Klaus: I’d Gas Up (Name) For Anything.

I love making these

I'm so tired of youtubers making fun of reality shifters😭😭

"Finnish polka" - Ivar the Boneless x Reader

SUMMARY: After helping one of the northern Jarls, the Lothbrok brothers attend a celebratory feast. There, they're faced with a tradition of warriors catching flower crowns that belong to young women. How surprised Ivar is when you almost shove your crown into his hands.

WORDCOUNT: ~ 2.1k

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Ivar is tired.

Of course he's glad that Jarl Thorstein came out victorious. And that his brothers are fine. Still, he feels weary as the adrenaline leaves his body. His legs start to ache. Ivar downs the rest of his mead in hopes it makes him a little more deaf to his mood.

The upbeat, bright music fills his mind like an obsessive thought. His heart beats to the rhythm tapped by the feet of dancing women. They spin, jump and run around with flower crowns sitting atop their heads. How the wreaths remain immovable, he can't quite say.

Ivar is also angry.

As the local tradition entails, when the song ends, all the dancing young maidens will throw their flower crowns to the crowd. Whoever catches it, is believed to be the girl's lover chosen by the gods. However, whether the couple indulges and trusts gods' judgement is a different story. But if the wreath falls to the floor, the girl is said to remain unmarried for the next five years.

Ivar knows the chance of him somehow catching one of those is near zero. He's sitting quite far from the dancers. Even if he did catch it, he's disillusioned about the imminent dissatisfaction of the flower crown's ownert. Not only is he disabled in a way that almost entirely excludes him from fighting but he's also infamous for his ruthless nature and vengeful heart. Hardly a man who invokes desire. Still, some naive piece of him remains hopeful that maybe he's wrong. Maybe he can be terrible and loved all the same.

He shakes those weak delusions away from himself before they sour his mood further.

His piercing eyes have been following one of the dancers for the better part of the song when he catches himself. Her movements look effortless even when the musicians pick up the tempo. Clearly, she's done this dance one too many times to have any doubts about what she's doing. Joy beams from her in a way that makes her appear almost shining. The wreath on the top of her head is mostly green with white and red flowers. It makes Ivar think of the woods surrounding Kattegat; it makes him think of home.

Ivar leans toward Oddleif, one of the Jarl's men, who's sitting next to him.

"Who is she?"

Oddleif looks at Ivar out of the corner of his eye. He scoffs, takes a large sip of his drink and only then decides to answer:

"If you're thinking of catching her flower crown, don't." His blond braids dance slightly as he shakes his head. There's a hint of laughter hiding in the back of Oddleif's throat. "Half of the surviving army wants it."

"I have no care for flowers," Ivar lies through his teeth. "They have no use. They wilt and die and soon no one remembers them. I am simply curious about her."

"Her father is the blacksmith. You might have seen him in the battle, swinging that damned sledgehammer." Ivar silently nods. He remembers that man - tall as a pine tree and wider than a stable. The blacksmith invokes respect even when he's not decimating enemies like a troll equipped with a tree trunk. "He said once that he'll let any man marry his daughter but only if he can lift an anvil. Tried it once myself. Not that I had any success as you can imagine." Oddleif laughs bitterly and continues drinking. His eyes are glued to the dancers but Ivar knows that right now, the two of them are admiring the very same girl with a flower crown like a forest.

The melody continues to quicken. Despite being out of breath, you don't want it to end. Your feet ache but they do not falter nor do they stumble. It seems that their muscles know the dance better than your mind. There are a dozen girls dancing with you but you do not see them. Not really. They appear worlds away from you and the song of bagpipes and strings.

And then appears he.

A slouched, dark figure flies before your eyes as you're doing another pirouette. The man simply sits there, in the corner, but his presence is overwhelming. Or so you think. He does nothing and yet he tears his way into your microcosm of quick footwork, turns and lively polka.

You recognize him. Of course you do. Many whispers, equally frightened and amazed, have spoken of him. You have believed in all of them until the moment you met his gaze for that split second. Right then, somewhere between blinks and breaths, you renounce every gossip you've ever heard about him. A voice in the back of your head, a trickster or an oracle, nags at you to learn the truth yourself.

When the lively, fast melody comes to a stop, you find yourself shaken awake from the thoughts about Ivar the Boneless. The end of the song seems somewhat abrupt to you as you've been letting your fantasy run wild without paying much attention to what's going on around you. Dancing the last part purely by the memory of your muscles. The moment musicians stop playing, a small crowd begins to form in front of you. Men of different class, age and ancestry reach out their hands. Each one of them is more determined than the other to catch your wreath. They start to yell something but considering that the inside of the long hall is awfully loud anyway, you can't make out any words. Reading their lips, you can only tell when they're exclaiming different variations of your name.

They're only pushing towards you, shoving each other away. You keep taking steps backwards but the distance you create with each step is quickly shortened with the men calling out to you. You knew there would be many of them in front of you but never assumed that many. Instead of somewhat flattering, the siege is terrifying and imposing.

Looking for help or advice, just something that will ease your tension, you silently look around the long hall. Your gaze falls on the same slouched, dark figure. Strange peacefulness washes over you when his eyes meet yours.

The dim candlelight seems to bend around Ivar, making his corner appear darker than anywhere else in the long hall. He's simply sitting there. Maybe he's not interested? But the way he's staring at you shows nothing if not burning curiosity. The sons of Ragnar aren't know for their patience. No, they're said to take whatever they want the moment their desire sparks. Despite that, the youngest of them, and arguably the most famous, appears to be waiting. But for what exactly?

The fresh pine needles prick your skin. You furrow your eyebrows. Your gaze falls to the wreath and then comes back to Ivar. Could it be...?

It isn't much of a throw, really. You toss the flower crown towards him without looking anywhere else but into Ivar's eyes. Without as much as blinking, he catches the wreath with ease as though he has been prepared for that. Low murmurs hit your ears but quickly the sounds of disappointment fall silent as it's made clear who caught your wreath. Despite their initial determination, the men who had been reaching out to you suddenly disperse like fog does in the early morning. They knew better than to get under the skin of a Lothbrok. Especially that one.

"I believe this belongs to you."

Ivar is holding up the wreath. Despite his words, he makes no effort to offer it back to you. His eyes are bright and glistening, the corner of his mouth is tugged ever-so-slightly upwards. He appears amused.

At first, it was nice to finally sit down after dancing for what seemed to be hours on end. But now, when you're facing the consequences of your spur-of-the-moment decision, the tension sets in once more. This time, however, it doesn't feel threatening. In turn, the nervousness is somewhat welcome like the jittery state before a surprise is revealed.

"If I wanted to keep it, I wouldn't have thrown it," you answer in a light tone.

"And why should I keep it?"

The blue eyes study you for a moment. It's a strange feeling - you can't help but think that the longer you are in Ivar's presence, talking or not, he's reading your mind and soul. He stares at you in a way that tells you he already holds all the answers but wants you to confirm them.

"It's said to bring good luck." You shrug your shoulders. "Until the wreath wilts and dies, Freya and Freyr will look after you."

Ivar looks at the flower crown again. Only now, when he's holding it, does he realize that for a flower crown, there aren't many flowers. A few sandworts and poppies, yes, but the wreath is made mostly of evergreen plants. It might take weeks until the crown wilts.

The microcosm seems closed again. Now it's not you and the bagpipes but you and him. It's strange and it's new but it's not threatening. It's not the kind of presence a man of his infamy should have. Or perhaps you've simply fallen for his honey trap.

"Why did you throw it to me?" Ivar tries to make the question seem unimportant, just curiosity brought to light. But he can't quite convince himself that he doesn't care. There's a hint of something vulnerable and genuine when the words roll off his tongue. It's easy to miss like a dandelion clock carried away by a gust of wind.

You wish you knew the answer yourself.

"I don't know really," you say honestly. "Perhaps it was one of the gods that threw the flower crown for me." You make a pause. Ivar's face is unreadable. "Or perhaps I have no interest in urgent, desperate men."

Ivar chuckles. A deep shadow is covering part of his face, making him appear kind of sinister. For a moment, you question whether he's laughing with you or at you.

"And what exactly makes you think I'm not urgent or desperate?" he continues. You notice his smile is growing wider. That glint of amusement in his blue eyes has changed in mischief. "What if I'm worse than all of them? You surely know who I am."

"Of course I do, Ivar the Boneless," you drone the words. In a barely noticeable fashion, he clenches his jaw when you say his name. It makes him feel a strange, burning sensation in his stomach but Ivar is left unsure whether he likes it or detests. "The whispers of your ruthless character are unending."

"But you're not afraid?" he asks with both disbelief and suspicion. A girl with a flower crown doesn't necessarily strike him as fearless in any way. Or this whole strange situation is a little too good, too dream-like, for him to accept it at face-value.

Ivar's smile falters when your face takes on a confident, maybe even arrogant, expression. He's taken aback.

"I'm a woman of the North," you say while leaning towards him on the table. The distance between your faces shortnes. "The only person I fear is my own reflection."

The sudden closeness makes Ivar inhale sharply. The strong smell of pine needles fills his nostrils. For a moment, his imagination runs wild but it's not his fault - he has no grasp on it:

How those big eyes glistened in the semi-dark of the long hall as you were staring at him. Your smirk, somewhat challenging and beckoning him to push on. Then, the smell of conifer that shakes all senses awake. His fantasy leaves the northern snows and travelles to forests, to him brushing pine needles from your hair and your naked, flushes skin smelling of evergreen trees.

But quickly his shaken awake, to his utmost displeasure, by you:

"Well, if you don't want it, I suppose I should take it back, no?"

Your hand unsurely reaches out for the wreath in Ivar's hand. He's quick to pull his arm back.

"It's bad luck to take back gifts," he states plainly. In an act of nonchalance, Ivar is playing with the wreath, spinning it around his finger. "I should like to keep it."

Sometimes you come back to the night you've met the infamous Viking, when you're rendered sleepless while he's calmly breathing next to you, getting the rest he desperately needs. How funny all of it seems - that a flower crown in bloodied, merciless hands could lead to having a genuine crown on your head. Maybe you were right, after all, and it really was the hand of one of the gods that threw the wreath for you.

Interview with the Vampire 1994 Masterlist

Louis x Reader x Lestat headcanons

Yandere Lestat de Lioncourt x Reader

Otto Hightower raising his voice and straight up yelling in tonight’s episode is……doing things to me.

And that little laugh he let out before saying “Is that what you think?” UGH

Representative Rashida Tlaib (the only Palestinian member of the US Congress) holds up a sign saying "WAR CRIMINAL" and "GUILTY OF GENOCIDE" as Benjamin Netanyahu addresses Congress.

HOW UA SHOULD HAVE ENDED

Hard cut to Klaus talking to the girl on the bicycle

Klaus: “Did we save the world or screw it up again?”

Bicycle God: “You were never the problem”

She holds up an action figure of Reginald and crushes it in her bare hands. Marigold lights emerge from it. Golden light envelops everything

Hard cut to Klaus waking up in bed. He is wearing pajamas covered in marigolds.Street noise can be heard from outside.

(From offscreen) “You okay, Hon?”

Klaus looks over and Dave is cooking breakfast in their flat

Klaus: “Yeah, just had a weird dream.”

Looks out the window and sees an empty lot where the Hargreeves mansion should be.

Klaus: “Wasn’t there a building there?”

(Naïve Melody by the Talking Heads begins to play over a montage)

Diego and Lila Are wrangling their kids into the camper van. One of the kids gives Lila a picture of her family in a field of bunch of orange flowers (marigolds)

Luther is stripping and the obsessed lady in the crowd is Sloan. He has a marigold in his mouth. He takes it out and gives it to her.

Viktor is playing the violin with Harlon. Sissy is setting the table. She sets a bouquet of marigold into a center vase.

Allison is gardening while Clare and Ray play in the yard. She is planting Marigolds.

Five is teaching at some university. An older woman comes in. “Dolores” he says as she kisses him.

Jennifer serves Ben at the dinner. Closeup on her pouring coffee. He has a Durango flower tattoo that says “Jennifer” and she had a marigold tattoo that says “Ben”

Cut back to Klaus staring out the Window

Dave: No, been an empty lot as long as I can remember

Klaus, smiles: Yeah, I don’t know why I thought that

Camera Zooms out from the window as music continues

Reginald, voiceover: And that is how our unlikely heroes manage to create one timeline where everything was fine.

BTS footage plays with the final credits 

how love poems urged tom riddle to confess

summary: You wondered if reciting love poems with Tom Riddle was a good idea, because he started sending you notes with love poems written in them.

"Lang Leav is the best for hopeless romantics," you stated, your lips quirking up slightly. You fell into a comfortable pace walking alongside Tom Riddle through the corridor.

He hummed contemplatively. "Perhaps. Why do you say so?"

You shrugged. "One day I looked at you, and it suddenly occurred to me how beautiful your smile was."

You tried to ignore how Tom looked at you attentively when you started reciting and continued, "I heard music in your laughter... I saw poetry in your words."

You met his eyes for the last sentence. Funny. It seemed almost accurate saying that to a man like Tom Riddle - to Tom Riddle himself.

You looked away and started recalling another poem. "There's more," you said, changing your tone to a more excited one.

You and Tom both stopped at a staircase, standing behind multiple students who were also waiting to go to the first floor.

"It was a quiet love, a tacit love," you started, looking up at all the other staircases moving above you. "It came without prelude or preamble."

The staircase you were standing on started moving and you stumbled slightly, but Tom was quick to grab your arm. You noticed how rather than helping you stand closer to the railing, he pulled you closer to him instead.

"Thank you," you whispered as he nodded. You continued and looked up at him, "We never said the word love, we didn't have to."

As the students in front of you finally moved, you and Tom still stood where you where. A corner of his lips curled up slightly as his eyes fluttered. He always did that whenever he was feeling strong emotions about something, you noticed.

He placed his hand on your back and gently gave you a push to urge you to start walking. As you both descended the stairs, he said, "They're very impressive. I can see why you like them. I cannot say I agree that she is the best though."

You smiled nonetheless. You loved that about him. He was always so positive about your interests and what you liked, despite disagreeing with you about them at times. It was almost funny, considering this was Tom Riddle, who can be very critical sometimes.

"Who do you have in mind, Tom?" you asked, looking up at him and hoping that the way you said his name came off as natural.

He hummed thoughtfully. "You are the kindest thing that ever happened to me, even if that is not how our tale is told."

Both of you came to a stop in front of the library's wooden door. None of you made a move, as you were looking at him and he was gazing somewhere, recalling the poem in his mind.

"You showed me how a love like ours..." he paused and gazed at you. "...Can turn even the darkest, oldest realm into the happiest of homes."

Your heart jumped. You blinked and looked at the library door, finally opening it.

"There is another one," Tom said from behind you and closed the door after you.

You glanced at him, wanting him to continue as you both walked towards where you both usually sit together. It hit you, at that moment, the chemistry you had with him. You both had your own go-to table and for Merlin's sake, you were reciting love poems to each other.

You wondered why he hadn't said anything, but it seemed like he wanted to settle down first so you kept quiet as you sat in front of him as usual. You placed your notebook in front of you and prepared your quill in your hand, then you looked at him curiously.

"I don't hate you, I love you," he started, all while holding your gaze.

Your heart skipped a beat once more. Your heart was always doing exercises with him around. You forced yourself to hold the eye contact, because if you looked away, it would be very obvious then.

He's simply reciting a poem! Like how you did earlier! Calm down.

"But loving you is killing me," he said and leaned back to his chair. "So this is goodbye even if I don't want it to be."

Your eyes blinked softly. "Nikita Gill."

He nodded and smirked. "Who's the hopeless romantic here?"

You gasped with feigned shock. "I simply have read these arts before."

He laughed and you suddenly recalled the poem you read to him earlier. You heard music in his laughter.

"That would make you one as well," you joked. "You read love poems?"

He tilted his head, and you tried to ignore how his curls moved along. You tried to ignore how you wanted to softly brush his hair back with your fingers. "Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't," he said smoothly.

"Regarding Nikita Gill, I think one of the first ones I read was The Girl Who Was Afraid To Be," you mused, tapping your finger on your chin.

"Lovely," he commented. "She speaks to me fondly of passions and talents, pianos and stars, then stops short and apologises for speaking at all."

He had a playful smile on his face and you rolled your eyes, yet you had a smile on your lips as well. This man would be the death of you.

"Don't even try to test my memory," you remarked. "I remember that it was guitars not pianos."

He chuckled and looked away. "It seems like I overestimated my memory."

You wanted to run away and hide. He was clearly lying. You of all people knew how amazing Tom Riddle's memory was. You wanted to run away and hide, because you knew that he knew very well you played the piano and you loved astronomy. 

You wondered if reciting love poems with Tom Riddle was a good idea, because he started sending you notes with love poems written in them. Of course, they were from Lang Leav and Nikita Gill. You would find them between the pages of book you brought with you, in the pocket of your robes and sometimes he would just slid the note towards you on the table in the Great Hall. Sometimes, he would walk past or towards you and simply put the note in your hand. It was the closest you would ever get to holding his hand.

The first time you had received it was during your Transfiguration class. You took out your notebook, only to find a handwritten, handwritten love poem between the page where you had last written on and a new page. The handwriting was very familiar and you knew very well who it was from. Of course, he had to sign off the note with TMR.

Anything Else

I want to plant a seed in your mind, some tiny particle of thought that bears a remnant of me. So little by little, day by day, you find yourself thinking of me, until one morning, you will wake up and realize you can’t think of anything else.

TMR

Since then, they just kept coming.

In your pocket...

To Love You

It feels bittersweet to love you, as though time has already run its ruinous path and everything good is over before it begins.

It feels perilous to love you, like a dust scorn swallowing up the sky or a comet skimming the stratosphere.

But it is an honor to love you. Like the snow drifts giving way to spring, I will hold you for as long as I can.

TMR

The one he had slipped into your hand so easily...

Eros

If time were governed by Eros, I would stay in your arms forever. If time answered only to lovers, I would never leave your side. The seconds pass by slower when I’m staring at the clock. And you wonder why I can’t take my eyes off you.

TMR

After reading this one, you recalled an interaction you had with him in the past.

"You stare a lot, don't you?" you had asked him out of the blue, after catching his eyes once again.

He didn't look ashamed at all. "In general?"

"In... general," you confirmed reluctantly, because of all the times you looked at him when he was looking away, he never actually stared at others much. Why was it that with you—

"Force of habit," he said smoothly. "Do you find it uncomfortable?"

"Not uncomfortable, merely curious," you chuckled.

"I stare at what I find interesting," he said, so casually. 

Was he saying he found you interesting? This was Tom Riddle, you shouldn't get your hopes up.

"A lot of interesting things around," you joked, going back to writing your notes.

A few seconds passed, until he said, "Not exactly."

You chose to ignore that for the sake of your heart, and started a new topic for your conversation.

Then, the latest one he had given you.

A Timeline.

You and I

   against a rule, 

   set for us by time.

A marker drawn 

   to show our end, 

   etched into its line.

The briefest moment 

   shared with you— 

   the longest 

   on my mind.

TMR

Your sighed lovingly upon reading the note. You were so doomed.

You recalled the playful look in his eyes when he had slid the note towards you earlier in the Great Hall. His slender hand slowly coming into your view with a note below his fingers and stopping right in front of you. He had tapped the note before pulling his hand away.

You had looked up at him and he raised an eyebrow upon meeting your eyes, with the smile on his face growing wider. At that time, it seemed as if the world around you was muffled. The conversations your peers were having around you and the clinking of forks and spoons. All becoming quieter simply because your eyes had met Tom Riddle's enchanting ones.

The briefest moment shared with you—the longest on my mind.

You had long accepted how you felt about him. You would never say out loud that you loved him, though.

Your eyes widened in realisation. Love.

What Does Love Feel Like?

One day you will meet someone

who will see the universe 

that was knitted into your bones,

and the embers of galaxies glow to life in your eyes.

And you will finally know

what love is supposed to feel like.

You grinned to yourself before ending the note with the initials of your name. You cannot wait for him to get a taste of his own medicine, lovingly of course.

The following day, Potions class was starting and you quickly walked over to Tom's table. He paused his conversation with his partner and looked at you expectantly. You said nothing and simply pulled his hand up by his wrist before sliding the note into his hand gently.

You looked up at him and smiled, before turning around to go back to your table.

Once again, you wondered if what you did was the right idea.

He wasn't replying to your note at all.

Sure, you both walked past each other several times, sat very close to each other in the Great Hall and talked in your classes. Sure.

However, it had been a while since your last library date and these library dates were the only times you would have private and genuine conversations with Tom. You weren't even sure when your next one could be.

It was almost silly, but you felt as though he was becoming... distant.

Maybe, you had overstepped. Then again, you were just doing what he did. Plus, if you were to talk about overstepping, you were sure both of you had overstepped a thousand times already. The table at the library that was only for you both, being alright with touching each other but not with anyone else, silly inside jokes that are too in-depth for anyone to understand and the way you treated each other differently than everyone else. The way you talked to each other. The words, the looks, the touches—

Most importantly, you could not forget the way he said I love you.

"But loving you is killing me, so this is goodbye even if I don't want it to be at all."

You sighed. You were overthinking this again.

Tom Riddle was driving you mad, and you could only hope you were doing the same thing to him.

Plus, it had only been two days since your note. You were really just overthinking.

You were just pushing him out of your thoughts when you sat down at your table in the library. You were hoping to see him, but at the same time, you were hoping not to see him, because you just tried so hard to get him out of your head.

Tom suddenly pulled the chair in front of you and sat down. No books, no quill — just him. He was also staring at you intently and you could almost see the gears turning in his head.

"Hello there," you greeted and raised an eyebrow at his behaviour.

"Hello," he replied, looking conflicted. "What Does Love Feel Like? — Do you agree with that?"

"Of course," you replied without missing a beat. As if you had wanted to talk about this for a long time now. Of course you did. "I wouldn't give that to you if I didn't agree with it."

You basically just confessed to him in some way, but then again, both of you were literally reciting and sending love poems to each other.

He parted his lips to speak, then he closed them again and you tensed. He was really conflicted, wasn't he?

"Are you okay?"

"You're the one—" he said and stopped himself as he looked away briefly. He turned back to you and continued, "You're the one that sees the universe knitted into my bones and you're the one that sees the embers of galaxies glow to life in my eyes."

You stared at him in shock as warmth spread throughout your body. You slowly placed down your quill and chuckled nervously, "You're the one whose laughter I heard music in, whose words I saw poetry in."

He then smiled, so widely and even looked relieved which startled you even more.

You were... confessing to each other.

You had fantasised many confessions between you two and none of them were normal at all. You hadn't expected your confession to go this way, but you had expected your confession to be this way.

Of course your love confession with Tom Riddle was through love poems.

You were pulled out of your trance when Tom stood up from his seat. You were about to question him until he stood beside you and gripped your chin gently. He gazed down into your eyes so lovingly that you might melt, and you knew you were looking at him the same way.

He leaned down and finally—finally, his lips met yours.

He pulled away, just a few inches from you. "Now I can finally give you all the poems I've written about you."

You blinked softly, startled once more. He wrote poems about you.

"I love you too," you whispered.

He froze, before letting out a soft laugh. He placed his hand on your cheek and caressed it with your thumb. "I really meant it when I said that," he said, sounding like he was suprised with himself.

"I know. I know now," you said, before turning your head to kiss his palm and you just enjoyed how his expression faltered, how he was slowly becoming more vulnerable.

He leaned down once again and you closed your eyes, feeling the familiarity of his lips on yours. You found that his kiss was so much more poetic than those love poems.

ao3

masterlist Rules enjoy!

Jason: People tell me I have a unique way of lighting up a room. You: It’s called arson and those people are called witnesses.