#the wayward shreds of dreams

[xunvyrae]

i found rings that remind me of jegulus :')

i got inspired too so i'll add it to my fic x)

[thelustybraavosimaid]

The four-footed gods howled, and the two-winged gods roared in response.

It seemed as if the world itself was aflame, orange-red vengeance kissing the earth and the trees and all in between, melting snow and ice to mere steaming pools of water. Bones liquefied and the ash of shredded clothes lay on the ground, accompanying a foul stench of raw cold, but she couldn't focus on any of the destruction; it was as if someone had brushed their lips against her ear, drawing a breath before speaking in a high, sweet voice. Come closer, it encouraged. She was unsure who the voice belonged to, for no one corporeal stood next to her; perhaps a wayward spirit chose to be her guide this dream instead of the night wolf.

But Arya Stark found it hard to disobey.

Closer now, it insisted, closer.

She passed the threshold of flames, untouched and unharmed. Above her, the dragon gods growled their approval, and the great moon watched them all in its steadfast, silent vigil. The winged gods lowered themselves to the earth, deigning to rest beside their tether. The very beat of their wings reduced great flames to tendrils of smoke.

Destiny awaits you.

Arya's eyes followed her old friends down until she found the being they were drawn to, until grey locked with violet.

[keepsdeathhiscourt]

Pairing: Elijah Mikaelson x Original Female Character

Rating: Mature (18+ Only)

Story Summary: It's been ten years since Lucie LeMarche last set foot in New Orleans. But when she's forced to return to bury the woman who raised her, she finds herself pulled into the midst of rising supernatural tensions in the city. Entangled in a web of intrigue and seeking answers, Lucie must learn to navigate a powder keg of warring factions, family secrets, and old wounds if she hopes to survive.

Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Language, Death, Mourning, Mental Health Issues, Family Drama, Gore, Depictions of Violence, Death

Series Masterlist

Read on AO3

Chapter 10: The Rebekah Mikaelson Home for Wayward Girls

Elijah dreams. An endless loop of images, fabrications of his unconscious mind that meld with a thousand years of memories into a dizzying blend of joy and agony. But he does not wake. The ash-tipped dagger in his chest ensures it.  

It is far from the first time his brother has imposed this particular punishment, and through each daggering he maintains some shred of himself, enough to understand that he’s asleep—most of the time.

He leans against the base of a pale oak. The dense stand of trees at his back shiver in the breeze, their weighted boughs unburdening themselves of fragrant white blossoms as the birds chirp out the songs of new spring. 

The last snow of a hard winter is behind and the entirety of the village is out to banish away the cold and welcome the coming of the warmer months. 

In a sunny patch, Rebekah settles in the grass with a handful of village girls, her coltish legs stretched out in front of her to work on her offering. She hums sweetly, tongue peeking out in focus as she weaves the choicest of her harvested early blooms into a crown of flowers. 

A shout rings out. Elijah follows the sound with his eyes to a point just beyond, hand hovering over his dagger. He eases when he finds the source. Niklaus pins Kol to the ground, the sound of the younger boy’s outrage being what reached him. Just beyond, Henrik’s head shines like gold in the sun as he watches his brothers spar in a mixture of glee and envy. 

Father and Finn are already hard at work erecting the altar alongside the other men. The task of collecting kindling is assigned to the younger boys. His eyes fall to a discarded pile of twigs beyond his wrestling brothers, duty forgotten. 

He should intervene, coax them back on task, lest they risk provoking Father. His anger has always made Elijah nervous, a feeling that only builds with time. With each passing year, it seems his outbursts are more frequent, ramping up in intensity. He lashes out at all of them save perhaps Henrik, who is still too young to enrage him. But the greatest burden of his rages always, always falls on sensitive, gentle Niklaus. For him, the words are sharper and the blows harder in a way that only grows more disproportionate as his brother edges closer to manhood. Though he would never admit it out loud, lest he injure his adolescent pride, he worries for his brother. 

As if sensing his thoughts, Niklaus lifts his head, strands of long hair mussed from his efforts, and diverts his attention from Kol’s thrashing to meet Elijah’s stare. His lips curl into a triumphant grin, the one that shows his dimples. 

Oh, let them have their fun. For a little longer, at least. Besides, Elijah has his own offering to consider. 

He gives his brother a nod, leaving them in the clearing to delve deeper into the woods. 

The light stretches between the branches. Early afternoon eases past midday. Later, under the full moon, the community will gather to celebrate the spring and leave their gifts for Freyr. 

He’s been tracking the stag for an hour now. The bow grip is rough beneath his calloused palms, his steps light as keen eyes follow the soft imprints of hooves in the brush. 

The pigs, grown fat through the winter, will be sacrificed. But Elijah wants something special to give for reasons beyond religious devotion. Though he’s past the infatuations of adolescence, he is not immune to the desire to impress a maid, especially not a fierce, wild beauty such as Tatia. 

His lips still burn with the memory of kisses stolen in quiet moments between chores and duties. These are memories he squirrels away, to revisit like a hoard of treasure. 

He hopes the stag will be enough to assure the young widow of his ability to provide for her and her child. 

A rustle of movement steals him from thoughts of Tatia. He pivots to the left, bow drawn, and freezes.

There, in a slight clearing between the trees, stands the stag and it is beautiful. The column of its elegant neck strains toward, unaware of his presence as it bellows for its mate. 

Slowly, very slowly, he reaches back to his quiver. His fingers brush through the feathered fletching as he draws an arrow and nocks it. 

He inches forward. A twig snaps. The beast reels its great head around to face him, lovely dark eyes wide and nostrils flaring.

Elijah is not sentimental, not in matters of survival. Yet, he finds himself reluctant to snuff out such a life.

He hesitates.

The stag is about to flee. He sees it in the tensed muscles, the trembling limbs. It forces him to make a snap decision. 

The arrow propels from its rest, sailing forward in a straight arc.

There is a thud as it lands, a wail of pain, the rumble of the creature colliding with the earth. 

And then silence. 

The regret is instant. His hands tremble as he approaches his quarry, his bow discarded somewhere behind him. The creature is still alive, barely. Its chest heaves with the strain of its final breaths. Half tangled in the brush, it thrashes feebly to free itself. He approaches it with a cautious reverence, determined to ease its final moments. 

The hide is wiry to the touch as he sets a hand to its ribs, murmuring soothing, senseless sounds. With his other, he untangles its legs. He strokes it a few times in reassurance, avoiding its wide eyes as he unsheathes his dagger. The creature settles beneath his ministrations, movements becoming less frantic. He continues to soothe the beast, careful in his motions lest it catch a glimpse of iron. He steadies himself with a cycle of breaths. The dagger rises, and he thanks the stag for its life and nature for the gift, just as his mother had taught him. 

Elijah exhales. The blade strikes true. Straight to the heart, death is immediate.

But something happens the second he hits his mark. Beneath the dagger, the beast transforms. Hooves and haunches yield to long legs and fur to thick, dark hair matted with blood. 

Desperate and frightened, he turns it over onto its back. He cannot contain the cry of horror, of grief, as he stares into Tatia’s dark, sightless eyes. 

What has he done?

Trapped in the recesses of his mind, there is nothing to do but weep and wait for this dream to end and the next to begin.

____

It’s a fourteen-hour drive from Mystic Falls to New Orleans. When she isn’t flipping through radio stations, Rebekah spends most of the trip trying and failing to stay out of her own head. 

For the first couple of hours, her thoughts are cotton candy sweet. Memories of sunset kisses in Rome and sipping expensive champagne in Paris as she stares into Matt Donovan’s baby blue eyes. She never expected to like him as much as she does, but something about his self-effacing, small-town quarterback charm has allowed him to worm his way into her affections. 

It’s a dangerous place to be if she’s being honest with herself—something she’s been working very hard on lately. Despite all of Niklaus’ jabs, she is well aware of her tendency to dive blindly into love. And it would be so easy to let herself fall in love with Matt Donovan.

She also knows that her love interests tend to end up dead. While Matt has many good qualities, durability is not one of them. 

That’s why, somewhere in Arkansas, she resigns herself to letting him go, to accepting their European tryst as a passing fancy. Painful, but better for them both in the long term.

Beyond an aching heart and an unfortunate confrontation with some vulgar nightwalkers in a backwater dive bar, she reaches the outskirts of New Orleans with relative ease. 

She fiddles with the dial, settling on a classic rock station. Not her favorite, but the only thing coming through without static in this part of the state. In the convertible’s rearview mirror, she dabs a finger to her cheek, determined to clean off the blood before it dries into a disgusting crust. 

Each mile that brings her closer to the city forces her to confront her growing anxiety.

It’s been weeks since she’s heard from Elijah. Some amount of distance between her and her siblings is normal. When tallying time in the centuries, it’s not unheard of to go months without contact. Yet something about this stretch of silence seems off. One day, Elijah has been proselytizing about the baby as a chance at redemption for them all and trying to convince her to join his latest crusade for Niklaus’ soul. Then…nothing. 

If the abrupt drop off in communication is strange, his refusal to answer any of her calls over the last two weeks is damning. 

The headlights catch the trees as she turns onto the unpaved back road, their trunks made skeletal by the beams. 

She sighs. 

Though she would rather die than say it out loud, she’s worried about Nik too. She knows him too well to believe he’s as indifferent to his new situation as he would have her believe—not her mercurial, sensitive brother who lashes out when things get tough and turns to violence instead of dealing with the deep well that is his emotions. All she can hope is that whatever outburst he’d chosen to vent upon Elijah, it’s something they can come back from. 

The tires crunch against the dirt as she urges the car to a stop. The white doric columns frame the mansion, adding to its imposing aura. She’s out in an instant, the red door closing behind her with a slam as she tries to call Elijah one more time.

She gets his voicemail. Again. 

“Elijah, if not answering your phone is part of your clever plan to get me back to this godforsaken city, then well done.” She uses the irritation to propel her towards the door. It makes it easier to forget where she is. “I’m here, and I’m worried. Now pick up before I kick in your bloody door.”

Her heels echo against the front steps. She doesn’t bother with the doorbell. It’s not like she needs to be invited in. 

The foyer is just as she remembers, even at first glance. Her eyes graze over the intricate white panels, the priceless runner, the carved stair railing—

“Who the hell are you?” 

She checks at a woman coming down the stairs. Her dark hair hangs in a curtain just past her shoulders, her brow arched in question over hazel eyes. 

“Oh, you must be the maid. My bags are in the car—get them, will you?”

The woman’s plump, bowed lips curl into a wry smile. Rebekah barely registers the fire iron in her hand until she sets it down. 

“Hello,” she says. “Not the maid.”

Recollection stirs. She’s seen her face before. 

“Right. You’re that werewolf girl my brother, Klaus, knocked up,” she replies, rocking back on her heels. Her eyes rake over the woman’s slim frame, curiosity getting the better of her. “I was expecting to see some kind of supernatural miracle baby bump. Guess you’re not showing yet. It’s Hayley, isn’t it?”

“You have your brother’s manners.”

“And his temper, too, so watch it,” she fires back. Exchanging cuts with the wolf girl is all well and good, but she’s been on the road for a day straight and her patience is wearing thin. “Where’s Elijah?”

She cranes her neck, straining to survey the landing at the top of the stairs, down the long hall in front of her, as if she might glimpse him. 

“Beats me. He’s long gone.”

Rebekah’s focus snaps back to the wolf girl. “What do you mean, ‘long gone’?”

Hayley shrugs. 

“Well, one minute he was here making epic promises about protecting me in this predicament that a bottle of scotch and some bad decisions got me into—he was all poetic about how we’re family—and then Klaus told me he bailed. Guess that’s what I get for trusting a vampire.”

Though it only confirms what she already suspects, dread sinks in all the same. Whatever happened to Elijah, Nik is behind it. 

“Elijah is not just any vampire, and he doesn’t break promises.” Defensiveness creeps into her tone. It’s not Hayley’s fault, not really. There’s no way she could know how wildly out of character his disappearance is, but it feels better to vent her worry somewhere. She exhales, “Which means Niklaus has done something dastardly and Klaus-like. 

Hayley comes down a few more steps, looking perplexed. Rebekah pays her no mind. She has a bone to pick with her brother. 

“KLAUS! Get out here and tell me what you’ve done with our brother, you narcissistic, back-stabbing wanker!”

The doors at the end of the hallway swing open. Somewhere overhead, the floorboards creak. But Rebekah has no time to consider because at that moment the object of her anger steps out into the hall. 

“Enough with all the shouting,” he says reproachfully. Then he stops, seeming to register her presence for the first time. “Little sister, I should have known. I assume the six dead vampires were your doing?”

“They were very rude,” she sniffs. “Trying to victimize a poor, innocent girl just trying to find her way to the Quarter. So sorry, were they friends of yours? Oh, that’s right, you don’t have any friends.”

“I do have friends.” In any other situation, the defensiveness in his voice would have been amusing. Right now, it’s infuriating. “I have Marcel. You remember him, don’t you? Yes, of course you do. He fancies himself the ‘King of the Quarter’ now, and he has these rules about killing vampires. It’ll be fun to see what sort of punishment he comes up with for you.”

“I don’t care about Marcel or his rules,” she snaps and ignores the way her stomach swoops into the floor. “Elijah doesn’t welch on deals. What did you do to him?”

“Perhaps he’s on holiday... or taking a long autumn nap upstairs. Well, go on. Take a look around.” She wants nothing more than to rake her nails across his smug face. She opts for a storm-off instead. “You remember this house as well as I.”

She freezes, turning to face him. Her voice is low and full of venom when she says, “I remember everything.”

The siblings lock eyes, blue on blue, stuck in a silent stand-off. 

The stairs groan. Her head snaps towards the noise, breaking the tension. 

Near the top of the stairs, Rebekah finds another young woman, watching her from the railing. 

“Oh, for the love of — Are we running a boarding house now, Nik?” she cries, throwing her hands up. “Who the bloody hell are you?” 

“Rebekah, meet Lucie,” Niklaus says, with that damned smirk of his. “I’d suggest you play, nice. You never know when you may be in need of her services.”

“'Services?' — Ew!” she cries out, feeling ill. “A prostitute, Nik? Really?”

“Excuse me?” 

She ignores her brother’s restrained delight for the woman at the top of the stairs. 

Her eyes are narrowed, glaring daggers down at her. She’s a little slip of a thing, slight even at this distance. But she doesn’t flinch when Rebekah levels her with a withering look of her own, only tightens her grip on the banister. 

Brave, but stupid. Oh, well. She’ll be easy enough to humble. 

Before the situation can escalate, Niklaus interjects, “Easy now, sister. Lucie is a witch. She’s graciously agreed to assist us.” 

A witch? Rebekah’s nose crinkles in distaste. Lovely.

She looks from the girl to Niklaus and back again, suspicious.

Where in the hell had he found this one?

It takes only a cursory glance to know she’s not Niklaus’ type. Dark-haired, where Nik leans to blondes. Though she supposes that didn’t stop him from knocking around with the wolf girl. Rebekah shudders despite herself and turns her attention back to the witch, eager to move away from the topic of her brother’s sex life.  

Her hair is swept up into a ponytail that falls in a wave of messy curls over her shoulder. Large brown eyes stare at her from a heart-shaped face. Her posture is rigid, but Rebekah senses something softer behind it, an aura that all but screams ‘save me’—

Rebekah rolls her eyes. 

Elijah. 

She should have known. Her older brother is nothing if not predictable. She only wonders how long after meeting the twit he’d waited before charging in to play knight in shining armor. 

She resists the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose. Here she is with one brother missing and the other inexplicably in possession of a familiar pregnant werewolf and a less familiar temperamental witch. She has no idea what’s going on. 

It’s all very annoying, but she supposes she should count her blessings. It could be worse; she could be staring down yet another simpering doppelgänger. Rebekah nearly snorts. God knows she’s seen enough of Tatia’s face to last ten more lifetimes. 

“Congrats on the collection of supernatural captives, Nik. You almost have a full set. Now where is Elijah?”

Her brother isn’t listening. She stamps down her impotent fury as he sails past her and towards the door, typing on his phone. 

“Where are you going?”

“It appears the night is not quite over yet,” he explains, not bothering to look as he grabs his keys. “I’m off for another drink with Marcel.”

“Elijah told me about your plan to take apart Marcel’s empire piece by piece. I don’t remember it involving you two drinking New Orleans dry together.”

That gets his attention, she notes with satisfaction. It’s short-lived. The look on his face as he turns to her warns her he’s about to say something rude. 

“I know you don’t have many friends, Rebekah, but what some friends do when they get together is they drink,” he says, dripping with condescension. “And when they drink, they tell secrets. Marcel has somehow found a way to control the entirety of witches in the Quarter, and I aim to uncover the ‘how’ so I might take it for myself. Finding Elijah didn’t make my to-do list today.”

With that, he turns and leaves, the door closing behind him. But not before adding, “Oh, and welcome home, little sister.”

Well, she was right. That was very rude. And she’s no closer to finding Elijah than when she got here.

She sighs, rounding on the two women staring from the stairs. 

“You,” she calls up to the witch, who’s making her way down the stairs. “What did the locator spell tell you?”

She halts her descent. “Locator spell?”

“You mean to tell me you haven’t even tried one yet?”

“I didn’t—I…thought he left.”

Perfect, just perfect.

“Must I do everything by myself?” Rebekah groans. At least the girl has the good sense to look sheepish. “Wolf girl, I’m going to search this house inch by inch until I find what my evil brother has done to my good one. You’re helping. You too, witch. Come on.”

Something in her tone works because the other women fall in line behind as she leads them deeper into the house and towards the winding staircase that leads to the cellar. 

She pauses, hand on the doorknob, and turns to the witch girl as if something had just occurred to her. “You’re not pregnant too, are you?”

It’s a joke—sort of. She fights a smile as she’s rewarded with a look of abject horror. 

____

“This home once belonged to the governor. He had lots of secret rooms. I’ll show you his favorite,” she explains as they arrive in the middle of a dank cellar room. Cobwebs line the walls, only adding to the musty, morbid atmosphere.

She hears a gasp over her shoulder. While she isn’t sure which girl it comes from, she knows what they’ve found.

“Are these…coffins?” Lucie asks, incredulous at the same time Hayley says: “You think Klaus killed him.”

Rebekah sighs, rubbing away the dust tickling her nose as she roots about near the caskets. 

“We can’t be killed, silly girl. That doesn’t stop Klaus from finding ways to torture us. He has a set of mystical silver daggers. One in the heart sends us into a deep slumber. Klaus gets his jollies from keeping us in a box until he decides to pull the dagger out. That must be what he’s done to Elijah.” She pauses in front of a black box near the middle. “This one’s mine.”

In the corner of her eye, she spots Lucie poking around by a few of the other coffins as if she wants to peek in but is simultaneously repulsed by the idea. 

Hayley sidles up to her. “He keeps your coffin on standby?”

“He likes to be prepared for when his family members inevitably disappoint him. Elijah’s isn’t here—he must’ve stashed him elsewhere.”

Lucie joins them, arms crossed over her chest. They’re close together like some strange sort of team huddle. 

Even in the dark, Hayley looks green. “I feel sick.”

Never prone to coddling, Rebekah says, “Welcome to the family, love. You should’ve run the second you realized Elijah was gone.”

“Yeah, well, the witches have put some sort of hex on me. As long as I’m carrying this baby, I can’t leave New Orleans. If I do, they kill me.”

“Well, knowing Klaus, he’s planning a box for you the second you give birth to whatever’s cooking in your tum. And you,” she turns to the other girl, “You should make yourself scarce the first chance you get. I’m not sure how well you know your history, but witches don’t fare well where my family is involved.”

They’re both watching her anxiously. She avoids their eyes. While Rebekah isn’t without sympathy, it’s best not to get attached. “I’m leaving as soon as I find Elijah. Being daggered in a box for decades sucks, trust me. You both need to get out of here as soon as you can.

“You, witch. Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“To the attic. You’re going to try a locator spell.” 

Welcome to the Rebekah Mikaelson Home for Wayward Girls, she thinks bitterly as she leads them both back up the stairs. 

[rphelperblog]

Clockwork Angel Quote Rp Meme

“One must always be careful of books,and what is inside them, for words have the power to change us.”

“There's plenty of sense in nonsense sometimes, if you wish to look for it.” 

“It isn't against the law to be an idiot.” 

“Dear me. Such harsh truths so early in the morning cannot be good for the digestion.” 

“Let me give you a piece of advice. The handsome young fellow who's trying to rescue you from a hideous fate is never wrong. Not even if he says the sky is purple and made of hedgehogs.”

“Sometimes, when I have to do something I don't want to do, I pretend I'm a character from a book. It's easier to know what they would do.” 

“Are you implying that shreds of my reputation remain intact?" 

“It is as great a thing to love as it is to be loved. Love is not something that can be wasted.” 

cleverness that comes too late is hardly cleverness at all?” 

“I see you're determined to miss my point."

"I believe we are dust and shadows. What else is there?” 

"If you're point is that there was a pretty girl in the room and it was distracting you, then I think I've taken your point handily."”

How rude. Many who have gazed upon me have compared the experience to gazing at the radiance of the sun."

“It is not the same thing to be good and to be kind.”

“Whoever loves you now—and you must also love yourself—will love the truth of you.”  

“For that was love, wasnt it--to burn bright in someone else's eyes?” 

“You could know a man not by what his friends said about him, but by how he treated his servants.” 

“Do you normally turn up in gentlemen's bedrooms in the middle of the night? If I'd known that, I would have campaigned harder to make sure they let you stay.”

“Remember when you tried to convince me to feed a poultry pie to the mallards in the park to see if you could breed a race of cannibal ducks?"

“It's all right to love someone who doesn't love you back, as long as they're worth you loving them. As long as they deserve it.” 

“Only the very weak-minded refuse to be influenced by literature and poetry.” 

"What kind of monster could possibly hate chocolate?” 

“Beauty fades, but cooking is eternal.” 

“There is more to living than not dying.” 

“Whatever you are physically...male or female, strong or weak, ill or healthy--all those things matter less than what your heart contains. If you have the soul of a warrior, you are a warrior. All those other things, they are the glass that contains the lamp, but you are the light inside.” 

“Black hair and blue eyes are my favorite combination.”

“Do reasons matter when there's nothing that can be done to change things.” 

“Dreams can be dangerous things.” 

"Is it dreadful, being so evil? Are you worried you'll go to hell?"

“I know you feel inhuman, and as if you are set apart, away from life and love, but... I promise you, the right man won't care.” 

“You've always been what you are. That's not new. What you'll get used to is knowing it.” 

"Perhaps we do need a chaperon.”

“If no one in the entire world cared about you, did you really exist at all?” 

“Oh, I can never get enough. Which, incidentally, is what your sister said when--” 

“With God on your side, what does luck matter?” 

“Magic is dangerous - but love is more dangerous still” 

“Inanimate objects are harmless indeed. But one cannot always say the same of the men who use them.” 

“I had such plans for this evening. The pursuit of blind drunkenness and wayward women was my goal. But alas, it was not to be. No sooner had I consumed my third drink in the Devil than I was accosted by a delightful small flower selling child who asked me for two pence for a daisy. The price seemed steep, so I refused. When I told the girl as much, she proceeded to rob me.”

“You can keep it a secret.... But secrets have their own weight, and it can be a very heavy one.” 

"Of course they are.... Look at him. The face of a bad angel and eyes like the night sky in Hell.” 

“I've never seen anyone get so excited over books before. You'd think they were diamonds.”

"Dear me, massive blood loss. Death could be imminent.” 

"You read novels. Obviously, I'm here to rescue you. Don't I look like Sir Galahad? ... My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure - "

“Maybe I want a black eye. Did you think of that?” 

“I do not believe you can threaten people into goodness.”

“And I think that you do not understand that sometimes the only choice is between acceptance and madness.” 

"She doesn't smell like anything.”

“Do you often sleep tied to the bed?” 

“Unless there was a reason for me to stay.”

“It’s also rude to go about grabbing at ladies you haven’t been introduced to,hasn’t anyone told you that?”

“It wasn't enough, not nearly enough, but it was all there was.” 

“There was something peculiarly gratifying about shouting in a blind rage until your words ran out.” 

Concerned about my safety, are you?”

“I have lost everything. Lost everything.Everything.”

“It’s bad form to bite,”

“If love is great, then it is worth fighting for.” 

“I must say, I rather like the way you manage him.” 

“Goodness, my nose is enormous.Why didn't anyone tell me?” 

“Goodness, real goodness, has it's own sort of cruelty to it.” 

“I do not walk like a duck.” 

“There are more important things than being careful.” 

“I played it for my bride, and one day you will play for yours.”

“I’m boasting of my investigative skills, and I would prefer to do it without interruption. Where was I?” 

“Has no one respect for the classics these days?” 

“Bloodthirsty little beasts. Never trust a duck.” 

“Looking for an entirely reliable informant is like looking for a chaste mistress.” 

“I mean, is there a chance for me? To have another life after this, a better one?” 

“Where is your angel now?”

“It can be... difficult to to learn how the world truly is, to see it in its true shape and form... most human beings never do. Most could not bear it.” 

“Is there a particular reason you keep biting vampires?"

We must away at once to the nearest brothel. I seek scandal and low companionship.” 

“We shall throw him out onto the streets, I promise you he'll be gone by morning.Oh-no, you can't mean that-Of course I don't. But you felt better for a moment there, didn't you?” 

“I believe in good and evil, and I believe the soul is eternal. But I don't believe in the fiery pit, the pitchforks, or endless torment. I do not believe you can threaten people into goodness.” 

“Were you thinking about eating me?” 

“Not really, but after that I think about how I could kill him while he slept if I really wanted to, and then I feel better.” 

“the less you had, the more careful you had to be about everything you did have.” 

“The best lies are based on the truth, at least in part” 

“It would be wonderful if we all knew who we were. But that knowledge doesn't come from the outside, but from the inside.” “The virtue of angels is that they cannot deteriorate; their flaw is that they cannot improve. Man's flaw is that he can deteriorate; and his virtue is that he can improve.” 

[incarnateirony]

Watching all of this pan out makes me think what it must have been like when Chuck/CW gods were still handling the steering wheel?

I can't even imagine what Bobo-Misha combo had to go through. Jensen is taking the narrative into hands but before that Bobos had to go through hell to get the green light for that confession.

This is why I've been so goddamn furious with every lane in this fandom. Just as much as the antis shredding the content, supposed shippers or lgbtq supporters viciously rended bobo and others (there's other queer writers including closeted ones, no further clarification on when where who or what era) as 'queerbait' for simply fighting for exactly what we all wanted.

they fell for vinnie's dogwhistles to tear apart wayward, they missed bobo pulling fandom pants down with Dreamhunter to reveal the fandom's anti mlm bias even among supporters by matching his own identical content, compacted, and letting people scream Canon.

And he never gave up. Even when crushed and sending out apologies for failing us with Wayward, even when the dreams of hundreds of fans that fought for years fell into rubble when it had been a perfect standing statue on air--even when his contract lapsed. He stayed for one goddamn thing. He knew, he said, he couldn't walk away with how deeply it mattered to so many people, and it was his first thought designing the season at all.

And looking at who's involved and what's happening now. Even if you don't believe me about the origins or whatever, If anyone thinks he's not at least consulting you're out of your goddamn minds.

[picoletta]

Mother, Many moons ago, you used to sketch constellations around my scars while I gazed at the pinpricks of glowing orbs freckling my skin. Weaving stars into my hair, you would hold my hand as we swam in the galaxies of our own little cosmos.

When father came back from the seas, reeking of cheap liquor, rotten fish, and the more putrid odour of wretched disappointment, our little universe widened happily in the hopes of welcoming another star. Alas, it wasn’t until too late that we realized the unfamiliar darkness that crept in wasn’t about to go away with the sun. Lost in the tales of glittering gold and enigmatic sirens, he created his own planet inside his study – a world patched together by compasses and soiled maps.

When I think of you, when I think of that summer, I want to remember your smile, your crooked front teeth, your tie-dye t-shirts and Minnie-mouse pajamas, your burnt brownies and popsicle-stained lips. I want to remember you swaying your hips to the radio, tap-dancing under the kitchen lights beside the empty fridge. I want to remember our lopsided sand castles and the sea salt on our lips. And yet, all I remember are your eyes, ruby-red and unblinking, as you poured father’s tea that summer day. Instead of seeing the familiar geometry of constellations in your eyes, I saw the fathomless depth of the Black Hole.

“Too sweet,” he spat, as his left hand, swift as a serpent, lashed out on your cheek. He threw the tea cup across the room; it exploded in a thousand tiny fragments of porcelain and Asiatic lilies. I watched, transfixed, as the clock on the mantelpiece above his head ticked one, two, three…

He gasped for breath as if his lungs were being squeezed by an iron first. He flailed his hands around wildly, like a drunken pelican, sweeping the maps and globes off the table. Earths in various shapes rolled across the floor.

The squawk of the yellow bird which jumped out from the clock drowned his last cry. And all the while, you stood beside him, silent and stoic as a knight. And then you plunged into the depths of that Black Hole. All I remember was seeing a trickle of that “too sweet” tea down your throat.

As my hand slipped from yours, I couldn’t swim anymore. I was drowning, Mother – drowning in the same galaxy where I learnt to waddle as a child. The same stars – or were they really just bright needles? – dug into my skin, leaving behind rivulets of blood – disgusting, mortal fluid – across my limbs.

 I still wake up in cold sweat, my mouth bitter with the taste of sweetened tea and metallic blood.

 Take this wayward seafarer, Mother, and show her the way. Let the North Star appear in her night sky. In Fate’s sickening, sadistic twist, I find myself out in the seas – the very same seas where dad used to traverse for buried treasures and legendary discoveries. The sea is bottomless, a dark, cold pool of nothingness, rising above the deck to wash over me like a nightmare. And yet, I see the reflections of your stars in its murky waters. And I know that it’s not father who is watching over me tonight.

 Put me to sleep, mother – for I have been sailing for too long. Sing me a lullaby, tell me a story. For once, let my dreams be golden and rich with the tales of glorious battles, brave knights and sleeping princesses, dragons and castles.

Let the heavens open up, Mother. Let the shooting stars rain. Let the sky rip apart with the cacophony in my head. Let the sea rise and the ships sink and the final notes of the orchestra drown my scream.

Guide me home, Mother, or I fear I will tear our universe to shreds.

[esmerays]

“— it is a cruel and random world, but the chaos is all so beautiful; i’ve always been more comfortable this way.” 

DOSSIER ⟢ PINTEREST ⟢ WANTED CONNECTIONS 

TROPES: manic pixie dream girl, deadpan snarker, hidden depths, symbolic wings, genius ditz, motor mouth, proud beauty, stepford smiler, not so above it all, girly bruiser TV PARALLELS: The Guide from What We Do in the Shadows, Zuko from ATLA ( some Azula and Ty Lee...and some Bumi tbh ), Catherine from The Great, Howl Pendragon from Howl’s Moving Castle, Gina from Brooklyn 99, Tinker Bell from Peter Pan, Nux from Mad Max: Fury Road, Cece from New Girl with some Winston, the Cat from Coraline, Clover from Totally Spies 

NAME: Esmeray Talbot ( née Sönmez ) ⟢ esmeray— derived from Turkish esmer “dark” and ay “moon”. ⟢ sönmez— means “eternal, inextinguishable, unquenchable” in Turkish. ⟢ talbot— means “messenger of destruction” TRUE NAME: ▇▇▇...wouldn’t you like to know... AGE: 222 ( she’s in her persistence, positivity and balance year ); though she appears 28 OCCUPATION: Debt Collector CIRCLE: Wild 

THE STORY THUS FAR...

Esmeray was one of those creatures that greeted the world with a ferocious cry— from the very beginning of her life, she was demanding to be seen; to be heard; to be honored. And in these first moments of existing, she’d been given those very luxuries she so desired.

Why wouldn’t she be? As the youngest child of the Duke and High Duchess of the Işbaşaranesan clan, she’d have all of the opportunities, love and riches that could be afforded to her. There’s even a celebration for her christening once her mother is well enough and the entirety of the Seelie court is in attendance ( as well as some of the Unseelie, though it draws the ire of the ruling family’s more radicalized faeries ).

Unsurprisingly, Esmeray would be given all of these bits of opulence now, but it wouldn’t last very long. Even the most beautiful things lose their novelty in due time, and no child of the Işbaşaranesan clan was conceived without purpose.

All the same, you’d be forgiven for thinking otherwise. On the surface, the young fae seemed like a frivolous thing, existing as a means to simply exist but not everything was always so simple. A butterfly would flap its wings by virtue of having been gifted the appendages, never knowing the effect such an act would have elsewhere...

Though she was never meant to sit on the high seat, her parents raised her in preparation for such a task— within the ever-changing structures of the High Fae Court, one must ready themselves to strike in the absence of power. Perhaps they should have taught her that successful rulers are patient as well.

She’d just thought the court could use some changes, and hubris had whispered in her ear, telling her that she could be the one to bring about some form of Renaissance. If the court was experiencing a dark age, her mother and father had convinced her that the current monarch was to blame.

Unaware that she had been one pawn in a long line of them, Esmeray went and moved her chess pieces, nearly losing her head in the process. As lighthearted as they may be, the Fae don’t take kindly to treason; they believe that punitive measures are supreme.

On her end, Esme never named any accomplices— not her brothers, nor her parents. On their end, they played their part perfectly: dressing their words in shock, repenting for their wayward daughter and begging the High Court for forgiveness, for leniency.

Monarchs need not show benevolence, but the peri is lucky in this sense. In lieu of an execution, there is banishment ( temporary but meant to punish all the same ); walking amongst the mortals for a century or two is meant to temper the fae’s impulses, isolate her from her kin and subdue any shred of rebellion coursing through her veins.

It’s odd then, how much she’s come to enjoy her time in the Otherealm— odd how the pain of homesickness is mediated by the novelties of freedom. No one would even know that this task was a punishment, just the same, she may have forgotten as well. Growing too comfortable playing god in the land of mortals.

We’ll see what the future has in store.

SMALLER TIDBITS!

･ﾟ* Though she’s not allowed to move between the Otherrealm and Fae Realm, Esme is always popping up in places she has no business being in— locked rooms? Elevators in between floors? And anything in else you could think of; Esmeray knows that she’s testing the rules set for her but it’s never held her back before. 

･ﾟ* Call it stupidity or whatever else, but she doesn’t really blame her family for all that’s happened; Esme was the one to take action, and she was the one to fail. More than anything, she’s thriving in this new space of hers, but she knows the other members of her family would be loathe to rub elbows with the non-Fae.

･ﾟ* She currently has a huge problem with human food, it’s just very bland ( some things even taste like ash, she thinks ). Sure she’s smuggled some produce and seeds across the realms, but in a pinch when she has to eat human food, it’s doused in an unmentionable number of condiments that no one else could stomach.

･ﾟ* While she’s working with Carmen as a debt collector, most of her expenses are covered by her extensive inheritance, given to her early as a parting gift. It’s odd that people in the Otherrealm don’t use aurum for purchases, but she’s converted a lot of it into American Dollars and the rest is stowed away somewhere.

･ﾟ* Esmeray is like a magpie in many senses, she’s a lover of the collection and she has a penchant for keeping a plethora of things, intangible and corporeal. Most of these things were spirited away from other people, but her greatest treasures are those small, inconsequential things accessorizing her own existence.

･ﾟ* There’s something about human social conventions that escapes her ( well, truly she’s hoping to escape it ) and it shows in the unashamed way she carries herself. There’s lot of conservatism in the human realm, a lot of etiquette that she’d sooner laugh at. While she may entertain one or two rules, a fae is a fae is a fae.

･ﾟ* Faeries for the most part, are smarter than they let on, or more perceptive at least; you have to be in this business. Esmeray is no different. While she’s no seer, the fae is ever the spectator ( re: eavesdropper ). It’s just that she likes being in the know, the people of the Midnight Underground are fickle in a way so different to her own.

･ﾟ* Doesn’t seem like the type but she does have a planner, though you’d open it to find something close to gibberish. It pays to be organized with the amount of debts owed in this city of theirs— she thinks she’s written everyone’s name in there at least once and if she didn’t have her own debts she’d have to wonder what was in the water.

[almondfish3042]

heartstrings (vol. 2)

What is your heart made of?

String, perhaps.

Yes, my heart is made of string.

Braided and scattered, frayed at the ends and knotted back together with hands wrinkled or smooth.

Cut with sharp, dull scissors and dyed with paints of all colours.

(With Life, and Time, and vivid Memory)

Nibbled at with anxious teeth; fiddled with by idle fingers.

Worn on thin, sun-brown wrists and in natty hair that refuses to be brushed.

(Strung into Hope, and Love, and slowly-fading Grief)

Carefully (almost-not-quite artfully) arranged. Perpetually-shifting pieces of morbid artwork –

Look, look; here’s a breath, a beat, an ounce of blood, sixty more seconds of Life.

Entangled, every other day. Turbulent thought-strings tied together, trapped, trembling –

Waiting to be smoothed out and rearranged, or thrown unceremoniously out the window.

Sometimes stretched to snapping point; winding around a lung, stifling, constricting

On the days I feel like falling apart, too much everything and not enough me –

Other times hanging loose, curling around intertwined arteries and draping across my ribcage

In the midnights I lie awake, alone, dreaming; counting sheep and stars and hours.

Crafting dreams and wishes and what-ifs and what-could-have-beens with string. (with heart)

Patterns emerge; tessellations and constellations; unfurling blossoms and iridescent dragonflies;

Snowflakes drifting in Midsummer, turtles swimming among the clouds,

To be tucked away; neatly, haphazardly; or given away, carefully, carelessly –

Strings to be kept, locked secretly in a box in the attic, until their colours are but a faint memory

Or until, twice-upon-an-eternity after, they are somehow intertwined with others, and others’.

To be woven into a tapestry, to be more than the sum of its insignificant parts.

To belong; to be free – to be separate and drifting; to be linked together – inescapably, inevitably.

I fashion a friendship bracelet to offer, to give, to yield. I hand over my heart like it’s worth the same

As the faded crimson thread the dusty old shop ‘round the corner always has on sale.

I reach for starry rivers unravelling before my eyes, grasp at the spiderweb-thin threads

That connect me to the world and its inhabitants, to those I want too badly to keep.

I twist them into a noose, suffocating and freeing and fraying, unfurling at the seams.

Unwind them, strung-together spools and solitary strands; bloodied shreds and tear-stained snarls.

A rope necklace that burns and chafes and reminds me that I am here, alive, grateful; despite and

Because of the bruises, scars, sorrows – faded imperfections, the imprints left behind by Life and living.

A wayward kite’s only link to the Earth, I tether myself to the ground with string –

(With you, with all the ones I have ever had the fortune and misfortune of loving);

Braid a rope-ladder reaching far, far into the clouds, that azure skyscape sprinkled with starlight –

(Daydreams, nightmares, sky-bound castles quietly woven in the hazy glowing gold of evening.)

They are strings, the chains that bind my heart –

(The tell-tale tug that ebbs and flows in time with its beats;

The growing-pains that never quite fade)

And build it, weave it, into what it is, what it yearns to be –

(What it dreams of, what it fears; what it mourns and celebrates;

All the brief years and eternal moments lost and found and to-be-discovered.)

Yes, my heart is made of string.

And so I ask.

What is your heart made of?

[finalfantasyxivwritings]

I'm like. Literally ENAMORED with the idea of Venat and the three stooges getting thrown into the future after meeting WoL, and then meeting a wol who hasn't even killed Zenos for the first time?? Sorry if I worded that weird but Emet trying to talk to them and them just being like "who the FUCK is emet selch"

Venat is the first to feel that something is amiss. When she and the others finally settle physical forms onto the unfamiliar landscape of their future star, she doesn’t think much of the way her thoughts scatter about to try and compensate for how altered everything is—how the wind feels, how the air tastes, how it all seems so… lost. Like images from a dream, vague and sporadic in familiarity and yet undeniably alien all the same.

When she feels unsettled upon first glance of the world around them, Venat merely assumes it’s in the same breath as everything else.

They had planned on things being… different.

Perhaps different is the wrong word, since technically every drop of aether around them was born from the very essence of their home. Even more, this world is Etheirys all the same… or at least a facet of it, albeit a very strong one despite the aetherical landscape being stretched farther than what most scholars would think possible. When one is used to seeing the horizon as a storm cloud, after all, it’s rather unnerving to find it as little more than a mist, so thin and fragile that it seems a stiff breeze could shred it apart.

To that, Hythlodaeus and Emet-Selch agreed verily. Their eyes were sharp enough to note every detail as far as the horizon reached out in all directions—affirming Venat’s assumptions and the words of the future’s traveler as being correct: Etheirys had been sundered, fractured so completely that it seemed as shallow as a puddle where it had once been a vast ocean. But it did mean one thing at least: finding the present-day form of that traveler wouldn’t be a hard task. Since Hythlodaeus and Emet-Selch had both gazed deep upon that unique soul, such a color would be incredibly hard to miss, especially when they didn’t have to look past such vast pools of bright, competing aether.

“I’m not sure what state I expected to find this world in-“ Hermes murmurs, but Emet-Selch is quick to correct him.

“Our world,” he says. “Fractured or not, we cannot act as if this is anything but. And ‘tis our duty to ensure our time-traveling companion has fulfilled their promise.”

The fourth of their party, Hythlodaeus, merely hums in contribution. Then he turns his gaze about.“They’ve certainly done something,” he muses softly, “if there is yet a world for us to stand upon. We can at least surmise they didn’t die along the process of returning home.”

“We might as well try to find them,” Emet-Selch narrows his eyes after a moment. His tone is tense. “The sooner we get the assurance for the star’s continued prosperity, the sooner we can return to our own age of problems and discussions.”

The group agrees in that notion, at least. It had taken a gargantuan amount of aether and skill to weave the spell sending them forward in time; it would be an insult to waste the opportunity with useless banter and debate. With a combination of Hythlodaeus’ and Emet-Selch’s eyes alongside Venat and Hermes’ familiarity to the traveler, it doesn’t take all that long to locate them—the four had pinpointed the physical end to their own jump in time with a fair amount of precision, but there is only so accurate one can be when it comes to traversing eons worth of time and space.

And so it is with great trepidation that the four travelers of Etheirys come upon their wayward visitor, moving about a stretch of land holding the slightest resemblance of anything that would have been upon their original star. But where they had expected some manner of a surprised but friendly greeting from the self-titled ‘warrior of light’ the four of them only found confusion and hesitation instead. The face of the time traveler looked upon each of them—Hermes, Hythlodaeus, Emet-Selch, even Venat—and there was naught a flicker of recognition to be found. In fact, the warrior of light looked a fair bit perturbed by their presence, and it only grew worse the more that Emet-Selch insisted on their prior meeting having been (to Venat and the others, at least) but a scant few weeks previous.

“I…don’t know you,” the warrior of light says, weighing their words with a tense look of wariness. “I don’t know anyone who looks like you—and I don’t recognize anyone by the name of ‘Emet-Selch’.”

And it is then, only then, that Venat sees the moment all too clearly for what has happened. How the warrior of light almost looks younger than she had last seen them—less scars, less exhaustion, less weight upon their shoulders. Though she and the other three had jumped far into the future, it appeared as if they were gazing into the warrior’s near-past to whom they’d met before.

“Emet,” Venat says, tone tight and careful, and soft enough that the words may be easily missed by all but Emet-Selch and the other two. “We’ve arrived too early.”

“Too early?!”

As the man finds his words of frustration towards such a notion, Hermes’ expression dawns with what Venat had deeply realized. He stiffens up in turn, casting his gaze to Hythlodaeus who seems to mirror his grim understanding of the situation; that in all their seeming flawless calculations, that they had ended up in a time far before when the warrior of light had found will and way to visit them. They are standing before a version of the warrior of light who has not yet faced the countless trials required to know the truth of the disaster they are one day to face.

So damn close. And all for absolutely nothing.

Venat’s expression remains careful and calculated, giving not a single onze of her true thoughts away. She takes a step towards the warrior of light and brings a hand up to her chest.

“Pray forgive us, dear stranger. You simply bare such a strong resemblance to a dear friend of ours, and we have grown so weary from such lengthy travels that I believe we much forgot ourselves.”

Emet-Selch opens his mouth—eager to refute the words, no doubt, but Hermes is quick to step up and fill the air with his voice while Hythlodaeus tries to reign the other in with their lie.

“We aren’t from around here,” the soft-spoken Etheirys scientist has to force himself to speak loud enough that the to-be warrior of light could hear him. “Do you happen to know of a place we might be able to take rest?”

If they had any lingering caution to the four strangers, the question seemed to lay them far enough away that the warrior of light’s expression softens as their voice finds an answer.

“Farther up the road,” they say, pointing behind them. “There’s an inn. Very friendly, should have rooms to spare for all four of you.” They pause. There’s an emotion in their gaze that nobody but Venat can read—it’s an old emotion, ancient beyond years and bittersweet beyond reason. “Where… are you all from? I don’t know you, but… ah, don’t worry about it. We see a lot of people when we travel.”

“Quite true,” Venat speaks warmly even though every word feels like ice pressing deeper into her chest. “We’re… from Amaurot.”

A flicker of something moves across the warriors eyes. “Never heard of a place like that before,” they finally say.

“It’s a long ways away,” Hythlodaeus smiles even as he has a tight grip on Emet-Selch, fingertips a warning as they dig into the man’s shoulder. “I dare say that few might even… remember it exists.”

The warrior stares at each of them for the span of a few breaths. Though the moment is truly brief, it feels as if it lasts a dozen lifetimes over, cold and desperate as each Etheirys time-traveler is forced to contend with a multitude of realizations one after another; they’re in the wrong time, their star is truly sundered, their world is… no longer theirs at all.

And still, the warriors eyes hold such a stunning sense of hope that it’s hard to look away.

“Well…” the warrior coughs, stepping past the four strangers with a carefully quick gait. “I hope you all find safe travels, wherever they take you. May you walk in the light of the crystal.”

Venat watches them carefully—she can feel her own aether reaching out in near-invisible whisps from their soul.

“And the same to you,” she finally murmurs. “May we meet again.”

Soon after, the warrior of light has moved far enough to be out of sight, leaving Venat and the others to think among themselves as to what their next move might be. Not for a moment had they considered something like this happening—not when the warrior of light’s trail had been so strong leading to the ‘present’ of their time. Had something pushed their calculations to be amiss? Worse, had something changed the river of time, so much that there was no longer a proper ‘present’ to the warrior that she had met?

Whatever the answer, the four quickly move down the road where had been suggested, left with more questions than answers and a growing desire to see them through to the proper end.

[xunvyrae]

snippet for the new fic i'm working on :p

fun fact! i'm writing this as we speak, as i camp out overnight for some god damn overpriced concert tickets.

edit: the fic is out! you can read it here

[ulalumewitch]

A Song of Shadows and Light

Short Story inspired by “Day 6: Book Predictions” by @gwynrielweek - my prediction is that Gwynriel is end game and they are mates. This takes place an undetermined amount of time into the future after ACOSF.

Author Note/Warning: Brief mentions of past abuse. If you find these ideas triggering, please skip. I hope I addressed them with the care and sensitivity they deserve.

word count: 3,279

theme: a bit of angst, feels

please note: light adult language used.

*******

Azriel’s shadow’s did not speak to him. It remained his biggest secret. They did not whisper in his ear. They did not shout, nor did they cry, nor did moan.

His shadows sang.

He always thought people would assume the truth given the name, but they never did. Others sometimes asked, ‘What do they say? What do they sound like? Do they speak to you often? Do they speak in riddles?’ But never did they ask, ‘Do they sing?’

The first time Azriel heard their song had been while staring at young hands wrapped in bandages as he sat in the cold, damp hell of darkness. The inky black he’d learned to survive in had been no life at all but the sort of torture no creature should endure. Especially not a child.

Azriel had always been intelligent. His mind worked in patterns and puzzles. When he’d been allowed to begin an education beyond the fundamentals of reading and writing - when Rhys’ utter saint of a mother took him under a literal wing - he seemed to understand everything taught to him the moment the instruction passed her, or any teacher’s, lips. Initially, Azriel thought it a gift.

Until he realized the curse of it. He never forgot anything he read or heard, and he never forgot a face. His memory remained woefully accurate. While it made him an excellent spy, Azriel used to pray to the Mother to take his memory away, to take his ability to remember the finest minute details away. Or at the very least the bad memories away…

There were seven cracks in the stone on the floor where he used to sleep, where the damp seemed a little less chilling. Twenty stones around his lightless cell. He learned them all by feeling, touching, counting. Games to keep his mind from wondering if perhaps he’d died. If, perhaps, the Mother forgot about him …

Azriel turned his face up at the sky and let the rain fall softly against his face. His wings twitched slightly at the first contact. Warm, summer rain. Refreshing. Revitalizing. The burgeoning storm ushered in cool air and finally broke the suffocatingly hot, humid weather that had plagued Velaris the last week.

He took a deep breath. And another.

The memory of the first song his shadows sang to him was not an unpleasant one. Perhaps one of the only memories from that place that didn’t belong to a nightmare. They did not sing of freedom or of hope. They sang of light. They saved him.

Every once in a while they would sing of that light. The light of stars against darkness, the light of dawn breaking after another battle won, the light of eyes sparkling in love. They wouldn’t sing of it often, but they usually sang when he needed it most.

Or whenever Gwyneth entered the room. They sang of light around her the most. Their song became loudest when she was near him and it always complimented her words, as if providing a symphony to accompany the voice that filled his dreams with rest. Real rest. Those few precious nights they fell asleep side by side doing research in the library had been the most peaceful and restful nights of his entire existence.

Azriel had been a fool. For all of his abilities to ferret out the secrets of others, to become those shadows to learn what words were whispered in the dark, he’d lost the ability to see past his own shortcomings.

He’d searched for the love he’d missed as a child his entire life. Azriel desperately wanted it for his own, to heal those old wounds and to finally become the creature he always thought he could be.

Instead, he’d lived in delusion after delusion. First, the Truth Telling Warrior Queen, and then the Lady of Flowers and Sun.

It wasn’t their fault, nor was it totally his. He didn’t realize how wrong he’d been until the creature the Mother and Cauldron had paired him with left.

Azriel couldn’t blame Gwyneth for leaving. It was the right move for her. The fact that she healed, that she worked so damned hard to be able to start a new life went beyond admirable. And she’d did it on her own. True, she had her Valkyrie sisters, himself and Cass as her mentors, and the Priestesses … and it was because of that support system that Gwyn was able to save herself from the dark and to follow her own dreams and her own path, whole and healed and independent.

And he would never stop her from being herself. Even if it ripped his heart to shreds to see her go. Even if he fought every day not to winnow to that sanctuary on the other side of the Night Court as she and the others began helping others heal from their own nightmares.

He wasn’t sure when he’d fallen in love with her. Hell, he didn’t even know he’d been in love with her until she left without saying goodbye. Until he found that godsdamned note pinned to his door, rolled up with a teal ribbon around it.

Again, words he wished he could forget burned into his memory …

Do not let the water break you, Shadowsinger. Do not be scared of the warmth light can bring either. Let it illuminate you, every part of you, because you are a creature deserving of every happiness, Azriel, and only you can stop you from finding it. I pray, one day, you will be able to leave your fear behind you. ~G.B.

Azriel lost her because he was afraid. The thing he’d chased his entire life alluded him because he’d finally found it and was too damned cowardly to admit it to himself. To admit that the teal-eyed Priestess Valkyrie Carynthian was in fact the love of his godsdamned life.

And she’d left and he refused to be selfish and to do anything that might potentially ruin the happiness she fought for and won. If anyone deserved living in the light of happiness and peace, it was Gwyn.

Azriel closed his eyes, the rain beginning to fall a little harder. A low rumble of thunder in the distance that belonged to nature and not his High Lord, rolled through his bones. He welcomed it.

“I’m sorry I was a fool,” Azriel said out loud.

The rain fell harder, drowning out his words. But as he said them, a small weight lifted as his shadows swirled around him, keeping some of the drops off of his skin. Their touch soft and reassuring.

“I’m sorry if I hurt you in any way.”

Lightning flashed. Another crack of thunder.

‘She sings for joy and hope, her voice like a snow white dove,’ his shadows lilted, singing in his ear.

Azriel smiled through his tears as they mixed in with rain. She was happy then, she was exactly where she needed to be.

“I love you, Gwyneth,” he shouted to the storm.

Lightning and thunder and rain and his shadows sang melodies to mix with the symphony of the storm as the entire weight of the godsdamned world seemed to be lifted from him entirely. The truth and freedom of it so cathartic he let out a laugh and sob and -

A phantom pull to his middle had the Illyrian warrior stumbling forward, his hands braced and caught himself on the red wall of the training circle atop the House of Wind.

Another tug near his sternum … right over his heart …

Azriel turned as his shadows’ melody, wordless and sweet, crescendoed. A rush of breath passed through his lips as he found wide teal eyes staring at him.

He couldn’t move. For the first time in his life, Azriel forgot everything. If anyone asked him his name he likely wouldn’t remember.

All that he knew was that the beautiful creature walking towards him was no mirage. She stopped in front of him. Her beautiful copper hair somehow still shining through the dark and in the rain as it plastered to her head.

Something sparked in his chest. And Azriel, for the first time in his life, knew true happiness.

********

Gwyneth’s heart pounded as she ran through the house. It closed doors as she approached rooms as if telling her to keep going, the Shadowsinger would not be there. She had dreamed of Azriel every night since she’d been gone.

His hazel eyes, his cheekbones, his lips - those lips that she’d stare at and would forget to actually listen to what he was saying. And she’d have to ask him to repeat whatever it was and he would always quirk a smile - always the left side of his mouth - and then do as she requested. Like he knew.

But when she admitted to feeling something more than friendship. When she finally worked up the courage to broach the topic, thinking that maybe he wouldn’t because he didn’t want to push her, he gave the worst response possible.

Silence. Nothing. Not a single sound had passed those lips she’d come to love.

So, she’d left. She would have stayed. Would have carried on her work in Velaris because it was just as fulfilling as the work she now did on the other side of the Night Court. But she wouldn’t torture herself being around the Shadowsinger any longer. She’d taken his silence as a sign from the Mother that it was time for her to fly away from the nest that allowed her to grow and heal, and to live on her own.

She still had Emerie and Nesta for support as they were winnowed in a couple of times a week to help with training. The priestesses and faeries she had started to work with and train she already knew would be friends or at the very least amiable students and colleagues. Her new endeavor was exciting and scary and thrilling and all the things that she always imagined life could be.

The new compound that she, Nesta, and Emerie had dreamed up had been funded by the High Lord and High Lady, having agreed that more sanctuaries like the library should be available to others. It turned out more beautiful than she could have imagined. The Home for Wayward Stars included a temple, training centers, stables, medical building, and library. All to offer services as well as to train faeries in whatever they’d like to learn.

The compound had been built along the sea, nestled in a previously untouched basin surrounded by mountains, not unlike Velaris itself. The High Lord of Day, along with Rhysand, warded it to ensure it remained a safe haven for those seeking shelter. It was also guarded by new members of the Valkyrie so that all who sought sanctuary could begin healing in peace.

The High Lord and High Lady had been beyond kind, and even built her a small apartment that had a balcony that overlooked the sea, the waves crashing right below her and faced east. Every morning the light greeted her along with the sounds of the sea and it was perfect.

Except it really wasn’t perfect because when she woke up from her dreams of Azriel she would be alone in bed. And it infuriated her.

And so, Gwyneth decided to do something about it. The silence of his response ate away at her. She wanted a real answer. She wanted to know if he felt the same or if he didn’t. Even if the answer meant heartbreak she needed it. For closure.

But as she ascended the stairs to the training circle atop the house, her heart began to pound in her chest, and she knew he was up there. When she reached the top step she heard his voice and closed her eyes. Hearing it in her dreams was far different than the real thing.

“I’m sorry I was a fool.”

Was he talking to someone she couldn’t see?

But as she went to step out onto the roof, shadows swarmed her. Cool yet comforting, they swirled around her and gently pushed her back. She furrowed her brow but stayed put.

Gwyn loved Azriel’s shadows. When they’d researched together they’d always provide light touches to any knots in her neck and shoulders as she read, or would offer a cool breeze atop the house when training at night. Azriel always seemed to fret they would scare her but she loved them. Just like she loved him. And she just didn’t understand why -

‘Priestess of Light and Sea and Song, wait, it will not be long.’

Gwyneth’s mouth opened as she stared at the swirling shadows around her. Did they … did they just sing to her to stay put?

But Azriel’s raised voice stopped her thoughts.

“I’m sorry if I hurt you in any way.”

She began shaking. Oh gods, what if he’d found someone else? What if she’d read him all wrong. What if he really was just a supportive friend and she had been so desperate -

“I love you, Gwyneth!”

Gwyn clamped a hand over her mouth just in time to muffle the sound of a small cry born from pure relief and joy. Her hand flew to her chest as her heart pulsed in a quick beat. She furrowed her brow and looked down. No, it wasn’t her heart, but very near it. Something around her heart.

‘We sing for our Master and thee, Princess of Light and Song and Sea, we sing for the mates of darkness and light and sky and sea.’

She stepped out onto the roof, the shadows retreating slightly but remained close to her. Out of pure magical instinct Gwyneth reached deep down into that place near her heart. The place that sparked alive whenever Azriel was near her or whenever she wished he was near her. She grabbed a hold of that place and tugged.

Gwyneth watched in equal parts wonder and amusement as the renowned Carynthian warrior stumble forward in response. He whirled and she couldn’t stop herself as she did it again.

Hazel eyes locked on hers and she knew all of the trepidation she’d felt had been for nought. He loved her. He only needed to go on his own journey to find it. And Gwyneth understood that the dreams she’d had must have been Mother sent to bring her back because Azriel was finally ready to accept the destiny that had been written for them in the stars long ago.

Azriel raised a wing out over her head to shield her from the rain. His shadows continued to swirl around them both.

“I love you too, Azriel.”

“Gwyn,” he breathed out, “What - how -“

She smiled as he sputtered slightly. Gwyn reached forward and laced her fingers through his. Her thumbs lightly running over the ridges of some of the raised bits of scars. Ridges and lines that she’d memorized during their moments alone together.

“I dreamt of you,” she whispered, “And I had to come see you. The house led me here and then your Shadows sang for me to wait while you shouted into the rain. Do you always bother storms with your confessions?”

Azriel’s mouth dropped open. His hands began to shake slightly in hers.

“They sang to you?”

Gwyneth nodded and smiled, “Would you like to venture a guess why?”

She watched, fascinated, as his shadows swirled around his ears. His eyes shuttered slightly and then began to glisten in the dark.

“Is it too soon to talk about a mating ceremony?” Azriel finally asked.

Gwyneth laughed, as tears of pure relief and joy stung her eyes. She ripped her hands from his and threw her arms around his neck. And kissed him.

Azriel’s mouth slanted over hers immediately. The kiss soft but heated as one hand dove into her hair and the other held her waist tightly to him. With the first tentative touch of his tongue to hers, fire lit her veins. She tipped her head back slightly and opened further for him.

His cedar and mist scent wrapped around her as surely as his shadows did, keeping them hidden. Gwyn held on to him, suddenly worried that maybe she dreamt again. That maybe this was nothing but dreaming.

But in that very moment of doubt Azriel pulled away from her. He ran his nose long hers and brushed his lips over hers in a way that made her consider how his lips would feel on her skin.

“This isn’t a dream,” he whispered, “And I love you and I’m sorry.”

She smiled and brought a hand up to cup his cheek. His eyes fluttered closed as she ran a thumb along his cheek bone.

“I love you, Azriel. But for your penance I must demand a couple of things for our future mating ceremony.”

His eyes opened and his lips quirked up. The left side of his mouth. Always the left side of the mouth. Her heart leapt in her chest as warmth spread through her.

“And what’s that Berdara?”

She pressed the front of her body to his, allowing her curves to mold to the hardness of him, to the cut of muscles honed over centuries of being a warrior. Her own warrior called to him, ready to take on anyone who would dare to hurt him. The instinct to protect, she mused, and they hadn’t even officially done anything. Not yet anyway. Hopefully not much longer.

“That we have our ceremony by the sea, our feet touching water and land. That we have our ceremony at dusk as day and night hedge on each other. So that sky and sea and dark and light surround us. So for that sacred moment it will seem like we teeter on the edge of the universe and its us. Just us. And that you will do your duties and live your life and I will do the same and we will carve out a life just for us by forging those parts of us together to make a whole. So that we’re both stronger.”

Azriel leaned forward and pressed his forehead to hers. He brushed his lips over hers again before placing a chaste kiss to the corner of her mouth. His lips lingered and then slowly pressed kisses to her cheek and jaw line and then … then he kissed the sensitive spot below her ear, warm and pleasant and her knees buckled.

His lips curved into a smile against her skin and she wanted to scream at him to stop - to not stop - to do it again but more.

Azriel moved his mouth to press a kiss to the pulse at her throat, and her toes curled in her boots. All of her breathing techniques forgotten as she struggled to remember how to draw breath into her lungs.

With his blessed lips still against her skin, nuzzling her, he replied, “As you wish, Princess of Light and Song and Sea. It’s a good thing I’ll be able to winnow to you every night. Tell me Rhys and Feyre made your apartment big enough for someone with wings.”

“Our apartment. And yes. Now, kiss me again, Shadowsinger,” she smiled, “And this time. Don’t stop.”

Azriel flashed a grin and before Gwyn could form another thought his lips met hers. And she fell. No matter where she landed, and no matter where her journey led her from here, she knew that she would be living that journey with the Shadowsinger, her mate, beside her.

So they fell together as his shadows sang to them a song of darkness and light, sky and sea, hope and love.

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

hope you enjoyed! i love all possible ships and these two give me the feels.

[ianthedisastrous]

Burying the Ghosts // Ian & Bruce

Ian hadn't ever been much of an outdoors person, ironic as that was for an elf, but the last few months had changed that somewhat for him. Specifically the lake; maybe he was a bit hung up on the old memories that ghosted there, and the person who had left and introduced him to how badly a broken heart could be even when there was nothing to do but let them go, but there was also a calm in those rippling waters.

He couldn't exactly call the last round of town dreams the same, he wasn't so much broken-hearted as he was just...not certain of himself lately, and anxious, but he found himself back at the lake regardless. He was determined that time around to write through his wayward thoughts, rather than let them gnaw at him.

And the collective questioning about lake monsters at least meant it was a mostly quiet spot; exactly what Ian wanted. Or thought he wanted, because he rounded the path and stepped across the grass just long enough to nearly shrug the strap of his messenger bag free from his shoulder when he realized he wasn't alone.

He recognized Bruce instantly and his mind hissed; of course you do, he killed you.

Only Bruce hadn't done that. It was a dream. A very real dream. A dream that Ian still felt an oddly acute horror from, a stall in his breath, a jolt of phantom pain in his side.

Bruce hadn't done those things.

It just felt so starkly real still, that radiating pain, that daunting instant of simply not existing. The guilt of failing to keep the simple promise of being there.

Ian didn't want to be there. He didn't want to face this particular demon yet. But Bruce wasn't any of those things, he was just a person. And none of that stopped the panic twisting up in the pit of Ian's stomach that he had to force down.

But he had stopped.

In the dream. That had been the one thing Ian had been exceedingly grateful for; that fight hadn't even been a fight. Bruce had walked away. True, Ian still hadn't survived but, well, he wasn't going to anyway. And that was the one shred of reasoning that pushed Ian past the initial panic; he needed to talk to this man, at least to apologize for the intrusion and just to hear a real voice, a real person to drive away the dream recollections. But he knew his own voice was going to shake.

"Ah, you're Bruce, right?" He voiced quietly, catching hold of the strap of his bag to keep his hand from shaking, "...sorry, there's just...usually not anybody else out here."

@brucewhite

[jobean12-blog]

Hello lovely! Thank you for allowing me to send these in❤️ could I request one where Bucky is readers biological father and he witnesses first hand what their step dad is like towards them? Like maybe they are yelling at reader when he arrives and he gets all protective? 😩

Protecting Love 

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader, dad!Bucky x daughter!reader 

Word Count: 1,041

Summary: You and Bucky are going to pick up his daughter and discover some very upsetting news. Bucky comes to the rescue. 

Author’s Note: Of course @bugsbucky happy to write for you anytime and I hope you like this. I switched between the reader being Bucky’s new love and then the POV of Bucky’s daughter. I hope it makes sense! It just seemed to work better for me when writing. I love you and I’m here for you always! Thank you all for reading and much love always ❤❤❤

Warnings: starts fluffy, gets angsty, mentions of abuse, cursing, Bucky gets angry and protective, but it ends happy and he saves the day <3

“I can make dinner while you and y/n are at the museum this afternoon. This way we can eat together when you get home. Sound good?” You look over at Bucky while he drives, his shoulders are relaxed and his features soft. He gives you a quick smile before looking back to the road. “That sounds perfect. Are you sure you don’t want to come with us? We would love you to.”

Squeezing his hand, you reassure him by saying, “no, it’s really ok and thank you. I want you two to have some time together! We can catch up at dinner.” He gives your hand a firm squeeze back and before you know it, you’re pulling up at the house. Bucky gets out and comes around the car to open your door, taking your hand and helping you out.

“Thanks baby,” you say with a kiss. He places his hand at your lower back and leads you toward the door. As you approach your start to pick up on the sounds of faint yelling. You look to Bucky who must have already heard it because his brows are furrowed, and his jaw is set in a tight line. “You hear that right?” he asks, through gritted teeth. “I hear it Buck.”

The yelling gets louder when you near the door and it only takes Bucky a millisecond before he practically breaks it off the hinges. Storming into the living room he rushes at his daughter, pulling her behind him and trying to calm his rage. His metal hand comes up, the low whirs as it shifts the only sounds in the room other than heavy breaths.

“Were you just yelling at my daughter?” His voice is low and deadly, and you watch as y/n’s stepfather takes a few steps back with his hands held up. “No, we were just talking, James.” The use of his first name has Bucky clenching his metal hand into a crushing fist and stepping forward. “Don’t bullshit me you son of a bitch. I heard you before we even got to the door.”

-Daughter’s point of view-

“Dad. It’s ok. I’m ok, can we just go?” You grab your father around the shoulders and give him a soft hug, hoping to calm him down so you can just leave. He quickly turns to you and crushes you to his chest, “I want to kill him,” he whispers in your ear. You look up at him with matching blue eyes, your lashes wet with unshed tears. “I know. He isn’t worth it. Just let’s go and I’ll tell you everything.”

Bucky looks back to your stepfather and inches close enough to get in his face. “I’m only leaving here without kicking your ass because my daughter asked me to. But let me give you some advice. If I were you I would be sure to stay very far away from her and if I ever hear of you speaking to her like that again or laying a finger on her…nothing will stop me from tearing you to shreds.”

Looking at his ex, Bucky shakes his head, the disappointment and shock clear when he whispers, “I can’t believe you would let this happen. There are gonna be some changes made and I don’t want to hear a word about it, or you’ll be hearing from my lawyer.” With those final words he takes your hand and heads toward the door, throwing your stepfather one last warning glare.

-Readers point of view-

Y/n reaches out and grabs for your hand, holding it tightly while Bucky ushers you out of the house. You pull her to your side and soothingly rub her back. “Are you ok, sweetheart? He didn’t hurt you, did he?” She shakes her head no before the tears finally start to fall and she clings to you. “I’m gonna sit in the back with her ok, Buck.” He nods, opening the door for you both before getting in the driver’s seat.

The car ride back is quiet, and you know Bucky is seething. Laying a hand on his shoulder you catch his eye in the mirror. “We are going to fix this. We’ve been talking about getting a bigger place. This is the perfect opportunity.” You hear y/n’s breath hitch at your words and turn to look at her. “If that’s what you want of course.” She launches herself into your arms, crying, “yes, yes, yes,” over and over again, a huge weight being lifted off her shoulders.

When you get home, you leave the two of them alone, giving them a chance to speak privately.

-Daughter’s point of view-

Bucky sits on the couch and motions for you to take a seat next to him. Taking your hands in his he looks down. “I’m sorry baby girl. I’m sorry I didn’t see this sooner. I can never forgive myself for letting you live in that kind of environment.” You hold onto his hands tightly, saying, “dad. Look at me. How could you know. It only happened once or twice before this and mom is so good at playing pretend that it made me feel like I was dreaming it up. Thank you for telling him off, I’m pretty sure he shit his pants.”

You smile and it turns into pure laughter when Bucky looks up at you, clearly horrified at your language. “Listen kiddo, if your Uncle Steve were here you know what he would say…” he trails off trying to hold back his own smile. “But he’s not so…I really hope he did shit his pants!” At first, you’re not sure you heard him right but then his goofy smile widens and you both start to laugh again.

After the light moment Bucky’s face turns serious again. “Listen. You’re going to stay here from now on. We will go get all your things this weekend and you’ll have to sleep on the pull out until we figure out the new apartment situation. Does that sound ok?” You wipe away a stray tear and throw your arms around his neck. “It sounds perfect dad and thank you.” Giving you a bone crushing hug, he gently rocks you back and forth. “Anything for my little girl.”

@aesthetical-bucky @auro-ora @breezy1415 @bugsbucky @buckys-broody-muffin @buckys-minty-breath @bucky-on-my-mind @buckys-henley @book-dragon-13 @eurynome827 @hiddles-rose @hailmary-yramliah @hawksmagnolia @itsunclebucky @ikaris-whore @imgaril-lindru @jhangelface0523 @jewels2876 @kaosera @lorilane33 @loricameback @littledarlinhavefaithinme @littleredstarfish @addikted-2-dopamine @pinkdiamond1016 @mushyjellybeans @marvelgirl7 @marvelandotherfandomimagines @nano--raptor @randomfandompenguin @sallycanwait68 @scarletsoldierrr @softpeachbarnes @tuiccim @the-wayward-robot @when-the-hell-is-bucky @yansi1923

[oops-prow-did-it-again]

You know we can’t stay unbound from our spheres without Hil or N for very long, Zekrom, Reshiram growled as her counterpart led her into a field of grass, beneath a moonlit sky. It was late in the night; Hil and N were still sleeping peacefully back at their home, nestled within the Unovan Pokémon League, blissfully unaware of their dragons sneaking away for a midnight chat. Whatever this is, I hope it’s important.

Landing heavily on his broad, stocky feet, Zekrom narrowed his red eyes onto Reshiram. During the fight with the Queen of Diamonds. You and Hil were both behaving strangely.

One tends to act strangely when angry, scared, or stressed, Reshiram retorted irritably, shaking out some of her fur. Of which, myself and Hil were all three.

That doesn’t explain why Hil sounded like him, Zekrom growled, taking a deliberate step forward, baring his fangs at her. His tail started to crackle with electricity. Tell me, why after a couple thousand years, was I hearing the voice of that wayward brother?

Eyes flashing blue with anger briefly, Reshiram bared her sharp, massive fangs back at her counterpart, her own tail illuminating a bright, fearsome red-orange with flames. To what end does it concern you if you hear his voice or not? she snarled at him. He is long dead, Zekrom, you helped ensure of that. I hope you’re not thinking of picking a fight, brother—I thought we buried this hatchet a long time ago.

Me as well, Zekrom shot back. But you’re the one being aggressive here, sister. If he is dead, how can I hear his voice? The king I once served alongside, all that time before N, is long dead as well, and there is no way for me to hear his voice in this day. You are hiding something from me, Reshiram—from Hil, too. What is it?

I am hiding nothing that endangers anybody, Reshiram carefully chose her words, pulling her lips further back, until the gums behind her fangs were visible, and her chest rattled with the force of her growling. My secrets are mine to keep, do you understand? You have no right to force me to explain anything. While you concern yourself with hopes and dreams, I concern myself with our ensured survival. If it threatened that, I promise you, I would tell you. She snorted, blowing a puff of angry, black smoke. I can’t believe I once wished we could be whole again, once missed you, once felt sorrow for the battles we endured, when you come and distrust me so readily. What a naïve beast I was.

There was a long, quiet moment where the two dragons tensely stared one another down, before Zekrom admitted, You know, so was I.

With that, he beat his wings, and took off into the skies—headed back for the Pokémon League. After giving herself a moment to calm down, Reshiram took a deep breath, and closed her eyes. She would follow him in just a moment, but first, she wanted a moment to soothe her nerves.

Regardless of Zekrom’s distrust, she wouldn’t let him intimidate her out of holding onto the last shred of her old friend that she had left.

[unmaskedagain]

Marinette Vs Santa: The Rematch

Seven people requested a continuation of the Part 1 and I just gave in. I hope you like. I’m not big on writing sequels. So please let me know if its good.

When the news broke that billionaire Bruce Wayne’s daughter Marinette was dating the Roy, the son of billionaire Oliver Queen, it was like the world paused.

It was bigger than Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie.

Bigger than the royal wedding; both of them.

Bigger than the twilight love affair.

The Angel Marinette, the newfound princess of Gotham, dating the wayward Bad boy Roy, the prince of Star City.

Roy was handsome, really smart, funny, had a kickass attitude, played guitar and soccer, and loved animals; at least that’s what Jason told her Because Marinette had never met the guy.

People were betting on when they’d get married, have kids, what they’d name them…

And Marinette doesn’t even know the guy. I never had a single conversation with him.

Now Jason wanted her to… What?

“Come on!” Jason begged. “Just let him take you to the ball.”

           Marinette sat at her desk, with arms cross, glaring furiously at her brother, as she contemplated murder. “No.”

           Jason tossed his hands up in the air, “He’s really great. You’d like him.”

“I don’t care if reveals he’s actually Tom Holland ala Hannah Montana style,” Marinette growled. “No.”

“He’s in a bind,” Jason pleaded with his sister, giving her the biggest puppy dog eyes, he could muster. “His dad’s been giving him a lot of grief lately about him going to college and taking over the company one day and the bad press he’s been getting. Once Roy said he was taking Wayne’s princess to the ball, it stopped.”

“Why did he even say it?” Marinette yelled.

“He’s a moron!” Jason yelled back. “But he’s my best friend. He’s rich. He’s handsome. He comes from a great family. He’s strong. Gotta nice bad boy thing going on. A motorcycle. Sorta mysterious. How could you not want to date him?”

Marinette chuckled, “Maybe because I’m starting to think you might be.” She eyed him. “If this you two using me as a beard or whatever, cool. But Bruce Wayne and Oliver queen both been seen with Male lovers, I don’t think they’d mind…”

Jason glared at her, “I’m not dating Roy. Redheaded dudes are a little creepy.”

“Are they now?” Yeah, Marinette thought, really selling.

           Jason pinched his nose, “Didn’t you ever wanna be Cinderella? Go to the ball with the Prince? Roy is that prince. The only one above him would be an actual prince. I thought all little girls did? Can you do it, please? For me?”

           That’s when Marinette remembered the first time she saw Disney’s Cinderella. She had been six. It was Christmas. She had fallen instantly in love with the movie, the dress, the songs, the prince so much so that she talked about being Cinderella to her parents. Her dad just laughed and told her to write Santa. Ask him to make you Cinderella.

           And so six-year-old Marinette did.

           And now nearly ten years later, staring at her brother, she now knew… Santa had a hit list. It was the only explanation. Santa was gunning for her. Seeing what it took to break her. Finally, get her on the naughty list. Be careful what you wish for after all.

“I want to meet him,” Marinette said slowly with a defeated sigh.

“Yes!” Jason cheered. “I know the Cinderella thing would work.”

           Marinette glared, “You know I know at actual prince right? Prince Ali.”

“No! Wait! We can talk about this!”

“Kidding.”

“Thank god,” Jason sighed in relief. “Oh, you can’t tell Bruce its fake.”

           Marinette closed her, counted to ten, and stopped herself from screaming the only thing on her mind: FUCK SANTA.

           The Tsurugi house had been tense since Kagami returned from school. Her grandparents had expressed their approval of her befriend Wayne’s youngest daughter. Kagami’s mother had been pleased that they would be receiving an invitation to the Wayne New Year’s ball.

           They had been waiting all day for the invite to come. Both mother and daughter anxiously doing all they could to avoid waiting by the door.

           When the doorbell rang, Kagami had to force herself not to run for it.

Discipline, she thought, control.

           Her mother’s assistant announced, “Miss Wayne is here, Lady Kagami.”

           Yes, she was. Marinette Dupain-Cheng-Wayne curtsied gracefully, “Mrs. Tsurugi. Kagami. I hope you are well this evening.”

           Light, polite, took place after that. Her mother almost smiled in approval at Marinette.

           When Marinette finally handed the invitation over, “I do hope you can attend,” She said. “I apologize for the short notice.”

           Mrs. Tsurugi bowed. “It would be an honor to attend.”

“We look forward to it,” Kagami added.

“I… admit I have always wanted to go the Wayne’s Ball,” The older woman admitted the barest hint of a smile on her face. “One thing off my Christmas list, I suppose.”

           At this, Marinette beamed, a vindictive pleasure coursed through. Yes, she wanted to his, Kiss my ass, Santa.

           Going to Chloe’s was… interesting for Marinette. She hadn’ t even had the chance to knock on the penthouse door before Chloe had ripped it opened.

“Mama,” She called. “Marinette’s here.”

           That was all the signal needed, for Audrey Bourguis to throw opened both doors of her office, “Ahh Marinette. How lovely to see you, darling.”

           If Marinette had been a little meaner, she would have admitted that the scene was felt oddly similar to what it was like to see the stepsisters in Cinderella get the invitations to the ball. Chloe had been her bully, and she hadn’t changed all that much.

“Thank you for having me,” Marinette said easily. She presented the invitation. “I hope you can go,” She told Chloe and her mother honestly. “I could use more friends there.”

           Chloe’s eyes softened despite the look of the annoyance on her face, “Of course we’re going.”

“Agreed,” Audrey said. “Everyone who is anyone is going. And we are most definitely anyone. The question is what are we wearing? Classic ball gown. Or a modern princess. What are you wearing? Everyone wants to know.”

“Roy Queen on her arm,” Chloe giggled.

           Audrey smiled, her first real smile of the day, “Now that is quite the handsome accessory, bravo.”

           They discussed fashion choices and who is supposed to be wearing who. All while Marinette dodged every attempt from Audrey to design her dress for the ball. And the older woman had been determined.

           It was a harrowing experience. If Chloe hadn’t been her new best friend, Marinette would’ve given in to the desire to rip back the invite and tear it shreds.

           As she was living, Audrey said, “I was always dreamed about it; the Wayne New Years’ ball,” It was said with a lovingness and dreamy voice that neither Chloe or Marinette had ever heard her use before. “When I was a little girl, I would watch every year and just dream about it. I envied and critiqued over dresses. When I was really little, I used to ask Santa to go every year. I’d even design my own dress; every year. Its why I got into fashion. I was a little girl who dreamed about her own ball gown.”

Marinette would leave the penthouse, walk outside where her driver waited, and before she got into the car, she stared at the Christmas decorations. At the robotic Santa waving, and whisper lowly, “We’ll call this a tie.”

But the fight wasn’t over.

           Luka had no idea what to do with the invitation. Neither did his mother. Sure, they had heard about the Wayne ball but Juleka had Rose whispering in her ear so she made sure that her brother accepted.

“This is a favor to me,” Marinette pleaded. “Father will pay for the trip, for the expenses. Luka is my friend, and I would like him there. With you all of course.”

           Juleka begged her mother, “Please! Rose said this a once in a lifetime experience.”

           Luka eyed his sister but shrugged, “I’m in. What are friends for? He is your brother Tim single?”

What did you just say to me, punk? Marinette nearly snapped. She knew, of course, that Luka always had a celebrity crush on Tim Drake-Wayne. He even put jokingly put a kiss under the mistletoe with Tim Drake on his shopping list. But it was different now that Tim was her brother. Marinette needed her friends on her side; her family was insane. And she swore if Luka spent the entire Ball mooning over Tim, she was going to fly to the North Pole and shove her foot right up Santa’s…

“I won’t know anyone,” Anarka finally said interrupting Marinette’s thought. “It’ll be all boring people listening to classical music.”

“Oh!” Marinette straightened up. “Jagged Stone will be there,” She said brightly.

           The glare she got from Luka’s mother could’ve been weaponized.

           Marinette left their house feeling a bit shook.

“Ho! Ho! Ho!” She heard and saw Santa impersonator walking on the street.

           Marinette’s eyes narrowed. A less person would’ve just taken him out, she knew. But Paparazzi was everywhere, and for once that was the only thing stopping her. Not being nice or polite.

No, Marinette raged inwardly, that time was over.

           Instead, she shot him a glare, “Score one for you.”

           The next day at school was even worse than the day before… Paparazzi wise.

“Marinette! Marinetti,” A lady from seventeen magazines yelled. “What was your first date like with Roy? Was it Romanic? Did you kiss him? Is he a good kisser?”

           Marinette ignored them all as her father walked her into school again; this time with Tim and Cassandra.

“Bruce! What do you think of your daughter dating someone two years older than her?” Bruce stiffened.

“How long have you been dating the Queen heir?”

“Have you had sex yet?”

“What is he wearing the ball?”

           The questions went on and on.

           Marinette got to class and all but collapsed in her seat with a huff. This was too much. Her papa had assured her it would calm down soon.

“It will get better,” Kagami assured.

           Chloe patted her back comfortingly, “Paparazzi are so invasive.”

           Alix snorted, “What do you know about it.”

“Her mother is Style Queen,” Marinette answered before Chloe could. “One of the leading faces in fashion today; she can make or break a designer; start trends and end them. Everyone knows her name. Her face. She is the Devil’s Wears Prada: Miranda Presley of our world. Chloe was born with paparazzi wanting to know if her diaper was designer.”

           Her classmates were shocked at her defense of the blonde.

“And for the record,” Chloe said sounding pleased. “They were.”

“What’s it like dating Roy Queen,” Rose asked excitedly, ignoring the tenseness of the room like she was always doing. “He’s so dreamy. Did you know I have him on my bedroom wall?”

           Yes, Marinette did know. She helped decorate.

“Like a dream come true,” Marinette said with a forced smile.

Because like the most dreams, some crazy person made it up, She thought. Jason. Jason made it up.

“Do you think you’ll get married,” Mylene asked giving heart eyes to Ivan who blushed.

           Marinette was about to answer when she noticed Alya’s phone was out, and she looked way to interested what Marinette was saying.

“I didn’t give permission for an interview,” She said. “Or for permission to have my conversation recorded as is required by law.”

“You never minded before,” Alya pointed out. “This could be huge for my blog.”

           Marinette rolled her eyes, “No one knew I was a Wayne before. I have to be careful now.”

“Someone who knows you should give an inside scoop,” The glasses-wearing girl said. “Let people know what you’re really like, what you’re really thinking. We can do an interview right now!”

“Class is about to start,” Chloe sneered.

           Kagami glared, “Delete it or hear from our lawyers.”

           Adrien stood up, “Don’t you think you’re being a bit harsh.” Some of the other students nodded. “She doesn’t mean it harm.”

“I don’t care what she meant,” Marinette snapped. “I will not have private conversations on display for the world to hear. It's an invasion.” She told him and looked back at her once best friend. “Delete the recording from your phone.”

           Alya crossed her arms, a petulant look appeared on her face, “I already posted it on my blog,” She said smugly. “Too late now.”

“Delete it,” Kagami and Chloe chimed together.

           Alya stood her ground and sent them a look similar to what Rena Rouge sent Akumas, “No! It’s my private property,” She snapped, and she sent a smirk at Marinette. “You can’t make me.”

“Are you sure about that?” Marinette asked. “It’s your last chance.”

“This is my blog,” Alya said.

“Then prepare to see it burn.”

           All Marinette wanted for Christmas last year was for Chat Noir to leave her alone and for Alya to wake up, stop listening to Lila and reporting false news about Ladybug.

           Before the bell rang for lunch, Alya’s screech could be heard for miles. The Ladyblog was gone. Her mom had deleted it. Well not deleted the website but deleted everything on it. It had been an accident. Alya’s mom had been desperate to delete the interview of Marinette as quickly as possible. After realized what she had done, she quickly went to school to talk with her daughter.

“Why?” Alya had demanded in tears.

“Why?” Her mother shouted back. “Do you even know what you’ve done? What could happen to you? To your family?”

Her parents were furious. They had gotten a cease and desist Bruce Wayne’s lawyers, a notice that the Ladyblog was being sued for invasion privacy. Officer Raincomprix had shown up to let the know Alya was being hit with criminal charges; it was illegal to record a private conversation without permission for public use; even more so if it involved a minor.

Four hours. It took four hours for the Ladyblog to go up in flames.

The akuma had not been pleasant to deal with. But surprisingly, it wasn’t Alya. It was her mother; scared to death that her daughter had pissed off one of the richest family’s in the world and might have destroyed her own.

           Alya left school early that day, and wouldn’t come back for the rest of the week.

           Marinette counted that a win in the “Fuck Santa” Category. She could get her own freaking Christmas presents.

           Marinette had been sitting with Kagami and Chloe, enjoying lunch in the cafeteria when suddenly all the noise stopped. A needle dropping would be heard.

“Babe,” A voice shouted.

           Every hair on Marinette’ s body froze. What were the chances that an overly loud voice that sounded so familiar, so like how Roy Queen sounded in every video she ever saw of him, wasn’t actually Roy Queen?

No. It couldn’t be, she thought, Not even Santa’s that cruel.

           She glanced behind her and tried not to groan. It was Roy Queen alright. Red hair, handsome face, smug ‘kick me in the teeth’ smile. He was gorgeous. The exact type she’d been into. He had a bouquet of red roses and what looked to be expensive chocolates.

           That was when suddenly she remembered how much she wished for the same scenario. For her boyfriend, imaginary at the time, to surprise during school just because. When she was eleven, it was a Christmas wish on a star. (all her friends had boyfriends at the time; even if they only last two weeks at most.)

Another point for Jolly Saint Nick, she thought glumly.

           An arm went around her shoulder, “Miss Me,” Roy smirked as he pulled her into a hug.

           Marinette hugged him back tightly, a pleasant grin on her face, masking her true feelings, “I’m going to kill you,” She whispered. She kissed him softly on the cheek. “And I’m not even going to make it look like an accident.”

           She wasn’t entirely sure if she was talking to him or Santa Clause; maybe both.

           The smile was on Roy’s face as he pulled away, “You are definitely Jason’s sister.” He looked her up and down. “So… want to ditch school?”

           Marinette sighed, “Fuck Santa.”

           She didn’t care who heard now.

           Marinette did not skip school. Roy did pick her up from school, on a motorcycle. The pictures were being recycled on the news.

           All three of her parents were furious. Marinette had barely managed to get out of being grounded.

Santa would not beat her. She would not end up on the fat guy’s naughty list. Unless the reason was that she was standing over his cold, dead corpse.

“Okay,” Marinette said as she paced her bedroom. “I’m losing it.”

“You’re fine,” Tikki promised. “This time year gets to everyone. It will get better.”

“He’s persecuting me,” The bluenette.

           Tikki sighed at her chosen’s antics, “Santa is not after you.”

           Suddenly, there was a loud crash. Her bedroom door swung open, Tim rushed in looking a mess and beyond frazzled, “Tell me you can sing?” He shouted. “Doesn’t matter. I told everyone that you’re singing at the ball. It’s gonna be great.” And then he ran from the room.

           It went silent.

“Coward!” She yelled after him        

Marinette recalled her desire, her wish to finally overcome her shyness, her stage fright. She recalled the time fainted during a choir rehearsal for the Christmas pageant. She had been eight-years-old and vowed to never sing publicly.

“…Maybe Santa is out to get you,” Tikki said bluntly who knew all about Marinette’s fear of singing.

           Tim suddenly ran back in the room, “You’re having dinner with Roy and his parents tomorrow.” He said. “And Dad wants you to meet the Justice League. Have fun.” And he was gone.

“Fuck. Santa!” She screamed.

[phantom-curve]

did I shatter you? pt. 1

and I’m sitting on a bench in Coney Island wondering where did my baby go?

or

Julie and Luke find their way back to each other after a year of silence, on a cold bench, in the middle of December, on Coney Island.

part one: you’re not my homeland anymore | part two: when a good man hurts you | part three: there’s an ache in you, put there by the ache in me | part four: my pain fits in the palm of your freezing hand | epilogue: what died didn’t stay dead

An aggressive wind whipped Julie Molina’s wayward curls across her face, the dancing tendrils tickling her cheeks as she stared out at the empty boardwalk. The grey day pressed in against her. The cold crept under her peacoat to sink into her very bones. Coney Island, usually so bright and loud, stood quiet and empty. No one had dared venture out to the island on this cold December day. No one except for Julie.

Another gust of wind ripped through her. She shivered against it, burrowing further into the wool of her coat. She should leave. She should stand up, walk away from this bench, get on with her life. She couldn’t though. She felt frozen in place, frozen in time. The sun dipped lower on the horizon, the rest of the world continuing to spin despite Julie’s corner of it coming to a halt almost a year ago to the day. She thought the pain of losing her mother would be incomparable. She never realized losing Luke would be a different type of pain entirely, a pain that would cut deeper and leave her bleeding out from wounds too deep for stitches.

She thought of the life she had been living for the last year. City after city, a blur of states and places within them, nothing sticking for longer than a night. The whirlwind of her life passing her by felt the same as when she had opened her eyes while spinning around on the merry-go-round on this very pier. Fleeting moments of flashing lights and sparkling smiles and at the end of the day it was nothing but fake, porcelain lies that had been sustaining her. Luke had never lied to her. But then again, Luke wasn’t here anymore.

The sharp breeze blew against her again, rustling the leftover sand on the faded wooden boards beneath her boots. Her head throbbed, thoughts spiked with frustration and self-loathing running amok in her mind. Had it been worth it? What did she have left to show for the heartbreak she suffered on a daily basis? The screams of the crowd meant nothing when he wasn’t by her side, soaking in every moment with her. Would she ever feel the same type of completion she felt when his hand was clasped tight in hers, raised above a burning spotlight, elevated above them as they bowed for their adoring fans? Everything felt hollow in his absence.

It was dark now. The streetlights spaced out along the walkways had begun winking on as the sun fell lower and lower, shadows dancing along the docks and turning the ocean into an endless stretch of inky black. Darkness brought a deeper layer of cold. She couldn’t stay here. She wasn’t even sure why she had come. The Julie whose laugh still lingered in this air had been lost long ago. Her memory wasn’t hanging around the old faded skill games. The Luke that had wasted countless hours and dollars here trying to win her one of those coveted arcade rings had been swept away by the gusts of icy air as easily as the particles of sand crunching underfoot. She had come here to find them not knowing they had vanished before she could even remember their existence.

Slowly, as if emerging from a dream, Julie unfolded herself from the cold wooden bench. Her heart ached, the hole there feeling extra empty at the moment. She breathed against the pain, unsure how a wound could still feel so sharp and fresh a year after injury. Shouldn’t she have started to heal by now? Sometimes it felt like only yesterday Luke’s words had ripped her to shreds. Sometimes it felt like only yesterday she had lost the other half of her soul.

Heavy feet carried lead legs back the same way she had come. The wind had picked up once the sun had gone down, Julie tucking her nose into the collar of her coat against the chill. She shuffled along the weathered path, refusing to move any faster than a snail’s pace. The younger ghosts of her and Luke may no longer haunt the colorful lights of the boardwalk but being here made her feel more at peace than anywhere else in the world. Even LA didn’t have the same sort of bittersweet homecoming attached to it as Coney Island did. She guessed that was just the price that must be paid when you finally confessed your everlasting love for your best friend at the peak of the Ferris Wheel after a sold-out show at Madison Square Garden. Some moments were too powerful to ever lose their emotional punch. Julie let herself get swept up in the memory for just a moment as she spun around in the neon lights beneath the never-ending grey clouds above.

The night had ben crystal clear above them, something Julie had never seen in a New York sky before or after that one single perfect instance. Luke had wrapped himself around her completely, using his superior body heat to ward off the evening chill. Alex and Reggie had long since disappeared into the mass of bodies surging around the pier. But Luke made sure to keep a hold on Julie. He made sure they never lost each other in the crowd. By the time they were in line for the Ferris Wheel, Julie knew there would never be a better time to confess to him. They had been dancing around it for years now, pushing back and forth as they toed the line between friends and something more. Underneath the million twinkling stars above and the otherworldly glow of the carnival lights, Julie had opened the softest part of her heart. Luke had looked at her with the promise of forever shining in his sea glass eyes, and promptly curled himself into the home she had made for him. If only someone had warned her that he might one day tear his way out of the sanctuary she had created just for him.

Tears stung the corners of her eyes, the liquid freezing against her skin as it spilled over and ran down her cheeks. This had been a stupid idea. What did she think she would find, returning to the scene of the crime a year later? Hadn’t it been enough that they had imploded in the one place she had always thought of as theirs? More than the studio, more than their house in LA, this boardwalk had been theirs. Did she really need to continue torturing herself with thoughts of what could have been if they had just been able to push their way through it? The golden sheen of their relationship could have been everlasting if they had only been willing to fight for it. The thought haunted her, alone in the dark as the sky began to weep icicle tears above her. She wondered where Luke was now, on this cold December night. Was he alone? Was he thinking of her?

Snow swirled around her ankles. Julie felt chilled to her very core. Her limbs moved in frozen, stilted movements as she forced herself to keep walking. She wasn’t doing herself any favors out here, but it felt right to suffer in this kind of frozen wasteland by herself. She was a woman against the world. Just her and this storm she fought every day anyway. She could handle it.

Then, like a mirage, another body began to take shape in the dim glow of the streetlights. White dusted their shoulders and head, feet kicking up little clouds of the frosty fluff with every step. Something about the way they moved was familiar. Not just familiar, it was known. The same way Julie knew exactly how many steps it took to get from her father’s house down to the studio where she had rediscovered herself with the help of her boys, with the help of Luke. The same way she knew exactly how to intertwine her voice with his in order to create a type of harmony never before accessed by either. The same way she knew how every inch of his body would feel if they pressed themselves together like they had countless times before. She stopped moving, gathering her coat as close as possible like a shield. He hadn’t noticed her. Just kept walking, head down, shoulders hunched against the wintery air. She waited until he wouldn’t be able to run. Waited until he was practically on top of her and she had no other choice than to speak up.

“Luke?”