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boxofbonesfic · 3 months

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Title: Tonality [5]

Pairing: Prince!Geralt x Princess!Reader

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Summary: “The white wolf wants you. He’ll have no other.” As you grieve the loss of your father, your mother marries the king. Whilst you struggle to acclimate to your new life, you begin to suspect the interest your new brother has in you is less than familial.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Dark Fantasy, Darkfic, Step-cest, Medieval/GoT inspired AU, Genre Typical Violence, Mild Descriptions of Violence, (Future)Smut, Dubcon/Noncon, Manipulation, Gaslighting, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, MINORS DNI!!

A/N: OMG I’M SO SORRY. this chapter was so hard to write and it kept getting away from me, because i really wanted to pivot hard into some of the main plot points. i really hope you enjoy it, please drop me a comment and let me know even if you didn’t.

“Come.” Your mother’s voice is firm. Her mourning veil just barely outlines the shape of her face, as her lips move beneath the fabric. It billows behind her as she walks down the darkened line of empty pews toward the front of the little chapel, a flickering candle held steady in her gloved hand.

Your father is to be buried tomorrow.

You know his grave is already dug—a fresh square cut out of the dark earth next to his father’s. The thought of him alone in the dirt is enough to make your throat tighten, though no tears come. You have cried them all already; a veritable ocean. Even so, your dry eyes ache for lack of them.

“W-wait, mother, I—” You do not want to see it, the vacant thing your father’s soul has left behind. At the end, you could barely recognize him in the fragile body decaying in his sick bed. You catch at her sleeve with numb fingers, lowering your head in shame. “I do not want to see—” Her icy fingers wrap around yours, long and thin, her jagged nails digging into your skin.

“We must each place a stitch upon the shroud.” You wince as she presses the long needle into your stiff hands. “It is our duty.” Only when you accept it does she release you, and for a moment, you see her lips quirk cruelly beneath the veil. You tremble as your mother steps aside, your breath catching as you see the shape of the body on the altar.

Just behind her is your father, his shroud dotted with the shapes of dead flowers and bare trees. It does little to quell the horror you feel to behold him, though, his thin outline visible through the shroud, limbs folded and delicate like a baby bird. You remember what he looked like two nights prior, his rheumy eyes dull and deep set into his skull, skin thin and sallow. He looks small now, too, beneath his shroud, and you find it hard to believe this withered corpse had once been a great mountain of a man. A good man, a strong man, now reduced to the barest scraps of skin and bone.

“Stitch.” Her command fills every inch of space, in the chapel and in your head. And though you want nothing more than to close your eyes and be gone from this place, your body will not obey. You raise the needle.

“Please, mother—”

“Stitch.” Her voice is like iron nails in your skull. Blood drips from your nose, and you taste the warm copper of it on your lips. You pinch a corner of thin fabric between your fingers, and push in the needle, pulling it through until the knot at the end of the thread catches. You lower your hand to the shroud as you sew another stitch, and as you do so, your fingers brush your father’s sunken cheek, and you retch.

You cannot stop—

She will not let you.

You look down at your father’s body with tears in your wide eyes, and as you do, a scream builds in your throat. You pinch his lips together between your forefinger and thumb. Delicately; like you would the hem of your gown for a curtsey— and sew another stitch through the meat of them. He is beginning to rot, now, you can smell it over the cloying scent of incense.

“Mother stop!” Your scream is swallowed by the heavy darkness of the empty chapel. Your mother sighs, her breath curling against your ear.

“How else can we make sure the dead don’t speak?” She threads her fingers through yours as she pulls your hand toward his sunken eyelids. You pinch the stiff flesh between your fingers, holding it taut for the needle.

“Now close his eyes.”

You wake with a start, sitting up in bed as you cover your mouth with one hand, fingers searching for the thick black funeral thread—but of course, you find none. The dream clings to the edges of your vision like spider silk, the taste of decaying things still heavy on the panicked air you draw in. A ra sob wrenches its way out of your throat as you press the heels of your palms against your closed eyes.

Perhaps I am mad, after all.

Ain’t supposed t’see the dead ones. Maybe Madge’s old superstitions had borne fruit in your own mind. You recall the symbol she made with one hand, finger on thumb, finger on thumb, before spitting down into the dirt as you left your father’s burial. She’d shaken her head then, some the silver-gray locs piled on top of her head coming loose. Ain’t supposed t’see them. They stay when you see, them, Lady.

They stay.

“No!” You throw the blankets off of yourself, lurching out of bed and stumbling towards the wash-bowl on the dresser. The thought of that day fills you with the same cold dread you have come to know too well. You’ve little choice in your dreams; the specter of his burial hanging over you like overripe fruit. But here, in waking, in the chill autumn daylight, you have the power to turn your thoughts to other things.

At least, you try to.

The water is shockingly cold, but you are grateful for it, staring down into the porcelain bowl. A knock at the door startles you, and you jump.

“W-who is it?”

“Kassandra, Majesty. Might I come in?”

“Yes,” you sigh. “You may.” You pat worriedly at your swollen eyelids, and you frown at your reflection as the door swings open. Your mother has an effortless sort of beauty, one that needs neither rouge nor powders to enhance—a trait you certainly do not share. Your disturbing, sleepless night is written plainly on your face.

Kassandra sets the tray down in the sitting area, before turning to you with a worried expression.

“Her Majesty hopes you are well,” she says, nervously tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear with dainty fingers. “As you were not at break-fast this morning.”

“I was… I did not sleep well.” You shake your head. “I trust my mother made her displeasure quite clear.” She stifles a laugh. “She’s good at that.”

“She did.” Kassandra gestures to the tray, porridge and an assortment continental fruit cut into bite size pieces. “You should eat, Lady. While it’s hot.” You pick uninterestedly at the porridge until it is mostly gone, along with the tart green grapes and sweet winter melon. At the very least you do feel better for it, or at least, more present—more grounded in this world, not the dream one.

You clear up the remains of your breakfast, piling the dishes neatly back onto the tray. In the armoire, you note that more Rivian style gowns have been hung, your light Redanian dresses folded neatly and shunted off to the shelves on the side. Your mother’s thin excuse makes you wrinkle your nose in distaste as you finger one of the heavy sleeves. “Much too light for these Rivian winters, Dear,” she’d said, patting the neatly folded dresses.

“You won’t need them.”

The truth remains unspoken, but you know it still—she does not want you to need them. You pull a heavy crimson dress from its place and begin to undo the lacing. Kassandra clucks her tongue at you.

“Highness, please. Allow me at least one task.” You roll your eyes in response.

“I believe you are capable of more than dressing me—and that I am more than capable of dressing myself,” you reply. You change into a fresh shift before shrugging into the dress. You twist around to reach for the lacings, but Kassandra shoos your hands away to do them herself.

“You’re doing them wrong.” She chides you gently. “Up for lift, down for compression, my Lady.” Kassandra nods at you in the mirror and then positions your body so that if you crane your neck just a little, you can see her hands as she easily threads the thick ribbon through the eyelets. “Opposing sides. Like this.”

You purse your lips. “We don’t wear these dreadful things in Redania,” you mutter, your breath hitching as the corset tightens. She laughs before stepping away, brushing loose lint from the folds of the heavy fabric.

“Even so, our fashion does suit you.” You can tell she wants to say something else, the way her mouth opens and then closes, her lips pressing into a thin line.

“You’ve another correction?” You ask, gesturing at yourself with a chuckle, but she shakes her head. She glances at the door, as though reassuring herself that it was still shut.

“No, no, I—I do not mean to be insolent, Highness,” Kassandra begins, “but I do not think I have ever heard you say you have rested well within these walls.” Your smile turns brittle and tired.

“No. I have not. And your concern is not insolence. I am grateful for it.”

“Healer Janna—her draughts have not availed you?” You hesitate, wondering if you should describe the shape of your demon, give it form and substance outside of your mind. You shake your head, steepling your fingers together to stop them from trembling.

“It seems the dreams that plague me require more than nightroot and dried frogspawn to satisfy them.” I see my father. I see him dead a thousand ways.

“Healer Janna’s draughts for sleep and pain are as close to magic as they’ll allow in the White Keep, you know that.” Bastard’s magic. You do. You think of Father Rame’s disgusted expression. He does not seem the type to suffer a witch to live. “But I have… there is another. A woman—they call her The Dock Hag.” Her voice is a low whisper, as if she fears the good Father ears will ring with her heresy, even here.

“And she can… she can rid me of these dreams?” The prospect is a tantalizing one. “You know her? You have visited this woman?”

“I—yes. I met her. Once.” Her smile is sad. “When I was small, and the older Ladies had need of her.” Kassandra’s words are aged, heavy with the weight of years that both do and do not belong to her in equal measure. “And then again, for the memories.”

“She…” You cannot bring yourself to say it. Kassandra nods, the smile going brittle and crumbling from her face.

“Not many Lords will claim their bastards, Highness, if you will forgive my candor.”

In your mind’s eye you see a small Kassandra, attending her own mother, most likely, or perhaps even an older sister or cousin who… had need of this woman. The witch who had taken their babies—

And then burnt their dreams out.

“What did it cost?”

“Nothing special. Gold.” You let out a relieved sigh at her words. That, at least, is an easy enough problem to solve. Kassandra cuts her eyes at you. “Are you going to go? To see her?”

Perhaps Madge was a superstitious old northern goat—But maybe she was right too: the living are not meant to mingle with the dead. Perhaps it is some guilt that drives your father’s image to the forefront of your mind, some secret thing that the specter of his death clings to—you cannot know.

But the witch might.

—

The east stair is narrow, cut roughly out of the stone as if it were an afterthought. The iron railing is pitted and mottled from the salt in the air, and it rattles dangerously as you grip it. The stairs themselves are uneven, still slick from the inconsistent rain that had stopped only hours before. Every step feels as though you are lurching forward, being pulled down the long winding stair to the paving below.

There are more ways to enter and exit this keep than the main gate, Majesty.

The east stair wound around the back of the White Keep like a snake, the steps hidden in the stone like a secret. As you take another cautious step down, your foot slips and you gasp, the railing shaking as you cling to it. You steady yourself, locking your trembling knees tightly as you recite Kassandra’s instructions.

You will take the east stair down from the parapets over the chapel. Through the gap in the wall is the city. Go straight to the docks, ask for the Hag.” She had not wanted to stay behind, though you had convinced her with a stern look and an order to send away any who came knocking at your door till you returned. You would need her to provide a believable excuse in the event that anyone came looking—and an empty room would be cause for alarm, especially with you… “ill.”

Below you, the city glitters with light even as the dark begins to deepen. Beyond it, the sun sinks into the sea, lingering on the horizon before disappearing completely. Like Kassandra had said, near the foot of the stairs—twenty feet back, and behind a column, but near enough—is the gap in the wall. It is overgrown thick with dying ivy, the orange leaves already turning spotty brown at the edges.

Crushed leaves litter the hood and shoulders of your cloak as you start to squeeze inside, the stone catching at your clothes. You push your way through the narrow passage, panic coiling in your gut at the feel of the unyielding pressure at your chest and back. Your fingers meet open air at the next push, and you practically drag yourself out into the streetlight, fingers digging into the stone.

The misty street that greets you is practically empty, and what few people there are do not seem to have noticed that you have joined them from nowhere on the wet cobbled street. Hurriedly, you brush dirt and discarded leaves from your cloak before you adjust your hood, angling it down over your eyes. You keep your head down, your hands clenched into trembling, nervous fists. Every heavy step you take away from the keep sets the warning bells in your skull to ringing, as gooseflesh rises on your arms.

It isn’t too late to go back. It isn’t. Not too late to turn around, slip back between the ivy covered crack in the east wall and seek your mother’s counsel once more—and go to sleep, knowing that you will see beyond the veil again.

The thought spurs you onward.

The streets are even more unfamiliar in the growing dark, and as you watch the lanterns flare to life to chase it away, you swallow nervously. There is so much to see, here—too much. As you approach the city centre the market is still bustling with activity, the shops open and windows bright.

You spare yourself a few moments to watch the people. A woman buys bread, her son playing in her skirts, a man pulls shut the door of the tavern across the way, a blacksmith’s hammer falls rhythmically like a drum, the chapel’s bell rings for evening prayer—there is so much here, the sheer amount of everything almost dizzies you. A woman bumps your shoulder as she passes by, and it stirs you out of your reverie. By the time she turns to apologize, you are already gone, hurrying off through the square.

The air turns salt with brine the closer you get, and you lick your dry lips, tasting it. The night had been thick with sounds in the city center, but the further you travel from it, the more quiet the streets become. It is eerie, the stark difference between these silent, empty streets and the lively square only moments ago.

The last time you had been to the docks was when you’d stepped off of the ship, in the scant few days before your mother’s wedding. Now, the narrow streets look different, unrecognizable from the snatches you remember through the carriage windows. You look in one direction, and then another, frowning.

“You’re lost, Sweet.” There is no question in the old woman’s voice. You see her then, standing beneath the street lantern in a pool of pale light.

“I—I am looking for—”

“Me, Sweet. You’re looking for me.” The shadows fall away from her face without her moving, like the light has only just decided to accept her. The Witch’s white hair is wild about her face. And her face… she is a severe beauty, like wind whipped ocean waves. The years define her jaw, sloping in gentle strokes down around her eyes, and her ears slope upward into gentle points. She is older than your mother, though you know this not by sight but because you simply… know it. An uncanny feeling that has grown in the back of your mind that she is like you, but… un-like you, too.

She is an elf.

It is not just the ears, but the air about her, an ethereal quality that surrounds her as thickly as the shawl about her shoulders. It is in the delicate set of her jaw, perhaps, or the distinct lack of canine teeth in her amused grin. You take a halting step forward, and then stop, wary.

“You are the W—you can help me?” The Witch wraps her shawl tighter about her shoulders, and fixes you with a hawkish look.

“Don’t know that yet.” She purses her lips. “Shall we do this in the street? Or will you oblige me my own roof?” You nod hurriedly, and follow her as she turns quickly on her heel down the street. You are close enough to the docks to hear the water as she approaches a small house, pushing open the door. You follow her inside, halting briefly at the doorway. There is dried heather inside, hanging in a braided bushel on the arch. She watches you step inside, her dark eyes narrowed.

“Shut the door behind you,” she snaps, flicking the edge of her shawl over her shoulder. “Never met a Princess raised in a bloody barn.” You brush aside the bushels of dried herbs hanging from the low ceiling as you make your way inside.

The Witch rounds the other side of the table, where you see the evidence of her unfinished work. A grindstone, laying on its side, with half-ground herbs lying in the bowl.

“How did you know?” You ask as she picks it back up, the sound of stone on stone filling the room as she resumes. “That I was looking… for you.”

“I always know,” she replies, somewhat exasperated. “Like a rabbit knows a fox.” Her sharp eyes find yours once more. “What ails you, sweet Princess?” There is mockery in her tone, though you dare not take umbrage at its presence. “A suitor you wish to beguile? A fair maiden you wish to remove from his eye?” Her gaze drops down, and then darts back up again.

“Or perhaps an unseen consequence?”

Your throat tightens.

“No, I—my dreams.” You say. “I dream the most terrible things, and I—I want you to take them away.”

The stone stops.

“Come here, child. Into the light.” The Witch holds out her hand, beckoning you forward. “And take down that stupid hood, you’re not hiding from anyone here.” She clucks her tongue at you as you approach, fingering the edge of your hood reluctantly. She already knows who you are—though you are not quite sure how she knows. With one hand, she reaches for your face. You do not flinch away from her—you do not fear her, though perhaps if you were smarter, you suppose you would. Her touch is gentle as she tilts your chin up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

The fire crackles in the hearth, louder for the silence.

“And what do you dream?”

“I see…” You swallow. “I see dead things.” She peers into your eyes, her pupils wide. “I see my father.” You tremble as she steps away, your mouth suddenly dry. “These dreams, these-these nightmares, you can stop them, can you not? You can—”

“I’ll not hear more about what I can and cannot do from the maid in the high castle,” she snaps. “And they are not dreams, though you walk through them in yours.” With her other hand, she reaches beneath her collar, producing a thin leather cord. There are all manner of things tied to it—feathers, beads, and small, clean animal skills that shine dimly in the firelight. There is a long black needle there, too, hanging by its’ eye.

“There is a spirit tethered to you.” She turns your hand over, stroking her fingers over the lines in your palm. She snaps her fingers, motioning for you to give her your other hand. “By great sorrow—” The Witch squints, bringing your hands closer to her face. “Or rage.” She drops your left hand, holding onto your right. “I can no more remove it than I could your shadow.”

“Tethered?” You repeat. “These are—they are dreams, they are not real—” You sputter in protest, but the Witch merely looks at you, orange firelight dancing in her dark eyes.

“If they are only dreams, why do you fear them so?” You cannot answer. “They are messages. You should be grateful for them, there are few feats quite as great as bridging the divide between us and those who have gone before, Little Queen. Your father cannot watch over you forever.”

“I am a Princess.” The Witch smiles.

“Is that right?” She grasps your hand, gripping your index finger hard and watching as the tip reddens. You flinch as she pinches the needle between two thin fingers. “Come now, Sweet. Mustn’t be afeared of a little pain.” She jabs it into the meat of your finger, and you yelp, tugging uselessly at your hand, but her grip is iron.

“Ouch!” With a twist of her hand she swipes the fat drop of blood from your fingertip and flicks it into the fireplace. It does not fizzle out, but instead lands on the topmost log, bubbling until it turns black. It smells like ozone—not copper. You do not know why, but you tremble a the sight of it. You have come here to have something taken away, but as you watch your blood crack and burn, you feel as if perhaps something is being given instead.

“What does this mean?” You turn to her. The Witch rubs your blood between her fingers, sniffing the residue for a moment before wiping them clean on a rag. She does not answer you right away, staring thoughtfully at the thin line of black smoke curling from the fireplace.

“Please, I—”

“It means, Princess, that we are kin, you and I.” She tilts your chin back as you stare at her, wide eyed. She runs the tips of her fingers over the narrow curve of your left ear—not pointed, not like hers, but… You push her away before you can stop yourself, clutching at your chest with your other hand as if to calm your racing heart.

“This cannot be true, it—it cannot!”

“Less than half,” she continues as if your sputtered refusal had never been spoken at all. “Less elf blood in you than I could hold in my hand, but aye, kin we are, still.” The Witch looks you up and down, and this time, there is pity in her gaze. “I cannot take your dreams.” Cold spreads through your trembling limbs. “You must release them yourself.”

“Release them? How?” She cups your face, and the movement of her thumb over the swell of your cheek is almost affectionate, though the words she speaks next send a cold chill down your spine.

“No fear, Little Princess. No fear.” For a moment, you swear her eyes go gold, and Geralt’s voice echoes again in the space between you. Before the Witch can say more, you quickly dig the gold out of your pocket, tossing the coins down onto the table as you flee. You do not register her cries to stop, to wait as you barrel through the door, throwing it shut behind you.

It is raining again, hard sheets of cold water pouring down from the dark, angry sky. You can hear the sea raging against the docks, water crashing in thunderous waves up against the harbor’s weathered stone. Your head is spinning, full to bursting. You are elf-kin—perhaps? Maybe?

Your mother had never seen fit to mention that minor detail—and for that matter, neither had your father. You tug your hood up roughly over your head and turn your face down, away from the cold rain pelting against your skin. Had he even known?

Would he have even wanted to?

Perhaps I can just ask him myself.

The thought makes you shiver, wrapping your cloak tighter around your shoulders. I can no more remove it than I could your shadow. You do not know which is worse—having left your father behind alone in the dirt, or the restless specter of him living in your dreams. Your finger aches from the point of the dock witch’s iron needle, and you clutch your hand to your chest as you make your way back towards the White Keep. Above you, a white hot arc of lightning splits the sky, throwing up stark shadows against the row of dark houses.

It is by that grace alone that you see the man.

You stop short, your heart leaping into your throat. He stands in the shadows beneath the sagging eaves, his stony face surprised as your eyes meet. He steps forward with a heavy sigh, a gloved hand resting on the hilt of the sword at his hip.

“Highness.” Your throat tightens, and you take a cautious step back as he comes into the meagre light offered by the street lantern above you. “Please don’t make this difficult.” His cloak is drawn over his chest, but you can see the shape of the armor underneath, jet black.

Nilfgaardian.

You turn—and run straight into a hard, armored chest.

“Good evening, Your Highness.” Duke Emhyr’s long fingers dig hard into your shoulders, hard enough to bruise. His black hair is slick with rain. He was waiting here… waiting for me. “I shall have to inform Lady Kassandra of your whereabouts,” he sneers. “She seems to think you are asleep in your bed.” You lift your heel and grind it hard into the top of his foot, and the Duke curses, his grip loosening. You pull away, but he manages to catch the edge of your cloak, pulling hard until you fall backwards.

The impact knocks the wind out of you, leaving you gasping and dizzy, staring up at the dark sky.

“We did not get to finish our little chat, in the garden.” He says, squatting down over you as you struggle up to your knees on the wet street. “I think we should do that now, Princess.”

Your heart pounds heavily against your ribcage as you stagger to your feet.

“No.”

“It is not a request.” He motions to the guard behind you, and he grabs you as you struggle, wrenching your arms behind you.

“Filthy witch,” he hisses, and you flinch. “You and your whore mother.”

“Gavin, your manners.” He tuts mockingly. “I would be honored, Majesty, if you would accompany me for tea.” You stare at him in silence, the rain soaking through your cloak. “If you would, Ser Gavin.” He forces you forward, and you stumble.

“It is late for tea, Lord Emhyr,” you snap, dragging your feet against the paving stones. “Perhaps a discussion with Her Majesty herself—” Ser Gavin grunts with irritation at your resistance and shoves you, hard. You stumble as the Duke makes an angry noise deep in his throat.

“I’ve little stomach for lies.”

A cold shiver winds its way up your back. You hear the threat though the words remain unspoken. The streets are deserted, and you cannot tell if it is the weather or the hour. Behind you, clears his throat.

“Here, my Lord.”

The faded, splintering sign hanging above the door reads Madam’s Tea House, though by the riotous noise coming from inside, you suspect they serve a few things little stronger than tea. Ser Gavin places a rough hand on the back of your head, forcing it down as he steers you through the doorway. Your stomach drops as your eyes adjust to the dim lighting.

The air stinks of ale, sweaty skin and something more pungent and sour that you cannot identify. There are people everywhere, draped across tables, lounging on pillows and pinned against walls in various states of undress. Your throat goes dry, at the sight of the bare-breasted women sprawled over the tables, their dresses rucked up around their waists. A woman with white painted cheeks and cherry red lips steps quickly out of the way as you are shuffled through, her eyes lowered and lips pressed into a thin line. You understand their choice of venue now—

No one will even remember you were here— and no one will remember when you are not.

As if sensing your rising panic, Ser Gavin’s hand tightens on the scruff of your neck, and with the other hand, he grasps your shoulder. On the raised dais in the center of the dim room, a woman twists lithely, scarves gripped in each of her dainty hands. Gold rings dangle from her bared nipples, matching the one in her nose. Your eyes meet and for a single moment, for a single step, she falters.

The crowd at her feet turns on her in an instant, jeering and spitting. The same men who had watched her dance with silent awe now mock her openly, insults dripping from their lips along with stray drops of ale.

“Let’s get a new girl up here. One who can remember her bloody steps!” There is no end to the praises of men when one is perfect—nor an end to their venom when you are not. The truth of it is as plain as the room Duke Emhyr and Ser Gavin force you into. There is a bed with a bare, stained mattress upon its dilapidated frame, and a wooden chair stands between it and the weak fire in the hearth.

“Sit.” Emhyr instructs you with a bored gesture, and when you do not comply, Ser Gavin squeezes your shoulder hard until you gasp from the pain of it. You lower yourself reluctantly to the chair as the Duke watches, and you get the feeling that he enjoys it, watching you be forced to heel. If not my mother, then me. Through the silence, you can hear the muted noise of the brothel outside. As uncomfortable as it is for you, you hope it is doubly so for them.

The Duke stares at you, his eyes narrowed.

“You wouldn’t see it, not at first,” he says. The disgust drips from every syllable, like he is speaking of something unsavory. “The way you favor them.”

Your heart pounds even as you feign ignorance, schooling your features into shocked offense at his words. He cannot know that this is the second time you have heard them this evening, that you are already itching to get to a mirror to confirm these revelations for yourself, because you do not even know if they are true. The memory of black blood curdling in the hearth is enough to set the uncertainty in your lead filled stomach rolling.

“I know not of what you speak, my Lord.” The words feel fragile, like they are made of glass. “There—there is still time to let this be nothing but an unpleasant misunderstanding—”

The duke stands in front of the hearth, his hand resting on the mantle. The curve of his back speaks to his weariness, and you wonder if he has been looking for you all night.

“You and your whore mother have upset the order of things quite a bit, here. Whatever other things you may be, you are not unintelligent enough not to have seen so.” He turns, the fire reddening his cheeks and setting the whit es of his beady eyes ablaze. “Two seasons of talk and courtships undone in a month—and for a woman who is too old to bear a new heir.”

“His Majesty has an heir,” you remind him. “Or have you forgotten? If you disagree with your king’s decision, you are more than welcome to challenge it before the court a second time, though Their Majesties might not be so prone to leniency given the circumstance.” His jaw tics at the reminder of his position—and yours—but the sly upturn at the corners of his mouth do not disappear.

“So the Witch does inspire loyalty in you.” He squats in front of you. “Do you know what we do to witches, in the North?” He asks, fingering the dagger at his belt. “Father Wolf is the devourer of all things. Even savages.”

“Ever since I stepped from boat to shore I have heard that word, and I cannot help but wonder,” the words pour through the gaps in your gritted teeth, and you hope he chokes on the broken glass of them—“if you have ever uttered them looking in a mirror.”

He raises his hand, as if to backhand you across your face, and you duck down hunching your shoulders to prepare for the blow. It does not land, however, and when you look cautiously up at the duke, he is staring behind you, locked above your head. There is a fourth presence in the room now, one you feel pricking at the back of your neck.

“No, no, continue.” The drawl that fills the empty room is both shocking and achingly familiar. “I would see the treason with my own eyes.” Geralt stands in the doorway, filling it to the brim with the width of his shoulders. Water drips from his sodden silver hair, though he makes no move to push it back from his face. His hand rests openly upon the sword hanging at his hip.

“That way it passes fewer lips on its way to the king.”

Duke Emhyr’s eyes go wide, and then angry.

“I protect the crown, and you call it treason,” slowly,—almost regretfully —the duke lowers his hand. “Can you not see? Can you not see how they twist—” Geralt turns his gaze to you, and somehow his golden eyes seem darker. Harder.

He came for me.

Ser Gavin fingers the pommel of his sword nervously, playing at the thought of unsheathing it, but too craven to commit. Still, he stands between you and the prince, and does not move. The duke’s rambling of treason and bewitchery continues behind you, rising to a fever pitch as you approach the door. Briefly as you turn, you see him, his face red and lips flecked with frothy spittle as he flings a long, accusing finger towards you.

“They will poison this empire, it’s people! You cannot allow them to sit the throne, it is treason to do it knowingly, you must act!” The fire burns bright in his wide eyes, and you see reflected in them the same vicious zealotry that burned in Father Rame’s. “That which is rooted in rotten soil cannot grow! I will not stand idle while we are destroyed from within.”

In the spaces between his words you can see the calculation. He’s chosen death, you realize. You taste it in the air before he speaks, the power of his decision already shaping the world around it, like chaos—but not the kind they shunned. It tastes like the air inside the chapel; the still, thick air, perfumed so that the smell of his body would not leak further than a few feet beyond his corpse.

“You know the truth of what I speak, Majesty, you must see that His Highness is not himself! He pants after the elf-bitch, like a man possessed! It is unnatural, you must—you must see it!”

Geralt’s mouth creases with anger. “I see your distrust in your King has bred treasonous discontent. I see your desire to rise above your station would have you slavering after my father’s throne like the dog you are.” He steps into the room then, and you watch as the Duke’s hand closes about the grip of the dagger strapped to his waist. “Your dedication to this fiction will cost you.”

You had not been able to see Geralt’s other hand, positioned behind him, his arm taut as though he were dragging something heavy. He steps aside, and your heart leaps into your throat as you see why—

A dead Nilfgaardian soldier lies behind him, dark liquid pooling thickly underneath his armor. The duke sees it too, his body tensing.

“If you will not serve your people, if your father will not protect them, what choice have you left me?” The duke murmurs, the words underscored by the quiet ring of steel as he unsheathes his blade. You jump up, knocking the chair over in your haste to get away from him. You trip over your skirts, stumbling forward as Ser Gavin grabs for you, his hand knotting in your cloak.

“You will let her go.” Geralt delivers the instructions as truth—no ultimatums.

“Oh, aye,” Emhyr, nods, forcing the words out through clenched teeth. “On that we agree.” You expect him to lunge for the prince, to hear the sharp clash of steel on steel, but you do not. Instead, his face fills your vision. “You may go wherever you wish, now, Lady.”

You taste death on his words and in the air, and when he steps away, his hands are empty. There is a strange coldness in your belly, and slowly, your hand drifts up to investigate. The leather grip of the dagger is warm, but the steel is cold, so cold you can feel it all the way inside. It’s strange, the way it doesn’t hurt, the way the blood does not feel hot on your trembling hands but cold—

The death Emhyr had chosen was neither his own, nor Geralt’s—but yours.

Dimly, you are aware of Geralt, of your body tucked tightly against his, the sound of steel on steel, the feel of cold rain on your face. Weakly, you lift a hand to your belly, your fingers slipping on the handle. Geralts hand closes over yours.

“You must leave it, Doe, you must. I know it hurts.” It doesn’t. You want to tell him, but you cannot find the will to move your lips. You feel your grip slacken on his cloak, your fingers releasing themselves without your permission as your vision tunnels. Geralt tells you not to close your eyes, and the words echo far off in the encroaching dark.

I have to, you think that perhaps the words escape your slack lips in a low mumble, but you cannot be sure.

Just for a little while.

to be continued…

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goldsainz · 5 months

Text

❝ ALL I NEED IS YOU ❞

MASTERLIST!

pairing . . . lewis hamilton x reader

◦∘｡ﾟ. request . . . “could you do slut! for Lewis? and maybe a combination of angst and fluff?”

◦∘｡ﾟ. summary . . . fans hate you for dating their favourite driver, but it all might just be worth it for once.

◦∘｡ﾟ. note . . . I’M BACK WITH THE FICS!! i’m not quite sure why i had a creative drought, but i’m glad i’m out of it🙏 alsooo, hope you guys liked the new theme bc i brainstormed for hours about it and i’m actually really liking it

liked by ynfan1, lewisfan1 and 85,326 others

f1gossip Once again, Y/N Y/L/N is back in the paddock! The unofficial but official girlfriend of Lewis Hamilton has now been present for all of the triple-header and fans have noticed! Now, many aren’t happy that their beloved F1 Superstar is entangled with the model because of her dating tendencies. Will she be at the Las Vegas Grand Prix? Let us know your thoughts! 👀

view all 1,279 comments

lewisfan2 need her far far away from my man

lewisfan3 sick and tired of seeing her appear on my screen🙄

ynfan2 don’t know who this lewis guy is but i’m loving all the y/n content we’re getting!!!

⤷ lewisfan4 and thank god you know nothing of the sport. we don’t want any of her fans ruining it.

lewisfan5 unpopular opinion: i actually like her and lewis together🤷‍♀️

ynfan3 i hope she continues dating lewis just to piss you guys off

ynfan4 SHE LOOKS SO GOOOOOOD

lewisfan6 🤮🤮🤮

lewisfan7 bye not her taking a photo in front of his car

⤷ ynfan5 she’s his gf? why wouldn’t she do that?

⤷ lewisfan7 it’s giving attention wh0re

⤷ ynfan5 or (and hear me out) she’s just a supportive gf!!

lewishamilton and yourusername posted an instagram story!

liked by lewishamilton, rosalia.vt and 2,018,376 others

yourusername brasil, eu te amo

view all 30,275 comments

ynfan21 mother is mothering

lewisfan21 STAY AWAY FROM HIM! GET A JOB!

ynfan22 they’re actually so cute

adrianalima Bonitos! 💜

liked by yourusername and 65,274others

lewisfan22 girl, that caption is not for brasil😭

lewisfan23 sick and tired of her appearing in my feed

lewisfan24 can’t wait until lewis leave you!!!!!!

user21 since when are they dating?

⤷ ynfan23 it’s really unclear, but everyone points to this year’s silverstone gp when she went as a mercedes guest!

⤷ user21 and people are still hating on her???

⤷ ynfan23 yeah lmao

lewisfan25 mama y papa

lewisfan26 crazy how just a couple mints ago she was supposedly dating tom brady and now she’s “in love” with lewis… such a slut

⤷ ynfan24 you literally don’t know her. stop insulting people you don’t know.

ynfan25 mourning the loss of my wife rn 💔

liked by lewishamilton, carmenmmundt and 2,537,104 others

yourusername it’s raw, it’s real and it’s here!

this interview is extensive, but interviewer was so polite and just the perfect person to be interviewed by, to have my voice told by.

my vogue article will be yours too on the 22nd of november.

comments are turned off

liked by yourusername, alex_albon and 2,075,138 others

lewishamilton FIA Gala, 2023

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yourusername an honour to be by your side 💜

⤷ lewishamilton The honour is all mine 💜

lewisfan41 THIS SHIT IS SO CUTE OML

lewisfan42 did not expect the hard launch, sir hamilton

roscoelovescoco I love’s my mum’s

liked by yourusername, lewishamilton and 201,849 others

ynfan41 my heart literally flew out of my chest when i saw that they were together at the gala

mercedesamgf1 Our second Mercedes royal couple 👑

liked by lewishamilton, yourusername and 174,052 others

lewisfan43 bro you didn’t take the prize home😭

⤷ lewisfan44 he already has the biggest prize with him

⤷ ynfan42 lewis fans got poetic all of a sudden

⤷ ynfan43 lewis fans stopped hating on y/n all of a sudden*

lewifan45 if he’s happy, i’m happy

sebastianvettel Congratulations! Finally the secret is out 😁

⤷ lewishamilton Thank you 🙌

ynfan44 need them both desperately!!!!!

ynfan45 i just know wag pages are having a field day

translations:

— brasil, eu te amo — brazil, i love you — bonitos — beauties

-ˋˏ *.· taglist . . . @lorarri @lpab @noncannonships @lunnnix @elliegrey2803 @schumacheer @saintslewis @leoramage @toomuchdelusion @anthonykatebridgerton @enhacolor @gulabjamoon @toomuchdelusion @goldenalbon @ravisinghs-wife @racingtrail @hobiismyhopeu @celestialpato @lecsainz @kkeels

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lansplaining · 6 months

Note

It would be so funny for the MDZS characters to participate in the AITA posts.

AITA for going on my honeymoon instead of spending time with my brother

After 16 years, the love of my life unexpectedly returned from a situation it is perhaps too complicated to explain. More than that, it transpired that despite my belief to the contrary, he in fact returned my romantic and powerfully sexual feelings for him. He confessed this, and shortly thereafter we found ourselves free for the first time in several weeks to act upon our desires rather than pursuing various work-related crises. We also had technically been married in his foster family's shrine the day before. We decided to leave for a journey together (with his donkey), whereupon we consummated (repeatedly) our marriage.

My only potential reservation is that during the series of events that led to his confession, my brother accidentally murdered his long time life partner. It was a very complicated situation, but it was plain my brother was quite distressed. However, my family maintains a strict set of traditions when it comes to mourning the loss of our life partners, and given no one adheres to our sect's standards more rigorously than my brother, it seemed clear to me that he would be retreating into seclusion to ruminate endlessly on his grief and guilt in complete isolation as our ancestors before us have always done, and as I myself once did. I cannot see why this should have factored into my own choices. However, my husband thought it would be funny if I inquired, and this was the only potential circumstance that came to mind.

#DISCLAIMER I LOVE WANGJI #HE IS MY FAVORITE BELOVED SON #ask answered

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odinsblog · 7 months

Text

Dear President Biden,

We come together as artists and advocates, but most importantly as human beings witnessing the devastating loss of lives and unfolding horrors in Israel and Palestine.

We ask that, as President of the United States, you call for an immediate de-escalation and ceasefire in Gaza and Israel before another life is lost. More than 5,000 people have been killed in the last week and a half – a number any person of conscience knows is catastrophic. We believe all life is sacred, no matter faith or ethnicity and we condemn the killing of Palestinian and Israeli civilians.

We urge your administration, and all world leaders, to honor all of the lives in the Holy Land and call for and facilitate a ceasefire without delay – an end to the bombing of Gaza, and the safe release of hostages. Half of Gaza’s two million residents are children, and more than two thirds are refugees and their descendants being forced to flee their homes. Humanitarian aid must be allowed to reach them.

We believe that the United States can play a vital diplomatic role in ending the suffering and we are adding our voices to those from the US Congress, UNICEF, Doctors without Borders, The International Committee of The Red Cross, and so many others. Saving lives is a moral imperative. To echo UNICEF, “Compassion — and international law — must prevail.”

As of this writing more than 6,000 bombs have been dropped on Gaza in the last 12 days — resulting in one child being killed every 15 minutes.

“Children and families in Gaza have practically run out of food, water, electricity, medicine and safe access to hospitals, following days of air strikes and cuts to all supply routes. Gaza’s sole power plant ran out of fuel Wednesday afternoon, shutting down electricity, water and wastewater treatment. Most residents can no longer get drinking water from service providers or household water through pipelines…. The humanitarian situation has reached lethal lows, and yet all reports point to further attacks. Compassion — and international law — must prevail.” – UNICEF spokesperson, James Elder

Beyond our pain and mourning for all of the people there and their loved ones around the world we are motivated by an unbending will to stand for our common humanity. We stand for freedom, justice, dignity and peace for all people – and a deep desire to stop more bloodshed.

We refuse to tell future generations the story of our silence, that we stood by and did nothing. As Emergency Relief Chief Martin Griffiths told UN News, “History is watching.”

Alia Shawkat

Alyssa Milano

Amanda Seales

Amber Tamblyn

America Ferrera

Andrew Garfield

Anoushka Shankar

Aria Mia Loberti

Ayo Edebiri

Bassam Tariq

Bassem Youssef

Cate Blanchett

Channing Tatum

Cherien Dabis

Darius Marder

David Cross

Dominique Fishback

Dominique Thorne

Elvira Lind

Farah Bsaiso

Fatima Farheen Mirza

Hasan Minhaj

Hend Sabry

Ilana Glazer

Indya Moore

James Schamus

Jeremy Strong

Jessica Chastain

Joaquin Phoenix

Jon Stewart

Kristen Stewart

Macklemore

Mahershala Ali

Margaret Cho

Mark Ruffalo

May Calamawy

Michael Malarkey

Michael Stipe

Michelle Wolf

Mo Amer

Oscar Isaac

Quinta Brunson

Ramy Youssef

Riz Ahmed

Rooney Mara

Rosario Dawson

Ryan Coogler

Sandra Oh

Sebastian Silva

Shailene Woodley

Shaka King

Susan Sarandon

Vic Mensa

Wallace Shawn

Wanda Sykes

👉🏿 https://variety.com/2023/biz/news/hollywood-demands-gaza-israel-ceasefire-joaquin-phoenix-cate-blanchett-1235763646/

#politics #palestine #gaza #israel #ceasefire #war crimes #hamas ≠ palestine #genocide #collective punishment #israel is an apartheid state #never again #humanitarian aid #benjamin netanyahu is a war criminal #bds #boycott divest sanction #never again to anyone

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little-diable · 1 month

Text

One day you're gone – Tommy Shelby

Let's just ignore the fact that songs are my biggest inspiration, ok? Alright. Inspired by "one day you're gone" by "gavn!". I know this is super angsty, but I think it's a beautiful fic, so please give it a chance. Please like and reblog if you enjoyed reading this, your comments keep us writers motivated! Enjoy my loves. xxx

Summary: She died years ago, and yet he still dreams of her, forced to relive their moments together every single night

Warnings: 18+, smut, piv, loss of his wife (sorry for killing us off), this is sad, like really

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x fem!reader (1.3k words)

One day you're here and one day you're gone, you beat to the drum but you keep movin' on, ain't nobody knows when the next name's called, ‘cause one day you're here and one day you're gone

He dreamt of her, hands trembling from feeling his fingers interlaced with hers just moments before waking, heart racing from clinging to her like a blanket made to protect his shuddering body, lips tingling from kissing her breathless, at least in his dream.

Those were the nights where Tommy woke with a cry, unable to wipe away the tears clinging to his cheeks as he choked on his gasps. Ever since he had been a little boy, he had been forced to let go of people, a dull pain Tommy had slowly adapted to. Until (y/n) had been ripped from his side, leaving him and the life they had begun to build together.

He dreamt of her nightly, of their moments together, from childhood memories, to their wedding day. He saw it all so clearly as if he was watching recordings, though not in black and white and without sound, but full of colour. A bright splash of life like she had been, the light in his darkness, the colour in his grey life, the guiding hand that was now one with the soil he still felt clinging to his fingers.

“Today we mourn the loss of our (y/n), daughter, friend, wife.” Tears blurred Tommy’s vision as he stood near the coffin, hands interlaced in front of himself to try and stop his hands from trembling. He, Arthur, some of their friend’s and (y/n)’s father had carried the coffin up to the grave, unable to speak as the weight of their sadness weighed them down.

“Thomas.” The bucket filled with soil was reached out for him to take, forcing his eyes to find the dark ones of their pastor. With a shaky exhale leaving him, he let his fingers disappear in the cold soil, taking just enough to throw it down onto her coffin, covering a small part of the dark wood.

“How could you do this to me?” His voice carried exhaustion, speaking to those who were listening, the holy Father promising to protect those finding his way to him, people like (y/n) who had been ripped from this life too early.

Tommy rose to his feet as his fingers found a cigarette, alighting it before making his way out his empty bedroom. One of the places that held too many memories. One of the places he couldn’t part from just yet because his nose could still pick up on the scent of her perfume, because his eyes could still see her soft frame lying next to him, even though it had been years.

“Oh, Tommy.” She had her back arched off the mattress, legs wrapped around his middle. The two had gotten married hours ago, saying yes to one another in the company of their families and friends, finally reunited after the war. Tears had been shed that day, tears that were falling now once again, though these tears were urged on by desperation, by love, by lust.

His hips met hers with every thrust, drawing moans from (y/n) as his cock nudged her sweet spot. Tommy couldn’t rip his eyes from her features, the beautiful face he had thought of in France, clinging to his memories as if they were the oxygen he needed to survive.

“My beautiful wife,” his words left (y/n) moaning, walls fluttering around his cock. The scent of her perfume wrapped itself around Tommy, luring him even further into the grasp she had on his body and soul, a promise made to last for eternity, a promise broken in only a few months time.

“I love you, Thomas, I always will.”

Rain was pouring from the sky, as if nature was sharing Tommy’s pain, missing the one who had spent most of her time in their garden, the one who had talked to the flowers as if they were her friends, the one who had watched birds pick up the seeds she had left for them as if they were pilgrims sharing her path. A kind hearted soul who had paid the price for a life Tommy hadn’t been able to protect her from.

Tommy didn’t know how to make it through life without (y/n) by his side, he hadn’t lived a single day without her being part of his closest circle, glued together from birth, brought together by their mothers who had been friends for years. Ever since their first days together, Tommy had loved her, first as a friend, then as a lover, then as a husband, and now as a widower.

“Can I kiss you?” Tommy’s voice filled the evening, forcing her wide eyes towards his bright ones.

“What?” Nervous chuckles bubbled out of the young girl. She struggled to hold eye contact with Tommy, shifting her weight from one leg to the other, unable to rip herself away from the boy. It was Tommy’s fourteenth birthday, celebrating his day with (y/n) glued to his side, chasing him through the streets both knew like the back of their hands.

“It’s my birthday wish.” Heat flushed through her as Tommy carefully cupped her cheek. She knew that he had kissed other girls before, locking lips with those she envied, but not once had she been kissed, waiting for Tommy to finally give in.

“Do it.” His lips were on hers in an instant, drawing a surprised gasp from (y/n). It was a clumsy kiss both had to adjust to, but once her nerves finally let go of her, allowing the young girl to get used to the new sensation, she found herself enjoying the new feeling.

With a sigh rumbling through Tommy, he plopped down on the stairs leading up to their house, stairs she had walked with naked feet whenever she had finished her garden work. The garden had withered away with her passing as Tommy hadn’t found the strength to step foot on the grass she had cared for.

Whatever it was that now spurred him on, it forced Tommy back to his feet. The cigarette was long forgotten as he stepped foot on the wet grass, his shirt and underwear instantly soaked through by the pouring rain. He had his bright eyes focused on the weathered flowers, coming to a halt in front of one of many flowerbeds.

His hands started working, reaching for the dead flowers to rip them from the lifeless soil. And for the first time in years, he felt connected to (y/n), clinging to what she had once planted. Tears once again ran down Tommy’s cheeks as he kept working, only halting his movements as his glassy eyes found the rising sun painting the sky orange and pink.

“I’m sorry it took me this long, love.” The words were whispered, eyes unable to leave the sky as he made plans to revitalise their garden. He’d never be able to bring her back, but at least he could keep the memory of his loving wife alive.

Broken bones, you live and learn, ‘cause we don't know that a good thing ends, but someday I hope that it'll all make sense, one day you're here and one day you're gone

#Tommy Shelby smut #Tommy Shelby imagine #Tommy Shelby x reader #Peaky Blinders

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fandom · 1 year

Photo

Stranger Things

In a busy, fantastical year of sci-fi television, one show rose above the rest, and we’re betting you know exactly the one we’re talking about. Stranger Things has always been super popular on Tumblr, so it's no surprise this season wasn’t any different. After waiting an entire three years, we were treated to not one but two volumes of horrific, heartbreaking goodness.

From the moment we heard the opening notes of Journey's “Separate Ways (Worlds Apart)” in the first official trailer in mid-April, we knew this season would be on a bigger scale than we’ve ever seen for the series. That same week, Stranger Things made its first Fandometrics appearance of 2022. But the real excitement set in when Netflix released the first volume, a set of seven episodes, on May 27, 2022. The show has appeared on our weekly TV Shows list and remained in the top 20 ever since. Skeptical? Well, stranger things have happened!

The wild mid-season cliffhanger was enough to keep fans going through the month-long break between volumes. You used the interim to discuss theories and fears, share GIFs and edits, and post myriad fan works. Returning to Hawkins in July for the second volume, some of those theories and worries were confirmed. After the two final episodes, you came together once again to mourn your losses and discuss the ramifications of major events for the next (and final) season.

We all know the lifeblood of Stranger Things has always been its characters: We’ve rooted for them, shared their wins and losses, and watched them grow. This is especially true for the show’s ragtag group of teens who frequently find themselves looking for trouble in all the right places. This season, the Stranger Things fandom collectively fell in love with newcomer Eddie Munson: the long-haired, guitar-wielding dungeon master of our dreams. Eddie was the clear favorite by a mile, followed by Steve Harrington and Will Byers (fun fact: they are actually the top three fictional TV characters on Tumblr for the entire year). We’d also like to give honorable mentions to Argyle, Chrissy Cunningham, and Vecna, all of whom have made for major topics of conversation.

And, with everything these characters have endured, season after season, their bonds have become stronger than ever. Steve Harrington is still everyone’s favorite dad (Hopper is a close second), and Tumblr has dubbed Robin and Steve platonic soulmates. This new chapter brought seasoned and budding friendships, romances, and of course, a whole lot of ships. You picked apart every interaction and every lingering gaze and came to the conclusion that Steve and Eddie totally should’ve been together. And then there are the ever-diligent Byler, Ronance, and Jopper shippers. We see you, too.

If all of this wasn’t enough to demonstrate the impact of Stranger Things 4 on Tumblr, then maybe this will: Stranger Things was the #1 thing on all of Tumblr this year. Yes, of all the tags used this year, the sci-fi hit reigned supreme.

It basically turned Tumblr upside down.

#year in review #stranger things #tumblr2022

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kuroashims · 4 months

Text

I can't help seeing zolu when I hear wedding vows, they describe their relationship almost perfectly... Replace husband by captain, partner or first mate, and you have pretty much everything they'd say to each other, if they were actually talking...

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

"I am proud to be yours and to join my life with yours. I vow to support you, inspire you, and love you always. For as long as we both shall live, I will be by your side for better or worse, in sickness and health, for richer or poorer. I pledge to honour you all the days of my life.

I love you with my whole heart with a passion that can't be expressed in words, only in glances and years of adventure by your side.

I promise to be your honest, faithful, and trustworthy husband for the rest of my days.

Today I say, "I do" but to me that means, "I will." I will take your hand and stand by your side in the good and the bad. I dedicate myself to your happiness, success, and smile. I will love you forever.

I promise to be your guiding light in the darkness, a warming comfort in the cold, and a shoulder to lean on when life is too much to bear on your own.

Give me your hand, and I will give you mine forever.

I vow to always protect you from harm, to stand with you against your troubles, and to look to you when I need protection.

Once I heard "There is no remedy for love but to love more". Today and forever, I will follow this advice and seek my remedy in your arms.

You make me laugh, you inspire me, and above all, you make me happy.

I promise to be your navigator, best friend, and companion. I promise to honor, love, and cherish you through all our adventures. Wherever we go, we'll go together.

I will love you in word and deed. I will laugh with you, cry with you, scream with you, grow with you, and craft with you. Loving what I know of you and trusting what I don't yet know, I give you my hand. I give you my soul. I give you myself, the good, the bad, and the yet to come. I trust you with my life.

You love me and complete me in ways I never knew possible. From this day forth, I promise to listen to you and learn from you, to support you and accept your support. I will celebrate your successes and mourn your losses as though they were my own.

How lucky am I to call you mine ? Your love and trust makes me a better person, each and every day. For all those times that we've been together, there's always been a mutual understanding that's only shared when two people cherish each other truly. You were there for my greatest challenges. You encouraged me to grow. You helped believe in myself and become the person that I am today. In your arms and by your side, I know I can do anything.

Yes, I am proud to call you my mine."

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

#one piece #zoro x luffy #zolu #luzo #opla #opla gifs #opgraphics #monkey d. luffy #roronoa zoro #luffy #zoro #wedding vows #text post #non sims #gif warning

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picklepie888 · 1 year

Text

We Don't Talk About Judas (Biblical Encanto Parody)

PETER

We don't talk about Judas no no no

We don't talk about Judas

But

It was the Passover

ANDREW

It was the Passover

PETER

We were all together and we're passing the bread and the wine

ANDREW

Passing the bread and the wine

PETER

Jesus comes through

With some upsetting news

ANDREW

Traitor!

PETER

Are you telling the story or am I?

ANDREW

I'm sorry dear brother go on

PETER

Jesus said 'I'll be betrayed'

ANDREW

Why would He tell us?

PETER

Upon this news, we're all dismayed

ANDREW

The whole room was in chaos!

PETER

Who of us would dare betray?

ANDREW

We're not naming names

But we'll just say

BOTH

We don't talk about Judas no no no

We don't talk about Judas!

MATTHEW

Hey! Grew to be weary of Judas's intentions

None of us suspected his crime beyond comprehension

I equate him to the sound of coins hitting the floor (clang, clang, clang)

How could we remiss

With a kiss, he touches

Failed to keep our Rabbi out of the Romans' clutches

Choking on his guilt until he can't breathe anymore

Gone forevermore

JOHN

Thirty pieces

Of silver in his sack

When the night ceases

He stabs us in the back

He had seeled our doom

Led Jesus to His tomb

ALL

(Hey) We don't talk about Judas no no no

We don't talk about Judas

JEWISH VILLAGER 1

They say He was sacrificed

To pay our cost! (No no)

JEWISH VILLAGER 2

The Romans had dragged Him off

To Pilate, their boss! (No no)

JEWISH VILLAGER 3

He said that Jesus of Nazareth

Would hang on the cross! (No no)

ALL

The Hebrews mourned

Our most devastating loss!

MARY MAGDALENE

He told me

That upon this day three

Not to worry for He will soon rise

He told me

The Messiah will come

And our souls will be made divine

PETER

He told me

Before that next morning

I'll deny him times three

Upon the cock's crowing

It's like I hear it now

It's like I hear it now!

I can hear it now!

MATTHIAS

Um...Judas

Yeah, about that Judas

I really need to know about Judas

Give me the truth and the whole truth

Judas!

ZECHARIAH

Hey the King of the Jews is here!

ALL

He has risen!

(Overlap of Peter/Andrew, Matthew, John, and Mary Magdalene verses)

ALL

He's here!

Don't talk about Judas

MATTHIAS

Why did I talk about Judas?

ALL

Not a word about Judas

MATTHIAS

I never should've brought up Judas!

#good friday #easter #christian memes #christian parody #jesus christ #12 disciples #the chosen #we don't talk about bruno #encanto #song parody #judas iscariot #disney #happy easter #happy good friday

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xdacted · 6 months

Text

The art of sibling hood

Paring: sister!Reader & Charles Leclerc

Warnings: angst, fluff, hurt/comfort

Word Count: 3,815

Status: Complete

***Request made by reader***

Summer break offers us a sliver of peace.

No teams are calling, no coaches screaming, no clients to take care of - there is nothing but family. For a few weeks out of the year, all we have is each other. I can’t ask for anything better.

We all gather at our mother’s house, hiding away there with her. It’s nice, to all be under the same roof again, we haven’t been since Lorenzo first moved out. It only worsened when I decided to take my training to France. 16 years of living under one roof was gone in an instant. We had lived together our entire lives until that point.

It was like losing a piece of myself.

But then, after the sadness rolled away, I was filled with so much joy. To know that both Charles and Arthur were chasing their dream, to see them every weekend battling it out on the track. Though my mother refused to watch, I always did.

But there is always more I want to know, more I want to see. I can’t help myself from asking questions. The countries they see, the people they meet - it’s a world I’ll never know. I almost got involved, my father put me in karting as a child, but it was never my passion. Not the way it was with Arthur and Charles. I found my calling in school.

At six, I was sitting among my classmates in the gymnasium, watching as our instructor introduced the sport of fencing. He was trying to start a club, with a school as small as ours, it wasn’t very likely to happen.

He brandished the swords, explaining the rules. My friend, Anies, had fallen asleep on my shoulder, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away. I was transfixed, hooked. That day, I ran home, with the club papers in my hand and begged my parents.

At first, Papa was hesitant, telling me that this sport was a fighting spot - I wasn’t a ‘fighting girl’. But I pleaded, hooking my arms around his neck and staring up at him. This was my dream. Fencing was racing to me. Fencing was everything.

What I didn’t understand was that fencing was also incredibly expensive. With two children karting and one in fencing, I remember the night I caught Mum and Papa talking it over, they couldn’t afford it.

I was lucky enough to be given a scholarship by a fencing club, I would have the funding to chase my dream. Arthur, however, was not so lucky. I remember how he cried, screaming and howling into his pillow. He mourned the loss of his sport, but he was never angry. Just sad.

I shake off the memories when Charles calls my name.

“What?”

He looks at me, staring at me from his seat on the floor, arms holding his knees close to him. He and Arthur are playing some card game they explained more than once - but I have never cared to learn. Arthur glares at the cards below him, flipping them over in his hand.

He laughs, “I asked how training was going?”

“Good,” I burrow further into the couch, pulling a blanket across my shoulders, “When I go back, I have a tournament in Italy.”

“Well,” Arthur huffs, still fixed on the game, “You’re already a World Champion - Ugh! Charles, you’re cheating! This is why I hate playing with you!”

Charles throws his hands up, turning to Arthur with an indignant expression, “I am not a cheater. I am a man of honor, you just suck.”

With a curse, Arthur throws his cards down.

He stands, “You’re a cheat and you know it.”

“You just don’t know how to lose.”

Arthur throws himself beside me, moving the pillows so he can lean against them, crossing his arms in front of him. I don’t have to hide my laughter, I let it slip from me. The laughter is easy, the tension from yesterday gone. Charles had still been insistent on apologizing, even when I told him to just drop it.

My brother is one of the kindest people in the world.

“What about you?” I dare to ask, offering Arthur some of my blanket, “How’s Ferrari treating you?”

I don’t need to ask because I already know. Even from across the world, every Sunday, I watch him. Every Sunday, I watch my brother get into that car and put his life on the line. And every Sunday I watch Ferrari screw him over. My teammates were getting far too tired of my outbursts.

Charles clears his throat, looking down at the cards scattered across the floor. He sweeps them together, shuffling them, “Fine.”

“Fine?”

I’m stepping on thin ice. My brothers like to assume that when it came to racing they knew everything, but I had grown up around this. My father was a racer and now my brothers were racers - it was in my blood. I had just chosen not to pursue it.

“Yes, fine.” He pushes himself up, standing and walking to the edge of the couch.

“If you say so, brother,” Charles opens his mouth to speak, but the sound of the doorbell cuts him off.

He practically leaps over the couches, nearly tripping over the carpet, to throw the door open. My mother hardly has time to scold him as she steps inside her room because cheery voices are ringing out through the house.

“Hello!”

Lorenzo comes bounding from upstairs and Arthur rolls off the couch, kicking the blanket away from him. The three women who step inside the house bring the light of the shining sun with them.

“Girls!” I cry, it has been so long since I’ve last seen them.

Carla sees me first, throwing her hands in the air. She pushes past Arthur to sweep me into a hug. The position is awkward, as her body curves over the couch and I attempt to reach up to her, but I can feel her laughter vibrate within her chest.

“Did you get in today?” Her eyes are shining and the glasses perched atop her head threaten to fall, “Why didn’t you text me?”

“I wanted to surprise you, of course!” When we pull away, Charlotte and Alexandria are right beside us.

“We need to get breakfast while you’re here,” Charlotte says, pressing her hands together. It isn’t so much a request as it is a plan in motion.

I just nod along. I look around, my brother’s waiting behind them with crossed arms and a less-than-pleased expression.

“What?”

“They’re supposed to be here to see us.”

“No,” Charlotte says, wrapping her arms around me, “We’re here for her and of course - Pascale.”

“Hello, dear,” Mum says, Carla placing welcoming kisses on her cheeks.

I turn to my left, Alex having taken a seat in the open space that Arthur left.

“Hey,” I whisper, pulling her close.

“Hi,” She whispers back.

There’s something different. I can tell when she hugs me, pressing a kiss on my cheek. When we pull away, there’s a glow to her skin and a twinkle in her eyes.

“Is there -?”

Charles is draped across her in a second, gentle hands on her shoulders, “She is my girlfriend. Please, do not be selfish.”

Alex only rolls her eyes and I can’t help but follow.

What a drama queen.

__________

I watch Charles and Alex as Mum bustles around the kitchen. It’s little, but something is different. I can feel it. Something about the way Charles has an arm curled around her waist or the way she clings to his arm. They keep eyeing the rest of us, Alex turning around to whisper in his ear.

Hm. How strange.

Alex was quite shy, this much became evident when I first met her, but she was by no means afraid of the family. Just a few weeks earlier she had come to visit me in France, we spent the day together and had been texting each other constantly.

What could it be?

I met her eyes and she sharply turned away from me.

A secret then.

Papa liked to say that I inherited Mum’s gift for reading people, especially my brothers. Even when we’re separated by seas, I know when something’s bothering them. I know when something is wrong.

But this - this was different.

I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

But, my mind can help but wonder, what if - no. Could it be?

“Arthur.”

He hardly looks up from his phone, “Hm?”

“Wanna make a bet?”

“What kind of bet?” He asks, still scrolling.

I lean in closer, “I think Alex is pregnant.”

Arthur nearly drops his phone. He whips his head over to look at me, mouth agape, “What?!”

“Sh!” I smack his arm, he is going to give us away, “You’re so loud…”

“Why do you think she’s pregnant?” He whisper-shouts, “That’s crazy. Charles would’ve told us.”

“Maybe he’s going to tell us tonight,” I shrug, pulling away from him.

“Are you in or out?” I crossed my legs, my gut feelings were always strong. I’d guessed many things over the years and felt a change within the people around me before they told me. I’d known Charles got signed to Ferrari before he told us, or that Arthur was going to be moved to F2, or that Lorenzo had met someone new - all of these things, I’d felt. All of these things I guessed.

Maybe I was a bit psychic.

“You’re on,” He stuck his hand out, “€10?”

I scoffed, “That’s nothing - €100.”

“You could be wrong.”

“I could be right,” I looked down at his waiting hand.

“€50?”

I slapped my hand in his, “€50 it is!”

“You’re going down,” He whispered, squeezing my hand. I kick at his shin.

“Ow!”

“That’s what you get, dumbass.”

“LANGUAGE!”

__________

Dinner is an easy affair. The time ticks by slowly, but none of us mind. Warm and laughter fill the house, everyone staying at the table after the food has long been eaten. Stories are tossed around and jokes float about, it's peaceful.

A peace that’s so very addicting.

Here, I can forget that I have to leave in only a few days. I can tell that the boys forget too, throwing themselves over Mum and the table. Arthur laughs so hard that he snorts and Lorenzo’s jokes have Charles reduced to tears - it’s all so nostalgic.

As we eat, I can see Charles and Alex glance at each other, watching as he scoops her hand in his. She whispers something in his ear and he nods.

Before I know it, they are both standing.

“I,” He clears his throat, “I have something to say - well, we do, actually...”

“Well,” Alex begins, a bright smile pulling over her face, “Charles and I are expecting a - a child.”

The table erupts into cheers and exclamations. Mum drops her head into her hands, and before we can rush over, she looks up with tears in her eyes and a dazzling smile on her lips. We stand to offer them hugs and kisses, pats, and words of encouragement.

“I told you!” I cry.

Arthur lets out a loud groan, pushing his face into his hands, “Why?”

Confusion is written across their face and I can only laugh

I hold out a waiting hand.

With another groan and a roll of his eyes, he shoves his hand into his pockets, pulling out the €50 I’m owed. The bill is crunched and he drops it into my palm with little fanfare.

“This is so unfair,” Arthur throws his arms around my shoulders, “How could you have possibly known?”

“I just do,” I shrug, looking up at him with a smile, “I’m just that good.”

“I knew it,” Carla giggles, “You are a psychic.”

I lock eyes with Mum over the table, she flashes me a smile.

“Of course,” I say, “I learned from the very best.”

__________

The ocean calls our name, the lull of the tides and the crashing of the waves. Such a beautiful song and we can do nothing but dance to it. With the sun shining down on our backs, we pile into Charles’s boat, clinging to the railing as we push away from the dock. The salt of the air tangles in my hair, and gentle winds give us a beautiful day. The weather was perfect, the sea was calm. What more could we ever ask for?

We spend the day lounging about the boat, pushing and shoving each other in the water. I manage to convince Charles to let me take the smaller boat out for a spin, with Carla clinging to the seats, and Charolette cheering us on from the deck above. I can’t help but dissolve into laughter at his face, twisted with worry.

The water is cool against our heated skin, it invites us in for more. The longer we stay, the more we forget about the world that surrounds us. It is nearly enough to make me forget about my flight in only a few days. I will have to leave and this will all become a memory.

But what a beautiful memory it will be.

I can’t dwell on my thoughts, because Charlotte demands that we all jump. There is little fanfare for Charles and Lorenzo as they practically wrestle to the sea below. Arthur grips my hand as we jump, throwing ourselves into the Moncao air, caught by the arms of the sea.

It is perfect. It is home.

When the sun begins to dip in the sky, my mother draws herself up from the couch and claims that dinner will not ready itself. The others agree and begin to shuffle off but Carla and I are the last to get back from the boat. Though Charles has always held the title of ‘captain’, I have always maintained that the sea is but a little requirement for boating. We stayed behind to just lounge about in the sun, only coming back to the house when she got a frantic call from Arthur, telling her to come back.

“What’s…” The words die in our throats when we see Alex huddled in the corner, sobbing into her hands. Charlotte stands over her, rubbing a reassuring hand over her back, whispering something into her ear.

Before we can say another word, Arthur and Lorenzo interrupt us. He pulls us into a corner of the house, wiping his hands on his shorts. His eyes dart around the room, lip caught between his teeth.

“What happened?” Carla demands.

“It - it was the press,” Arthur manages, “They got pictures from earlier, on the boat.”

I need to hear little else. I dig my phone from my bag.

Finding the photo doesn’t take much work. It’s there as soon as I open Twitter, Alexandria and Charles standing on the balcony of the boat. Her hands on her stomach, nothing there to show - not yet - but the implication is enough for the media to run with.

I can hardly breathe.

Anger coils tight within me.

Fucking vultures.

Carla gasps from beside me, pressing a hand to her mouth. The headlines make my stomach turn. Far too atrocious to look at, I shove my phone back into my bag. Carla is quick to slip from beside me, rushing over to the couch, and dropping to her knees beside Alex.

Haven’t they gone through enough? Have people not thrown Alex into the fire already? Had they not already ripped her apart? I remember the articles and the tweets when their relationship went public, the look of sadness on her face. People hated her simply because she loved Charles. How they got together and why they got together was no one’s business but their own.

“Where -” I cut myself off, dropping my voice lower, “Where’s Charles?”

For a moment, Lorenzo doesn’t answer me, phone in hand. I can’t tell who’s calling, but the grave look on his face is all I need to know. He shakes his head, dragging a hand through his hair.

“He’s outside,” He whispers, sparing a look over at Alex, “He stormed out and won’t come back in.”

“Of course! He’s upset!” I hiss, this was private. This was personal. The media has taken that away from him.

Lorenzo holds his hands up, “I’m not saying he shouldn’t be - I’m not saying that I’m not,” He sighs, “But this is more - this is more than just…”

He looks away, rubbing a hand over his face, “He can’t run from this now.”

I turn away from Lorenzo and the tears begin to gather in my eyes before I can gather the courage to force them back. I wrap my arms around myself, afraid that I might throw something across the room.

This wasn’t right.

Summer is our time.

There is never any anger, never any sadness. That’s the world that waits beyond the walls of our home, that is the world we leave behind. We shut it all out because summer break is just us. I don’t realize that I’ve begun to dig my fingers into the flesh of my arm until Arthur yanks my hands away.

He doesn’t say anything, just squeezing my hands in his. I can’t look at him, but I feel his gaze on me. When he releases me, my hands drop back down to my sides. I suck in a large gulp of air, trying to calm the pounding of my heartbeat.

Before I can make my way to Alex, Charlotte stops me. She holds her hand up, a sad smile on her face.

‘We’ve got it,’ She mouths, ‘Go.’

Her eyes flicker to the terrace, doors closed tightly. I can see, in the shadows of the darkness, Charles.

“I’ll be back,” I whisper, reaching out to squeeze Arthur’s shoulder before I walk towards the doors.

I gently push them open, waiting for Charles to scream out that he wasn’t privacy, that he needs space, but he never does

I step through.

Charles stands out on the balcony, hands clutching onto the terrace railing. He stares into the swaying trees of our backyard, the melting sun casting a glow around the shadow of the house. Though the wind blows, there is no twinkle of windchimes. There is no echo of laughter or memory of youth, there is nothing. The light from the entry room spills across his back, but he doesn’t turn.

The silence is thick, sitting heavily atop the both of us. With his back turned to me, I can’t see his face. There’s a selfish part of me that never wants to. I never want to see the pain and anger on my brother’s face. I never want to watch his heart fall apart before me. He is my family, an extension of myself.

“Why can’t they just leave us alone?”

His voice is hardly above a whisper, nearly consumed by the distant sounds of the city, but I hear. It cuts through the silence, piercing it with ease. There is sadness in his voice and I can feel the tears burn once more. His shoulders slump forward, a heavy sigh leaving his lips. For a movement, I fear that he might collapse.

I take a tentative step forward.

My brother is many things. Charles is competitive and rash, he is hard-working and self-deprecating. But he is also kind and forgiving, with a smile like the sun and a laugh like the sea. He is good. Our Papa used to say that Lorenzo and I got all the anger and bite, as it never seemed that Charles could hate, to be spiteful.

Always the first to take the blame, always the first to vouch, always the first to arrive, always the last to go.

My brother is good.

And the world is cruel.

“Charles,” I whisper, he doesn’t turn.

I reach for him, my fingertips barely grazing the fabric of his shirt, “Charles.”

He finally turns, biting his lip, tears in his eyes. The words die in my throat. There is nothing I can say to fix his pain, nothing I can do to take his unhappiness away. It kills me. They may be my older brothers, but I have always been fiercely protective of them. To hurt them was to hurt me - and to hurt them was unforgivable.

And Charles.

Charles, who flew through the night to catch my competitions. Charles, who cheered me on, even if he knew nothing about fencing. Charles, who always had an extra Paddock Pass for me. Charles, who always let me have his last cookie or pastry. Charles, who held me when I wailed for weeks after Papa’s passing. Charles put the money he earned in Formula 1 into getting Arthur back into carting. Charles, who always called to scream ‘Happy Birthday’ in my ear.

That Charles.

My brother Charles, would forgive. He will see it as a mistake, he will blame himself. In only a few hours, he will make a statement and tell the truth - because that’s just who he is.

I throw my arms open and catch him as he falls into them.

He doesn’t cry, not at first, just clinging onto me. But then, the moment that Alex’s cries drift onto the open terrace, he begins to weep. He sobbed into my shoulder, pressing his wet face into the fabric of my shirt. He clutches my hand, and I can do nothing but hold him.

I hold him and let him fall apart.

From over Charle’s shoulder, I see Arthur peeking out at us. He wrings his hands, twisting his fingers around. He can’t sit still, pacing around the room, brushing Carla away when she tries to calm him.

I gesture for him to come and he does.

Before I can say a word, he’s wrapping his arms around Charles, burying his face into his back.

“We’ll fix this,” He mumbles, “I - I don’t know how, but we will.”

Charles doesn’t speak, he just searches for Arthur’s hand blindly in the pile of libs and holds on. It’s all we can do. I feel like I am 15 years old, losing our father again. It feels just as it did then, unbearable. But we do just what we did then, we hold each other. Clinging onto the only people that we have known since before we knew them, the only people that will love us even when no one else does.

The only person -

Lorenzo is there, strong arms trying to tuck us all into him. I can feel his warmth against my back and push my face into his chest.

“We’ve got you, Charlie,” He says, “We’ve got you.”

We do.

We always will.

_________________________

A/N:This work has been cross-posted on Wattpad and AO3. All are under the name XDACTED. Thank you for reading and feel free to request fics about any of the drivers <3

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animentality · 3 months

Note

you know what hurts worse than gortash admiring durge so much only for durge to forget him? the fact that it was mutual. durge admits in the prayer for forgiveness note that they admire gortash but in that note they were trying to reassure bhaal they would stick to the plan and kill him and then themselves, but what if.. they were lying? what if their devotion to total slaughter was shaken, and they had started thinking about a life with gortash?

the chosen of bhaal is supposed to devote their entire being to bhaal’s will and then die happily upon his altar, but durge found gortash, and found an equal. someone to lie for. someone to live for.

but of course that change in their behavior, that life changing admiration that neither of them could hide or deny, would be durge’s fall from grace. orin noticed. how could she not? they were hardly subtle. and finally she had an opening, a nick in the armor she could use to usurp her sibling. they had a weakness in the shape of enver gortash.

Listen anon, the idea that the Dark Urge might've had misgivings about their role as the Chosen of Bhaal and the Scion of Bhaal HAUNTS me.

This is why durgetash appeals to me so much.

It humanizes the Dark Urge SO MUCH. It makes them a real fucking person and not just some edgelord murder hobo. It gives them fucking depth.

The idea that Orin was only able to kill them because she used their affection for Gortash against them? Fucking brilliant. It was their loyalty to Gortash that made her resentful, and it was that same loyalty that would be their downfall.

The notion that perhaps they actually LET her kill them because they knew Gortash could handle her, in the way he could never handle killing them? Also fucking brilliant. They died to save him...only to come back, and deliver the killing blow themselves.

It's fucking Shakespearan, anon!!!

The dramatic irony is so fucking brilliant that I could froth about it for days!!!

URGH.

They'll never confirm these things though. And that's fine.

I'm smarter than everyone. I know what's good.

And THAT's good.

DURGETASH. But OUR durgetash, not theirs. The durgetash we hold in our bleeding palms.

And yes.

The dramatic irony of...we didn't know two vicious creatures could find something so soft within us. We weren't made for it. We didn't know what to do with it, so we tore it apart with our teeth. And then we didn't even get to mourn the loss together.

Only one remembers. The other isn't aware that they've lost something.

And that is more heart breaking than simply losing a beautiful thing.

#enver gortash #dark urge #durgetash

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dragon-kazansky · 1 month

Text

When the raven calls

Morpheus x Female Reader

You, his raven, die protecting Jessamy while rescuing the Dream Lord. When Morpheus returns to his realm, he mourns your loss, only to find a stranger waiting for him in his throne room. The stranger claims to be you, now in human form. He doesn't understand, but his raven will always watch over him.

{Masterlist}

{Previous Chapter} - {Next Chapter}

Chapter Eleven - All together now

☆☆☆

The knock on your door is firm but also cautious. You can tell he is hesitant. You know it's him before he even speaks.

"Go away."

For the first time ever, Morpheus doesn't know how to feel about you. You've never spoken to him like that before. You've always welcomed him. Now he senses your disdain toward him.

"Can we talk?"

You don't answer him. Morpheus feels hopeless right now. Upsetting you was something he never wanted to do. Ever. Not since... Not since he realised just how he felt.

He gently rests his head against the door and sighs softly.

"I did what I had to do. Gault will learn her lesson, and she will return one day. I did not think this would upset you so much."

Morpheus is startled by how quickly you open the door. You glare up at him, eyes still glistening with tears.

"Upset me? You've hurt me. How dare you send Gault away like that. She was trying to protect the boy. She wasn't harming anyone."

"She was keeping Jed in a lie. It is not our job to protect them from their waking lives." Morpheus tries to tell you.

"I know that much. God, you're so... difficult!"

Morpheus stares at you.

"You punish people just because they dare say no to you. How can you be so happy about that?" You look at him desperately. "Gault. Nada. Neither of them hurt you. Just your pride."

Dream clenches his jaw. He didn't expect this personal attack on him.

"I hate that I care so much. I hate that... that I can't do anything to fix any of this. I hate... that I feel the same way she did, and yet you're letting me go about my business."

"You feel the same way?" He asks, unsure of what you're referring to.

"I'm not the way you made me. Not any more. I changed. You're not punishing me for being different."

"Your case is different."

"Is it? Because it doesn't look it to me. Gault wanted to be a Dream. I think that's beautiful. You denied her that wish and sentenced her to the darkness." You wipe at your eyes gently. "I don't like being human any more..."

Morpheus feels his heart break.

You turn back into a raven. "I won't need this room anymore. I'm going to stay a raven. So, forget everything. Forget me stupid emotions and... and the clothes and the ice cream, and all that stuff we did."

You fly past Morpheus and disappear into the palace.

Morpheus stands there with his thoughts.

☆☆☆

You had gone to the library to seek comfort in Lucienne. She wasn't surprised to see you back in your raven form. The main reason you had stayed in your human form so long before was because Dream had asked you to stay like that.

She could see he was particularly fond of you as a human.

Still, she said nothing and let you keep her company. After all, Lord Morpheus had been quite clear to her about her place in the Dreaming.

It seemed everyone was having issues with the stubborn king.

Matthew comes flying in quickly and lands on the table beside you and Jessamy. You look at him.

"I don't know how she did it, but Rose just got Lyta pregnant."

"What?" Lucienne looks at him confused.

"Apperantly it happened in her dream, and when Lyta woke up-"

"She was still pregnant."

"Very much so," Matthew confirms.

"Then it's starting." You say. Lucienne nods.

"Rose is weakening the walls between the realms."

"You gonna tell the boss?" Matthew asks.

"No." Lucienne says.

"No?"

"It's none of my business."

You caw softly and step a little closer to her hand, pecking her finger gently with affection.

"Uh, since when?"

"Since Lord Morpheus reminded me that I'm merely a librarian and should concern myself with my books from now on." Lucienne tells him.

"He said that?"

"He's being an ass." You scoff.

Matthew is surprised to hear speak badly about him. He had always assumed you looked up to the guy. You had always been so fond of him and talked very highly of him before.

"What is wrong with him?" Matthew asks.

"Nothing is wrong with him. He's always been this way." Lucienne explains. "He's juat been away so long I'd forgotten. He's determined to deal with the vortex and the missing Arcana by himself. Without anyones help. So any news must be reported directly and exclusively to him."

"Okay. But can I keep you in the loop?"

"You'd better not. In his Majesty's current mood, he could banish us to the Darkness." She sighs. "As he did Gault."

"All right, fine. I'll go back to spying on Rose. But you should make up with him. Both of you."

"I should make up with him?" You ask, almost laughing.

"Yes. Now's not the time to be fighting, not when there's a vortex getting people pregnant and runaway Nightmares doing God knows what."

You sigh. "I'm not going to talk to him."

Matthew caws.

"I'm going to help you." You say.

"Huh?"

"With Rose."

"Is that a good idea? You wanna tell the boss first?" Matthew asks.

"Nope."

Before either Matthew or Lucienne can say anything, you fly off. Matthew turns to Jessamy, who had been quiet this whole time.

"What is happening?"

Jessamy looks at him. "They're having their first fight."

Lucienne looks at her. "I see."

"I don't." Matthew caws.

"They're in love." Lucienne says softly.

☆☆☆

You sit outside the window of Rose's room. You can see her talking to Lyta about dreams. Lyta wants to live in her dreams with her husband and the baby.

Rose's phone rings, and she answers it. You can't hear the other side, but you can tell Rose is talking to Jed.

She knows where he is.

You could go there and keep an eye on Jed.

Someone knocks on her door and you decide to leave.

You fly off.

The location in question is a hotel. It may be three hours away from Rose, but with your access to the Dreaming, it did not take long at all. You land in a tree opposite the hotel and decide to stake it out.

☆☆☆

Morpheus is in his throne room looking at his broken windows. Something is happening in the Dreaming. Quakes. Violent shaking, leaving damage behind.

Something was wrong.

"Loosh? You in here?" Mervyn comes in but stops when he finds Morpheus. "Whoops. Oh, sorry, boss. I was looking for Lucienne. See ya." He tries to leave.

"Wait." Morpheus stops him. "Why were you looking for Lucienne?"

"Oh, well, we just had some minor seismic activity and a little, you know, damage i wanted to report." Mervyn says.

"Then why not report it to me?"

"Uh, because you're busy? While you were away, Lucienne started taking care of that stuff, so I figured... why bother you when-"

Morpheus looks displeased. "Mervyn, if the Dreaming has been damaged in any way, I will be the one to address it."

The whole place shakes again. The window cracks even further.

"Oh, for crying out loud. You want me to fix that for you? Or will it just keep happening?" Mervyn asks.

"It will not keep happening because I will find the cause of the disturbance, and I will eliminate it." Morpheus declares. "Thank you, Mervyn."

"Uh, you're welcome."

Morpheus looks back at the window in thought. He then walks away, heading to the library.

He walks through the aisles with books under his arm. He walks with determination and then stops when he reaches where Lucienne is.

"Lucienne?"

"My Lord."

"I have come to return these..." He hands the books he was carrying. "And to assess the extent of the damage from the recent disturbances." He looks around. "Have... you any idea as to what caused them?" He asks.

"I assumed it was you, sir."

"Me?"

"Making further improvements to the realm... now that you're back."

"Lucienne, when we last spoke, I did not mean to imply that your efforts beyond the library are without value."

"Oh?"

"I really wish to relieve you of responbilities with which, had I been here, you would never have been burdened."

"I see."

"And... in that time, did you experience any... similar seismic disturbances?" He asks slowly. He speaks carefully.

"I did not."

"Have you any... theory as to their origin?"

"Speaking strictly as a librarian? I do." She says. "But you won't like it."

"Go on."

"I know you're waiting to see I'd the vortex will lead you to The Corianthian and Fiddler's Green. The way she led you to Gault."

"She may yet still." He says.

"Yes, but while you're waiting, she's putting cracks in the foundation." Lucienne sighs.

"Rose Walker has visited this realm before and done no damage. This is something else, something new."

"Perhaps. But if there is something new in the Dreaming and you did not create it, how did it get here? This is the vortex. I assure you."

Morpheus thinks it through.

☆☆☆

Dream stands at your door. He hadn't brought himself to dismantle the room after what you said last time he spoke to you. In fact, he hadn't seen you since that conversation.

He felt sad. Sad that he had upset you. Sad that you had refused your human form. Sad that he didn't stop you from leaving when you got mad at him.

He wanted to talk to you, but he knew you weren't in there. "What am I doing?" He asks himself.

Morpheus walks away.

I'm sorry. He wanted to say.

Morpheus decides to give you your space and go deal with whatever is happening on his own. He can make things up with you later.

He finds himself in the dream of Lyta Hall. Rose is there, too. As is Lyta's deceased husband.

He needs to fix this.

"What do you think?" Matthew caws.

"Tell Lucienne she was right about the source of the tremors, and that I'm taking care of it."

He walks down to the house.

☆☆☆

You see Rose climb out of a car that just pulled up. There's a man with her. One you recognise immediately, though he didn't always look like that.

"Hm."

They head inside the hotel. You look around and then fly down to the ground, landing on two human feet. You won't get far going inside as a raven. You head for the entrance.

When you get inside, you don't see Rose or the man she was with. You sigh and look around the lobby. It's busy.

You don't even notice The Corianthian who had come inside because he thought he saw Jed run down the hall. He noticed you though.

It just hasn't clicked who you were yet.

He goes back outside. You walk further into the hotel.

Gilbert had seen and heard some things he would rather have not. He walks out of one of the rooms and frowns. As he turns, he catches a glimpse of you. Something clicks.

He knows you are.

He goes to call you, but you walk away. He panics. Gilbert heads back to the lobby and leaves a message at the front desk for Rose. He then leaves the hotel.

He needs to see Morpheus.

☆☆☆

Back in the Dreaming, Morpheus enters the library looking for Lucienne.

"Lucienne?"

"My Lord. There's something I must tell you." She comes out from between two shelves.

"And I will listen." He says. "But first, you must let me tell you you were right. The vortex was responsible for the damage to our realm, and I was... wrong to risk our safety in the hope that she would locate the missing Arcana."

"You were not entirely wrong, sir." She days to him. "She's found them both."

"What? The Corianthian and Fiddler's Green? Where? How do you know?" He asks.

"Fiddler's Green told me."

Gilbert comes into view and joins them. He looks at Morpheus with shame. He bows his head and looks back up at Dream.

"Apologies, lord, for having left."

"Why? Why did you leave? I trusted you. You were the heart of The Dreaming."

"No, sir. You were the heart of The Dreaming. And you were gone." Gilbert tells him. "I was curious. And it turns out that life as a human contains substance I never even imagined when I was here. Which is why I've returned because... he's murdering them."

"The Corianthian?"

"He appears to have built up a cult of worshippers who kill for pleasure, endangering the waking world and the life of a friend called Rose Walker."

"The Corianthian has found Rose Walker?" Morpheus asks, needing to know for sure.

"Yes." Gilbert looks confused.

"Can you imagine the damage he could do with someone like Rose?" Lucienne says, looking at Dream.

"You must tell me where they are."

"I thought perhaps you knew." He said. "Your raven is there, at least, I believe it was her."

Morpheus' heart sinks.

"My raven...?"

"Yes. Although, she appears to be human now." Gilbert wad rather confused. He didn't know you could do that.

Your name falls from his lips.

"No..."

Lucienne looks at Morpheus with worry. She knew you had gone to see Rose, but it didn't dawn on her that you would go so far. Now you were close to The Corianthian, too.

Morpheus leaves the library immediately.

☆☆☆

You see no sign of Rose or of Jed. You decide they must be upstairs somewhere. As you turn back around to head for the lifts or elevators as they call them in this country, you find yourself face to face with The Corianthian.

"Well, hello."

"Oh dear..."

☆☆☆

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