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Well, it's weird how this forms. Selina gives off an air of class and sophistication, something untouchable for someone with a DUI and an ASBO. But after killing each other off a few times, rather than a rift wedging its way between them, something stronger builds, tying them together.
It's weird, but Alisha won't knock it.
They all finally make it to brunch. Alisha and Selina dine more than the rest, if only because it's a stir, repeat in the game: They kill one another because there's no other choice, but rather than bad blood sitting between them, the killer buys the deceased lunch. It's a way of saying sorry for killing you without the words or the cards.
Alisha's kind of grateful that she doesn't have to feel as though she's walking on eggshells around Selina. The woman doesn't seem to hold much of a grudge. And Alisha's finds herself feeling a little less heavier that she doesn't need to worry about her getting revenge. (It also doesn't hurt that it's not personal.)
It's a nice sort of friendship. With a killer punch.
Sif crash lands into Gotham city rather than New York, hence why she's missing from The Avengers. It's all fun and games until she's placed in an asylum for being a freak of nature; she's a god, goddammit, a warrior of Asgard, and warriors of Asgard are not treated with such little disrespect!
While this goddess of war can't inflict the fear of said war upon those who wrap her up in straps and toss her into cells, Jonathan Crane promises her she'll win this battle.
They get out, when Gotham returns to an anarchy, and while Sif understands she's on the wrong side of this war, it's not as though anyone is attempting to recruit her to their side. Crane's safe, while a little neurotic, and he's a little off from the depiction of humans from Thor's tales of when he had been exiled, but he's kind to her in his own way and he sticks to her as though they've been glued at the hip.
When anarchy truly breaks out, Sif runs a man through with a pole - he'd had a knife in hand, ready to exact a revenge on Crane for punishing his brother to sink or swim in the frozen waters under the bridge.
(Sif fights for the wrong side because she doesn't know any better. But she honestly doesn't care.)
Cordelia's dead. Deader than dead. Six feet under sort of dead. And Buffy … she has a weird relationship with it. Cordelia doesn't think Buffy's dead. There's no way in hell the Slayer, of all people, is dead. She's a Champion, like Angel, a doer of good, someone who isn't meant to die. Cordelia's a pawn while Buffy's a knight; the pawns are always sacrificed first.
So it's when she finds out, that Buffy is as dead as she, that Cordelia isn't quite sure what to do. She always has all the answers, the right words, the right gestures, the good sort of pick-me-ups to get people out of their angsty and broody funks.
She avoids her for some time. Buffy's dead. Cordelia's dead. But Cordelia's meant to be dead while Buffy … It's all a big, crazy whirlwind, so she ignores Buffy for a while. She sticks to her hallways and her checkerboard hills, and sticks to the mazes and the closets. But it's when Giles and Xander just don't get it that Cordelia knocks on her door.
And when it's opened, she shrugs, "So, you're dead," Cordelia says. "Whoop. Big deal. Been there, conquered that, and it looks a hell of a lot better on me than it does you. So, quit whining, and lets go get some damn shoes, Buff."
Caroline doesn't talk much about the Cheshire Cat, not unless it's to tell someone who stupid Wonderland is. It's different with Amy, though. Maybe it's because Amy caught a snippet of their conversation before Caroline's communicator turned itself off. Maybe it's because she saw said interaction but didn't make fun of her for it. Maybe it's because Caroline told her of said interaction and the little ordeal she went through with a saucer and Amy didn't exactly make fun of her for it. She's a desperate girl wanting to go back home to her mother and her best friend. It's not exactly a laughing matter.
But it becomes one, a good sort of laughing matter, where Amy teases Caroline about seeing any cats lately. Gone to go fetch a saucer for one? Got milk? And Caroline laughs, for the first time in months, always at the repetition of these inside jokes, because she doesn't have anything else here.
So, it's when Caroline's in the tea room with a little cup of tea in front of her that Amy comes walking in, collapses in a chair beside her, and grins, something akin to the Cheshire itself, and says, "Cat got your tongue?'
Cordelia thinks Amy doesn't have great taste in shoes. "You know, ever since we did that segment where we were fashion judges, I've come to see that you're a bit of a disaster."
And she takes Amy on a whirlwind tour of feminine shoes; heels, boots, varying from feminine and useful to feminine and incredibly sexy. Those boots Amy wears look like a man's boot, and while Cordelia believes everyone should have their own unique style, put together with plaid equals a fashion disaster. And that's how she works out the mathematical equation of how Amy is just that.
Oliver begins as a toy. A distraction that comes in a well-toned package. He has something she wants, but wrapped up in that well-toned package is a hard muscle of stubbornness. So, Katherine stays in the city to wear it out, to run her claws all over the skin so she can get to the heart of the problem and fix it.
But she becomes attached, as always, and feels a little too much and a little too little for other things that used to mean so much more. She's Katerina, at times, a vulnerable girl who is so naive she can't see what's right beneath her nose. Most of the time she's Katherine, so guarded and well-put together that Oliver shouldn't be able to see through the cracks of her armour.
Thea does, though, and it's what grates Katherine's nerves so much.
It's not love, nor is it infatuation, nor is it what Katherine's so used to. It's something she doesn't want to define in fear of it turning around and chasing her through the woods again. It's a well-deserved vacation, she says, from all those centuries of running from Klaus, but Katherine, for all intents and purposes, starts unpacking those suitcases.
One day Grell will learn to never joke at his expense.
Truthfully, he's hoping that day never comes.
After he steals yet another Unseelie gift — a knife this time, one that had been thieved by a woman with a tall, statuesque figure and a lust for blue eyes, accompanied by a lanky kid with thick, messy dark hair and a scar as ugly as his own — he receives yet another treasure on his doorstep.
It's not an explosion. It's not the head of a teddy bear. It's not even a message for the wider audience to know Grell Sutcliffe hates the guts of her newly revealed secret admirer.
It's the drawing of him being eaten alive by a lion.
And so, for the creative soul he thinks himself to be, a few months after the delivery, with said months being quiet on both their ends, Luke tracks down a lion and steals it. It's tiny, a small, fluffy thing; its paws are large and his nails sharp, its fur as soft as he thinks a cloud should be, and its mouth as wide as a fully-grown lion's, especially when it yawns.
He doesn't take a Snapchat and send it to her with the communicator he's since stolen from one of her friends. He sends her a video instead.
In his arms is a lion cub, licking the side of his face. Its paws press against his collarbone as he smiles down at it. A voice off-camera grunts "Action!" and the tail of a blue snake slithers out of view before Luke even looks up with a wide grin.
Looking back down at the cub, he lifts its paw and taps its shoulder. "Look," he says, but the lion ignores him. "Wave to Mom." He lifts its paw and looks up at the camera. "Hi Mom. We'll be visiting you real soon."
A few days later, he mails her a present. Instead of a stuffed bear, he sends her a stuffed lion with a note with a red ribbon wrapped around its neck.
Hitching a ride in Elena's body, Katherine hightails out of Mystic Falls on the coattails of Nadia's death with a plan to raze the entire state of Virginia. But she knows she can't do it when her heart is so heavy and fractured. Instead of forgoing Nadia's wish she find her own happiness, Katherine decides to embrace it.
Tying up the loose ends of her life had never been a thought of her own. She'd believed she would have centuries left to live, but Katherine knows the clock is ticking for her, and hot on her heels will be the Scooby Gang trying to exorcise her from Elena Gilbert's body.
It isn't difficult to track Elijah down. If he isn't in a stuck-up hotel, he's out in an alleyway, in an expensive suit, new shoes, and with blood on the palms of his hands. It's how she finds him, wiping his fingers on a handkerchief he places back into the breast pocket of his suit.
"Elena," he says. Then he turns, noticing the details she's purposefully left as herself. "Katerina," he says, tone shifting into something more breathless.
Her heels click against the stone pavement as she slowly approaches him.
"This look doesn't suit you," he says.
"And you with you head between your legs doesn't suit you, either," she says. She stands before him, arms by her sides, her defenses down. He looks at her like she's a ghost. She figures it's the only time he's ever looked at her and seen the real Katherine Pierce.
Instead of giving him time to speak, Katherine stands taller. "I've come to say goodbye, Elijah."
"You came all this way for a farewell?"
"I'm going," she says. "Far, far away." Looking down at his hands, she notices how they're clasped together. Sometimes, she thinks Elijah does that to prevent himself from reaching out toward her. "Somewhere not even an Original can follow."
He opens his mouth, but she refuses to let him speak. The reins have always been in his hands, callousing them when hers have remained soft and needy for them.
She takes a step forward and leans on the tips of her toes to press her lips gently to his. It's such an Elena thing to do, but she doubts Elijah will be so blinded to not know it's Katerina reaching out to him now.
Looking up at him, she says, "For all the mistakes I made, you were never one of them." She tries not to read his expression, of how it falls from being perfectly guarded and blank into something akin to what a human whose capable of being hurt would wear.
She takes a step back. "Goodbye, Elijah." And turns her back on him for the very first time.
Holding hands isn't as intimate as anything else. Fingers mean nothing. He can grip someone's hand and that's it. His quota for the day has been fulfilled. He's one step closer to making good on his deal and getting out of Eudio.
It's meant to be simple — and it is. It's what he tells himself he has to do each and every day. Reach out, grab someone's hand, let them do the rest of the work.
Holding hands really doesn't mean anything, even though, at first, Bellamy had been reluctant to even hold Roxy's. He hadn't even wanted to reach out and grasp for Clarke's.
After Octavia goes, after she doesn't come back, after he buys a calendar to mark off the weeks he's without her, Bellamy holds the hands of those around him. From the girls he knows to those he doesn't, he lets them lace their fingers with his dead hand until he becomes comfortable to instigate it.
But he never does it with Raven.
It's always his fingers curling around her elbow or his palm pressed to the small of her back, but he never quite touches her like the others. Sometimes he falls asleep on her, on the rare occasion he lies down and rests his head on her lap, and only on a particular day does he ever throw his arm around her to pull her from turning left when she should be waddling over to the right.
He gives her pony rides out to the beach, slipping on the sand, running and walking but never quite jumping in fear she'll lose her grip. Her arms always wrap around his neck and her fingers always press against his collarbone, as if she wants to burrow into his flesh and grip the bones of his ribcage to keep hold.
But he never holds her hand.
Sometimes, she reaches out to only catch herself, awkwardly removing her hand from where it's extended in the space between them. He never extends his to catch hers, choosing to let it float away.
Bellamy thinks if he does, Samantha will tell him he's met his end of the deal and that it's time for him to leave.
When he had still been a child, no older than ten and not as jaded as he'd been at fourteen, he used to look over his shoulder and peer at his footprints in the sand. Once, he'd gathered the broom from his house and had made the short trek to the beach to sweep the mounds of sand into a smoothness not even the waves could manage.
Throwing the broom as far as he could, he'd walked the length of his own designed floor, picking his feet up properly, sliding them along the grains, even pressing the tips of his toes into the sand as he reached the very end. He used to look back at his footprints, at the journey he had taken to get to his destination, and had always found himself amused by how the sand was manipulated by him.
Finnick doesn't steal a broom from any home, nor does he peer over his shoulder to spy his journey, as he knows the sand won't be as dry and colourless as it had been before. There's blood staining the grains now, as it does his hands. But where he doesn't peer back, Lara does.
He hadn't wished to give her the memory of being fourteen and too caught up in the victory the Games would win him and his district. He hadn't wanted her to see the part of him that he'd be greeted with when he returns to his own apartment to peer at himself in the mirror. But it'd been her at his back once again, on the beach with the tide the only noise, as she had encouraged him to consent not to her seeing him at his worst, but in trusting she'd be at his back if he so happened to fall.
He doesn't have a broom with him now, but he remembers those exercises his father had tried to teach him as a child. Fourteen and untouched by the games, he'd insisted it was better than any broom sweeping along the sand to make it smooth enough to write I love you in or any sandcastle he could ever build. To place trust in someone to keep him upright would be the greatest sign of love he could ever be given.
When he peers over his shoulder at the sand, he finds not only his footprints but hers.
She doesn't really know what to make of it, this whole superhero … thing. Atlas doesn't leap from building to building. Atlas doesn't come back home with his hand split open and a proud smile on his face. Atlas doesn't promise to come back in time and save her. Atlas doesn't do much at all, really, save buy her a chocolate bar from the vending machine every day he walks by it.
But Alisha doesn't want to do the whole vigilante thing again.
Instead of remaining in their apartment, she crawls her life into a box. One of those that he'd helped her with so long ago — it's been kicked in, by her, and drawn on, by him, but it's still there, as if waiting for this moment. And so she packs it with herself, tossing her items into the boxes like she can fit her entire life in them. "I can't do this," she says, and she folds her sweaters into neat little squares before tossing them into her box. "I'm not fucking doing this again."
She knows the moment he grabs one of the boxes to help her carry them to wherever the fuck she's chosen to go that he won't really fight her on it. There'll be no Alisha, please, no we're meant to be together — there's no pictures depicting he was ever a rest stop in her life on her way to her destination. There's nothing in this little flat that tells her anything about their future.
Save for him and that fucking cardboard box.
He looks down at it, fingers reaching inside to pick at one of her dresses. "It's going to get wrinkly," he says.
She shrugs.
"You hate the iron," he says, peering down at it.
She looks down at the box, at his fingers, then back up at him. He still doesn't look at her.
Digging inside her box, he pulls out a piece of paper. On it, he's drawn him ironing her dress, her carrying a soda can. It's not really anything artistic, really. Alisha imagines he's been predicting this day would come after he'd seen her memory of Superhoodie taking that fucking bullet.
"It's not a polaroid of the future," he says. He looks at her then, when she's not peering at him. "But it's what you make of it, isn't it? You're not meant to live in a cardboard box forever, Alisha."
She closes her eyes for a long, long time, but she thinks that's how she's been in Eudio since the day she arrived. Swarmed in nothing but blackness. Unable to see. She opens them now and finds herself staring at him, seeing her life for the very first time in that cardboard box.
When they return from having dinner, Bellamy and Elsa walk into an apartment that's completely trashed. His television is broken, his sink is overflowing, the window of his room has a thick crack in it, and his books have been ripped apart and thrown onto the floor.
Elsa gasps whereas Bellamy peers around his apartment incredulously. With her hands pressed over her mouth rather than in his hands, he can't help but laugh at her expression as she looks around the apartment with wide eyes.
"Surprise, I guess," Bellamy shrugs. He reaches for one of her hands, pulling it gently away from her face, as he leads her further into his apartment.
"I'm so sorry," she says, stepping onto the tips of her toes to avoid trampling the pages of his books. Bellamy steps outright onto them as he guides her toward his bed.
She peers up at him when his legs hit the side of his bed. Elsa's hand drops from her face as she looks up at him incredulously. "You're not mad?"
"About?" he looks down at her, eyebrow arched.
She looks around his apartment. "Your things …"
He shrugs, looking around his apartment. "Shit happens," he says. He looks down at her with a kind smile, "This isn't the worst thing that's happened to me."
He knows she knows, and maybe that's why her head dips as she looks even more crestfallen.
Reaching down, he presses his fingers gently against her jaw, encouraging her to look up at him. "Hey, it's not your fault," he says with a smile. "I didn't like those books anyway."
She looks at him pointedly.
"I liked them a little," he relents. "But I like the snowgie more."
She smiles. "Really?" His fingers press hers between his like she's placed leaves between the pages of the ones she's bought for him. He's grateful he placed those in the cupboards of his kitchen.
"Yeah," he says, lifting his shoulder. "It's not every day you're given a living snowball."
"Snowgie."
"Same thing."
"It's really —"
"Elsa," he laughs. His hands drop to her hips as he cocks his head to the side. "Lets make our own mess."
She grins widely before she removes herself from where he touches her. Kneeling on his bed, she crawls along its width to press her hand against the glass. He follows after her, kneeling behind her. With her palm pressed against the window, frost blooms from her fingers as she freezes the window.
Bellamy raises his to draw his fingers against the frost to draw a few wobbly snowflakes. A few flurries fall from the ceiling, settling in his hair. A few gather along his shoulders, but most of it begins to clump on his bed.
He doesn't say anything at all, not even when the snowgie slams into something in his bathroom. She flinches at the sound, but he continues to draw the flakes before he settles back onto his legs and turns to her.
She smiles as she looks down at her palm. His gaze follows hers to find she's made him a perfect snowflake.
Red wine is a little too fancy for a boy from Section 17, but Roxy insists. "Diana insists," she says, but, really, her dog has become a mouthpiece for a lot of her own opinions. "Diana wants you to come out with me," she's said once. "Diana wants you to walk with me along the beach — while she's left at mine." "Diana wants this, Diana wants that, Diana, Diana, Diana."
Bellamy glances down at Diana resting on his feet. She's a heavy weight, one that's still, as she snores softly and shifts only slightly while she dreams. He wonders what she dreams of, whether it's a cuddle city for dogs or a life far, far away from the boy who had met a dog for the very first time and had grown too attached too quickly.
Roxy swirls her red wine within her glass, watching him. He makes it a point not to look at her, even though he knows she's looking at him to watch him watch the dog.
It's always so roundabout, her watching him watching the dog as the dog watches nothing. Bellamy doesn't question it; neither does Roxy.
"I'm not trying to poison you," she says, sounding amused.
Bellamy looks up at her pointedly.
She rolls her eyes, but there's a curve to her lips as she says, warmly, "Diana would never."
Arching his brow, she looks toward his glass on the table before him. He leans over, ensuring to keep his feet still beneath Diana, as he reaches for the glass. Resting back against the cushions, he looks to Roxy as she arches her own brow. "It's breathed. Drink."
"I don't know what that even means," he says, with a casual shrug of his shoulder. She knows he knows what it means. Diana had insisted he sit down and watch some stuck-up show about wine tasting.
Diana had even insisted he start making fun of the hosts.
He rolls his eyes and drinks it, downing most of it.
Roxy looks at him impressed or incredulous. He isn't so sure. If Diana was paying attention, she'd be able to translate.
"I thought —"
Bellamy shrugs, "Diana."
"Tried to get you drunk."
He shrugs his shoulders, "Yep." He shakes his head. "She becomes more like you each day."
She smiles, "You're not taking my dog away from me."
"I thought you said you were good at predicting the weather," she says. Her hands are on her hips. She's drenched to the bone, her hair is messier than usual, and she's looking at him with a fierce furrow to her brows.
Luke's as wet as she is, the rain dripping down the length of him. Where she's tried spell after spell to dry herself, even going as far as being a Muggle and wringing her clothes of the water, she only becomes wetter and wetter.
There's a joke in there, somewhere. But Luke's kind of grown up a little.
He doesn't bother shaking his arms to try and move the water sitting along his back. He doesn't wring his clothes, either. His shirt sticks to him, his converse shoes soaked right through to his socks. The little wings have since given up trying to flap the water off themselves.
Hermione seems bogged down by the weight of his jacket, but she refuses to give it back to him.
"I'm the son of Hermes, Hermione," he says with a grin. He steps under the shelter she's spelled into being. It's temporary. Whatever curse has chosen to follow him will remain until he does the right thing and follows the orders of some mage who will kill him if he complies.
If she heeds him, leaving him be to clean up his own mess, maybe she won't be so soaked.
"I predict the estimated time of arrival for a package, not a storm."
Hermione huffs. "I know you said that," she mumbles. Wrapping her arms around herself, she murmurs once more, but he knows she's not cursing him like Thalia would.
He looks out at the forest before them. The water sits upon the ground rather than sinking into the dirt. Looking back at her, his voice is slightly softer, but loud enough to be heard over the downpour of rain. "Are you cold?"
"No," she says, tilting her head a little higher. She shivers, though. Luke's always been a thief for detail.
He rolls his eyes and takes a step closer toward her. She watches him from the corner of her own, tilting her head up a little. He knows she's making it a point to ignore the chill of her soaked clothes.
"You're not freezing like I'm the weatherman," he shakes his head. Standing beside her, Luke reaches out to wrap his arm around her. She steps into him, stumbling just slightly. Her hands remain around herself, but he can feel her fingers pull at his wet shirt and pinch the fabric.
Rather than allow his other arm to hang uselessly, he lifts it to wrap it around her, pulling her into him.
She sniffs, "I thought you said you were better at predicting the estimated time of arrival for packages posted."
He shrugs. "I cheat."
"Is this your way to try and teleport me back to Caer Glaem where George and Martha will stop me from following you?"
He pauses for a moment. "No."
"Liar," she says. She rests her cheek against his chest, prompting him to look down. She's not looking up at him. "I'm warm now. And I think I'll be warmer if you let me stay close to you." She peers up at him then, a slight arch to her brow, "It wouldn't be right if the Thief in Glory stole the Brightest Witch's warmth."
Luke makes a show of rolling his eyes. "I'm a giver when it comes to you."
"And I'm a taker when it comes to you," she says, gripping the ends of his jacket's sleeves with a pride that would, otherwise, evaporate the little pools of water this downpour has started to create.
With her in his arms and leaning on him, Luke, for once, feels less bogged down.
If she hadn’t asked him if he’d share a memory with her, he knows he wouldn’t have endured Cornelia’s eccentricity to get his name signed on that paper in her hand. It’d magically written itself in a loopy cursive he thinks Clarke could’ve copied, if she wanted to. He’s seen some of her sketches in her apartment of people he can’t place any names to. She’s good, better than him, even though he knows his memory is sharper and clearer than her own.
It’s with reluctance he even shows her. Cassie seems to know this, he thinks, with the way she seems patience and tentative in her approach. She’s always been a whirlwind, barrelling into him without so much as an apology. She’d invited herself to stay at his place for an undetermined amount of time. She’d somehow gotten his snowgie to behave in the hours she spends at his. She’d taught his dog how to sit and even shake hands.
But she’s softer now, legs pulled underneath her as she sits on the edge of his bed. He’s near the headboard, one leg thrown off the side, as she watches him patiently.
“Will you show me your favourite?” her voice is quiet as she watches him unblinkingly. Bellamy hadn’t been looking at her, but he knows she’s never stopped watching him. She’s shown him Sid, or Sidney, as she liked to call him, and Christopher, the kid who’d been the first to take her in.
As if he requires a clarification, she says, “Memory. I’d like to see a nice one.”
“I don’t have any nice memories,” he says.
She smiles widely, like the cat who caught the canary. “Everyone has nice memories, guppy. Even Augustus.”
He’s not sure what his face looks like, but she laughs softly. “I promise I won’t judge.”
“That’s not what I’m afraid of,” he says.
“Are you afraid?” She cocks her head to the side as she studies him. Bellamy looks away. “I won’t let any big, bad wolves knock your house down.”
She holds her hands out to him, palms up, long fingers straight and pressed together. Glancing down at them, Bellamy tries to assess them as though he’s looking for blades.
She wiggles them. “Come on,” she says. “I’ll buy us ice-cream after.”
“Fine,” he says.
“With sprinkles,” she laughs.
He places his hands in hers. He doesn’t understand how this works, but he thinks of the Ark, of Mom sitting at her table, of O being smaller with thick bangs. He thinks about those pony rides, and finds that his eyes are closed just as Cassie shuts her own.
When she finishes watching it, like it’s some film they can fast forward or rewind, she’s still grinning with her eyes closed, as though she can do just that. He looks at her, keeping his hands in her own.
When she opens her own, she continues to grin widely. There’s a light laugh in her voice as she repeats, “Pony rides.”
“Yeah,” he says. The corners of his lips curve upward.
“I’ve never had one,” she says, tilting her head slightly. She grows quieter, dimming slightly, as though it causes her some kind of sadness she can’t submerge herself into his past and experience it for herself.
He watches her for a moment before he finds himself speaking once more. “I’ll give you one on the way to the ice-cream parlour.”
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request;
headcanon ‣ alisha + selina
for kelly; alisha + selina & brunch
Well, it's weird how this forms. Selina gives off an air of class and sophistication, something untouchable for someone with a DUI and an ASBO. But after killing each other off a few times, rather than a rift wedging its way between them, something stronger builds, tying them together.
It's weird, but Alisha won't knock it.
They all finally make it to brunch. Alisha and Selina dine more than the rest, if only because it's a stir, repeat in the game: They kill one another because there's no other choice, but rather than bad blood sitting between them, the killer buys the deceased lunch. It's a way of saying sorry for killing you without the words or the cards.
Alisha's kind of grateful that she doesn't have to feel as though she's walking on eggshells around Selina. The woman doesn't seem to hold much of a grudge. And Alisha's finds herself feeling a little less heavier that she doesn't need to worry about her getting revenge. (It also doesn't hurt that it's not personal.)
It's a nice sort of friendship. With a killer punch.
headcanon ‣ sif + crane
for michelle; crane + sif & romance
Sif crash lands into Gotham city rather than New York, hence why she's missing from The Avengers. It's all fun and games until she's placed in an asylum for being a freak of nature; she's a god, goddammit, a warrior of Asgard, and warriors of Asgard are not treated with such little disrespect!
While this goddess of war can't inflict the fear of said war upon those who wrap her up in straps and toss her into cells, Jonathan Crane promises her she'll win this battle.
They get out, when Gotham returns to an anarchy, and while Sif understands she's on the wrong side of this war, it's not as though anyone is attempting to recruit her to their side. Crane's safe, while a little neurotic, and he's a little off from the depiction of humans from Thor's tales of when he had been exiled, but he's kind to her in his own way and he sticks to her as though they've been glued at the hip.
When anarchy truly breaks out, Sif runs a man through with a pole - he'd had a knife in hand, ready to exact a revenge on Crane for punishing his brother to sink or swim in the frozen waters under the bridge.
(Sif fights for the wrong side because she doesn't know any better. But she honestly doesn't care.)
headcanon ‣ cordelia + buffy
for ca; buffy & cordy + death
Cordelia's dead. Deader than dead. Six feet under sort of dead. And Buffy … she has a weird relationship with it. Cordelia doesn't think Buffy's dead. There's no way in hell the Slayer, of all people, is dead. She's a Champion, like Angel, a doer of good, someone who isn't meant to die. Cordelia's a pawn while Buffy's a knight; the pawns are always sacrificed first.
So it's when she finds out, that Buffy is as dead as she, that Cordelia isn't quite sure what to do. She always has all the answers, the right words, the right gestures, the good sort of pick-me-ups to get people out of their angsty and broody funks.
She avoids her for some time. Buffy's dead. Cordelia's dead. But Cordelia's meant to be dead while Buffy … It's all a big, crazy whirlwind, so she ignores Buffy for a while. She sticks to her hallways and her checkerboard hills, and sticks to the mazes and the closets. But it's when Giles and Xander just don't get it that Cordelia knocks on her door.
And when it's opened, she shrugs, "So, you're dead," Cordelia says. "Whoop. Big deal. Been there, conquered that, and it looks a hell of a lot better on me than it does you. So, quit whining, and lets go get some damn shoes, Buff."
headcanon ‣ caroline + amy
for mellie; caroline + amy & cats
Caroline doesn't talk much about the Cheshire Cat, not unless it's to tell someone who stupid Wonderland is. It's different with Amy, though. Maybe it's because Amy caught a snippet of their conversation before Caroline's communicator turned itself off. Maybe it's because she saw said interaction but didn't make fun of her for it. Maybe it's because Caroline told her of said interaction and the little ordeal she went through with a saucer and Amy didn't exactly make fun of her for it. She's a desperate girl wanting to go back home to her mother and her best friend. It's not exactly a laughing matter.
But it becomes one, a good sort of laughing matter, where Amy teases Caroline about seeing any cats lately. Gone to go fetch a saucer for one? Got milk? And Caroline laughs, for the first time in months, always at the repetition of these inside jokes, because she doesn't have anything else here.
So, it's when Caroline's in the tea room with a little cup of tea in front of her that Amy comes walking in, collapses in a chair beside her, and grins, something akin to the Cheshire itself, and says, "Cat got your tongue?'
headcanon ‣ cordelia + amy
for mellie; cordelia + amy & shoes
Cordelia thinks Amy doesn't have great taste in shoes. "You know, ever since we did that segment where we were fashion judges, I've come to see that you're a bit of a disaster."
And she takes Amy on a whirlwind tour of feminine shoes; heels, boots, varying from feminine and useful to feminine and incredibly sexy. Those boots Amy wears look like a man's boot, and while Cordelia believes everyone should have their own unique style, put together with plaid equals a fashion disaster. And that's how she works out the mathematical equation of how Amy is just that.
Basically: They sit in front of the closet a lot.
headcanon ‣ katherine + oliver
for mellie; katherine + oliver
Oliver begins as a toy. A distraction that comes in a well-toned package. He has something she wants, but wrapped up in that well-toned package is a hard muscle of stubbornness. So, Katherine stays in the city to wear it out, to run her claws all over the skin so she can get to the heart of the problem and fix it.
But she becomes attached, as always, and feels a little too much and a little too little for other things that used to mean so much more. She's Katerina, at times, a vulnerable girl who is so naive she can't see what's right beneath her nose. Most of the time she's Katherine, so guarded and well-put together that Oliver shouldn't be able to see through the cracks of her armour.
Thea does, though, and it's what grates Katherine's nerves so much.
It's not love, nor is it infatuation, nor is it what Katherine's so used to. It's something she doesn't want to define in fear of it turning around and chasing her through the woods again. It's a well-deserved vacation, she says, from all those centuries of running from Klaus, but Katherine, for all intents and purposes, starts unpacking those suitcases.
drop a ship ‣ luke + grell
for mira; luke + grell
drop a ship ‣ elijah + katherine
for raos; elijah + katherine
drop a ship ‣ bellamy + raven
for cella; bellamy + raven
drop a ship ‣ finnick + lara
for bella; finnick + lara & this
drop a ship ‣ donny + alisha
for bella; donny + alisha & this
drop a ship ‣ bellamy + elsa
for andie; bellamy + elsa
drop a ship ‣ bellamy + roxy
for tona; bellamy + roxy ft. diana
drop a ship ‣ luke + hermione
for rachel; luke + hermione & this
drop a ship ‣ bellamy + cassie
for danielle; bellamy + cassie & this