#tho she still deserves more

[anonymocha]

Mesmer Jr and Medicine Pocket having beef in official arts collection (as of 1 May 2024). I hope they keep beefing for all of eternity.

[rainedroptalks]

What is it with fantasy high and girls dying before their lives ever began. How we can never really know who they are, or who they could’ve been. Brennan Lee Mulligan I will find you

[dungeons-and-dragon-age]

Sum Hawke kimsses <3

[poisonousquinzel]

thinking about just how likely it is that Batman was the only person Harley told about having suicidal thoughts whilst in Arkham in Detective Comics #831

"I was seriously considering hanging sheets from the light in my cell and doing the maximum checkout when I heard this voice..."

Detective Comics #831

and how he knew when she strapped that bomb to herself in Batman (2016) #100 that he had to go after her because she was going let herself die in an attempt to end Joker's rampage for good but that she refused to physically do it because he didn't want to her Kill him and he told her that so she's found a middle ground

"We don't need to end it this way. He needs to be locked back up."

that she'd rather die than keep living with his presence in the world haunting her, haunting Them.

That if he did choose Joker, she wasn't going to disarm the bomb herself.

"Honey. You're talking to the wrong girl if you think he's not dangerous locked up in Arkham. It's like I said. That's not good enough for me. Not anymore."

the way he yells for her as she leaves.

"You're only going to get to one of us in time, Bats. Who's it going to be?"

"Harley!"

the way the two men stare at each other in the way they have so many times before, in those moments when Joker stayed or prioritized their fight over her. the way he knew Joker loved the thrill of it all and thought it was funny, thought there was No way Batman would leave him and that this game had to end as according to the rules. And that Batman would do so, he would follow the rules and save him. The way he immediately assumed Batman would choose him, choose his life and choose to stay and disarm the bomb.

And how Batman didn't do that. How Batman walked away from him, leaving him to die or escape or whatever, because He was choosing Harley and her safety and prioritizing her life over him.

The way he stared him in the eyes before choosing the woman Joker had always left to die over him. The way that it was always Him, it was never a question if he would choose Batman over her, but when faced with that type of scenario, Joker is the one that gets left behind to die.

The way she literally woke up in the hospital instead of them having a scene just outside after he removed it. because she didn't intend to live in one of the two options. the way the bomb probably did go off to some capacity because you don't just end up in the hospital knocked out for a week.

Him saying that he's glad she's okay, after everything they've been through, this war and Everything else. and the way he didn't brush off her concern

"I'm glad you're okay."

"Are you?"

"I had to bury my father again today. I did it with my family."

i just, i can't,,,,, i cant

[hopeswriting]

imagine you're luce, and you're born the heir to a mafia family. you're mafia-born, and so of course also mafia-raised, and then also a donna-to-be. you're raised to be able to take on the role, to be good and capable at it, are taught to make one of your core beliefs about how the many must come before the few, because the family must always come first. you're going to be the donna, of course you must always prioritize the family above all else, it's your foremost and most important duty.

if caring about the few too comes at the price of the many, comes at the price of the family, is it even worth it? if the happiness gained from it comes at the price of a greater suffering for others, is there even any meaning to it, even if it's your happiness we're talking about? you understand, don't you?

you're not sure if you do, but you care about your family, love it, want to do right by it once you become their donna, so you nod, listen and learn.

(you don't have to be taught the pain and loss and guilt and anger and bitterness is a fair price to pay for the pain you decide has to be inflicted and the sacrifices you decide must be made, including by yourself. it's the least you could do, even.)

imagine you're luce, and the gift of foresight runs through your blood.

you would not call it a gift. you did not ask for it either. and you'll never come to see it as something wanted by you.

you can see the future, and it happened exactly as you saw it would, so of course it's exactly the way you wanted it to go. you can see the future, and it happened exactly as you saw it would, so of course you didn't care to try hard enough to change it. you saw the future before the shape of it had yet to be breathed into existence, and who's to say it didn't come into existence only because you saw it happen? you saw the future, and it happened worse than it had to for it.

you can see the future, but you still can't make it anything else than what it was always going to be. you can even make the visions happen at your will, but you still have no say on what you see or how much you see. you still can only be the witness of it before anyone else can.

it does mean double and longer the happiness sometimes, means relief and gratefulness and hope beyond words, and it'd be cruel of you to voice out loud your feelings for others to hear the many more times it means something else.

you can see the future, and it doesn't make it any kinder on you than on anyone else, does not give you any more power or control over it than anyone else, but at least you can see the future. you're given the time to make peace with it, to brace yourself for it, to bargain with it, to plead and beg and fight against it however desperately and hopelessly, even if in the end it still happens exactly as you saw it would.

(you can see the future, and it still doesn't hurt you any less than anyone else when it happens, but you don't expect anymore for anyone to hold you any less responsible for it anyway. it would be nice for someone to do it one day, but you understand.)

you can see the future, and you decide it's a kindness to both yourself and others to keep it for yourself as much as possible whenever you can.

imagine you're luce, and your family has this set of rings they've looked after and protected for as long as your family has existed. they're one set of three of the most important artifacts in the world, ones that help in safeguarding its existence and balance. they're duty, the very first one and the most important one your family was created for.

the pacifier around your mother's neck is duty too, and the most important and powerful artifact among twenty-one in safeguarding the world and its balance. it's been passed down in your family too, from mother to daughter. it's duty, but less tied to your family and much more to the blood running through your veins. it's a curse, in fact, as it demands heavy sacrifices the rings don't, and one that can only be tied to the blood running through your veins.

(your mother looks at you as if expecting some kind of reaction from you, and you can only wonder at which point you weren't supposed to see it as a given. duty and sacrifices have been one and the same for you for a long time now. is it even duty if it doesn't require any sacrifices from you?)

imagine you're luce, and your mother dies for duty. she's the donna, and so she dies for your family. she's the sky arcobaleno, and so she dies for the world. she's your mother, but she dies anyway, doesn't fight it either, even knowing she will leave you behind, even knowing she won't ever get to see what you look like all grown-up.

everywhere you look, duty stares back at you, from your mother and the pacifier around her neck, her love for your family and the life she gives up for it, her love for you and how she dies anyway while you're still only a child. duty, from your family members and how they die for you and kill for you, how they do both at your command, how their lives are in the palms of your hands and how they weigh only as much as you allow them to at a time. duty, from the knowledge your foresight gives you and the shackles tied to the blood running through your veins.

your mother's only duty while she lives too. she loves you, but she'd have had to give birth to you anyway even if she didn't. she loves you, but she still gave birth to you even knowing the kind of life you'd have to live, the kind of hands you'd inevitably end up with, the burdens she'd have to lay on your shoulders, passing them down from her own. because she loves you, she finds the resolve to raise you to be able to face all of it head-on and come out on top, but she'd have had to raise you much the same way anyway even if she didn't.

(she doesn't die for you, doesn't fight to be able to keep living with you, and this, too, is your mother surrendering to duty one last time.)

(you're so sick of it, so angry at it, so hateful and resentful against it. you're so stifled by it to the point you've stopped being able to breathe for a long time now. or you would have been if they had taught you how to face duty in this way too.

it's for the better they didn't. a silver lining, sparing you pain that isn't necessary for you to go through. everyone you turn to only teaches you how to keep holding your breath longer, and you listen and learn, obedient and dutiful as you've ever been.

you're grateful for it too. really, you are.)

everywhere you look, there's no room for you to so much as question any of it, let alone anything more. duty is commendable, something you ought to look up to and strive towards, strive to achieve. duty is the right thing to do. of course it is.

(you exhale a breath of relief that shakes you down to your very core.

thank god, it's at least the right thing to do.

you're grateful for it beyond words. really, you are.)

imagine you're luce, and before it even happens, you know the choice you'll make when climbing that mountain, when standing on top of it, when waiting for a bright light to shine down on you from above. you know the choice you'll make then, even when pregnant with your daughter.

it doesn't matter since how long you knew, be it years, months, days, hours or minutes before. all that matters is that before you can even contemplate the idea of making another choice and all its implications and possible consequences, before the thought can even come alive in your mind, you already know the choice you'll make.

(you can see the future, but just because you already saw it, it doesn't mean it's now set in stone.

you can see the future, but just because you're given the chance to fight to change it, it doesn't mean it still won't happen every bit like you saw it.

it doesn't mean it can't still happen even worse than how you first saw it happen because you fought to change it, no matter how already dreadful it originally was.)

imagine you're luce, and before it even happens, you know they'll be others with you standing on top of that mountain. you're the only one who'll know it before it happens.

(because you can see the future.

and oh, you did not ask for it.)

they're strangers, people you don't owe anything to. adults who choose to show up at the first meeting, and to show up to every following mission after that. the chosen seven, whose ambitions and prides lead them to walk the path of the seven strongest too once laid down in front of them.

you don't force their hands in making any of those choices for them. you're not responsible for any of them.

you become coworkers then, accomplices, your hands stained in blood to various extent, but now dipping in the same pool of blood as you strive towards the same goal together. you have each other's backs, learn each other's strengths and weaknesses, learn each other's personalities, likes and dislikes. you keep having to spend more time together as the missions keep coming your way.

inevitably, you come to care about them. even more damning, they come to care about you in return. enough so they'll look after your daughter even after what'll happen on top of that mountain. enough so they'll look after your granddaughter too, warmly and fondly enough she'll call one of them uncle.

you're still the only one who knows they'll stand together with you on top of that mountain, not knowing what'll happen on it like you do.

and you do care about them, you swear you do. really, you do.

(you care about them the same way your mother cared about you, and how she still raised you to have steel in you and be made of sharp edges you know how to use. you care about them the same way you care about your family, and how you still send them to their deaths as needed so the rest of your family you care about just the same can keep on living longer and safely. this is the only way you've had the chance to learn how to care and love.

duty and sacrifices have been one and the same for you for as long as you can remember. it doesn't matter at which point sacrifices came to mean love to you too.

and most of all, you love your daughter more than anything else in the world.)

imagine you're luce, and this is who you are. this is who you've been raised to be, the only way you've been given room to grow up to be. this is the life you've lived and the kind of life that has shaped you as the person you are now. this is what you've been taught and told is the best version of yourself you could have grown up to be. this is who you ended up being by what you've been taught and told are all the right choices to make.

you're still the only one who knows what is about to happen on top of that mountain. it hasn't happened yet. the fate of the world hangs on what'll happen on top of that mountain, the same world you'll have to give birth to your daughter in. the same daughter you're currently pregnant with.

now imagine you're luce, look me in the eye and tell me you'd know how to even form the thought of the possibility of there being any other choice to make. look me in the eye and tell me you wouldn't look at the only choice in front of you, and know deep in your bones it's the only right choice to make. that it is right of you to make it. because it simply has to be.

(imagine you're luce, and you're not doomed by the narrative. of course, you're not.

why would you need to be when the narrative has painstakingly shaped you all your life to become its perfect, faithful and dutiful sacrificial lamb?

and then, imagine you're luce, and you're even grateful for it, so, so very grateful it held up its end of the bargain too.

truly, you are.)

[beware-of-eels]

this is the best heather i’ve ever drawn

character practice pt. 1

[welcometoteyvat]

the only thing i took away from hsr 2.1 is that march is gay

[seariii]

Wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife babygirl wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife love wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife princess wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife honey wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife wife

[torn-slander]

while on the topic of bitching about the Jak and Daxter series (my beloved), Jak 3 could have easily been the best game if it wasn't so fucking rushed - like they just threw in a random new race after already doing that in the game prior, threw in the precursors in a way that imo didn't make sense lmfao I LOVE that the wasteland is seen and Spargus and JAK'S FATHER but could the plot have taken it a liiiitle slower? The relationship between Jak and Damas was so heavy handed like lmfao trusted each other way too fast imo

still cry when Damas dies but could you imagine if they had let the plot take its time?

[bacchuschucklefuck]

What about sorcerer Adaine? It'd keep the way her parents treated her consistent because of in that case they'd see her having the easy way of casting instead of studying to be a "proper" caster

this is a great idea!! the only reason why I'm not gonna pick it up is bc I've already locked down sorcerer for kristen haha

[hearts401]

GOD VANNY HAD SO MUCH POTENTIAL WAWAWAWAWAWAAAAA I COULD GO ON FOR HOURS BRUUUHHH

[deepseawave]

obsessed w the tags on ur last reblog

Omgg, thank you haha, it was a quality post so I just had to appreciate it in full force 😂❤️

Can‘t believe someone would actually enjoy my yapping :,D

[oksanas-sun]

it's such a shame that hélène only wanted to manipulate v because damn... she was really good at identifying what v needed :(

[night-triumphantt]

Happy Birthday @cashweasel beloved, have a soft kiyazan non confession confession, love you and these two idiots sm and I hope your day was amazing

[a-tale-of-legends]

Bianca: Kill them with kindness!

Hugh: But make sure you kill them.

Bianca: Oh, of course!

[theothermaidoftarth]

Sorrow

Jace finds her, after. Word count: 1,436

It should not have been possible for a child to slip past the guards again, out into the night, but all was in shambles in the castle of High Tide. The king’s son had been mutilated and it was his daughter’s son, the prince’s nephew, who had wielded the blade. It was simple enough for Baela to quit the heaving foyer while her grandparents’ attention was held elsewhere as lord and lady of the castle, the maester long since having seen to her and her injuries. Baela knew just the way to slip from the castle unheeded amidst the chaos of heightened vigilance, a way Aemond Targaryen would never have known. A secret passageway divulged to her by her mother. Lady Laena Velaryon would often tell her girls of growing up in Driftmark alongside her twin Laenor and sundry cousins. Laena had missed her home dearly; she had not returned since eloping with Prince Daemon Targaryen to Pentos. She was dead now, but home at last.

A lump rose in Baela’s throat as she lay down upon the cliffside from whence her mother’s body had been thrown. Oh, to feel the sea on her skin, to feel closer to her mother. But the way down from the cliffs was treacherous even in the light of day.

Beneath the rush of the waves against the cliff, she became aware of another sound: stones shifting underfoot. She lifted herself onto her elbows, her throat tight — and then all breath left her in a sigh of such relief it was almost painful.

“The night is dark and full of terrors, Jacaerys.”

His brow furrowed. “It is?”

Her best mimicry of a Red Priest of Rhllor wasted on this Westerosi boy. If not for the whisperings of grief stirring faintly within her, she would have laughed. Instead she murmured, “Should you not be abed, cousin?”

“I saw you slip away.” His eyes evoked too much for her, even in the dark she did not want to look at them. Sorrow recognising sorrow.

“Your mother will worry when she sees you’ve gone.” She had seen how Princess Rhaenyra fussed over him even before the incident with the now one-eyed prince, smoothing down his hair and making sure his plate was full during meals.

Jace sat down beside her. “Won’t your father also?”

Baela flinched, a spasm wracking her body, so violent was the pain invoked by his words. She lay back quickly, hoping Jace had seen nothing of it. You miss it morebecause you always had it, Rhaena had told her with sad eyes after… After. He's never ignored you before. You’ll get used to it.

“Is it from here you can see the Warrior’s Hammer on a clear night?” Jace had lowered himself to his back, staring up at the night sky. She didn’t know if she should feel surprised her uncle Laenor had told him that, this boy with his thick brown hair, brown eyes and pug nose, not a mark of Velaryon blood on him.

“Further up the cliffside, I think.”

Laenor must have loved Rhaenyra’s son to divulge to him the wonders of his childhood home as Laena had with her daughters. Were they in Pentos, and not the Seven Kingdoms, that would be little of note. Boys like Jace and his brothers had risen high to become magisters, the true power of the land. What they were was no mark against them there. 

And Jace seemed an easy boy to love in truth. The ache of her howling grief had subsided some in his presence. Earlier that day she had taken his hand without a second thought when he came to offer awkward condolences to her and Rhaena. Sorrow recognising sorrow. At least hers could be shown freely. When she showed him the secret clutch of Pentoshi flowers she had pressed between the pages of an old book, he looked intrigued, not bored like a page of her lord grandsire’s had after she showed him the same, seeking a friend in this strange place. He listened eagerly to her tales of Pentos, even Rhaena’s grief subsiding enough for her to join them. He followed her so easily into the night after she went to him and said Vhagar was missing; he was the first and only one she thought to go to. After Aemond Targaryen struck her so hard she fell to the ground, sneering that he’d feed her to Vhagar if she came at him again, Jace gave such a fierce yell as he rushed towards the other prince it was as if Saagael themselves had possessed him, the Lysene god also called the Giver of Pain. He attacked Baela. That was what Jace said when the king asked them all to speak on what happened that night; the first words out of his mouth and he used them to speak up in her defence. Her, Baela of Pentos, a mere lady to his prince hood; half-kin, half stranger.

Daemon Targaryen’s face rose in her mind’s eye, the one she thought would have defended her till his dying day, not a boy she’d met only two days before. But Prince Daemon merely leant against the foyer wall, watching the proceedings with a smirk. He stirred only to intercept Ser Criston when, upon order of his queen, the white cloak made for the princess and her son Lucerys. What had amused Daemon so, making him smirk as his daughters stood there with blood drying upon their faces? Her breathing shook. She had seen little of her father since coming to Driftmark, but what she had seen… His half suppressed, mocking laughter came to her ear, the way he laughed during Uncle Vaemond’s eulogy for her mother, as if at some private jape. Her High Valyrian was still inadequate but what she understood of it shed no light on why Daemon had laughed.

Her throat had grown so tight, it felt as if someone was choking her. She couldn’t catch her breath.

The faintest press of fingers on her arm. She barely felt it. “Baela?” Jace whispered into the night. She barely heard it.

What had been so amusing? Her dead mother? His dead wife he could kiss fondly with the same mouth that in the next moment could dismiss her so easily, so coldly?

The winds of grief rose within Baela once more.

She was wrong before. It was Daemon Targaryen who was the walking embodiment of Saagael, pain made flesh. No one else could have made her shake and howl so just from the mere thought of them.

In Pentos whenever Baela became upset beyond the point of words, her father used to pass his hand over her hair, the texture so unlike his own, and those of House Targaryen, never failing to make him smile. He was ever intrigued by it. Not much time ever passed before she calmed. One particularly bad day he pulled her close to him, her face tucked into his neck as he stroked her tight silver curls. As her crying quietened, his voice crooned in her ear, “The curse of the dragon’s blood.” He pulled back, hooking his finger under her chin so her eyes met his. Pride gleamed in his violet gaze, tempered by the soft, almost sad slant to his mouth. “It burns bright within you, my girl.” He cupped her face in his sword-chapped hands, resting his brow against hers. “You feel things too strongly. Viserys told me our mother did too, when she lived.”

Oh for those halcyon days when such moods passed quickly and stayed gone. Not this ever ebbing and flowing tide of sorrow, rage and despair. It rose so quickly sometimes, it scared her.

After Laena’s death what was left of her family made a tableau of being alone together, starting from that fateful morning upon the rooftop after… when Prince Daemon had turned upon his heel and left two motherless girls crying behind him. Stepping foot onto this alien home away from home, the first person to greet them upon Driftmark was Lady Laena’s mother. Rhaena, always mindful of her courtesies, sank into a fluid curtsy, Baela following less smoothly once it dawned upon her that the half-stranger before them was a princess of the blood. Their grandmother, however, would have none of that and rose them up with kisses to their brows, her arms firm around them. Tears had pricked Baela’s eyes.

That was the first time she’d been hugged by arms other than her own since her mother died.

On the cliffside with Jacaerys Velaryon became the second.