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redisaid · 3 months

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Strangers - Part 1 of ??

A very special shoutout to @jujoobedoodling for their amazing art, and for sharing this neat little idea with me when I asked if there's any sort of fics they'd like to see.

So, fellas, is it gay to make Sylvaina fall in love over prison letters, in a nutshell? I dunno. Let's find out.

5146 Words

Read it on Ao3!

“I wasn’t expecting company.”

Jaina wants to assure her she didn't come to stare at her like she's some sabercat in a cage—teeth dulled on the bars, roar hoarse and failing. Only she realizes now that this is exactly why she's come. A wave of shame threatens to crash over her, but she dismisses it. She came to deliver Veressa’s letter, and to banish the notion that Sylvanas Windrunner truly was a stranger to her.

Staring at Sylvanas, waiting for her to rattle the bars of her would be cage, would do neither of those things for her.

“Certainly not you,” Sylvanas continues, drawling out the last word with her high, nasally elven accent, still chiming in a banshee double-tone.

They stand now in the Maw, where Jaina had been asked by her friend to draw an interdimensional portal to deliver a letter to her sister as only she and a handful of other mages on Azeroth could. Jaina had been reluctant to agree. She had refused at first, of course.

But here she was, all the same.

You, with that drawl and sneer and the arrow still aimed between her eyes, was about all that Jaina deserved from this woman. After all, Vereesa was right—at best, they were strangers.

“What is it you’ve come for? To deliver more demands from Tyrande? To report to her? To make sure I am completing my penance? Or did you come to gloat?”

The accusations pile up. Jaina lets them. She scans the tangle of strange and unnatural rocks jutting from the charcoal earth of this literal hell. It doesn’t take her long to realize she’s stumbled upon Sylvanas’ camp. Her home here in the Maw, simple, but well lived-in. The undead have no need for food or sleep and suffer minimally from lack of shelter, and while Jaina knows this, she still observes a makeshift bedroll, the embers of a dying fire, clustered close to a lean-to made mostly of chunks of dull grey metal, once the armor of some great beast or terrible construct long since vanished after its master’s defeat.

It has been a year on Azeroth. Jaina knows time stretches in the Shadowlands, but not by a factor of how much. She wonders how long it has been since Sylvanas has seen another person. Two years? A decade? A century?

The woman herself is little better than her camp. Her armor sits beside the fire, mostly shrugged off in rest, and while it looks well-kept, it is still worn. The dark leathers she wears beneath it, and now exclusively, are much the same. At first glance, they do not look so different as when she lay in Oribos after her own defeat, as Uther bade them to wait for her to wake and explain her actions. However, Jaina’s keen eyes find the rips and the tears, the mending that has been executed with scraps of grey cloth and grey metal and grey leather fashioned from the skin of a grey, doubly dead beast. Everything here is grey. Hell is devoid of color, but Sylvanas’ eyes burn into her, bright and blue, demanding an answer.

So she gives it, “None of those are my reason. Your sister, my friend…Vereesa asked me to come.”

Truly, Vereesa’s choices were limited. Only those who had walked the Maw, of their volition or Sylvanas’, could safely find it again. Only fewer of the great mages of Azeroth were capable of entering it without going through Oribos, or asking permission from the entities that ruled there. Jaina, Khadgar, and a few heroic Mawwalkers perhaps were the only ones who could have delivered this letter. And while Jaina had been reluctant, she was not about to offer Khadgar the excuse to use this place as another of his many distractions if Vereesa were to ask him instead.

At least, that was another one of her reasons for accepting.

Only now does the arrow lower, and the bow with it. At the mention of her sister’s name, Sylvanas gives up her fight.

“How can I trust her not to tear me apart, if we’re to be alone there?” Jaina had asked the youngest Windrunner sister, back in her office in Boralus, days ago.

“I suppose you can’t,” had been Vereesa’s answer. “You don’t know her.”

Jaina holds out the letter. It is folded neatly and sealed and she has done her best to resist the temptation to read it or even scry upon it with magic. Such is her trust for Vereesa. Her sister, not so much.

Perhaps this will be the end of it, then. She’ll deliver her letter. She’ll make arrangements for a response. She’ll leave. Sylvanas will go back to gathering souls, living even though she does not live, in this ramshackle camp—this prison of her own making. Jaina will have done something good and satisfied her curiosity. The sabercat will wither in her cage, having gained only further shame from her observation.

Jaina isn’t sure why she expects anything more than that, but she does.

“She wrote you a letter,” she explains. “I’m not able to bring her here like this for her to deliver it herself. Perhaps something can be arranged for her to visit by other means, if you’re interested.”

Sylvanas hesitates. Jaina watches her think.

She watches her closely, waiting for the muscles in her broad shoulders to twitch and aid in pointing her bow upward again. She finds more rends in her leathers, more attempts at mending. She watches, and finds a woman determined, though for what she isn’t certain.

Sylvanas Windrunner as she is now is a stranger to her. Once, her eyes burned red with rage and hatred and it was easy enough to say that Jaina had known her as an enemy. She and her Forsaken whispered, “Death to the living,” though they were of the same people Jaina had once led in Theramore—survivors of Lordaeron, as it were. Scarred in different ways by the same man.

Yet as before, even when Uther, dead and scarred by the same hand, bid Jaina to see reason and work with Sylvanas to defeat the Jailer, she cannot help but to fall into old habits. Magic pulses at her fingertips, waiting. She is ready for Sylvanas to attack her. She is ready to know her as an enemy once again.

This woman burned Teldrassil. She’d resurrected Derek to use against her. She’d blighted her own city in a rage rather than give it to the Alliance, to Jaina specifically, who had turned that battle in their favor.

Jaina is certain that this is still what she is—a burner and blighter, a screaming banshee that knows only hatred—and she’s ready for her.

She is not ready for Sylvanas to put down her bow and the arrow knocked within it, and begin to walk over to meet her.

She’s not ready for the soft muttering that follows, and the wry chuckle that comes with it, “I doubt Tyrande would allow me such a luxury as a visit from my sister.”

This is no banshee, no formless enemy. No, Sylvanas is an elf, still undead and still much unchanged from the last time Jaina saw her, but now walking toward her with purpose. She moves like Alleria, proud and powerful. She smirks a little, the same way as Vereesa does when she thinks no one is looking. Her hair, though dull and ashen in death, is a shade between Alleria’s honey gold and Vereesa’s cool silver.

“You’re so certain she’s changed?” Jaina had asked Vereesa before she’d left. “You were only allowed to speak with her for a few minutes.”

“I know my sister, Jaina,” Vereesa had replied, head tilted upward, smiling. “I know that I have her back, or I will, should she ever be allowed to return home.”

Where is home, Jaina wonders, holding out the letter, to a woman who died for her country, and razed the one she built out of the ashes of a nation everyone else abandoned?

If and when she completes her penance, who will want Sylvanas Windrunner, burner of trees, blighter of cities? Manipulated or not, she did these things. No amount of souls ferried to better places can change that. And while Vereesa claims much, she cannot move the inevitable mountains that will stand in her way if she chooses to defend her sister, to make a home for her in Azeroth again one day.

The dip of Sylvanas’ head upon her graceful neck seems to say to Jaina that she knows this. The way she holds up her hands, bare and long-fingered without any gloves or gauntlets to cover them, tells Jaina she knows what she is to her—an enemy still. A problem unwanted, surely.

But still, Jaina had agreed to come here. She is determined to make sure that the reason for it all was not as simple as gawking at a toothless beast, though Sylvanas doesn’t seem as though she will bite.

She takes the letter from her. She looks to her. She waits.

“I can’t speak for Tyrande, or any authority Oribos and its contingent might have on the matter,” Jaina tells her. “But I can deliver a reply, if you want.”

Now this close to her, Jaina can tell Sylvanas is taller than her sisters. More broad-shouldered like Alleria than slight as Vereesa is, bordering between both of them with the elder’s wildness and Vereesa’s well-manicured elven beauty. She is neither and both, but seems to have maintained some semblance of grooming, despite having no one to look nice for. Her hair is combed and neat. She is clean, with only the barest hint of the grey dust and ash that swirls in the air of this place clinging to her skin.

That grey, at least, is warm in nature, and Sylvanas’ is cold, more toward purple. Their meeting is an interesting contrast of hues.

“Very well,” she answers, one long finger tracing the seal on the letter as she eyes it. “I would offer you tea while you wait, but I have no such thing.”

While she waits. Jaina hadn’t assumed she’d be allowed to, asked to, or really anything but run off with sneers and insults at best, arrows at worst.

She supposes that if she hadn’t seen another person in a year, she too would want them to stay a while, no matter who they were. But has it been longer? The state of Sylvanas’ clothes says yes.

Jaina endeavors to break any falling of awkward silence to seek the answer, “It has been a year or so, on Azeroth, since I returned from the Shadowlands. Has it been the same for you?”

She stiffens, recalling who it was who brought her here the first time, though she saw little of Sylvanas then. Only the Mawsworn that were meant to hold her captive, and keep her from escaping Torghast, though she managed to do so several times. Jaina knows now that her purpose in doing so was just to keep her out of the way—to keep her from interfering with what was to be done with Anduin.

Anduin, another reason for her to come here. Yet she did not find him. The Maw is but one of many possible places the boy could have gone, though he’s hardly a boy anymore. Jaina knows what he did and was made to do weighs heavily on him. She’d thought that maybe he too would seek penance, and wouldn’t care if it was his own to seek, yet there is no sign of him here. This camp is meant only for one.

“There is no day or night here for me to know,” Sylvanas tells her as she slides a sharp-looking fingernail beneath the wax seal and opens the letter. “One could keep track by counting the hours, I suppose, but trust me, it is a dull pastime. It has been a long time. A very long time.”

A long time, Jaina thinks, to wear the same clothes and see no one but lost souls.

A spectral fluttering of wings catches her eye and reminds her that Sylvanas does have one other companion besides the souls she ferries. Dori’thur’s wide eyes catch Jaina’s as she looks up into the canopy formed by this tangle of rock, ironically almost nest-like. The owl spirit makes no motion to acknowledge her, so carefully does she watch her charge instead. Doomed or honored to be her warden, Jaina can’t decide. The owl, it seems, does not care either way. She just watches.

Sylvanas follows her gaze, and a little smile creaks its way into lips that seem to forget how to bend that way. “Don’t mind the owl. It loves to stare.”

“She. Dori’thur,” Jaina corrects.

Sylvanas’ blue eyes are wide for a moment, drinking in the information in a way that shows it is clearly new to her. No one bothered to tell her the name of her warden, really?

“I didn’t know,” Sylvanas confesses. “And here I’ve just been calling you owl this whole time,” she calls up at the spire of twisted stone that Dori’thur perches on.

The spirit cocks her head just slightly at Sylvanas, the first and only acknowledgement she gives.

Jaina stands for a moment, maybe two. She looks around at the humble camp, the spectral owl, the once fearsome undead elf in her ragged leathers, reading her letter with blue eyes that look strange on her.

Sylvanas looks up once Jaina’s gaze comes to rest on her. Her long brows furrow briefly, simmering in the awkwardness, the wrongness of this.

They have never met, despite all the things they both share and do not share, in a way that allowed them the luxury of quiet conversation. And despite the nagging curiosity that dragged her here, the continued insistence by Vereesa that she did not know her, or least as anything but an enemy, Jaina does not know what to say to her.

So instead, she offers, “I can go, and return after a time to allow you your privacy.”

Sylvanas nearly drops the letter. She takes a step toward her. She catches herself and does not take a second. She reaches out a bare and empty hand to Jaina, then drops it to her side immediately upon realizing what she’s done.

“No. No,” she says, trying to make the words come out not as a plea, but anything else. “A while for you is longer for me. I would—I would rather be as prompt as possible, you understand. I have my penance to work on, still more souls to guide. I don’t have time to wait around for you to return here.”

It is a poor excuse, and they both know it. They know it in the silence between the ask Sylvanas isn’t actually asking and the reply Jaina struggles to give. They know it in the way Sylvanas reaches for her, a woman she does not know in any other way but an enemy, and apparent friend to her younger sister and her owl warden, because she and her letter and her excuses for delivering it are the only reason she’s had any contact with something remotely like herself in a long, long time.

Jaina is living and breathing and human and annoyed, but curious. She is not undead and newly made whole of soul again, though she supposes that’s not so new anymore. She knows, though, that she cannot possibly understand what it is Sylvanas is thinking as she reaches for her. But still, she reaches.

Jaina does not leave. “I will wait then.”

Where she will wait is the question, really, and she sees Sylvanas ask it of herself too as she looks back toward her camp. Still, she gestures for Jaina to follow her.

It is a strange time she lives in, Jaina thinks, as she does.

And this is how she ends up seated on a stool of chipped rock, across the dying fire from where Sylvanas sits on her bed roll, reading her letter.

Sylvanas is undead and does not need a bed or a stool or a fire. Her owl warden is a spirit of nature and needs no comforts as well. Yet Sylvanas has made them, and taken the time to make them. She reads and sits cross-legged like a child. Jaina’s eyes pick at her leathers still, finding more wear and tear as she reads, counting the patches and stitches. It irks her. For some reason, of all the things, the state of her clothes bothers Jaina the most.

She’s never seen Sylvanas in anything other than fine armor, meant to intimidate as much as it was to impress. And while she still has fine armor, stacked neatly by the fire in her rest, Jaina can see that too is worn.

“Do you want new things?” Jaina eventually asks. She can’t stand the silence any longer, though from the rustling of the second of four pages, she knows Sylvanas isn’t done reading.

Sylvanas looks up. Her blue eyes dart from Jaina to her armor and herself. To the contrast of warm grey dust and cool grey skin. The mended rips and tears of her leathers match the similar state of her skin. Scars abound as little pale points and lines, streaking across her like stars in the night sky. Just barely visible at the tip of her sternum, beneath the dark leather, a gnarled and twisting point belies the deep scar where Frostmourne rent her and stole her soul, for the first time.

Sylvanas seems disturbed by the question, or perhaps by her own appearance. Maybe both. “I have done the best I could to maintain what I was given.”

“I didn’t mean to criticize,” Jaina tells her immediately, because this is the line she must draw and draw right away, regardless of how many cities this woman may have burned, or under whose influence she burned them. “It’s just—well, with Vereesa’s help, I’m sure, we could get you new things.”

“She has not mentioned this in her letter thus far,” Sylvanas says, holding up the paper as if it were the armor she so desperately seems to want to hide within now.

“She has not seen you,” Jaina tells her.

And I do not know you, she tells herself.

Jaina does not know her, but she knows the scars that form the map of the stars that make up her skin. She knows which is Frostmourne, which is the line under her eye from Saurfang’s ax at the Mak’gora. She knows there’s another from an ice lance she’s thrown, yes there, near her left elbow where there was a gap in her old skull armor.

She can feel that Sylvanas wants to shrink under her gaze, to disappear. But she does not. She sits up a little, chest out, daring Jaina to say something else.

“Then I’ll draft a list in my reply, and trust that you’ll explain the reasoning behind it,” Sylvanas offers in challenge.

“I will.”

Dori’thur, thankfully, chooses this time to swoop down and alight herself onto the top of Sylvanas’ lean-to, rather than leave them to simmer in silence again.

The owl looks between them, then at the paper in Sylvanas’ hands. Sylvanas, having gone back to reading, simply says, “Not for you, owl.”

“Dori’thur,” Jaina reminds.

“Not for you, Dori’thur. What an odd name,” Sylvanas notes, but says nothing else.

“Does she leave you to report to Tyrande?” Jaina wonders, watching both the owl and her charge now.

“That would require her to stop watching me, so no. I do not know how or if Tyrande knows what she sees. Frankly, it matters little to me. I have said that I will do what was asked of me. I do not need a babysitter to ensure that I do,” Sylvanas tells her.

Though Jaina catches something in the middle of her words. A brief dashing of blue eyes. Another little smirk, elven and wry and lopsided in such a way that’s distinctly Windrunner. She wonders who was the first to hold it. Alleria? Their mother or father? Or a Windrunner before them? An elf so ancient Jaina struggles with the numbers.

All she knows is that Sylvanas seems to enjoy the company of her warden, in a way. And that her little secret smile is something Jaina never thought she’d see on that face.

Objectively, dead and haunted and guilty as she is, she’s beautiful still. All the Windrunners are, after all.

Sylvanas is looking up at her again, expecting Jaina to challenge that notion. She’s probably expecting her to question this camp, this fire, these small comforts. The time she takes to mend her ragged clothes. The rest she dares to seek from time to time, though there are no days or nights here in the Maw to track it by.

Jaina clears her throat. “How goes it then, your work?” she asks, and nearly immediately regrets it for how silly that sounds.

How goes it, rounding up the souls you doomed to an eternity of torture? How goes it, making up for decisions that were not entirely yours, but still part and parcel wishes of your own? How goes it, living in the prison of your own failures, alone save for an owl that does nothing but stare at you?

There is a justice in this, yes. Jaina wants to sink into that and never leave. It is easier to feel like this is justice in action she’s seeing. The tedium and wear of it all are things Sylvanas deserves to endure. She deserves worse, depending on who is asking.

But the woman in front of her looks tired. She is as worn as her clothing, body as stiff and rigid as her defensive words.

Jaina will not deny her the comfort a fire and a rest might bring, now and then, though she doesn’t understand why Sylvanas seeks them. Either way, demanding she go without is a cruelty beyond necessity.

“It goes,” Sylvanas answers. “There are still many more for me to find. Torghast alone will take countless more visits to empty. The Beast Warrens are a maze I’ve still yet to properly map and account for, among other such haunts in this hellish place.”

She does not say more. She reads. Jaina watches. Dori’thur too. Sylvanas sneaks a glance at her every now and then, blue eyes flitting fast over the edge of the parchment, then back below it.

Jaina waits, as she said she would.

Sylvanas Windrunner is a stranger to her, but invited her to what home she had here all the same.

“I miss her,” Vereesa had told her, before she left. “I thought the sister I knew was gone, but I know now that she’s still herself, or is now, at least. I had mourned her, Jaina. I had mourned her for years, but now I can say that I miss her. She’s not gone, she’s just not here. And I don’t know when she’ll be back. You can’t blame me for trying.”

Jaina didn’t blame her.

Flipping to page three of Vereesa’s loopy handwriting, Sylvanas says, “I must look a sight to you, for you to say something about the state of my gear.”

Jaina corrects herself. She does not know Sylvanas, but she knew one thing about her, well, about who she once was. She was notoriously vain, and though Vereesa claimed this was exaggerated, she was known to repeatedly tell a story about how Sylvanas had screamed at her once for getting mud on her dress right as she was headed out the door for a Ranger ball, like she thought it was the funniest thing in the world.

And Jaina has just come here to her prison, the first other person she’s seen in gods know how long, handed her a letter, and told she looked a mess.

“It just seems to have been some time, that’s all,” Jaina assures her.

Sylvanas huffs a laugh she hides behind parchment, just like the odd blue of her eyes. Jaina struggles to replace it with the red of her memories.

“If there’s anything else you want, such that I could carry with me through a portal, then ask it,” Jaina offers, perhaps out of guilt.

Perhaps out of curiosity again, for what this woman might ask for. What comforts she might crave.

Sylvanas eyes her at this statement. It seems this is the first time she really takes Jaina in, perhaps to assess her intentions, or perhaps to assess how much she can carry. Jaina isn’t sure. But she knows she now feels like that sabercat in the cage. She wonders if Sylvanas still thinks she has her teeth.

She thinks, perhaps, that she doesn’t want the judgment of a virtually immortal and beautiful elf. Undead though she is, scarred and worn, she thinks Sylvanas might have plenty of criticisms to offer over her messy braid, the prudish nature and drab colors of her Kul Tiran garb, or the crows feat that have begun to claw in earnest at the dull blue of Jaina’s eyes, which only glow when she shows her real teeth.

Instead of worrying about that, Jaina wonders what she might ask for, if she were to spend potential centuries in hell doing penance. Something to pass the time. Playing cards, perhaps? Though Solitaire would get old quickly, and Dori’thur doesn’t look like she’d be much competition at Hearthstone. An instrument to play? Surely those nimble fingers of Sylvanas’ would be clever on a lute or lyre or something elven and haughty and old. Jaina had never learned to play anything with proficiency in all of her thirty-eight years of life, but might come out of such a situation fairly talented at the fiddle or flute. Her brothers would be impressed, surely.

But what would Sylvanas do, to pass the time, in her idle moments? Would she fletch arrows for game that didn’t exist, and flesh she didn’t need to eat, enemies already defeated? Would she sharpen the shortsword Jaina could see resting in its scabbard beside the fire on a whetstone until it was honed and wicked, only to have nothing to plunge it into?

Would Jaina ever be able to consider anything but war-like interests for her, even as she saw Sylvanas considering her from her bedroll, shoulders bare, hair loose, clearly not ready for any sort of battle?

“Paper,” she answers. “Ink and a few quills too, if you’d be so generous.”

Paper was not anywhere close to the answer Jaina thought she’d give.

Sylvanas holds the letter up again as her armor, her shield, her weapon. “Vereesa has asked me to reply, for us to continue to correspond. I wish to write her back.”

“Right, that’s easy enough,” Jaina agrees.

“What was that hesitation? Afraid I’ll draw up plans for world domination upon my eventual return? I’m not interested, truly. Believe me, Proudmoore, it’s not worth it,” Sylvanas assures her.

There is mischief in those secret smiles. A spark in glowing blue eyes that dares Jaina to challenge it, but in the way a child challenges her friend to a foot race. A craving for competition, maybe, in any form, or companionship on the barest of levels.

“Jaina,” she corrects her. “If I am to continue to deliver said letters, as it were, you might as well call me Jaina. And I didn’t think you had your sights set so lofty, but thanks for clarifying.”

Sylvanas nods to this. “So many names have I earned today. Though I’ll still call Dori’thur ‘owl’. Osa is the Thalassian word. It has more punch, right, osa?”

Dori’thur cocks her head just slightly at the term, then slowly blinks her large eyes.

“Very astute, thank you for adding so much to the conversation, as always,” Sylvanas sighs.

Jaina supposes that she too, would talk to a silent owl, if she were left alone for so long. She would probably go insane long before her clothes began to wear out, if it were her.

“Either way, I’ll continue to deliver your letters,” Jaina assures her. “I hadn’t realized this was a more than once sort of favor I’m doing, but I suppose I should have.”

“I’d say Vereesa is lucky to befriend such a powerful mage and be able to make such inane requests of her, but she always did like mages,” Sylvanas notes, going back to reading and flipping to the final page of Vereesa’s letter.

This time, though, the smile stays on her face too long to be a secret. Long enough for Jaina to watch her get lost in a memory, maybe two, and still come out smiling.

Smiling at her sister, a fondness beyond ages and time and dimensions and death—and the reason, perhaps, why Vereesa felt compelled to write to her, and send her friend to check on her.

“Tea,” Sylvanas mutters, eyes still glued to the parchment.

“Padron?”

“Bring tea when you come back,” Sylvanas tells her.

“What kind do you like?” Jaina asks, uncertain. She didn’t think undead drank.

Even if they did, she wouldn’t know the answer. Vereesa likes chamomile, sometimes. She doesn’t really drink tea. Alleria, well, Jaina has never seen Alleria drink anything but alcohol and would be afraid to ask if had any other preferences for more sober sorts of beverages.

“Whatever kind you like. It’s not for me,” Sylvanas says.

“Are you telling me that you’d like me to bring tea for myself when I come back?” Jaina asks, needing desperately for something about this request to be clear to her.

Sylvanas laughs her little laugh. It sounds like it’s been sanded down, worn like the caged sabercat’s teeth, like tattered leathers.

“I suppose I am. I don’t want to be a bad host, but I’m afraid all I have to offer here are rocks and broken war machines and wandering souls. None of these are fit to drink, or to give to company.”

Company. Jaina hadn’t expected to be company to her. She hadn’t expected the hidden smiles and weary laughs and how Sylvanas had tried to cover the desperation in the way she reached out after her. She hadn’t expected to find her nestled in a little camp, forging a mockery of a life that had long been stolen from her and the comforts of living she no longer needed, but clearly still craved.

Jaina isn’t sure. She doesn’t know anymore. She didn’t, even as she first cast the portal spell this morning that would take her to the Maw. She was curious. She still is.

But company, she supposes, is a thing she can try to be.

#sylvaina #sylvanas windrunner #jaina proudmoore #fanfic #count me surprised to be this intrigued by a post-shadowlands premise but ok here we go

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signed-sapphire · 2 months

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The Fallen Star ✨

A Wish rewrite

Cielo design 💛

The boy is here! The most ever! The Fallen Star’s very own Starboy!

So I lied and don’t have the finalized designs for King Maggie or Queen Ams yet soooooo *throws confetti at you* take this Starboy reimagining in the meantime!

Eugh boy the name gave me trouble. I didn’t want to use Aster since that’s the name of a a couple popular Starboys already (@annymation/@gracebeth3604/ @mythartist21) and while the Greek name is cool, I wanted something a bit different.

SEE-EH-LO, for anyone wondering. He/they pronouns <3

I was heavily considering choosing Estrella and making Starboy a Stargirl, and then we’d have a gay romance. But this is supposed to be SOMEWHAT of a homage to early Disney. This may not be KoW, but… idk. Cielo is a gender neutral name. Literal manifestation of light. Go ahead and draw them as a female-presenting figure and it’s still TFS!canon~

Aaaaaaanyways. Here’s the actual rewrite!

First of all! Cielo is NOT the Northern Star! He’s a baby star like… in the bottom right

However, the Northern Star? Evangeline? Yeah, she’s gonna be in my rewrite

But Cielo is NOT her

For now I’ll just say Evangeline is sort of a mentor-figure to Cielo and leave it at that

So not all stars are wishing stars, and similar to Kingdom of Wishes, a wishing star is born when first wished upon

Once a wishing star fulfills their first wish, they become Stars (capital S), and are free to help anyone that needs it

The more wishes a Star fulfills, the more powerful they become

Idk maybe it’s like a Rise of the Guardians thing, where the more people that believe, the stronger your magic is

Sparkles and hope and glitter and shit

Until, as explained in my rewrite… the Stars grew bored and started simply granting wishes

Then people grew lazy and started demanding wishes

And all this belief made the Stars go overpowered

Basically it became Wonderland, everything coming true, kingdoms burning and villages destroyed

Yeah. So Magnus god rid of them eventually

Though who would suspect that it would be the king’s own daughter that would bring back his greatest fear?

Yep, Asha brought Cielo down

Not purposely, but even if she had done it purposely, she wouldn’t have chosen Cielo

He’s a little baby, a dwarf star maybe

Only ever gotten one wish in his life…

Huh never seen that before *side eyes KoW*

Personality traits

Optimistic

Very Anna-coded

Probably ADHD tbh (autism x adhd duo unite)

Stubborn

HE’S the quirky Disney princess

Although more Flynn than Raps

Backstory

Fuck around and find out

(And by fuck around I mean wait for my rewrite to come out bc I haven’t slept in two days and I’m too tired to articulate their story accurately)

Design

Due to popular demand, Cielo now has the Charlie Morningstar cheek thingies

Also @gracebethartacc got an ask about canon!Star being marketed with a star over their right eye so… vitiligo mark, anyone?

Yeah I don’t have many colored refs but basically Cielo’s star eye mark and cheek thingies turn into vitiligo marks when in their “human form”

Uh take this

Ye sort of like this^

Heart shaped face! His part is also supposed to resemble a “V” shape to make the top of the heart

My sister said they looked like Viva and I’m crying but too late to take it back

I guess they’re both Spanish? Ajdjajhsjajajs

Thin slutty waist. Imagine Lucifer from Hazbin Hotel bc Jeremy Jordan is Yes.

Like I’m obsessed with that wet cat of a character I’m thinking about Cielo’s voice being Jeremy

Although his younger VA days as like Varian would better suit Cielo…

ANYWAYS

Design by @mythartist21 save for the Trolls hair and cheek thingies! Those were my additions

Uhhh pointy ears, poofy sleeves

Idk is the star eye mark AND the cheek thingies too busy? Lmk and I’ll try to post a colored ref of that helps

#asha #disney wish #princess asha #asha x star #star x asha #the fallen star au #wish 2023 #human star #starsha #saph doodles #wish reimagined #wish disney #wish star #wish #star wish #wish concept art

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mogai-sunflowers · 11 months

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I’ve been bullied my whole life but none of my bullies ever compared to the exclusionists I’ve dealt with. it’s just so fucking ridiculous that I come here for a safe community and all I get is people saying I’m a predator for EXISTING. this happens to every queer who doesn’t fit the little narrative that corporations sell. I’m not welcome if I’m too visibly autistic because what if that means that I prove that the homophobes are right about us all being a disorder? I can’t be a trans guy AND a bi femme because what if I’m the reason other trans men get feminized? My Black friend can’t be as loud and proud as he wants, because what if he’s just a little *too* loud for the cops that line the streets at Pride? We can’t be QUEER, I can just be gay.

my good friend doesn’t go to pride because he doesn’t feel safe there as a Black person, especially Prides with heavy policing with whom the organizers of Pride actually ALLY. Another good friend can’t go because they get too many dirty looks for their wheelchair. I’ve been called the r slur by more queer people than even by my parents, but hey, they’re queer too, right? So I’ve just got to let it slide, or I risk making someone else uncomfortable, right? But what about me? What if I and so many others are ALREADY FUCKING UNCOMFORTABLE? What about our comfort? Or are you just so desperate for acceptance that you shit on the people who would actually give you that acceptance?

exclusionism is not a trend of just the Internet age. This respectability politics didn’t start with online fights, it started with the violent exclusion of queer poc and trans people from mainstream gay organizations in America. Then it was bi people, then aspec people, now it’s neopronouns and xenogenders and bi lesbians. I am NOT comparing being against bi lesbians to racism and transphobia, but I am saying that it’s absolutely ridiculous to ignore how this trend of exclusionism began. To ignore the past is to endanger the future.

Pride has never TRULY been a safe space for everyone, and until it is, we’re LOSING!!!!!! I believe in queer solidarity but I don’t believe in using the term solidarity to silence any complaint that a more marginalized queer person has. Queer solidarity is for when you actually put your money where your mouth is and show up for other queers. It’s not demanding justice only when it’s convenient for you.

cops don’t belong at pride, but disabled people, people of color, people of all religions, people of all backgrounds DO.

#🌌when the stars align ; reigns rambles🌌#tw discourse #pride #queer discourse #intracommunity issues #exclusionism #anti exclusionist

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anticomedygarden · 1 year

Text

adventure

cw: drinking

"Where are you two taking us?" Sirius asked breathlessly from a few paces back. "I don't think I've ever even been to this part of Diagon Alley."

"Be patient, mon frere, and you'll find out soon," James answered. He and Peter had been planning this night for weeks, and James would not have it ruined because of some whining.

"If we don't get there soon, I'm going home," Remus declared, and James didn't doubt for a second that he was lying. This outing was seriously cutting into their sitting around being sappy time.

But James did understand where he was coming from. As a gay couple involving a halfblood werewolf and a disowned pureblood, there weren't many places they could be open with each other, and the middle of a busy street in wizard London wasn't one of them. Currently, Remus and Sirius were walking side by side, hands carefully not touching but still in reach of the other's. It wasn't an experience James could ever fully understand in his relationship with Lily, but he could damn well make it easier for them.

Which was how the four marauders found themselves in front of a rather nondescript door tucked into the far side of Diagon Alley.

A little flap opened at eye level, and a pair of dark brown eyes looked out. "Password," they demanded.

"Oscar Wilde," James said.

Without another word, the door swung open, and they filed in, Remus and Sirius both taking a skeptical look around before stepping over the threshold.

"Follow me, please," a rather short person with a pink pixie cut and a name tag reading Venus said.

"James, where the hell are we?" Sirius asked, pulling his leather jacket tighter against the chilly tunnel.

James just shushed him.

Venus led the group through a dark tunnel to another door, this one painted in a bright rainbow.

Remus made a noise of understanding, and Sirius gasped. "Is this what I think it is?" he said excitedly.

James and Peter shared a smile. "Maybe."

Sirius squealed and grabbed Remus' hand tightly. "Open the door, please!"

Venus took out their wand and whispered an incantation James didn't quite catch, and the brightly colored door fell open, revealing a large room thronging with people of every color of the rainbow, drag queens, queer teens, and everything in between. To the right, a man in a white tank top and jeans was snogging someone with a truly brilliant green mohawk.

Sirius gave a shriek of, "Re!" before dragging his boyfriend out onto the dance floor, but not before Remus turned back to James and mouthed thank you.

"That's my favorite part of the job," Venus said once Peter had started towards the bar.

"Yeah?" James prompted.

They nodded. "Never gets old." Then, they turned to go back the way they'd came, closing the rainbow door behind them, and James went to join Peter at the bar.

"Hey, guess what I'm drinking," Peter said, grinning.

James looked at the clear liquid in the glass topped with a little pink umbrella. "Vodka?"

"A vodka dyke," he giggled. He peered out onto the dance floor and snorted. "Looks like they're having fun."

James followed his eyes to where Remus and Sirius were already grinding on each other. "Looks like." He smiled. "I'm really glad we could do this."

Peter nodded. "Me, too." He took another sip of his drink. "What's this place called, again?"

James grinned; that was the best part. "The Rainbow Adventure."

word count: 582 @wolfstarmicrofic

#wolfstar #wolfstar fanfic #my fic #my writing #remus lupin #sirius black #marauders #marauders era #wolfstar microfic #wolfstar fic #wolfstarmicrofic #james potter #peter pettigrew #adventure

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mixingpumpkins · 11 months

Text

God forbid there are colors

Literally.

I’m begging y’all celebrating Pride to be as loud and proud as you can, not just because you deserve to celebrate, but because people in churches are full of the most paranoid, self-centered idiocy about it to the point where I got woken up unnecessarily early today for an “emergency” to cater to said idiocy. And if I have to hear paranoid screaming about Pride first thing in the morning, you’re damn right I want everyone to have the biggest, loudest, most joyful Pride month yet.

Context: Among my side gigs, I’m webmaster for a few churches’ websites, because a paycheck’s a paycheck, it’s not too demanding of my time, and my work is the reason they have all their sermons and events live-streamed/archived on their sites every week in case, y’know, they’re ever saying shit that might involve someone looking into their tax-exempt status.

I usually set up all the back-end video streaming stuff on Saturday and try to use a topical picture from our photo subscription as a background for both the video thumbnail and the post thumbnail. As requested, I also try to post the service bulletins along with the videos, but one pastor has a habit of not sending me the bulletin before my midnight-the-night-before deadline, so at that point it’s agreed that I’ll just use a seasonal nature picture as the thumbnail photo and upload the bulletin whenever I get around to it on Sunday. (Most of the photos for that church, consequently, end up being nature photos.)

This morning, Housemate #2 — who is on a million committees in that church with Housemate #1 — comes screaming into my room at ass o’clock, telling me I need to fix the website now, the pastor even contacted her about it, etc. etc. (I don’t believe her because she said she couldn’t show me a text or email because she “deletes them immediately” — and also the pastor emailed me the bulletin/notes to add to the post long after the post was already up yesterday and didn’t say a word about any fixes needed.)

Y’all. She was mad because the image on this week’s post was a “rainbow.” To be clear, it was this:

So of course, I’m like, “...??? It’s a field of flowers.” Because it’s a field of flowers that’s colorful, but pretty damn clearly not a rainbow. 100% wasn’t even on my radar as rainbow — my search term in our image subscription was “summer.” (Housemate even went to a flower festival a few weeks ago and hinted that I should use a very similar photo that she took the next time I needed a nature pic for this church’s video thumbnail.)

But she’s insisting this picture is basically a rainbow and they can’t have anything that looks like Pride and how could I do this, I clearly did this on purpose, change it now to something that can’t be misconstrued, etc.

Fine. Wake me up, invade my space, scream, be bigoted, falsely accuse me of malicious intent ... Cue malicious compliance.

She’s hovering over me as I open up the church’s image subscription and all the places I need to go change settings and whatever to update the site. I conspicuously type in “summer” so she can see that this pops up among totally inappropriate ones like beach balls and kids playing in sprinklers. I point it out to her and start scrolling through the images to find a different nature pic. She tries to point out other ones.

“Use that one.”

“I’ve already used that one.” (Just a few weeks ago, in fact. They do not want repeat images.)

“What about that one?” She points to a different field of flowers that is actually the lesbian flag. Like, actually, obviously the lesbian flag. Housemate is not up on these things because she is too pure to know such sordid details; she only knows rainbows = gay = bad. As funny as this would be, I guarantee there would actually be screaming from people if I posted a literal lesbian pride flag made of flowers instead of a random colorful field of flowers, so I decide to save myself a little trouble and point out the issue.

“Lesbian pride flag.”

“This one?”

“Too small.” (I pull it up on the canvas and resize, to demonstrate that it turns into unintelligible pixel hell.)

“Here. These are flowers. They’re pink, yellow, and blue.”

“That is literally the pan pride flag.”

“What the hell is that?”

“Pansexual. Pride. Flag.” I pull up a picture of that so she can see.

“Well, it’s Trinity Sunday, search for that instead.”

I do. There’s a few too-small pictures of doves and a bunch of triskele and triquetra knots. She points to one of those. “There. The Trinity symbol. Use that.”

“That’s a pagan symbol. I wouldn’t want that to be misconstrued.” Incidentally, I point out, as I open the middle-of-the-night email with the bulletin boasting a similar picture, someone should probably remind the pastor about that since he’s so worried about people misinterpreting images as something non-Christian.

She’s grinding her teeth at this point. “That’s different. That has words [Father, Son, Holy Spirit] around it.”

“It’s still a very recognizable appropriated pagan symbol. Or would you be fine posting a swastika just because it has different words around it?”

We go back to nature photos.

“Try this one.”

“That’s really close to the bi pride flag, you know.”

“HERE. THIS ONE.”

Very thick pale pink and white flowers ... under a blue sky. Hmm. Looks very much like the trans pride flag, if I’m honest. She’s pissed, and housemates are going to be late for church soon.

“There. Those white daisies.”

“Yeah, we can do that, but you should know this picture does look like the agender pride flag if you’re just glancing at the colors.”

“I don’t care. I don’t know what that is. Nobody normal knows what that is, they’re not going to misconstrue it.”

“Hmm, I don’t know, since apparently that was the issue with the first picture, but I’ll use this one.” I upload it and fix all the things that need to be fixed on various platforms for everything to update. She stomps out and I go back to sleep.

Five minutes later she’s back, waving her phone in my face. “YOU DIDN’T CHANGE THE PICTURE! IT’S STILL THE RAINBOW PICTURE! CHANGE IT NOW!”

This is two times I’ve been given a mini-heart attack this morning by someone barging into my space while I’m trying to sleep, and she’s lucky she hasn’t gotten maced on instinct. “You watched me change the picture. Clear your browser cache.”

“I don’t know how to do that. Change the picture!”

I grab my laptop again, go to the website, and show her the picture is changed. I rattle off an explanation of why she needs to clear her phone’s browser cache, which I have given her several times before, and remind her she’s late. She blanks out at anything tech-talk and leaves. Totally looking forward to getting more screaming about this later. 🙃

You know, that “rainbow” picture was 100% an honest mistake, but I think part of this week’s pay from that church specifically is going to go to an actual rainbow shirt from an LGBT-owned shop. ✌️

#happy pride y'all #bigots are going to scream and read pride into everything even where it wasn't intended so you might as well enjoy as loudly as possible #(if you feel safe of course)#incidentally if anyone would love to gift me a house or a few thousand dollars so i can move out and never speak to these people again #that'd be great #homophobia tw #swastika mention #dea does things #long post

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the-kittens-of-vol-tron · 2 years

Text

Wait!

You Kiss Guy's?

Aka Keith learns that Lance has kissed guys before

(Based off how my ex found out I was into guys)

-----

“So yeah I totally kissed him and caught him off guard-”

Keith choked on his drink, the dark color liquid spilling down his shirt.

Lance raised his eyebrows at his fellow team member, “you okay buddy?”

Keith wiped his face, coughing a few times to clear his throat. “What did you say?!” Okay, he didn’t mean to raise his voice but his brain was short-circuiting. Lance liked guys? Lance had kissed a guy before??

Lance blinked at him, his face shifting to something unreadable. “Which part?”

“The part where you were smooching on some guy,” Pidge’s voice filled the tension of the room, doing little to ease it.

Lance’s face morphed back into an easy expression, the tension beginning to fade. “So yeah. This dude was all panicked and he was like ‘do something that will confuse me!’ so I kissed him.”

“Don’t forget the part where you kissed him again and again and again,” Hunk chimed in.

Lance covered his face and attempted to hide the blush that crawled up his skin. “He was a good kisser! Was I supposed to deny him my lips?!”

The story continued on but everything fell on deaf ears for Keith. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. What he just learned.

Lance had willingly made out with a guy. Lance. The guy who was constantly flirting with any girl that looked his way. The guy who was a borderline player. The guy who Keith thought he would never have a chance with.

Keith stood up from the couch, leaving the room without any form of goodbye. He needed to wrap his head around everything.

He found himself pacing in front of his lion, his face scrunched up with confusion.

“You’re going to walk a hole right through the floor.” Lance leaned against the doorframe to the hanger, his arms crossed over his chest.

Keith paused his movements, his eyes glued to the other boy.

“I wanted to check on you,” Lance uncrossed his arms and made his way towards the other boy, “make sure you were okay.”

Keith tried to calm his breathing as Lance walked closer. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

Lance stopped about a foot in front of him, “well considering I was talking about kissing another boy and you left soon after I wasn’t sure.”

Keith felt his face burn with sheer embarrassment, “I’m not homophobic!”

Lance blinked at him, “congrats?”

“I uh...I just. I like guys? Like in a gay way?”

Lance's eyes lit up with hopefulness and he grinned. “So I have a chance?”

Keith felt his breath hitch in his throat. “Wh-what?”

Lance took another step toward him, leaning in a bit; only a couple of inches from each other’s faces. “I have a chance to kiss you.”

Keith knew he wasn’t breathing, he knew his eyes were moving from those ocean-blue eyes down to those soft lips.

Lance leaned forward ever so slightly, “can I kiss you?”

Keith found himself nodding before he could verbalize his response. The words never surfaced since as soon as he gave the okay Lance’s lips were pressed against his.

Keith’s hand grabbed the front of Lance’s shirt, holding him in place as their lips moved together.

Eventually, their bodies forced them apart as their lungs demanded oxygen.

“Holy shit,” Keith dropped his hand, taking a slight step back. “That was...wow.”

Lance grinned, “I’ve wanted to do that for a while.”

“You never asked.”

Lance lifted his hands up in front of him, “I didn’t know you liked guys.”

Keith rolled his eyes, “again, you never asked.”

“Well,” Lance pulled Keith in for a side hug, “now I know and you can kiss me whenever you want.”

“That will be a lot.”

Lance beamed at him, “I look forward to it.”

-----

Hehehe two boys in love <3

Thank you for reading <3333

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herbariumua · 5 days

Text

So, I have recently read Simpsons Comics Issue 30, where Burns made about a hundred clones of Smithers and replaced every worker on the powerplant with him.

I liked it so much, that I want to make a post about it, there would be no deep analysis, just things that I especially adore in this story.

And, of course, spoilers?..

So, the short plot is: workers of the powerplant are demanding to add 5 cents to their salary - and Mr Burns wouldn't be himself if he just agreed to it. So he created a really complicated scheme to make a hundred clones of Smithers to replace every worker with him. And it was working well...

..until it blows up right in his face.

But at the end of the day, Smithers actually saved the whole situation and Mr Burns's life (of course he did).

Also, look how adorkable Waylon looks in his cute Hawaiian shirt that matches Monty's costume by colors.

So, yes, the story plot about clones going crazy and trying to murder everyone was pretty predictable, but no one even tried to hide it. The best part of the comics - how totally gay is it.

Really, I feel like it is one of the gayest burnsmithers story I have read so far, and, surprisely, it comes from the Burns's side.

Like, look at this man here, he said himself that he's "never been happier" while literally surrounded by Smithers's caring and affection towards him.

Or how he is walking among Smithers's clones, because he is like the way they are so happy and excited to see him. In this story I feel like he knows very well about Waylon's feelings toward him - and he not only enjoys it, but also encourages it in every way.

(Original Smithers being kinda jealous (?) and suspicious toward his own clones is hilarious. This man knows himself too well).

I mean, he gave them a "reward" to serve him 24/7. This old fox definitely knows that Smithers would actually die to have the opportunity to be around him 24/7. It might sound like a funny joke to the reader, but inside the story, it IS an actual reward.

("there can't be enough of me to go around" - oh my god, Monty, we all know what you are)

Also how he started to miss Smitherses the moment they ran away (even if they were trying to cut him into pieces).

Just admit you are in love with him and get married already!

Also a cute moment that I noticed - while he is surrounded by absolutely identical clones, he still wants to the actual Smithers to take care of his needs. How sweet.

But of course, there are also a ton of gay moments from Smithers's side. I mean, where Smithers' clones went a little bit crazy about Burns...

...and I like how the original one is literally his guard dog.

The ending is very sweet and satisfying too. And I adore the last picture, where Waylon's joke made Monty laugh. These two is an excellent couple for sure.

And who else headcanon that all of these Waylon's clones will find their happiness with Monty's clones, who escaped during "The Princess Guide"? Let my boys be happy, please, they totally deserve it.

PS Also I am so happy to see that Burns actually enjoys Smithers's company so much, he is totally ok with surrounding himself only with his clones and keeping them around to serve him 24/7.

In the newest episodes of the show we barely see them interacting this friendly as they used to be, it almost feels like Burns is constantly annoyed with his presence, which is so uncanon for him.

#burnsmithers #waylon smithers #mr burns #the simpsons

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princessnijireiki · 7 months

Text

Been thinking a lot about how something as simple as codeswitching & vocal training or accent work unsettles people deeply in all kinds of ways...

Like they will get really weirdly angry if a person's accent shifts around, and they want to know which one is the "real" one; and then will also get mad if they can't consume other people's voices as lesser entertainment, like when Constance Wu declined to perform the Taiwanese accent she developed for Fresh Off the Boat on demand, saying, "it's not a party trick."

They get mad if you class pass & then slip. They get mad if they feel entitled to all aspects & voices of you. They demand a "real voice" from gay people, transgender people, they say, almost disappointed and affronted, "wow, your English is so good," to those they have internally classified as the eternal foreigner, they condescendingly remark, "oh, you speak so well, you're so... articulate," to those they have deemed their racial, social, economic, intellectual lessers.

And they don't ever examine that anger. I can modulate my voice into a distinctly pronounced Standard American English accent, like I was taught as a child, with some effort; when I drop the mask, when I am agitated or excitable, the Bronx leaps to the front of my mouth, secondhand from my loud father, an accent I very much associate with that kind of loudness, explosiveness, the voice of anger; when I'm tired, I sound more Southern, more like my other family members, and when I am truly tired and drained, it's a 50/50 on if you get a truly unmodulated low and quiet speaking voice, or a canned customer service voice response on autopilot, a full octave higher in pitch. All of those are real, all of those are true, none of them are "put on." Some are masks. All are social performance.

That's truly where the anger lies. The defiance of imposition of the social role. The refusal to play an assigned part. The fact that people exist who know how to do the "party trick," but it's never for your entertainment, and often exists beyond others' capacity to see the fact that flipping through the radio stations has always been an option, and the acts of both tuning and refusing to tune to another channel, as an internal choice, enrages them. But so, too, does the idea that what occurs around us grows and changes and grows and changes us. For the voices we can't change, but who refuse to align with outside classification or judgement, they hate that, too— and they hate the voices that also change unbidden, that mold into a new authenticity, which refuse to be labeled false for changing.

They find it appalling, actually, that those of us who color outside the lines even know the lines (which they can't or won't see themselves) are there to begin with.

And really, what it speaks to is their own paranoia; their own devastating fear that the world isn't following their rules, and in fact, isn't even playing their little game, and never was— and that without those rules, and roles, they don't know where they stand. They don't know if their role can also be changed, if they are no longer in control, terrified of being perceived as anything but at the helm via voice & language. And without that, without the passively accepted externally imposed labels, structures, systems of classifying themselves and others, they don't even know who they are. They are angry because they truly are afraid, and react to their fear like animals afraid of the dark.

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submissivegayfrenchboy · 2 months

Note

Sever fuck or marry, UK edition with a bonus fourth you can do whatever you want with: Liam Payne, Jamie Dornan, Tom Hiddleston, Calvin Harris

27 / 02 / 2024

ASK ANSWERED

I love how you chosed pictures of them dressed with white briefs 🥵

SERVE, FUCK, MARRY + BONUS

SERVE Liam Payne because he seems really dominant, he is beautiful but i don't think he would be in love with me, and even if he is gorgeous, i don't love him but i worship him.

I've always wanted to worship Liam Payne, and here is a link about the articles i wrote about him and the stories where he appears :

FUCK : Calvin Harris because he is handsome but not attractive enough to me. To me he is the least attractive but maybe that's because i don't him really much.

MARRY : Jamie Dornan is my husband goal!

You shouldn't have talk about Jamie Dornan, my friend! No I'm gonna explain in detail why i love him so much 😍

Jamie Dornan is in my list of the 10 most handsome men in the World to me, here :

Jamie Dornan is the kind of man who is always handsome, whether in his youth, when he looked a bit like Breton Thwaites, or now, looking more like Armie Hammer. Jamie Dornan, who i think was also a model, is gorgeous but also very talented as an actor, not reduced to his beauty because he played various characters, mainly in historical movies or TV series (and was always great). He corresponds to the European male beauty standards, because his white sometimes tanned skin is luminous, his face is chiseled, his eyes are closed to his eyebrows (it's proved that people considers a man hot if his eyes and eyebrows are closed).

I love Jamie Dornan as beautiful with or without beard his hairs short or long, but my favorite face on the pic up here is the one from 2015.

Here is an article about some of his many roles, don't hesitate to tell me which is your favorite, or how you discovered this actor. 😁

As many people, i discovered him as Hans Axel von Fersen in Marie-Antoinette (2006). He was sexy but unfortunately he doesn't talk a lot so you can't understand his importance in the Queen's life, so that's not my favorite version of this character. However, i fell in love with the actor when i saw him as the Hunter / Graham Humbert in the tv series Once Upon A Time. 😍

I planned to write about him as I said here :

BONUS : Be the personal assistant of Tom Hiddleston because he is kind, funny, clever, speaks French very well, would talks with me about very different things, and maybe he would be a boss too kind, but hopefully he would let me massages his shoulders or feet.

He is absolutely gorgeous, more than as Loki. Tom Hiddleston's blue eyes are so hot ❤️

His role where Tom Hiddleston turns me on the most is as King Henry V of England in the BBC Series The Hollow Crown. He is the stereotype of the medieval King, visually, but he is so passionate, flirty, brave, strong, confident,... I love his hairs color here 😍

And i would gladly worship Tom Hiddleston's ass, i would be his sycophant asslicker but he would protect me because he trust honest people and i would serve him but sincerely worship him, like not being weird towards him and he would sometimes ask my advises

His butt isn't that bubble but is still yummy! Tom Hiddleston can sit on my face whenever he wants 🥵

@liampayne @liampayne-1d-zaynmalik-blog @jamiedornaniseverything @tomhidd @jamiedornangifs @jamiedornansource @tomhiddleston-gifs @tomhiddleston @tomhiddles @jamiedornangallery @calvinharris-blog @liampayneartgallery @calvinharris-sisterofcalvin @calvinharrisf @jamiedornanfans @calvinharrisforever @jamiedornanarg-blog @jamiedornanargentinasblog @liampayneallthelove @calvinharrisismybaby @rainykpoptravelcreator @lovefanfiction01 @innerpiratefun @leftprogrammingroadtripdean

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mugentakeda · 26 days

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Bro I love Anchali and Jiro omiGOSH ♡´･ᴗ･`♡

Anchali is so insane and crazy for Ursa it’s both so weird/freaky and lowkey cute with how highly she’s devoted herself to Ursa I need to study her under a microscope.

And Jiro is so slimey and greasy i love them gay slimey men who are also shady as hell <33

Speaking of, I was wondering— how would Jiro react to the news of Lu Ten’s death (regardless of whether its canon or Dai Li Lu Ten AU)? How would he react if he saw Dai Li Lu Ten?

ok im so sorry for taking this long to answer this but my braincells always stop working when it comes to dai li lu ten au for some reason. like i quite literally just figured out how to put what lu tens issue is in a simple sentence Today and ive had this au for months. please forgive me.

TO BE HONEST. jiro was concerned about why lu ten was so stiff about going to bss, but he thought it was just like... over family drama. because lu ten never let his complicated feelings about the war leave the pages of his journal. not even to jiro, who lu ten knew probably wouldn't have cared (because jiro casually breaks at least 10 laws per day at minimum. he makes it a daily goal for himself) anyway.

but jiro didn't even consider the idea that lu ten would die at bss? cus like. lu ten passed his officer classes with flying colors, so he was fit to lead a group of men on the battlefield. he knew all the do's and do not's of war strategy. he was the youngest lightning bender in fire nation history at the time (until azula ofc). but. he was also a prince. so jiro was (correctly) under the impression that iroh wouldn't let lu ten even see the real heat of the battle. he was thinking that lu ten was just being sent there last minute so he could say he was there at least when iroh succeeded.

when the news about lu ten reaches the capital on top of the news of irohs retreat, jiro doesnt immediately believe it. cus he just bid lu ten goodbye like lu ten was leaving for an 8am meeting that he was dreading. like a tender just go get it over with real quick and then come on home, we can go back to bed for the rest of the day and then i'll take you out for dinner. there's national mourning, then firelord azulon dies and ozai is crowned and it's like jiro's world has a muted sheet thrown over it. it takes iroh's army coming home for it to sink in fully.

and jiro mourns kinda like how a flower quietly wilts overnight? he didnt throw a fit or demand answers or whatever. he just pulled himself away from politics and just focused on work. but he keeps that place at his side that lu ten filled for the brightest year of jiro's life open because jiro can't make himself act like it never happened either. so the second chair by jiro's balcony table stays, the hair ribbon pile lu ten forgot on the nightstand stays, the extra printed pelt blanket on his bed that only lu ten used (because he hated sharing blankets) stays.

AND THEN. in the dai li au. i did say a while back that jiro ends up becoming one of azulas guys. but she ends up calling him to bss asap because hes the only person in the fn that she knows for sure that she can trust with knowing about lu tens continued existence lol. its a very strange time for her cus she found out through long feng that her dad was at fault for the whole thing. and shes still figuring out what exactly shes gonna do about that but for now shes gonna be utilizing jiro's flimsy loyalty to the fire nation to protect her cousin until she has everything in order lol. and i haven't made up my mind about where lu ten will go from there but im kinda leaning on iroh taking lu ten with him to the order while zuko goes with the gaang

#dai li lu ten #asks #alicias writing stuff

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sjofn-lofnsdottr · 8 months

Text

Marriage

In honor of my 20th wedding anniversary, here are some more Mercuriel/Vezin pictures. I suppose could show off their wedding a little. It's thematic. I'm also probably going to ramble.

I have said it before, and I'll say it again: their relationship is weird, but it works for them.

Funny little story about this, too. When he picked the game back up again, about a month later I married my friend @petitfarron because he wanted the glamour bits for his catgirl, etc. Vezin attended the wedding, of course, and commented "Just so you know, I'm not marrying one of your dudes."

I wanted to know why, of course, not that it really occurred to me that it was a thing we should do. We'd gotten married on a MUD (uhhh like 25 years ago, Jesus Christ) (it's where we met, we're not just old, we're old turbonerds) and I figured that was all the video game marriage we warranted anyway. HOWEVER, once he told me the reason, which he said upfront was completely irrational, I found it incredibly funny.

You see, he didn't want to marry one of my boys, because it would be marrying a dude, and that's kind of gay, which he is not (he and I are both straight). I pointed out he is a catgirl, doesn't that make it ... not-gay? He replied he is a man, though. I pointed out I am a woman, a woman literally married to him, so ...? And he stressed again, it was IRRATIONAL shut UP.

Basically, fellas is it gay to marry your wife if she's playing a dude and you're playing a chick? According to my husband's irrational brain, yes.

So imagine my enormous amusement when he sent me a code for a bracelet with the message USE ON MERC

Of course, when I asked, "What happened to it being gay?" he replied, "It's still a little gay." So there you go. FFXIV turned my husband gay. But only a little.

Also holy shit was he a bridezilla, it cracked me up. Whenever Farron and I get married or renew our vows, we always have a little fuss over who has to carry the stupid bouquet. That is not a problem with Vezin. I could not pry the bouquet out of my husband's hands if I tried. He had Firm Opinions on what colors to pick, the music, what I should wear. It was adorable. He and I were equal partners planning our real wedding, but our fake one? HE WAS THE BRIDE IT WAS HIS DAY RARGH

We even did the book signing ceremony, because he wanted "as few moogles as possible." Because Vezin-the-character fuckin' hates them.

You cannot tell me they're not plotting something in that last shot.

And then they made their getaway.

During the cursed lalafel time, we decided to renew our vows for the hell of it.

Once again, he demanded to carry the bouquet and this time apparently wanted our entrance to be as ridiculous as possible. I think we managed it.

I did enjoy seeing how different the camera is when both participants are tiny monsters.

The bouquet being almost as big as Vezin: also delightful.

Any time I fantasia into a lalafel (which I only ever do because my spouse has), I am always mad about how cute they look.

Alright, I think that's enough self-indulgent rambling for now. <3

#ffxiv #mercuriel and vezin #long post #eternal bonding #christ twenty years #there are people in my FC who were still in diapers back then

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storytellerofuntoldlegends · 2 years

Text

beneath a different light

A/N: so i know we're all freaking out about the flower husbands crumbs, and scott probably flirted with owen much more than he did martyn... but something about scott and martyn has grabbed hold of my brain. all of these rats are gay, i probably could write a whole series of vignettes of gay rat moments. anyway, enjoy!!

Warnings: arguing, flirting

Summary: Scott confronts Martyn about killing Olive. But then Martyn notices his fellow rat seems tense, and not just about the whole killing thing. Somehow, Martyn manages to offer Scott something familiar in a place of strange newness, as well as learn that new might not always be bad.

“Give me the knife, Martyn,” Scott demanded, holding his hand out. Martyn glowered at him a little.

“What knife? I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” he sniffed. Scott’s whiskers twitched.

“The one you killed Olive with, give it here,” Scott said pointedly.

“It wasn’t my idea!” Martyn protested. Truly, it wasn’t. He wasn’t completely sure what happened- he had been mostly joking around, and then he got this itch-

“That’s not what we do here, Martyn!” Scott shouted, snapping him from his thoughts. Martyn squinted at him a little.

“What d’you mean, that’s how things always are. Gotta be the toughest rat to survive,” Martyn said with a frown. A flash of… something, crossed Scott’s face. Martyn couldn’t decipher if it was hurt or confusion before Scott was back to fixing him with a disappointed glare.

“Give me the knife,” Scott said, quieter than before. And yet, Martyn found himself sighing and reaching into his pocket, aimlessly flipping his knife out and twirling it a little so that the handle was towards Scott. If Martyn hadn’t been so busy sulking about having to give up his knife (even though he definitely had the materials to make a new one) he would have noticed Scott’s near flustered expression at his movements before he gingerly took the knife. Scott tucked it into his front pocket, grimacing a little. There was a faraway look in his eyes, and despite not knowing the other rat for that long, Martyn’s heart twisted with guilt.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. Scott bristled, tail lashing.

“I’m not the one you need to apologize to,” he snapped.

“I already apologized to Olive! You just looked… sad, I dunno,” Martyn said, rubbing the back of his neck. Scott sighed, and took off his hat to run a hand through his hair- dyed a pale teal color, with flowers braided in. Martyn wasn’t sure how he hadn’t noticed it before. In any case, Martyn was more focused on the way Scott’s ears drooped and how he clutched at his hat. He was tense too, like at any moment he would bolt if startled.

“Things are just… so different here,” Scott said, voice tight. Martyn frowned.

“How so?”

“I used to live in a field, all wide open spaces and a cozy burrow to go back to- but here it’s dark and cramped, where I have to figure out how to use this stupid chisel and- nevermind. You don’t care,” Scott said, abruptly ending his frenzied ramble and shoving his hat back on. He turned to walk away- but was halted by Martyn shooting forward and grabbing his wrist. An action that surprised both of them, frankly. Martyn sheepishly let go of him, an ear flicking nervously.

“I… I do care, actually. We’re all here together, right? So we should… care for each other,” Martyn said softly, not quite sure where this was all coming from. Scott squinted at him suspiciously.

“Like you cared for Olive?” he pointed out. Martyn winced.

“Not my best moment, I’ll admit. But they did sort of betray Oli’s trust- y’know what? Not important. I messed up, okay? And it seemed like you were stressed as it was so… I feel bad for making it worse,” Martyn explained. Scott relaxed at his words, only slightly.

“I… thanks. I think,” he said, giving a tight smile. Martyn huffed out an irritated breath, running a hand through his hair. This wasn’t going how he wanted it to- how did he even want this to go?

“What I’m trying to say is… I think I have something that might help? If you’d do the honor of letting me show you?” he asked, holding out a hand that definitely wasn’t shaking towards Scott. Scott blinked, staring at his hand as if it would somehow hurt him. However, after considering for a moment or two, Scott took his hand.

Martyn led Scott to the big window he had been crouched at before, wishing on stars so that the door would open. It was still nighttime, but morning would come soon enough. He and Scott could probably watch the sunrise.

He hadn’t told Scott where they were going yet, Martyn wanted it to be a surprise. But of course, since he wasn’t telling Scott what was happening, he was incredibly suspicious of the whole thing. He kept glancing around frantically, probably wondering if this was some sort of trap. That is, until they finally reached the windowsill.

“Up here, c’mon!” Martyn said, scrabbling up the wall. Scott followed, still a little suspicious- but that suspicion changed to pure awe once he saw the view. Sprawling countryside, with the night sky shining bright with stars and turning purple at the edges where the sun was slowly making its presence known. Yet all Martyn could look at was Scott, and how the stars reflected in his eyes.

“This is…”

“I know it’s just looking through a window, and not the same as actually being out there-”

“It’s beautiful,” Scott interrupted in a hushed voice, turning to look at Martyn. Something in the back of Martyn's mind said "you too." Where had that come from? Martyn shook it off and just smiled at Scott.

“I know it’s not the same as actually being outside but… I figured it’d help,” Martyn said instead. Scott smiled, bright as the stars, and looked back out the window.

“It does,” Scott was quiet for a moment, before he spoke up again. “I used to make up stories about the stars when I was younger.”

“Oh?” Martyn asked, intrigued.

“Yeah! I know the actual constellations now- it’s good for tracking the seasons and knowing when to grow what- but I used to make my own and tell stories about the pictures I saw in the night sky,” Scott explained softly.

“Can you tell me one?” Martyn blurted, before he could really think about it. Scott startled a little, but smiled and nodded.

“Sure- the Wolf Witch is out tonight,” Scott said, pointing to a cluster of stars that looked neither like a wolf nor a witch, but Martyn was willing to take his word for it.

“Sounds interesting,” Martyn mused.

“She was- she only found solace in the wolves after her soulmate abandoned her- or so she claimed. Her soulmate said it was the other way around, as she had grown close to another instead of finding her true soulmate. So he found a different soulmate as well, one he could choose. Funnily enough, the soulmate he chose happened to be the soulmate of the one the Wolf Witch had gotten close to,” Scott explained.

“Wait. What? I’m confused- how many people are involved here? How do they know who their soulmate is?” Martyn asked. Scott huffed out a fondly exasperated breath.

"Four, including the Wolf Witch. And her true soulmate… we’ll call him the Last Champion. The one he chose is the Undead Flower, and her true soulmate… the Wayward Wanderer,” Scott said, pointing to more stars as he spoke. Something about “Wayward Wanderer” struck a chord with Martyn, but he couldn’t quite place what it was.

“Interesting names,” was what Martyn commented instead.

“The Last Champion had won a deadly game, actually with the help of the Wolf Witch. But when they found each other again… their camaraderie wasn’t the same. The Undead Flower had helped him too- it’s probably why he chose her as his soulmate. Soulmates were connected by the pain they shared… and the Last Champion and the Undead Flower both shared the pain of their soulmates choosing someone else first,” Scott explained.

“I thought this was about the Wolf Witch,” Martyn said with a frown. Scott playfully shoved at him.

“I’m getting to her, don’t worry. The four of them had found themselves in yet another deadly game, where only a single pair of soulmates would survive. And they were the final four. They had come to an uneasy alliance at this point… and all it took was one to betray them,” Scott said.

“The Wolf Witch?” Martyn asked. Scott shook his head.

“The Wayward Wanderer. He was determined to survive, and as he felt he had reconciled with the Undead Flower, he attacked the Wolf Witch. Which in turn, caused pain to the Last Champion. The Undead Flower didn’t want to fight the Wolf Witch, for fear of hurting the Last Champion. But at that point, it was too late. The Wolf Witch set her pack on the pair, and it was just her and her true soulmate left standing,” Scott said.

“She killed the Wayward Wanderer? Even if she had chosen him initially?” Martyn asked, a chill going through him.

“He betrayed her first,” Scott said with a shrug before continuing. “So then it was just the Last Champion and the Wolf Witch. They weren’t sure what to do at first… until the Last Champion finally realized something. The Wolf Witch had helped him win once, and it was time to return the favor. He regretted not allying with her sooner- but with a final goodbye, he ended his life. And in turn, the Wolf Witch died as well- but the Last Champion had fallen seconds before she did. Technically making her the winner.”

“That’s… grim. Not really the kind of soulmate story I expected,” Martyn said with a nervous laugh. Scott shrugged again.

“I dunno how much stock I put into soulmates. Romantic ones, anyway. And this story… I never quite pictured them as romantic. Just… friends who were always meant to find each other. I think the Wayward Wanderer and the Undead Flower could have been something to each other… but it was too messy. And maybe if the four of them had managed to work something out…” Scott trailed off, voice a little dreamy.

“What would’ve it been like? The four of them?” Martyn asked. Scott let out a sigh.

“Well for starters, the Last Champion never struck me as a guy who liked women. Probably kinda rolled his eyes at the universe for sticking him with the Wolf Witch. So things with her probably would have been the same as they were with the Undead Flower- fiercely devoted life partners who would go to the ends of the earth for each other,” Scott said.

“And what about the Wayward Wanderer?” Martyn asked, heart rate picking up for reasons he couldn’t explain. Scott turned to look at him again, blue eyes sparkling.

“I think he and the Last Champion could have been very close. If things were different,” he said softly.

“Maybe things could be different,” Martyn murmured, his hand drifting towards Scott’s. Scott slowly reached towards him too-

And then the sound of slow, heavy footsteps startled them apart.

“Humans,” Scott gasped, darting to hide behind a plant on the windowsill. Martyn scurried to hide along with him, having to press close to Scott in order for them both to stay hidden. The close proximity seemed jarring now, even if it was what Martyn had wanted before. He was practically curled around Scott, and for a moment he tried to give Scott a little space- but then he grabbed him by the shirt and tugged him closer with a hissed “they’ll see you!” And no, Martyn was not at all thinking about the ease Scott had yanked him or the tone of his voice or replaying the moment over and over again in his head. That would be ridiculous.

Fortunately, the human had left soon enough. (And unfortunately, a ridiculous part of Martyn thought, that meant that he wouldn’t have to stay huddled close to Scott anymore.)

“We should probably head back,” Scott said wistfully, glancing back at the view one last time. The sky was lighter now, the sun beginning to peek over the earth.

“The window will always be here for us,” Martyn pointed out softly. A mischievous grin came to Scott’s face.

“Us?” he asked with a giggle. Martyn felt his face heat up.

“Or just you! Sorry, you probably don’t need me tagging along all the time, you know where it is-” Martyn was halted by Scott’s finger to his lips.

“Us sounds nice,” Scott said with a smile decidedly softer than the mischievous one he had before. And with that, he leapt off the windowsill with ease and landed with grace, leaving Martyn utterly speechless in more ways than one.

He shook himself slightly, scrambling down after Scott. There was an apparent “us” to explore with him, after all.

general mcyt fic taglist: @actuallymothman @corazon10000 @damiensaidno @franticfandomfanatic @gattonero17 @hetapeep41 @meowdy-pickles @space-ace123 @vyeoh

#mcyt #rats smp #scott smajor #martyn inthelittlewood #scottyn #treestar #<- i dont know if they have a ship name but these are two i came up with that i liked!!#if anyone knows of a diff ship name lemme know #ratshipping #i'll just tag that to be sure #sage writes

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angelasscribbles · 2 years

Text

Mistakes: A Drabble Me This Story

Series: Drabble Me This

Fandom: The Royal Romance

Pairings for series: Riley x Liam, Riley x Drake, Liam x Hana

Rating: MA

Warnings for this chapter: Mature Themes

Word Count: 999 (Yay, I stayed under 1,000 words! Barely!)

A/N: So I previously have only written Hana as gay because I really saw her as canonically that way and didn't want to straight wash characters. However, I did some research after I got this ask, and Pixleberry confirmed on twitter that Hana is bisexual. I will still strive to highlight her bisexuality, because bi-erasure is a thing.

My other stuff: Master List.

@3pawandme

Ask: Here’s a scenario Riley x Liam (but she’s pregnant with Drake’s baby). Liam slept with Hana the night of coronation, after Riley was kicked out. Riley finds out.

Liam and Riley stood at the podium as reporters hurled questions at them.

“Can we expect an engagement announcement soon?” Donnie Brine grinned, pen posed over notepad.

“Ah…I…” Liam stammered

“That’s a very personal question.” Riley answered, “And much too soon after the dissolution of his engagement to Lady Madeleine.”

“You’re right, Lady Riley. Sorry.”

Riley cut her eyes at Liam and gave him a look.

He knew what that meant, “That’s all the time we have for questions today. Thank you all for coming.”

Riley was off the stage and storming toward the palace.

“Riley, wait!” Liam hurried to catch up. “Please!”

She spun angrily, fire in her eyes, “For what, Liam? Huh?”

“Let me explain!”

“Explain what? That you took me into the hedge maze, fucked me, promised to marry me, then turned around and let me get drug out by security, got engaged to Madeleine Amaranth and then fucked my best friend in my room?!”

“When you put it like that it sounds so tawdry!”

“Because it is!”

“No, it wasn’t like that!”

“Then what was it like, Liam, huh?”

“She was comforting me, and it got out of hand, that’s all!”

“Comforting you? Is that what we’re calling it now? And in my room no less!”

“Ok, first off, all the rooms in the palace are technically mine…”

“That’s it! I’m done with this conversation!” She spun to leave.

Liam grabbed her arm, “Wait! Second of all, we both went to your room to feel closer to you! Third of all, I asked Drake to meet us there as well, but he never showed up. And he was missing for the next three weeks. Why is that, Riley?”

“We’re not talking about Drake right now, Liam!”

“Did Drake tell you about Hana? Is that how you found out?”

“No, Hana told me you fucking idiot!”

“When?” He asked incredulously.

“Oh my fucking god, Hana! That was amazing!” Riley panted as she rolled over and plopped down next to her on the bed.

Her bed in her private room at Ramsford had been getting some serious action since Liam had publicly rejected her. She considered it small compensation for the humiliation and heartache she had suffered.

Riley gazed at the other woman, taking in her beauty. Hana’s warm caramel colored hair spilled across her shoulders, skin lightly tanned and glowing in the late afternoon sunlight that poured through the window. Her chest still heaved slightly, and her flawless skin was sticky with sweat.

Hana’s eyes blinked back at her, large and iridescent as both guilt and a sliver of malice flickered through them. “I have something to tell you….”

“It doesn’t matter when!” Riley snapped at him, “It just matters that it’s true!”

“Riley, please! I was distraught that night and it’s not like you didn’t seek comfort of your own!”

“That’s different!”

“In what way?” He demanded.

“In that I really thought you had discarded me! Lied to me, used me then threw me away like trash, Liam! So, hell yes, I sought comfort from where it was offered!”

“Drake.” He said, voice ladened with accusation. “Is he the reason you won’t agree to marry me? Are you in love with him?”

She countered with a question of her own, “Are you in love with Hana?”

“No.” He replied immediately. “I told you, that was a mistake, one of several that night and I will always regret it! I only love you!”

“Yeah? You have a funny way of showing it!”

“Tell me what I have to do to convince you, Riley. You’re the only one I want, I swear!” He slid down on one knee, again. He produced the ring, again. “Marry me, please!”

“Liam! What are you doing? Get up!” Riley looked around wildly to see if anyone had noticed.

“I’m begging you, Riley.” He dropped to both knees, “I’ll do anything you ask of me! You’re my everything, my moon, my stars, my sun, my life, my love, my queen! I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you! I’ll issue a public apology, please, Riley, love, forgive me!”

People were starting to notice. She tugged at his hands, “Get up, Liam! Get up!”

She had him halfway up when he pulled away and sank back to the ground, “Not until you agree to marry me and I don’t care who sees, I don’t care who knows! Let the press print whatever the hell they want!”

“I can’t marry you, Liam!” She hissed at him, “I’m pregnant with Drake’s baby!”

“What?” The color drained from his face. He jumped to his feet, “I knew it! You are in love with him!”

“I’m not in love with him.” She scoffed, “But the scandal-“

“Oh, fuck the scandal!” He grabbed her and pulled her into his arms. He brought his lips to hers in a crushing kiss.

She pulled away, “What are you saying, exactly?”

“I’m saying that I still want to marry you.”

“You don’t care that I’m pregnant with another man’s baby?”

“No. I mean, yes, it’s not my favorite idea, but I love you, Riley! I pushed you away and made you think I didn’t want you. I can’t blame you for what happened in the aftermath of my horrible, life destroying decision.”

He could blame Drake, but that was an issue for another day.

“You really still want to marry me?” She could forgive him for Hana. After all, she had slept with Hana too. And Drake. And Maxwell. The revenge sex might have gotten a little out of hand.

“Yes.”

“Okay, fine, but Hana has to go the fuck back to Shanghai. Best friend my ass.”

“Done.” He agreed. He’d send Drake to escort her home then revoke his citizenship.

She stuck her hand out and he slid the ring on her finger.

“I love you, Riley, you’re my forever.” He kissed her softly.

“Forever.” She agreed as she rested her head on his chest.

#drabble me this #angelasscribbles #choices fic writers creations #cfwc fics of the week #the royal romance fanfic #the royal romance #choices #cfwc please be prompt #liam x mc #liam x riley #liam rys

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