liar.

indie fandomless oc

[neidbau-blog]

//I think about bard a lot when I listed to la devotee by p!atd and I can’t explain WHY but I just Do

[neidbau-blog]

//ngl when bard’s really out here like causing chaos and going on a killing spree he is a sight

like I’m talking covered in blood, grinning, laughing manically, and generally just gleeful at any destruction he causes

he is. something.

[kellpyre-blog]

                    independent, selective, & fandomless original species character

                                                     Written by AL

[aseaofquotes]

[neidbau-blog]

"Bard. Bardicus. Bardarino. Bardito Bandito. Bardstrom. Glorious Bardstard. Bardalicious. B A R D." Nothing seemed to be working. Well, maybe he'd get the man's attention tomorrow.

      There’s little doubt in Bard’s mind that the least of things he deserves in life is to be annoyed incessantly by the one being he has somehow not managed to permanently remove from the living, but that doesn’t mean he’s happy about it. Especially as Darren seems to be able to find a new way to say his name with every passing second.

      Were he a normal person, perhaps it would drive him mad.

      As it is, however, he is far from normal, and he simply continues to drink his coffee and let Darren’s voice fade into the background. It’s something of a familiar practice at this point, and he may as well keep at it now that he’s back.

@kellpyre

[neidbau-blog]

bard loves exactly two (2) people and it’s @kellpyre and rory (@kvlpa) but he will never admit it

[neidbau-blog]

a child: walks up to bard

bard: get this thing away from me

[neidbau-blog]

@kvlpa || rory

      “Obviously the fact that you glow isn’t the strangest thing I’ve ever seen.”

      He doesn’t bother hiding his curiosity -- one rarely asks a question without wanting to know something. And ever since he discovered the myriad of lights that dance beneath her skin, he’s wanted to know something.

      “But I have to ask, sweetheart. What the hell are you?”

[ao3tagoftheday]

[Image Description: Tag reading “grown up men being afraid of their feelings”]

The AO3 Tag of the Day is: Spot on characterization

[neidbau-blog]

Her expression is almost artfully passive as she considers him; the only sign of anything other than slight interest being the way her lips purse slightly in thought. She holds his gaze for several still moments, as if trying to judge what his answer might be, before finally breaking the silence with a quiet question. ❝ Truth - are you in love with me? ❞

TRUTH SERUM

      The truth does not scare him, even for all the lies he tells. After all, the truth can hurt just as much as a lie. And so it is because of this that his expression as he looks at her is almost bored. There are very few things in this world that Rory can ask him that he’s no desire to answer under the influence of a truth potion.

      In her considerate silence, he raises an eyebrow, leaning against the kitchen counter nonchalantly. He knows that she’s had the question on her tongue for several moments now, and he’s seconds away from telling her to come out with it when she does.

      Bard’s heart stutters in his chest, catching on a broken breath, though his expression betrays nothing. The truth does not scare him, but… maybe this one does.

      It only takes a heartbeat for the words he needs to come to mind, a twist on the answer she wants, a way for him to avoid what he can’t say. What he won’t say. He will not speak this feeling into existence, let it fill the air, escape his lungs in the breath he’s holding.

      “I’ve told a lot of women – and men – that.” For all appearances, he seems entirely unbothered. “But I never meant it.” He’s quiet for a moment, leveling her with a casual expression. “I don’t plan on saying it out loud and meaning it, so I’m afraid you’ll have to be disappointed.”

@kvlpa

[neidbau-blog]

It’s an irrelevant headcanon but Bard’s mother had blonde hair, so his dark hair is inherited from his father. His eyes, however, he did inherit from her.

[lunaconrad-deactivated20131216]

TRUTH SERUM - MY MUSE HAS TO ANSWER ANY AND ALL QUESTION REGARDLESS OF WHAT IT IS.

[justanotherrpmeme]

Please preface questions with “Truth”

[neidbau-blog]

//I always wanna talk about bard being vulnerable but like... he never does ever

he’s still in denial he’s in love like lbr this man will never admit to anything that doesn’t involve him setting something on fire

[neidbau-blog]

me: u wanna kiss her. just do it

bard: no

me: b i t c h I logged in for u

[neidbau-blog]

"I never realized how much of a coward you are." (VILLAIN YVE VILLAIN YVE)

a hundred random starters

      Laughter spills forth from his lips as they curl into a smirk, dark eyes gleaming. The statement stirs nothing but amusement within him, and he doesn’t care that his reaction might incite her anger – he welcomes it. She certainly wanted to incite his.

      “That’s funny,” he says. “I always knew that you were.”

[neidbau-blog]

...—p. Wake up. It was a dream, you fool. Rory isn’t dead. She’s right next to you. If you’d open your damn eyes you’d see that.

      It’s rare for Bard’s sleep to so disturbed if he doesn’t induce it himself, and tonight he most certainly did not. Not while Rory sleeps beside him, not when someone else can find him vulnerable. Weak.

      His brow is furrowed, jaw clenched tightly, nails digging into his palms so deeply that they leave marks. Tears roll down his cheeks, leaving trails of warmth and salt on his skin, the taste still lingering on his tongue even long after he wakes. It’s as bitter as the ache in his chest, stirring long-held grief and twisting his fear into nightmares.

      By the time he’s able to drag himself into wakefulness, his entire body is stiff and tense, but he forces himself to sit up. He almost doesn’t want to look beside him, but he forces himself to, and the relieved breath that escapes him comes too suddenly for him to stop it.

      Rory is asleep. Blissfully unaware and very much alive with her heart intact. It takes more effort than he’s willing to admit not to reach out and make sure that she truly is there and that this is not the dream. Instead, he pushes back the covers, going into the bathroom and making sure to lock the door behind him. The sound of the faucet breaks the silence and he splashes cold water on his face, brushing it into his hair to keep it away from his face. He didn’t realize he was so hot.

      He didn’t realize he was so attached.

      From now on, he has to be careful. If it means cutting her off... If it means hurting her. So be it.

[kvlpa-archive-blog]

@neidbau​:

      He doesn’t mean to slam the door, but it’s too late. The bang echoes through the house, an audible manifestation of his distress. Every muscle in his body is tense, though his heart feels almost… numb. It feels like a rock has settled in his chest for all the weight it carries. But it’s better like this, he tells himself. He shouldn’t feel grief or pain or sorrow.

       But something is still wrong. And he knows it because he’s not going to take any pleasure in what he’s about to do.

      “Rory.” He finds her in the bedroom, tying up those infuriatingly bright yellow curtains she bought. He’s going to burn them, he thinks, after this.

      Bard crosses the room in only a few strides, fingers curling around her neck, pushing her back until she’s trapped between him and the wall. His eyes are blank, dark and void of any emotion. He’s not calm. He’s far from calm because his hands are trembling and his shoulders are stiff. Like his body is doing everything it can just to hold himself up.

      “You… make me so angry.” His voice is naught but a whisper. His hold tightens around her throat. “Everything about you, everything you do is infuriating and I should hate you. I should hate you.”

      Then his fingers go slack, hand rising to her face, thumb brushing along her cheek. “But I don’t. I can’t. I can’t no matter how hard I try. And it’s almost like the harder I try, the more impossible it is to ignore it.” A sound escapes him. It’s almost a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “As much as you infuriate me, as much as I know I shouldn’t, I – I love you.”

      He drops his hand to Rory’s chest. “And I don’t want this.”

      He doesn’t hesitate before driving his hand through her ribs and tearing her still beating heart from her chest.

       It had been a fit of boredom that made her remember the existence of the curtains, stuffed in some box at the back of the closet after the last time she’d hung them up and Bard had subsequently made her take them back down. Deciding to hang them up again had been an almost instantaneous decision thereafter; Bard wasn’t home, off doing who knows what it was when he was alone ( she’d stopped asking after the first time she’d seen him kill someone, quite honestly ). Now would be the perfect time to get them set up - not that they would stay that way for long, of course, but at the very least she might get a good laugh out of it.

       She’s almost finished when she hears the front door open, and her lips start to quirk into a grin - but then it shuts with a violent bang and she stills, all traces of mirth gone from her expression. For half a second she’s unsure if she should continue; he’s clearly in a bad mood, and even she knows better than to antagonize him when he is. But they’re already up - she’d been in the middle of tying them open, one pulled to the side with the other still hanging loose, hands frozen on the strings mid-knot. It’s unlikely she’d be able to get them down and tucked away again before he came in, so with a shrug and a sigh Rory finishes with the one and moves her attention to the other.

       She barely has a chance to get started on it before the bedroom door opens and he calls her name. Likewise is she given hardly any time at all to turn and look at him before suddenly he’s in front of her, fingers wrapping ‘round her throat as he backs her up against the wall. Jade eyes widen in surprise at the suddenness of it all, her lips parting slightly as if to ask him something - but even though his grip isn’t enough to constrict her airway, no sound comes out. Any other time, perhaps, she’d make some sort of joke about their current positioning, but one look at his eyes, empty and utterly devoid of even anger, is enough to convince her that now is not the time.

       An odd mix of dread and resignation seems to settle in her gut. She has a feeling she knows what’s coming, and she’s not surprised. She had always known, deep down, that if she didn’t leave it would always be a possibility.

       Possibility turned reality, now, it seems.

       He speaks then, and had he not been so close she would have had to strain to hear him. Even then it’s a little difficult when his hand tightens around her throat and it becomes harder to breathe. White spots dance at the edges of her eyes, but still she listens, attention caught on his every word - and despite how serious the situation feels, she can’t help but notice the way he words it. Should, not does. 

       Then he lets go, and she sucks in a breath, her chest heaving slightly. When his hand lifts to her face she shuts her eyes, and she has to resist the temptation to lean into his touch. It’s surprisingly gentle - something he’s never been, not even with her, and in a twist of irony all it does is steal her breath away. The more she listens to him, the harder her heart seems to pound in her chest, and any lingering fear she’d felt earlier is now replaced with sadness, instead. 

( And a little bit of anger, too; for how dare he tell her what she thought she’d never hear when he’s planning on killing her anyways? )

       He says it, then, and she opens her eyes to look at him again. They’re bright with tears, but she refuses to let them fall. Not a one escapes to make its way down her cheek. Not when he moves his hand to her chest. Not when he whispers, broken and empty, that this isn’t what he wants.

       Not even when he shoves his hand through her chest and rips out her heart. They remain stubbornly hidden within her eyes even as searing pain tears through her, mouth opening in a gasp and the taste of blood coating her tongue as it rises in her throat and drips down the corner of her lips. It only lasts for a moment, though, the pain and the tang of iron, before the world around her goes black and her eyes slip shut once more; her lifeless, still-warm body falling to the floor with a dull thud as blood pools beneath her; the substance crimson and dark and oddly lustrous in the sunlight.

[neidbau-blog]

      Blood, sticky and warm, coats his hand, runs down his arm, seeps into his sleeve. It shines where the sun hits it and he cannot help but stare -- silent and numb. For a while, he doesn’t know how long, he only stands there, her lifeless heart held in his hand until slowly, slowly the pain seeps into his chest, twisting its way ‘round his heart and squeezing.

      Bard doesn’t realize that he’s doing the same to hers, blood dripping to the floor freely until an awful squelching noise snaps him out of it. And almost as if it’s burned him, he drops her heart to the floor before reaching for the curtain and violently tearing away the ribbon of cloth that holds it open. They’re still insufferably bright, but they block the sun. She lies there in a pool of dull red blood now, and he no longer has to see it shine.

      Storming out of the room, he yanks the door shut behind him as if the physical barrier between him and her body will make it seem less real. When he reaches the kitchen, he doesn’t bother to wipe the blood from his hands. It stains his clothes, the liquor cabinet doors, the whiskey glass he doesn’t remember grabbing. There’s a smear of glimmering red on the counter where he leans against it, throwing back whiskey without a second thought. It’s then that he realizes he’s crying, the salty tang upon his lips unmistakable.

      Suddenly, he is furious. The glass in his hand smashes against a wall across the room, followed shortly thereafter by the whiskey bottle itself. What things that sit on his counter are thrown to the floor. He’s yelling, but he almost can’t hear himself. The rush in his ears is too fast and too loud to understand that he’s stringing together curses in old tongues long forgotten, angry with himself for his grief. Angry with himself for causing it. Angry with her for not fighting back and letting him because he didn’t want this. He didn’t want this.

      All the while he cries. For the first time in over a millennia, he cries, and he regrets. He cries until he can’t hold himself up any longer, sliding down the wall and threading bloody fingers through his hair. This time, he can’t escape his grief. This time, there’s no one to blame but himself.