#im half way through the raven king

[achillesankle]

guys im sorry I cant stand andrew 😔

[dr-lizortecho]

One Line Any Fic

I was tagged by @crepuscularqueens thank you <3

rules: pick any 10 of your fics, scroll somewhere to the mid point, pick a line, and share it! then tag 10 people. (idk 10 people sorryyy im shy)

The Polar Bear King (Mr. Jones/Liz Ortecho)

Jones stirs under her, lifting her chin so he can look into her eyes. “We will go on together, darling,” his southern accent thick. “When this curse is over I will burn down this entire world to find them both and make that witch pay.”

If we’re made of stardust… (Max Evans/Liz Ortecho/Kyle Valenti, Isobel Evans/Rosa Ortecho, Michael Guerin/Alex Manes)

Max feels his stomach drop to the floor, something inside him reeling out and snapping back in. And sure enough Max Evans and Liz Ortecho are on Kyle’s arm, the lettering seeming to blend at the beginning like the M and L didn’t know to be separate letters.

Drunk on a Plane (Max Evans/Kyle Valenti)

 “They’re-“ Max freezes, words seeming to elude him all of the sudden. “They’re alien bonded. Like… linked permanently. A sort of…” he waves his hand, even with the small glass bottle. His muscles feel less tense, the space between their bodies only getting smaller as time goes on, most of the other passengers asleep. “It’s a psychic bond. Like… they’re alien married.”

Baby, I’ll Treat You Right (Liz Ortecho/Isobel Evans)

“Good?” She murmurs gently, reaching up to untie the silk from her wrists. The material sliding easily away as she discards it on to the bed’s end table.

a partner to ride with you when I can’t (Max Evans&Rosa Ortecho)

Rosa rolls her eyes, “look, chocolate chip, if your gonna make this choice, make sure you’re doing it for the right reasons.”

The Allure of Darkness (Mr. Jones/Clyde)

“You’re a good follower,” Jones’s mind caresses his gently. It’s warm and familiar. A soft fondness to the quirk of Jones’s lips as he picks up the clear pad pressing it into Clyde’s hands.

the futures in the hand that you hold (Max Evans&Isobel Evans)

“I can hear his mind as well as any,” Isobel responds. Standing up and pulling Max with her. His face does the thing, lips pulling up at the edges until his face hurts, like the foreign action was attacking him. But it feels good, a warmth bubbling up in his chest.

Swing Life Away (Max Evans/Kyle Valenti, Liz Ortecho/Isobel Evans, Michael Guerin/Alex Manes)

Max gives him a weak smile, “you look ridiculous.” Because he did, with half a yellow handprint on the side of his face. A sort of mark from Max that wasn’t quite a claim to him as much as a reminder of his presence.

Forever is the sweetest con (Liz Ortecho/Michael Guerin)

“Not up to lab standards,” she says with a small smile. It’s one of those secret kinds, that speak of shared history and inside jokes. He hates the small thrill that sends through his body, the idea that spending the last month so close to her had bonded them in some way. Because he’d always craved connection, in one form or another.

Raise Your Glass (Bonnie Bennett/Caroline Forbes/Tyler Lockwood)

Bonnie wants to roll her eyes, maybe say something sassy, but instead she bites at her lip and nods. Which only makes him chuckle lightly, grabbing at her waist and pulling her body flush to him. Her heart skips in her chest, because this was Ty after all. They’d been friends as far back as she could remember. He’d literally pulled Caroline’s pig tails in elementary school.

no pressure tags @thesquidkid @ladynox @beautifulcheat @bisexualalienss @ravens-words @islndgurl777 and anyone else with fic who wants to consider yourself tagged by me!

[thesunshineriptide]

the way you write rook is just 🤌 chef's kiss. im foaming at the mouth rn. thank you so much you are a blessing to us rook kissers

Oh? Rook kissers? Well let me uh- oh, oh shoot I dropped this uh- crap of dear. Oops. Well, hopefully this potion turns out okay.

XO

Rook Hunt x Reader

CW// Songfic, Kissing, PDA, Rook Hunt typical behavior, borderline NSFW, implications of voyerism

Rating: R (as a precaution)

One year after graduating from Night Raven College, the old overblot crew and company were invited to the royal coronation of King Malleus Draconia, in Briar Valley. It was an all expenses paid trip, with an invitation to stay in the castle itself. All you had to do was accept.

It’s been so long since you’ve seen so many old friends. Some of them were third years when you’d attended - Rook, Vil, Idia, Malleus, Lilia - and had been gone from campus for a while now.

Crowley hadn’t found a way home, but you’d learned to persevere and thrive, finding yourself working at the Clover family bakery half the time, and at Azul’s newest restaurant, Moonfish Bistro, that sat on the shores between the Coral Sea and the Kingdom of Roses. Grim was still around, though he spent most of his time still at NRC due to being held back. But as for everyone else…you hadn’t seen most of them in years.

Which lead you to being excited when Azul said he, too, would accept the invitation, and so would the twins, so you should as well. Even more so when Trey and Riddle said the same.

Now you stand in the banquet hall of Briar Valley’s castle, wearing a mask and holding a fruity drink as you wandered around, looking for anyone you might recognized behind their mask.

Your eyes met with familiar green ones and matching blond hair.

“Ah, Règle de Trickster, it has been so long,” Rook said, taking your hand to kiss.

“Rook! I’m glad to see you.”

Rook smiles and begins talking, but the room is too loud to hear what he’s saying. When you tell him this, he smiled and guided you somewhere quieter.

“I said, ‘I’ve missed your company, and can’t wait to see you more in the next coming week.’” He repeated, whispered into your ear.

He had you pressed against a wall, one hand gripping your forearm, the other brushing your hair from your face.

You hummed, giving him a devilish smirk, “Fingers crossed we get to spend a lot of time together.”

He raised an eyebrow, chuckling softly. “I swear, I say…”

You raised an eyebrow, “You say?”

To hands between legs, to "whatever it takes"

To drinks at the club to the bar

To the keys to your car

To hotel stairs, to the emergency exit door, no

To the love, I left my conscience pressed

Between the pages of the Bible in the drawer

"What did it ever do for me?" I say

It never calls me when I'm down

Rook hummed against your neck, tangling your legs together as you laid in bed, “Love never wanted me,” he mumbled.

“I want you,” you said, turning to face him.

He laughed, “You didn’t let me finish, mon amor,” he hummed again, sucking on your pulse point before he kept going, “Love never wanted me, but I took it anyway.”

You smiled and carded a finger through his hair before catching his lips with your own, “You certainly are the most successful hunter in the world, then.”

“You know I am,” he said easily, leaning back only a moment before diving back into a kiss, one hand on your cheek to pull you close, the other in your hair to hold you still.

The night is spent like that into the hours of dawn. Tangled in one another, mouths pink and slick, hot with bated breath. Rook’s hold on you is intoxicating, itching for more. It isn’t until he realizes he needs to sneak back to his own room that you part

“Loose lips sink ships.”

A letter is on the bedside table.

“To my love, I left my conscience pressed through the keyhole as I watched you dress, Kiss and Tell. Loose lips sink ships. - Yours, R. Hunt.

~find me when you’re down. I’ll be waiting in the garden.”

[akumastrife]

strike the match // dream pack (trc)

Rating: Mature Archive Warning: just slutty business, swearing, dubious consent bc canon appropriate drugs Fandom: Raven Cycle

Relationships: the dream pack but everyone’s sharing Proko as K watches, as things should be

Back!! on my bullshit!!!! 

{Also on AO3}

The rowing team shirt was faded and ragged, tiny cigarette burns in one shoulder, and stretched entirely ill-fitting across Prokopenko’s broad chest.

It was never meant to fit. It wasn’t his.

The sleeves had been carefully cut off—speaking to Lynch’s theft of it from Gansey—and then the bottom half ripped off in a show of violence that could only hint at Proko’s subsequent theft of it when Lynch had left it last.

Three power play tug-o-wars to upset Kavinsky most.

By the way Proko’s lip was puffy and bleeding—wrapped slack around Kavinsky’s dick, relaxed between his knees, just breathing, jesus fucking christ—Swan thought maybe Proko was winning.

It was easier to stare too long at the disaster of a shirt, than at Proko himself with his busted mouth, wondering how good it’d feel.

Kavinsky scraped his thumb nail over the head of the match, already blackened and used up. It flared up again anyway, and he put it out against Proko’s shoulder. Another singed hole in the shirt. Swan had watched the cycle four times over already, primed for each spark.

“You just gonna gloat?” Jiang asked, accusation cutting quick through the heady lack of talking over the music, and the headier smoke filling the basement. It wasn’t quite pot. Too white, too fragrant, like a building smoldering in its own embers. Close enough for Skov, so it was good enough for Swan.

“Yeah, K, you got him looking so pretty,” Skov jeered. “How long it’d take you to train him like that?”

“Probably got him all doped up,” Jiang said.

Kavinsky said nothing; eyes saying nothing from behind those stupid white sunglasses. He took another drag on his joint, and then shifted his feet—the scrape of soles too loud for how the music rattled Swan’s bones—as he dragged Proko’s mouth off his dick by a hand in his hair.

Swan felt Skov wince in sympathy from beside him on the couch.

Proko gasped like he hadn’t breathed in hours, eyes fluttering and lips parted slack. It was such a damn shame he was so pretty. “Can I?” Proko asked, voice ragged and ruined already.

Kavinsky tugged him up to claim his mouth in a painful kiss, his own lips stained red when he pulled back. There was something… tender, in the soothing of his tongue along the cut in Proko’s lip. But that was all before he was releasing Proko and pushing him towards the two of them on the couch.

Jiang whined in disappointment.

“Fuck yeah,” Swan breathed and got up immediately to make room. His fingers twitched against his own thighs, wanting, eager, knowing to wait. He really wasn’t any better than Proko.

Were any of them?

He watched—eyes feeling too wide to match how his ribs cracked in expanding to make room for his lungs—as Proko slid over Skov’s sprawled thighs, folding himself down to let Skov have his mouth in a desperate kiss.

“Fuck,” slipped out on a groan. He adjusted himself through his sweats, glancing over at Jiang doing the same. “I wanna try his mouth.”

Skov glanced over Proko’s shoulder, pupils blown dark, stupid long lashes fluttering in that look of want Swan knew all too well. “What do you think, Proko?”

Proko moaned, high and breathy and utterly domesticated, what the fuck. Proko used to put up more of a fight, used to grin razor sharp and delight in tussling until he was put on his stomach and made to enjoy the surrender of it.

What the fuck had Kavinsky done to him?

He’d think about it later. Much later, he decided, as Proko staggered up and turned in Skov’s hands. He slid back, pupils and lips both parted around darkness and wanting, letting Skov handle him however he wanted. Gave into Skov’s spider-like fingers running eager up his ribs, down around his stomach and hips, like he was warming him up. Proko’s stomach tightened and flexed—eager.

Proko reached forward, hands clamping painfully tight around Swan’s hips to drag him forward, eyes trained on him with a single-minded focus that made Swan’s mouth bone-fucking-dry.

He groaned, knowing already he was doomed, and stepped up between both of their parted knees—Skov’s tilting out to push Proko’s more obscene—and fumbled at the worn knot of drawstrings, only looking at Proko, at Skov’s eyes flashing dark and hungry over Proko’s shoulder, at Jiang’s desperate reflection in the cracked mirror behind the sagging couch.

It was a fast and heady race between them to see who could get Proko first. Skov laughed brightly as he tugged at Proko’s cut offs, reaching under him to pinch Swan’s thigh as he pushed his sweats down. Swan swatted his clever hand away and then lost everything in a gut-punched curse, bowing over Proko’s mouth immediately around his dick.

“Jesus,” he hissed, nails biting into Proko’s shoulders. “Lemme fucking prepare myself, dude, fuck.” He hadn’t been ready; ready, yes, but it was fast and a shock and he was sensitive and Proko’d forgotten to not use his fucking teeth. He wasn’t like Jiang. He didn’t play like that. He preferred teeth in other parts of him, not his fucking cock, christ.

“Hurry up, then, and catch up,” Skov mumbled, rolling his eyes. He did something with his hands that had Proko whining and buckling at all his joints like a broken doll.

He had to stop thinking about Proko that way.

“How the fuck are you already—still?—slick, dude?” Skov said, split between awed and alarmed. He glanced up at Swan (looked up up up, eyes dark, teeth catching his bottom lip and farther to grab his snake bites—Swan wanted to fuck that mouth too. He would. After.) “I got four fingers in ‘im already, can you fucking believe?”

“What?” Jiang snapped. He struggled up and careened across the basement, crashing into the couch beside Skov and craning in to look. He inhaled fast and stuttering, tongue flicking out like he wanted a taste, tongue stud flashing in the low lighting, and Swan wanted to let him just so he could watch.

He fisted a hand in Proko’s hair, humming pleased at how Proko whined immediately at the pull, sinking farther down, taking all of him, and swallowed several times until Swan was seeing stars.

“Fuck, K, does he not have a gag thing anymore?” Swan asked. He locked his knees, hitching his hips forward, and rolled his head on his neck to look over at Kavinsky. At their king. But in the way a monster might sit above a fae court, volatile and untouchable.

He had to stop listening to Jiang ramble about his fantasy books.  

He couldn’t see Kavinsky’s eyes, but he felt him looking back all the same. “You must’ve really worked on him.”

Kavinsky said nothing; chapped lips curling around the joint again and face turning to fix on Proko rocking back on Skov’s fingers, the sharp arch of his back

Judging, maybe.

Measuring his form to some standard Swan never wanted to know. K’s brows furrowed slightly. Dragged his thumb over the spent match head (Proko’s tongue dragged devastatingly over his slit.) His thumb was nearly as black.

“I’ll have him gagging,” Skov warned, and snapped Proko back by the hips, pulling him down onto his dick. Proko flinched and slid off Swan’s dick with a gut-punched sound so wounded that Swan almost came on the spot with nothing more than the flat of Proko’s tongue.

Skov swore low and drawn out, eyelashes fluttering. And then sunk his teeth into the back of Proko’s shoulder.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Jiang whispered, fumbling his pants off and peeled one of Proko’s hands off Swan’s hips to put it in his own lap, groaning loud and obscene. Not even the thumping music could cover it.

“Loud bitch,” Swan muttered, meeting Skov’s eyes and jerking his chin at him. Skov grinned, glittering sharp like a viper, and stuffed his fingers into Jiang’s mouth.

“Don’t be a bitch and bite,” Skov snapped. He didn’t have to. Jiang probably wasn’t even listening anymore.

Swan snorted. He pulled Proko back onto his dick, watching Skov more than anything. “How’s he?”

“Like a fuckin’ dream,” Skov groaned.

Out of the corner of his eye, Swan saw K smile. Just a flicker. Maybe that was just the hazy air.

Swan rocked his hips faster, bending over Proko to catch Skov’s mouth in a slick kiss. He felt Skov starting to smile, taunting, that asshole, and bit his lip to head that shit right off. He liked kissing Skov, fucking sue him, and he tasted better when he was getting his dick wet.

Thick smoke rolled over them, snaking into nose and mouth, and Swan nearly choked on it. Kissed Skov to keep from coughing: harder, meaner, greedier. Tried to forget about Kavinsky watching and couldn’t; felt his eyes on them like claws into flesh. The smoke was sweeter, musky. Rotting wood, maybe, or something that smelled like desperation and hunger.

He bit into Skov—

He was so hungry. For Proko’s tight throat and Skov’s pierced mouth. For violence and the simmering heat that bloomed whenever he put someone on their back. Arousal built on itself, climbing up his spine and pulling taut as wire.

“You just gonna sit there?” Swan asked, harsh and breathless. He glared over at Kavinsky. Hitched his hips to push harder at Proko to make him choke, relishing in the wet, gasping noises and how it made Skov breath harder, tone edged higher.

Kavinsky smiled. He had too many teeth—

Swan blinked—

Kavinsky wasn’t smiling at all. He shifted, slow and like his body was made of shifting and crumbling branches, and turned the music up higher. Louder and grating. He stood, taking another drag, holding it until he’d stepped over and blew the smoke into Swan’s face.

Swan blinked fast, inhaling against his better judgment and shuddering at the acrid tang of the smoke curling in his lungs, fucking Proko’s mouth a little faster.

“Fuck yes, baby boy,” Skov groaned, strained and right on that fucking edge. Swan knew it too well, knew exactly what he sounded like, tasted like, felt like inside and out when he was hanging on the precipice of losing it. Proko keened, moving faster; Jiang inhaled fast and sharp, chewing on Skov’s fingers and hitching his hips up into Proko’s fist, tight and wet.

Swan wanted to do something very stupid.

Something scraped sharply right in his ear, making him twitch (making his dick jump) and he turned his head to see Kavinsky still standing there, bright match in his hand. The flame flickered hungrily, licking charred wood and charred flesh.

Kavinsky’s sunglasses stared at him, unreadable and expectant. Held out the match. An offer or a demand, it was all the same.

Swan opened his mouth.

The world went up in flames.

[skaterfc]

I posted 10,493 times in 2021

43 posts created (0%)

10450 posts reblogged (100%)

For every post I created, I reblogged 243.0 posts.

I added 681 tags in 2021

#cr spoilers - 257 posts

#yes - 140 posts

#deltarune spoilers - 50 posts

#omg - 45 posts

#yes yes yes - 37 posts

#oh my god - 37 posts

#yesssssss - 30 posts

#dream smp - 30 posts

#them - 28 posts

#mcyt - 27 posts

Longest Tag: 140 characters

#but later they are told fundy did it. this is right when fundy was confessing to be a spy too so good times with his relationship withwilbur

My Top Posts in 2021

#5

WHAT A BANGER SEASON FINALE!!

everyone say "thank you" to the writers and the cc's!! Everyone is so glad that this season had a happy ending and didnt have the hopeless bleek tone the rest of the season did.

Tommy, Dream and tubbo espically popped off with acting today!! Tommys "tubbo please" right before punz came in made me cry. The way dream called back to "put your armor in the hole" and yesterday that was showen to be one of the things that still affected tommy!! beautiful!

Even smaller things with other characters like how punz was still just a paid mercenary. How eret was so moved by tommy saying eret was the real king. How when tommy was saying the dream was the real one that blew up the community house, ranboo looked down!!

Even wilbur when he came in and told tommy he was proud of him!!! (also getting rid of schlatt?? that means the other figure was wilbur!!)

Anyway, i loved season 2!! thank you to all the cc's for making this story so great!!

130 notes • Posted 2021-01-20 22:15:14 GMT

#4

fun fact i think clingy duo fans should know

today i was checking the wiki, as i do and i noticed something on tubbos relationships

VERY positive. I checked through other powerful bonds on the server. Techno and phil? Positive. Skeppy and bad? Positive

tommy and tubbo are the only ones who have a very positive relationship with each other.

150 notes • Posted 2021-01-16 08:04:23 GMT

#3

my name is ranboo ender twitch mybeloved and i have two-toned split dyed hair, half of it is raven black and half of it is pearly white, and i have one emerald green eye and one blood red eye and a lot of people tell me i sound like technoblade (A/N: if you dont know who that is get da hell out of here!) im not related to philza minecraft but i wish i was because he's majorly fucking cool. im half enderman but half of my face is pale white. i stream on a minecraft server called the dream smp in minecraft where im one of the youngest members (im 17). i wear mostly black and white, if you couldn't tell. for example today im wearing a black three piece that was custom tailored to fit my disproportionately long arms and legs, with a red tie, black shoes, and a gold crown with red and green jewels. i also have severe short term memory loss. i was walking along the prime path and it wasn't raining which i was happy about because im allergic to water. when i walked by tommy innit stared at me. i was taller than him, since im 6 foot 6 inches. 

"hey, ranboo!" a voice shouted. i looked up. it was... tubbo underscore! 

"what's up?" i said. 

"nothing." he said shyly. but then i heard my other friends calling me and i had to go away.

155 notes • Posted 2021-04-28 01:24:49 GMT

#2

I have made an important discovery

i have no idea what scale this is but tell me im fucking wrong

311 notes • Posted 2021-01-27 07:05:39 GMT

#1

I might get a lot of hate for this but...

Please stop bashing SBI fans who just wanna enjoy the family dynamic. We know its not canon, we know its not gonna be canon. We dont expect it to happen. Please just stop hating us and demand we stop. Like the "Maybe now you guys will finally realize phil isnt tommys father" or whatever just stop.

Please just let us enjoy the dynamic in peace.

1127 notes • Posted 2021-03-29 14:35:27 GMT

Get your Tumblr 2021 Year in Review →

[makiswirl]

Question for the q&a: Do you have any authors that have influenced your writing?

oh god DEFINITELY. there's some specific ones out there where i've looked at their writing and went "wow, i'm taking your writing style" but it's mostly published book authors? there are obvi some fma fic authors that've inspired me tho! putting this under a read more for yalls sanity

1. definitely stephen king! i mentioned it in the notes for chapter 14 of hölle but around that time i read the shining and i was in LOVE. there were specific things you could probably nitpick and go "wow that seems kind of new" at in that chapter and that would be because i pretty much.. looked at the writing in there and got Super Inspired.

when i was writing hölle it was my first Big Fic (patent pending) and i did NOT have a consistent writing style. like. at all. 90% of it was me improving my writing skills as i went and actually getting used to writing fics??? hence a lot of.. hiatus time and...... not very good scheduling or drafting.......... ...

so when i read the shining i went (!!!) BECAUSE I WAS FIXATING ON IT SUPER HARD like. watching the obscure MINI-SERIES hard. i still kind of am but i specifically noticed the way king seemed to exaggerate thoughts in a very specific way

and i RAN with that. this specifically shows in holes and i thought it worked pretty well for the genre

at the time??? also especially apt because i like. literally just reread the shining. like i finished the day i wrote holes chapter 3 and that's why it was more heavy theme-wise i think???? BUT EITHER WAY stephen king's writing (particularly in the shining) inspired me a hell of a lot!

2. john boyne! i reread the boy in the striped pajamas recently and. BOY i am so sad still. definitely wasn't as influential writing-wise but theres small influences here and there? specifically in the way i structure sentences i think & GOD how i love the ending of that book. like. it drives me to tears every time

whenever i reread the ending of the book i think of how STRONGLY it was written? like. the words were really impressing and strong and i kind of wanted to mimic that in my writing whenever the mood fit and i can really only think of the time being where i utilized that being the ending of holes? i don't really like the ending sentences of the fic itself but i remember thinking about skimming over the epilogue again when it came to writing the last bit

3. william shakespeare is super fucking funny to put on here but like. i'm currently taking pre-college classes and we reread romeo and juliet and some other sonnets that he wrote and ive like. never recovered since lmao

i can't state THAT much that i drew from him because i have brainfog from the entire past year but i remember the class heavily focused on refreshing us on poetry? like. we went over the old freshman year poets (edgar allen poe was also pretty "!!! urge to write !!! but wow hes kinda fucked up!!!!!!!!" tho specifically /w the raven and annabel lee when it came to me writing) and despite how incoherent that sentence sounds idk there was just SOMETHING abt that entire course that made me want to start writing a lot the professor was just super good i loved her come home 💔

4. OKAY SO FOR FMA FIC AUTHORS. i've read a LOT of fics (like ive been through the entire parental roy and edling tags consecutively) so it's.. very hard to keep track... ... there're a few that definitely stand out tho!

* alightintheshadows i remember specifically being like. one of the first fma fic authors i read from and their stuff is GREAT. someone please tell me if they have a tumblr because i want to gush about their content so bad it's so good but like. i think they're what got me INTO writing fma fics in the first place? especially horror/plot-heavy stuff like that? i first read the cult on ff.net and i would NOT shut up about it for like. a week. i got super excited when their fics came over to ao3 and im pretty sure you can still see them quite a bit in my rec bookmarks

* DEFINITELY @liathgray i love cece so much they're so nice and i'm glad i've gotten to talk to them it's unreal !!!!!!!!!!!!!!! i think they're one of the authors who actually made me actually go "oh. wow the fandom is still alive!!!" when i was going thru ao3 after i watched both fmas last summer because i'm.. pretty sure giants in the forest was still going on iirc? that fic's definitely what dragged me into the hyperfixation and interacting /w the fandom super hard lol

also i just REALLY like blackwell springs????? can we talk about blackwell springs because blackwell springs is my SHIT.

like i get that these r all probably common picks for author inspos but i remember also being around for it when it first came out -> the end and i loved it sm and i got so excited EVERY time it updated. like i would liveblog it to my boyfriend or read it really fast half-asleep before driving to class and i'd shove it into his FACE. 90% sure that fic's what either struck me to write hölle or keep writing it (i can't remember when it originally came out???) but i really need to get on reading whatever series capra's part of even tho i don't particularly like crossover stuff bc i see it Everywhere and it looks so good

i think that's all??? there's definitely a lot of other authors that i've looked at and went "!!!" but my brain is.. so empty from dumping all of this.. hope this answers ur question tho!!!! ignore any typos i just feel very strongly ok but in like the best way possible ♥

[svankmajerbaby]

ok here goes the beginning of the snow white thing im working on

It was a white winter morning: the first snow of the year. The king was away, once more, on his efforts to establish alliances with the surrounding kingdoms. They were a rather small nation, but still, she thought with a sigh, it was not a position to complain about.

The Countess had been married for at least two months, and no news of a child as of yet. She had little knowledge of the exact method, but the procedure had been regularly done thrice a week for the month and a half that she had with the Count. She didn’t know if she was being impatient, or if it truly was a matter of waiting a bit more. She continued her embroidery, swallowing quickly, her mind away –she ought to go back to the chapel, pray once more, ask the Lord to keep her healthy and fertile, and her position secure.

She gazed out the window, at the snowflakes falling slowly like dove feathers on the twisted, blackened bushes outside the castle. The Countess smiled, remembering her childhood days, playing in the snow with her sisters. It was truly magical, the sight of the gentle winter day, just as it begun –with the memory of the golden autumn leaves still fresh in the mind. She rested the ebony embroidery hoop on her lap, and stretched her neck to gaze further, outside the foggy window, at the apple orchard that stood right by the garden gate.

The maids were a bit puzzled by the Countess’ decision, but said nothing to it. What could they say? While the king was away, as far as they were concerned, she called the shots in the castle. Of course, in matters of politics, of what happened beyond the stone walls –that was the domain of the ministers. But she didn’t care for politics. She had the warmth of expensive furs, of a steady hearth, of a hot mug of cider at her behest. She could return to the shelter of her home whenever she liked, and her maids would have to follow.

And so, there was a small marble table set by the empty apple tree, and the Countess was covered in the black fur-trimmed cape and the heavy black boots, the leather gloves, and the thick stiff bonnet with the silk ribbon, to shield her from the cold. It was snowing, but so gently and quietly that she thought it was all a bit unnecessary. Still, winter was the cruelest season of all, with its trickeries and its enchanting transformations. It would be best to not forget the dangers of the potentially sickly air that she would be exposed to. The wind, after all, came from the village, where the common folk mingled, from where the miasma could travel up to the land she occupied.

As a noble lady, the Countess had spent most of her life in the safety of a gilded nest. Now, she lived in a proper castle, as high as she could hope to reach. She had to be thankful. No matter how lovely the outdoors could be, she was not naïve; she knew, having been warned her entire life, of the dangers of the forest, even those of the village crawling with peasants. Pickpockets, thieves, killers; and further, wolves, bears, boars. Beasts of both sorts. No, she would never go beyond the apple orchard, beyond the edge of the garden gate.

As she sighed, her breath seemed like freshly cut wool frozen in midair.

The Countess huffed –it was impossible to embroider with these unwieldy gloves. She decided to take off just one, the one that would be working the needle, which surely would be enough exercise to keep it warm.

She had been entertaining herself by embroidering a representation of the baby Jesus, with a white dove flying above it in a ring of light, its wings spread wide. Though, the Christ was looking less like a child and more like uncooked dough. The Countess had never been particularly good at manual crafts, preferring more social activities like singing and dancing. Her mother had always discouraged her to be too sullen, too sunken into herself. It was important to be learned, yes, but more important was to entertain, to speak the languages she studied, to be of good disposition, amiable and pleasant to have as company, after all. Even if her embroidery skills were rather lacking.

A good wife and mother should be able to do it all, her mother had told her once. Sing, dance, play an instrument or two, draw with an acceptable level of artistry, sew and embroider, and be witty, whatever that meant.

Those talents had gotten her a good husband. She was glad. Not necessarily happy –but glad. Glad was enough.

The handiwork was moving slowly. She was bad at threading and her rough sketch over the white linen was coarse and fading. If the Count later asked what she had been doing during the day, she ought to say she had spent the day indoors, guarding her health, quietly toiling away on a pillow for him. The Countess had seen the embroidering of one of the maids, an exceptionally fine work, despite the poorness of the threads. The Virgin, cloaked in red, her pink hands facing upwards. Yes, she would have that embroidery and pass it as her own. The Count would be pleased.

The wind had begun to blow. The Countess blinked her blond, almost invisible eyelashes against the flurry of snowflakes beating against her face. She huddled in her furs, her exposed hand trembling, searching the proper placement to pierce through the fabric. The black-leather hand pulled the needle, perhaps a bit too taut; and as it emerged back again through the linen, with the one finger searching for a bump, she pushed forward –and the needle’s point pricked the tip of her finger –hard enough to draw blood.

The Countess left her ebony frame on her lap, taking a pause to gaze at her wound. A blob of crimson emerged, becoming more swollen by the second. Its intense color seemed even vibrant against the black of her garment, the white of the day. When the drop became fat enough, it slipped away from the trembling finger –and onto the empty space of the embroidery hoop, where she had been planning to embroider the dove. The Countess smiled. Her fingers were numb from the cold, and the sharp sting was felt only for a brief moment. She was too entranced by the way the red blood slowly soaked the white linen, stretching further, growing like lichen on a stone. Like the blush on a maiden’s cheeks.

She remembered herself as she had once played with her friends in the snow; now older, wiser, a beloved mother to a healthy heir. She would laugh and raise the child up to the sky, their hair blowing in the gentle chilly wind, their noble brow stroked by the blossoming branches of the apple tree.

“Oh,” she sighed once more. “To have a child so beautiful that they could have hair as black as ebony –skin as white as snow –lips as red as blood.”

The Countess pictured the child’s face in her mind. A round face, glowing white, framed by black locks, with her own round fair eyes staring back, and an easy smile displaying a red mouth. A better version of herself, she thought. Prettier, gentler, smarter… A great heir, ruler of Waldeck.

She only hoped that creature could be a boy.

As she was distracted by these fantasies, a sudden gust of wind blew one of the Countess’ velvet gloves off from her lap. She gasped. A servant rushed to her side and caught the glove in midair, just before it could disappear behind a curtain of snow.

The man reached the delicate glove to the lady. The Countess offered him a thankful smile, slightly shivering, and then had a good look at him. He was a groom, judging by his own gloved hands, the hay on his clothes, and the potent if not slightly watered down smell of manure. Of course, the Countess recalled –the apple orchards were not far from the stables.

For a stableboy, however, he was considerably handsome. The thought briefly embarrassed the Countess, but when he smiled back, any shame melted away. He had small but shiny black eyes, milk-white skin, and thin lips. And, when he took his hat off in respect for his lady, he revealed a head of soft black hair, as dark and smooth as a raven’s wing. The Countess’ heart fluttered. God was listening. She had never seen a man as striking as he.

She stretched her naked hand to the groom’s face. His smile faltered, but it remained frozen in its place, even as the Countess’ fingers stroke his cheek, to then go over his frost-nipped lips. She was his lady; he was to submit to her requests.

The snowflakes gently landed on his hair, and gleamed like faraway stars in the deep of the night.

 ...

Months passed, and winter gave way to spring, to summer, and finally to autumn, when the child was born. While at first the news of a baby thrilled the Countess, the joy soon was replaced by disgust at the changes the little parasite produced in her body. At first it was what the physicians warned her: dizzy spells, moments of feeling sick, some swelling of the body. The swelling was the worst part of it. Her favorite, richest garments of lace and brocade didn’t fit her anymore, from her deep purple velvet slippers to her pea-green embroidered gloves. Her hands had become swollen as well, and reddened, and it would hurt to hold stuff firmly. There were sharp sudden pains on her back, neck and sides. By the final weeks she could barely move from the bed. Some nights the discomfort and the weight on her hips and back would be so unbearable she could hardly sleep.

Though, as the Count would come to her side and supervise the development of her pregnancy, and lay a hand over her bulging belly, the Countess would smile satisfied. If the child was born healthy and safe, then it would all have been worth it.

It was difficult to keep that in mind during the birthing.

The women crowded around her, their hands cold and clammy. Their faces seemed bloated as they hovered over hers, giving her commands, grabbing her hands and squeezing them as she pressed and pushed. The air was thick with heat and smoke, the candles lit all around her, becoming bright blurred suns. The Countess groaned and cried and shrieked. Her body was covered in sticky sweat, her back felt as if nailed to the bed. It was as if her body was splitting wide open. The Countess peered down the bump on her belly and saw the women working, their robes splattered with blood –there was blood on the bed –there was blood soaking her white damp chemise –there was too much blood, far too much. Perhaps this was how she would die. Giving birth, how appropriate, she thought, as she gritted her teeth and, just in case, muttered a few Hail Marys under her breath, slurring the words, repenting for everything. The women yelled louder. Something was happening, something new, and the Countess wished it was over soon. Her skin was burning, her insides were ripping her apart, struggling to see the light. She spread her legs further, pushing harder, and finally there was another cry, a high pitched scream, and the Countess sighed in relief. The baby was crying –it was alive –she was alive –all this calvary hadn’t been for nothing.

But when the offspring was pulled out, she still felt the pain: it wasn’t blinding as before, but it was there still, and, realizing it wasn’t over yet, the Countess wept like a child.

A maid, her face marked with blood and sweat, approached her lady with the earsplitting baby swaddled in the last clean cloth and a congratulatory grin. The Countess raised a hand and waved it weakly, both trying to cover her ears and push the baby away from her.

“No, take it, take it away…” she mumbled.

The maid lowered her head in respect, and, taking the baby out of the lady’s chamber, was followed by the other women. They closed the door, though the creature’s shrieks were still audible for a few minutes more.

Slowly, though the Countess couldn’t move yet, she began regulating her breath. There were sharp pains on her sides. Her chest felt sunken, and her legs were weak. Her arms were tense, her fists still holding onto the wet sheets. If she remained still the agony was bearable. She blinked, the tears and beads of sweat clinging to her eyelashes. She sighed. It was done with, at least. The Count would be pleased.

Two weeks passed with her lying in bed. The windows were opened on the third day, and when the chilled wind rushed in the Countess took a deep breath, filling her breast with the fresh air. She had done her duty. As long as it meant no more pain, she didn’t care if she died.

But she did not die. The maids took turns to enter the chamber, silently, carrying food and drink with them. The Countess did not ask about her child. She knew that if something happened to it, then she would be notified. No news were good news. Sipping her soup, her body still feeling too heavy to move, listening to the quiet chirping of birds outside the windows, she wondered if her health had been transferred to the baby during the birth. She had no wish to leave the bed as of yet, though. There was a new emptiness inside her, now that the child was gone from her body. The realization dawned on her: who was completing her duties, now that she was resting? Who, besides her, could run the estate, order the servants, supervise the household accounts, keep the wheel of the Waldeck castle turning smoothly and without a hitch? Someone else, apparently. There was only one duty she was truly, solely responsible for: giving the Count an heir. She had done her duty. What followed, now? The production of a spare?

As far away as the chamber was from the nursery, the baby’s cries ringed in the Countess’ ears, making it impossible for her to sleep. When she got any rest, she was tortured by nightmares of the child becoming cold and stiff, like those who would have become her siblings. The women came and went, bringing hot food that fortified their lady, but nothing that could alleviate her wandering mind. Perhaps the child had been born deformed. Would it be killed, then? Who would have the heart to do it? Would they wait for her to give the verdict, or would the constant crying stop, out of a sudden?

The Countess hoped and prayed for the child to have a long, healthy life, if not for the Count, then for her own sake: she did not know how she would withstand another pregnancy.

The baby was baptized without her presence. It was named by the priest as he sprinkled holy water on the child, the Countess was told, and it was decided on the spot: Maria Margaretha.

The Countess wailed. Maria, after the noble virgin. It was a girl, after all.

[pangtasias-atelier]

How about this: Felix has been eating cake very often, everyone has told him, he can't stop. He'll grow bigger and will realize that no matter how much he trains he cannot recover his figure, on the contrary everything gets worse. Someone will tell him it's out of control. Felix will refuse. Sudenly he feels is about to burst and BOOM. It was a dream. He had fallen asleep without finishing his cake. He will move it away in anger "Im NOT out of control" After a few minutes, he will eat it. Ty~ :3

This one got really long omg. And after shortening down the ideas I had for the other Blue Lions’ interactions lol

But! Another one I’m happy how it came out. Now I just wish I actually bettered myself and took like actual writing lessons but eh, focusing on other stuff right now.(Still wanna make sure I’m not fucking up and mixing tenses tho)

This was really fun to write, so I hope you enjoy!! Especially since you’ve made a bunch of good FE fats for us and thank you for that!~

___________________

Felix doesn't know how it started, maybe it was a spell, new ingredients, a better chef, but it was something. Anything. Anything but his own fault.

All of a sudden his innate disdain for cake was replaced with a wanton need for it. Everyday, he needed some of it to satisfy his insatiable cravings for it. 

And despite the signs all pointing to a clearly obvious problem, Felix was the only one who refused to see it. Even as a bit of pudge began to form on his thin body.

The first had been Annette. 

On a visit to House Fraldarius, the day had been spent in relative uneventfulness, the day consumed with talks about their territories. It was upon dinner that the mood had changed.

Unable to control her expression, the puzzlement displayed on her face on a visit to House Fraldarius is evident to Felix, his features tightening in a scowl.

"Just say whatever it is your thinking instead of keeping it to yourself like those mindless gossipers," Felix spits out, already scowling.

"I'm surprised to see you of all people eating cake, Felix," Annette smiles at him. 

Felix responds with a scowl, his grip tightening. His slice of cake sits nearly finished, Felix almost devouring it entirely if it hadn't been for Annette interrupting him.

"You always hated the stuff,"

"Well, opinions change," Unwilling to deal with any comments over his shameful new preference for the decadent sweets, Felix simply stands up and walks away with his plate in hand.

It takes a couple of hours when he's cooled down from the conversation for him to leave his room. Unfortunately, despite the cover of night, he encounters Annette in the training grounds.

Casting a simple wind spell, the rush of air still flows faster than it should, both of their clothes willowing in the rapid gusts. 

Felix catches the glint of metal against the wall, Crusher resting. Deciding to head back, Annette turns around, face neutral. Caught, Felix sighs, resulting with his hand on his hip.

"I overreacted, what else do you want me to say?"

"An apology would be a nice start," Closing her tome, Annette wipes the sweat off her forehead, her hair disheveled. Grabbing Crusher, Felix forces himself to not visibly react at the way she easily grabs it and carries it.

"Sure, I'm sorry for whatever I did," Felix grumbles. Crossing his arms on his chest and resting on the heels of his feet, Felix makes out the way Annette's eyes quickly drift down this time before they don't, Annette making sure to be less obvious. 

“Don’t let it get out of control,” Annette offers, smiling.

Felix doesn't ask her what else she wants to say this time, biting his tongue back and blushing.

The second had been Ingrid.

The embarrassment of Annette noticing his slight paunch apparently hadn't been enough shame for Felix, his constant devouring of cake only worsening.

The small bump for a stomach grew into a large swell, clothes needing an upsizing by his tailors. His flat, sightly defined chest filled out with small flabby bumps. Yet it was his lower half that grew larger in proportion. His thighs became swaddled with a generous portion of overlapping fat, his graceful movements now slower and clunkier. The rise of his ass was a reminder to his size, his sizeable asset jostling about with each hefty waddle. 

Annoyed with having a visitor so soon again, Ingrid's usual calm disposition was relatively easy to deal with. As long as he didn't raise his own temper, her's wouldn't rise either. 

Except Ingrid had no sense of calmness, immediately going to fretting over Felix.

Felix who had been so agile and active. Felix who hated cake. Felix who had been 

"You do know you have a problem, right?" Ingrid asks over dinner, her eyes on Felix's plate of food, the portion much larger than before. The clanking of his fork on his plate only prompts Ingrid to speak more. “Of course you don’t,” Ingrid sighs. “You’re too busy criticising others and their issues that you don’t even see your own,”

“I don’t have a problem,” Felix leans back into his chair before he feels the heft of his own body resting on him, Felix sitting upright once again. Yet even in that position he feels the way his stomach seeps onto his thighs. 

“Really Felix?” Ingrid frowns, pushing her hair to the side. 

“I can work it off,” Felix gives in, only partially.

“Then you would have already,” Ingrid fights back. “It’s getting out of control,”

Yet no matter how much further she goes, Felix refuses to admit his issue. And so by the time Ingrid’s entourage and ride arrives, she finds it far better to simply leave and free herself of Felix’s own stubbornness than to deal with even more back and forth arguments.

Nothing learned, Felix pays no heed to Ingrid’s words, cake far more important. Any kind he could get his greedy hands on would do. Chocolate, vanilla, strawberry shortcake, cheesecake, lemon, regardless of the flavour, Felix felt the need to devour it all the same. 

His sense of time lessening, the only truly memorable moments was when he was stuffing himself with the delicious sweet contents of cake.

His waistline suffering for it, his own remarks of training off the extra abundant inches off his waist never came. Soon, walking became more difficult, chairs became too weak, doors too narrow, clothes too revealing. To Felix, everything else had an issue except himself. Even as he continued to grow fatter and fatter.

Most likely through Ingrid’s meddling, soon other former members of the Blue Lions came to check up on him. 

The third had been Mercedes. 

Her charitable nature and nice sensibility had led to her coddling him on her first day, Mercedes even baking a cake for Felix. That had apparently been a test, Felix failing it when he finished it in one sitting. Her kind coddling was only met with more detest on Felix’s end. 

Felix undeniably fat, his poorly fitting outfit was only more cause of concern on Mercedes’ end. Instead he had merely  thanked her for the cake before waddling away, his shelf of an ass wobbling behind him all the while.

The fourth and fifth had been Ashe and Dedue together.

The two specializing in cooking, Ashe’s own successful inn clearly showed on his short frame, Ashe containing a paunch. Dedue was the same as ever, his figure massively built and stacked.

Whereas Ashe was at most chubby, Felix was obese, his titanic rolls swaddling his body, his cheeks marring his own scowl and softening it. And instead of hedding both of their concerns, all Felix had were retorts to Ashe’s own size. 

The two didn’t remain long, Felix targeting both Ashe and Dedue for Ashe’s newfound weight alongside both no longer having the patience meant Felix had been free of their torment. 

Some dedication to his training grounds, and he’ll easily work off the extra weight is what Felix clings on to.

But those days never arrive, Felix happily gorging himself on cake and nothing but cake.

The sixth had been Dimitri.

Finally able to take the chance to get away from his own dealings as King of Fhirdiad, Dimitri instead had to deal with an annoyed Felix. Only a week after Ashe and Dedue’s visit, Felix had overall been the same out of shape angry person. 

Dimitri a passionate person, his scathing remarks had been the only ones to get Felix to shut up and listen. Pointing out Felix’s need for three chairs at the table, if he even bothered to walk instead of eating in his room, the way his body was inundated with rolls making even the simplest of tasks a chore for him to pull off, his increasing appetite that only would worsen with time. Dimitri had actually even made Felix use his training grounds for the first time since Felix could even see past his mountain, roll riddled gut. 

The pathetic speed Felix swung his sword only made Dimitri worry more, Felix struggling to even get a proper grip with his bingo wingo arms pressing against the side of his moobs. Felix’s complaints and asks for a break were ignored by Dimitri, forcing his friend to keep going. 

By the time Dimitri had left the next day, he left with hopes for Felix, Felix grumbling yet thankful for talking sense into him.

Except after a couple days, Felix’s own inability to control his appetite left him giving up, Felix merely reverting back to his gluttonous lazy self.

The seventh and last had been Sylvain.

Felix so far gone in his ravenous ways, the last vestiges of his own mobility was apparent. Sylvain had whistled upon sighting Felix, eyes wide open, unable to believe it himself. 

Where Dimitri embarrassed Felix to help him, Sylvain had done the opposite. Ridiculing Felix, Sylvain did it with the intention of putting him down. 

Grabbing Felix and forcing him to walk, Felix sweating and waddling by his side while he heaved and puffed all the while in between curses, Sylvain would tire him out only to leave him alone, Felix falling down to the floor with a resounding crash and staying there. Forcing him to sit on a single chair instead of the necessary four so he’d crush yet another piece of furniture. Pushing him into too narrow doorways only to leave him stuck inside, Felix too fat and wide to get through or push himself out. Barraging Felix’s entire body with powerful slaps to make his engorged body shake as if an earthquake had just occured.

Sylvain’s cruel methods had only reinforced the subconscious idea in Felix’s brain of why even bother. Unfortunately for Felix, Sylvain had stayed the longest, a month of disparaging remarks and acts endured by Felix. Sylvain had even left without a word, disappearing in the night.

Unwilling to act and far too fat to do so, Felix’s only companion was the increasing amounts of cake he devoured each day. The ability to one day quit and lose all of his weight always in the back of his mind, said day never came, Felix reaching immobility before he even had time to consider the possibility. Not that he ever would consider it, Felix too stubborn to think he’d let himself go this far. 

A feeding tube in his room, Felix hadn;t even remembered asking for such a thing, his mind in a constant haze of cake. Barely a couple hours after lunch, Felix was already on his fifth meal. Each lasting an hour, he only paused intermittently for a few minutes, his hunger quickly coming back. 

Bed completely covered in his own rolls, Felix can feel all his weight press down on him from lying on his back. Only able to stare at his tube and the ceiling, wiggling his fingers and toes are the only other things for him to do besides eating or sleeping. His ass encapsulating the bed and reaching the floor, Felix pays it no mind, focusing instead on guzzling the cake flavored whatever, Felix even uncaring about what it is he’s devouring. 

Reaching a full state, Felix mumbles past the tube, his incoherent words a jumble. Expecting the tube to turn off, it remains on, filling his stomach with a torrent of cake. Increasing his complaints, the only response is his feeding tube picking up in speed, Felix gurgling as he;s forced to devour it all. Chugging it, Felix feels himself expanding.

Stomach rising in the air and cascading all around like melted vanilla ice cream, his breasts flow and sink back down towards his face, his numerous neck rolls meeting them head on. His thighs become even more dimpled, the couch sized appendages forced even wider to accommodate the rapidly filling thighs as they grow larger and wider. His ass pushes him high in the air, Felix groaning as his large room becomes even more cramped, his now blob like body filling it.

His feeding continues, Felix groans, his eyes half lidded as he continues to guzzle. His stomach stiff, the stuffed state of it feels oddly relaxing, Felix giving in to the tube. Suckling it, Felix complains as his body finally reaches the edge of his room, fat reaching from corner to corner. Huffing,the cramped and compressed nature of it makes him complain. Body seemingly one large blob with no definition, joints seemingly improbable, the walls begin to crack and tumble as Felix grows ever fatter,his eyes even hard to keep open with so much fat clinging to his body. The floor even cracking underneath him, it takes no time for the whole area to explode, Felix’s body rushing out like a dam breaking.

Jolting up in his chair, Felix hisses as he hits his arm against his table. 

Alone in his room, Felix heaves as he checks himself. Nightclothes on, a simple pair of shorts and a shirt, the moon high in the sky notifies him of it being night. Grabbing his stomach, Felix grimaces as his hand wraps around a sliver of pudge. Sniffing, the aroma of strawberry assaults his nose. Turning to the table, Felix spots the remnants of a slice, a couple of forkfuls left. 

Sighing upon realizing it was all a dream despite the vividness, Felix leans back into his chair. Glaring at the cake, Felix stands up. Bones aching, he stretches, humming as they crack. The warm covers of his bed calling and reaching out to him, Felix takes a couple of steps. His stomach growling, the hunger calls and reaches out to im as well. Glancing at the bed, then the cake, and then finally his stomach, Felix frowns. Grabbing the plate, he swiftly devours the remains of the cake.

“I’m not out of control,” He grumbles to himself.

[bloody-wonder]

mid-year book freak out tag

no one tagged me, i just wanted to to this haha the questions are taken from here and i know it’s past mid-year already but idc

1. Best Book You've Read So Far in 2020? So far i gave 5 stars to two books only: one is Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption by Stephen King and the other one is Gillian Flynn’s short story The Grownup. I still haven’t read anything this year that would transfer me to another plane of existence like The Secret History and All For The Game did last year.

2. Best Sequel You've Read So Far in 2020? That’s definitely The Wicked King by Holly Black.

3. New Release You Haven't Read Yet, But Want To? Loveless by Alice Oseman. As soon as I finish what I’m reading now I’ll take that sweet aroace rep and gobble it up.

4. Most Anticipated Release For Second Half of 2020? The Nobleman's Guide to Scandal and Shipwrecks by Mackenzi Lee. Also I’ve just found out that another The Folk of the Air novella is getting released in November and as far as I understand it’ll be about small Cardan, and usually I don’t care for prequels but... small. Cardan. with a small tail. alright next question

5. Biggest Disappointment? Almost all fantasy books I’ve read this year were disappointments: Six of Crows, The Raven Cycle, Vicious, The Blade Itself and Wolfsong frustrated me especially. Maybe it’s because all the hype that surrounds them gave me unrealistic expectations or maybe I just have to admit that fantasy is not my genre and give up trying to read it.

6. Biggest Surprise? I guess it’s Seven Ways We Lie by Riley Redgate. I read this chiefly for aroace rep but it turned out to be such an interesing book I just binged it in six hours on a sunday afternoon. I think it deserves more attention, so if you like high school drama definitely check it out.

7. Favourite New Author? That would be CS Pacat. I read Captive Prince last year and loved it and in May I finally found her Fence comic on Scribd during that delicious free month. I remember I once said that if slow burn were a violin, Pacat would be Paganini, and I do stand by that after reading Fence. Can’t wait for her Dark Rise novels, maybe she’ll make me love ya fantasy after all.

8. Newest Fictional Crush? I’m afraid it’s still those murder lacrosse junkies who keep me up at night. 

9. Newest Favourite Character? Complex characters are the most important thing in a book for me, so naturally all the books I liked this year have good characters. But I will admit one thing: if Adam Parrish were in a better book, he’d give them all a run for their money.

10. Book That Made You Cry? The beginning of Fangirl made me cry like a lil bitch. Also that time Adam goes through Ronan’s house and compares his childhood with his own. Also Radio Silence made me cry several times. A Little Life that I’m reading now will definitely make me cry until my eyes hurt. What book didn’t make me cry would be a more realistic question.

11. Book That Made You Happy? *zuko voice* I’m never happy. The book series that made me laugh out loud several times though is A Charm of Magpies by KJ Charles.

12. Favourite Book To Movie Adaptation You Saw This Year? I guess I’ve only seen one this year and it’s Picnic at Hanging Rock. It looked very good and was definitely more bearable than the book.

13. Favourite Review You've Written This Year? I don’t write reviews but I guess a giant rant about The Raven Cycle that I had in our chat with Sarah while we were buddy reading it must count.

14. Most Beautiful Book You Bought So Far This Year? I wish I had money to buy physical books haha.

15. What Books Do You Need To Read By The End of The Year? Basically everything on my extensive TBR, but especially Circe by Madeline Miller, Loveless by Alice Oseman and A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara.

I tag @minyardx @icanheareternity @mrs-storm-andrews @sir-see @figuringthengsout @writingpuddle @im-booksmart @manic-andrew @nneiljostenn @foxsoulcourt @moonsandstarsaregay

if you guys want to indulge my need to talk about books :)

[sailorshadzter]

Can you write a story about how Sansa has Jons baby without him knowing? Dany keeps him in kings landing and he comes backs to winterfell and sees Sansa’s son and knows its his

okay so i loved this & im sorry you sent this AGES AGO. but i finally got to it and i honestly want to do a part 2. so thanks! i hope it was worth the wait. 

send me prompts

The day her son was born, she was woke from a dream of spring.

Laughter had floated along the warm breeze, the sun shining overhead as children played in the godswood. They wrestled in the melting snow, wolves and boys, while the little girls stood on the side lines, cheering the boys on. Somehow, in the back of her mind, she knows those children belong to her. There's a boy with dark curls and Stark colored eyes, he's the oldest of the bunch. Then there's the boy with Tully touched auburn locks, the second born that comes close behind the oldest. The oldest of the girls is small and dark, she's like the grandmother she's named for and the aunt she idolizes. Then there's the other two, a boy and girl with eyes the color of spring violets and silvery hair that catches the sun.

The first wave of labor pain is what startles her awake and she's unable to stop the cry of surprise, of pain, from leaving her lips. Brienne is in the room at once, the door thrown open without any sense of formality- it's been left behind at the sound of her lady's pained cries. At the sight of Sansa sitting up, doubled over in pain, Brienne knows what is happening and she's out the door, shouting for the maid that was making her way down the hall at that very moment. "The queen's time has come!"

Fear grips her but she swallows it down, focusing instead on the prospect of holding her child. She knows he will be her Prince of Winterfell- they will call him the Young White Wolf, a boy named for the uncle he'll never know. A child born of the wolves, the stories will say, born in the first year of his mother's rule. For one single moment, she can only wonder about the other children she has dreamed of... But then another wave of pain takes her over and the door to her room bangs open as maids filter in and suddenly, there is little else for her to think about besides the pain of labor.

Except for him.

She thinks of Jon even as she's bearing down, birthing the child he helped create. Sansa wishes he were here now, she wishes he even knew there was a child at all. She thinks of Jon as she feels the child slip from her body into the hands of the maester, she thinks of him as the babe gives his first angry howl at being thrown so rudely into a bright, new world he doesn't know. She thinks of Jon as they hand her the baby for the first time, where even now at two minutes old, the whole room knows the truth of his birth. He is a Stark born child, even in infancy he is his father's copy. "Robb," Sansa cries softly as she cradles her son to her chest, naming him as she had always intended, though she wonders if Ned would be more appropriate, given his looks. But the room melts at the name and beside her bed, Brienne drops to her knees, swearing to protect the child as she's always protected Sansa.

She thinks of Jon as she peers into her son's perfect little face, wishing with all of her heart that he was there.

If only, if only...

[ x x x ]

"I have news from the North."

It is Tyrion that speaks and Jon looks up from where he sits in his solar, at first annoyed by the interruption but it fades as his words settle on his brain. He's been here, trapped in King's Landing as he once was trapped at Dragonstone, all these months since Daenerys had conquered it with brute strength. On the back of Drogon, she had soared through the skies, belching flames and smoke until there was little left of the capital but rubble. Those who had survived the massacre now lived in fear of the tyrant queen. "News?" Jon questions, absently rubbing the back of his head.

He misses home, he misses Winterfell. He misses her.

Jon thinks back to the last time he saw her, the morning of his departure from Winterfell. She had been so beautiful that day, bathed in the morning sunlight, wrapped in furs. He had longed to kiss her that morning, to remind her of where his heart so truly belonged... But they had been stumbled upon and instead, he had embraced her as any good brother might have embraced his dearly loved sister. When she had slipped from his arms, he felt empty.

"There is a rumor that your sister has given birth to a son."

The goblet of ale Jon had been reaching for suddenly clangs to the floor and Jon curses, dropping to the floor so he might mop up the amber liquid, though it's done more to hide his face than clean the mess. "That is quite the rumor," Jon finally says when he's recovered from his shock enough to control his features. He rises back up, settling himself back into his chair and setting the now empty goblet onto his desk. "My sister remains unmarried."

Tyrion smirks, eyebrow arching as he climbs into the chair that sits before Jon's oak desk. "They say the child is sired by wolves." The imp explains, watching Jon's face for any sign of what he knows must surely be the truth. That the child born to Sansa Stark is Jon's own child, a child born out of wedlock between two presumed half siblings. There were very few who knew the truth of Jon's parentage, after all. "The queen wishes to know if it is only a rumor or not," the peace between the North and the remaining kingdoms is thin and it is only because of Jon's sacrifice of remaining beside Daenerys that the North was given it's independence. Dorne is hot with jealousy and there had been whispers of their itch for their own. The Iron Islands would not be far behind. Daenerys had lost her loyal allies and now only ruled through fear. But, there was only one single dragon to fear, how long would it be before there were none?

"She's also agreed that it should be you who goes to confirm the rumor," Tyrion's voice draws Jon's attention back and his sharp, Stark colored eyes settle upon the Lannister. The man steeples his fingers together and sighs. "I suppose, what the queen knows or doesn't know... Won't concern her." All he wants is this peace to last; he's riddled with guilt over the last few months, the ringing of the bells still yet haunts his every dream. Tyrion knows the rumor of the Northern queen's pregnancy must be only that- a rumor. True or not, the mother of dragons would not take kindly to hearing the true heir of the Seven Kingdoms had a child with the true heir of the North, who she herself has given a crown to. What a powerful child, what a power for the already disgruntled people to stand behind instead. If one wished to topple a tyrant queen, this would probably be the way. If one wished, that was. Tyrion reaches for the jug of ale and pours himself a goblet, draining it in two quick swallows before pouring himself another.

Jon understands the deeper meaning behind the imp's words. Who better than he understands what Daenerys Targaryen is capable of? He watched her sack an entire city that had surrendered, all because she could. Fine, let it be fear, she had told him that night after the feast. Fear. He had listened to her threats against his people, his family... He knew what she would do if she felt threatened by Sansa and the North. It would take no time at all for the North to look as King's Landing had once looked. Ash would fall from the skies like snow, blanketing Winterfell. "When am I to leave?"  He extends his hand out, goblet tight in his grip, a silent request for ale of his own.

Tyrion raises his gaze to meet his eyes and leans in so they may clink glasses. "Tomorrow."

[ x x x ]

Sansa hears the cry from the guard tower from where she sits in her solar, Robb tucked against her chest as she looks over a letter from Dorne. She knows it's dangerous water she treds, even just opening such letters as the Prince of Dorne wishes to fight for his nation's freedom. There are whispers everywhere of overthrowing the dragon queen and though once Sansa would have involved herself readily but now... She glances down at the baby in her arms and knows she's got a whole lot more to protect these days. Sometimes she fears doing nothing at all leaves her son in more danger.

"Your grace."

It is Lord Royce in her doorway, dipping her a bow. As always, he smiles over the baby she holds, warming her heart at the sight of it. Sansa knows now how truly loved she is by her people, for there was not one who voiced displeasure over her baby born from wedlock. If there were any susipicions on the father, they were not mentioned publicly, and she laughs when she hears how they say her son was born of the wolves. "Yes?" She asks, lowering the letter from Dorne, focusing her blue eyed gaze on the older man.

"There's a rider at the gate, a rider from King's Landing."

Sansa's heart skips a beat but she dares not feel excitement. Jon would not be here, she would never allow that. "See that they are fed and warmed, then bring them here." Lord Royce gives her a nod and then bows before he backs from the room to do as he's been bid. What Lord Royce did not say was that he had caught a glimpse of the man who rode through, a man with unmistakable raven colored curls. But he goes on his way, sending a steward down to take the man to the kitchens, so he might warm himself before the great fires and eat a bit of porridage from that morning's breakfast.

In the minutes before the knock sounds on the door, Sansa cannot help but to fawn over the baby she holds. Robb is a sweet babe, though his angry cries can easily wake the entire castle. Peering into his dark eyes, she sees his father, she sees his grandfather. Little Robb is Jon's child, there is no doubt, his Stark genes undeniable. His gummy smile is frequently seen but his displeasure is just as easily heard, though Sansa loves every moment of it.

Knock, knock.

Hearing the knock, she jumps, chills racing the length of her spine. Somehow, she already knows who stands at her door. She turns and gently sets Robb into his cradle, hard oak wood carved with wolves and the weirwood tree. "Come in," she calls, adjusting her position in her chair as the door swing opens and the man comes through. The breath catches in her throat, stolen from her lungs as Jon sinks to his knees before her desk. She didn't dare believe it could ever be him, but now that he's here... Tears spring to her eyes as she opens her mouth, his name soft upon her lips. "Jon..."

He cannot believe how beautiful she is.

It's been a long eight months since he's last seen her, last held her. Her autumn touched hair is longer than ever, pulled back in a mound of intricate braids, leaving only a few soft curls to frame her features. Those blue eyes... Eyes he would willingly drown in, eyes the color of the open sea, of the summer sky. Her gown is of gray velvet, form fitting to a figure that is softer than he remembers and he only wants to take her into his arms. "My queen," he breathes as he hits his knees, holding Longclaw in the Northern gesture of fealty. For once, those words do not feel empty, they don't feel hollow.

She rises up from the chair she's been sitting in, coming around the desk, gray skirts sweeping across the rushes. "You're here..." She murmurs as she sinks down to his level, one hand cupping his cheek to her palm, his beard prickly against her soft skin. "I don't believe this," she shakes her head, blinking fast, the tears clinging to her lashes as she sucks in a breath. "Why.."

Before she can say another word, Jon is taking her into his arms. There on the floor, he pulls her to him and holds fast. She hears his sharp intake of breath as he buries his face into the crook of her shoulder, as his arms wind around her waist. Sansa breathes him in- he smells of horses and a campfire. "I'm an envoy now," he grins when he finally pulls back and the laugh she lets out sounds like a sob. "I've missed you," he sobers, his fingertips tracing the curve of her cheek as he stares into her eyes.

"I've missed you," she whispers, tears falling down her face faster than Jon could wipe them away. "I thought I would truly never see you again." She'll never forget that day, when they had hugged goodbye on the docks of King's Landing, she set to return to the North and her crown, he to remain behind with the dragon queen. "Jon, there's something I must tell you..."

Behind them, as if on cue, Robb lets out a cry.

Jon's eyes widen at the sound and Sansa rises back to her full height, drawing him up with her. "There was a rumor that reached Tyrion," Jon breathes and Sansa shoots him an apologetic smile. "It's... True..?" Sansa doesn't respond but rather takes him by the hand and guides him behind her desk, where the cradle sits just out of sight if one isn't looking for it. Jon knows before she says it, for looking at the baby is like looking into a mirror. The child is certainly his. "Sansa!" He tears his wild gaze from the now smiling baby to look at Sansa, who is staring dreamily down at the infant, her rosy lips curved with a smile.

"I wanted to tell you... That day on the docks..." She says softly, tears once again filling her eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispers, looking back up to meet his gaze. Jon shakes his head and leans in, pulling her close to kiss. He wraps her in his arms and kisses her deep, a long slow kiss that he hopes makes up for all the ones they've missed. "Would you like to hold him?" She asks when she's pulled back and Jon gives a nod. Sansa reaches into the cradle and the baby begins to smile and coo as his mother lifts him into her arms. A moment later, she extends out her arms and slips the baby into Jon's. "I named him for Robb," she says, reaching out to brush her fingers through Robb's downy black hair, already curling at the ends like Jon's does.

"Robb," Jon breathes, leaning down to gently kiss the baby's forehead, his heart overflowing when Robb takes hold of his index finger and holds on tight. "My son." He tests out the phrase and knows without a doubt he can never part from them again. He can never stay away. Suddenly, a dark thought takes root, a dark but necessary thought that must come true if he ever wants to keep this child safe. If he ever wants to keep Sansa safe.

He will do anything to keep his family safe.

[plainvanillapotato]

the 100 diaries S1 E8

quarantine diaries: may 24 2020

season 1 episode 8: “Day Trip”

i did not know that the actor that played bellamy is half-filipino. that made my day! pinoy pride!

that headbutt. btw miller and the grounder i laughed out loud

WINTER IS COMING! any other GoT fans out there? 

clarke a gamer? she out here with a headset and gaming chair? she’s using discord isnt she lol no wait she using the master of online video communication not skype but zoom.

dax really looks like the actor that plays luke in that horrid percy jackson live-action movie. (i pray to god that this new live-action with disney+ does not fuck up this beautiful story like they did with the films) that’s a pretty compelling deal tho. i would take it. i would do anything for my mom. but i know that bellamy has plot armor so im not to worried about this guy

the camp is really coming along these little stations are cute. also monty and jasper’s handshake is everything to me. very good for social distancing :) does anyone have a gif of that?

finn really does not deserve raven. why is he still so caught up on clarke? because like clarke said they barely know each other :| those longing glances between clarke and finn oooof and with raven in close proximity :| i cringe. ive never felt so uncomfortable in my live expect while watching scott’s tots. somebody tell me how much longer of this misery i have to endure..

when bellamy said “a lot can happen in a day” really this shows a lot within one episode. its a lot to take in. like i thought weeks had past but when raven mentioned in the other episode how only 10 days had passed i spit out my drink. bitch waht. like so much shit happened like jasper gets speared (thought it was an instant kill but miraculously it was not and he got better real quick), atom dies, charlotte kills wells, charlotte kills herself (tho we don’t see her body and you know how tv shows and movies love to pull that shit about you can’t be sure someone is dead unless you see their dead body), murphy is almost hanged but then is just banished...just to mention a few things.

LINCOLN. the grounders name is lincoln like the president? this is a lot to unpack. of all the names. he really don’t look like a lincoln tho. but I can’t believe that octavia really apologized to him for how she reacted when he chained her up. seriously that was not okay. listen to the guy when he says that he is the enemy 

also what is the deal between jasper and octavia is that ship just gone now?

octavia why you gotta stir the pot like that bringing up clarke and finn to raven. that was dirty but good for raven taking the high ground. did not expect that.

woah ‘day trip’ has more than one meaning. i did not expect a high episode from this show at all. the whole group is trippin balls. WOW i love this show.

the glowsticks (found when clarke and bellamy go to that place where they find the guns) ok you know its gonna be a good scene when they break out those glow sticks. reminds me of that one scene in spy kids

GuNs! bellamy’s smile at 16:45 he’s a little too happy. like a kid on a sugar rush

bellamy is definitely catching feelings for clarke. that shoulder touch. that head shake/hair flip. and she definitely checked him out too

bellamy’s hallucination *sad face* 

go octavia! saves yours mans even tho i really don’t think you should. way to take initiative and have some agency for once in your life. this drug thing is very convenient

THEY KISS! ummmmm i do not ship it. the guy literally chained her up and she instantly forgave him. i don’t even like octavia but i think she deserves better

*intense stares between finn and lincoln* did finn really not recognize him as the grounder or did he assume he be another kid trippin

bellamy and clarke saving each other. protecting each other. that talk after bellamy killed dax. ok i kind of see that as a zutara moment.

also did bellamy use a bullet shell to stab the guy in the neck. resourceful king. but i dont think that bullet shells are sharp enough to do that

can we also talk about how majority of on screen death we see are not because of gun shots but neck wounds: wells, atom, and now dax. literally jasper had a spear go through him. now he is fine. jaha was shot. now he is fine. i guess dwight really wasn’t lying when he said that necks are the greatest weakness of people

GUNS GUNS GUNS! bellamy and clarke really came back to camp slinging guns and said fuck it let the grounders come. I love this american trope where having a gun = invincibility/safety 

oooh yes clarke you tell finn off! you deserve better. how much longer is this ship gonna last because its annoying me.

they really killed off another POC (jeff epstien style) smh. fuck ok. and i called it! did not trust diana at all.

[darkagcs]

💀  * [ benjamin wadsworth + cismale + he/him ] —— have you met oliver garcia-moreau? they are a twenty-two year old junior currently studying history. they live on decker house, and word around campus is that this gemini is adaptable + intelligent, as well as neurotic + insincere. i wonder if they’ll make it out alive. switching languages mid-conversation. piles of half-read books. cigarettes held between trembling fingers.

well this took fucking forever but HEY GUYS!!!!! admin dana here to with her idiot genius child, oliver.

𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘

(tw: somewhat detailed emotional abuse, brief reference to physical abuse)

if you ask oliver where he’s from, he’ll basically short-circuit. born in serbia (in the good ol’ days of FR yugoslavia) to a mexican-french couple, and with a childhood spent moving all around the world thanks to his mom’s job as a diplomat, he doesn’t really have much sense of cultural identity.

on paper, being a diplobrat was pretty cool; by the time oliver hit puberty he was fluent in four languages, proficient in a couple more, and had already seen more of the world than most people do in a lifetime. not only that, but he lived only in the nicest houses, got the best education and was driven around in fancy cars, all expenses covered.

still, there were some downsides. some are obvious, like having to say goodbye to your friends and basically restarting your life every three years. others most people don’t think about, like how stressful it can be for a seven-year-old to attend political events where he’s required to behave perfectly or face the consequences.

no matter how many times his mother harshly told him to just suck it up and power through, oliver always panicked before attending any event of that sort, both because of how overwhelming being around so many people could be but also out of fear he’d screw up and make his mother angry — which he always found a way to do. still, with time (and his mother’s scoldings and slaps and pinches) he learned: he was not to speak his mind; when asked how he was doing, he was supposed to lie and say he was doing great, sir, thank you. he was to speak only when spoken to, and his interests — especially the most eccentric ones — were to be kept to himself.

as time went by, he mastered the art of socialising. he learned how to read any room, to charm anyone, to talk his way out of anything. he learned what people wanted to hear and how to say it. but most importantly, he learned how to hide his real self. he crafted a mask of perfection, presenting himself as the princely, polite young man his mother demanded he’d be — but still not one good enough to satisfy her. 

she controlled every aspect of his life. if she didn’t like a friend he’d made, she’d forbid him from seeing them again. if she didn’t like a book he was reading, she’d make a show of tearing it to shreds. if he didn’t behave as immaculately as she wanted him to, she’d lock him in his room without dinner. but she always justified her own behavior. “you must learn how important image is,” she’d tell him. he’s still trying to unlearn these teachings.

for years his life was nothing but this cycle; moving to a new country, creating a new persona to match it, making some friends, saying goodbye, rinse and repeat. it was both tedious and exciting, and oliver hated it even if he’s grateful for so much of it.

he’d only been to the united states a couple of times before he decided to go to college there. there was something about america that just seemed normal. he applied to holloway on a whim; getting into college really isn’t that hard when you’re a rich polyglot with recommendation letters from world leaders. what is hard, as it turns out, is living life on your own when you’ve never had to do anything for yourself, and never got to decide what your next move is going to be. not only that, but being on his own has made him realise he doesn’t really have any idea who he is or what he wants.

𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘

always proper and polite.

very persuasive, especially when it comes to authority figures.

great at reading people but only as long as he’s not emotionally involved, at which point he overthinks every little thing and is unable to get a clear image of what’s going on.

comes across as confident, but is insanely insecure with major imposter syndrome.

can come across as a pretentious asshole, not realising how privileged he is and far removed from most people’s reality his life has been.

at his core, a big nerd who’s incredibly passionate about his interests (especially history) but only lets that side of himself show with select few people.

king of overthinking. his thoughts’ thoughts have thoughts.

desperate for a purpose and/or direction. wants to make life count for something. feels completely lost and has no clue at all about what to do with his life.

acts like an extrovert because he’s been conditioned to do so, but is really more of an introvert and rarely shares his real feelings so he’s like an open book where 80% of the words have been censored out and another 10% is in a dead language.

actually pretty easy to get into his bed, though his princely vibe might make it seem otherwise. desperately craves human connection/doesn’t get attached easily/is afraid of commitment so really he’s more than fine with casual sex (though he’s the type to make them both coffee the morning after or leave a note for the other person instead of just leaving without a word).

𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐎

(tw: illness?) partially deaf on right year from a bad case of meningitis when he was 13 that also left him with a slight limp. he absolutely hates it, despite it being nearly imperceptible.

learned spanish and french simultaneously while growing up, but feels more comfortable with spanish than any other language and usually speaks it when talking to himself. if he’s around other spanish or french speakers he might switch language for a few words in the middle of the sentence.

so much anxiety!!!!!!!!!!

really bad insomnia.

straight-A student now that he’s in college and studying something he’s truly passionate about, but was actually not very good in high school and mainly got accepted into holloway because of his background.

so bi it hurts.

mom friend energy. if he’s truly your friend, he’ll make sure you’re doing okay and taking care of yourself.

has superficial knowledge on an incredible amount of different subjects.

addicted to caffeine.

weed turns him into a conspiracy theorist.

an absolute mess. can’t handle the most basic house chores. won’t remember to do laundry until he’s down to his last shirt, changing the bed sheets takes him hours, can’t even boil water.

fascinated by old stuff and doesn’t care much for technology. barely even uses his phone. has auto caps on and texts like a grandpa in general.

awful driver with an awful-ler sense of direction.

actually not as rich as he sounds?? like he has money, don’t get me wrong, but it’s not like... yacht-owning levels of wealth. his family mostly just led a luxurious life without having to pay anything for it thanks to his mom’s job, so he finds money to be a confusing concept.

have you read the raven cycle? because not to be super embarrassing but a certain dick gansey might give u a sense of what im going for here. (also sprinkle some amy santiago in there)

HERE is here connection page, HERE is his pinterest board and HERE are some stats.

[dreadwulf]

#4  With this Kiss I Pledge My Love

(previous chapters)

Jaime Lannister should have ridden back to King’s Landing weeks ago.

He had fully intended to, after putting the Riverlands to order – to return to his son the boy king, and offer his protection. Get him a proper Small Council who will advise him wisely, and a real Kingsguard to protect him, and get Cersei somewhere well away. Garrison the Lannister armies wisely to maintain order, clean up the mess his lord father has made of the kingdom.  

Instead Jaime has been wandering about in a fruitless search for an unimportant girl. Spending weeks riding through snow and freezing cold in a gods-forsaken corner of the Vale with a motley party of leftovers who don’t want him there. He has told not a soul where he has been nor where he is going. He has been gone from his post for so long that the Crown has declared him dead and replaced him on the Kingsguard, and the army he had commanded has been rerouted by unknown orders away from the Riverlands, which will surely swiftly descend into renewed chaos.  

He should go back. He should abandon this pointless quest and return to his duties. Jaime has no reason not to, except that he swore a vow and meant it. Under duress and foolishly perhaps, an oath sworn to a dying woman who didn’t die after all, but an oath still. I am yours and you are mine. He is keeping his oaths now, even if no one expects or even wants him to.

There had been no cloaks, no kiss, and no pledging of love, only their hands bound together and him speaking the vow. But even if she had not spoken the same vow back, and the marriage bond will soon evaporate into the air as though it had never been, it will not be him that breaks it. He can be stubborn too.

So he wakes on the cold ground each day and she says barely a word to him and he speaks hardly a word to her as they ride to the Gates of the Moon, and the sands trickle down in the hourglass that is their marriage until only days remain. 

Jaime has ridden with her every day through deepening snow and treacherous ice until finally they reached their destination and made camp here, her and Podrick and Hyle Hunt and the Hound, alongside all of the other travelers who have come to rest at the Gates of the Moon. 

The Gates are no more promising than anywhere else they have arrived. There is an extensive encampment here of hopeful hedge knights and nobles from the highlands, but none have time for an odd woman in armor and her questions about red-haired girls of four-and-ten. There are no further rumors of Sansa Stark here, or of her sister, although there are a great many more interesting rumors about the rest of the kingdom in the progressing winter.

Jaime collects these rumors and opinions with some interest, mingling himself with the men at camp over food and drink for several days running. Turns out there are a great many things that a person will tell a traveler in the Vale that they would not tell to Lord Commander Lannister. Some of those things are pure nonsense, but others are rather illuminating. 

It is not so bad, being dead. He gets many more smiles and greetings as a dead man, and not so many sneers and whispers. He keeps his stump shoved under his travel cloak, has muddied his hair and beard so that they are not quite so golden, and it makes him nearly invisible. He is another middle-aged hedge knight trying to relive his glory days at tourney, so far as anyone knows. 

Not so far off. He could not hope to compete there now. Left-handed these green boys could take him, and without his fearsome reputation to dissuade them his life would be in real danger. 

He sits at supper and looks at the farm boys and young lords, in the spring of their youth and the peak of their skills. He imagines Brienne defeating them all, beating them down into the mud until they beg for mercy. It’s a shame she won’t enter the tourney; he’d like to see that. Would any one of them be a match for her, at her full power? They are nearer her age, their reputations as spotless as their unbloodied swords. If she had awakened from her long sleep married to one of them, would she be so aggrieved?

The competitors like to talk, and the spectators even more so. They spin tales about the fighters who have come hoping to be Winged Knights, their family connections, their sweethearts and patrons. They tell him all about Lord Baelish and his natural daughter Alayne Stone, who have organized the tourney.

These tales in particular catch his ear. If Littlefinger has a natural daughter I’ll eat my boot. The man is too careful for that. Only the Spider is less likely to produce a bastard offspring, and only out of physical impossibility. 

He asks questions about the fabled daughter, and her upcoming marriage to Harold Hardyng.  An awfully advantageous match for a Stone, marrying the next in line to the Vale. Conveniently Petyr Baelish seems to have gotten charge of little lord Robert, and rules the Eeyrie as Regent. Jaime wonders if there might be an accident in store, once that wedding is complete. Maybe several accidents. Sweetrobin and Harry the Heir cleared away, and the Vale belongs to Lord Baelish.

He would very much like to meet this Alayne Stone. 

That’s more difficult than he would like. She will attend the tourney when it begins, but thus far has remained out of sight. He will have to wait for the tourney and possibly for the very final rounds to lay eyes on her, and that is likely to happen after his deadline is passed. Not that it makes any difference – the one has nothing to do with the other, no matter how persistently his mind makes the connection. Finding Sansa will not stop the marriage from ending.

It will be a relief to have it over and still he is increasingly agitated at the thought. He lies in his tent each night and he thinks on the Hounds Tooth inn when he had shared a room with Brienne as his bride. He had passed that evening most pleasantly, and even though nothing of import occurred he finds himself thinking on it fondly. Brienne asleep and unguarded in his bed while he sat by the fire. Friendly strangers wishing them well, simply for having one another. Your lady wife. It was a night stolen from someone else’s life, a life he is never going to have. 

For his own good the marriage must dissolve. It is inane to cling to an illusion and he has done that quite long enough with Cersei. He is never going to be somebody’s husband; he is a knight and he is the kingslayer and that is that. 

He is chewing on just this thought as he rides back to his bed at sunset. He knows when he comes back to camp Brienne will be surprised to see him again, as she has been every day that he has not left their party. She knows very well he has other places to be, and is waiting for him to remember it and ride away. Yet he is lingering here and unwilling to leave, though what he is waiting for he cannot imagine. Brienne cannot imagine it either, clearly. 

It’s making him cross, and distracted. He does not notice the riders gathering to his flanks until it is too late to evade them. 

Jaime is pulled from his horse before he can draw a blade, and thrown to the ground.

Sellswords, plainly. Not expensive ones. Five of them, looking like they’ve slept rough half their lives and just barely know how to hold a blade. He’s a little insulted that anyone would think him no match for these.

He leans back on his elbows and contemplates them in a relaxed pose. “I haven’t any money, and if you want a fine horse, you’d be better off feeding mine to the one you’ve got. This one’s slow as molasses.” 

“No money eh?” A skinny, toothless alley cat of a mercenary points a rusty longsword at him. “No Lannister gold?”

Jaime frowns. Clearly his disguise has not been so effective as he’d hoped. 

Some of his mates are skeptical. “Can this be the golden lion? He looks more like a weasel.” 

“No, it’s ‘im.” The tallest one spits a dark stream through his teeth and stands over Jaime. “Lord Baelish pointed him out to me personally.”

Well that’s irritating. Apparently Littlefinger was in the same room with him and Jaime never laid eyes on the man. Clearly he can cross “spy” off his list of potential careers after “swordfighter”.

“If you’re seeking out a ransom, you may have to wait some time to get it. Only ravens travel well now, and they don’t carry quite so much gold.”

“We got the gold already,” Toothless tells him. He jingles the money bag that hangs beside the knife on his belt. “Lord Baelish pays us well, and he only needs your head.”

Of course. He has asked entirely too many questions. And whatever his plans, Littlefinger has no intention of anyone outside the Vale hearing of them until it’s too late. 

“The Crown will have all your heads for it,” he says confidently.

“You’ll be buried right here, Kingslayer, and they will never know. The Crown believes you dead already and no one will miss you.”

Belatedly, Jaime realizes he is right. Not one of his compatriots in the Kingsguard or the Lannister Army knows where he is, and his own house has already forsaken him for the grave. Next to no one will notice if he dies now rather than two months ago. And even fewer than that will mourn him. Possibly none.

He lunges.

The knife comes easily out of Toothless’s belt and into his side, spraying Jaime with blood. But the remaining four sellswords are on him in a moment, and it takes only a few kicks in the stomach before he lies still in the snow again. He knows this routine. 

The tall man has his sword out now. “If you’ll tell us where to find the giant bitch, I can make it painless.” 

“Nonsense.” Jaime brushes the snow out of his hair as carelessly as possible. “Let’s make it hurt. I can only die once, after all.”

“Happy to oblige.” The tall one shoves his face back into the snow and stands on him. Jaime doesn’t even know who he is. Some no-name cutthroat sent by Petyr Baelish. What a stupid way to die. 

“What in the living fuck is that?” one of them shouts.

Horses approach. Abruptly the boot on his neck lifts, and Jaime spits out mud. Is there someone else here trailing him, after the Brotherhood and the Vale Guards? With any luck they will kill each other. 

He wipes snow from his eyes and sits back on his heels. Two riders approach very rapidly, and one of them has a sword raised. It crashes into the sellsword who had just been standing over him, with such force it knocks him off his feet.

Brienne dismounts in a strikingly graceful motion, her sword drawn, and she stares them down.

“Unhand my husband,” Brienne growls at them.

Jaime grins. A more wonderful combination of words he cannot imagine. 

“Already done,” he points out, waving his stump. “The bloody mummers beat them to it.”

She doesn’t hear him, swings directly into action. 

The fight is brief. She holds Oathkeeper with both hands and leads with her left, with her right arm still healing. It should discomfit him how easily she switches her lead hand, how one left-handed blow knocks the blade from her opponent, but instead it makes him smile. She makes short work of their weapons, knocking them from their hands, and their owners from their feet, while Jaime kneels untouched among them. 

He hadn’t known how pleasant it could be to be rescued. It’s really quite wonderful. Someone fighting for him, bleeding for him, spilling blood. When the immediate threats are downed she stands in front of him protectively, Oathkeeper in hand, and she looks like a song. A song only for him, for his sake. 

“Kingslayer’s Whore!” one of the downed men moans from the ground.

“That’s Kingslayer’s Wife, I’ll have you know,” Jaime says irritably. “She’s made an honest man of me.”

“Hush.” Brienne advances on him. In the time it takes Jaime to stand, Brienne has the man under her boot with a sword pointed to his neck. “What do you want with him? Robbery?”

“Execution,” the wretched man spits. “For crimes against everything good and decent. Kingslayer, Oathbreaker, great golden cripple.”

“That’s right, you do not deserve to say his name,” Brienne tells him. “None of you do. Call him what you will, but you will not be half the man he is.”

Gods be good.

Jaime is pierced by those words, a clean wound right through his chest. It hurts like every time he heard the name and no one spoke up for him, all together, all at once. Paired with the balm of her defense it is almost unbearable.

At a moment’s notice Jaime knows what he wants after all. He wants to keep her. He wants to stay her husband, and her to stay his wife. Never to part again. 

He wants her.

“Kingslayer’s Whore,” the sellsword repeats, spitting at her. “Got his cock out of your mouth long enough to ride? After murdering your liege lady Stark for him?”

His blade is drawn before he’s even thought to do it, and he’s walking briskly to Brienne’s side. 

Jaime aims the end of his sword directly at the man’s mouth, descending until it falls between his teeth and the man is choking and whimpering against it. 

“I don’t suppose sword-swallowing is one of your skills?” He pushes it a little further in, and the man gurgles in terror. “I hear in Braavos there are men who can take a sword right down their gullet and all the way to the hilt, and pull it out again right as rain.”

“Ser…” Brienne speaks up, cautiously.

“I wonder how you learn to do a trick like that - a little at a time, or all at once? Let’s find out.”

“There is no need,” she says quietly, putting a hand to his arm.

He meets her eye only briefly. She threatened the man herself only moments ago, but this is too far? 

“My lady wife would have me show you mercy. Can you keep a civil tongue in your head?”

The man makes an eager noise, too afraid to nod his head, and Jaime pulls his blade back.

The scene has not gone unnoticed - they are not far from other encampments, and other fires. There are onlookers now, and among them Podrick Payne on his horse, his little sword drawn in their support. He threatens the onlookers with it, having them keep their distance.

“They were tipped off,” Jaime tells Brienne. “Littlefinger is here - Petyr Baelish. I don’t know what he’s up to but he wanted me dead, and you as well.”

“I have no dealings with him,” Brienne says quizzically. “Could it have something to do with Sansa Stark?”

Unwisely, the man on the ground speaks up. “There’s no Starks in the Vale, whore. No Starks anywhere anymore, thanks to you and yours. They –”

He is interrupted by a swift kick in the face. 

Jamie hasn’t yet sheathed his sword, still thinks of feeding it to the man. He’s still angry. He has brought even more abuse on Brienne simply by his association and it infuriates him. His voice sharpens to a deadly point. “You will address the lady properly. Or you will keep no tongue in your head at all.”

“Lady Lannister –” the man corrects himself quickly.

Jaime startles at that, and Brienne stiffens beside him. Then he laughs. “Oh, we haven’t settled that bit yet. Lady Brienne will do for now. But there will be no more of this ‘Kingslayer’s Whore’. She is a noble lady, and a sworn blade of your precious Starks, and no one will speak so crudely of her in my presence and keep their tongue. Understand me? Tell that to your noble compatriots.”

The man whimpers agreement and Brienne lifts her boot, allowing him to sit up and rub his throat nervously.

The city guard, Vale soldiers, approaches in a thunderous pack. Brienne is cheered by their appearance, but Jaime knows better. Littlefinger will own them too; he is thorough like that. 

Exactly as expected they take him by the arms as soon as they dismount holding Jaime between them. Guards will have to make a show of arresting him, so that they can murder him in private.

“Sers, these men attacked us,” Brienne tries valiantly to explain, appealing to the guards with her sword lowered. She still thinks they will listen.

One of them shoves her aside. “Quiet, you ridiculous bitch.”

So of course Jaime had to headbutt the man in the face, which hurts, but it drops the man like a sack of flour, which is satisfying enough to be worth it. For his trouble he is slung into the back of a wagon, a jailer’s hearse. 

“For what crime?” Brienne questions them loudly. “We were defending ourselves from these sellswords.”

“Attacking a city guard,” the guard says.

Brienne considers that, visibly, head cocked to one side.

Then she smashes the man in the face with the hilt of her sword, so that his nose produces a most astonishing spray of blood, and is immediately thrown into the wagon right next to him.

*******************

“You could have stopped them,” he grouses to her later.

They are seated on the cold stone floor of a dungeon, daylight barely peeking into their cell.

“If by that you mean killed them, we would hardly get anywhere finding Sansa Stark if we run about murdering city guards.”

“We’re not going to find her in here!“ 

She is unbothered. “They will keep us but a night.”

“And wake us with a knife across the throat.”

“Pod rode for help,” Brienne says stubbornly, staring straight ahead. “He will find Ser Hyle and Ser Clegane. They will think of something.”

Time is passing fitfully as the light slowly fades. Their cramped cell is barely big enough for the both of them and it's freezing besides, and they sit just near each other, not touching, their breaths visibly hovering in the air around them. Brienne pulls her knees closer to her chest, for either warmth or protection. Without her armor she is probably short of both.

A dozen things to say flit through his mind, and he says none of them. Instead Brienne speaks up next, some time later. 

“You did not have to do that,” she says softly. “To threaten the man on the ground. Or attack that guard.”

He snorts. “Certainly I did. What else would I do, the dishonorable Kingslayer.”

“I mean that you did not have to defend my name.” She shifts, angling her face away from him. “I am accustomed to being insulted.”

So is he. But Jaime is not accustomed to her being insulted, at least not by someone other than him. “Where did that particular insult come from, I wonder? Kingslayer’s Whore. The Brotherhood said it too, well before the Quiet Isle. Did you ride about declaring that I had sent you? Not a great stratagem.”

“The lions on the sword might have had something to do with it.”

“Ah.” 

He swallows and thinks about the rope marks around her neck. Perhaps it had not happened because she had any great feeling for him, but it is his fault all the same. He gave her a sword covered with lions and sent her after Sansa Stark, and they broke her arm and tore her face and hung her. 

“If you are going to attack anyone who calls me names, you will have to fight the whole of Westeros from one end to another. Do not bother.”

She is so calm. He wants her to be angry and rage about it, and it isn’t in her. She is resigned to this. It makes him want to shake her. 

“If people must make arses of themselves it is one thing. But for you to take abuse on my behalf… that I do not like. Your reputation should not suffer for things that you did not do.” 

“It’s my reputation too, now,” she says mournfully. “Already the Vale knows I killed my liege lady and disbanded her Brotherhood. I did do that, and I can hardly dispute it. It will be everywhere before long.”  

“You cannot possibly be troubling yourself over that.” Jaime grimaces even to think on it, it makes him sick inside, in an entirely familiar way. “You had no choice.”

“I did have a choice, and I made it. I chose to break my oath, and I knew the consequences. I learned them from you.” She looks over at him finally. “You made a choice as well. And you have still carried the guilt all these years, haven’t you?”

His mouth goes bone-dry. Only Brienne has ever seen how he blames himself for breaking that oath, even all these years later. Despite every reason why he could not have done otherwise.

“Yes,” he says quietly.

“Sansa Stark is my last chance for honor too. I can only make up for my failure by her mother by keeping my promise, and seeing her safely returned to Winterfell.” She leans her head back against the wall, closing her eyes. “At least then I can hold up my head and know that I did the best I could. I was no kind of knight, and I failed from one end of it to the other, but I cannot go back to Tarth until I have found her.”

Brienne looks so bone-tired and forlorn at that moment that it aches to look at her.

The protective instinct in him rises up, the most powerful instinct he has, and Jaime is totally unable to resist it. Something is hurting someone dear to him and his most natural reaction is to fling himself at it. He doesn’t have a sword and the enemy is nothing he can protect her from, but Brienne is hurting and he cannot think how to make it stop.

So he grasps her shirt at the collar and pulls her to him, kissing her. 

Brienne goes very still and softens all at once, melting against him. Her mouth is warm and sweet and his heart is racing and he is pulled by a current far more powerful than he can swim against. The world rushes by very quickly, a blur.

Her hands struggle up to his chest as if to push him away but they only sit there preparing, always about to.  

The thought floats by without his leave. With this kiss I pledge my love. His lips speak it to hers.

But then she does push him back. He stands against her hands catching his breath. Her eyes are so blue and so wide and so full of hurt.

“How could you?” She chokes out the words painfully. 

“Like this,” he says, trying to kiss her again. 

“Don’t.” She jumps up to her feet, backing away from him as though he had attacked her. “Why would you do something like that?” 

Because he wanted to, that’s all he can think of. And he can’t tell her. To simply say, out loud, what he wants? Jaime doesn’t do things like that. A person cannot just admit to the things they want, not out loud. If you reveal what you really want, someone will take it from you, someone will use it to get what they want from you. A person keeps those things inside, and they try not to think on them, so that no one will discern their secrets. With enough practice a person will not even remember the things they want. Or know what they are in the first place.

“I wanted you to stop talking,” he says, too frustrated to think of anything better. 

“You…” she sputters angrily, and paces over him. “Did you think you can do as you like because we are still married? Did you think for a moment that I might not want my first kiss in a filthy dungeon…?”

“Your first?” That had not occurred to him. 

“Oh, gods.” She covers her face and he can see she’s blushing all down her throat, where it disappears down into her shirt. 

That old instinct again. How can he make it better?

“I wanted to. I wanted to kiss you.”

"You wanted…?” Her face tightens painfully. “Why?”

Jaime thinks of Red Ronnet and his rose, and he would very much like to find the man and hit him again. 

“I lost my senses, all right?”

“Stop talking,” Brienne snaps at him, and shoves herself down into the farthest corner away from him, still blushing. 

Jaime congratulates himself silently on making everything infinitely worse, and then things get worse again, all on their own. 

A woman walks into the dungeon. They know immediately it is a woman, well before they see her, from her carefully measured, delicate steps. She is tall, though not so tall as Brienne, and she walks to the bars of their cell and looks down upon them calmly.

She takes down the hood of her winter cape, standing over them, and it reveals rather than a noble lady a young girl, no more than five-and-ten, if that. She is dressed plainly but elegantly, in fine homespun clothes of a lovely warm caramel color that matches her hair, and looks quite out of place in a filthy dungeon. 

Jaime searches out her face in the dim light. “Alayne Stone, I presume.”

Alayne nods. “I am. And you are the Kingslayer, and this lady is your wife, Brienne of Tarth. The woman who murdered Catelyn Stark.”

[cozywitcharts]

Selfship day 1 (First meeting)

I curled myself into a ball digging my nails into my arms. I dragged myself over to my hiding spot when I heard a sound like tearing paper. I grabbed my knife from my pocket when I felt something goopy slither around my wrist. I stifled a scream as another one looped itself around my waist and lift me up. The one own my wrist tore the kinfe from my hand and I gave a cry as I lost my last defense. I heard feet coming towards my door and a tentacle locked it. I followed the ‘trail’ towards the body of a ball of goop. The one piercing cyan eye studying me. I stared at his face. Studying the corrupted version of my fictional crush who was standing right in front of me. I shook my head trying to push that from my mind and used my free arm to furiously wipe at eyes, wiping and wiping and wiping. My eyes were sore and red. I looked back at the octo in front of me. If Im being kidnapped I want my glasses and sketchbook. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------ I stared at the knocked out bodies of my family and stood on my tippy toes to grab my glasses off the shelf. I then go back to my room grab a backpack and shove multiple different sketchbooks pencils pens paintbrushes paints color pencils and my iPod. I also brought my laptop and chargers for both electronics. I looked at the portal that had a skelton with a hole in his skull looking through and a skeleton wearing all black and white with his back facing me guarding. I reached my hand through poking his shoulder then mover out of sight of the portal. He stood up and looked at Horror who was giggling. He gave Horror a slight glare, then sat down. I looked at Horror and was about to poke Cross again when I got swept up. Nightmare was holding me. Not the way I wanted but still! He was holding me over his shoulder. He stepped through the portal then closed it, he dropped me on a couch. I squirmed for a minute before finally sitting upright and finding myself face to face with Cross, I squeaked before scooting back and hiding half of my face in my hoodie. Cross was examining me. “So uh, why this one babe.” I realized with a jolt that Nightmare was fasting Cross. Not everything could go my way, but I knew that. I shook my head and my eyes laid on Nightmare who shook his skull. “First of all, we aren’t dating, second of all she has lots of negativity so I took her.” His tentacles twitching behind him. “I jumped up stomping up to him and jabbing a finger in his chest. “I am NOT a she! I am non-binary! So I go by they tea pronouns! And THEY have a name! Its Raven! So you just shut your handsome mouth and start actually asking instead of assuming! You stupid cocky handsome octopus!” I shut my mouth looking up at the terrifying male who was a good two feet taller then me. With monstrous tentacles at his command. That I just insulted. I just insulted the king, no GOD of negativity. He looked at me the bursted out laughing. I straight up just stood there and burst into tears which scared him so Horror started laughing at Nightmare, Cross stood there confused, Killer and Dust came down and started laughing with Horror well trying to explain to Cross. I finally calmed down and apologized to Nightmare. Then I asked if they could all pose, they all agreed. After 5 different toys of trying to get a sketch I screeched and flung my sketchbook in a random direction and Cross barely avoided it. I cried again. My eyes were red and stung really bad, I could hear them just standing there confused. I apologized and stumbled around blindly looking for a bathroom and stumbled upon a room, I laid down on the bed and fell asleep. 

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

Day 1! I hope y’all enjoy this uhm @freshwerewolf-pizzaroll and @selfshipperapproved  i hope this is good! UwU

[mountain-ash-and-rusted-iron]

this is an oc masterpost of all my haf-formed ocs languishing on pinterest with their messy aesthetics and unedited blurbs, in roughly chronological order of their creation, plus sorted by fandom. this post is only asoiaf, harry potter, hunger games, and riverdale, cos i have tooooooo many original characters otherwise and the post was getting incredibly long. (note that i love my ocs but these one’s are not polished or even the final versions of their characters, i just wanted to post them lol)

under a read more, if you’re on mobile start scrolling i guess, sorry,,,

Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire:

Laeya Targeryen: (child of Rhaella and Aerys Targaryen, born 280 AC - three years older than Danaerys) 

Fearful of her impending marriage, Laeya is eleven when she takes her younger sister and flees across the sea to Dorne, hiding herself and Dany with dyed hair and badly controlled magic. As Leia and Dani Sand they learn to live normally. At 15 Leia joins the Royal Guard and secures Dany work as a tailor's apprentice. When she is 17, an assassin tries to kill her in front of the Dornish court and everything changes...

- so laeya straight up has magic, which im considering an extension of the dragon thing dany has - she can control flame and for the disguise uses her ‘inner fire’ to make her eyes white-blue like super hot flames, cos the purple eyes are super distinctive. and then she’s discovered and suddenly politics are happening. honestly she’s entirely a way for me to remove the child marriage bits of the targaryen storyline (stop marrying off your twelve-year-old baby sister viserys u asshole) - in terms of meta/basics, laeya doesn’t have a fc cos most of my early ocs don’t, and bcs i picture her as emilia clarke with faked dark hair and blue eyes lol

and a quick aesthetic below:

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Kyrra Snow: (child of Robert Baratheon and Maery Snow, birthdate ???)

Kyrra Snow is the eldest natural-born child of Robert Baratheon, current King of Westeros, and daughter of Maery Snow, a Southron (but Northern-born) merchant woman. After her mother realises Kyrra was growing up a little too much like her father in looks and needed to leave the far South before she caught the wrong sort of attention, Kyrra was sent off to travel with her aunt and cousins. She is 17 and heading further north, to Winter Town, when Jon Arryn dies.

- kyrra’s another child of everyone’s favourite asshole king, and she’s got a lot of people after her head, but she just wants to travel and continue her work as a simple peddler. (riiip poor girl) honestly she’s not that developed but yolo -

aes:

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Brynn Stark: (child of Catelyn and Eddard Stark, Robb’s twin sister)  

Brynn believes in honour and family, and she is loyal to Winterfell and the North above all else. Likes - archery, embroidery and weaving. Betrothed to [some young Northern lord] to keep the bonds between the Norther families strong.

-i basically made brynn as a contrast to sansa’s pro-southnness and excessive femininity and arya’s anger and desire for swords (relatable mood tho lmao). so brynn is here to mediate, extoll the virtues of both needlework and weapons, make a decent marriage to someone she likes, if not loves, and hold down the fort in the North while shit gets increasingly messier in the South. and a possible faceclaim is Àstrid Bergès-Frisbey - 

aes:

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Rosienne Lannister: (child of Joanna and Tywin Lannister, born 273 AC)

Rose is looked at by the realm with dismissal, a consolation prize for her father, a spare daughter only useful for matchmaking, but at least able-bodied and pretty, unlike her brother. After a long betrothal, Rose is married to Willas Tyrell at the age of eighteen, cementing her role as the next Lady of High Garden...

- Rosie/Rose is a bonus Lannister, bcs why not. likes cyvasse and the harp, soft and kind and maternal, powerful in her own way. originally she was from a minor divergence where joanna survives tyrion’s birth and goes on to have another kid, but not sure if i’ll keep that aspect, so for now she’s tyrion’s twin -

and her aes (yes that quote is cropped, no i don’t care rn):

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honourable mentions to my other got underdeveloped got/asoiaf ocs who need more effort before i post properly about them:

Tamlen Storm, a rookery apprentice (working for the Maester of House Tully, managing the ravens) who may or may not be a reincarnated si-oc trying to save westeros, 

and an unnamed northern huntress who stumbled into the plot somehow and wants her normal life back (entirely inspired by Keira Knightley as Gwyn in Princess of Thieves, when she’s doing archery stuff and looking v butch).

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Harry Potter:

Taurus ‘Ara’ Lestrange:  (child of Bellatrix and Roldolphous Lestrange, born 1978) 

Raised by the Goblins after a legal mix-up following her parents' imprisonment in Azkaban, Taurus is good with a sword and aiming to be the next Minister of Magic. She attends Hogwarts with the other magical kids her age, under the fake identity Ara Burke, unknown cousin of a minor half-blood family. When the Potter brat’s drama starts destroying her change at an education just as her fourth year, her OWL prep year, begins, Ara intervenes.

- im tangentially aware that as bellatrix’s kid she’s almost occupying the place of whats-her-name from the cursed child, but considering that i know nothing about the cursed child and don’t care about it anyway, i have elected to ignore this. her actual parent might turn out to be some smitten half-blood from a minor branch of the Greengrass family, or it might actually be Rodolphous, who knows. slightly inspired by the fic ‘Harry Crow’ (by robst on ff.net) where harry is raised by the goblins -

messy aes:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Valerian Potter: (child of Lily and James Potter, born 1980)

After the Potter twins’ parents are murdered by Voldemort, they’re dumped on the doorstep of Number 4, Privet Drive. Dealing with two traumatised magical orphans, Petunia and Vernon Dursley turn to violence and neglect to stay in control, acting far more harshly than expected. With the arrival of two Hogwarts letters, life gets complicated incredibly quickly. (Self-sufficient and scarred from abuse, Val and Harry are immediately Sorted into Slytherin). 

- val’s fic is basically an angst fest, okay,,, -

aes:

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and shout-outs to: holly addison potter, a half-baked reincarnation si-oc (i love that concept a lot, can u tell) and my fav girl thea dursley, who already has her own fic and so isn’t getting a proper spot in this post 

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The Hunger Games:

Asher: (District Two, age 18) 

[rip no blurb for asher]

-asher is a career from two, who wins the 70th games. mostly im focusing on her recovery and how the games function in two, with training volunteers and mentoring and collecting sponsors, plus eventually the rebellion. lots of the D2 headcanon i have is inspired by @/lorata but i defintely made a distinct effort to have my own stuff, cos where’s the fun in plagiarism -

aes for Asher’s Games:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  Rowan Everdeen: (District Twelve, age 19)

Rowan will do anything to protect her family. This extends to going to Head Peacekeeper Cray on a cold winters night, charging the most she can get for her virginity.  It extends to Reaping Day, when she steps out in front of the crowd and says “I volunteer as tribute” in the steadiest voice she can muster.  It extends to clawing her way out of the Arena, bloody and exhausted, with blades in her hands and violence kept tucked behind her teeth. It extends further, to a simple ‘Yes, President Snow’ when he coldly, carefully implies her family might meet with an accident if she doesn’t play the good little Victor (and fuck the people who pay the Capitol for her company). It extends to joining the Rebellion, to looking President Coin directly in the eye and agreeing to be a Mockingjay, a symbol for the people to rally around.

- another everdeen kiddo! as the big sister, rowan volunteers for prim, and goes through the Games - she’s a healer and a hunter, and a decent enough actor that she can manage interviews and a camera presence, unlike katniss. rowan also pairs well with a minor au i have, where the reapings are spaced out over a week and official training is a longer, giving the capitol a nice, long buildup to get excited and place bets, etc., and giving the poor, underfed tributes from the outer districts a better chance, which makes for more interesting television and better Games -

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Adrasteia Crane: (The Capitol, age 28) Unlike her big brother, Adrasteia doesn’t want to be a Gamemaker. Instead, she wants to create clothes, artwork, to enrapture the Capitol. She wants to be a Games stylist. After years of design school, of working her way up the ranks, first a PA’s assistant, and then fetching and carrying for Twelve’s prep team, and then eventually on a prep team for the dull tributes from Six, Adrasteia Crane finally has what she wants - the position of stylist for District Three’s male tribute in 74th Hunger Games. 

- tbh adrasteia is only seneca crane’s sister because i couldn’t think of a suitable last name for her lmao. i think i’d actually prefer her to be unattached to any major canon players. however, his death is a good motivation for her to join the rebellion, so we’ll see. she’s got a bit of the capitol fashion thing going too, with soft pink hair and diamond-effect skin on her face and shoulders -

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also bonus hunger games content: another oc, Sarsaparilla Verran, from District Eleven, fifteen and alone when she goes into the Games. An orphan, her siblings lost to the Community Home system years ago, her relatives dead or uncaring. So, Rilla is a wee lonely bab tbh. she did not want this, unlike most of my other hg ocs, and she’s not excited for weeks of murder. she just wants her family back, but since that isn’t possible, she’ll build a new family instead. and uuhhhhh,  spoiler alert, she dies before she can have this ://///

and my hunger games aus - a canon divergence where katniss joins the careers instead of peeta, her desire to go home to her family outweighing her reactive hate for the concept of training/volunteering to kill other teens, and a fem!Haymitch au where she’s a little wiser to the dark side of the capitol before she commits acts of rebellion (she still rebels anyway tho, just smarter).

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Riverdale:

Cat Cooper: (middle child of Alice and Hal Cooper) Cat Cooper (17) is the black sheep of the Cooper family. Her piercings, brightly dyed hair and connections to the Southside Serpents make her the odd one out among her sisters and constantly at odds with Alice Cooper. Cat’s life is occupied with her Serpent friends, work at a local coffee shop, and training - martial arts, supplemented with cross country, gymnastics and swimming. Until her older sister is shipped off to places unknown and her baby sister starts getting caught up in murder investigation with the absent Serpent heir... 

- haven’t decided between Catelyn or Catherine for Cat’s full name lmao. she used to be Kit, actually, but I changed it cos i prefer Kit to solely be my divergent oc (kit serafim). Cat is an ADHD disaster who loves her sisters and her friends and wants to get the hell out of Riverdale on a sports scholarship (she does either boxing or karate mainly, need to figure that bit out) -

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Georgie Andrews: (child of Mary and Fred Andrews)

Georgie likes soft drinks, cheerleading, and hanging out with the Blossom twins and Polly Cooper, their closest friends and a welcome distraction from their own problems. After Polly and Jason vanish, Georgie’s support system is almost gone, and they has to deal with everything they’ve been bottling up, just in time for Fred Andrews to get shot.

- also just angst ngl.  so georgie’s gender is basically ???, they enjoy cheerleading and not much else. they spend half their time dealing with depression, by trying to ignore stressful/hard topics and focus on the good side of everything. this isn’t a great long-term coping mechanism and has the fun side effect of pissing of the people around him when she seems unable to be serious or empathetic to someone else's pain (bcs she’s too busy deflecting for the sake of her own fragile mental health), so it gets fun when fred is shot and archie starts getting in too deep with the lodges -

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Sera Thornstone: (parents ???) Southside Serpent. Going to the Riverdale Community College and running errands for FP Jones. And secretly meeting up with her Ghoulie lover down by the Sweetwater where nobody goes. 

- everything about sera is vague and undecided lmao. but she has a ghoulie gf/bf/nbf? and they’re hiding that they were down by the river on the 4th of july, cos a serpent is an immediate suspect. going to community college to work on getting general credits before saving up for fancy school for law or journalism. the aes isn’t entirely accurate cos sera’s built from the remains of another serpent oc who i scrapped (she does have a baseball bat tho) -

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and honourable mentions to jen johnson and octavia blossom-murphy, my other riverdale ocs who actually have content, plus an in-development unnamed oc who gets adopted from the soqm by the Muggs family and growsup with Ethel. and my riverdale role reversal au, which i will never write but have some nice aesthetics for under the tag wip: bughead role reversal au.

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all my mini-aesthetics here are unsourced images/from pinterest. any similarities to other people or characters, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. 

alrighty that’s it. now i have to tag this behemoth argh

[ofdiablos]

[  HWANG HYUNJIN, TWENTY, CIS MALE, PYROKINESIS  ] ╰  NAZARETH  SONG  just  came  over  half - blood  hill .  you  know ,  the  child  of  HADES  who  was  claimed  five  years  ago ?  i've  heard  chiron  say  that  he  is  INDIVIDUALISTIC  &  TRANQUIL ,  but  if  you  ask  the  aphrodite  kids ,  they'd  say  they're  BIZARRE  &  RECKLESS .  i'd  say  they  remind  me  of  smudged  black  eyeliner  ,  frigid  fingertips  ,  floppy  raven  hair  being  held  from  your  eyes  ,  and  bass  vibrating  from  speakers  ,  especially  since  they're  NEUTRAL .

hi tiny angels !! my name is moe , i am twenty years old , i use she / her pronouns , and i live in the est . i haven’t been in an actual rp group in ... months because of some bad experiences :/ but this rp seemed so cool & the admins seemed so sweet ... i just had to join . i really hope you guys enjoy naz as i continue to flesh him out a lil ! many kithes for u !

𝟎𝟎𝟏  .  𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐒

full name  :  nazareth icarus song age  :  twenty gender  :  cis male pronouns  :  he / him romantic orientation  /  sexual orientation  :  biromantic  /  bisexual godly parent  :  hades , god of the dead and king of the underworld . inspiration  :  april ludgate from parks & rec , sydney novak & stanley barber from i am not okay with this , machine gun kelly’s album hotel diablo , maybe trent lane from daria if u squint . and just for the clownery of it all ... jughead jones . pinterest board  :  linked HERE  !! special power  :  pyrokinesis 

𝟎𝟎𝟐  .  𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘

bullying tw ?? idk mans didn’t really have a terrible life sry fkdsfkjsd

     nazareth was born and raised in chicago , illinois . his mother had him while still in college , much to her parents’ dismay . however , she was incredibly hard working & wanted to give her son the life he deserved . even though the young mother graduated with honors , her degree in marketing could only get her so far . while she got an unpaid internship at a company in the city just a few blocks away from the family’s tiny apartment , she also had to work as a waitress just to pay rent & keep food in nazareth’s mouth . 

     a few years passed & naz’s mother had moved up enough in the company to be able to quit her job at the local diner . she had met a woman at work who was suddenly spending a lot of time at the songs’ rundown apartment & sometimes naz would even catch his mother dancing around the kitchen to her favorite michael jackson songs . however , as things were looking up for his mom , nazareth was struggling at school . every single class was unbelievably hard for him to understand & the poor boy stuck out like a sore thumb when he was around other kids his age . he was lanky & awkward , but also gave off a weird , brooding energy that did not match any of the other kids . which would have been fine if that meant he would be left alone ! but kids are mean , and that instead meant that he would be frequently exposed to their ruthless torment . 

     this behavior carried on through the entirety of nazareth’s time in the public school system . there wasn’t much he could do about it besides weather the storm & return home to his mother’s warm hugs every day . luckily , nazareth’s mother never mentioned his father or the existence of demigods. this total ignorance brought him safety from monsters for most of his life . however , things started to change when the boy was around eleven years old . nazareth began to see spirits floating amongst regular people . they looked just like everyone else , but there was a heaviness hanging onto their forms as they breezed about . they would hear him if he called out to them , but wouldn’t usually take the time to stop & answer his questions . naz didn’t even like to think of the flames that would flicker at him palms for just a split second when he would get angry . all of these occurrences scared him , quite frankly . 

     finally , nazareth told his mother about all of the odd things that had been happening to him . with a forlorn look on her face & no further words spoken between them , naz’s mother began shoving as many things as she could into one large suitcase . within the next thirty minutes , the two of them were in a car headed to a place his mother called “ camp half-blood ” where the boy would be safe . nazareth continued to ask “ safe from what , mom ? ” but no answer came . she couldn’t bring herself to tell him . 

𝟎𝟎𝟑  .  𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐏  𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐅  -  𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃

     nazareth got to camp half - blood when he was just eleven years old . however , he wasn’t claimed until he was fifteen years old . the little boy was lumped in with the hermes cabin for four - almost five - years until his father finally claimed him . as thrilled as naz was to be detached from the large number of campers who inhabited the hermes cabin , he still held a great deal of anger towards his father for taking so damn long to claim him . what was the fucking hold up ? he still isn’t sure to this day & continues to hold a little resentment at all times . but he rarely mentions it .  (  partially because he rarely speaks  )  

     now , with this whole conflict about claiming & cabins , nazareth tries to stay out of it as much as possible . if you ask him about it , good luck getting a straight answer out of him . he switches up what he says every time , just to get a reaction out of whoever he is talking to . nazareth knows too that if he actually gets into a conversation about the whole ordeal , his temper will act up & that isn’t good for anyone . 

𝟎𝟎𝟒  .  𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘

     nazareth is anything but a people person . he doesn’t have good communication skills & doesn’t care to have them . he is severely sarcastic & does not care if he hurts your feelings . he is incredibly independent - almost to the point of being overly self - involved . it is extremely rare for him to genuinely care about others simply because how does caring about other people benefit him in any way ? quite honestly , he’s also a little weird . queue that ‘ i’m a weirdo ’ monologue by local Edgelord Fool Jughead Jones . idk man ... just ... good fuckin luck charlie . he’s annoying !

𝟎𝟎𝟓  .  𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃  𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒

we might have to get a little creative with connections for nazareth because he is not exactly Mr. Friendly or Mr. Sunshine so it is ... unlikely that he is going to get along splendidly with too many people .

some ppl he can relate to on some level [ friendly connection ]

unlikely pals [ friendly connection ]

people who he just loves to bug and bother [ ??? idk bro connection ]

people who love to bug and bother him [ ??? idk bro connection ]

aw spooky boy has a crush let me cry [ romantic / friendly connection ]

obviously there are going to be a good many people he would gladly fight any day of the week [ not so friendly connection ]

literally my brain is just mush now ... but im so so down to brainstorm or whatever !