#wines is terrible and i love to torment it so so much

[house-of-mirrors]

can you spare some Wines headcanons?

I interpret each of the Masters as symbolic of one of the ills of the Victorian Age. Fires is industrialism, Veils is political corruption, Pages is obviously censorship. Wines represents the corruption of the leisure class. Perched on its throne with all its riches and luxuries while the majority of the population go without, throwing parties while entire countries starve. It embodies every empty promise of the Gilded Age. An era that promised fortune and excess to people when they had "earned" it with no intention of ever delivering, promises that were worth nothing more than golden paint.

The real horror is never the monsters, but the 19th century. But anyway, that's enough of period-typical existential suffering! Onto more fun things!

Simply being around Wines lowers your inhibitions. You're more inclined to forget about whatever work or trouble you had and want to relax and join the party. Being near Wines especially makes you want to drink much more than you usually would. Major Dionysus vibes.

But we know the friendly appearance is all a façade. Wines, similarly to Pages, is one of the most dangerous masters because it doesn't look like one of the most dangerous. Under the "approachable" surface is ruthlessness and callousness. Wines has quite the temper that we only see the surface of in situations like "Totentanz" and "Fading to a Coda." It's very old and very patient, and its antagonist is in steep danger when it decides to act in retribution. Then again, a threat is like a promise and Wines is notoriously bad at keeping those. Yes this is an explanation for the player's plot armor. Please game I just want acknowledgement for players who dedicate themselves to ruining the Masters' entire careers at every opportunity. Like, why would Wines willingly accept a drink from my Nemesis PC at Station VIII? Lmao.

For physical appearance, we have text describing Wines as one of the bulkier masters, which makes sense given it represents plenty and indulgence. We're all entitled to have our own headcanons for fan content, especially with a text based game that gives little solid descriptions of appearances, but it does irk me a bit when people draw the Masters thin, especially Wines. Different Body Types Exist, and like, the Masters are from a cold environment, they're gonna be dense and fluffy.

Spoilers for the Exceptional Stories "Cricket, Anyone?" and "Adornment" under the cut

"Cricket, Anyone?" leads me to firmly believe that Wines used to be a Judgement before it was deposed. "A cosmic monarch." Don't know if you ever were into The Magnus Archives, but I'm still a slut for the Vast. There is just something about space that my aroace mind has always been attracted to, for lack of a better word. Imagine sitting across from a being that used to be a star. Someone who existed before your solar system. Someone who may once have forged in its heart the iron that flows through your veins and gives you life. The attention of something billions of years old, something unfathomable, focused entirely on you.

I'll pause it there before we go too deep down that rabbit hole. I'm planning to write a fic about Wines once I muster up the constitution and will be exploring these thoughts in more detail.

Finally, a headcanon that I just find funny. In "Adornment," Stones refers to itself as "the merchant prince," and in "Cricket, Anyone?" Wines refers to itself as "the merchant king." This leads me to headcanon that Wines was the Judgement that Stones was imprisoned by. Just imagine you used to be a CEO before getting caught for fraud, and now the only job you can get is for a shady publishing company, and on your first day of work you find out that one of your fellow board members used to work for you and you fired them for embezzlement. Isn't that the most hilarious situation. The Bazaar is space's most tragic circus and the Masters are its biggest of clowns.

[jacevelaryonswife]

The way that you move

It wasn’t appropriate for a lady of respect to desire the lusts of the flesh, but the fire in your bowels kept your mind trapped in a single and delicious setting

pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x wife!reader

warnings: porn with 10% of plot. p in v sex. english is not my first language. 1,1k.

Even if it’s recent, your marriage to Prince Jacaerys was very promising and pleasant due to the commitment employed by both parties. Your husband was very polite, good-natured and kind, and you strove to be the proper and loving lady wife that Rhaenyra Targaryen's heir needed. In addition, the engagement period was charming and prepared the ground for a young and happy union, much better than most of the weddings of the other court ladies in all aspects, or almost all because unfortunately not everything was flowers. The subject in question referred to the misfortune moment of bed that tormented you and your husband.

Neither of you had experience, which made it a little traumatic for both of you, especially painful for you but quite fast too, proving to be a great relief (not crookedly for Jace). Throughout the act the prince remained redder than a ripe tomato and hated several aspects that were part of that situation, the first was not being able to reverse the pain you felt, because he didn’t know the female body to bring some relief to his good wife and because it ended up faster than dornish wine in celebrations. The precocity wasn’t at all bad for the situation, but it wasn’t exactly the virtue that a man should be proud of — but it served to your beautiful face was no longer dented with discomfort.

He apologized vehemently after that and assured that he didn't want to hurt you and that you didn't need to do it again without wanting to, a really sweet gesture that had you waving to him and ensuring that everything was fine. “My mother said the first contacts are painful for the chaste ladies,” you said. And in fact it was terribly uncomfortable, until last night...

Gods, what was that? It was the best physical feeling you felt in your life and it seemed so profane to admit it while letting pleasurable sounds escape your throat. It was so good! And that was the problem!

How should you approach your husband about repeating that night? It wasn’t appropriate for a lady of respect to desire the lusts of the flesh, but the fire in your bowels kept your mind trapped in a single and delicious setting, so your only mission that day was to find a demure way to ask your sweet Jace to make you come as your friends had instructed. What a scandal! There was no way to say this out loud, not even other ways to approach the topic seemed decent! Everything seemed like a complete disaster until the moon emerged and the inhabitants of Dragonstone gathered in your chambers, just like your husband and you.

The thick sheet that wrapped your body was responsible for hiding most of the bold and light blue lacy dress you wore, but it didn’t go unnoticed by the watchful eye of Prince Jacaerys, especially when he joined you in bed. That was the ideal moment to execute your plan in the urgency of the last minutes, which consisted solely of action.

"Jace, husband, can I kiss you?" You tried to contain the anxiety of what you wanted to happen next by leaning over it gently.

“Of course you can, my love,” he smiled sweetly and his beautiful brown eyes shone with tenderness. He was so adorable.

After many attempts (some slow and others sloppy) you understood a part of the mechanics of kisses and began to appreciate and perform the art often. His full and terribly soft lips were pressed so pleasantly against yours in the initially chaste kiss, who became sensual and lustful thanks to your desire. Oh, you couldn't wait any longer.

Climbing on his hips, you interrupted the kiss to face those beautiful brown eyes. "I want to do what we did last night."

“D-do you, my lady?” He asked surprised, "do you really want to?"

“Yes, husband,” you purred and kissed him deliciously again, playing with his tongue as you moved your intimacy dressed over his groin, making you both sigh. “I want it now,” you said during the kiss, sitting in the center of his body to remove the dress and expose your naked body.

The poor prince followed the whole situation astonished, stunned by his newly existing disinhibition but not a little dissatisfied (just worried). "M-my lady, shouldn't we wait until you're ready?"

“I'm already, my prince, I've been ready since the first rays of sunshine,” you knew what he was referring to and learned from the other ladies that the moisture between the thighs was a positive indication. And you've been uncomfortable wet since you woke up. "Do you want that?"

“I do,” he nodded hypnotized, holding his soft hips to squeeze the flesh gently.

It was not secret that the prince has never been with a woman before and the fact never bothered him, but he would like to have experience to properly satisfy his wife in pleasure meetings. He quickly flipped through a book on the subject as his cheeks warmed up and his limb hardened shamefully. After that he tried to remember some information to use at the moment, such as knowing that women needed time and a certain humidity so that they could feel pleasure, however, almost all reasoning was lost when your hands released his masculinity and involved him. He grunted low in response, breathing hard to prepare for the- Seven heavens!

You sank deliciously into the thick and soft shaft, ecstatic by the indiscriminate sensation of being filled. There was no way for something so good to be considered depravity, no, it was totally adequate, it was so right to jump freely on the cock of your charming Jacaerys and enjoy what he had to offer. The prince was so confused, drunk and excited by the way everything happened that he was dazzled by the beast that mounted him ardently. If in the previous times he made an effort not to end quickly, this time he was begging the seven heavens for the moment to last.

“Take off your tunic, my love, I want to see you,” you said between sighs, moving up and down constantly, moaning shamelessly.

He did what was asked, sitting in bed with you on your lap just to kiss you fervently and pull you down with him, moving your hips with yours. The gesture was much appreciated when his legs got tired of doing all the hard work, limiting himself to rubbing against his groin while he repeated the action, the constant and strong friction.

“Wait! Wait! I need some time... I-I want this to last,” he said between heavy breaths, almost begging.

"Right, right."

— "It's hard to describe, it's intense, hot and your whole body shudders at the sensation. It's probably the best thing you'll feel in your life."

Your friend Belinda's explanation of the apex of female pleasure returned to surrounding your mind again, making you yearn to discover such a sensation. It was torturous to accommodate your husband inside and not be able not to move your hips, even though it was for good reason. And he, well, he was almost exploding with pleasure.

Jace pulled you for an excited and demanding kiss, very different from the ones you used to share but just as good. Good? No, better. His tongue touched yours in a different and sloppy way, which would strumble you

The prince wasn’t blind about women but never dared to give himself to a pleasure before the wedding — he was less man for that. He thought he wouldn’t be so affected by carnal pleasure, but he could not deny that the attraction he felt for his beautiful wife increased every day and each time you lay down together. He longed for it more quietly.

“Keep going, my love,” he held your buttocks when you remained in the same position, moving your hips experimentally to keep up with your pace.

“Yes, husband,” you sighed numb, kissing him again as you moved sloppyly, dragging your hips against his groin. Gods, how good it was.

Although he was loving the position he was in, Jace felt a sudden urge to cage your body against the bed, so he turned you lovingly to take control and pushed your hips against his at a constant pace that stole the air from both of you. The thought that happened in your head was indecent, but it was the complete reality of the situation. It wasn't love made between you and your husband, no, you were fucking with all the lust there was.

He rested his face on your neck as he hit you deeply, the delicious and maddening friction building a euphoria in your unknown stomach and making your walls squeeze madly. “Jace!” You moaned loudly, scratching his back as you held him more between your legs. “Oh! Jace!” Your sight turned white and your whole body spasmed on bed, the most wonderful feeling in the world numbing your senses.

That was too much for him. Both the grip around his cock, as well as your sounds, as well as the call by his name and his own limit sent him to the apex in the blink of an eye, grunting in your ear in such a sensual and deep way that it made you squeeze even more. For the seven, what had just happened?

Such pleasure from such indecency made him hot, confused and red like wine. Your breaths were heavy and agitated, stabilizing slowly and silently on the soft bed as you sighed satisfied with what had just happened. "So that's how it feel? Now I understand why some people indulge in promiscuity," you commented in a good mood, feeling your body return to normal. "We will do this more often, yes, husband?"

Who was he to deny your request? (Especially on the content of the request).

"Of course, my lady." Yes, your husband was perfect.

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taglist

general: @valeskafics @fan-goddess @kravitzwhore @partypoison00

jace velaryon: @howyouloveyourdragon

[captain-barnes-writes]

Fallen Petals (Max Verstappen)

part one

Summary: How a relationship wilts and comes to an end. 

Pairing: Max Verstappen x fem!reader

Warning: ANGST, so much angst, I LOVE ANGST lol, Wordy as hell hehehe, tension,  unresolved feelings, implications of cheating,  SMUT, sexual content. 18+

NOT PROOFREAD 

Word count: 3.6k (oops)

•

•

2021

Max Verstappen’s shoes and clothes were starting to collect dust in the closet. His towels unused for weeks, his toothbrush next to hers on the bathroom counter. Everything seemed to be mocking her. Everywhere she looked remnants of the man she loved were there tormenting her.

Things were coming to an end and she knew it.

She knew it as she sat on the chair on her usual end of the table. Her in her usual place and his space as empty as ever. Dinner served on the table. Two plates of rigatoni and wine served, plated ever so carefully to make everything special. A small homemade cheesecake for dessert sat in the fridge.

The pink peonies in the middle of the table, two petals had already fallen.

Her phone read 10 pm in her shaky hands. He was supposed to be home at 7. Three hours ago and yet not a single text was sent her way. Not an apology, not even an excuse.

Where are you?

Are you ok?

She could only afford herself to send two messages, feeling pathetic for even worrying for somebody who clearly chose to be elsewhere than with her.

A little scrolling on social media, story after story until came the one to pin the nail to the wall.

Lando posted a story (1hr ago)

Max wasn’t one to really party, or to frequent bars or places filled with too many people. He wasn’t like that. Wasn’t one to not tell her of his whereabouts, even if she didn’t ask, he’d tell her. Lately things had been different, even that was an understatement. They had been on two different worlds, hers admittedly still welcomed him but his did not.

While she knew that his life was much like formula 1, fast, busy and chaotic, she didn’t account for the many times she’d be left behind in the midst of it all.

This was one of the times. Seeing him sitting next to a pretty brunette she knew all too well, of the history of her with the Red Bull team. Of her father, of her last partner. And maybe she found comfort in seeing Lando sitting next to him on the other side, but it wasn’t enough of it. She still felt the tightness in her chest.

Kelly was sitting next to him, not her. Not his actual partner.

In the beginning of it all, it was hard to understand, but she came to see that it came with the territory. His life was fast and their love would have to keep up. She would have to keep up.

But it had become increasingly harder and harder. The missed dates, the lack of texts and calls, the missed opportunities of spending time together. She missed him terribly and he was so nonchalant. Distant even at many times and her heart ached.

His life was chaos and she was his sanity, retaining him to the ground, enveloping him in a love that granted him comfort. At least that’s how it had been at first.

God, but his life relished on speed even outside the track. The chaos would envelop him and he would get lost in it all. In the clubs, the new people he met on the daily. The models and actresses. In the luxury that came with being a successful formula 1 driver. A world champion.

While she was ever so present, he wasn’t. He wasn’t there at all. Not much like before.

Back then he had been excited by a mere message of hers, any interaction that could be as minor as her liking one of his pictures. The little hearts he’d put under every single one of her pictures. The compliments. The flowers that found their way to her doorstep regardless of where in the world he was. The love that could be seen and felt even by those on the outskirts of it. Once visible and true, now it seemed only a shell of it.

Had it worn off for him? She couldn't even ask herself that. Couldn’t think about it or she’d break even more. Her thoughts were already tearing at her, the seams no longer mendable.

She loved him, but she felt suffocated being in his house. In the large dining room where she sat alone feeling pathetic for even bothering to wear a pretty dress. She felt as pathetic as the uneaten plate of food on his end of the table. She wanted to throw it all in the bin, throw the base on the floor. Scream and cry, but she didn’t want to be that person. She wanted to leave with her dignity.

She would leave it all as it was so he could see that she waited for him as long as she could, but that time had ran out.

She looked around the dining room that felt larger at that moment, got herself up as steady as she could and made her way into his bedroom. It felt stifling being in the room where they had made so many memories only they knew. Engraved in their minds forever even while they were apart.

The space looked as empty as ever. His side of the bed no longer smelled like him after more than a month away. So many weeks and his scent no longer lingered the sheets and pillows to bring the comfort she so desperately needed in those moments she missed him most.

Placing a suitcase on the bed, she began to place the few belongings she kept at his place. Her clothes, perfumes, shoes. The toothbrush that always had its place next to his was thrown into the bin. Everything that would warn him that she was no longer taking part in a space that no longer felt hers.

She couldn’t lie to herself any longer. Not when another brunette was always seemingly at the same events he was, even at his side at times. At first she pinned it on her father’s heavy influence on the sport, or the mutual friends that would always unite them in a way that would have them in a room together. But it was becoming more frequent, her being left behind more and more was not a coincidence.

The tears were flowing and she couldn’t pack fast enough. Her blurred vision making it difficult to see what garments she was even grabbing. How bunched up the clothes were in the shallow spaces of the suitcase. Her ears were ringing and she couldn’t even hear the footsteps of the man she adored at the door.

Max’s azure eyes ogled at the suitcase on the bed, the woman he’d cast aside time and time again stuffing the clothes into it. 

“What is going on?” Was all he could muster. She flinched and turned around immediately.

Max stood there with his customary blue jeans and white shirt. His hair slightly smoothed back. His eyes were wide watching as the girl’s puffy eyes rolled at his question.

“What does it look like I’m doing, Max?”

“Obviously you’re packing, but for what?” His attitude even off the track could get under her skin at times. This was one of those times when maybe an apology would be a good start. An explanation as to why he didn’t show up once again, as to why their dinner went cold and the candles on the dining room table had died.

“Because this,” She pointed at him and back to herself. “This isn’t working anymore.”

The man couldn’t walk fast enough towards her and grab her by the waist. She whimpered at the intrusion and how foreign it felt after weeks without him. Yet she still looked up at him and met his eyes for what she knew would probably be the last time.

“Max.” She sighed. “I haven’t seen you in weeks. You’ve been gone and literally the day that you’re back you don’t even remember that I made plans for us here. That I told you I would make you your favorite food and we’d spend the evening in, just us two.”

She was fucking crying and she hated it. Hated that a man had her in her feelings like this. But it had been a relationship nonetheless, a good one at times that still had its ups and downs. One that had her experience things she never thought she would.

He was silent.

“And yet you don’t say anything. You don’t give me an apology, an excuse, you’re not giving me anything. I know that you went out with your friends instead, if you could even call that to your newfound friendship with Kelly.”

“That’s not…That’s not it. I’m sorry. I really am. I’m just shocked at seeing you like this.”

She stayed silent too. Waiting for more than just an apology and quite frankly being in his embrace the way she was, she felt uneasy like she was betraying herself and everything she wanted to say.

“My phone died and I couldn’t contact you. They invited me last minute and were hounding me to go, I had no way to get out. You know how Lando is. I told myself I’d leave after one drink and that I wouldn’t eat much so I could come back. But one drink turned into two and I lost track of time.”

“That’s starting to happen quite a lot.” He winced at her comment. He knew it was true. How his mind was dwindling these days. Occupied with tasks, with meetings, with new friendships that had sparked as he traveled to different countries. With his outings, with a certain brunette whose presence became frequent at events.

How small talks progressed to mingling around to stay by each other’s side. How those talks turned into going for drinks, for dinners. It was friendly, he told himself. He knew better than to lie to himself, how there were always underlying motives behind every move and every word shared.

“And you still avoid talking about her.” She tried to push away from his embrace but he was too strong, feeling suffocated with a man whose love was faltering. Whose body she kissed and touched on the very bed they were standing next to.

She looked away from him for the very first time that night and turned her attention to the bed. They had fucked each other more times than she could count there. Made it their own space, their little haven and now it had been weeks since they had laid there together. She hadn’t touched him in weeks and seeing him again made her relieve all those moments again.

Her eyes were still teary, skin hot with pent up anger and disappointment and yet she was still thinking of how his lips were that same pale pink and full, his cerulean eyes wide, his hair so damn soft. And she would be lying to herself if she didn’t wish things were different. That he had come in through that door with his wrinkly smiley eyes and that it would all be pure happiness like many times before.

The thing was that it wasn’t.

Things were different now regardless of how much she still desired him. How she still loved him.  How having his mere hands at her waist stirred the butterflies in her stomach. But it was no longer just her and Max. Something had shifted in him lately. Attention elsewhere, mind wandering.

“She’s just a friend.” He reassured, one of his hands had moved from her waist to her face to make her look at him again. His breath hot on her face.

“I saw that she was at your little dinner. Sitting next to you as always.” She didn’t mean to sound so jealous. Surely, she had a right to be, but she didn’t want to show him how much of an effect it had on her.

“I didn’t invite her.”

“Sure you didn’t, Max. I don’t need the lies.”

“You’re my petal. I don’t want anybody else.” Why was he calling her that now. His favorite petname for her, adoring and private just for them both. To calm her down and reel her in again and avoid the topic she wanted to discuss.

“Your petal is wilting, Max.”

She paused.

“You’re not the Max I fell in love with. The old Max would’ve taken Lando’s phone and called me when your phone died, would’ve made sure I was the one sitting next to you, not another woman. My Max would’ve…” Her voice was shaky as she watches his eyes fall to the ground, his hand had fallen from her face.

“My Max would’ve made sure to see me as soon as he landed.  You’re not the same anymore and I don’t understand why. And you know what? Maybe I don’t want to know anymore so this hurts less.”

“Fuck baby... I’m sorry for hurting you these last couple of weeks. I’m a shitty person sometimes, I know.”

One of his hands held her jaw softly while his other hand touched her cheek tilting her head to look at him, to see that his eyes were teary too. They stared at each other for what felt like hours, an intense silence ensuing around them. The tension heavy as the couple who’d spent weeks apart were only inches away from one another in a room that held their best moments.

One of them made the move first, maybe it was him or her, it was too fast as their lips met for a kiss that was bruising. Weeks of pent up sadness, want and desire combined their movements of desperation as he clawed at the back of her legs, securing them around his waist.

“Fuck I’ve missed you.” He said in between kisses. His voice hoarse as he walked around the bed and dropped her on it. Still on top of her not wanting to part from her for even one second or he felt as though she’d slip through his fingers. She was letting him touch her, letting him spread her legs apart as his fingers moved the flimsy material of her underwear to the side, finding the little nub that he missed and starting the same rhythm that always had her writhing in his grasp.

“I hate you for making me feel like this.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” His fingers rubbed against her most private part, her slick already coating his fingers as he continued to touch her the way he knew she liked.

“You are the worst.” She was breathing hard as they pulled away from one another, eyes still sad and cheeks stear stained. He kissed the corner of her eyes, her eyes fluttering close as he became the sensible man she missed so much. He kissed her cheeks as though he was erasing the tears he’d caused.

“I am.” His voice was so low as their lips met again. His middle finger had entered her slick and it had been more than a month for her, she felt like she was seeing stars with just his hands. It had been much less for him, but this one really felt like home.

Admittedly his words carried more weight than he could admit. How nights could get so lonely as he traveled to different countries. One was almost always around, sneaking glances and how it had turned into lingering looks and then into so much more as the days passed. But she wasn’t like his girl, no one could ever come close to the actual feeling of home. How home was the girl in Monaco who loved him and kept him grounded, reminding him of what was important in life.

He was desperate to feel more of her. To be inside her. With his fingers pumping inside her for a bit more, he freed himself from his jeans clumsily. The garment falling to the floor along with his boxers, her panties had followed and within seconds his fingers had been replaced with his throbbing member.

He would be lying if his eyes didn’t roll back and a sigh of relief didn’t leave his lips as he felt her warm walls engulf him. She was letting him have her, to fuck her senseless. Moaning below him as he fucked her into the matress with his harsh movements. He hadn’t even given her time to adjust to him again, feeling so desperate to just fuck away the pain and sadness out of them both.

To him this was his way of making it up to her, of them making up and that things would be ok. To her this was a moment of shameful weakness. This wasn’t making up for her.

“I fucking love you, I’m sorry baby.” His hot breath was on her face as he looked down at her. She stayed silent instead maneuvering her fingers to tangle themselves in his hair making their lips meet again in a heated kiss that shared the same tension as that of the movements of their bodies below.

The room in a way felt like before again, didn’t carry that stifling and unbalanced feeling as before. It smelled like sex, sweat and their perfume combined once again. Much like the times before when they finally saw each other again, they always found themselves in this very room showing each other how much they had missed each other.

His movements were harsh. They almost always were when his trips away from Monaco were long. She was a mess below him, moaning into his mouth as he fucked into her harder, his fingers almost bruising at her legs. It was liberating for him this way, for her to feel how desperate he felt to make it up to her.

It was a mess of limbs, a heady of juices falling onto the bed below, of skin slapping against one another. It was all pornographic as best as she felt herself crumble into the pressure that had built itself inside her and washed over her in torrents as she pulled from his lips to cry out his name.

His movements became shallow and less turbulent as his own release was starting to pent up inside him, wanting nothing but to fill her with his cum. When he did, with tense muscles all he could do was groan in pure content as he filled his girl with his heavy cum. It felt like it had been so long without her and he realized how she much he needed her.

He fell at her side on the bed once he’d cleaned her up with a towel. Her little whimpers at the feel of the soft towel on her sensitive area had made him wince at the realization that maybe he had been a bit too rough this time.

But once he’d found his way to nestle to her side, she had gotten up and placed her underwear again. Fixing her wrinkled dress again to its old state.

“What--What are you doing?”

“Leaving.”

“What?” He said incredulously, his own body pushing off the bed and placing his own garments of clothing back on.

She started zipping up the brown suitcase which had luckily for her not fallen off the bed despite the mess they had made on the bed.

“That was a moment of weakness for me. I know there’s more to what you’re letting on. I’m not letting that go. I know there’s more to you and Kelly than what you’re telling me. Why you’ve been pulling away from me lately.”

“It’s not the distance because we’ve dealt with that plenty. Our relationship wasn’t filled with excuses, missed calls or late text messages like it is now. You’ve been pushing me away and now I’m not the person you’re most excited to see, Max. I see that. Regardless of us having just had sex or not, I wasn’t the first person you wanted to see today.”

“You’re my girlfriend, you’re always the first person I want to see.”

“You haven’t made it seem like that for a while now.”

“It was a mistake. Today and all those times I’ve failed to communicate, I’m sorry. This life is hard sometimes, I get so lost in it at times. You’re the one person that keeps me sane and keeps me grounded.”

“I’m not that person for you anymore, Max. I see it now.” Those little droplets she hated so much and wanted to avoid began falling down her cheeks yet again. With trembling hands she grabbed the suitcase from the bed and began making her way out of the room.

Max felt desperate again. His heart felt like it was clawing at his throat, beating so rapidly as he watched the woman he’d been taking for granted start walking away from him and his life.

He was close behind, following her through the hallway into his living room. Pleading with her as the apologies fell from his lips, his own eyes were watery. He really was losing her for his own stupid choices.

He realized then that the grass isn’t always greener on the other side. His garden had began wilting, he’d foregone watering it, the petals fallen off the pretty flower he had once cherished and cared for.

“You’ll always be that person for me. I don’t want you to leave, petal. I really need you.”

She was crying as she continued the short trek to the front door. Hearing him plead for her this way was painful. But there was more to what he was letting on, more to what  him and that woman shared and she couldn’t falter. Not this time.

“It’s clear you’ve already found my replacement.” Was all she could bring herself to say without her voice giving out on her. She didn’t turn back to look at him once as she pulled the door open and closed it after herself.

Hope you guy like this angst piece I wrote in a day! Might have its errors here and there but I love angst 🤭 and I also have been really enjoying some Max Verstappen hehehe

[cosmerelists]

Cosmere Secret Santa

[Some Stormlight spoilers in this!]

In Secret Santa, you're assigned a random person to give a gift to. So in the spirit of that, I have randomly assigned Cosmere characters to give gifts to each other. Let's see what happens! And upon my honor, this is indeed all random...other than not letting Lift get chosen twice (greedy, Lift. Greedy!).

1. Zane gives the Stormfather...a glass dagger

Zane: And with this dagger, I will KILL this WOULD-BE GOD and then the VOICES will STOP and Vin will LOVE ME probably! Stormfather: ... Stormfather: I am not sure you understand how this holiday works.

2. The Stormfather gives Sarene...a vision of flying over the continent

Stormfather: I do not really possess material things. Stormfather: But pretty much all of the people I know enjoy the whole "flying over the continent vision" experience. Sarene: It is admittedly...breathtaking, aside from watching all of the people being, you know, maimed by flying boulders. Stormfather: ...Maybe I do not understand this holiday either.

3. Sarene gives Breeze...a bottle of wine

Sarene: This is a vintage recommended by my uncle Kiin. Breeze: My dear, you are one of the few people I've ever met with proper taste. Sarene: More of a compliment to my uncle, but thanks I guess.

4. Breeze gives Gavilar...a signed portrait of Kelsier

Gavilar: I don't get it. Breeze (sipping the wine from Sarene): And that is what makes it funny.

5. Gavilar gives Eshonai...a sphere filled with Voidlight

Eshonai: Gah! Why do you keep trying to give me that terrible thing??? Gavilar: You Parshendi are so strange--your gratitude and excitement look remarkably similar to horror and disgust. Eshonai: I am horrified and disgusted! Gavilar: You're so welcome.

6. Eshonai gives Taravangian...a little shalebark plant

Eshonai: My mother is old, and she likes plants, so... Taravangian: Well, thank you--that is very kind of you. Taravangian: But, uh, do you think all old people like the same things? Eshonai: Pretty much, yeah.

7. Taravangian gives Ulaam...a human liver

Tarvangian: As someone who runs a hospital, I have...an unfortunate access to such items, and I heard it would make you happy. Ulaam: So cool! I think I'll attach this to my wrist and use it as functional jewelry! Taravangian: H-Horrifying. Ulaam: Tee-hee.

8. Ulaam gives the Stick...nothing

Ulaam: There is nothing to give to the one who has everything. Stick: I am a Stick! Ulaam: You are indeed, my friend.

9. The Stick gives Lift...nothing (it is just a stick, you know?)

Lift: Aww, you get me! Lift: Things given really are never as satisfying as things I take--it's sweet and all, but lacks the stormin' challeng! Lift: No one has ever understood me like you do, Stick. Wyndle: A-Am I missing something here??

10. Lift gives Hammond...a slightly squashed chouta

Lift: I sat on it a little, but I think it's okay. Hammond: It smells great and I'm not fussy--thanks a lot! Lift: If anyone asks, you didn't get it from me. Hammond: I hang out with Kelsier; this does not bother me in the slightest.

11. Hammond gives Szeth...a sparkly vest

Szeth: Thank you? Hammond: I know you military guys gotta wear uniforms, but I also know that uniforms suck. Hammond: Wear the vest! Live a little! Szeth: I suppose...if Dalinar thinks it's okay... Hammond: That's more or less the spirit!

12. Szeth gives Zane...a pillow

Zane: Uh... Szeth: I can see in your eyes that you are a man much like me. Szeth: Tormented by nightmares, the voices of the dead, the guilt of what you've done. Szeth: Anyway, try screaming into a pillow. Szeth: It helps.

[aparedes]

❝ I have this disease late at night sometimes, involving alcohol and the telephone. ❞

Age: 40

Gender identification: Cis female, she/her

Residential area: Masonboro

Occupation: Book cover artist & voice actor

Two positive traits: Independent & compassionate

Two negative traits: Hedonistic & aloof

Length of time in Wilmington: 25 years

Faceclaim: Nathalie Kelley

sunset gazing from the porch, wine drunk late night texts and calls to ghosts, paint stained fingers, always remembers your name, a wild spark that devours from within, an ipad pro and sketchbook weighing down her bag, a faint accent from a distant life, and eyes that can't hide the pain of unfulfillment

Trigger warnings: death

Born and raised in Lima, Peru, Angelia’s earliest memories are of running around the resort hotel both of her parents worked at. Her mother was a desk clerk and her father was a groundskeeper. They were a small but happy family that loved smiling and the company of each other. It was Angelia’s childhood where she remembers feeling the most love in her life. Even before she could walk her body was in motion trying to dance and wiggle around. So once she’d taken those first steps and elated her parents, Angelia was enrolled in dance class with what little money they could set aside for it. Sometimes each of her parents worked overtime and extra shifts just so that they could afford things for her, and their sacrifices and hard work has never been forgotten. Passionate, competitive, and a bit of a perfectionist, Angelia excelled in dance and began performing with a dance team all over the city. No matter how tough the schedules her parents had they always made it to her recitals and performances. Even more, they always expressed just how proud they were of her..

When Angelia was 15 there was an incident at the hotel resort and her father ended up as collateral damage in trying to intervene and deescalate a terrible situation. The sudden loss was devastating to that small, close-knit family. Angelia and her mother ended up moving not long following her father’s funeral to Wilmington, North Carolina where her mother had obtained a job transfer. There was a lot to work through when it came to immigration, but seeing as Angelia’s aunt and her mother’s sister had made the move some near 10 years earlier she helped the grieving pair through the process. The loss had tormented Angelia’s mother so much that home didn’t feel like home anymore. Without her father her mother couldn’t stay in Lima and be reminded of him everywhere. Plus, she needed to be close to her sister.

For the teenager the move was difficult. Not just because of losing her father but also due to transitioning to an American school system where her strong Peruvian accent proved to be a challenge. Angelia had always been fluent in English, she’d been raised speaking both languages, but Spanish had always been the preferred and most spoken in her household. Too often, out of habit, she would slip into Spanish when speaking. Angelia struggled in school but that led her to discover an unknown talent— she could draw and draw quite well. She began filling up notebooks of sketches and doodles, at first not really thinking anything of it, until she came across an ad placed by a local publishing company. They were looking for a book cover artist. Out of curiosity Angelia applied and interviewed, showing her notebooks full of her abilities. They tested her, gave her a book synopsis and a note from an author and told her to return it in a week with mock covers. Angelia blew the executives away with her creations and she was hired immediately. They loved her interpretations but the job didn’t pay the best and the then 20 year old had to take up work at a local bar as a waitress and then eventually a bartender.

It was tough juggling everything at times, especially since she also liked to travel and see a bit of the world, but Angelia actually really loved her life. She loved being an artist and loved the social aspect of working in a bar. Eventually her talents would be snagged by a bigger publishing house and a much better paycheck would come her way because of it. At that time Angelia came upon yet another job opportunity on a whim. Audiobooks were on the rise and the publishing firm had just begun devotinga department to that medium. After overhearing talk of needing narrators and voice actors she offered herself up despite having zero experience. How hard could it be narrating a book?

It turned out to be very tough and required a lot of patience and skill. But, like everything else, Angelia was determined to become good at it. Now, she’s sought out by authors by name. For two reasons.

[dalliansss]

do you know how long i've been waiting for you to ask that question?

- PapayeGod

the largesse of the sea maiden.

They did not part in good terms. The last time they saw each other was about a week before Finrod left Ladros, taking half of the Arafinwean host with him, to venture somewhere south. As with the days of their relationship before Fëanor's exile, they had devolved into fighting; heated words and raging tempers. It still amazes Maedhros how much rage Finrod was capable of suppressing inside himself, and how he hides such a terrible emotion behind a mask of seemingly perpetual cheer and endless kindness. But rage, oh, rage, Finrod was capable of. Still is.

They quarreled, as they were wont to do. Finrod wanted to disregard the distance Maedhros has put between them ever since the Great Council of the Noldor in Mithrim, this invisible wedge between them. Finrod thought that he was simply taking his time recovering from his torment in Angband, and while this was part true, there was so much more Maedhros could not admit to him.

Morgoth's filth.

Unlike their petulant, younger years, they did not part with a very physical fight. There were words, words thrown like barbs, and both sported deeper unseen wounds from those than any physical blow they might have traded. Yet Maedhros did not apologize; and he pushed Finrod away, and away Finrod went.

The years crawled by. They saw each other again during the hunt, yet they did not speak nor acknowledge each other, and it had almost driven Maglor mad, this cold indifference between them. Then Finrod left. The next thing Maedhros knows, Finrod has discovered the Secondborn, and successfully negotiated their entry into Beleriand. He took an Adan home with him to Nargothrond, one named Balan, and Maedhros viewed the news with a distant, dull ache -- for he would not let himself feel anything beyond that, because he was the one who pushed Finrod away.

And an eyeblink for the Elves, and he hears naught more of Finrod, until of course, one autumn morning and the tower guard reports seeing his banner coming up from the south. Of course, the drawbridge of Himring is let down for him. Always, Maedhros will never truly refuse him welcome here, not when he might be in need, not when...

And so they find each other in his Lord's Chambers, both clad in furs, a bottle of mulled wine emptied between them. Finrod is sitting across from him, wrapped in white and silver furs, gold hair spilling unbound around him like a cascade of honey. Maedhros, by contrast, is in dark scarlet and black furs, his crimson hair in a ponytail.

Amid the flame they regard each other.

Then Finrod extends a bare, pretty foot, and sets it on his knee. Maedhros's gold-and-mithril hand instinctively cups over the foot. A log crackles in the flames.

"Why are you here, Ingoldo?" Maedhros asks. "Have you need of me, or Himring?" "Do you know how long I've been waiting for you to ask that question?" Finrod returns. "Because I will always have need of you. Always. No matter how much you push me away, you will never be rid of me. It amazes me, your gall. Where do you get the strength for it, to sit there and act as if I mattered to you not?"

Maedhros lowers his silver-gray eyes onto the foot he's holding.

"I took a lover," Finrod continues. It is akin to stabbing Maedhros in the chest with a knife, and then twisting the blade. He imagines himself bleeding. But he welcomes this death, this punishment, because he deserves it. "Balan was his name. Bëor, in his posthumous honors. Edain love fiercely and passionately, but perhaps because they are instinctively aware they do not have much time remaining in Arda. But he gave to me all his best years."

"Did he make you happy?" Maedhros asks, and in his mind's eye he sees the blade burrowing deeper into his chest. The blood he imagines to ooze from his wound is black, not red.

"If you call it happiness. There were more quarrels than peace."

Maedhros begins to knead Finrod's well-formed ankle. Then up his shapely calf.

"He is dead now. Never to return. Do you know how they die, Nelyo? They wither, if they do not succumb to the mysterious vapors in the air that seems to kill them twice as fast if they catch it. They shrivel up like prunes...and their strength leaves them so fast. One moment he is riding out at the Faroth with me; the next, blind, wrinkled, shrunken, his mind too broken by old age he can no longer recognize me."

Still, Maedhros says nothing.

"But he isn't you. I loved Balan, but he is not you. He will never be you." "Why do you insist on rekindling this, Ingoldo? Why?"

The foot is pulled from his grasp. Finrod stands, gilded in the copper and orange glow of the flames, and he grips Maedhros by the jaw with his right hand. He digs his nails in, and Maedhros bleeds red. He digs deeper, and the pain ripples down Maedhros's spine, down his thighs, straight to his groin. He gasps.

"I told you. Nobody whom I love gets to hurt and leave me. You're stuck with me forever, Nelyo. If you think yourself drowning in filth, then I will drown with you. A strange thing, the heart. Give that single thing, all else follows."

The world disappears in gold when Finrod kisses him. The furs are discarded. The flames dwindle down into embers that fade into ash. Outside Himring, a blizzard begins to blow from the north, engulfing the world in white.

[physicsgoblin]

I completely drank too much alcohol. I am listening to Focus on the Family's audio drama of the screwtape letters. Andy Sircus does screwtape's voice. I am almost crying. I gaze at the Eucharist every Sunday and i do not understand. I don't really. How could a God be a piece of bread? How could he want me, what would he want? It is madness almost. I believe help my unbelief. I doubt and doubt and doubt and i wonder how can something, someone so wonderful can be real? I believe help my unbelief. "You die and die and then you are beyond death." "The gods are strange to mortal eyes and yet they are not strange." I don't understand. Lord i do not understand. in this moment i do not care about anything else but that God would take my not understanding and treasure it. this is why i do not keep alcohol in the house. perhaps this is madness. But how wonderful. "If God is not real He must be created" that's doestoeveky The brother's karamazov. I want to get married and love a husband and have many children and make them happy and teach them physics and read to them all day and i want it almost more than anything, perhaps more than Jesus but in this moment I want Him more than anything. I do not understand. "I now know, Lord, why you give no answer. At your face all questions melt away. You yourself are the answer," Till we have Faces." Perhaps it is the wine talking. but i am crying. This cannot be true, can it? Something so wonderful and terrible and good and frightful cannot be true can it? I believe help my unbelief. I almost wish I did not believe. But it will not let me go.it will not cease it's torment. He haunts me like a ghost, He tracks me like a blood thirsty hound. And yet when He catches me he does not devour but holds out his arm and says "you are hungry, come and eat." He is relentless. Who could love me that much? how could that be real? I believe, help my unbelief. I do not understand. You burned the bones of Jeremiah if he would not speak of You, You tormented him. Was this love? For he could not forget You. He could not ignore you. He had nowhere else to go. "Like a bear lying in wait." that is what You were to him. You were rot to his bones, gravel in his mouth. "Yet this i recall to mind, Your mercies are renewed every morning." How could such wondrous Love as this be real? I believe help my unbelief. I do not understand. But where else would i go, Lord? Who else would have me? Lord I believe, take my unbelief and shatter it.

[bamf-jaskier]

Who the fuck is Keira Metz - a Primer

Keira Metz was one of the youngest sorceresses, a member of the Lodge, and a fierce fighter who sided with the Northern mages at Thanedd. She is mentioned in Blood of Elves and appears in Time of Contempt, Baptism of Fire, and Lady of the Lake.

If you are interested in Witcher book content and have questions or just want to chat about them, I made an 18+ discord server here for anyone to join :)

With that, Hi! I’m Aaliyah and this is Part 9 of my WTF series --- a crash course in subjects from The Witcher Books.

Book Spoilers (duh)

Okay, so let me start out by saying Keira has a special place in my heart because she is one of the most ready to fight and crass sorceresses. She is ready to tussle at any given moment and I love that about her. If this was an anime she is the shonen protagonist.

While she’s mentioned in Blood of Elves, we first meet her at the Banquet at Thanedd. Which, if you don’t know a lot about you can read a summary here. 

I’m trying not to just put long quotes in these posts but I have to just show y’all this scene where Marti and Keira are talking to Geralt because it shows so much about her character:

Before the Witcher had regained the power of speech, a short, slim sorceress with long, straight, straw-coloured hair came over to him. He recognised her at once–she was the one in the horned agama skin slippers and the green tulle top, which didn’t even cover a minor detail like the small mole above her left breast.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but I have to interrupt your little flirting session, Philippa. Radcliffe and Detmold would like to talk to you for a moment. It’s urgent.’

‘Well, if it’s like that, I’m coming. Bye, Geralt. We’ll continue our flirting later!’

‘Ah,’ said the blonde, sizing him up. ‘Geralt. The Witcher, the man Yennefer lost her head over? I’ve been watching you and wondering who you might be. It was tormenting me terribly.’

‘I know that kind of torment,’ he replied, smiling politely. ‘I’m experiencing it right now.’

‘Do excuse the gaffe. I’m Keira Metz. Oh, caviar!’

‘Be careful. It’s an illusion.’

‘Bloody hell, you’re right!’ said the sorceress, dropping the spoon as though it was the tail of a black scorpion. ‘Who was so barefaced… You? Can you create fourth-level illusions?’

‘I,’ he lied, continuing to smile, ‘am incognito. Do you think Yennefer would bother with an ordinary witcher?’

Keira Metz looked him straight in the eyes and scowled. She was wearing a medallion in the form of an ankh cross; silver and set with zircon.

‘A drop of wine?’ he suggested, trying to break the awkward silence. He was afraid his joke hadn’t been well received.

‘No thank you… O fellow master,’ said Keira icily. ‘I don’t drink. I can’t. I plan to get pregnant tonight.’

‘By whom?’ asked the fake-redheaded friend of Sabrina Glevissig, who was dressed in a transparent, white, georgette blouse, decorated with cleverly positioned details, walking over to them. ‘By whom?’ she repeated, innocently fluttering her long eyelashes.

Keira turned and gave her an up-and-down glare, from her white iguana slippers to her pearl-encrusted tiara.

‘What business is it of yours?’

‘It isn’t. Professional curiosity. Won’t you introduce me to your companion, the famous Geralt of Rivia?’

‘With great reluctance. But I know I won’t be able to fob you off. Geralt, this is Marti Södergren, seductress. Her speciality is aphrodisiacs.’

‘Careful,’ chorused Keira and the Witcher. ‘It’s an illusion.’

‘So it is!’ said Marti Södergren, leaning over and wrinkling her nose, after which she picked up a goblet and looked at the traces of crimson lipstick on it. ‘Ah, Philippa Eilhart. I should have known. Who else would have dared to do something so brazen? That revolting snake. Did you know she spies for Vizimir of Redania?’

‘And is a nymphomaniac?’ risked the Witcher. Marti and Keira snorted in unison.

‘Is that what you were counting on, fawning over her and flirting with her?’ asked the seductress. ‘If so, you ought to know someone’s played a mean trick on you. Philippa lost her taste for men some time ago.’

‘But perhaps you’re really a woman?’ asked Keira Metz, pouting her glistening lips. ‘Perhaps you’re only pretending to be a man, my fellow master of magic? To remain incognito? Do you know, Marti, he confessed a moment ago that he likes to pretend.’

Basically, Keira is a menace and I love her for that. She makes up this entire excuse about why she can’t drink as a reason for her to be sober during the Coup and won’t stop taunting poor Geralt who didn’t ask to be here and just wants to support his goth wife.

During the Coup, Keira is once more an absolutely violent menace.

The light which made the details visible emanated from an orb suspended above Keira Metz’s head–a sorceress with whom Geralt had been chatting at the banquet the previous evening. He barely recognised her; she had exchanged her flowing tulle for severe male clothing, and she had a dagger at her side

‘Handcuff him,’ she ordered curtly. A set of handcuffs made of a bluish metal clinked in her hand.

‘Don’t you dare put those on me!’ yelled Terranova. ‘Don’t you dare, Metz! I am a member of the Chapter!’

‘You were. Now you’re a common traitor. And you will be treated as such.’

‘And you’re a lousy whore, who—’

Keira took a step back, swayed her hips and punched him in the face with all her strength. The sorcerer’s head jerked backwards so hard that for a moment Geralt thought it would be torn from his trunk. Terranova lolled in the arms of the men holding him, blood streaming from his nose and mouth. The sorceress didn’t strike him a second time, though her fist was raised. The Witcher saw the flash of brass knuckles on her fingers. He wasn’t surprised. Keira was very lightly built, and a blow like that couldn’t have been dealt with a bare fist.

She punches Terranova in the face with brass knuckles on. And it gets even more wild. Because later in the coup Geralt runs into Keira again.

‘He managed to get to the foot of the palace wall undetected and had been looking for a way in when Keira had fallen on him, and the two of them tumbled into some blackthorn bushes.

‘I’ve lost a tooth,’ said the sorceress, gloomily, lisping slightly. She was dishevelled, dirty and covere in plaster and soot. There was a large bruise on her cheek. ‘And I think I’ve broken my leg,’ she added, spitting blood. ‘Is that you, Witcher? Did I land on you? How come?’

‘I was wondering the same thing myself.’

‘Terranova threw me out of a window.’

‘Can you stand?’

‘No, I can’t.’

‘I want to get inside. Unnoticed. Which way is it?’

‘Are all witchers,’ said Keira, spitting blood again, groaning, and trying to prop herself up on an elbow, ‘insane? There’s a battle going on in Garstang! It’s kicking off so badly the plaster’s falling off the ceiling! Are you looking for trouble?’

‘No. I’m looking for Yennefer.’

‘Oh!’ said Keira, giving up her struggles and lying on her back. ‘I wish someone would love me like that. Carry me.’

‘Another time, perhaps. I’m in a bit of a hurry.’ ‘Carry me, I said! I’ll show you the way into Garstang. I have to get that son of a bitch Terranova. Well, what are you waiting for? You won’t find the way yourself, and even if you did, those fucking elves would finish you off… I can’t walk, but I’m still capable of casting a few spells. If anyone gets in our way they’ll regret it.’

I cannot stress how wild this series of events is. Geralt is looking for his goth wife. And then Keira FALLS on him from a window, breaks her leg so much so that the bone is sticking out and proceeds to convince Geralt that he has to carry her back to the battle while she shoots off spells. This is a woman who lives for the fight, who will not quit.

And this love of the fight is seen through the rest of the books as well. In Lady of the Lake, when talking about hunting down Vilgefortz, Keira gets quite a bit more crass than most sorceresses often do:

‘Thus, we’ll have a perfect opportunity,’ Keira Metz called in an excited voice, ‘to rescue Ciri and strike at Vilgefortz at the same time. We’ll scorch the ground beneath the rascal’s arse!’

And the visual of this scene also from Lady of the Lake:

Keira Metz appeared standing behind Sabrina’s back, looking like the purest hell with camouflage painted on her face.

Let’s just say if the Lodge has a fistfight, no magic, my money is on Keira.

Then, of course, she ends up joining the Lodge in Baptism of Fire and this is where I want to mention the narrative ties between Keira and Triss. Because they are both the youngest of the sorceresses and they are constantly paired together whether that’s on mission or sitting next to each other or being grouped together. 

Even in Blood of Elves, when Triss is talking about the war while visiting Kaer Morhen, she brings up Keira as her contemporary.

‘That’s why I’m on Foltest of Temeria’s council and sit with Fercart and Keira Metz. We deliberate on how to stop war from breaking out and, should it come to it, how to defend ourselves. Because war is constantly hovering over us like a vulture. For you it’s an adventure.’

Her and Triss both judge Assire, a Nilfgaardian sorceress, together:

‘Bloody hell,’ Keira muttered, wiping her forehead. ‘Haven’t they heard of glamarye or beautifying spells down in Nilfgaard?’

‘Apparently not,’ said Triss out of the corner of her mouth. ‘They don’t seem to have heard of fashion either.’

Rita flat out states they are the youngest:

“Rule me out, rule out Keira and Triss even, the youngest among us.”

As I said, they often sit next to each other:

Opposite Fringilla Vigo sat Triss Merigold in a bright blue, high-necked dress. Next to Triss sat Keira Metz, who remained in the shadows. Her large earrings held faceted citrines that flashed again and again with a thousand twinkles, attracting the eye.

And are assigned missions together:

“No, I have not forgotten. If there is going to be a legend, one must have the proper version and one in our favour. I’ll entrust this task to you, Sabrina. Take Keira and Triss and take care of it. See that no trace is left.”

I am mentioning this because when I made my Coën post back before S2 came out I talked about how Lambert and Coën have this sort of narrative foil vibe where they are both witchers of similar ages but vastly different temperaments and people did not seem to see it. And then S2 came in hot with the Lambert and Coën so I’m just saying don’t be surprised if a similar thing happens here. ((I felt SO vindicated by S2 because no one listened to me when I talked about hose those two have untapped potential and I was RIGHT)

Keira ends up voting against Ciri when the Lodge is voting on whether or not they should let Ciri go after Geralt in the last book --- because she doesn’t think Ciri has any real interest in The Lodge -- and she’s fairly correct, but Keira doesn’t really have any personal connection to Ciri. From Lady of the Lake:

‘I’m against it,’ said Keira Metz. ‘For purely practical reasons. I also like the girl and Geralt delivered me out of the hands of danger on Thanedd. It is a sentiment that I long ago got rid of, but I do not deny that it was pleasant to me. I could repay him this way. But will not. Because you are wrong, Sabrina. This girl is a witcheress and is trying to be smarter than us. In short, she is just trying to get away.’

She’s never as passionate about Ciri as many of the others such as Triss, Philippa, and Rita. Keira really is with The Lodge because she wants to kick some ass and come out on top. 

I think Keira is a very fascinating character because she’s much more crude and excited to get her hands dirty than Northern sorceresses are expected to be. She doesn’t have the extremely high femininity performance of the others but at the same time she stills judges Fringilla and Assire and is still very shallow.

Overall, she’s a really spunky and upbeat character with brass knuckles she is not afraid to use. 

Another post for one of my fav artsist @thence-we-came-forth may all your dreams of Lodge character art come true!!!

[eve-to-adam]

"You should lie down," he told her calmly, seeing her sway. "Just leave me... alone!" Roesia leans against the carved headboard of the bed, fighting the feeling of dizziness. That wine starts to take effect faster than expected. Her vision blurs and the blood begins to boil in her veins. Irritation begins to appear, quickly turning into an acute loneliness. She feels abandoned, so much so that it hurts. In a gesture of protest, she wants to lie down, but Jarlath won't let her. "Not here!", he scolded her, grabbing her arm and leading her to the bed. Roesia moves as if she has two left legs and with the speed of a snail, and the fact that their bodies touch in a chaotic dance irritates her even more, but she chooses to remain silent. She bowed her head, with a tormented expression on her face. "I want to...see my mother...", she stammers, almost unintelligibly. "Here," the Earl tells her, gesturing to the blanket set aside. "I want to talk to her...", she insisted stubbornly, but executing Jarlath's order without much hesitation. "But she no longer...", he was ready to answer, but then he bit his tongue to keep his mouth shut. The shivering of Roesia, who is covered only by a nightgown, comes as a cruel realization for him. She is vulnerable. Almost empty. With dry tears on her cheeks. She suffers. And she's drunk as hell. It's the first time in a long time that Jarlath sees his wife's vulnerability. "There are no soldiers here. No bombs. No guns. It's just me." He bends down to take off her fur slippers and his fingers on Roesia's leg feels so good that he needs a few more moments before he lets go. Even in pain, the Countess of Elkins remains as beautiful as ever. "Now come," he continued to guide her. "I'll take care of you." [...] His heart boomed like a cannon under her ear, rhythmic, strong. And most importantly, he was alive. He was made of flesh and bones - the same flesh and bones she had seen shattered so many times. And he was by her side, as he always was. She nestles against his chest, as if she were afraid that he might disintegrate at any moment. [...] Jarlath lets one of the lamps illuminate the bedroom. Several years have passed since the end of the war, but Roesia still has a terrible fear of the dark. Her being is fighting a fierce battle: her senses are intoxicated with the perfume of luxury known only in peacetime, but her mind was wandering among the bloody memories of the war. She felt like a prisoner, but this time it wasn't some damp and smelly cellar, but her own fear. [...] "I'm not afraid..." she insists between sobs. "I will not run away..." "I'd be suspicious if you could do that, though," he chuckles resignedly. "You drank a little too much." The sarcasm in her curmudgeon answer suggests that she is starting to relax. And that's what he always loved to see in her. Because the Roesia he knows will always rise, even higher and stronger than she did before.  (Volume I, Part 2)

( © Jarlath and Roesia Elkins are my original characters and they are part of the project that my good friend @teodoraioana221 and I are working on together. )

[seafoamchild]

i can hear the crickets tonight. the air has cooled off a bit, finally. it's been so hot lately and we don't have air conditioning. i haven't spent that much time in the great outdoors this summer. and that is okay, because in previous summers i've been outside a lot and done a bunch of hiking. this summer i've just been working and going to shows and seeing friends and partying.

yesterday i went to another street festival in riverwest and it was so... riverwest. misfits, punk bands, tattoos, people with no shoes, reptiles, people with mismatched shoes on. i found a fabulous skin tight dress with a slit up the side and it was sparkly blue like the rainbow fish. i tried it on and it looked so good on me that a random lady came up to take a picture.

then i wore the dress out later that night to the wine bar where one glass of wine turned into three and then we went to the tiki bar which is always a terrible idea. as soon as we got there i saw so many men staring at me in my dress. i was drinking a lot and people kept buying me shots. this happens every time i go to that goddamn place. this one older dude (who was honestly kind of hot) was very into me and being very frank about wanting to have sex with me. drunk me of course loved the attention. i love to be a tease because it makes me feel powerful in that moment, i guess. i love flirting and making men want me and then disappearing. you can want me but you can't have me. it feels almost like playing a character. i see these men eyeing me up and thinking about sex. but they don't know anything about me. they don't know how funny i am or that my favorite color is yellow or that i can speak several languages or that i've traveled all around the world. and they don't get to know.

i was thinking about how much my relationship with luke sucked. he was so unkind to me. and i really think he resented me for being well-liked and fun to be around. he could not handle having a girlfriend who was funnier and far more magnetic than he could ever be. i truly think he was jealous and that he took it out on me by invalidating my feelings whenever i was down. like "oh everything is so easy for you and everyone likes you so you have no reason to be sad". but then he would show understanding to other people who were going through depression. so it was apparently just me who wasn't allowed to be depressed. and THEN after the infamous night at Chill on the Hill when i called him out for making the evening so fucking awkward and weird and it did NOT have to be that weird, he had the audacity to say to me "you don't get to tell me how to feel". bitch what? that boy has the emotional intelligence of a cinderblock. all in all he's a decent dude but fuck him for making me feel like i was too much. he just wasn't enough. not kind enough, not empathetic enough, not funny enough, and certainly not smart enough.

i have my shortcomings too. i think i have been really unnecessarily mean to men, especially since i broke up with luke. just leading them on and then disappearing. like i said, i relish the attention. but it's just so unnecessary to play with people's feelings like that. especially with austin. i really tormented that dude. or elliott. i straight up ghosted him.

and i need to address my issues with drinking and doing drugs. i have really poor impulse control. and i've been so messy. last night i was throwing up into trash bags next to my bed until 3am. it feels normal because a lot of my friends and coworkers are into partying really hard. but i'm starting to not really like how messy i become. i think alcohol is the main problem, actually. i think i can handle myself on drugs but when i mix them with alcohol that's when shit gets to be too much. i've even put off scheduling a therapy appointment because i don't want to talk about this but i know i need to.

[stylishanachronism]

How St Rhodrian Raised the Spring

Once upon a time, a very long time ago, when Woedica still wore her crown and the stars moved at her direction, Rymrgand sent a terrible plague upon the people of the world.

He intended it to keep Berath from their purpose, for they could not attend to so many dead without neglecting Hlídeende, who was at that time still a babe in arms, but nor could they suckle her without neglecting the dead, and both situations would bring ruin upon the living, and thereby all Rymrgand wished for, and he waited with perfect patience for Berath to make an impossible choice.

But Rymrgand does not know what he does not know, and what he did not know was this: there was a mortal maid, who, having lost everything and everyone she had ever had or loved excepting her own life, and that only barely, had given herself to Berath’s mercy, such as it was, and so had joined their household until such a time the door that is the veil would open for her, though not even Berath knew when that might be, and her name was Rhodrian.

Now while Rhodrian had not been unhappy in Berath’s household, she was also not of much use, for she tangled the weaving and the spinning alike, and could not look at the Pallid Knight’s armory without hurting herself, and tripped over the Usher’s robe when she tried to assist him, for the veil grew thick at her touch, and though she pretended she was content, she was, in the end, deeply lonely, and Berath knew it, and so it was the Pallid Knight gave Hlídeende into her care.

“I am giving you into her service, until such a time as she has no more need of you.” She said, as she shouldered her sword, “Care for her as you would your own child, and all shall be well.” And then she went away again.

Now, Rhodri had little experience with children, having had none of her own and little contact with those of her kin before everything that had happened had happened, but she was determined that her god should grow up as well as any mortal could manage, and she set to her task with a will.

Hlídeende was as sweet tempered as anyone could hope for, but she was still a infant, with an infant’s needs and torments, and Rhodri only one woman, and mortal besides, and Berath’s battle was long and terrible that year, so when someone came knocking at the door, she was as relieved as she was frightened, for no one and nothing came knocking at Berath’s house, but at least she would no longer be alone.

Hylea was waiting when she came to see who it was, Hlídeende secure against her breast, and she clucked her displeasure, sweeping past Rhodrian before she could even think to offer the usual hospitalities.

“Where is your mistress? It is not like them to permit a mortal this liberty.”

Rhodrian closed the door again, and went to fetch what the gods considered bread and wine as Hylea made herself comfortable without waiting for permission.

“Berath has given me into Hlídeende’s service, until such a time as she should have no use for me.” She said, as she made the usual offerings, for it did not do to be rude to the gods, even when they had been rude first, but she chafed at it and Hylea could tell. “But the Pallid Knight has gone to fight the Beast of Winter, and I do not know when she will return.”

And Hylea clucked her displeasure again, for she did not think a mortal could do a god any good as a nursemaid, no matter how devoted, and worse, Berath was not present to supervise.

But the other gods do not find Berath’s household a comfortable one, and though she was stubborn enough to stay and watch as Rhodrian minded the baby to the best of her ability, eventually she grew bored of the spectacle and rose in a whirl of feathers.

“You have done the best a mortal can manage,” she allowed, Rhodrian drawing the child close again, for she was not a fool, “but this is enough. I will take her with me until Berath chooses to return, and you may return to the wheel as you ought and think no more of this.”

“You may leave, Queen of Birds, but I have been given into Eothas’ service, and Berath will expect to find us here, not in your aeries, and so here we will remain.”

Hylea scoffed, unmoved.

“Berath is not so stupid as you claim, mortal, and a god should be in a god’s care, no matter what they have said or done. Give me the child and be done with this.”

But Rhodrian knew returning to the wheel would not save her from Berath’s displeasure, should they return to find Hlídeende in another’s care, even if that care came from Hylea herself, and she was proud of her service besides, so she would not be moved, either, and so they stood, locked in stalemate, until Hylea fluffed her feathers, aggrieved.

“I have my own duties to attend to, but you can be sure I will mention this to your mistress, and you will wish you had done as I told you.” She declared, for having accepted the hospitality of the house she could not force Rhodrian to do anything and they both knew it, and so she went away again.

Now this was all the good for Rhodri, who could not have prevailed against the goddess should she have pressed the matter, but it still left her alone to raise Hlídeende, a task that grew no easier as she got older, for though she remained sweet tempered, she grew as willful as she should be, and a child’s needs and torments are no less serious than an infant’s and all the harder to solve. And so though she was quite content with their little household, it was with equal parts relief and terror she met the knock on the door, for while they could do with some variety, there was always the chance that this good thing would be taken from her, too.

Woedica was waiting when she came to see who it was, flanked by the dawnstars, who in that time were still her good hands, right and left alike, and it was clear she felt slighted that it had taken so long for her to be welcomed in, but Rhodrian knew nothing if not her duty, keeping the child that is spring close to her skirts as she fetched what the gods consider bread and wine, and made her very welcome indeed.

“Where is your mistress?” The Queen of the gods asked, as Rhodrian put Hlídeende to bed, so as not to disturb their guests. “It isn’t like them to leave the wheel unattended.” And her gaze was like a knife, flaying Rhodrian open for even the hint of a lie. But Rhodrian was not a fool, though she chafed at the suspicion, and they both knew it.

“The Pallid Knight has gone to fight the Beast of Winter, and I do not know when she might return.” She said, standing straight and tall, though she was afraid. “But she has placed me in Eothas’ service until such a time as he should have no need of me, and so here I will remain.”

The Dawnstars conferred, and assured their mistress this was so, and Woedica considered Rhodrian with new eyes.

“You are wasted here, in Berath’s household. Enter into mine, and I will see that you are rewarded for your service, in this life and all your lives to come, for I could use a pair of hands so dutiful as yours.”

But Rhodrian knew nothing if not her duty, and Hlídeende still had need of her, and so she was not free to make any oaths, even to the Queen of the gods. “You honor me to ask, Oathbinder, but I owe a debt to Berath, and an oath beside, and I cannot leave Eothas’ service without their leave.”

“The child is old enough to fend for herself,” said Woedica, who understood but would not accept the excuse, “and I will settle your debts to Berath, when they return. I am their queen, as well, and what I say is law.”

At that the child cried, and Rhodrian excused herself and went to her before she could be caught in anything she could not give, and when she returned the dawnstars had counseled Woedica into accepting her refusal, though she was wroth with it.

“I am going now, and when Berath has released you from their service you will join my household.” She said, and Rhodrian bowed her head, for she was not so foolish as to disagree with the Queen that Was, though she said nothing, and so Woedica left, and the dawnstars with her, and Rhodri was alone again.

Now this was not precisely true, for Hlídeende was of an age to have her own opinions, but Rhodri was still her caretaker and that does not make for perfect harmony, even with a god involved, and Hlídeende chafed to see the world, which Rhodri could not permit, and though she remained as sweet-natured as anyone could wish her temper grew stormy, and so it was that Rhodri was both relieved and frightened when someone came knocking at the door, for the household had become quite fraught, but there were few visitors who might come along, and all of them unpleasant, and Berath would not knock at their own household.

Rymrgand was waiting when she came to see who it was, Hlídeende at her shoulder, and he did not wait for her hospitality but went to kill the girl at once, for the Pallid Knight was not there to stop him and he cared not for a mortal maid, a member of her household or no.

But Rhodrian would not let him kill her charge so easily, and shoved Hlídeende away as she threw herself in front of him, for all the good it would do, catching up whatever came to hand as he came forward, relentless as is his nature. 

She threw the Usher’s spindle at him, and made him chase her through the Pallid Knight’s loom, and broke what the gods consider bread and wine against his hide, and tried to use the fog he brought in his wake to lead him through the veil, though she knew it would not part for her, and when she had nothing left to hand she threw her very self against him, and all the while pushed Hlídeende ahead of her, for though she wanted to help Rhodri would not permit it, not when her death was his goal.

None of it did any good, for Rymrgand is inevitable, and even Berath’s work cannot stand against him for long, and when he finally cornered them, Rhodrian between the Beast of Winter and the Child of Spring, he laughed in his empty way to have won.

“Accept your failure,” he counseled, even as he struck her down, though still she tried to shield the child, “for Berath will never know what has happened and all will be as it must.”

Before he could do more than that, the Pallid Knight struck him low and banished him from her household, for they had made such a ruckus she had seen through the trick of his passage and had come to finish her work, but there was nothing to be done for Rhodri, whose wound would have felled a god, and she merely a mortal maid.

Hlídeende cried, for she had been very fond of her caretaker, and so Berath pressed her fingers to Rhodri’s, drawing her away to a gentler death and the wheel not a moment behind, for with Rymrgand defeated for another year, Hlídeende was no longer a child, and had no more need of her, and she had done all she could be expected to do and more besides.

“I will not forget,” Hlídeende swore, even as Rhodri passed beyond the veil where she could not yet follow, “and I do not release you from my service. When the world has turned again, then I will look after you.” and so saying, she followed the Usher away from the ruins of her childhood, to learn what needed to be learned.

[dujour13]

I'm late for the party so get the weird questions!

How about Aranka and Sia? Or if Siavash was in KM, he and Regongar (and Octavia if you dig)?

Thank you, these were both so fun 💕

Aranka

If you play a bard, the first thing she does when you meet in Daeran’s party house is invite you to a battle of the bards, a sort of mini Mendevision if you will. There are other hints about rivalry later on too, but in my headcanon she and Siavash get into a complicit groove right away. He’s there to help rescue the Desnans from Hulrun. She compliments his tenor. They bond over being annoyed by the Count.

She doesn’t have a big role in my fic, but I like her a lot. I imagine her as a gorgeous, dreamy, pouty-lipped blonde singer in a blue dress, a little bit à la David Lynch.

If Siavash was into girls he would probably be all over that. I love the dynamic in musician couples—a little bit of rivalry and a lot of pathos. Picture them drunk after a show and she throws a vase of flowers at him because he’s always trying to be in the spotlight and he’s wine-weepy and jealous over whoever gave her the flowers in the first place and it’s a mess. A beautiful mess though. They could make literal magic together. But like with Ramien it might burn itself out quickly just because they’re too much alike.

Regongar and Octavia

It would take no time at all for these two to proposition him I’m sure, and he would hesitate longer than he did with Daeran, but it would also be a no.

He and Octavia would absolutely get along but she’s not the one he’d be interested in anyway and Regongar is too violent and abrasive for his taste.

Having rescued them from slavery would go straight to Siavash’s head, but Regongar is not so much a lost puppy as an aggressive dog off his chain. Siavash might actually be a little bit afraid of him (and not in the sexy way). I imagine Reg would torment him like he does Tristian, though he’s tougher and can dish it out pretty well himself. There would be a lot of unresolved sexual tension, but most of all—

the pun battles would be TERRIBLE.

I mean, they would go on all day. Without remorse.

[jaypturnerbhm]

5-Step Guide to Surviving Valentine’s Day

Jay P. Turner,  originally published on gayswithkids.com

Holidays can be a time of great joy and connection for most people, but if you’re single you may be dreading Valentine’s Day.  Your friends are celebrating and posting photos of their amorous adventures.  But you anticipate the holiday will be filled with dread and self-loathing.

What are you to do? How do you survive?  Here's a five-step guide to not just surviving Valentine's Day but actually enjoying it.

1). Don’t punish yourself for being single! 

Don’t make matters worse for yourself. Don’t engage in negative self-talk, and don’t get in your head. Why do we torment ourselves with negatives thoughts like, “I’m not good enough?”  Or maybe you're the kind of person who replays memories of broken romances over and over again in your head.

This is not helpful, but it does perpetuate negative thoughts and feelings that certainly are not going to make us feel better.  

Stop the blame game. 

Don’t dwell on the past and don’t feed feelings of resentment. 

2).  Be prepared. 

Don’t just ignore that February 14 is coming. If you come home that night to an empty house with no plan, you’re going to wallow. Yes, you probably don’t want to be out in a crowded restaurant or sitting in a movie theater full of adoring couples, but you should plan ahead to make sure you have everything you need to make your night comfortable and special.

Hit the grocery store a couple of days before the 14th.  You shouldn’t be caught having to run to the store for toilet paper when it’s going to be filled with folks buying cards and flowers.  Make sure you have all of the ingredients to make your favorite meal at home. Have some great movies lined up to watch. Have a bottle of your favorite wine or a 6-pack of beer in the fridge.  

Be ready to answer the dreaded question, “what are you doing for Valentine’s Day?” Someone is bound to ask, and you should have an answer that you feel good about.  

If it would make you feel better, make plans with a dependable single friend.  No, not that friend who is going to ditch you at potentially the last minute.  That would do nothing but heap on feelings of loneliness and abandonment.   Also don’t plan to spend the evening with a friend who wallows in their own emotional funk.  Two Debbie Downers drowing their sorrows in Pinot is a recipe for a terrible evening.

Invite a good, solid friend to come over for dinner, listen to records, go to the gym with you, or whatever makes you feel good.  This night gets to be about you.  So, if you’re going to spend it with a friend, make sure that friend is supportive and positive.

3). Treat yourself!

Plan on a long soak in the tub. Buy a new candle or a new outfit. Maybe you love fresh flowers - there’s not rule that says you can’t send yourself flowers on Valentine’s Day! And to make them even more special, have the florist include a note that says, “You are SO worth it!” to reinforce that you are worthy of love and belonging.

4).  Celebrate love.  

There are probably many loving relationships in your life. Your friends have your back. Your family can be there in times of need.  

On holidays I send out a whole mess of texts. I want my friends to know I’m thinking of them. 

5). Practice gratitude. 

This is the real key. Practicing gratitude is the antidote for feelings of rejection and unworthiness. Research has proven that practicing gratitude changes the chemistry of our brain. Practicing gratitude literally rewires us to experience more positive emotions. Think about all that you have to be thankful for. It may even help to start a list of everything you have to be thankful for. When I consider all of the good relationships in my life, it certainly changes my perspective. 

Will Valentine’s Day still be hard? Maybe. But by engaging in these five steps, you’ll be much closer to experiencing a Valentine’s Day that will make you feel the love and care you deserve. 

[oceanmusings]

Immortality

Pairing | Prisma Daerel & Astarion Ancunín (platonic)

Content Warning | Drinking a lot of wine, this is set at the epilogue party, Prisma is emotional and Astarion comforts her for once. Or at least tries to. Talk of death and the cons of immortality.

Word Count | 1.5K

Summary | Prisma realized how she's going to outlive the love of her life. This fact tormenting her at night. Astarion was the only person who could understand and share some words of comfort. (Tried to make this as neutral for whatever love interest route Prisma goes on. So this could be her with Gale or Shadowheart!)

A letter from Withers was surprising for Prisma when it arrived. Mainly for the fact that Withers knew where she was, she’s not sure how he knew, but he has shown he has his own mysterious ways for her not to question. Reading the contents of the letter it seemed to be an invitation to get all together again to celebrate the 6 month anniversary of them defeating the Netherbrain. When she arrived at the location Withers had written down, she smiled when she realized it was their first camp. The exact spot where their journey would begin.

It was lit up with many torches and candles, plus the little fire that was set in the middle where they all usually slept around. Cute little banners hung around making it feel more festive. Music from a bard standing on top of a rock drifted across the whole camp area and settled a nice warmth in Prisma’s chest.

It was nice.

But despite how nice the party Withers had put together was, a cloud still seemed to follow Prisma around. The looming cloud did not leave her alone despite how much she smiled and felt happy to see everyone. She tried to ignore the cloud as best as she could. But slowly it would become too much, the wood-elf could only think of one solution.

Sitting at the long table that was covered in wine and food Withers had provided, Prisma grabbed one of the wine bottles to pour herself some in a goblet. Quietly Prisma nursed the wine by herself as she watched everyone enjoy the party for themselves. Taking this moment to be alone for a few minutes. Unfortunately, for how big their was. Prisma had forgotten how little privacy all of them had.

“I haven seen you look this upset since the Shadow-cursed Lands, darling.”

The wood-elf looked up from pouring herself some more crimson red to see a familiar pair of crimson eyes. White curly hair shining in the moonlight and pale skin reflecting back the many lights Withers had lit. Of course her vampire friend shows up as she opens a bottle of wine to drown her anxiety with.

“Hello, Astarion.” Prisma greets him as she sets down the bottle. “I’m fine.”

“You should know better by now. It’s better to not lie with me.” The high-elf slid into the seat next to her, taking the goblet she had just filled. “We both know you are a terrible liar.”

Prisma hums in agreement, not able to deny it from the history of her terrible lying abilities. Astarion had seen first-hand how bad it always goes for her. She watched the vampire take her wine and drink it, she then took it back when he set it down. She swirled the liquid in the cup. The movement was weirdly comforting at keeping her hands busy.

“C’mon, tell me what’s going on in your head.” Her friend urged her on.

Prisma was quiet for a moment as she contemplated if this subject was worth the time to talk about. If resorting to pushing it down and drowning it with wine to save from bringing everyone down was worth the risk. Everyone was so happy, she didn’t want to ruin it because some thoughts plague her at night. She took a glance at Astarion - who was patiently waiting for his friend to speak up - and realized he may be one of the few people here who would understand. Maybe it would be worth it?

“You can’t make fun of me, okay?”

Astarion feigned offense while exclaiming. “Darling, I would never!”

Prisma’s voice died again as she tried to collect her words together. She was thankful Astarion wasn’t pushing her to speak. Taking the time for her to collect herself to pour himself his own goblet of some wine sitting on the table. Grumbling to himself quietly about Withers not getting any blood for him.

Once he began to take a sip is when she finally spoke up. “There’s a vendor I’ve gotten to know. Her and her wife are an elf and human. The human died last week.”

When she didn’t continue, Astarion pushed with an “and?”

“It’s just… It’s made me realize I’m going to be in the same boat. I’m-” she paused as her throat closed. Drinking some of her wine to hopefully calm her nerves and open her throat. “I-I’m just realizing I’m going to watch everyone here die. And I’m going to end up a-alone.” Tears filled her eyes as she squeaked out the final bit, fighting with her throat to be able to push out the final words. “Watch the love of my life age and die before me.”

Astarion hums, sitting back as he took in her words. “You know there are ways to live longer, right?”

“Yes, I know. But I can’t ask my love to do that. It won’t fix anything, just prolong the inevitable instead. Besides, I’ve seen the corruption that can happen when you stretch out your life unnaturally. I would hate to be the cause of witness of that happen.” Prisma states, running her finger around the rim of her goblet. “Death is a part of keeping everything in balance. I can’t stop death for my own selfish reasons.”

“All druids worry about is the damn balance.” Astarion scoffed, waving off the idea. Prisma just rolled her eyes to her vampire friend, but a genuine smile etched across her face. “I do understand those thoughts. Realizing immortality isn’t that great once you know you’ll watch everyone around you fade away while you… stay the same.”

Prisma realized with a horror that not only was Astarin in the same boat as her, but he was in the worst case. While Prisma’s life was prolonged by her druid powers. His were prolonged from being a vampire. Prisma could die from old age, Astarion couldn’t. How shitty was it of her to talk about this here? To sit here whining about it and remind him of his own fate. What a friend she was.

“I’m so sorry- I didn’t me to-”

“Don’t.” Astarion interrupted her with an exasperated expression, looking a little annoyed at her apologizing. “It’s been 200 years and I’ve long since accepted it. You know what I’ve dealt with for the past 200 years, I’ve come to not focus on those little woes since.”

Prisma swallowed her embarrassment, trying not to cry. She tried to hide her embarrassment by drinking the rest of her wine. The quiet that fell between them felt uncomfortable, maybe only on Prisma’s end as Astarion continued to drink his own wine like nothing big had happened. She really has to stop worrying about offending the vampire next to her so much.

“How do you do it?” She finally asks as she taps her finger against her cup. She turned her gaze to Astarion, tearing her eyes away from Karlach trying to convince Wyll to dance with her. “Handle that pain?”

“Honestly, darling? I’ve just finally gotten to live. The love I have may feel short and that hurts to know that, but the love I feel outweighs the ache. Instead of worrying about some heartache in my future, I focus on remembering this love I’ve finally gotten to feel.” He turned his red eyes to look into her purple ones, a serious tone in them that made Prisma’s stomach churn uneasily. “Is this love worth the heartache?”

“Yes.” It surprised the wood-elf how easily it was to find that answer.

“Then focus on that.”

Prisma nodded, swallowing thickly again at the emotion that tried to bubble up. She really didn’t want to cry right now, this was not the place to do that. Nor did she want any more attention on her either, trying to mask all her emotions by the protection of her goblet. “I didn’t know you had it in you to become a poet, fang boy.”

“I’m still full of surprises.” the vampire grins. “But don’t you dare tell a soul. I have an image to uphold!” He exclaimed, gesturing in a way like he was presenting his image that made Prisma let out a laugh before she could stop herself. Smiling to herself at the offended look on his face.

“I promise. But… Can you promise me something?”

“Depends.”

“...Will you be there? When I am alone?”

Astarion paused and went quiet when the question left her lips. Prisma was ready to take it back when the silence went too long, her heart hammering in her chest uncomfortably before Astarion finally spoke up. “Of course, darling.”

Prisma breathed a little more easily. The air surrounding the two elves settling into one more comfortable and light compared to the dark cloud looming over Prisma earlier. A warmth spreading across her chest was a welcomed change for the wood-elf. The two watched their friends in the silence that had fallen over them. It didn’t feel uncomfortable this time, just easy to sit with each other and not need to say anything else.

[dailychapel]

Revelation 18:1-24 NLT - 1 After all this I saw another angel come down from heaven with great authority, and the earth grew bright with his splendor. 2 He gave a mighty shout: "Babylon is fallen--that great city is fallen! She has become a home for demons. She is a hideout for every foul spirit, a hideout for every foul vulture and every foul and dreadful animal. 3 For all the nations have fallen because of the wine of her passionate immorality. The kings of the world have committed adultery with her. Because of her desires for extravagant luxury, the merchants of the world have grown rich." 4 Then I heard another voice calling from heaven, "Come away from her, my people. Do not take part in her sins, or you will be punished with her. 5 For her sins are piled as high as heaven, and God remembers her evil deeds. 6 Do to her as she has done to others. Double her penalty for all her evil deeds. She brewed a cup of terror for others, so brew twice as much for her. 7 She glorified herself and lived in luxury, so match it now with torment and sorrow. She boasted in her heart, 'I am queen on my throne. I am no helpless widow, and I have no reason to mourn.' 8 Therefore, these plagues will overtake her in a single day--death and mourning and famine. She will be completely consumed by fire, for the Lord God who judges her is mighty." 9 And the kings of the world who committed adultery with her and enjoyed her great luxury will mourn for her as they see the smoke rising from her charred remains. 10 They will stand at a distance, terrified by her great torment. They will cry out, "How terrible, how terrible for you, O Babylon, you great city! In a single moment God's judgment came on you." 11 The merchants of the world will weep and mourn for her, for there is no one left to buy their goods. 12 She bought great quantities of gold, silver, jewels, and pearls; fine linen, purple, silk, and scarlet cloth; things made of fragrant thyine wood, ivory goods, and objects made of expensive wood; and bronze, iron, and marble. 13 She also bought cinnamon, spice, incense, myrrh, frankincense, wine, olive oil, fine flour, wheat, cattle, sheep, horses, chariots, and bodies--that is, human slaves. 14 "The fancy things you loved so much are gone," they cry. "All your luxuries and splendor are gone forever, never to be yours again." 15 The merchants who became wealthy by selling her these things will stand at a distance, terrified by her great torment. They will weep and cry out, 16 "How terrible, how terrible for that great city! She was clothed in finest purple and scarlet linens, decked out with gold and precious stones and pearls! 17 In a single moment all the wealth of the city is gone!" And all the captains of the merchant ships and their passengers and sailors and crews will stand at a distance. 18 They will cry out as they watch the smoke ascend, and they will say, "Where is there another city as great as this?" 19 And they will weep and throw dust on their heads to show their grief. And they will cry out, "How terrible, how terrible for that great city! The shipowners became wealthy by transporting her great wealth on the seas. In a single moment it is all gone." 20 Rejoice over her fate, O heaven and people of God and apostles and prophets! For at last God has judged her for your sakes. 21 Then a mighty angel picked up a boulder the size of a huge millstone. He threw it into the ocean and shouted, "Just like this, the great city Babylon will be thrown down with violence and will never be found again. 22 The sound of harps, singers, flutes, and trumpets will never be heard in you again. No craftsmen and no trades will ever be found in you again. The sound of the mill will never be heard in you again. 23 The light of a lamp will never shine in you again. The happy voices of brides and grooms will never be heard in you again. For your merchants were the greatest in the world, and you deceived the nations with your sorceries. 24 In your streets flowed the blood of the prophets and of God's holy people and the blood of people slaughtered all over the world."

[rostovs-lover]

dalí on tuesday

charlie dalton x reader | cursing, smoking, brief mentions of sexual things, charlie (probably) has daddy issues, cameron | she/her pronouns | fluff | wc.2562

i am in love with charlie, this is now a charlie dalton centric blog, also ignore how terrible the title is please

anon : Hi!! I love your blog! can I request a charlie Dalton x reader fluff where reader is an artist and he visits them while they're painting? (maybe they end up wiping paint on his face?) I don't know, something really sweet at cute <33333

Charlie Dalton had been resigned to relish in small pleasures to keep himself sane at school, never did he think the library would be one of those. More specifically, the painter tucked into the basement of the library. 

                            ───☮︎───

     Charlie Dalton was a connoisseur of many things. Pretty girls, expensive wine, shitty poetry, and hand rolled cigarettes - to name a few. His imprisonment at Wellington made only one of those things readily available. So he settled - boxes of cheap smokes bought through upperclassmen, bottles of grocery store wine someone would sneak in from a party, and the two girls that occasionally came with Knox. The shitty poetry was always on deck, he had that at least. It was a tragedy to be resigned to such a bland life, there was absolutely no carpe diem-ing happening in a school that held adolescent boys to uniforms.

      It was miserable, truly, but Charlie scrapped by on the thought that soon enough there would be no more stuffy Catholic school and he could finally have a taste of freedom. In the meantime, he would have what little fun he could. The meets in the cave were always the highlight of the week. A place where he could talk and people would listen, and not because they had to but because they enjoyed it. They enjoyed his words and thoughts and presence. No one else had ever really seemed to enjoy Charlie’s presence. They could tolerate it, handle it, but they always had more pressing matters. A business meeting to attend, a bill to pay, a dinner to go to. Always something just a little bit more important and never quite enough time for Charlie. But the other Dead Poets, they valued him. He wasn’t just a kid, a college tuition to pay and a life to layout. He was a person, with interests and hobbies.

      It had been there, in the safe haven of the cave, that the idea for the library first came up. Meeks had already talked Pitts into coming, Neil didn’t take much convincing at all, Todd was also easy to lure, Cameron groaned about leaving school grounds but refused to be left out, and Knox agreed to go but only if Nuwanda came too. Charlie had already started to cover what there was to do at a library, read?

      Meeks dove into the technical manuals and Pitts followed tentatively, cradling their science project in his arms. Todd had followed Neil to the S authors, Cameron was trying to chat up the woman at the register, and God only knew what Knox was doing. He had been stranded with few options. He could find the geniuses and be talked over for the next hour or third wheel Neil but that guaranteed intruding on something he probably shouldn’t. The polite thing to do would be to rescue Cameron from making a complete fool of himself, throwing bad pick up lines at a clearly uninterested college student, but it was amusing to watch.

      Charlie settled on trying to find Knox, at least then he could have some company. Said company was absolutely nowhere to be found. The rows of shelves wound in a confusing maze and Charlie was lost before he could even begin to look. Weaving around he did come face-to-face with a rather large picture of Charles Dickens that made him recoil. It was perched just at eye level above a short staircase and it seemed to judge his every movement. Charlie followed the carpeted stairs down to escape Mister Dickens’ strange little beard and beady black eyes.

      The further down the steps Charlie descended the brighter it appeared. The lower level was the children’s section. Considerably more fun than science books or Shakespeare. The big oak counter was abandoned but the lights were still on. He was alone, still.

      Charlie sighed, sitting down in one of the bright red wooden chairs. He was much too big for it but it held well under his weight. A sad stuffed bear stared dully into him from the green glossy table.

      “Well hello,” He mumbled, picking it up under the arms, “And you must be?” He cleared his throat to take on a gruff baritone, “Mister... Bearington,” Charlie sighed, that was bad. He dropped the bear into his lap, “This is so stupid,”

      “Bearington?”

      Charlie shot around in the chair, tipping himself off center and stumbling to his feet, bear still clutched in his arms, “Where the hell did you come from?”

      “A few blocks over, walked here actually.” You turned back to your work. A painting. Not just a painting, Charlie realized, a mural. It stretched the length of the wall, roughly sketched in pencil and waiting to be finished.

      He blinked, “That’s good. The wall I mean,”

      “Thank you,” Your face flustered and Charlie took notice, “It’s not much of anything yet, just an outline. It’ll look better painted.”

      He took a few steps closer, sidling up to you, “What’s it supposed to be?”

      “A forest,” You pointed to a rotund blob perched on a long line, “That’s an owl, and there’s going to be a fox somewhere down in the grass,”

      Charlie grinned, “That’s an owl?”

      “That-” you tapped the blob, “Is a shape, objectively. Subjectively, it’s an owl.”

      His brow creased, “Subjectively it’s an owl? That's like saying Mister Bearington is a rabbit, subjectively,”

      You stared at him, baffled. It was almost irritating that he could so casually come down to your domain and invade your creative bubble. And it was even worse that he talked to himself as a stuffed bear but now he was challenging your judgment on what was and was not subjectively an owl. But he had a wonderful smile and it lessened the intrusion. Plus, you had never seen a teenage boy develop an attachment to a stuffed bear as quickly as he had, “What’s your name?”

      “Nuwanda,” He grinned, setting his chin atop his bear’s plush head.

      “Nuwanda?” You blinked at him, “That’s… neat. I’ve never heard that before.”

      “What can I say? The only Nuwanda this side of Vermont. What’s your name?”

      As you opened your mouth to answer several sets of footsteps thundered down the stairs. Knox spun around the corner first, closely followed by Pitts and Meeks.

      “Charlie!” Knox called, “We gotta go before Cameron proposes to the clerk.”

      You looked at the boy in front of you, “Is Charlie short for Nuwanda, or just a nickname?”

      He shrugged, “I’m Nuwanda, subjectively. It was truly a pleasure meeting you. Can’t wait to see your thing DaVinci!” He set the stuffed bear back on the table as he made his way out of the room. With Charlie’s energy gone it became much quieter and you were plunged back into the impressionistic outline of your artwork.

      The next time a library trip was suggested Charlie didn’t completely dread it. Yes, it was still numbingly boring because it was a library and he didn’t have clerks to fall in love with, people to write love letters to, anyone to kiss in the aisles, or a spaceship to build, but he did have his own personal Van Gough to torment.

      The lower level was the first place he went, not even hanging his coat on the rack inside the big double doors. He made his way past Cameron’s preoccupied receptionist and under Dickens’ hard glower. Halfway down the steps, the smell hit Charlie. Wet paint.

      You had just picked out a brush when he pulled one of the wooden chairs next to your station. He sat in it backwards, holding Mister Bearington out in front of him, “Never got your name Monet,”

      “Well, it's not that. Or Da Vinci.” You stroked the brush up the grassy outline.

      “Do you want me to guess?”

      You had yet to look at him, “Nope,”

      “Are you gonna tell me?”

      “Should I?”

      “Obviously, I told you my name.”

      You set the brush down and turned to face him, “(Name).”

      “Pretty,”

      Charlie Dalton liked many things and the musty old library uptown had never been one of them. It had ancient red carpets and gaudy gold ceilings and it was trying too hard to look regal. So it was a sheer shock when he began to leap at the suggestion of going and even more so when he chose to go by himself one afternoon. Naturally, the other poets followed him, they had to.

      Charlie didn’t dally upstairs, waving hi to the clerk and rushing down to the children’s section. A sign was posted outside the entrance warning of wet paint but he stepped around it.

      “You’re making progress Picasso!” He set his hands on his hips and took in the wall.

      You turned back to look at him, “Did you not see the caution: wet paint, do not enter sign?”

      “Oh no I saw it,” He pushed his sunglasses up on top of his head, “It's bright orange, hard to miss, really,”

      “So you just chose to ignore it?”

      He nodded, making his way over to sit by you on the ground, “I choose to ignore lots of things, it really makes life easier,”

      You shook your head, “Are you just going to sit here and bother me?”

      “Yes, that's actually the whole reason I came today, believe it or not.”

      You blubbered in vague disbelief, “Please tell me you’re not serious,”

      “Dead serious,” Charlie grinned, leaning closer, “I had to see how your weird owl was going. And also make sure you hadn’t gone mad and cut your own ear off yet,”

      “You’ve already used the Van Gogh joke, Charles,”

      “Maybe I want your ear,”

      You paused, “You… what?”

      Charlie’s confidence cracked, “That was bad. Shit, that wasn’t supposed to sound that way. It was like, a bad pickup line? Because Van Gogh cut his ear off to send to his girlfriend,” He sighed, shaking his head, “Sorry,”

      “I mean if I had to pick someone to give my ear too I guess you would be my first choice?”

      Charlie looked at you, eyebrows pinched together, “Why?”

      You shrugged, “No one else has asked, first come first serve.” You dipped your brush back into the blue paint and went to work on a patch of flowers.

      “Huh, well I do appreciate it,” Charlie scooted closer, leaning over your shoulder. He was close, very close. When you took a breath you could smell his cologne and whatever it was he used in his hair and you could feel the edge of his sunglasses brush your ear. He brought an arm around to dip his finger into the soft sky colour on your palette. And then he wiped it on your nose.

      You gasped sharply at the foreign feeling, snapping your head to the side to glare at him, “Why?!”

      Charlie snickered, leaning back, “The opportunity presented itself, how could I just let that pass?”

      You reached back, squirting a touch of purple paint over the palm of your hand, “That was truly a horrible idea,”

      Charlie shot up just as you did, stumbling backwards, “I’m sorry-” He stuck his hands up in surrender, “I regret my actions and if I could take them back I would,”

      “Hmm, but you can’t” You took a step closer, “Surrender now and it doesn’t have to get any messier than this,”

      He pointed towards your paint coated hand, “Do not,”

      You grinned, “I might,”

      “I’m begging,”

      “Fine-” You offered him your other hand, “Truce?”

      Charlie mulled it over for a moment, “Fine, truce,” He grabbed your clean hand and you used it to pull him towards you.

          “Why on earth would you trust me?” You tugged him even closer as he shrieked and smeared your hand down his cheek, “There, now we’re even,”

      Getting distracted by your triumph gave Charlie the upper hand. He pulled you to him the same you had done to him and pressed his cheek flush to yours. The paint was cold against your skin and you jolted back, away from him.

      “Vile,” You hissed, “You are vile and evil. That's so cold. You will pay, I hope you know that.”

      Charlie snorted, “Oh please, what’re you gonna do?”

      “You underestimate me, you ass, I’ll figure something out,”

      “Will you?” Charlie grinned, “I will be waiting in anticipation,”

      “You better be,”

      Meeks elbowed back into Cameron’s ribs, “You’re going to knock me over,”

      Cameron craned his neck further to peek around the corner into the children’s section, “I just want to see, let me look,”

      “Nothing is happening-” Meeks snipped, “They’re just talking now and I might be able to hear if you could can it!”

      Cameron rolled his eyes, “Of course, whatever you say,”

      “Will you shut up?” Knox batted at Cameron’s shoulder, “They’ll see us, we’re not super well hidden,”

      “If you don’t stop talking they’ll realize we’re here,” Pitts mumbled, rolling his eyes. Cameron started to rebuttal, turning to look at Gerard but the motion knocked Meeks out of place and he gasped, stumbling forwards. This did indeed draw Charlie’s attention.

      “Meeks, what the hell?” Charlie snapped. He was in a state, sunglasses askew in his hair, paint smeared from his cheekbone down to the corner of his mouth, and his shirt was wrinkled away from his collarbone.

      Meeks stared, “Hi Charlie. Are there any textbooks down here, uh… the science ones?”

      Knox groaned, stepping out from behind the wall as well, “We wanted to see why you came here on a Tuesday afternoon by yourself,”

      Charlie blubbered, “Did you all come? Is Keating there too?”

      “He could be,” Meeks shrugged.

      Charlie rolled his eyes, “Will you leave, I’ll be upstairs in a second,” The other poets nodded, scampering up the steps to the first level.

      “Assholes, should have known they’d come,” Charlie sighed, adjusting the sunglasses atop his head, “I need to go before they decide to intrude again. I’ll see you soon though, anxiously anticipating payback,”

      He was almost out the door when you bucked up the courage to call out to him, “Charlie, wait.” You let him turn back to you before continuing, “Could I have your phone number?”

      He clicked his teeth, “Don’t have one, private school. But I’ll find the library number in the books and try to shoot you a call sometime,” He winked and started back up to his friends.

      Knox was waiting at the landing with a handful of tissues, which he shoved into Charlie’s hands, “So you’re gonna read your stupid poem about tits at a Dead Poets meet and then not tell us you’ve got a girlfriend?”

      Charlie grabbed the tissues, “Not my girlfriend, I meet her like two weeks ago,”

      “Didn’t stop Knox,” Neil elbowed him.

      Charlie wiped at his face, “Well I’m not Knox. I like her painting, she's good.”

      “It looks like she was painting you,” Cameron slapped at Charlie’s chest and he threw the tissues at him in retaliation.

      “Shut up, at least my library worker actually talks to me,”

      Cameron fumbled with the dirty material, batting it away from his chest, “You dick!”

      Charlie grinned, pulling his glasses down and starting towards the door. Something about it was thrilling, having this to himself. A little secret that he and you shared. His personal Salvador Dalí, something to look forwards to besides bad tobacco and Keating’s eccentric lectures. It was bright and exciting and he felt seen. He felt important. The blue paint he had stolen from your tray was still on the tip of his pointer finger and he wondered how long it would be until he could see you again.

 ( @interwebseriesfan24 )