#worstheir

❛ is this really what you want, your highness? ❜ there were far more suitable candidates to discuss political matters with than hitch. on the other hand, there was nobody that equalled her appetite for matters of the heart, crowned head seemingly so heavy for a silhouette so slender. thus, after vapid reports tumbled freely from her lips, adding nothing of substance to what generals spewed, she'd swerved the conversation to a more intimate subject; marriage.

❛ far from me the idea of opposing your choices, but even if we disregard the talks of higher ups, ❜ archaic beliefs that royal blood should not be mixed with commoners' still reigned over the inner wall, though once spilled, it had the same color. her palm continued to support her chin, eyes vacantly watching bypassers outside the window only for an index to find the cold blurry surface. a little heart doodle to thaw the fog.

'let’s not talk about it, let’s just not talk.'      /        pretending  @worstheir​​  made a yennefer and has her shit together for valentines     :     richard siken   ( open )

𝐘𝐄𝐒 ,    𝐈𝐓'𝐒  𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐇  𝐓𝐎  𝐆𝐈𝐕𝐄  𝐈𝐍       this  quick .    it’s  reckless        to keep the rhythm they’ve built to satisfy neither by more than a surface scratch .    Yet Geralt sheathes to her plea ,   eyes shutting to a close .        ❛     Okay ,    ❜       he says ,   voice kept low despite knowing it’s only the two of them .    He brings himself forward ,   until he feels the cool of her forehead against his .    He opens his eyes again ,   meeting violet he daren’t think of as  tender .        ❛      We won’t talk .     ❜

Yes ,   he should argue .   He should try again ,   to make Yennefer see reason .   But he knows they never want to see it at the same time .   It’s how these things go :   a constant push and pull .   And so be it .   Maybe there’s benefit to letting it all die in his throat .   It sure as hell feels like it ,   like this .    With her legs over his and his hands painfully itching to dig even deeper in her skin  /   pushing on thighs and pulling in her lower back .       ❛      Stay the night ,    I’ll make it worth your time ,      ❜     Geralt tells her   —    and it’s a promise he expects to keep .   A promise he’ll be to the point of feverish fatigue and discomfort to uphold ,   to  upkeep .    

        ↳    send   ‘  💬  ’    for a  generated  dialogue starter .

𝐈𝐓'𝐒  𝐀𝐍  𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄  𝐈𝐍  𝐇𝐄𝐑  𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐓       like none other :      the burn of flowers once blooming ,   festering through her ribs like disease .    Like mayhem .    Historia  /  heliotrope   —   she should've taken  heed  to the fear of darkness .   Instead she stands in the weeds of it ,   unable to gather the strength to leave them be .    Why she bothers ,   why she’s still   trying  ,   why she turns around when Historia offers her a   perfectly  good  out ,   rage in her eyes and hurry in her movements :

@worstheir​ 

“It was me, you know.” A non-existent wind carries the sound of the voice of a dead boy, whose voice once only mattered to a band of ragtag children turned into war weapons. Not that it made a difference whatsoever. There was a time he had thought it would. Brotherly advice and care, encouragements, leadership and inspiration. Perhaps it had made a difference, for a short while. Since his death, Marcel can only ever come to one solitary conclusion: his voice had ever made the slightest shred of difference. Childishly, he thinks it is the same here. Whatever he whispers along the paths, whatever the breeze of his words may carry, will dissolve into the sand, that silvery, light sand from whence everything and nothing sprouts, from whence titans are scultped and come to die like elephants in their cemeteries.

Surely, whatever he may whisper to a queen in her slumber won’t make a shred of difference either. 

But eternity is very long, and very lonely, for a thirteen year-old little boy with too much to say, and no one to listen. The only visitors here are fleeting dead souls, old titans lumbering at the horizons; a little girl carrying a bucket and fallen kings. Eternity has a way of tripping you down to bare bones and quintessence. He, the child, has never been as selfish and capricious than since he’s died. 

Hollow orbs in lieu of eyes gaze over the small woman (small woman, great and golden soul, rotten to the core; not by her own design, only others and their rotten touch; do they have that in common or not? The boy can no longer tell the distinction). She’s not dead, that one; only asleep, only slipping through the cracks even when she’s not meant to. Marcel doesn’t question it (why should he?). He knows her, though; he’d seen her through the eyes of the other, every time he’d attach himself to Ymir’s soul like a jealous parasite. 

"could you hold this?" places a baby in his arms without waiting for his reply.    /    @worstheir​

❛     𝐻𝐼𝑆𝑇  -   ❜      𝐈𝐓'𝐒  𝐀  𝐅𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐄  𝐄𝐅𝐅𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐓 .      he’s  cut  off  before  even            stating  the   new queen’s   name ,    let alone  chiding  her for thrusting a  child  into his hands .    The clench of his teeth relaxes into an abiding sigh .    Might as well start taking orders from  her majesty  now ,   huh ?

𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐁𝐀𝐋 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒   /   uwu   /   @worstheir  💕

These kids were always going to be the death of him, in one way or another. That he had always been certain of. As they had gotten older, moved on with their lives the less the topic seemed to have breached his subconscious, but there were always moments when that ideal popped it’s way back into Aizawa’s head. This was no exception to that. She was no exception to that. He thinks how he should never have asked, kept his questions to himself and let the both of them get the rest they both undoubtedly needed, but Historia was practically screaming for the questions to be asked. Pregnant belly pushing through his apartment door before the rest of her could, he’d gotten past the point of even inviting her in anymore. 

“ Kid, I never said shit about you having to share it. ”  He didn’t need her pain atop his own, his plate was full enough. His grievances heavy enough for his already tired shoulders, it almost made him laugh that she thought he was offering his full plate for her to load more food onto.  “ But it’s 2am and you came to me, remember? ” A teacher always stayed on duty, even if years had passed since a student stopped being a student, apparently. The tea that he’d brewed for the both of them was starting to go cold and untouched by both parties, the cup cool to the touch now as he placed his on the table, somewhat annoyed he wasted two perfectly good servings of tea.