned a support beam, both looking grim, while the boatbuilder glared at Silas. Ivar sat next to his mother, with Hoenir standing behind them. Brynja and Margrethe watched the whole ordeal from their place with the other servants and slaves. The other brothers stood behind Bjorn, who towered over the room, reminding all of their father. He carried the same authority even without a crown on his head.

Aslaug lifted her head higher and wrapped his fingers around the armrests of her throne. "The one responsible will answer to the Gods. The more blood they have on their hands, the more dire their demise will be. This person is charged with treason and murder..."

Ubbe left his mother's side while she talked and walked with Floki and Hoenir towards the exits. They barricaded the door while no one was watching. The only way to open them now would be from the outside, where Floki stood watch.

"The return of my daughter in law Vanya is becoming unlikely. A funeral will be held soon to honor her death, Floki has agreed to build a boat to bury her. If she is not found until the ship is done, we shall burn some of her possessions instead."

Stithulf observed the heathens around him; they seemed on edge, ready to pounce at any moment. Of course, Silas was obvious to all this, too distracted by the Queen's speech to notice.

"But, we do know the one responsible for this tragedy." The knights head snapped towards the throne. Everyone grew silent, waiting for Aslaug to continue. "We questioned people and gathered that there is only one possible suspect behind all this. Someone willing to murder a mother and child int heir sleep."

The room was tense as if a war would erupt at any moment. Ivar clenched his jaw before smirking at Silas, who froze in his spot.

"How do you answer these charges... King Silas?" The Saxon's breaths hitched in fear as the knights wrapped their hands around their swords' handles, ready to draw them and kill everyone. But they were outnumbered and locked in with bloodthirsty heathens.

"This is outrageous! I loved my sister. And you are claiming me as a murderer only because you failed to find the real one. My sister is dead because of you!" He roared at the remaining sons of Ragnar and his wife. But they didn't even flinch all the Queen did, was push her shoulders back and raise an eyebrow at his outburst.

"So you claim, but there is no proof. All we saw were spiteful words and tantrums. You bribed farmers to change clothes with your knights; then, you ordered them to kill Vanya and her son. But Margrethe remembered their faces, and it wasn't the faces we see here today." Sigurd called out as the said thrall covered behind Brynja. She confessed this to Sigurd last night, and since then, the Ragnarsson and Aslaug had been plotting.

Silas frowned and shook his head, chuckling. "And do tell me... What would my reason be? Sibling rivalry? Don't be ridiculous. I may not have been overly fond of my sister, I admit. But I wouldn't murder her. And the baby? Son or not, I hold no ill will against either."

"Vanya and her son possessed a threat to you, childless, unfit to rule. But Vanya is loved here, and I am sure she was the same in England. You ordered her death and will die for it. An eye for an eye."  Bjorn threatened as Silas gulped and gave an uneasy smile.

He shrugged and spread his arms wide to show he was unarmed and possessed no threat to them, other than his knights who drew their swords. "Let's spare ourselves these dramatics. Vanya is dead, and I am not the culprit. Let's not have a ghost of a disobedient whore get between our agreement."

Ivar slammed his fist against his chair and glared at the daring King. He would have leaped out of his seat and strangled the bastard if it wasn't for Bjorn, Sigurd, and Hvitserk holding him back. "How dare you?" The Ragnarsson roared his nostrils flaring in rage.

Silas pointed to Ivar's legs with a smirk.  "Your... Affliction. Do you really think the child was yours? My darling sister would do anything to please you as a proper wife should. And giving you a child, even one that's not truly yours. It would please you. Wouldn't it? To think that you are a real man, able to produce an heir." The blonde Christian taunted as everyone glared at what he was suggesting.

"I did you a favor before things escalated, and you would believe other idiotic lies my sister would have fed you to keep herself alive a little longer. I saved you from further embarrassment and grief. Vanya is dead, and there is nothing to change that." He sounded at peace with his oncoming death. Silas knows he and his knights will die, but might as well anger the heathens some more. Die a horrid death and go down in history as a martyr: Saint Silas, The tortured King.

Stithulf, on the other hand, looked distressed, all the whispering he did, all for nothing. All his hard work wasted on a foolish king with a big ego and greedy heart. His chance at fame and ruling, all gone, because of a ginger Princess who just couldn't stay meek and timid like she was meant to be.

The sound of something shattering broke the tense atmosphere. Everyone looked st the redheaded servant that let her jug of water, fall to the floor. "Vanya." She whispered, her face pale and eyes wide. They followed her gaze and gazed at the open door in shock.

"Why do you think I am dead, Brother?" Vanya's voice rasped out as the ginger leaned against the door frame, a shield pierced with many arrows in one hand. Her hair was frizzy, her skin pale, and her eyes sunken in. Her white dress was stained with bloody some on her shoulder, the rest on her lap, from childbirth.

She took a shaky step forward and shifted her arms slightly. Helga runs to her side, and Floki stood behind her in case she fell. The Ragnarssons run to her while Ivar stared at her in shock. Standing up, Aslaug observed the presumably dead Princess in wonder.

"Helga, you need to look after my son. I tried to keep him warm and fed. Please check him."  Vanya pleaded with the blonde woman, letting the shield riddled with arrows fall to the floor. Hidden behind the protection was a bundle of furs and cloak, squirming at the new warm place they entered.

Helga shakily took the babe out of Vanya's trembling embrace to see the child alive and well despite the ordeals he went through. She ushered the child away as Ubbe reached his sister in law, laying a hand on her shoulder to steady her. But she shook it off and slowly advanced towards Silas, who took a few steps towards her as well.

"How? You should be dead." He whispered, still in denial that his plan didn't work.

"I forgave you so much, Silas. So many wounds. I forgave them all, ignored them, and asked my family to ignore them as well. But that ends today. You killed an innocent woman! You tried to kill my son!"

Silas shook his head, refusing to admit defeat against his little sister. His foolish sister, who was born weak and was meant to abide by him. The one who defied him and survived. "You won't hurt me, Vanya. You are weak. Remember your place, and we can forget this. Beg me for forgiveness, and I shall grant it to you. All I want in return is save passage back home. Kill my knights instead."

"You think I will beg? I did nothing to ask forgiveness for! You are a monster, Silas. Just like father and mother said you were. Do you think I will cower before you? Just because you are my brother?" She seethed stalking towards him as Silas drew a dagger and pointed it at her, shaking, fearful of this side of Vanya.

The ginger keeps on advancing, not caring for the weapon pointed at her. The adrenaline running through her veins made her forget what fear feels like at all. All she could see was the man who made her life a living hell and tried to kill her son! "Blessed are the meek, Vanya." He reminded her, hoping that the sentence that their mother used to drill into her head would calm her down, but his sister didn't even blink.

"Yes. Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth. For theirs is the kingdom of heaven." She spat back a part of the Beatitudes, laughing at his poor attempt at containing her rage. "Do you think the words of Jesus or God will stop me? Do you honestly believe that you will be forgiven? I am past forgiveness and meekness! I want you to pay for my and my son's suffering in blood!"

Silas took a few steps back, his hand shaking like crazy. Vanya was nearly in front of him now, her hand grasped his dagger around the sharp edge, no fear in her eyes. They looked like frozen over fjord's, determination and anger swirling around. She tugged his knife from his grasp and threw it behind her, surprising everyone. Blood dripped from the cut on her palm, trailing down her slender fingers and hitting the floorboards.

"I would burn cities and kingdom's to the ground and make him King of the Ashes if they dared to threaten him!" She screamed at her brother, getting into his face and glaring up at him as he shook in his spot.

"Vanya, please, have mercy. I am your brother. I did it to protect my claim. You must understand. I was born to rule; I deserve to sit on the throne for eternity. Please have mercy." The two siblings stared into each other's eyes, the frozen fjords meeting the tearful sky.

She softly shook her head and softened her angry expression. Ivar crawled towards them, observing the blood-stained dagger and her bleeding hand clenched by her side. "Mercy is a Christian value, and I am not Christian anymore." She hissed backhanding him with her bleeding left hand so hard that he hit the floor.

Silas cradled his aching cheek and stared at Vanya in shock. The ginger glared down at him with disdain obvious in her expression. "That's why I wish you the most painful death instead." She spat at him before two men dragged him away as he cried and cursed at them, begging them to let him go as other Vikings killed his knights when they dared to attack.

Ivar crawled to Vanya's left and took her cold bleeding hand in his, startling her from her trance. She looked down at him tenderly as he looked over her tired body. "I missed you." He whispered, staring up at her with adoration as she returned his tender look, softly smiling.

"I missed you too." Ubbe supported her swaying frame and carried her towards the awaiting healers, thanking the gods for her return, alive and well. Ivar watched her get carried away and spared a glance at the dead bodies of the Saxon knights before he followed his brother and wife.

[bellemorte180]

Winners of the Wanderlust Betting Pool- Eils-blog

Thank you so much to everyone who participated in the Wanderlust Betting Pool. In return, @klavscaroline​ and I decided to make a mini drabble and edit of their choice for the winners.

Prompt: mates AU: hybrid Klaus and human / untriggered werewolf Caroline. Klaus tries to get Caroline to trigger her werewolf curse and win her over to take her rightful place by his side

Written by @bellemorte180 | Edit by @klavscaroline

The body laid in the middle of the abandoned road; mangled and torn. Blood was spattered all over the pavement; the blood glistening silver in the moonlight. Her heartbeat was racing and adrenaline pumping through her veins. The car door was hanging open, a dinging sound echoing through what would be a silent night.

They lied to her. They all lied to her. She had known that for weeks, but at that moment, their lies seemed so much more real.

“It’s alright, Sweetheart. I have you. I have you.” Klaus’s voice soothed her as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. She could not explain it. There was something that made her want to bury herself beneath his skin. She felt a burning inside her that made her want to claw her way into him; she felt safe and wanted as he held her. She had just killed a man, an accident on her part, but the outcome was still the same; the man’s distorted body rested lifeless on the ground with his head turned at a wrong angle. Caroline still could hear the snap as he hit her car.

This was her senior year. It was meant to be magical; not supernatural. Prank night was supposed to be fun; the only drama being finding a way to avoid her ex-boyfriend, Matt, not learning that she was fated to be with the oldest vampire alive. Or that vampires, werewolves and all manner of supernatural beings were real- and that she was one of them.

She didn’t trust them, not anymore; not even her own mother or father who kept such a secret from her. Or her friends that lied to her over and over again about what was going on; or the fact that her nightmares about a man with blue eyes were slowly making more sense. The only one who had been honest with her, was Klaus.

And the truth was terrifying.

“I killed him. I didn’t mean to. He was just standing there in the middle of the road and wouldn’t move. I didn’t mean to hit him. Oh god…oh god.” Caroline could feel the panic swell up inside her as she looked at the body on the ground again; the sight of blood would never leave her now. Yet, Klaus was there; holding her, telling her that it would all be okay. Then it clicked. “You did this. You wanted me to trigger the curse; you wanted me to kill him. You did this to me. You made me a murder!”

The last words came out as a scream; hysterical and loud. It echoed amongst the trees, not a single soul around to hear her anguish. She narrowed her eyes at Klaus. She knew he was a monster. From the moment he stood in the middle of the science lab and turned Tyler into something she did not understand. She did not like Tyler, for he never supported the relationship she had with Matt but that did not mean she wanted to watch as his neck was snapped. Klaus’s soulless blue eyes met her icy ones and the world got sharper; colors shined brighter and all that mattered was him.

“No, Sweetheart. I made you stronger.” Klaus’s soothing voice reached her, his posture ridged and on guard; as though he was approaching a rapid animal. The change was happening and Caroline could feel in her bones, she supposed she was stronger; but that did not make the truth any less real. “I made you better. The full moon is in three days. You’ll turn. It will be painful; I will not lie but I will be there for every moment your bones break and crack. We will run under the moon. Then, I will collect some of Elena’s blood and I will gift you with immortality.”

“But he is dead.” Caroline waved to the corpse on the ground.

“Would it make you feel better if I told you he was a rapist? I know how you detest those.” Klaus flashed her a whitening smile that sent chills down her spine. For months she had been having nightmares; terrifying blue eyes, a cruel smile and raven hair. Over and over again she ran from him and yet he continued to pull her back into his grasps. She knew that she dated Damon and that he was cruel to her; but the memories were fuzzy. Only in her dreams did everything begin to make sense again.

Apparently, compulsion was feeble when it came to werewolves; even untriggered ones.

“Why can’t we just go now? Hmm? Elena will give me her blood. She feels guilty for lying to me.” Caroline still had not forgiven Elena for the lies she had told. If, perhaps, it had just been a lie to protect Stefan and Bonnie, she might be forgiving…. but never for Damon. “I don’t want to change. Tyler told me how it feels. What he goes through. I can’t go through that.”

“I need you to change at least once. Just once. I need to know that you’ll become a hybrid like me. I couldn’t turn you before you trigger your curse because I don’t want you ending up like the wolves I tried turning before.”

“But why? Why do this to me!?”

“Because I can’t lose you!” Klaus all but screamed out. Caroline was taken aback, staring at him wide eyed; not being able to process the words he was speaking. His eyes looked terrified and broken; gone was the confidant man who blew Caroline’s entire life apart, all the while putting it back together. “I never expected to find you so quickly, or at all. Triggered wolves always find their mates. I wasn’t sure if I would find you because part of me wondered if you were alive while I was human. If I did find you, I never thought that you wouldn’t have already triggered your curse. But here you are; untriggered and perfect.”

“I’m perfect Klaus. I killed a man.” Caroline whispered. “I will have to live with that for the rest of my life. No matter how horrible he is or what he has done. I killed him.” Klaus gave a deep breath and walked over to Caroline; placing his hands on her shoulders. He leaned forward and kissed the top of her head. Caroline knew that she should push him away; scream and slap at him for what he had done, for what he had turned her into. But she couldn’t. She wanted nothing more than to let him hold her. “What do we do with the body?”

“I’ll take care of it.” Klaus told her, kissing her on the top of her head again. “Go to the manor and I’ll meet you there. I’ll have someone fix your car. No one will know what happened here. Okay?”

“Yeah.” She gave the body one last mournful look and turned back to Klaus. She thought on what he said, about him being a rapist. She thought on the victims and what they would think on if they knew he was dead. If someone told her Damon had been killed, she would celebrate. Caroline clung to that feeling. “He was a bad man?”

“Very.”

“Okay.” Caroline moved towards her car and looked over her shoulder at Klaus. She did not like this. She did not like the idea of being a murder, but she wasn’t surprised. Klaus had been telling her for weeks that he wanted her to trigger her gene; that he wanted her forever and that tugged at her heartstrings; especially since she was giving Bonnie and Elena the silent treatment.

“Caroline?”

“Yes?”

“In a thousand years this moment will only be a blimp. You’ll look back on it and you won’t even remember his face.” Klaus told her and she knew it was meant to be comforting but Caroline could not imagine a time when that man’s face will not haunt her. “You’ll be a queen Caroline and all those who wronged you will be dealt with.”

Caroline heard the promise in his words and really smiled for the first time since she hit that man with her car.

“And how do you know I’ll be around in a thousand years?”

“Because I’ll ensure it.”

[alwaysraineh]

yooooo rachel that ask game is practically MADE FOR ME, this is just going to be a mix but 1, 3, 10 for jaskier, lup, and taako as characters! not in that order, mix and match to your heaaart's content, i will humbly devOUR any insipiration you can spaaaaare 🥺🥺💛💛

ooomg JOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!! this took a few days so i apologize for that but each prompt could have worked for each character and i had to figure out what i wanted to do but it was so. fun. i had a blast with this!!!! tysm for giving me so much to play around with!!! i hope you like them!!!!

also i’m gonna put them under the cut bc they got kinda long all together lol

send me a number and a pairing and i’ll make them kiss!

1. small kisses littered across the other’s face

“Stop! Stop, stop, stop!” Taako shrieks, giggling wildly in a way that tells Kravitz he isn’t too serious about his demands. He grins, dark eyes twinkling with mischief, and pulls back just far enough to admire the flush on Taako’s cheeks and the breathless part of his lips.

“You’ve made your point,” Taako continues, all teeth and laughter.

“I most certainly have not!” Kravitz protests, swooping back down to press several quick kisses to Taako’s temple and eyebrows. “I told you I would kiss every part of you that I find beautiful, and you-”

“I said you’re a dramatic sap!”

“Perhaps. But I intend to finish what I’ve started!”

Taako dissolves into another fit of giggles as Kravitz kisses his nose, his ear, his eyelashes. He pushes half-heartedly at his boyfriend’s chest, no real effort in his shoves, and tries to roll to the side when Kravitz blows a raspberry against his cheek. Both men go tumbling off the couch at that, ending in a pile of limbs and breathy chuckling on the floor before Kravitz concedes and smooths a lock of hair behind Taako’s ear, giving an infatuated smile when the elf presses a soft kiss to the inside of his wrist in response.

3. a breathy demand: “kiss me” - and what the other person does to respond

For a moment, all Jaskier can hear is his own pulse roaring in his ears. Next comes the heavy pant of Geralt’s breath somewhere above him and the faint hiss of sizzling acid from the other side of the thick tree trunk he’s been pressed against. Then, somewhat belatedly, the realization that his hands are on Geralt’s chest- quite specifically, his fingers are wrapped white-knuckled around the straps of the witcher’s armor.

Jaskier relinquishes his hold, startled, and in the same heartbeat Geralt curses and steps away, shaking his arm with a sour expression. The movement reveals a small hole in his sleeve and a nasty-looking welt on his skin that definitely wasn’t there before he’d seized Jaskier around the middle and whipped him into the relative safety of the tree.

So perhaps following Geralt when the witcher had specifically directed him to stay behind hadn’t been Jaskier’s brightest idea. But in his defense, Geralt rarely provided any details of his hunts, so how was Jaskier meant to know that a dying bloedzuiger would explode into a horrible spray of disgusting stomach acids upon receiving a killing blow? All the same, as he starts to regain his senses after the shock of being slammed against a tree, he does feel a bit guilty about Geralt’s arm- he likely wouldn’t have been wounded at all if Jaskier hadn’t stupidly wandered into the splash zone and needed protecting from the flesh-melting bloedzuiger juice.

Seemingly deciding his arm is fine, Geralt looks back at Jaskier and frowns. He steps closer, sword still in hand and hair brown with mud, dripping dirty swamp water as he looks the bard over for injuries.

“Did it spray you?” he asks, voice gruff.

Jaskier tries to answer and finds he can’t quite get the words out; his pulse now thrums at the base of his throat, nearly choking him. Geralt steps closer yet again, pushing forward into Jaskier’s personal space with a tight expression.

“Jaskier?”

“Y-your eyes,” Jaskier manages to gasp, barely resisting the urge to let his head fall back against the trunk.

Geralt immediately retreats, turning his face away and raising a hand to hide the deep black of his sclerae. Whatever potion it is that he’d taken before the hunt clearly hasn’t worn off yet. Jaskier scrambles to follow as the witcher moves; Geralt has never allowed Jaskier to see him like this before, and Jaskier isn’t going to miss his chance. He’s never said as much, but Jaskier knows that the effects of these potions are what make Geralt feel the most monstrous.

“No, no, no,” he murmurs, catching Geralt by the shoulder and hurrying to plant himself in the witcher’s path. “Geralt, I’m not frightened by you. You’re not a monster, you- gods, Geralt, you’re breathtaking!”

Geralt allows Jaskier to pull his hand down, but keeps his face turned to the side. Jaskier pushes as close as he dares, breath still caught in his lungs and heart hammering in his chest.

“Kiss me.”

Geralt finally looks to Jaskier again, black eyes startled. “Are you- Jaskier, you can’t be serious.”

“Deadly serious, I’m afraid. Kiss me!”

“This is hardly the time or place, bard. We’re in a swamp. That bloedzuiger is barely dead.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes and steps daringly closer, trying to square his shoulders and put forth a challenge for Geralt. “You’re ruining the mood.”

“The mood?!”

“Well, I’ll admit it isn’t exactly the nice, clean inn I’d usually prefer, but-”

“Are you really that desperate?” Geralt interrupts, sweeping his free arm in a wide arc to indicate the carnage and pools of bloedzuiger acid around them.

Heady with the adrenaline of survival and spurred on by the odd attraction he has to Geralt with a layer of sweat and grime upon his skin, Jaskier gives a wicked grin.

“For you, Geralt, I’d have to admit I’m always this desperate.”

Slowly, a similar grin spreads over Geralt’s lips. He shakes his head and steps ever closer, taking Jaskier firmly by the back of the neck and feeling the bard practically melt in his grip.

“You are ridiculous,” he murmurs against Jaskier’s ear before grazing his teeth along the soft skin at the join of his jawline and throat.

When Jaskier whines in response, Geralt indulges him with a chaste kiss that quickly devolves into a rough clash of teeth and tongues that leaves them both breathless. Their panted breath mingles in the space between them, hot on Jaskier’s lips before he stretches up to press gently against the corner of Geralt’s mouth with a lazy smile.

“Next time I tell you to kiss me, Geralt, don’t act so much like you don’t want to.”

Geralt growls low in his throat and shoves Jaskier back up against the tree with one hand heavy on his chest. “Next time I tell you to stay in camp, Jaskier,” he says, voice rough, “don’t follow me until the beast is slain. I can’t kiss you if you’re dead.”

10. a hello/goodbye kiss that is given without thinking - where neither person thinks twice about it

It’s just a weekend with Taako, Barry reminds himself. It isn’t like Lup is about to disappear for another decade, and Taako would never let any harm come to her. There’s no reason to fear her leaving for ‘Twin Time’ - actually, scratch that. There are many things to fear when Taako and Lup are left to their own devices. (What comes to mind first involves several explosions and maniacal laughter.)

What Barry doesn’t have to worry about is that his wife won’t return. Three days, she had said. Three days and she would be home and he wouldn’t have to miss her anymore. Maybe he could invite Kravitz over, she had suggested. Taako had emphatically agreed with that statement, mentioning that it wouldn’t do either of them any good to sit alone in their homes waiting for the twins to return. They could have gone on a mission for the Raven Queen, Kravitz had protested. (They did not.)(If they cuddled on the couch and gushed about the twins or not was another matter entirely.)

All the same, when he hears the telltale sound of a portal opening in the other room and the twins’ laughter, Barry’s mood skyrockets. He pads down the hall in his socks and pokes his head around a doorframe, ready to welcome Lup home, only to find himself wrapped in her arms and lifted into an excited spin. Lup presses their lips together, warm and gentle and familiar and home, as she sets his feet back on the floor, then nuzzles her face into the crook of his shoulder.

“I missed you,” she says, voice muffled against his neck, and Barry finds himself suddenly misty-eyed. He kisses the top of her head and rests his cheek against her hair, closing his eyes as he steadies his breath and relishes the calming weight of her body in his arms.

“I missed you, too, babe.”

[passivenovember]

The Skull on the Shelf that Bares My Name

This is my first time posting a fic on tumblr, so. Here goes nothing

__

Billy was like an oil painting that had been around for a thousand years. Pretty in the right lighting, hideous in the swell of nightfall. All rough edges and smeared color, full of broken things inside that cut through the air and rattled around like shattered glass whenever anyone got too close, bristling and blowing with the 75mph wind that tumbled through his soul.

Billy thought it was breathtaking.

Thought he was breathtaking with split knuckles and broken ribs. Matted hair tangled with dried blood. Busted lips painted red, color spilling down his chin when he smiled too wide at his reflection.

He liked it messy and hideous.

Did everything he could to destroy the precious image, the golden boy.

He had always been pretty. Like a girl; sparkly eyes and curly hair. Neil had always old him someone would come along and color outside the lines, scribble over the image his mother had left behind and Billy had always been so breakable in the face of adversity.

Flinching against hurt and agony until it became commonplace. Until he grew tired of gluing himself back together every night under the light of the moon.

His face was beautiful like a sculpture carved from stone, or a window into the face of his mother and her mother, but.

Billy himself was like a cardboard box full of glass.

The Billy on the inside was sharp.

And crude.

And violent, when the mood struck him. Ask anyone and they'd tell you; guy's like a train barreling through an apartment building.

And he was.

A glorious, terrible, beautiful, ravenous storm brewing in the open sea.

Billy hadn't known girls could be hazardous.

He knew they were soft. Pretty, delicate and sometimes tough when they had to be. His mother had been like that--brazen. Flighty and aggressive in a different way, like when the sun emerges from the clouds and shines too brightly.

She was warm and loving.

Perfect in her femininity. Billy looked nothing like his mother because she dressed like a wood nymph, all sheer fabric and dresses that defied gravity. Her hair was blonde and curly, always pinned back with clips and beautiful scarves and Billy wanted desperately to look like her.

Film star beauty.

Painted lips, soft hands. When she threw herself off the bridge he brushed his fingertips over the fabric in her closet and tried to imagine what it would feel like to have the world at your feet.

She was so beautiful it felt like swallowing tar.

Hot and boiling on a summer's day.

Billy pulled something from the rack, ran his fingers around the liquid soft fabric of his mother's favorite dress; the white one with the pearl neckline that felt like water settling around his shoulders. They said she was going to be buried in this one and Billy hated it.

Hated that something so beautiful, so delicate would rot away in the cool, damp earth.

He sat in front of her vanity and watched the light twinkle against the jewels that littered the countertop; rubies, emeralds, opal stone cut into neat shapes. When he was a child Billy's mother would let him play with her rings because they made good skipping stones in the pond out back.

We'll always find more, his mother would say, and it was true. Neil spared no expense in making her shine like a million stars as if she didn't already steal the air from every room.

Pocket it in her velvet handbags for safekeeping.

Billy put a ring on each finger and studied his reflection in the pristine vintage mirror.

He looked like a rat.

A rat in a pretty dress, playing pretend for a day.

The front door slammed open and Billy put the dress back on the hanger.

The girl on the T.V. wasn't like his mother at all.

Not soft or feminine, but smoldering. Alight with power and freedom as she strutted around the stage. She looked like her eyes were swimming in water; thick black makeup smudged around green orbs, hair messy and tangled, legs littered bruises that peaked through the holes in her stockings as the lights threw her into disarray.

Slut kiss girls won't you promise her smack

is she ugly on the inside

is she ugly from the back...

The woman was a disaster packaged in something almost pretty but not quite. Like a beauty queen moments after winning the crown fair and square, tear stained makeup and fleeting promises of eternal beauty. She flung herself around the stage, dress ripped to shreds as the hands of the audience tried to tear away pieces of her flesh.

Her fingers were bruised and bloody as she wailed away on the guitar. Nails cracked and worn with the weight of her vengeance. With each press of her lips against the microphone the color oozed outside the lines of her mouth until she looked like a living dead girl and Billy.

He had never seen someone so beautiful.

The first time he put on a dress for real it had been an homage to his silver screen queen.

Black shift dress. Baby doll sleeves. Torn stockings and barrettes in his hair.

Kinderwhore they called it.

Billy stood awkwardly in front of the mirror in the bathroom and tried to make sense of the princess seam that came to an unsteady rest just above the line of his ribs. The clinging fabric felt nothing like the one his mother had been buried in it felt.

Dirty.

Sinful. Instantly cloaked in assumptions; he does heroin. He's a a bum and a loser in search of something the music can't give him so he searches for it in the sting of a needle. Billy bit down on his lips until they bled.

The color ran thick like maple syrup over the skin of his face, bringing out the blue in his eyes as it ran down his chin. As it caught in the stubble-rough landing of his jawline.

Billy looked like a mess.

Instantly, he was addicted. The first time Billy saw her he knew; that was his own image reflected back at him from the fifteen inch screen.

He began looking for inspiration wherever he could find it.

Debbie Harry, Freddie Mercury, Joan Jett, David Bowie. Women and men. Gods. His heroes. Feminine and masculine and dirty.

Courtney Love was always his favorite.

Filthy. Absolutely gut wrenching. Every time he saw her perform it was like his spleen was being ripped out and Billy couldn't escape the way he saw so much of himself reflected in her. All his rage and discomfort, his fury amplified by a million.

So he tried to emulate it.

Billy shopped around local thrift stores to find leopard print jackets and peasant tops. Dresses that hung wide or snuggled against the swell of his hips, kitten heels that brought much needed length to his hamburger legs and when he brought them home, always through the backdoor and stuffed carefully into a trash bag, Neil would raise an eyebrow.

Playing dress up?

Billy would grimace. Max is lookin' to be a Debbie Harry for Halloween. 'M helpin' her find the prefect dress.

And Neil drank like the answers sawm in a bottle of gin, so.

He would raise a fist at that. Never fully convinced but satiated, content with Billy playing the perfect older brother. His nose would bleed on the nights when Neil couldn't shake the impression that his son was a faggot but that was as far as it went.

Max never asked questions and Billy never told her the truth; that he felt more like himself when Courtney Love stared back at him in the mirror.

She sat with him sometimes.

Watched him apply his mother's lipstick, carefully at first and then all at once when the music carried him down.

Black lung coat and your little crown That's the crown that you get for falling down Hey baby, let me look in your eyes I see you standing in a weird red light...

"Why do you listen to this shit?" Max wrinkled her nose. Like a freckled bunny rabbit, it was kind of ridiculous. "She screams so fuckin' loud, you can't even understand what she's--"

"Mascara."

"Why? I know girls who would kill for your eyelashes."

Billy snapped his fingers. Max handed over the little black tube with a trademark eye roll, resting her chin in her hands as Billy repeated the process of careful application and then careless destruction of his hard work.

"Look prettier when you keep it nice," She snapped.

And Billy just chuckled. "I don't wanna look nice."

Max stared at him, popping a jaw breaker into her mouth. "Why not? Isn't that the whole point of makeup, to look pretty?"

Billy scrubbed at his eyes, warmth flooding his stomach again at the way the blue stood out against the black ring around his eyes. Like carefully crafted bruises, nothing like the ones Neil gave him. He shrugged his shoulders.

"That's so fuckin' predictable." He sat on the bed, pushing the hem of his skirt to roll the nylon against his legs.

"Using makeup and clothes to look worse, fuckin' idiotic." Max grumbled, but she watched with glowing eyes as Billy began scraping his nails down the length, creating runs in the delicate fabric.

"You gonna sit there yapping or are you gonna help?" He bitched.

Max slid to her knees in front of him, getting to work tearing holes into the stockings the way she knew Billy liked.

It was therapeutic, almost, having the help.

"I like when you do Blondie." She said after a while. "Fuck ton less work and Courtney makes you aggressive. She's got the energy of a horny dude, it's fucked up."

Billy smirked.

It was always more fun to play pretend with Max and her bitchy voice tethering him to the ground. He feared that, without it, he'd get lost in the feeling of freedom. Fly too close to the sun or something, catch on fire when he inevitably missed the tell-tale creek of the floorboards that meant Neil was listening in.

Max annoyed the hell out of him, but.

She kept him safe. Why, he didn't know.

Maybe she really was interested in the whole thing, electing to believe that every boy wanted to be a girl because the alternative meant her brother was sick in a way that couldn't be cured.

Billy stood, slipping on the kitten heels while Max held his hand.

He admired his handiwork.

"Gotta hand it you," Max whistled, low like a wolf. "Gets shittier every time we do it."

"Shut up, brat." But Billy was grinning.

For Max, that was a compliment.

Don't blush when I rip you open Hey baby, let me look in your eyes As you go off into your weird red light...

He ran his hands down the soft fabric, relishing the way the hem tickled the sensitive skin of his thighs.

He was pretty.

Not like his mother, not like Courtney Love, but.

Uniquely himself.

Max cocked her head to the side. "Don't you get tired of getting all dressed up with nowhere to go?"

Billy bristled. "Oh yeah? And where could I go in San Fran that wouldn't skin me on the spot for dressing like a bitch?"

"Castro." The gay area.

Billy felt his cheeks darken. He thought about it for a second; the lights, the thralls of people just letting the light in. Being themselves.

He shook his head, turning back to the mirror with a glare. "Yeah, okay. I'll get right on that."

"Cool, I'll just fetch my coat." Max turned to leave, chucking when Billy trapped her with an iron grip. "Relax, spaz. Neil would kill us both if he saw you looking like that."

And.

She was right. Billy had thought about it countless times before, what would happen if he threw a jacket over his baby doll dress and slipped out the back door one night. How the cool air would feel on the bare skin of his thighs, but. That's all it ever was. Just speculation.

Only dreams.

Knowing his luck he'd catch Neil in the hallway after his midnight piss and that'd be it. They'd never get the blood out of the wallpaper.

"Looks like we're stuck playing pretend." Billy patted absently at his spring of messy curls, refusing to let the sadness seep through but Max noticed immediately. Perceptive little shit.

She held up a finger, disappearing through the crack in the door. A second later she was back with her polaroid camera.

"Smile."

"No fuckin' way," Billy snarled. He could already imagine it; Neil digging through his sock drawer to find the pot he was always accusing Billy of smoking, only to stumble across something else.

Something worse.

Billy's ribs began to ache with the phantom memory of those fists planting like flower bulbs in fresh soil. He bruised easily, like an overripe peach.

Not everyone knew that about him, but. He did.

Max frowned. "Come on, we could send them to Courtney's P.O. box, I'm sure she'd be flattered."

Billy shook his head, tears swamping his vision as Max lifted the camera. The flash was blinding. Billy lunged for it, swearing as Max slipped past his grip. She took another picture.

And another.

And then another, until polaroid's littered the floor like fallen leaves on the dirty ground. Billy had tears rolling down his cheeks, ruining his makeup by the time she finally stopped. He held out his hand. "Max, just. Give that fuckin' thing to me. Now, we gotta burn this shit, alright? We gotta--"

But she wasn't listening, she was staring at the first image she had taken, when Billy was caught off guard. Max was absorbed in it, eyes glittering with something Billy had never seen before.

He snatched the picture from her hands and lifted it up to his face, brow wrinkled in disgust until--

This wasn't anything like staring in the mirror.

It felt more immediate, more real as Billy examined the image of a flawless stranger. Of a woman.

Of Courtney Love.

"Pretty," Max said.

And.

Yeah. He was.

They started taking pictures every time Billy got dressed up.

Max would help him get ready and then they'd do little photoshoots in his bedroom. He was a reluctant subject at first, awkward in his own skin until she suggested they smoke a joint before each session.

"To loosen you up a little, dick wad."

"What kinda brother would I be if I let my kid sister smoke pot?" Billy shook his head. "Absolutely not, Max."

She shrugged. "Then you do it."

So, he did.

And it helped. They switched up the music, finding it easiest to shoot to The Smashing Pumpkins, played with lighting and mood until she was satisfied with the "vibe," made immortal on film.

The images Max captured were like moments in time, archived in the shoebox under his bed. Billy looked like a rock star in every one--Debbie Harry on some days, Courtney on others; hair messy, cigarette trapped between his fingers, stockings ripped to shreds.

Max admitted that Courtney was her favorite, after a while, so that's the one that stuck.

And Billy loved every picture she took. Loved her artistic eye, obvious in the way she moved his lamp around the room to capture his features just so. Every session was serious like she was the photographer at Rolling Stone and he was her subject for the week.

It was addictive.

They had been taking pictures every night for a month when Neil caught them in the act.

The first punch felt like a bomb had gone off in his head, and Billy hit the floor without so much as a fight.

He remembers blood on the carpet.

Blood in his hair. On the walls. A splitting pain in his ribs and between his legs.

Keep digging your own grave, William.

Max patched him up after Neil's car tore out of the driveway.

"I'm sorry Billy." He hadn't realised she was crying. He ran his fingers over her cheek. "It's all my fault, I didn't mean--"

"I felt pretty." He said.

They stopped taking pictures after that.

Moving to Hawkins, Indiana was like stepping off the Earth and floating through space.

Billy felt weightless.

Every mistake, every hidden secret cloaked in baby doll dresses and leopard print coats had been left in San Francisco where they belonged. Stuffed in the back of his closet with the polaroid's they were able to tape back together.

He tried to forget the way it made him feel.

"You're the prettiest boy I've ever seen."

It wasn't meant to be a compliment. Billy could tell that from the way Steve's lips curled into a snarl.

He pushed his way into Billy's space, clearly drunk and high off something that made his pupils swallow the milky brown of his eyes.

Steve looked like he was swimming.

There were track marks in his arm. "You're like a vision," He reached out to touch, to feel, flinching back when Billy slapped his hand away.

"I don't know what the fuck you think you're doing, Harrington--"

"I think I'm in love with you."

And Billy had thought the same thing, the first time they ran into each other at the gay bar in Indianapolis, but. People talked.

Hawkins talked, like the city itself was an entity with a pulse and conscience that had been shot to shit in the eighties. Billy did his best to glare. "You don't love me, pretty boy."

"No, I." Steve grinned. He was high as a fucking kite. "I do. You're my guardian angel." He laughed hysterically, in a way that made Billy's skin crawl.

"What, your dealer tell you that?" He huffed.

And it was mean.

So fucking mean. If Steve was a junkie his skin wouldn't be so clear, so smooth. Like black cherries in milk, goddammit. Billy wanted to lap at the skin on his neck, taste the salt of his skin.

He wondered distantly if he'd be able to get high from it.

Probably. Steve smiled anyway. "Let me take you home."

"Such a fuckin' line," Billy said.

But he was already tugging pretty boy through the crowd.

Billy kept his dresses in the back of his closet where he kept his mother's suicide letters.

She had written more than one, consumed by her sadness in a way Billy had never understood until he had taken the fairy light inside him and smothered it.

Every once in a while, when Neil was out of the house and Max was at school or something, He'd take one out just to feel the weightlessness of the fabric settle against his skin.

Like little paper angels.

Like the whisper of something like hope but not quite, just out of reach.

He never did the full look anymore. Never put his heart and soul into it the way he had before, when Max was there to keep him from floating away, but.

Gradually he felt himself catch fire.

They had been together for three months when Steve peeled back the layers.

Neil was away on business, so Steve was sleeping over. Needed a shirt or sweats or to sleep in, catching sight of something bright red and shiny as he shifted the leather jackets at Greatful Dead t-shirts to the side to expose a stash of beautiful gowns that shone like an open sore against the soft light in Billy's bedroom.

Billy came through the open door, words dying on his lips as the bong in his hand shattered on the floor.

Steve held the dress up against the light, tongue poking out of his mouth in consideration.

"Max wants to be Debbie Harry for Halloween," Billy fished for his old excuse, eyes welling up with tears when Steve's jaw set in a firm line. "I'm helping her find the perfect dress, I--"

"Bill's--"

"That's not mine, Steve, I swear." Billy dropped to the floor.

Got on his fucking knees, hands level with his face in a silent prayer as he tripped over himself to rebuild the walls that had kept him safe. He was talking, spewing bullshit as Steve stood motionless against the closet door. Billy flung his arms around Steve's legs. Buried his face in his thighs, because.

He couldn't go through it again.

Wouldn't survive it.

"I never even seen that before, Stevie, please."

"Get up." Pretty boy commanded.

And.

Billy blinked teary, soulful eyes at him. "Huh?"

Steve shook his head. "I said stand up, baby. Get off the fucking floor."

Billy did. Steve watched him for a moment, expression unreadable. Billy prepared himself for the gut punch, the harsh word, the look of disgust in those eyes that had never shown anything but reverence for Billy, but it never came. In a single, syrupy slow motion Steve held the dress to Billy's throat, scanning him up and down in a way that left Bill naked and squirming.

He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think, as Steve smiled softly.

"Wanna see you." He said.

And. "What?"

"Can you put it on for me?" Steve asked. "Bet you look gorgeous. Like an angel, or a model or something--"

Billy let out a thick, wet sound. "I look like a beast, I'm--"

"No." Billy jumped when Steve nuzzled against his neck, the dress trapped like a gossamer curtain between them. "Bet you look like a deity. A goddess of rock n' roll. Like Courtney Love, right?"

And Billy had done a lot of things in his life. He was a builder of fortresses, a hider, an adventurer when the mood struck him. Billy protected himself and Max and his mother for as long as he could remember, carrying things that were too heavy for those with weaker shoulders, but.

He had never shown himself to someone he loved. No sugar, no cream, just.

Completely himself.

Billy took the dress and opened the safe in the corner. Pulled out his mother's makeup and painted himself into a masterpiece as Steve watched, motionless on the bed.

When he was done Billy was afraid to look in the mirror.

Terrified of what he'd see but Steve took him in his arms, peppering gentle kisses all along his face until Billy had built up enough courage.

"Ready? Steve whispered.

Billy let himself be turned around. Situated under the heavy sling of Steve's arm, until--

"Pretty."

Steve nodded. "Beautiful."

[ginmo]

on brienne being ymb what could brienne steal from cersei

Power. Cersei’s true love is power. Jaime is viewed as the male version of herself, and she resents that she wasn’t born a man. She believes she has to use men to do the deeds she’d like to carry out on her own, to gain power in the patriarchy.

“I should have been born a man. I would have no need of any of you then. - TYRION, ACOK

Within the tower, the smoke from the torches irritated her eyes, but Cersei did not weep, no more than her father would have. I am the only true son he ever had. - CERSEI, AFFC

"Your turn," she told him afterward. "Pull his mane, I dare you." He never did. I should have had the sword, not him. - CERSEI, ADWD

And she depends on Jaime the most

“As I was fucking her, Cersei cried, ‘I want.’ I thought that she meant me, but it was the Stark girl that she wanted, maimed or dead.” The things I do for love. “It was only by chance that Stark’s own men found the girl before me. If I had come on her first …” - JAIME, AFFC

Jaime, you’re my shining knight. You cannot abandon me when I need you most! He is stealing my son, sending me away … and unless you stop him, Father is going to force me to wed again! - JAIME, ASOS

Since she views them as the same, he is her sword, representing her warrior half that she was unable to be (until ASOS lmao which is why she starts getting angry). At one point, she gets irritated by Jaime rejecting her wishes, and she begins to think he’s just getting in the way. But then she realizes she needs him, not being able to trust the others. He will either save her or they die together.

Even in her exhausted, frightened state, the queen knew she dare not trust her fate to a court of sparrows. Nor could she count on Ser Kevan to intervene, after the words that had passed between them at their last meeting. It will have to be a trial by battle. 

There is no other way. “Qyburn, for the love you bear me, I beg you, send a message for me. A raven if you can. A rider, if not. You must send to Riverrun, to my brother. Tell him what has happened, and write … write …” 

“Yes, Your Grace?” She licked her lips, shivering. “Come at once. Help me. Save me. I need you now as I have never needed you before. I love you. I love you. I love you. Come at once.” 

“As you command. ‘I love you’ thrice?” 

“Thrice.” She had to reach him. “He will come. I know he will. He must. Jaime is my only hope.” - CERSEI, AFFC

But he burned her pleas for help and won’t be her champion because... he’ll be with Brienne, where ever the fuck that is (prayer circle for Quiet Isle), and has been for several weeks already. People believe the point of the prophecy is that it’s Cersei making it happen. This fits. Instead of loving Jaime for who he is while he started rediscovering his identity, Cersei pushed him away with her violent outbursts and nasty words, making it clear she was disgusted by his stump and who he was becoming. Therefore, when she sent her plea for help, he was like lmao no and then he ran off with Brienne to help her and Sansa instead. (The Sansa bit is a lie unless Brienne’s plan is to literally save him from LSH by having him help her find Sansa. Anyway, off topic haha).

I want to make it clear, though, that Brienne isn’t stealing Jaime. I know the prophecy says, “take all that you hold dear,” but that “take” is her sword, not Jaime as a person. He isn’t an object someone can take. Although, Cersei certainly views him as one, so she may perceive it as “take.”

There’s a misconception that Brienne changed Jaime, but that’s not what happened at all. After Jaime lost his swordhand he was essentially thrown into a path of self discovery. 

And Jaime, losing a hand, losing the very thing he defined himself on is crucial to where I think I want to go with the character. And he questions what do you make of yourself if you’ve lost that.” - GRRM [x]

Brienne didn’t change him, and in the books she isn’t “driving his redemption arc.” (God don’t even get me started on that hot take). What she did do was convince him to keep on living and reminded him of the person he used to be. Like that’s kinda how life works... people inspire other people, but apparently in this fandom a female role model for a male character is problematic, and they aren’t allowed to fall in love lol. Anyway, all of that work came from Jaime himself, going back to who he truly is, for himself. 

Crakehall. And me, that boy I was … when did he die, I wonder? When I donned the white cloak? When I opened Aerys’s throat? That boy had wanted to be Ser Arthur Dayne, but someplace along the way he had become the Smiling Knight instead. - JAIME, ASOS

Jaime didn't start out evil--that he actually was a very idealistic young man who was disillusioned by life, and that there was always much more to his killing of Arys than just "evil." [x]

So Brienne’s isn’t “taking” Jaime, he just would rather give his help to her than to Cersei, because she treats him with respect, and he made an oath. He could have said, “I know I made an oath, but I trust you to see it through. I have one hand, so I’d be of no use.” One-handed Jaime went, not just for the oath, but to give his help. He didn’t bother to help Cersei. If he truly cared about Cersei’s fate, he would have desperately tried to help in some form, even if he couldn’t be her champion. Trying to save her life would have been first priority. But... he’s tired of her bs. This is partly how Cersei pushed him right into Brienne’s arms, creating the YMB herself. 

And honestly? Cersei does love Jaime (but loves him to the extent a narcissist can love). This bit in the prophecy is interesting. 

Anger flashed across the child’s face. “If she tries I will have my brother kill her.” -CERSEI, AFFC

People argue that since she’s causing the prophecy to happen, then this quote points to Dany or Sansa, because Jaime’s allegiance has shifted due to her actions. Ignoring how I find it absolutely ridiculous that GRRM would have it be literal beauty when beauty is a theme for Cersei (and readers) to learn a lesson from, and that it would be basic as hell that he would want the readers (and Cersei) to go back and forth over “who’s the fairest of them all” (subversive BatB/Snow White hybrid), I’m... still not denying that possibility. I do believe Dany and Sansa are good candidates.

HOWEVER, I feel the irony is sweeter if the reason why Jaime won’t kill the YMB is because Jaime is in love with the woman she’d want to have killed lol. I’m not even sure Cersei would connect the dots if Brienne is YMB (because of the quote I’ll be addressing down the page a bit).

What’s also telling that Cersei holds Jaime dear (because... male her and therefore her perceived path to power), is that her friend states she wants to marry Jaime. Her friend expressing that she wants to marry Jaime became a threat, because she had just learned about the YMB, which can imply that Jaime is very much connected to what she holds dear, and possibly connected to the YMB through romance and marriage. So, she pushes her down the well to eliminate one candidate for YMB. 

Cersei had not had a friend she so enjoyed since Melara Hetherspoon, and Melara had turned out to be a greedy little schemer with ideas above her station. - CERSEI, AFFC

Then, years later,

“He took Raventree and accepted Lord Blackwood’s surrender,” said her uncle, “but on his way back to Riverrun he left his tail and went off with a woman.” 

“A woman?” Cersei stared at him, uncomprehending. “What woman? Why? Where did they go?” 

“No one knows. We’ve had no further word of him. The woman may have been the Evenstar’s daughter, Lady Brienne.” 

Her. The queen remembered the Maid of Tarth, a huge, ugly, shambling thing who dressed in man’s mail. Jaime would never abandon me for such a creature. My raven never reached him, elsewise he would have come.- CERSEI, ADWD

Ah yes. So it begins.

[aenwoedbeannaa]

Forest Fires | Geralt x Reader | Part 7

Summary: You and your Witcher companion arrive in Ellander, where you encounter a familiar face. Unfortunately, being behind walls for the first time in years brings back some overwhelming memories.

Word Count: 3,068

Warnings: Might be triggering for those with PTSD or trauma. Panic attack, flashbacks. Nothing super graphic.

A/N: As usual—sorry for the delay in this chapter. I have so many WIPs, but I promise not to leave y’all hanging. Hope you enjoy!

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 Part 4 || Part 5 || Part 6

If you enjoy my work and want to check out more of it, you can check out my masterlist, and if you’d like to be added to any of my taglists, comment or message me and I would be happy to add you 😊.

Forgotten Memories

For someone who has spent the past years not using magic, you are pleasantly surprised that the two of you emerge from the portal and into the very garden you’d seen in Geralt’s mind. More than a few girls, who you expect must be students, are standing frozen with their mouths agape.

You unwind your arms from around Geralt’s neck and take a couple steps away from him; you have only been here once before, and you are not entirely sure what sort of rules there are in a place like this. You never were one for religion. With magic, you hadn’t needed it. And after you ran away from your duties, you’d just assumed that even if there were gods or goddesses out there, they wouldn’t be looking down on you fondly.

The shocked silence of the temple garden is broken at last, by a familiar voice.

“Y/N?”

You turn your head to see someone you had not, if you were being honest, expected to see again during your lifetime.

“Yenna!”

The two of you rush to embrace one another; years of memories flooding your head and washing your mind full of pictures of Aretuza. Like so many others, Aretuza had been your first real home. Though at first, it seemed, the school was not much better than the cruel reality you faced outside of its walls. Tissia was a genius, but she could be cruel. Thankfully, it was not the same kind of cruelty you faced at the hands of your aunt and uncle who had taken you in after your parents died – that had been pointless and malicious. Tissia’s brand of cruelty was one meant to teach you something; to make you a better sorceress.

At one point, the school had been the only piece of the world that you had known, and seeing your old friend sends your mind in a whirl, back to the mind of a girl who knew nothing of the outside world until she was tossed out into it. Of course, you head ad been filled with images of going off to serve as a court mage, advising kings and queens. It had been an exciting prospect at the time – back when you still believed that rulers cared for their people; back when you believed that there was some good you could do advising one.

“You are quite possibly the last person I would have ever expected to see at the Temple of Melitele,” the raven-haired sorceress says matter-of-factly, but not rudely. That’s Yenna—blunt as always.

“I might say the same about you,” you say, corners of your lips twitching ever so slightly up.

“Everyone thought you were dead.” That statement hits you hard, as if you hadn’t wondered that. Still, you’d spent so long hidden out in the forest, always feeling as if you had to cover your tracks, keep your movements a secret – it was hard to think that people thought you were dead when you were constantly trying to hide from those who knew you were alive.

“Well, that had been the goal,” you admit. “After...” You trail off, not particularly wanting to recount your time in Nilfgaard. It had not been pleasant, but that went without saying. There was no need to relive it.

The raven-haired sorceress smiles wryly, “Believe me, I know.”

The two of you make eye contact for a brief moment that seems to stretch on far beyond the few seconds that it lasts. At Aretuza, you had seen one another as rivals – though no one could truly rival Yennefer. Now, there was a kinship between the two of you; two sorceresses who ran from their duties. You had not heard much of why Yennefer left, save the rumors that the queen and infant princess of Aedirn had perished because of her – but you did not believe those. Perhaps you had when you’d first heard them, but truth was, the aristocracy was cruel, not above killing one another for power.

Not above sending entire armies to sack an entire city and sending mages in to kidnap princesses.

Behind you, Geralt clears his throat, snapping you out of your reverie.

With your thoughts still somewhat muddled, you turn and extend your arm towards him. “Geralt of Rivia,” you introduce him yourself, “He’s a Witcher.”

Yennefer smirks, though there is a distance in her eyes that tells you she has not quite snapped from whatever thoughts and memories were flowing through her own mind.

“The famous White Wolf,” she says as she takes a couple of steps forward. “Mother Nenneke will be so pleased to know you’ve arrived at last.”

You raise an eyebrow, confused. He had not mentioned that he was expected here at the Temple. Though, the confusion written on his own face tells you that he had no idea, either.

“Iona the First,” Yennefer says matter-of-factly.

Geralt’s eyes light up as he acknowledges the name with a nod. You, on the other hand, have never heard the name, and only grow more confused.

“One of the priestesses here,” Geralt explains once he registers the befuddled look on your face. “She has certain... talents.”

“Even the temples have mages now?” you ask, still slightly bewildered. You’d never heard of such a thing. Though, you suppose you have been in hiding for quite a while, and before then, you’d had absolutely no interest in religion.

Yenna laughs, shaking her head and sending raven curls cascading about her shoulders. “Not a mage, no,” she says. “She has a gift. Goes into trances and teases out the future – or at least, possible futures. It’s really quite unsettling.”

“Sounds like it,” you mutter. This place is getting stranger by the moment, and being behind stone walls, no matter how expansive the open space within is, already has you feeling caged in like an animal at a market. Even worse, the Temple looks too much like a castle; like the castle you’d run from and like the castle you were ordered to take Cirilla from. That thought alone sets your heart racing.

Seeming to sense this, Geralt reaches out and places a hand under your elbow, steadying and reassuring. You are glad for it, given the fact that your hammering heart and racing thoughts were making your vision swim. Though, you suppose, it could also be residual effects of opening the portal after having used next to no magic in years. You remember the feeling quite well from your early days at Aretuza, when you’d leave a lesson so exhausted that you could hardly walk back to your room without falling over.

“Sorry,” you mumble, nearly tripping over your own feet when you try to shift your weight, but Geralt is there to support your weight, which seems to be growing heavier by the moment. “I’m just...” You trail off once more as you sway on your feet, prompting him to wrap his arm around you, allowing you to lean heavily against him.

“Opening the portal must have drained her,” Yenna says, her voice sounding quite far off, though you know she is only a few feet away from you. You are desperately trying to cling to consciousness. The last thing you want to do is show up here and look weak when this is supposed to be the beginning of some quest to find the girl. Right now, you are sure it seems that you are quite possibly the last sorceress on the entire Continent that anyone would want chasing after the Cintran princess.

Geralt, though his knowledge about magic is rather limited to the Witcher signs and some cursory knowledge that Visimir deemed necessary to his education, nods in agreement.

“She hasn’t used magic in years,” he explains while you struggle to keep your eyes open, “That portal was a first.”

“Well that’s one hell of a way to jump back into things,” Yennefer says. You can hear the smirk in her voice, and will yourself to smirk back. It certainly wasn’t the smartest way to go about it. Still, it wasn’t as if you had another choice. It could have taken weeks to travel here on foot or by horse, and it was clear that time was not something on your side – or at least it seemed that way. You just hope it is as safe here as Geralt claims it to be. A portal like that could easily serve as a thread for Nilfgaard to follow straight to you.

“Mother Nenekke has already arranged a room...” Yennefer trails off.

“One room is fine,” Geralt cuts in.

Yennefer nods, “Iola was able to track you, but she hadn’t seen anyone else in the trances.”

“Makes sense,” Geralt responds. You, however, have no idea how that makes sense exactly, but you are not in a place to ask questions. Thankfully, Geralt continues on, “She usually uses items connected to a person, and Nenneke wouldn’t have anything of hers.”

Yes, you suppose, that does make sense. That, and the fact that you have worked so hard these past years ensuring that you were about as untraceable and unfindable as possible. That could also have quite a lot to do with it. You just hope that this Mother Nenneke will not scoff at your presence. After all, if she is involved in this plot – or whatever it is – to retrieve the ashen-haired Child Surprise, she may think of you as the worst sort of scum.

Fear of that particular issue sets your heartrate speeding once more, which does nothing to help your current state. You feel as if your lungs are constricting, making it difficult to breathe. You slump against Geralt, unconsciously clawing at him as you attempt to regain your breath. He responds by scooping you up into his arms and nodding towards the Temple.

“Would be best to get her to the rooms so she can lie down,” he states.

“I’ll brew some tea that’ll help,” Yennefer adds quickly. “I trust you know your way around?”

Geralt mumbles a quick mhmm in agreement.

“It is, I believe, your usual room,” Yennefer states. You are drifting in and out of consiousness, and wonder momentarily exactly how many times Geralt has been here. It is, quite truthfully, the last place you’d expect a Witcher. Between yourself, Geralt, and Yennefer, is seems that Mother Nenneke keeps strange company indeed. You wonder how she hasn’t faced any sort of reparations from Termeria’s leaders. Though, perhaps they just as much interest in finding the girl as you three do – or possibly more, speaking from a political perspective.

“I... I’m sorry,” you choke out as the Witcher carries you through unfamiliar hallways, moving with the easy confidence of a person who feels himself to be at home in a place. “It’s just... magic, and the walls... I haven’t--”

“Shh,” Geralt cuts you off before you can continue on with your breathy sentences. “It only makes sense. No need to wear yourself out even more trying to explain.”

You would like to argue, but he is right. You don’t have the energy to spare between the incredible exhaustion caused by casting the first spell you’ve cased in years when you opened that portal and the panic that seems to have a vice grip on your throat. Truly, being behind walls is not something you enjoy.

It doesn’t take long for the Witcher to manage to make his way from the gardens all the way up to a set of rooms on the third or fourth floor – you've lost count. There is a large room with a desk, sitting area, and a large canopied bed, and you can see a door which you assume must lead to an adjoining bathroom. Despite the stone walls, you find that the room is bright and airy, thanks to several large windows that are open, letting sun filter in through billowing curtains.

Geralt carries you straight to the bed, setting you down gently on the cool sheets. Thanks to the open windows, the air smells of wood smoke at autumn, calming you as you force yourself to breathe in and out slowly, reminding yourself that you are not in Nilfgaard, and these are not the stone walls that surrounded you there. You are safe; at least that is what Geralt promised – and you are inclined to believe him. Still, you feel so incredibly useless lying here like this.

“I’m so sorry,” you apologize once again, “I just… It’s the magic, and the walls. I don’t like walls.”

Geralt sits next to you on the bed, stroking your hair in the way that he’s quickly learned calms your nerves. Yet, right now, you feel quite awful about it. You hadn’t wanted Geralt to see you like this. You hadn’t wanted him to know about this part of you – the part of you that is sometimes so gripped with fear; irrational fear of people and places that were far away, separated from you by time and distance. The woods had been safe for so long – it’d been easy to hide it from him there. But now… Things are quite different.

“In Nilfgaard, there were nothing but walls,” the words spill from you lips. “Nothing but walls, and…” you trail off, squeezing your eyes shut, wishing very much that you hadn’t spoken at all. The images flashing through your mind are all ones you’d kept locked away under lock and key, not allowing yourself to think about them, not wanting to relive these moments.

“Whatever happened in Nilfgaard,” Geralt speaks softly, still stroking your hair, “I promise you that I will never let it happen again.”

His voice sounds far off one more, thanks to the pounding of blood in your ears and spiraling thoughts, but you reach out and cling to his arm, attempting to anchor yourself, though you can’t manage to force out the words.

You are not reading his thoughts, nor would you have the strength to if you even tried. But, if you had been, you would have heard several rather graphic thoughts about how he’d like to hack whoever had done this to you – whoever had made you so afraid when you were perfectly safe here with him – to unrecognizable pieces. You’d also see, quite clearly, that he’d use his silver sword while doing so. After all, silver is for monsters.

Tears start to slip from your eyes thanks to a mixture of frustration and fear, making your turn your head to half burry your face in the soft pillow. It was bad enough letting him see you upset, it was even worse letting him see you cry, especially considering the years separating you from the things that you were crying about.

“It was a long time ago,” you mutter, “I… I shouldn’t be upset about it after all this time.” Your attempts at rationalizing yourself only serve to make you more frustrated. You are ashamed. Ashamed for things you had no control over, ashamed for things you should have been able to prevent, ashamed for everything. And yet, Geralt was still here, stroking your hair gently, yellow golden eyes fixed on you, face contorted in concern. He hadn’t known – couldn’t have known – that being behind walls would trigger this; all the fear and all of the buried memories forcing their way to the surface.

“Monsters do monstrous things,” Geralt is still speaking softly, his warm baritone drawing your out of your own head. “It’s not easy to forget things like that,” he continues, letting his hand slip down to your back, rubbing gentle circles across your skin. He says it with such conviction that you believe him, and it slows the thoughts spinning through your head.

“They… they were monsters,” you mutter. “The things they did.” You shudder involuntarily at the memory. To this day, you cannot forgive Aretuza for sending you there. You remember how your heart had fallen to your stomach when you’d learned where you’d be sent. It was no secret the way that they treated their mages in Nilfgaard. You were there to carry out orders and to be a glorified plaything. It wasn’t what you’d dreamed of all those years, no doubt about it.

Geralt is silent for a moment, giving you a moment to continue. “It was easy to forget about out there away from everything… I didn’t think that it would be this bad. I’m sorry, Geralt.”

“Stop apologizing,” Geralt says, sounding stern for the first time, “Please, Y/N. It isn’t your fault.”

You don’t know why, but you find yourself sobbing at his words, a mixture of relief and anger. You’d spent so long pushing away the memories; so long telling yourself that it was all your fault.

“Listen, Huntress,” Geralt speaks again, “I won’t let anyone hurt you. I won’t.”

You continue to sob into the pillow as his palm rubs slow circles on your back. You don’t know what you did to deserve someone kind as the Witcher – someone that people described as a monster, but that had so little in common with the monsters you’ve encountered.

Silence stretches between the two of you as you slowly start to calm down.

“Thank you, Geralt,” you finally speak. “Just promise me, when we get to Ciri, you let me kill every one of those fuckers.”

Geralt smirks, leaning over to press a kiss to your hair. “I certainly won’t stop you, Huntress.”

For the first time since panic had overtaken you out in the garden, you smile.

A moment later, you hear the door open and the click of heels against the stone floors. You shift in bed so that you can look up to see Yennefer entering the room carrying a small saucer of steaming liquid, no doubt full of one of the calming elixirs you’d been taught to make at Aretuza.

You are about to open your mouth to apologize to her as well, but she speaks before you get the chance. “Drink this, sleep, and when you wake up, we’ll figure out a plan to get those pieces of shit.”

A knowing glance passes between the two of you, two sets of eyes flashing dangerously. “Sounds lovely,” you smirk. Perhaps revenge is petty, but you have to admit – it feels good to think about it. And, after all, a few casualties might be necessary to find Ciri.

***

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