#opal in sky band

[styxthecaracal]

Fav metal band? :3

Opal In Sky, hands down! Their sound is so good, their lyrics are gorgeous, I just love them. Highly recommend. My fav song by them is "Lost Moon", though "The Sacral" was my fav for a while.

(To be fair, I honestly don't listen to that many metal bands, so I can't make that accurate of a judgment 😅)

#cadenceanswers #metal #metal music #opal in sky #opal in sky band

[demthedem]

shuffle your favorite playlist and post the first five songs that come up. then copy/paste this ask to your favorite mutuals <3

Kiss the Go-Goat by Ghost

Everlasting by Gatecreeper

Francesca by Hozier

House of Pain by The Dreadful Tides

Soft by Motionless in White (I feel like it's fun to mention that the sacral by Opal in sky was 6th)

#the band ghost #hozier #motionless in white #gatecreeper #the dredful tides #opal in sky

[theclockworkjudas]

Opal In Sky has taught me 3 important things.

Believe in yourself.

Wearing earplugs at a concert isn't lame and protecting your hearing now leads to better hearing later

Bring at least a six pack of cheap beer when you go metalhead hunting.

#opal in sky #band recommendations #positive metal

[likobejvg43]

Music 👍

#music #ghost the band #slipknot #sleep token #foo fighters #korn #linkin park #system of a down #boywithuke #opal in sky #eminem #sabaton

[tricksyfishyyyyy]

Shuffle your favorite playlist and post the first five songs that come up. Then copy/paste this ask to your favorite mutuals. 💌💛

Thank you for your patience I was asleep anyway guess who's constantly listening to their favorite playlist

#the band ghost #opal in sky #repugnant #black veil brides

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Comet Donati [Chapter 3: Steal My Girl]

A/N: Hello lovely readers! Thank you so so so much for the love this fic has received. I wanted to give you a heads up that I will be co-leading a field trip to Japan from July 4th-14th and will therefore have much less time to write. HOPEFULLY I won’t have to skip a Sunday update, but I wanted to make you aware just in case. I hope you enjoy Chapter 3!!! 💜

Series Summary: Sex, drugs, boy bands. You are a kinda-therapist recruited (via nepotism) to help Comet Donati through a recent crisis. Things are casual with Aegon, very not-casual with Aemond. Loosely inspired by One Direction.

Chapter Warnings: Language, references to sexual content (18+), drugs, alcohol, smoking, mental health struggles, Aegon-induced chaos, ANGST, Iceland, you cannot escape the Cookie Monster pajama pants.

Selected Chapter Quote: “So what, you don’t like me anymore?”

Word count: 8.3k (wtf I need to chill).

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @doingfondue @catalina-howard @randomdragonfires @myspotofcraziness @arcielee @fan-goddess @talesofoldandnew @marvelescvpe @tinykryptonitewerewolf @mariahossain @chainsawsangel @darkenchantress @not-a-glad-gladiator @gemini-mama @trifoliumviridi @herfantasyworldd @babyblue711 @namelesslosers @thelittleswanao3 @daenysx @moonlightfoxx @libroparaiso @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @mizfortuna @florent1s @heimtathurs @bhanclegane @poohxlove @narwhal-swimmingintheocean​ @heavenly1927 @mariahossain @echos-muses @padfooteyes​ @minttea07​

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 💜  

Athens, Madrid, Porto, Vienna, Stockholm, and now: descending into Reykjavik through clouds like iron. The North Atlantic is an endless sheen of cold overcast blue, a mirror of the sky. The earth is rocky and anemic. There are no jewel tones here, no sapphires or emeralds or aquamarines or fire opals or topazes. It is impossible to look down at Iceland, this dominion of impassionate jaggedness, and not think of how the Vikings had to reap their treasures from every other corner of Europe, silver and gold and glass and slaves piled into ships to be rowed back to the hostile earth they clung to, perhaps just to prove they could.

Across the aisle of the private jet—more like a penthouse than a plane, posh neutral colors and hand-stitched leather—Luke is showing Aemond his latest lyrics, loops of silver on matte black pages. They’re good, from what you’ve heard. They’re really good. And that tells you what kind of person Aemond truly is as he helps Luke polish rocks into gemstones. Anybody can soften the blow of mediocrity. It takes courage to build ladders for people who might one day outclimb you.

Daeron is playing his Nintendo 64, which is hooked up to a 98-inch flat screen tv; Mario is leaping through paintings into worlds of lava, ice, sentient ticking bombs. Criston is answering emails. Cregan is sprawled across a couch with his sunglasses on, presumably sound asleep. Jace is leering at you, dark hair hanging in his face and slurping a Vesper.

You ask him half-mocking: “What tattoo are you going to get for Reykjavik?”

He yanks off his sequined red blazer—nothing underneath, as usual—and twists around to show you the puffin on his left shoulder blade. Comet, at some point in time that preceded you, has already been to Iceland. “Cute, right? Wanna pet it?”

You roll your eyes. “I’m sorry I asked.”

He grins. “No you’re not.”

Aegon kicks the back of Jace’s chair. He’s scribbling some notes of his own, which is unusual. In place of a spiral notebook with onyx pages, Aegon is writing on crinkled Starbucks receipts with a Sharpie. He’s wearing his favorite aviator sunglasses, khaki cargo pants, an excessively bright cyan tank top, and matching Crocs.

Baela stares blankly out the window for a few seconds—like she’s buffering, a lagging connection—and then she looks to you hopefully. “Shopping when we land?”

“Does Iceland have shops…?”

“Probably more than Kansas,” Aemond says, then smiles mischieviously.

“Missouri,” you fling back. He returns his attention to Luke.

“They totally have shops in Iceland,” Baela assures you.

“Then I am amenable. I need more concert outfits.” You mostly wear your boy band t-shirts from home, which has become a joke: One Direction, Backstreet Boys, New Kids On The Block, NSYNC, the Jonas Brothers, Boyz II Men, 98 Degrees, BTS…but never Comet Donati. Anyone but them. Aegon calls you a traitor. Aemond teases, smirks, tries to hide how much he watches you the same way people contemplate art on museum walls, a little confounded, a little entranced.

“Rhaena?” Baela says. “Hello? Hello? Hola? Bonjour? Rhaena?”

Rhaena startles, peering up from her novel: Jurassic Park. Once upon a time, as you’ve learned, she had planned to study paleontology. She wants to be alone in the middle of a field someplace digging up bones. Well, no great tragedy there; one is never too old to be a paleontologist. She can take off five years, or ten years, or twenty, or thirty to see Luke through his touring days and then pick back up her own ambitions like keys left on a hook. But Baela gave up a ballet scholarship to follow Jace across the globe, puddle to puddle, land to land, and in your albeit limited understanding, ballerinas age in something like dog years. Their career is a brilliant, lightning-brief flash and then long, anonymous decades running out their mortal clock as choreographers, backup dancers, personal trainers, instructors for blue-blooded five-year-olds. Baela won’t be able to reclaim that dream for much longer. It might be too late already. She is out of practice; but she misses ballet. When Jace is being snide or oblivious, you’ve seen her gazing out windows—Escalades, hotels, jets—wondering if it was all worth it. You gut yourself for someone and they don’t even have the courtesy to put up a gravestone. It’s only natural to develop a propensity to haunt.

“What?” Rhaena asks.

“Shopping. This afternoon. Interested?”

Rhaena’s eyes go wide. She fidgets: closing and then opening her book, touching a hand to her earrings, delicate strings of small silver hearts. “Um…I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Oh, not this again,” Baela groans.

“Just go without me. Bring me back something, you know what I like.”

“What’s the problem?” You are investigative but not accusatory. The tone is essential.

“She’s scared of store employees,” Baela says.

“Well you don’t have to make it sound like that—!”

“What’s so scary about store employees?” you ask Rhaena, calm, cool, collected, nonjudgmental. Aemond glances over, as he often does when you’re working, like he can’t get enough of watching that switch flip, when you slink covertly into therapist mode like a water moccasin weaves through swamps, subtle ripples in the muddied water and vigilant eyes.

“I just hate it when people are watching me,” Rhaena says, twirling an earring. “They’re always waiting right by the door—especially at the posh places like the ones Baela goes to—and they want to know what I’m shopping for, and they want to make suggestions, and they follow me to the fitting room and ask what I like and what I don’t. And I can’t get rid of them! Even if I’m like ‘Just looking, thanks!’ they’ll circle back every five minutes to check on me. I can’t stand it. I get so frazzled I can’t decide how I really feel about a skirt or dress or whatever because I’m too busy trying to make conversation with someone I don’t want to talk to anyway. I end up with a headache and a shopping bag full of regrets. I’d rather click a button on my MacBook Air and save myself the suffering.”

You nod sagely. “What is it about talking to the employees that stresses you out so much?”

“I don’t want to say or do the wrong thing. I don’t want to cause problems.”

“But it’s not like you’re going to do anything they haven’t experienced before. They see hundreds, maybe even thousands of customers a month. And even if you did something ridiculously, dementedly embarrassing, like…um…hey, Aegon, what’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done while clothes shopping?”

“I fell asleep in a fitting room. I pissed on the floor. I set something on fire. I vandalized One Direction merchandise.”

“No, there was that other time,” Daeron says. Mario is swimming through rings of underwater coins; they chime gleefully as he collects them.

“What other time?” Aegon says.

Daeron grins. “Come on. You know.”

Aegon remembers. “Oh yeah. Once I bit a girl’s feet until I accidentally ripped off part of a toenail and she bled everywhere. But that wasn’t my fault. She was begging for it. It was consensual.”

Criston, not looking away from his emails, says: “And that’s why Aegon is now banned from all Michael Kors locations for life.”

“Right.” You turn back to Rhaena. “So you would never do anything that deranged. But even if somehow you did, what’s the actual worst-case scenario? What, realistically, could happen as a result?”

Rhaena considers this. “The employees will think I’m weird, I guess.”

“So what you’re so concerned about is that the store employees—who are literally paid to be inconvenienced by you—might think you’re weird? Which they’ll remember for, what, maybe an hour before some other customer gives them a more memorable calamity to focus on? You don’t think they’re more annoyed by purse-dog-toting heiresses screeching at them or cokeheads pissing on their floors?”

“Rude,” Aegon says.

Rhaena smiles guiltily. “I mean, when you put it that way, it does sound stupid.”

“Not stupid,” you insist. “Just out of proportion.”

“Okay,” Rhaena says. She takes a deep breath, steeling herself. “Okay. I guess I’ll go shopping.”

“Yes!” Baela cheers, already scrolling through Reykjavik shops on her iPhone.

“Hey, Stargirl,” Aegon says, and then hurls something at you like a frisbee. It’s an Amex Black Card.

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “What’s my budget?”

“No budget. As long as it’s slutty.”

“I will buy nothing but cardigans and mom jeans.” You crane your neck to peek at his receipts. The black Sharpie squiggles aren’t words; they’re shapes, pictures. “What are you drawing?”

“New merch designs!” Aegon holds up the receipts so you can see.

“Circles…?”

He is somewhat wounded. “Donuts!”

You don’t even know where to begin. “Why donuts, Aegon?”

“Because that’s his code word for doing lines in the bathroom,” Criston says.

“No!” Aegon objects. “Because Donati sounds like donuts! So we could have all these mini donuts, print them on hats or shirts or whatever, and then in the frosting where the sprinkles would be we can put tiny stars, suns, moons, planets, galaxies…and comets, obviously.”

Jace scoffs. “I think you spend a little too much time thinking about donuts.”

Aegon goes quiet. So does everyone else. Gazes flit nervously around the cabin. The only sounds are the roar of the jet and Mario 64, although Daeron has turned his back on the cheerful Italian protagonist and is looking pensively over his shoulder at Jace. Aegon resumes sketching his cosmic Sharpie donuts, his lips pressed tightly together.

“Hey,” you say to Jace, and then once you have his attention, wicked dark eyes: “Shut the fuck up.”

“What?”

“It’s a great idea. It’s a really adorable idea, actually. Let’s see you come up with something better. Go on, whenever you’re ready. I’m waiting. I’m still waiting. But you’re not much of an ideas guy, are you, Jace? Fortunately, you’ve always had other people around to pull that weight.”

Jace opens his mouth to say something, then snaps it shut as Cregan stands up. He towers over you both, as tall as Aemond but more muscly all over, in the chest and the shoulders and the legs. He lowers his sunglasses to show his eyes: greyish, cold, flinty. He glares at Jace, and then at you, and then at Jace again. Jace holds up both hands, showing his palms. You bow your head in capitulation. Cregan lies back down on the couch and repositions his sunglasses just as the pilot turns on the fasten seatbelts signs. As you click yours into place, you exchange a glance with Aemond across the aisle. He is smiling, foxlike and approving, as if he can’t wait to see what else you have left to show him.

“So!” Baela says. “Guess who found a shop in Reykjavik that sells Gucci!”

The jet glides through mist and fog to make a rather bumpy landing at Keflavik International Airport, fighting against gusts of wind coming in off the North Atlantic Ocean, the same water that swallowed the Titanic, the Faucett Peru Boeing 727, the Free Life hot air balloon, whaling vessels and Viking longships, countless cruisers and destroyers and submarines that blasted holes into each other during the world wars. As the band prepares to disembark, Aemond reaches into the front pocket of his shirt—black, with white circling koi fish—and slides out a pair of sunglasses. He doesn’t like wearing them. They limit his vision even more than it already is. But he never walks into an airport without sunglasses on, you’ve discovered. Just in case paparazzi are there snapping photos.

“You don’t have to do that,” you tell Aemond.

He gestures to his scar and his blind eye, a pale cloudy blue. “I’ve thought about just getting it cut out. But then I’d have to worry about shoving in a fake one.”

“I think it’s kind of beautiful,” you say. “It reminds me of Neptune or something.”

And the look he gives you, the look, like he’s never heard anything like this before, like he didn’t know that words could fit together in that order. You hold out your hand to him. He lays the sunglasses in your palm. You put them on, grinning up at him.

“Now I’m the one who looks like a multi-millionaire popstar.”

“Hey, we match!” Aegon says as he follows you and Aemond out of the jet, massaging your shoulders and clopping noisily in his Crocs.

There are paparazzi at the airport, but only two of them, young men in black hoodies who dart around loosing flashes into the stuffy, aggressively heated air. Jace, Baela, Daeron, and Aegon beam and wave, radiant, magnetic, born celebrities. Rhaena smiles politely but hides behind Luke. Cregan saunters and smolders, knowing exactly what his devotees expect from him. Criston and the security guards are loaded up with suitcases like pack mules. The paparazzi don’t pay much attention to Aemond—a former heartthrob, a cracked relic, a fossil or a ruin—but one of them snaps a few pictures of him. Aemond turns his face so they’ll get his good side, his unmarred side…and then he grabs for your hand. You try not to reveal how ecstatic you are, how wildly, uncoolly, over-the-moon thrilled. Your expression might end up commemorated forever in a tabloid, after all.

Shopping in Reykjavik is mostly wool sweaters, hiking boots, and weather-proof jackets, but Baela leads you and Rhaena to a boutique that carries something more her speed: Gucci, Burberry, Balenciaga, Valentino, Saint Laurent. You and Baela try to distract the employees as much as possible; still, they find time to nettle Rhaena with those bothersome, predictable, unnecessary questions. She gets a little flustered, but she fights the instinct to run and hide, to allow herself to sink into a frenetic puddle of self-inquisition. You can almost see the words scrolling behind her dark gentle eyes like a news ticker: They get paid to help me. They aren’t going to remember any of this in a few hours. I’m not on a stage. I’m not being judged.

In the fitting room, you take two selfies to send to Aemond’s WhatsApp account: one in a flowing neon yellow gown, the other in a short, velvet, sparkly black dress embroidered with silver stars.

You ask: Day or night?

He answers before you’ve changed back into your jeans and pink Harry Styles hoodie. Night, obviously. And then he adds: Which constellation are you? Vulpecula the fox? Cygnus the swan?

“God, he’s such a dork,” you murmur to yourself, smiling. You have to think for a while before you reply. You don’t know many constellations; that makes it difficult to rattle off something witty. Then you are inspired. You type: Definitely not Virgo :)

He responds immediately: :)))))

“What does that mean?” you whisper to yourself in the solitude of the boxlike fitting room. “What the hell does that mean???” He spends nearly all of his time with you, but he rarely touches you. He’s never made a move. He’s never even kissed you. You wouldn’t mind if he did. No, fuck the coyness that women are supposed to cloak themselves in to preserve their worth. You’re waiting for him to kiss you like someone drowning waits for a gasp of air.

Despite Aemond’s vote, you can’t help yourself. You buy both dresses. You don’t look much like an Aegon Targaryen, but the cashier doesn’t seem too troubled by this. Baela and Rhaena are still trying on outfits, so you swing your bag around boredly and wander over to see what Criston is up to. At Aemond’s insistence, he accompanied you on this shopping expedition and left the rest of the security detail back at the Reykjavik EDITION, a luxury hotel overlooking the harbor. Criston is in the jewelry section and holding up a medallion necklace, rotating it to see how the light reflects off the speckling of tiny gemstones, the wise golden face. His own face is distant and melancholy.

“Oh, that’s lovely, Criston!” you say. “All those emeralds. Who’s pictured on it?”

“Saint Jude. Lost causes.”

Interesting. “Are you religious?”

“Not especially. But Alicent is.”

“Who…?”

Criston walks off to the cash register. You watch him go, curious and perplexed.

Back at the hotel, you enter your suite to find a blond Targaryen lounging in your bed…but perhaps not the right one. Aegon still has his Crocs on and is, for some reason, clutching a plushie puffin. He glances over at you, noting your shopping bag.

“Fashion show?” he says. “I hope it’s nothing but miniskirts and bikinis.”

“Don’t you have places to be? Substances to snort?”

“Cregan is currently trying to locate some.”

“That’s really not good for you. Physically or mentally. You might be addicted.”

He barks a laugh, like it’s absurd. “You can’t get addicted to coke, Stargirl.”

“You definitely can.”

He suddenly looks panicked, like he’s never considered this before.

“So.” You hesitate. “Aemond.”

“Yes, I’m familiar with the concept.”

“He’s insecure. Very insecure, though he’s learned how to hide it.”

Aegon throws and catches the puffin, bouncing it off the ceiling. “I wouldn’t disagree.”

“It goes deeper than the accident, I think. The scar, his eye, what happened with the band…that awakened it again. That freed something that he’d had locked away. But where did it start?”

Aegon stares up at the ceiling. He tosses the puffin a few more times, abusing it terribly. “Whoever you are when you’re in high school…that’s sort of who you are forever, you know? If you’re popular and beloved and understood, you carry a certain self-confidence into the rest of your life with you like a suitcase. It’s an assumption that people care about what you have to say. It’s a conviction of your own value. It’s a presupposition the world would have to wrestle away from you. But if you’re a loser in high school, that stays with you too. And it’s one hell of a heavy suitcase to lug around.”

You try to imagine seeing Aemond through eyes that aren’t awed, craving, quietly adoring. It’s simply not possible. “He was alone?” you ask softly, dreading the answer.

“I had friends. He had grudges.” Aegon’s mouth twists as he tries to stop it from trembling. “My father…”

“I know, Aegon.” Your voice is gentle. “You told me in Kansas City, that night at the bar. You don’t have to say it again.”

He is relieved. “Yeah. So people respond to that in different ways, right? I lived in the present. I talked to anybody who would listen to me, and I partied and I got high and I got laid, and I was the antithesis of the kind of son my father would have wanted just to spite him. Aemond escaped into the past. He read books, traced bloodlines, collected old obsolete things. Maybe that gave him hope that a better place was waiting for him out there somewhere, a better time. He got to be cool for three years. That’s it, and that’s all he’ll ever have. He was the one with vision. He said he was going to audition for The X Factor, and I only went with him to meet girls. Then he made it through the first round and I did too. And when they were going to cut us, he found Jace and Luke and Cregan and convinced everyone to start performing together. The show wanted to replace Luke, did you know that? They thought he was too boyish, too innocent. Aemond fought for him. And then Comet finished in second place, and all the sudden we were signed to a label, and we were selling millions of records and we were touring, and we were winning Grammys, and we were buying our parents and siblings houses…and two months after our third album came out, Aemond was maimed at the Budokan and it was time for him to get off the ride.”

You stare at Aegon, tremendously sad, not knowing what to say. Sometimes the right words don’t exist.

Aegon smirks. “He really likes you.”

“Maybe.” And then, with guileless vulnerability: “I hope so.”

“That’s dangerous.”

Your brow knits into fearful grooves. “Why?”

“I know how to enjoy something without owning it. I don’t think Aemond does.”

You don’t want to ask, but you have to. “What was Shelby like?”

Aegon considers this for a long time before he answers. “She was simultaneously too good for him and not good enough.”

Too gorgeous. Too cool. Too Pinterest-board perfect, airy like summer. But not deep. A river, a glimmer, but with no understanding of the abyss. You aren’t sure how you know that this is what Aegon means, but you do. You don’t want to think about Shelby anymore. You pivot. “So Aemond is the past and you’re the present. Who’s the future? Daeron?”

Aegon smiles, lazy and warm. “I think you’re the future.”

“Yeah right. Get your Crocs off my bed.”

He complies, groaning, flopping onto the floor gracelessly.

“Where’d you get the puffin?”

“Some Icelandic kid recognized me in the elevator. He wanted to give me a present. In return, I signed an autograph and got him and his dad front row seats to the show tomorrow. So I’d say it was a very favorable exchange for him.”

“You’re a saint,” you say, and then find yourself thinking randomly of Saint Jude again. Lost causes. Lost causes.

Aegon grins at you as he crawls to his feet and makes for the door. “Patron saint of mayhem.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re watching old Comet Donati performances on YouTube when the hotel fire alarm goes off. And it’s strange, because the unscarred, clear-eyed boy on the screen is Aemond but also isn’t him; he smiles more easily, he looks at people without suspicion, he is ebullient and confident and carefree like kids blowing bubbles on front porches. When you open your suite door, dressed in your favorite Cookie Monster pajama pants and an oversized New Kids On The Block t-shirt, Aemond is just arriving.

“Oh good,” he says. “You’re still awake.” And then he walks with you to the nearest stairwell.

Outside, the hotel guests are clustered together with their travel companions, shuddering under coats and sweaters and blankets clasped around their shoulders like capes. Even at the start of July, Iceland is cold: fifties during the day as Americans like you measure in Fahrenheit, forties at night, nearly always overcast. It’s 11 p.m., but the sun won’t set until midnight, and even then only for a few short hours; the sky is wearing the colors of dusk, lilac, rose pink, pale blue, fire and gold. You’re shivering, rubbing your bare forearms and feeling the goosebumps that have risen there like braille. Aemond tugs off his black and white Calvin Klein hoodie and offers it to you. As you pull it over your head, you breathe in the pieces of him that have snared in the fabric: smoke and cologne, gin and soap and the brine of the seaside air. Now wearing only his jeans and his koi fish shirt, Aemond lights a cigarette and gazes up at the hotel, postmodern angles and semi-transparent glass.

“No one’s going to give me a hoodie?” Aegon says, quaking in his cyan tank top. Criston reluctantly unzips his bomber jacket and hands it over.

“Did you do this?” Criston asks him, meaning the fire alarm.

“What?! No! No way, man! It wasn’t me!”

Criston turns to Cregan for confirmation. Cregan shrugs, ambiguous. “I knew it!” Criston exclaims. He is distraught.

Several fire engines arrive, red lights strobing, and firefighters enter the hotel to investigate. Baela and Jace are standing near each other but not speaking, arms crossed, faces tense. Luke, Rhaena, and Daeron are watching an episode of The Crown on Luke’s iPhone. Cregan lights a cigarette and manages to take two drags before Criston notices and lunges to bat it out of his hand.

“Stop it!” Criston orders. “You’ll ruin your voice!” Nobody tells Aemond not to smoke. His voice doesn’t matter anymore.

Aegon asks you, his hands buried in the pockets of Criston’s jacket: “Would you run into a burning building to save me?”

“Why would you be in a burning building?”

“That’s really not the point.”

“I’d think about it.”

Luke says, the glow of his iPhone dancing across his face: “Wow, Prince Charles is a bitch.”

“You’d think about it?” Aegon says to you. “You’d think about it?!”

“You have no excuse to be in a burning building. You have now experienced an evacuation, you know exactly how to leave a building successfully, if you’re still in it for some reason then that’s your problem.”

“You hear that, Criston?” Aegon says. “This is a good thing. Now everyone knows what to do if there’s a real fire! And we’re in hotels all the time, so this is super helpful!”

“Please shut up,” Criston begs.

“Hey Cregan, share with the class, what did you learn about fire safety from this fortuitous occasion?”

“I already knew what to do.”

Aegon is grinning. “Yeah? What’s that, Cregan?”

“Get in the shower and wait for the fire department to come rescue me.”

Everyone laughs—even Jace and Baela—and Cregan’s lips quirk up in one corner, the only hint that he is joking. A parade of firefighters exit the hotel. One of them is carrying a toaster. Black smoke pours out of the slits in the top.

She says something in Icelandic that you can’t understand, then repeats in English: “Who was trying to cook hotdogs in a toaster?”

The guests chatter incredulously among themselves: Who would do such a thing?

You, Aemond, Luke, Rhaena, Daeron, Cregan, Jace, Baela, and Criston are mindful to look anywhere except at Aegon. You gaze out at the horizon, the kaleidoscopic midnight sun. Aegon peers down at his Crocs, hair tangled and blue eyes wide.

“Very well,” the firefighter with the toaster says, a little smugly. “We will consult with the hotel staff and see which guest was registered to that room.”

“Goddammit!” Criston hisses, and shoves by the band to go meet the firefighters. You can’t hear what’s being said, but his hands move in exaggerated gestures of humiliation, apology, restitution. Fortunately, the Icelandic people seem to be forgiving.

Daeron turns to Aegon. All he says is: “Why?”

“I couldn’t figure out the buttons on the stove!”

Criston comes trudging back to the band. Guests are being admitted into the hotel to return to their drinks, their television shows and mystery novels, their families, their lovers, their beds. “Alright, it’s taken care of. Go to your rooms. All of you, right now, go.”

No one has the heart to argue with him; he looks half-broken already. Everybody disperses. You and Aemond end up alone together as the elevator zooms to the fifth floor. He takes his small, square metal lighter out of his jeans pocket and toys with it, repeatedly flicking the lid open and then shutting it again.

You point to it. “Vintage lighter. Vintage bike. And yet you write with glittery gel pens instead of quills and ink. Poser.”

“I like old things,” he says, smiling. “I think history is important.”

And you hear Aegon’s words like an echo: That’s dangerous. You start pulling off Aemond’s hoodie to give it back to him.

“No,” he says, sounding pleased. “You keep it.” So you do, finding excuses to bring the sleeves close to your face—touching your hair, your lips, your eyelashes—so you can inhale him.

Aemond leaves you at the door of your suite, but you don’t go inside. You wait for another five minutes until Criston steps out of an elevator and into the hallway, alone and agitated. Still, he has concern to spare for you.

“You okay? Locked yourself out?”

“No. I was just hoping to ask you something.”

“Go ahead.” Criston is tired, but his eyes, dark like fertile earth, are attentive.

“When Aemond was hurt…when the label yanked him out of Comet…no one fought for him?”

“Luke did,” Criston says.

And then he continues down the hall, shoulders low, a man troubled by both the past and the future.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Blue Lagoon is like Aemond’s sightless left eye: a milky blue, opaque, something you could drown in. The band spends several hours splashing and wading in water warmer than the blood in your veins. The white silica mud that forms the floor is soft beneath your bare feet, squishing between your toes; people spread it over their skin like a skin shedding its scales in reverse. Criston orders strawberry-banana smoothies from the in-water bar, trying to distract Aegon and Jace from the beer and the wine. Currently, Comet’s most worrisome performers are locked in combat: Daeron is on Aegon’s shoulders, Luke on Jace’s, entangled in a spirited chicken fight. This is much preferable to their first choice, Marco Polo, which led to Jace ‘accidentally’—and repeatedly—bumping into various early-twenties female tourists, whereupon he would inevitably profusely apologize, introduce himself, and pose for selfies, beads of turbid mineral water dripping from his curls. Cregan has drifted to the other side of the lagoon, floating on his back and basking beneath the overcast midday sun.

“I can’t believe they made everyone shower naked before getting in here,” Rhaena says, drinking her smoothie, submerged in rippling blue up to her collarbones. She had nearly refused to go through with it—I’ll wait in the car! I’ll be fine! I’ll just watch The Crown on my phone for three hours!—until you and Baela offered to hold up your towels to shield her from view and insisted that none of the other guests (all female, as the showers are sorted by gender) were paying attention. Nudity is not a big deal in Iceland. It’s quite a far cry from Missouri.

“You gotta honor the local culture, babe.” Baela flashes Rhaena a teasing grin. “Scandinavians are super progressive. No shame about bodies or relationships. Very sex-positive.”

“Well Jace is certainly blending in.”

Now Baela isn’t grinning anymore. She frowns broodingly out over the lagoon. Rhaena, regretting that she said it but knowing it can’t be taken back, noisily slurps at her smoothie even when it’s gone. You and Aemond exchange an uncomfortable glance. Baela has never broached the topic of her relationship with you, but you know it’s coming. You can sometimes see her working up the nerve like a bucket filling with water, drop by drop.

You change the subject. “See, Rhaena? The naked shower thing wasn’t even that bad. It was over in two minutes, and absolutely nobody was judging you. And if you hadn’t done it, you would have missed out on this amazing experience!”

“You weren’t nervous?” she asks you. “Not at all?”

“I little bit, yeah. Of course. I’m an American.” Everyone chuckles. “But logically, I knew no one would really be watching me. I’m not that interesting. And also…I wasn’t truly naked.”

“Huh…?”

You wiggle your eyebrows and, smiling radiantly, spin around and point to the black-ink tattoo between your shoulder blades, underscored by the straps of your swimsuit that cross just below it: a comet with a streaming tail, lyrics that Aemond dreamed up in a kinder world. Rhaena laughs.

“Oh, right, of course.”

“You are obsessed with that thing!” Baela says, but she sounds relatively happy again.

“It’s true. I am. I admit it.” Sometimes you find yourself staring at it in hotel bathroom mirrors still foggy with steam, wiping away condensation to marvel at the irrevocable ways in which Aemond has marked you, ways you are thankful cannot be erased. When you wear anything that reveals your upper back like a spilled secret, you often catch Aemond gazing at it too. Now he reaches over and skims a fingerprint along the circle that his lyrics form around the comet:

I’ll come back for you if it kills me

Comets clip by again after eons and so can I

There’s a jolt down your spine like lightning, but more eager than jarring. All other thoughts vanish from you. You look over at Aemond, and he looks back, his lips slightly parted, his right eye beckoning to you. And you know it will be good with him, if it happens, when it happens. It will be more than good. It will be laced with an intensity, with a dire breed of necessity that you’ve never tasted before. All at once, you and Aemond realize what you’ve done and drift away from each other again, weakening gravity, elliptical orbits.

“No shame, guys,” Baela quips, raising her smoothie glass in a toast. “Sex-positive, remember?”

After the 45-minute drive back to Reykjavik, and after the concert, the band coalesces in Jace’s suite. There aren’t many hangers-on for this stop of the tour; Reykjavik is isolated and peaceful and not particularly desirable for friends of convenience who are more interested in clubbing and drugs than camaraderie. You wouldn’t trade nights like this for anything in the world.

Aemond is reading off his latest notes, white ink on black paper, stars on the backdrop of the universe. A Benson & Hedges cigarette smolders between two fingers on his left hand. Smoke curls up around his face. “Aegon, you were three steps behind the choreography for basically the entire show.”

“Yeah, that was on purpose.”

“It wasn’t,” Aemond counters, but he can’t help but smile.

“Women love a tragic disaster of a man who is screaming to be fixed.”

“Daeron,” Aemond continues. “I really like that hair flip you’ve started doing…”

Aegon is knocking back dark glass bottles of Gædingur Stout and slurring, very drunk and sinking deeper by the minute. In the absence of coke, he has resorted to other crutches. You are squeezed between Aemond and Baela on one of the couches. And Aemond isn’t really touching you, but he also is: the delicious subtle pressure of his thigh against yours, occasional nudges of his elbow, ostensibly unintentional grazes of knuckles and palms. He’s drinking his usual, a Bramble, and so are you, swirls of slow-moving pink like drops of blood in open water. And you think in a hazy bliss like listening to ground-level conversations from the bottom of a swimming pool: Tonight, tonight, tonight, he’s going to come back to my room with me tonight.

“Oh great,” you mumble as you check your Facebook messages on your iPhone.

“What’s wrong?” Rhaena asks. She’s nestled against Luke on the opposite couch, twirling locks of his hair around her benign, delicate fingers. Jace is sitting beside Luke, drinking a Vesper and trying not to make eye contact with Baela. Daeron is in the fuzzy white sheepskin lounge chair, Cregan perched on a bar stool, Criston standing watchfully with a vivid green bottle of Perrier in one hand. When he briefly steps out onto the balcony to take a call from the label, you can hear only the most dim, indistinct murmurings through the thick tinted glass, sounds but not words. Aegon is sitting—and occasionally crawling around—on the floor. The Backstreet Boys’ I Want It That Way is playing.

“I’m subletting my apartment in Kansas City and there is a strict no pet policy. But my neighbors snitched on the new tenant and apparently she’s got a Flemish Giant rabbit living there with her.”

“Not even a normal rabbit,” Baela muses. “A giant rabbit.”

You sigh. “All the rugs are going to be chewed up by the time I get back.” And Aemond glances over anxiously, like he doesn’t want any reminders that you won’t always be around.

“What’s your apartment like?” he says.

“Old. Vintage. Most of it hasn’t been updated since the 1950s. You’d appreciate it, actually. It would match your aesthetic.”

“Maybe I’ll have to see it sometime.”

You smirk at him, flirtatious, baiting, the silver stars on your dress reflecting golden lamplight. “Maybe. If I invite you.”

He leans in to whisper so only you can hear: “You will.”

“I think I’d be a landlord if I wasn’t famous,” Jace says, nursing his Vesper meditatively like an aspiring philosopher. “I’d just sit back and collect the checks as they rolled in. And you get to raise the rent every year.”

“Yeah, that sounds like you,” Aegon says, grinning up at him saccharinely.

“What would you be, Stargirl?” Jace asks; and you realize you hate the sound of him using Aegon’s name for you.

“I mean, a therapist.” And everyone laughs, even Criston.

Jace flushes, brushing his curls back from his face with one hand. “Oh yeah. Clearly.”

You look to Aemond. “You’d be a historian or an archivist or something.”

“Or a writer,” Luke says.

“Maybe,” Aemond agrees, a tad uncomfortable with the attention. “Or an animal activist, maybe. I’d like to do some sort of good in the world.”

Aegon shouts, far more loudly than necessary: “What would you be, Criston?”

“Thousands of miles away from you.” More laughter, riotous; but Criston is smiling a little.

“What about you, Cregan?” Jace asks. “What would you want to be if Comet didn’t exist?”

Cregan downs a shot of Absolut Vodka. “A plastic surgeon.”

“What? Why?”

Cregan shrugs. “You get to see tits all the time.”

There are scandalized squeals and guffaws. Baela says: “I would not let you anywhere near my tits.”

“And not just tits!” Daeron adds brightly. “Don’t they do, what’s it called, vaginal rejuvenation?”

Cregan points at him with his empty shot glass. “Exactly.”

“Oh God, that sounds painful.” Rhaena hides her face behind a flute of champagne.

“Yeah,” you say. “I don’t think I’m interested.”

Aegon snorts, drips of Gaedingur Stout flying from his nose. “Like you’d ever need it. You’ve got a pornstar pussy, fucking gorgeous.”

A hush sweeps through the room like a dust storm. Baffled glances dart around wildly. Immediately, Aegon realizes his mistake. He gazes up at you from the floor with large, glazed, drunken blue eyes that glisten with apology. You gape back, half-furious and half-petrified.

“Wait, what?” Aemond says. Ashes build on his cigarette, forgotten.

“Oh, wow.” Jace gestures from you to Aegon. “You guys…you guys have…?”

“It was once, a long time ago,” you say quickly. “Like, a really long time ago. Over a year ago.”

Aegon is trying to help. “Ages ago. Ancient history.”

“Where? In Kansas City?!” Baela gasps, stunned.

Aegon tells her: “You remember that bar we all went to after the show, right? The one on the roof?”

Baela is blinking at you, not comprehending. “You hooked up with him? In a bar?! Aegon?!”

“Um, yeah.”

Jace brays out a laugh, shaking his head. “Damn, Stargirl. I thought you had better taste than that.”

You feel like you’re fighting for your life. You feel like you can’t breathe. “It really wasn’t serious…” Not the sex part, anyway.

“No, no, it totally wasn’t,” Aegon agrees gamely. “It was like, what? How long were we in that bathroom? Maybe ten minutes total?”

Daeron is giggling. “Bruh, stop roasting yourself!”

As the chatter flies, you hide your face in your hands; beneath your palms, your cheeks are hot. You can feel Aemond pulling away from you, spaces opening up between your thighs and shoulders and arms like the ever-expanding void of the universe. When you steal a glimpse of him through the cracks in your fingers, he is staring down at the floor. He is silent, but you can see the thoughts—the images—riddling him like bullets. You can see him filling up with them like a punctured ship fills with seawater. He smokes until his cigarette is gone, and then immediately lights another.

Luke is the one to mercifully intercede. “Hey, Criston, where are we going next?”

“Uh,” Criston says, trying not to gawk at you or Aegon. “Let me think. Uh. Oh, right. Paris.”

Jace cackles. “The city of love! How appropriate!”

Criston ignores him. “You have some press interviews and then you’re doing two shows at the Accor Arena on July 7th and 8th…”

Aemond gulps down the rest of his Bramble and then walks out onto the balcony, closing the sliding glass door behind him.

“Fuck,” Aegon sighs miserably, then guzzles his Gaedingur Stout.

You bolt off the couch and go after Aemond. The heavy sliding glass door growls as you roll it open and then shut it again. Outside, Reykjavik is cold and windswept. The midnight sun is aflame. It’s still too bright to see the Northern Lights; even if they were there, you would have no way of knowing. Aemond is smoking with his back to you. He’s looking out over the boats bobbing in the harbor, sunbeams glinting on the crests of waves. Flapping gulls swoop and scream.

You say cuttingly, like a surgeon slicing away malignancies: “So what, you don’t like me anymore?”

Aemond flicks ashes over the balcony railing. “I just think I understand you better.”

“What does that mean?”

He whirls to you and says pointedly: “Why are you here?”

A disorienting question. Too easy. “I followed you out onto the balcony.”

“No, here with the band, here in Reykjavik, why are you here?”

You know how the truth sounds, but you can’t rewrite it. “Because Aegon asked me to be.”

“Because he asked you to come fix me, right?” Aemond demands. “To crack open my skull and stir things around until I’m okay with the fact that my life ended seven months ago.”

“No!” you shout into the wind. “I mean, yes, he thought I’d be able to help you, to help Comet, but that’s not what this is about for me anymore—”

“Why would I believe you? You’re a liar, you’re a confirmed liar, why would I believe a single goddamn word of what you have to say?!”

“I didn’t lie to you!”

“Friends!” Aemond roars. He doesn’t touch you, but his rage is horrifying, ageless and deep like lava bubbling beneath tectonic plates. “You said you and Aegon were friends!”

“We are friends—”

“No, you’re not. You met him, you fucked him, and then when he invited you to join the tour you dropped everything to do it, why, because you still want him? And I’m the charity case? Or I was just next in line? Maybe you were planning to work your way through the whole band. Who’s next, Jace? I don’t think he’d object.”

“No—!”

“You and Aegon. And you didn’t even have the guts to tell me.”

“Because I didn’t want to have this conversation, the one where you eviscerate me for something that happened before I even met you!”

“You chose him,” Aemond says, venomous. “At the bar in Kansas City, you chose him.”

“What?! Aemond, I don’t even remember seeing you, I don’t think you were there at all—”

“I was there.” He glares at you, thunderstorms, tornadoes, the earth splitting in two. “Last June. Rooftop bar. String lights. View of the river. I remember it, I was there.”

“Well then you didn’t notice me either and you probably spent the whole night with Pilates princess, Malibu Barbie Shelby, so what’s the fucking point?!”

He glowers at the horizon. Iceland DOES have jewel tones, you think erratically. But they only come out at night, like owls or bats. “It’s different.”

“It’s not different! You’re so convinced people don’t like you that you do insane, irrational things that make people not like you! It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy! It’s a fucking circle, you idiot!”

“I’ve had enough psychoanalysis, thanks.”

“No, you could use some more of it, you could use a lot more, you have so many demons it’s like Paranormal Activity in your brain, they’re in there all day tearing things off the walls and kicking over chairs and sabotaging anything you dare to care about and you let them!”

He turns away from you. “Just go the fuck back to Kansas.”

“I’m from Missouri!”

Aemond pitches the end of his cigarette over the balcony. His good eye flicks to the sliding glass door. The curtains rustle as the faces that hovered there just seconds ago disappear back into the suite. Very muffled through the thick glass, you can hear Criston chastising people.

You ask Aemond, embers in your throat: “This is really something you consider unforgiveable?”

He shakes his head, mournful, violently disappointed. “You’re just a groupie. You’re just a slut.”

Slut. It’s not the word, it’s the way he said it, with dismissiveness, with condemnation, the same way men love to use it as a blade to carve off every other piece of you—kindness, coldness, ferocity, loyalty, wit, passion, talent, triumphs, failures, ghosts—until that one little word is all that’s left. You’re dismantled into a clutter of loose bolts and bent nails. You’re a beef cow that was led into the maze of a gnashing, metal-and-blood processing plant and came out the other side a brainless, raw-pink patty just the right size to fit in a Big Mac box, something to be consumed but not remembered. “What did you say to me?”

He’s staring out into the twilight sky, both hands on the balcony railing. “I can’t believe you. I can’t believe I…”

“Are you kidding me?! I can’t believe I got your lyrics tattooed on my fucking back, what am I supposed to do about that now, rip my own skin off?!”

“So get it covered up. I’m sure Aegon would be thrilled to help you choose a new design, or Jace, or Cregan, or Daeron, or whoever.”

“You know what I think?” you say, caustic like acid.

“Don’t say it,” he threatens, low and dark.

“I think you haven’t fucked anyone since the accident, and you’re terrified to. But you shouldn’t be, Aemond. Because there’s nothing wrong with you. There has never been anything wrong with you.”

But he doesn’t hear that part. He only hears the first thing, what you never should have said at all. It’s true, but that doesn’t mean you should have said it. “I hate you,” he says softly, and you can’t think of a reply. The space between you fills up with wind, cold, dying sunlight. Aemond looks at the sliding glass door. “I don’t want to go back in there.”

“Well, we’re five stories off the ground, so you’ll probably have to.”

He studies the series of balconies that run along this side of the hotel, each separated by perhaps three feet of open air. Then he starts climbing over the metal railing.

“Aemond, don’t!”

But it’s too late. Fortunately, he has long limbs. He scrambles onto the next balcony, and then the one after that, and then one more, until he reaches the balcony for his own suite. He tries the sliding glass door—locked—and then sits down to wait for someone to open it. You go back inside Jace’s suite, where everyone pretends to have been talking about something other than you.

“Where’s Aemond?” Criston says, alarmed.

“He’s on the balcony of his suite. You should go let him in.”

“What?!” Criston yells, and then sprints out into the hallway.

You flee too. Both Baela and Aegon try to stop you, try to talk to you. They’re asking what Aemond said. They’re asking if you’re okay. You tell them you’re fine and that you want to be left alone. They argue. You insist. You walk back to your own room and start packing.

Your suitcase fills up with crumpled clothes and souvenirs: a Colosseum pencil sharpener from Rome, a tiny alabaster Apollo from Athens, a Spanish fighting bull refrigerator magnet from Madrid, handmade soap from Porto, a bar of chocolate from Vienna, a moose snow globe from Stockholm, a silica mud mask from the Blue Lagoon, a tiny stuffed comet that Rhaena crocheted for you. You reach back to touch your fingertips to the comet tattooed over your spine, tears biting in your eyes. If I had told him from the start, would that have made a difference? If I had met him first, would we have had a chance? You are gathering up your makeup when you hear a knock on the doorframe.

Cregan lurks there. When he speaks, he sounds startled; he sounds afraid. “You can’t leave.”

“I’ve literally never had a conversation with you, so thanks for the input but I’m still going.”

“No,” he says, persistent. “You can’t leave.”

“Aemond doesn’t want me here.” Your voice is fragile, shattering. “I can’t help him anymore.”

“It’s not just about Aemond. It’s about everyone. They’re all fucked up. They all need you.”

You stare at Cregan, not understanding. “I really don’t think I’m equipped for this.”

He fixes his cool greyish eyes on you. He is harsh but somehow not unkind. “You would never be able to comprehend where I came from. I’m not going back to that. The band has given me everything. I’m not going to let anyone take that away from me. You have to stay. You have to fix Comet. You can’t leave.”

He watches you, and you watch him, and you aren’t sure who has the upper hand here, who is the predator and who is the prey. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe everyone is a patchwork of strengths and deficits, fields of gold strewn with landmines.

At last, you relent. And Cregan doesn’t vanish until you’ve begun taking your souvenirs out of your suitcase and placing each of them—carefully, reverently—back on your nightstand where they were before.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #aemond x y/n #aemond x you #aegon x reader #aegon ii #aegon targaryen ii #Aegon II Targaryen #Aegon Targaryen #aegon x y/n #aegon x you #aemond x reader

[arclundarchivist]

Spoilers for C3E93

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Lonesome Roads

Morrighan finally stopped running when she realized her only companion was a literal shadow, clinging to her like a chilled coat.

“Will they be okay?” Cyrus asks, his voice distant and near in equal measure like a whisper from an opposing cliff.

“I- I don’t know,” she murmurs, slumping to the ground, her sword clattering to the ground beside her.

The last remnant of Opal is hot in her other hand, yet she refuses to release it. Holding it all the tighter.

“I love you.”

Her ears fall as the tears begin to fall yet again.

“Morrighan?” Cyrus prompts again.

“I said I don’t know!” she exclaims and falters, staring into the blank eyes of her friend’s spirit, and sees his face fall.

Why does she cling to him so?

‘I did not make you mine just for you to die here.”

But a part of her has.

And she needs direction.

Where can she go?

Where is she needed?

What will be demanded of her next?

How much more will she lose?

“Fate is a funny thing, deary, but one can always find a way to tug the threads in the right direction.”

The voice of the woman who cast her on this path, the one that took her first name.

She could have answers.

But what would the cost be this time?

What more could she give… no, what more would she give?

“What would you have me do?” she asks, speaking to the empty air.

There is no response, no urging, she misses when the guidance was a constant, an ever-present ringing in the back of her mind that showed her where to go.

But now there is silence, a comfort akin to the grave.

Fitting, perhaps, when she considers her position once more. 

“Where will we go?” Cyrus demands, shifting closer to her, and she part of her wants to push him away, the other wants to pull him into an embrace, but she is not sure if she can accomplish either.

“I wish I knew,” she mutters.

There is a flash of black, winging through sun-set tinged sky.

She looks up, and there is a raven winging towards the horizon.

A sign. 

She stands, taking up her blade, and glances back the way she came.

The road is being set before her.

“Cyrus… how does it feel?” she asks.

“Hollow, yet comforting, for I am not alone.” he murmurs, shifting closer to her once more, “Do you know where we are going?”

“No… but I hope it leads us back to the others in time,” she states, and she starts walking.

Unspoken is a worry she fights to bury.

She has seen Opal. 

What the Spider Queen demanded and stole from her?

Morrighan gave away her name.

She lost her friends.

Her only companion is a literal shade of himself.

She’s going to walk the path and go where she is needed.

Yet, she can’t help but wonder: “What will be left of me at the end of the road?”

----

Fy’ra stands, her fists drenched in blood as she confronts yet another band of this “Vanguard.”

Flowers and mushrooms of verdant shades are already beginning to bloom from their corpse.

It was true what she said all those weeks ago, “The Wildmother is not kind.”, but to see her vengeance, her rage enacted by her own hands, was… both haunting and exhilarating.

Her flames now carried a green tinge to their breadth, granting life as readily as they consumed it. She was a font of regrowth and healing the likes of which she had never been before.

And that had been helpful, for more than the Vanguard had become Opal’s target.

Mad Arcanists, cultists, supposed traitors, aberrations born of the Red Moon, and a horrid spider that dogged their every step.

One the Queen refused to call off as if she was elated by the constant challenge.

The constant growth of her champion.

Fy’ra was still herself but growing stronger every day. The Wildmothe had been truthful in her promise. Theirs was a conversation, a growing bond that she wasn’t truly certain the conclusion would bring.

Opal, though… was twisting all the more.

She continued to stretch in height, her six arms casting aside the blades at most times to wield lengthy and ichorous claws.

But what truly hurt Fy’ra in her soul was the young woman’s eyes.

Jet-black, with but a glimmer of the old opalescent sheen. And she swears when she watches her as the night overtakes the day, she sees others open in the corners and panes of her face. 

She looks to Opal now, pulling her claws from the belly of the woman who led this band. A towering goliath woman, now so much meat scattered about the ground.

Fy’ra’s heart seizes as for but a moment, Opal brings her fingers towards her mouth as if tempted to taste the blood soaking them, but then her hands drop.

A sign that despite it all, her little sisters are still in there.

She approaches as Opal stands, looking down at Fy’ra with a flat expression.

“Are we done here?” Fy’ra asks.

Opal speaks, her voice now tinged with an insectile trill harsh to the ears, “She says yes. If we succeed, those not fool enough to kill will get to be as they were before… or they will seek to martyr themselves as well. I don’t know, and she doesn’t care.”

“Of course, she doesn’t.” Fy’ra remarks bitterly, “But we can rest?”

Opal is silent, staring at the red moon resting on the far horizon to the south.

“Yes. For now, her son is attacking her somewhere else, so we have time.” Opal remarks, and she turns stiltedly and begins walking toward the dark woods from which the pair had come.

Fy’ra jogs to keep up, “Opal, is she still listening?” 

Opal glances at her, “Not fully.”

“I suppose that is the best I can hope for,” Fy’ra mutters, and she reaches out, gently taking the hand she knows to have originally been Opals.

“How are you?” Fy’ra asks, and Opal squeezes her hand just a tad.

“I’m surviving,” she returns, and then in Fy’ras mind, so rare now, her true voice speaks, “And it’s so hard, Fy’ra.”

“I know, I know, but this will not be forever.” Fy’ra comforts.

“She doesn’t like that,” Opal warns aloud.

“I do not care,” Fy’ra replies defiantly, and the wind around them flares with heat as if in agreement: “We walk this path together until the threat of the Ill Omen is finished, then…”

She lets the implication hang, and Opal smiles, but she can’t tell which part of her it is.

“How is Ted?” Fy’ra asks, and the look on Opal’s face is stark confusion.

The words that follow turn Fy’ra’s flaming blood to ice.

“Who?” Opal asks.

“Y-your sister.” Fy’ra chokes, a dawning realization punching into her core.

Opal pulls her hand from hers, and looks into the dark shadows between the trees and there, the flaring of additional eyes.

After several moments of silence, she looks down at Fy’ra, and it is not an illusion, for four pairs of inky-black eyes burrow into her as Opal says, “You’re the only sister I have in this world, Fy’ra.”

Fy’ra is stunned into silence as Opal keeps walking, her true voice trickling into her mind: “And I will always remember that. Thank you for being here with me.”

“I- you’re welcome.” Fy’ra returns, the realization that Ted had once again paid the lion’s share of her sister’s actions drilling a cold nail of resentment ever deeper into her heart.

“This is only until this plight is over, swear it to me.” Fy’ra growls, feeling a point to her teeth that was not there a moment before.

The wind caresses her in warmth, which she takes to be an agreement.

So she will wait, and she will work and she will protect Opal from all that comes at them in the days to come.

But not forever.

Nature is not kind, and it appreciates an ambush.

----

Dariax wanders Zephrah for days until he finally accepts that Dorian is truly gone.

“Why’d he leave me?” he asked himself and pretty much everyone around, but they couldn’t find the answer any better than he could.

He was alone. Again.

Had he upset Dorian? Did he blame him for Cyrus dying? He-he had the healing mojo. He could have got to him, done something, paid close attention but-

But he’d wanted to save Opal.

To hug her and tell her everything would be okay to rip that crown off and chuck it in a hole.

But he failed at that, too, huh?

Maybe that’s why they had all left him.

They were better at this than him, saving the world. He’d always been just along for the ride, trying and not really managing to keep up.

Dorian was a hero, Morrighan was a Champion, Fy’ra had all the answers ever, and Opal… Opal was strong. She’d held onto that burden without complaint for so, so long.

And he… had just run along behind them, trying to prop them up when they needed it.

But it wasn’t like the first three ever actually needed him. They had their shit together in ways he couldn’t even dream of!

But Opal, he could have- he should have-

“I should never have let her take that crown,” he mutters, bitter with himself as he downs another drink in that little post Dorian had left him in. He glances at the lute, and more self-loathing burbles up.

“I should have put it on, or let Poska take it, or left it with the Wildmother.” he continues rambling, “I should have done something.”

“You trusted her.” a soft voice remarks beside him, but he doesn’t look up.

“I did! I do, I- she was- she is- I should have done more to help her!” he yells, and heads turn to look at her.

“You did,” the voice comforts him. Suddenly, his head feels lighter, and a memory comes unbidden.

She hadn’t asked them to leave her.

She’d fallen into his arms, curling in and sobbing softly for a moment before falling into a peaceful sleep. The first in a while.

“You did what you could, how could you have known a god could feel desperation?” the voice offers, and he glances up, a beautiful Kitari woman smiling down at him, one he recognizes.

“It-it’s you.” Dariax breathes as the Observer smiles and gently moves some of his unkempt hair out of his eyes.

“It’s me,” she states.

“Do you need me in the fight, the big moon fight that folks have been telling me about, cause I’ll go, I just…” he falters, uncertainty eating at him, “I don’t know how much good I can do.”

“You do good in everything you attempt, Dariax,” she comforts, “But I require nothing of you, for I am simply content at the moment to watch how this all transpires.”

“You-you’re not afraid?” Dariax asks.

“The fear of the unknown is never far away,” she offers, “But unlike others, I will not let myself be ruled by it.”

“Then… what should I do?” Dariax murmurs.

“Be true to who you are, aid where you can, I am not looking for a Champion Dariax, but there are many out there that simply need a friend.” she offers.

His face falls, “I was a friend to Opal. To Dorian and the others, look how well that turned out.”

“Their roads have diverged from yours for now, but I do not think that will be forever.” the Observer states.

“Really?” Dariax remarks, hope returning ever so slightly.

“Their road will be trying, the paths winding, for you and for them each, but nothing in the stars states that the end that awaits you all is a tragic one. Keep hope.” she offers.

“Well…” Dariax mutters, swirling his drink and glancing up at her. “I guess I have something to fight for after all, yeah?”

“I’d say so,” she states with a smile.

He grins back, somber and reserved, and then glances around, catching that same look in the dozens of faces around him.

“Hey folks!” he calls out, drawing their gazes to him, “Next rounds on me!”

The mood around him goes on an upswing, and he turns back to the Observer as she looks around her with gleaming eyes.

“So… wanna stay for a drink?” he offers, “Or a song, maybe?”

She laughs, “You amaze me, Dariax Zaveon.”

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his head bashfully, “Th-thank you.’

And he sits with her, talking about times long past and hopes yet unachieved, his heart soaring at the prospect that when all this is over, he can see his friends once again. 

Not considering how changed they all might be.

But as the saying goes: Ignorance is bliss.

Goodbye, Crownkeepers, for now… or forever. 

#critical role #critical role spoilers #exu #cr dorian #cr opal #fy’ra rai #cr dariax #morrighan ferus #the crownkeepers

[cherievol6]

California Dreamin'

summer nights as an up and coming seventies rock band

word count: <1000

warnings: swearing, moustaches

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"Marco, if you don't stop messing with that needle-"

"I'm not!" Marco screeches in defence from behind his new porn stache, lifting his hands up in a surrendered position when Harry saunters over to his new record player and stands in front of it protectively. You giggle quietly at their behaviour, squinting as you watch the boys squabble from the patio doors. Harry had saved money from his first released record to buy this Technics player, so he was feeling precious about it. He'd only really let you fiddle with it, but you always saw him monitoring you over your shoulder.

Melanie stalks down the rich oak stairs in her new bootleg jeans she found in a small charity shop back home, her worn down guitar in hand and a notebook. She wrote the best songs on her oldest guitar. You'd said to Harry a few years ago that you believed everyone's instrument is supernaturally bound to them in some way. You were both pretty high at time.

"God, Melanie. I miss my jeans so much." You whine.

"As if you're not looking unbelievably sexy on that garden chair over there. Marco, here, come and get the gorgeous pregnant woman a drink, would you?" Melanie replies, leaning to kiss you on the cheek and propping her things on the cream sofas. She snatches her scarf from over the lamp in the living room and ties it around her neck.

"Is this gorgeous pregnant woman in the room with us?- Ow! I'm messing, you miserable old sod." Marco sends you a wink but is quickly reprimanded by a swat to the head by your man, who was intensely inspecting his Bowie vinyl for scratches. You quietly giggle, knowing yours and Marco's relationship was playful and unserious, though you really liked Harry's protectiveness.

"Talk bad about my missus again and I'll rip that monstrosity clean off." Harry points to Marco's moustache before patting his cheek heavily, looking over at you with a glint in his eye. You grin, pretending that didn't make you slightly turned on. You were pregnant, it was hard not to be turned on by anything Harry did. Especially when he was wearing his maroon corduroy trousers and just a tank top, cigarette hanging from his lips and a glass of whiskey in the other. Your hand rests over your bump covered by an airy white summer dress, and Harry looks at you from across the room like you hung every star in the sky.

Marco appears by your side with a cloudy lemonade and you smile, grabbing his hand in a thank you and shifting on your garden chair to feel more comfortable. Harry had rented this place for your stay in Malibu whilst you, him and the rest of the band wrote their new album, but sometimes you secretly wished you could live here forever. Large veranda doors that open wide to let the setting sun in, beautiful oak walls and avocado coloured marble on the kitchen floor. You could sit and write every day here.

"What's on your mind, my pretty lady?" Harry's deep voice is smooth like treacle in your ears. You glance over to where he's situating himself on the other outdoor chair, stubbing out his cigarette now that he's next to you. Opal coloured sunglasses cover his eyes, and his hair remains slightly more grown out than usual. He always looked like this when he wasn't doing shows, kind of rugged, rockstar-ish. You loved it.

"I love this house, so much." You breathe. He grasps your hand and kisses it softly, holding it there as he sighs contentedly, glancing over at the skyline and the sun creeping behind. An orange glow sets over the small house and you smile, observing Marco and Melanie trying to light the old barbecue that must have been at least ten years old. Harry's hand creeps up your leg under your white summer dress, slipping it over his knee so he can run his hand up and down - brushing over your ankles every so often.

"How the fuck do you where these when you're pregnant?" He fiddles with the strap of your brown wedged heels.

"Just 'cause I'm pregnant doesn't mean I can't still dress nicely. You know, I found a column in the paper back home by this young'un called Sophie Clark. She writes little fashion pieces at college. She's dedicated a section to me every week. 'The stylish lead starlet of The Saffron'. I need to keep up appearances." You muse, fiddling with the large thin hoop earrings that Harry had gifted you just the day before.

He leans down and kisses your shin, before travelling his hand to your bump unconsciously. "I know. I read it sometimes when you're away at your writing sessions back home and I can't see you. Need to know what you're wearing so I can picture taking it off you--"

You give him a knowing look, and he closes his mouth immediately with a mischievous look. His hand moves in gentle circles over your stomach and you revel in the feeling. It quite literally could not get any better than this. A warm, summer evening in California, the smell of incense coming from inside the house. The hum of The Mamas and Papas travelling from the turntable speakers.

"We're gonna write some good shit here, guys." You inhale. Harry hums and reaches for his notepad on the ground next to the chair, flipping it open and writing something down pensively.

"You found a muse already?" You try and peek and he laughs, slamming the leather bound book shut and grabbing your hand to plant a kiss.

"Just feeling inspired. Entranced. In love." He murmurs and closes his eyes, "I've got all of my muse right here in my hand."

.

heyyyyy!!! so i've kind of created a new lil universe after watching daisy jones and falling into a hole of 70s obsessions again. lmk if you'd like more little blurbs from these characters. I introduce you to The Saffron. my own little seventies rock band.

#harry styles blurb #harry styles fluff #harry styles angst #harry styles one shot #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles #harry styles boyfriend #harry styles husband #husband!harry #seventies #daisy jones and the six #harry styles x you #harry styles fic #harry styles x reader #harry styles x pregnant!reader #harry styles fic rec #harry styles concept #harry styles smut

[charlies-a-ghost]

USERNAME CHANGE FROM ANXI0USGH0ST!!

hey there people welcome to my tumblr account, links to my other socials are in my bio

I’m a strange fellow who says whatever brain rot he’s experiencing

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vampire

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witchcraft practitioner

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waylien + child of ghost

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this is a safe space for queers, all races, therians and furries, the mentally ill, neurodivergents, emos, etc, just don't be a dick and we're good!

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more about me under the cut-off

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cause some problems today

yoooo what's up

basic information about me: i'm charlie, I’m 14, I’m autistic, i can’t swim, I can’t dance, and I don’t know karate.

preferably he/him and they/them, i'm not huge on labels but relativity anything under the trans umbrella is a-ok with me

california girl

certified cryptid

bands: my chemical romance, maneskin, ghost, fall out boy, pencey prep, green day, peirce the veil, the ramones, the smashing pumpkins, the smiths, the talking heads, pixies, the front bottoms, sir chloe, leathermouth, gerard way, the cure, opal in the sky, david bowie, freddie mercury, queen, frank iero, siouxsie and the banshees, nine inch nails, sisters of mercy, bauhaus, mindless self indulgence, lemon demon, will wood, gorillaz, mitski, jazz emu, tom cardy, joan jett and the black hearts, jack stauber, vocaloid, and a TON of miscellaneous songs!!

please send me music reccs i'll love you forever

books: the ash house, scythe, Frankenstein, edgar Allen Poe, ready player one, do androids dream of electric sheep, carry on, 1984, the hobbit, lord of the rings, James herriot, renegades, lockdown, diary of Anne Frank, the magic fish, the true lives of the fabulous killjoys, umbrella academy, red white and royal blue, they both die at the end

I’m really into fantasy, queer romance, dystopia and supernatural horror, if you tell me to check something out I will! especially if it’s something you’ve written (writers supporting writers folks)

musicals: beetlejuice, mean girls, hamilton, heathers, ride the cyclone, six, le mis, little shop of horrors, phantom of the opera, newsies

tv shows, movies and video games: nimona, the owl house, the umbrella academy, young royals, little nightmares, omori, detention, room of old sins, mechanarium, cozy grove, animal crossing, inside (Bo burnham), squid game, the platform, bird box, Alice in borderland, girl from nowhere, breaking bad, demon slayer, death note, black butler, don’t hug me I’m scared, seven deadly sins, the promised neverland, the amazing world of gumball, adventure time, Minecraft, legends of Zelda, fnaf, Fiona and cake, gravity falls, probably more I’m forgetting

Other stuff about me: I can speak both French and Japanese, I play four instruments (guitar, ukulele, piano, cello), I have horrible anxiety, synesthesia, tics, I am an emo patron but new to the goth, metal and punk scene so if you’ve got shit to tell me/tips please do!!

i wanna reiterate i'm autistic and have absolutely no clue how to socialize but i swear my intentions are positive

stuff i do is write songs, poetry and fiction, act, a lot of art, i love space big special interest in it, uhhh speedround sharks creepy drawings tim burton gothic architecture plants crystals herbology strange people cats candles fairy lights graffiti roller skating rain kind people taxonomy of birds especially in the corvidae family and graphic novels

if that's ur vibe uhhh stick around 🫶

[airawisteria]

[ID: 2 digital drawings of one of my OL2 MCs—Azalea (aka Azzy). Azzy has a dark complexion, the same purpley hair as Opal and zir left eye is also the same colour as Opal's. Their right eye is a bright, sky blue colour. They are wearing round, gold glasses and there are three golden accessories in zir braided hair alongside a flower crown of yellow flowers. Azzy's left eye is partially obscured by their braids. There is a light purple band-aid on zir right cheek. Ze is wearing a pastel yellow t-shirt with dark brown overalls. Azalea is wearing a purple scarf with daisies on it.

They are seated with zir legs near their chest and under a tree with orange and yellow leaves.]

#ol2 #olnf #our life now and forever #my art #digital art #art #(im pretty happy with this) #(the flower crown and the leaves of the tree were fun to draw) #(especially since i was experimenting and figuring out what looked cool) #(i had a ton of fun figuring out the pose) #(i absolutely adored drawing zirs hair!!!) #(best part hands down)

[styxthecaracal]

Opal In Sky Userboxes

Made some userboxes for my favorite band cuz I could (and cuz I didn't wanna do my homework TwT). Anyway, enjoy!

❤️Heart Collection❤️:

❗Oopsie Collection❗:

🤝O-Pal Collection🤝:

✨Opalite Collection✨:

🩷Pink Duo🩷:

(Btw, these are free to use with credit. I just wanna make and share some of my silly shenanigans, so if you wanna use em' go ahead, just credit me :3)

#CadenceAndTheVoid #FloppaMakesThings #opal in sky #opal in sky band #metalhead #metal music #metal #metalcore #userbox #userboxes #music userboxes #metalhead userboxes #OIS #opalite metalhead

[m0thxy]

*weezer riff*

HELLO!!! WELCOME TO MY BLOG!!!

cats or get the fuck out

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I go by moth/mothy

my pronouns are primarily he/him but I'm also cool with they/them!!! I am a boy :)

I AM NEURODIVERGENT!!! I have autism. I'm also a teenager, so please don't be weird

I'M AUSTRALIAN!!!

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I LOVE MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE!!! some other bands I like are pierce the veil, green day, fall out boy, paramore, opal in sky, custard, leathermouth, korn, and the oozes. I also like gerard ways solo stuff

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THINGS I LIKE!!!

bojack horseman, splatoon, the spiderverse movies, vocaloid, jack stauber, the umbrella academy, hazbin hotel, helluva boss. there's probably more but I can't remember

(I'm not in too many fandoms because I'm always too busy obsessing over mcr)

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I kick my feet in the air and giggle like a little school girl whenever someone follows me on here

I LOVE MAKING MUTUALS!!! I'm probably not gonna message first though cause I don't know how to socialise (I'm silly like that) BUT EVEN IF YOU ARE MY MUTUAL AND WE DON'T DIRECTLY TALK I STILL THINK YOU'RE COOL!!!

(IF YOU DM ME I WILL REPLY!!!)

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DNI LIST!!! (basic dni criteria)

(do not interact = don’t follow me)

homophobes, transphobes, misogynists, racists, ableists, waycest shippers, proshippers, terfs, radfems, pro-lifers, MAPS, zionists, ect

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I’ll add blinkies later (maybe)

my art blog is @m0thxyy :)

my killjoys rp blog is @xenon-moth

join the hate club for val: @val-velocity-hate-club

spacehey: MOTH!!!

drawing box: MOTH :)

EAT THE RICH!!! <3

[diabollicallyangelic]

what is you favorite metal/rock band

BESIDES TX2

GAAA

Peirce the Veil, Opal in the Sky and MCR

[dujour13]

Owlcatober 30. Max Level

Part 2 of Blue Skies Over Mendev (part 1 here / also on AO3)

CW Major spoilers for the secret ending of PWOTR

Victorious dawn bathed the ridge in fresh, rosy light. A riot of laughing, weeping, dancing and singing crusaders churned around the island of calm that was their Queen. Wherever did they manage to get this much alcohol, she wondered, and then recalled with a sigh that the Knight-Commander had never prohibited it. Someone’s pauldron crashed against hers. She staggered, but somehow couldn’t summon up the regal scowl such a faux pas deserved.

Neither could she quite summon up joyful abandon. No one offered her a flask anyway.

As she watched in quiet, weary awe, the clouds overhead scattered and twinkling morning stars peeked from between their shreds, while underfoot tiny seedlings surged out of the once-sterile ground and a hum like bees rose on the wind. A light perfume of jasmine filled the air.

“My Queen—”

She turned, the stern refusal dying on her lips—it was not an offer to partake.

“My Queen, look!” An aide-de-camp directed her wondering eyes to the sky over Threshold.

From the deep blue western sky a tremendous, glowing object floated down over the ruins of the prison, dancing lights like fireworks flickering across its cliff-like flanks.

As they watched, the magically flying island settled atop Threshold and crushed the ancient prison to dust, not with a roar but a sigh as its oppressed souls were at long last released by the power of Elysium.

The earthquake that followed toppled the victory-drunk crusaders as well as most of what remained standing of the crusade camp after the detonation of the Worldwound. From the sound of laughter she guessed no one was injured.

Waiting out the last of the aftershocks on her haunches she scanned the crusade camp for her chapel tent, longing for a moment to herself. Galfrey felt light as air, and it hurt. It hurt the way pain only flared in a crushed limb when the weight was lifted from it.

She needed to set her shoulders for what came next: more work, but the rebuilding, healing sort of work she wasn’t sure she knew how to do.

She just needed a few moments to sort her thoughts and choose the right words for her people, but this was denied her, because not a dozen paces away on the ridge a blinding light suddenly shone like a star had fallen to earth. A warm breeze teased loose a strand of hair on her forehead.

Seeing crusaders drop to their knees around her, she, Galfrey of Mendev, rose to her feet.

There they were, the Knight-Commander at their head: the band of unlikely heroes, surrounded by opal-gold rays of sunlight and Elysian butterflies.

She shielded her eyes. They were radiant. More than radiant: they were transformed, godlike.

Siavash’s smile was no longer just charming, but devastating; the tiefling at his side like a midnight lightning storm.

The paladin shone like the dawn, her grin of triumph radiating reassurance and camaraderie; the young priest and his brother clad in rainbow hues and flowers, one scarred, the other fresh-faced, healing light pouring from their haloes; the kitsune scholar’s all-knowing eyes piercing the mysteries of existence; the Hellknight, still dark and glowering, an anchor of order among the chaos; the mongrel chieftain elevated all the way from his caverns to the light of Heaven, just as the succubus had transformed from a blind and greedy larva into a miraculous azata; and the elf waif and her crow shining with benevolence beyond mortal comprehension.

And Daeran—the cousin she’d despaired of—wreathed in divine light and a scent of otherworldly roses, his natural beauty so magnified it hurt her eyes.

Power poured out of them like the warmth of the sun.

Not godlike.

Gods.

Whatever had transpired at Threshold, they had not only prevailed over the Architect of the Worldwound but they had ascended.

A bolt passed through her core.

To witness such a miracle—as great as the Inheritor Herself striding triumphant from the Starstone to take up Aroden’s torch!

The Knight-Commander moved toward her. Terrible power prickled her eyes and vibrated in her sternum. Her hair stood on end. She felt on the verge of shattering, like her soul was a crystal goblet resonating with an unbearable harmonic, and it seemed to her no mortal could stand in the face of this power and live. Fear gripped her heart.

In Iz he had forgiven her for the unforgiveable. At the time he seemed sincere, but was this the moment of reckoning, the time for her sins and failures to be weighed in the divine balance?

No matter. She was ready.

This would indeed be the perfect moment for death to send her weary soul to the River. Her work here was done and she could finally, finally rest.

She deserved no better. She’d failed—not only crusade after doomed crusade, but when Elysium sent her a savior she failed to put her trust in him, let petty jealousy and hurt drive her to an act of spite, an unpardonable betrayal, worse yet because they’d been friends.

At least in a manner of speaking. As far as Queen Galfrey could be said to have friends. They’d made each other laugh a couple of times—did that count?

Not enough to save him from her resentment. Not enough to save him the labor of recovering the Fifth Crusade after her disastrous bid to march on Iz.

She bowed her head.

Merciful Inheritor, I did what I could. Could You have asked more of any mortal?

Now let me sleep.

Please.

She closed her eyes, preparing for divine judgment to strike her down. Grateful for it, even. He could snuff her out like a burnt-down candle, and at last she could lay down her sword.

Instead, she felt his arms wrap joyfully around her.

This should never have been yours to carry alone for so long.

Warmth, healing, forgiveness—the blessing of Elysium. And most of all, the most sublime soaring sensation of a crushing weight lifted from her soul. It had been so long since Galfrey let herself weep she wondered whether she’d forgotten how, dried up and faded like a pressed flower. She had not forgotten.

#pathfinder: wrath of the righteous #queen galfrey #siavash #azata mythic path #spoilers #secret ending #my writing #pwotr pals #owlcatober 2023

[murruspins]

Hey, moot :3 Just wondering out of pure curiosity, I saw in one of your posts that you like metal music; have you ever listened to the band Opal In Sky? I love their music so much but I haven't found anyone else who listens to them TwT

(If you haven't, I highly recommend you check them out. They make, like, positive metal music. That's the best way I can think to describe it 😅. Like, all their lyrics are super positive and uplifting. Not to mention it just sounds good too :3)

Sorry for such a late response to your ask!! I had to take some time to actually get into the band and listen to a lot of songs! Their music is actually really good. I don’t think I can choose a favourite song 😭😭 but safe to say they’re on my playlist now!! Thank you so much for the recommendation, I appreciate it! 🫶

#murru mews 🐾 | #murru’s playlist #murru’s asks #digital diary #metalhead #music

[imalsoscarlet]

shuffle your favorite playlist and post the first five songs that come up. then copy/paste this ask to your favorite mutuals <3

💛☺

Okay so here's the thing:

I don't technically have a favorites playlist. I use YouTube Music and tend to just take the time every morning to queue songs for the day. I'm really into metalcore. Last month my queue looked like this:

Take Me Back To Eden by Sleep Token (album)

DEATH OF THE PEACE OF MIND by Bad Omens (album)

This Place Will Become Your Tomb by Sleep Token

[Music by an indie rock or metal band I found on Tiktok]

[Ascensionism by Sleep Token on repeat for about 5 hours]

[Hozier]

[The ADHD fixate is strong, I'm listening to Ascensionism again]

But since you're asking for favorites, I'll shuffle my music library for you and list five songs from it. I have checks library over 400 songs digitally. I really need to take the time to clean it out, and update it with more of what I'm actually interested in listening. Right now, I'm gone full metalhead and have been kicking around bands like Dragonforce, Dethklok, Nekrogoblikon, and a new band called Avralize. So I know I have a ton of "new" (new to me) stuff in my library. Let me just listen to Ascensionism again.

Everything is below the cut. Woof, this is a long post.

Five Tracks From My Music Library

Lucky by AURORA

And feel the light for the very first time. Not anybody knows that I am lucky to be alive.

Okay wow. This was the first song to come up. It was written when the singer was younger and every time I listen to it I want to know who hurt her because I have a good shovel and garden that needs fertilizing.

Which Witch by Florence + The Machine

Whose a heretic now? Can you make it stick now?

I discovered this song about a year ago I believe? It's interesting, because "witchy rebel banger" was not what I'd say about a song but no, that describes it perfectly.

The Rapture (But It's Pink) by Scene Queen ft. Mothica

Made it to hell, where's the band at? The devil said he'll give you your soul back.

Song goes hard. The message behind why Scene Queen wrote is unfortunate. Like, how hard is it for a rock/metal band to not do shit to underage girls? Apparently impossible?!?!

Alkaline by Sleep Token

If anything she's an undiscovered element; either born in hell or heaven sent.

Sleep Token was gonna make it here, because my music library has all their singles, both EPs, and all three albums. Alkaline is one my favorites from This Place Will Become Your Tomb.

Good Luck Kid by Opal In Sky

You can bite the hand that feeds it'll just be toxic. As if it'd ever reach down to you

This is the band that got me into the heavier sounds of metals. They only got one EP and a handful of singles, but their music goes hard. I can't wait to see how they grow.

#askbox #anwsered #thank you 🥺 #🤘