#fate lb 1 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mermmarie · 2 years

Text

The Red String of Fate

Authors Notes: So, I had been thinking about this idea for a while, and admittingly I started this ahead of OC x Canon week, but the idea fits perfectly for the Day 3 prompt: Soulmate. So please enjoy chapter 1 of my Red String of Fate fanfic featuring Donnie!

Pair: Donatello x Reader

Word Count: 2k

Rating: T?? (Although, characters depicted are adults)

Content/Trigger Warnings: Mention of blood.

||Chapter 1|| ||Chapter 2|| ||Chapter 3|| ||Chapter 4||

-----------------------------------------------------

Chapter 1: Cosmically Bound

The Red String of Fate was a fairy tale you didn’t believe in anymore. A long time ago, yes, but after so many rejections, heartbreaks and betrayals how could you now? It was silly to even consider it a possibility in the first place. Just the idea that two people could be romantically bound by some magical, crimson colored thread was ridiculous. Especially when there was a zero point zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero three percent chance of it happening to anyone, let alone you.

While it was a fantasy you daydreamt about from time to time, you understood that it was just that; A fantasy. So, when you noticed a string of red laced around your ring finger, your first initial thought was that your head was in the clouds once more, dreaming of the impossible. However, the usual trick of closing your eyes and shaking your head of the thoughts only made the fantasies disappear, but the little red string remained.

You straightened in your recliner, head cocking curiously as you focused your gaze on the thread. You flexed and curled your fingers, thinking that the illusion might disappear if you were to physically affect reality, but just as before, it stayed. A small gasp escaped your mouth when you lifted your hand into the air and the string extended. Following the red thread, your eyes grew wide with disbelief when it pointed out the window that was lined up next to your chair and suddenly all the dull sounds of New York were drowned out by the pounding of your heart in your ears.

Somewhere out there in the bustling city was your soulmate.

-----------------------------------------------------

SCANNING.

UNKNOWN PERSON NO.1

SEX: MALE

HEIGHT: 6 FT 0”

WEIGHT: 190 LBS

OBJECTS ON PERSON: SWITCH BLADE

SCANNING.

UNKNOWN PERSON NO.2

SEX: MALE

HEIGHT: 6 FT 2”

WEIGHT: 211 LBS

OBJECTS ON PERSON: CROWBAR

SCANNING.

UNKNOWN PERSON NO.3

SEX: MALE

HEIGHT: 5 FT 9”

WEIGHT: 173 LBS

OBJECTS ON PERSON: BOX CUTTER

Fittingly, Unknown Person No.1 had struck first, then Unknown Person No.2, but Unknown Person No.3 had decided to stay behind. Possibly a strategic tactic to fall back and assess the situation first, but it was more likely that he was just a coward. Although, his Sensei had taught him that a wise man was able to recognize when he was beaten. Unfortunately, none of them were wise. Just foolish thugs thinking they had the upper hand in the situation because it was three versus one.

The realization came quickly to Unknown Person No.3 however when Donatello easily disarmed and knocked out his fellow associates. The whites of his eyes became more evident as the lean turtle approached him. His shoulders inching upwards and nearly touching his ears while he attempted to put on a menacing scowl, but by the way his teeth clattered against each other the front was obvious. Still, like a cornered rat, fear driven adrenaline compelled him to make a move, despite having already witnessed how that turned out for his comrades.

Donatello effortlessly maneuvered out of the way of his first attack, and prepared himself to counter in the midst of his recuperation but faltered after having noticed something peculiar…

As his metal staff spun between his large green digits, he saw a contrast of red on the smallest finger of his left hand. For a split second he assumed it was blood, thinking he somehow had been wounded in his scrap with the other two crooks, but there was no open gash or cut present on his hand. His eyes narrowed behind his goggles to focus his vision on the stark color and he brought his appendage closer to his view, nearly forgetting that he was in the middle of a fight until a familiar voice called out to him.

“Donnie!!” They warned and he flinched. Fear striking him when his gaze snapped to the short blade of the box cutter that was being thrust towards his face. Luckily, years of reflex training had him move just in time to avoid a critical injury, but he didn’t go unharmed. Unknown Person No.3 managed to nick him on the top of his cheek just below his left eye. Ignoring the sudden appearance of red momentarily, he turned his attention back to the thug and spun his bo into his diaphragm.

Another one of his Sensei’s lessons about ‘ never underestimating his enemies ’ and ‘ to remain focused during battle ’ echoed in the purple-coded mutants’ head and spite burned between his brows. Just as the man recovered from the air being knocked out of his lungs and he lifted his head, Donatello smacked him across the face with the tip of his staff. The man finally falling to the ground and unconscious.

Bastard.

Before he had time to inspect his injury, his cold-colored brother was at his side with his hands on his shoulders.

“Donnie, are you okay?” He asked, but didn’t wait for his answer. Instead, he moved his hands to his face, maneuvering it into a position where he could get a better look on the cut of his cheek. His normally, cool-blue eyes we’re blown up with a look of fear that Donatello didn’t witness often, and it had him reconsidering the severity of the attack. However, the anticipation that built in his chest subsided when Leonardo’s gaze softened.

“Bad news; it’s gonna scar. Good news; you’ll finally match the rest of us.” He smirked.

Donatello huffed and pulled his face out of his brothers’ hands. Pushing his goggles to the top of his head and sheathing his bo staff to his shell.

“What happened back there, Donnie? I kind of expect Mikey to lose his head in the clouds but not you.” He pressed.

Donatello grumbled and dropped his gaze. He could feel that his eyes wanted to wander back to his left hand, but he was almost too afraid to look. As he swung his final blow on the assailant, he caught the crimson color in his view again and recognized it for what it really was. He had heard of the ‘Red String of Fate’ as a myth. A legend, a rumor, an old wives tale. There had been some speculation of it happening to people throughout history, but no scientific proof. And Donatello wasn’t the kind of guy to believe in something without seeing it first hand for himself.

So, if he didn’t look at it, that would mean it didn’t actually exist… Right?

Uncertainty pulled at the corners of his lips as he extended his hand in front of his brother and splayed out his fingers. A bright red string wrapped snuggly around his smallest digit. Leonardo’s eyes widened again as he stared at the thread, but this time he looked with confusion. He brought his gaze back to him expectantly and naturally, he opened his mouth to explain.

“It’s–” He started but paused when he realized how silly it would be to speak of it out loud, let alone embarrassing… “Um–”

“The Red String of Fate.” Leonardo finished for him.

Donatello’s brows arched with surprise. “Y–You know about the myth?”

“Well, I wouldn’t necessarily call it a myth now.”

“Oh. Right…” Donatello lowered his hand and his gaze fell with it. His eyes locked on the red string in deep thought. He curled and flexed his fingers, speculating that the construct might simply vanish if he were to tamper with its existence. But as he turned over his hand, the tail end of the string extended and pointed into a specific direction away from the both of them. The two cool-colored mutants straightened in attention, but stayed silent as they looked off in the distance.

Eventually, Leonardo broke the silence with a question that had Donatello snapping his head back to him in disbelief.

“So… We gonna go find them?”

“ W-What?!” The lean mutant exclaimed and cringed at how his voice cracked. His cheeks immediately turning a darker shade of green.

Leonardo couldn’t help but to smile, albeit a bit sheepishly. “Okay, the way I worded it was a little– weird. ”

“ Ya think? ”

“What I meant was, don’t you wanna– investigate a little? See who your cosmic soulmate is?” The blue clad turtle shrugged.

“No!” He covered the red string on his hand with his other, as if that would snuff out his brother’s questionable curiosity.

“What do you mean?--”

Donatello groaned tiredly. “I don’t even know if I believe in this!”

“How could you not? The proof is right there!” Leonardo pointed at his hand.

Cautiously, Donatello lifted his right hand just enough for him to peak underneath it. Checking to see if the little red thread was still intertwined around his finger. It was of course and he groaned again.

“Okay… I suppose I can’t deny its legitimacy but–” He chewed on the inside of his bottom lip.

Out of the twenty-million residents who lived in New York, fate had decided that he, a mutant ninja turtle, was to be romantically bound to another. Who they were or what they looked like, he had no clue, but statistically thinking… His ‘other’ was most likely a human being. And from his experience, most human beings didn’t react positively to the fact that he was a nearly seven-foot tall, bioengineered reptile when they first saw him. He doubted that it would be any different in this case.

Even with the literal string attached.

“I’m not ready.” He paused again before adding on quickly, “To see them yet that is.” He shifted his weight from one leg to the other and averted his gaze from his brothers’.

Leonardo stared at him in silence, and it felt as if he was trying to burn a hole into his head. As if to get inside his mind and find out what he was really thinking. Just as it was beginning to feel like too much, he finally spoke.

“Alright.” His arms flopped against his side and he turned away from him, looking in another direction. “Let’s tie them up and head home then.” He gestured to the thugs with a cock of his head and started to walk off, but Donatello reached out and grabbed his arm, stopping him from going any further.

“Leo,” he started, but licked his bottom lip in hesitation. “Thanks… And please don’t tell Raph or Mikey. Especially Mikey.”

An amused puff of air escaped Leonardo’s nostrils. “I won’t say anything to them, but you know Mikey’s gonna be upset when he eventually finds out. Probably cry about how it didn’t happen to him instead.”

Donatello hummed in agreement and for a split second, he kind of wished it had happened to his orange-clad brother instead. At least then he’d be able to observe the phenomenon from the outside and record his findings on the matter if he were to experience it for himself. Normally, he didn’t mind going into things ‘ blind ’, metaphorically speaking. It was part of being a scientist, figuring things out through trial and error. But with this kind of subject? He’d prefer to have some knowledge on how to go about it. Unfortunately, he was on his own.

Turning to follow his brother, Donatello took one last look in the direction the red string pointed off to and wondered if you were having the same troubling thoughts? Then, the idea of you looking for him crossed his mind and it pushed his focus back to the round up. The last thing he wanted was for you to find him in the middle of the night, amongst bodies of thugs, and with a bloodied face.

#OC x Canon Week #OC x Canon Week 2023 #TMNT #TMNT x Reader #TMNT Bayverse #TMNT 2014 #TMNT 2016 #Donatello #Donatello x Reader #TMNT Imagine #TMNT Lit #Mermies Writing

164 notes · View notes

usafphantom2 · 11 days

Text

Randy’s Warbird Profiles: Grumman F7F-3P Tigercat

June 28, 2024 Angela Decker Warbirds News 0

By Randy Malmstrom

Since his childhood, Randy Malmstrom has had a passion for aviation history and historic military aircraft in particular. He has a particular penchant for documenting specific airframes with a highly detailed series of walk-around images and an in-depth exploration of their history, which have proved to be popular with many of those who have seen them, and we thought our readers would be equally fascinated too. If Randy’s last name seems familiar, it is because the U.S. Air Force’s present-day Malmstrom AFB, near Great Falls, Montana is named in honor of his cousin, Col Einar Axel Malmstrom. Col Malmstrom commanded the 356th Fighter Group during WWII, flying P-47 Thunderbolts, the first of Randy’s articles featured an example of the type, P-47D 45-49406 (N7159Z) at the Flying Heritage & Combat Armor Museum in Everett, Washington.

This installment of Randy Malmstrom’s aircraft profiles takes a look at the Grumman F7F Tigercat. On January 2, 1930, Grumman Aircraft Engineering Aircraft Corporation was founded by Leroy (“Roy”) Grumman three of his friends, Leon (“Jake”) Swirbul, William Schwendler, and Edmund Ward Pool, when they left Loening Aeronautical Engineering Corporation. First located in Baldwin, New York, the plant was moved to Valley Stream and Farmingdale before moving to Bethpage, New York in 1937. Initially nicknamed the “Tomcat” (but considered too suggestive), what became the “Tigercat” was designed as a carrier-based aircraft for the larger U.S. Navy Midway-class carriers.

Detail design began in 1941 but was delayed by including an “unsatisfactory” tailhook design and poor directional stability with only one engine operational, but the biggest delays came from the Navy asking Grumman to give priority to the development and production of the Hellcat. The Tigercat was powered by a pair of Pratt & Whitney R-2800-34W Double Wasp radial engines and was fitted with four M2 cannons (two in each wing root) and four 0.50 cal. M2 Browning machine guns in the nose. It had a max payload of 2,000 lbs. and could be configured to as a single or two-seater.

XF7F 1 at Moffett Field 1946

XF7F-1 BuNo 03550, the second prototype, at Moffett Field, California in 1946. NASA photo

In November 1944, F7F-1 BuNo 80291 completed the type’s carrier qualification trials aboard USS Shangri-La (CV-38), but by that time the land-based VMF-911 had been training on F7F-1s at MCAS Cherry Point, North Carolina since the summer of 1944. After producing just 34 -1s, Grumman began turning out F7F-2s, which, at the Navy’s request provided space for a radar operator, which required the capacity of the reserve fuel tank to be reduced from 426 to 375 gallons.

The story of the Tigercat in World War II is a case of so close, yet so far. The first squadron to receive the F7F-2N was Marine Night Fighter Squadron Five three One (VMF(N)-531) Grey Ghosts, which embarked aboard USS Attu (CVE-102) on July 24, 1945. As the ship neared Guam, the atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima on August 6. After unloading in Guam, the squadron arrived on Okinawa on September 1, the day before the Japanese signed the “Japanese Instrument of Surrender the following day. The same fate befell Marine Photographic Squadrons Two Five Four (VMD-254) and Three Five Four (VMD-354), both of which operated the F7F-3P. The combat debut of the Tigercat would have to wait five years just across the Sea of Japan. During Korea, VMF(N)-542 Tigers and -513 Flying Nightmares flew night interdiction and close air support sorties with the latter squadron shooting down a pair of Po-2 biplanes on night harassment raids. Combat operations for the Tigercat ended in April 1952, when the Flying Nightmares flew it final combat sortie, although a number of F7F-3N/-4N/-3Ps continued to fly in non-combat roles until the end of the war.

While 1,500 Tigercats were commissioned, fewer than 500 were delivered, and, to my knowledge, only eight remain airworthy. This particular F7F-3P, BuNo 80483, was delivered to the U.S. Navy on July 24, 1945 and was assigned to NAS San Diego. After 46 hours of non-combat flying time, it was relegated to the boneyard at NAS Litchfield Park, Arizona but became one of less than twenty Tigercats eventually rescued from Litchfield. This example flew for SIS Q Flying Services out of Santa Rosa, California. In 1962, SIS Q Flying Services of Santa Rosa, California won a National Forest Service contract to provide airborne forest fighting services in California and Oregon and acquired a number of Tigercats, including 80483, and outfitted them for aerial fire fighting operations. Registered as N6178C, this aircraft flew over 1,300 hours with SIS Q Flying Services before eventually being sold.

Grumman F7F 3N Tigercat Sis Q Santa Rosa CA March 3 1988 RuthAS

Our subject Tigercat in Santa Rosa, California on March 29, 1988 during its career with Sis Q Flying Services. RuthAS photo.

In November 1988, it was shipped to Duxford, U.K., and for a time was painted as a Tigercat of U.S. Marine Corps VMF(N)-542. It was then acquired by a John Sessions entity in 2003 for the Historic Flight Foundation which is now shuttered but was previously located in Spokane, Washington. In 2016, it was sold to Comanche Maverick Air, L.L.C., a Houston, Texas-based entity, owned by Dan Friedkin. It is currently painted as an F7F-3P with tail code “MW” of U.S. Marine Corps VMJ-1, and in the name of a former Tigercat pilot, aeronautical engineer and author Lieutenant Commander A.M. “Mike” Granat, United States Navy (Ret.), Lt Commander Granat flew over 30 aircraft, including the Tigercat.

About Randy Malmstrom

Randy Malmstrom grew up in a family steeped in aviation culture. His father, Bob, was still a cadet in training with the U.S. Army Air Forces at the end of WWII, but did serve in Germany during the U.S. occupation in the immediate post-war period, where he had the opportunity to fly in a wide variety of types which flew in WWII. After returning to the States, Bob became a multi-engine aircraft sales manager and as such flew a wide variety of aircraft; Randy frequently accompanied him on these flights. Furthermore, Randy’s cousin, Einar Axel Malmstrom flew P-47 Thunderbolts with the 356th FG from RAF Martlesham Heath. He was commanding this unit at the time he was shot down over France on April 24th, 1944, spending the rest of the war as a Prisoner of War. Following his repatriation at war’s end, Einar continued his military service, attaining the rank of Colonel. He was serving as Deputy Wing Commander of the 407th Strategic Fighter Wing at Great Falls AFB at the time of his death in a T-33 training accident on August 21st, 1954. The base was renamed in his honor in October 1955 and continues to serve in the present U.S. Air Force as home to the 341st Missile Wing. Randy’s innate interest in history in general, and aviation history in particular, plus his educational background and passion for WWII warbirds, led him down his current path of capturing detailed aircraft walk-around photos and in-depth airframe histories, recording a precise description of a particular aircraft in all aspects.

Author ProfileRelated Posts

Angela-Decker

Angela Decker, from McPherson, Kansas, discovered her passion for aviation after earning a Master’s in Military History from Norwich University in 2011. Since 2012, she has volunteered with vintage aviation groups, excelling as a social media content creator and coordinator. Angela has coordinated aviation and WWII events, appeared as Rosie the Riveter, and is restoring a Stearman aircraft. She is the Operations Logistics Coordinator at CAF Airbase Georgia and an accountant with a degree in Economics from the University of Georgia. Her son, Caden, shares her love for aviation and history and is studying Digital Media Arts.

@VintageAircraftNews.com

9 notes · View notes

koffeesfancy · 1 month

Text

Second Chance | Lila Ike x Reader

Summary: Fate has a twisted sense of humor, putting you face-to-face with your ex, Lila, in a random encounter. The unexpected confrontation dredges up old memories, unresolved feelings, and the possibility of a second chance.

Rating: PG-13

Genre: Romance, Angst

Word Count: 5247

A/N: I know this is a long one, but I have worked very hard on it during all of my free time- whether at work or home. I'm sorry for the inconsistent updates. I've been super busy with work and falling into new routines in my new city. I think I'm getting into the groove of things, though, so expect maybe 1–2 updates a week. Also, I did not use my tag list for this story, as I was unsure if my few usual readers would be interested in another fandom. If y'all make it to the end, be sure to tell me if you'd like to be tagged in any other Lila fics- as well as your thoughts of the story in general. Enjoy <3

Of course, fate would put you in the last open lane at Walmart with your ex on the other side of the world at 3 AM on a Tuesday. It was just like Lila to be out in the middle of the night, shopping for what looked like several 3-lb tubs of play-doh, a frozen cheese pizza, and press-on nails. And it was just like Lila to realize she left her wallet at home after frantically patting the nonexistent pockets of her lilac-colored silk pajama set.

“Raatid…” she muttered, running her fingers through her messy auburn fro before loudly kissing her teeth. “Now what mi fi do…”

The moment the words penetrated the air, you froze, every fiber of your being suddenly on high alert. That smoky voice—familiar, unmistakable—sent a jolt through you, stirring emotions you'd buried long ago. It couldn’t be, you thought, your mind reeling in disbelief. But the sultry rasp, the tone, the slight lilt in her accent—there was no misconstruing it. Your breath caught in your throat as you slowly lifted your gaze, dread pooling in your stomach. And there she was, as real as the desolate day you last saw her, confirming what you already knew deep down. It was Lila.

Your heart sank as you took everything in- her lively appearance starkly contrasting with the mundane backdrop of the store. The sight of her was stupefying. A surge of nostalgia, annoyance, and an unwelcome flutter of affection twisted in your chest. You couldn’t help but notice the little things you once adored—the way she muttered under her breath, the casual confidence in her disordered state. Panic gnawed at you as you debated your next move. Should you confront her, or flee before she notices you? The aisle felt both a prison and a haven as you weighed the consequences of either action. Every second stretched, amplifying the dread of inevitable interaction, until the decision was made for you.

Of course fate would have you loudly drop a can of chip dip, ruining any chance of a stealthy escape. As you fumbled to catch it, the rest of your precariously balanced items slipped from your grasp, tumbling to the floor in a chaotic clatter. The clamor echoed through the aisle, drawing unwanted attention. You hurriedly crouched down, desperate to gather everything without too much noise, but your movements were clumsy, rushed. The dip container rolled away, followed by a cascade of soda cans, and as you reached for them, your foot slipped on something slick. The world tilted, and before you knew it, you were sprawled flat on your back, staring up at the bright lights. The cold, hard tiles beneath you sent a sharp ache through your spine, and for a moment, you lay there, stunned and mortified, surrounded by the scattered remnants of your failed escape.

If you hadn’t caught her attention before, you most certainly had now. The sharp odor of old mop water mixed with the sticky sweetness of spilled soda assaulted your senses as the blinding fluorescent lights bore down on you. Dazed and disoriented, you briefly wondered if you had hit your head hard enough to be imagining the figure standing over you. But as your vision cleared and you focused on the familiar silhouette, there was no mistaking it—this was no hallucination. It was definitely Lila.

From your vantage point on the ground, the first thing you noticed were the familiar slivers of warm, tawny skin peeking through the gaps of her shirt buttons. The sight dredged up memories, each one sharper and more stirring than the last. You recalled how Lila’s preference for revealing clothing used to irritate you, igniting silent arguments in your mind—arguments that now seemed trivial in the shadow of your separation. Yet, even now, a pang of jealousy twisted in your chest, surprising you with its intensity. Why should you care? You told yourself it was irrational, yet the emotion was there, raw and undeniable.

Slowly, you pushed yourself off the grimy floor, the weight of the moment pressing down on you as you tried to shake off whatever mire clung to your clothes. With a forced calmness, you bent down to gather your scattered belongings, hoping your expression betrayed none of the turmoil inside. As you straightened, you avoided her gaze, muttering a curt, “Excuse me,” trying to convey a casual indifference that you didn’t feel. But as your eyes flickered briefly to hers, standing just inches away, the proximity stirred something deep within—a mix of regret, longing, and a tinge of resentment, all tangled together in a knot you couldn't untie.

“That wuh yuh say?” she remarked loudly, her eyes gleaming with a familiar, almost playful mischief that sent a chill down your spine. It was the same look she used to give you whenever she was about to do something unpredictable, something that always left you feeling off-balance. Your heart skipped a beat, anxiety tightening in your chest as your eyes darted between Lila, the cashier, and the exit, hoping for a way out. But before you could even process the situation, she waved a hand dismissively toward the cashier. “Ring alla this together,” she instructed with a tone that brooked no argument. It was just like Lila to have you bear the expense of a middle of the night art project after years of no contact.

A resigned sigh escaped your lips as you forced yourself to move, your shoulders tensing with each item you placed on the conveyor belt. The items felt heavier in your hands, burdened by the weight of this unwanted reunion. As the cashier began scanning them, a silence settled over you like a thick fog. The monotonous beeping of the register, the rough sound of your wallet’s zipper, and the rustling of plastic bags filled the void, each amplifying your discomfort. The cashier’s bored small talk was nothing more than background noise, barely registering as you tried to focus on anything but the tension coiling tighter inside you.

With your purchases bagged, you grabbed them hastily, eager to escape this surreal encounter. You wanted to mutter a quick goodnight, make a clean break, and retreat to the safety of your car, but Lila had other plans. She stepped directly into your path, her arms crossed in a stance that was both casual and resolute. A look of mild annoyance flickered across her face, as if she could sense your desire to flee and wasn’t about to let you off so easily. Her presence loomed, blocking your way, forcing you to confront the reality of her standing there, just inches away, after all this time.

“Excuse me? That wuh yuh say?” she repeated. You could only stare blankly into the warm pool of her chocolate colored eyes.

“Better than asking who let your crazy ass into the country?” you retorted, trying to keep your voice steady. But your calm was shattered by the raucous laughter that erupted from her. She doubled over, shoulders shaking like you’d just delivered the punchline of the year. Crazy indeed, you thought, a bitter edge creeping into your mind, irritated by the way your heart softened at the sight of her laughing—laughing at something you said. You always used to cave under the weight of her laughter, her smiles, her gaze. That’s why you moved back here—to escape her, to escape the hold she had over you. But now, seeing her here, of all places, in your hometown thousands of miles away from where you met, you couldn’t help but wonder why the hell she was standing in front of you again.

Her sudden grip on your arm jolted you back to reality. Her hands, as soft as once before, clung to your forearm as she tried to steady herself, laughter fading into ragged breaths. The pressure of her fingertips against your skin was almost unbearable, sending a rush of heat through your body that left you momentarily breathless. And then, there it was—that sweet, familiar scent of her perfume, the one that still lingered in the fibers of your hoodies no matter how many times you washed them. The smell brought a wave of memories crashing down, each one tinged with the bittersweetness of what once was and what could never be again.

You found yourself staring blankly into the forest of her coily chestnut hair, its wildness hinting at the composed chaos she always seemed to embody. Her head tilted upward, revealing an impish grin that stretched across her round, freckled face. Without loosening her grip on your arm, she asked, “You want mi fi show yuh crazy?” The playful challenge in her voice sent a shiver down your spine. Despite yourself, you felt your resolve beginning to melt under the weight of her stare. You had always found her gaze so disarming, a piercing look that left you exposed and vulnerable. Three years of distance had allowed you to rationalize this effect, convincing yourself it was nothing more than a manipulation tactic. But as her eyes bore into yours, and she tilted her head to the side for an obvious once-over of your outfit, you couldn’t help but feel that familiar pull, as if she knew exactly how to unravel you with just a glance.

“Wah, and yuh know dis de mi favorite color,” she remarked, her manicured fingers sliding up to tug playfully at the sleeves of your t-shirt. The combination of her familiar perfume, the way she looked at you, and the heat of her touch started to blur your senses. Your breath caught in your throat, and a burning sensation tightened in your chest. Six years of chaotic memories flashed before your eyes, each one more overwhelming than the last. The discomfort that had been simmering in the pit of your stomach began to ignite, flickering into anger as you fought to keep your emotions in check.

“Thanks, my girlfriend picked this out for me,” you blurted out, not entirely sure where those words came from. Though untrue, they served their purpose. The sweet look on Lila’s face twisted into something darker, her eyebrows knitting together as she withdrew her hands, crossing her arms defensively. If you were as gullible as you were three years ago, you might have mistaken the expression on her face for genuine pain and given in to the urge to comfort her. The conflicting voices in your head clamored for attention, urging you to fold under the pressure. But instead, you stood firm. “Speaking of which, I should get back home,” you added, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside. You waved your bag, a small but pointed reminder that this 3 AM store run was meant to be quick and solitary—not an invitation to commiserate with ex-girlfriends.

Lila stepped aside, her head turning away as her voice took on a hardened edge. “Should I care? Why yuh a tell mi this? Galang bout yuh business man,” she snapped, waving her hand dismissively. You caught one last glimpse of the redness blooming on her cheek before attempting to move past her toward the exit. But she remained rooted in place, still blocking your path. A sharp cough from the cashier broke the tense moment, and Lila hesitated before finally shuffling a few steps away.

“Sorry. Mi meant fi say thank you… and yuh look good. Goodnight,” she added, her voice quieter now, almost reluctant. She grabbed her heavy bags from the carousel with a quick, jerky motion and made a beeline for the exit, leaving behind only the lingering trace of her sweet perfume, a scent that clung to the air long after she’d gone.

You watched her figure retreat, making sure she had enough time to drive off to wherever the hell she came from before you stepped outside. The cashier, now disinterested, tapped away at her phone as you lingered, feigning interest in the caged balls and coin machine against the wall.

“Need help with anything?” the cashier's voice broke the silence, pulling you back to reality. Taking it as your cue to leave, you made your way to the parking lot. By now, it was nearly four in the morning, and the sky had shifted from deep black to a warm violet hue. The emptiness of the parking lot was almost comforting, and you found yourself contentedly trying to chalk up the night’s encounter to an insomnia-induced hallucination.

But as you pulled up to the exit, your stomach sank. A car was idling in front of you, its lights off, blocking the narrow lane. You considered reversing and trying another exit until you noticed another car inching up behind you, trapping you in place. Just as you were about to roll down the window to signal the driver behind you to back up, the door of the parked car swung open with a loud, jarring creak, shattering the bleak quiet of dawn.

Lila’s upper body leaned out of the car door as she shouted, “Guh roun deh.” Her arms waved frantically, trying to signal you to move around, but the effort was clumsy and ineffective. In her haste, she lost her balance and began slipping out of the car, tumbling awkwardly onto her side. The other car quickly backed up and sped off to the opposite end of the parking lot, leaving you alone, staring at her sprawled on the asphalt. A wave of pity washed over you as you took in the sight—Lila lying limp on the ground, half of her legs still tangled in the car, looking as helpless as ever.

Against what might have been better judgment, you stepped out of your car and walked toward Lila’s crumpled form on the cold asphalt. Just minutes ago, she had stood over you on the Walmart floor, and now, fate had turned the tables—you were the one towering over her in the dimly lit parking lot. As your shadow stretched across her, Lila’s round face tilted up, revealing the steady stream of tears tracing a path down her freckled cheeks, flushed red from the cold. Her blouse had ridden up in her fall, exposing the soft caramel skin of her stomach. Those big brown eyes locked onto yours with a mix of pain and something else—an unspoken plea, perhaps.

For a moment, you hesitated. The Lila you knew was headstrong, incapable of asking for help while always needing it all the same. But here she was, vulnerable and small, and the sight tugged at something deep inside you. A part of you wanted to walk away, to leave this mess behind like you had three years ago. But those eyes… they always had a way of pulling you back in.

You knelt beside her, reaching out to grab her shoulders. Her skin was softer than you remembered, her shoulders narrower, as if the years had chipped away at her. As you helped her to her feet, Lila’s legs straightened slowly, her movements sluggish. You guided her back against the car, your hands lingering longer than they should have on her, noting the warmth beneath your fingers.

The tears had carved a shimmering trail from her cheeks to her neck, disappearing into the dip of her cleavage. Your eyes drifted, unable to settle, each glance at her reminding you of everything you had tried to leave behind. The smell of her perfume—familiar, intoxicating—wrapped around you like a ghost from the past.

But even as you felt yourself being drawn in, a sliver of anger sparked in your chest. The six years of chaos, the mayhem she brought into your life, all flickered back to life in your mind. You knew this was dangerous, that letting her back in would unravel everything you had worked so hard to put back together.

"Are you okay?" you asked, your voice more strained than you intended, as you finally met her gaze again.

Lila didn’t respond immediately. Her breathing was ragged, her chest rising and falling with each labored breath. Then, almost as if realizing where she was, she pulled herself together, a shaky smile breaking through her tears.

“Yeah,” she whispered, but you could see the lie in her eyes.

The night was silent around you, the empty parking lot a stark contrast to the turmoil swirling inside you. The cold air nipped at your skin, grounding you as you realized just how close you were to falling back into old patterns. The thought made you tighten your grip on her shoulders for a brief second before you forced yourself to let go, stepping back to create distance.

“Let’s figure this out,” you murmured, trying to steady your voice, even as the gravity of the moment pulled you deeper into a place you weren’t sure you could escape.

Lila’s eyes darted away from yours, her expression darkening with a mix of hurt and anger. “So now yuh ago laugh off me?” she snapped, her voice trembling as she imagined the worst. “First yuh pay fi mi inna di store, now yuh a pree mi car a bruk up- mi cyaan badda with this no more. Go. Go,” she ranted, her hands pushing weakly at your arms, trying to create distance, but you stood your ground, unmoved.

“Crazy girl…” you whispered, your voice low and tender as you leaned in closer, closing the gap between you. The scent of her perfume mixed with the cold night air, intoxicating and familiar, drawing you in despite yourself. Her breath hitched as your eyes locked, the space between you charged with a tension that had always simmered beneath the surface.

You reached up, your hand trembling slightly as you cupped her tear-streaked cheek, your thumb brushing away the wetness. Her skin was warm against your palm, soft and yielding as she instinctively leaned into your touch, her defenses crumbling. “You know I was lying,” you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper, the words slipping out like a secret. “Who would I be with when you’re right here?”

For a moment, she just stared at you, her eyes wide and vulnerable, as if searching your face for any sign of deceit. But there was none, just the raw, undeniable truth that had been buried for years. Her lips parted, a shaky breath escaping as she tilted her head ever so slightly, her gaze flicking down to your mouth, then back to your eyes.

The world around you faded away as you leaned in, your heart pounding in your chest. Her hands, once pushing you away, now found their way to the back of your neck, pulling you closer until your lips brushed against hers. The kiss was hesitant at first, a tentative exploration of familiar territory, but it quickly deepened, the years of distance and longing collapsing into this one moment.

Her body melted into yours, her arms tightening around you as if afraid you might disappear. The taste of her tears mingled with the softness of her lips, the saltiness grounding you in the reality of the moment. Your hands slid from her cheek to the back of her head, fingers tangling in her coily hair, drawing her even closer as the kiss grew more urgent, more desperate.

When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, your foreheads resting against each other as you tried to steady yourselves. Her eyes fluttered open, still glistening with unshed tears, but there was something else there now—something softer, something that felt like hope.

You took a step back, wanting to give her space but not ready to let her go. The strain hung heavy in the air, and the chill from the asphalt seeped into your bones. “Okay, let’s get you comfortable,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper as you guided her toward your own car.

As you opened the passenger door, you could see her shoulders tense slightly, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her freckled face. You gently helped her settle into the seat, your hands brushing against her arms, lingering just a moment longer than necessary. You adjusted the heat, the warm air began to swirl around her, coaxing a hint of relaxation back into her expression.

“Just breathe, alright? I’ll figure this out,” you murmured, leaning in slightly to meet her gaze. Her big brown eyes, usually so vibrant, looked glassy with lingering tears, but as you spoke, the tension around her brows began to soften. A small nod accompanied a tentative smile, barely there but enough to spark a flicker of hope in your chest.

You placed a hand on her knee, offering a reassuring squeeze, feeling the warmth of her body beneath your palm. She let out a shaky breath, her lips parting slightly as if to say something but then closing again, a mixture of vulnerability and uncertainty etched across her face. You could see her fighting to compose herself, but the weight of the unspoken clung to her.

Once Lila was settled, you closed the door gently and walked around to her car, heart pounding as you slid into the driver’s seat. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the task ahead. Turning the key in the ignition, you listened for any sign of life, but all you got was a stubborn silence that confirmed your worries.

You glanced around the interior, looking for anything of substance. The scent of Lila’s perfume lingered in the air, a bittersweet reminder of the connection you still felt. With a sigh, you turned your attention to the glove compartment, yanking it open to rummage through the jumble of papers. Your fingers brushed against a few receipts and a stack of documents. As you sifted through, a piece of paper caught your eye: a registration form dated just a few weeks ago.

Curiosity piqued, you unfolded the document and scanned the details. Lila had just gotten this car, and the thought sent a pang of concern through you. How long had she been in the country? And why this city of all places?

Your heart raced as the implications settled in. This was a place you knew well—filled with hidden dangers and unfamiliar faces. The very idea of Lila navigating it alone, without a support system, made you feel uneasy.

You picked up your phone and dialed AAA, your mind racing with thoughts of what could have happened to her. As the line rang, you couldn’t shake the feeling of frustration coursing through you. It was reckless for her to come without telling, without making sure she had someone to lean on. And now, here she was, stranded in a parking lot at night, vulnerable to whatever dangers lurked in the shadows.

What if something had happened to her? The thought made your blood run cold. You couldn’t help but imagine her facing trouble alone. Your grip tightened on the steering wheel as the call finally connected, the voice on the other end breaking you from your thoughts.

“AAA, how can I assist you today?” the operator asked, and you began to explain the situation, your gaze flickering back to Lila, who was curled up in the passenger seat, trying to find comfort amid the chaos. You wanted to protect her, to shield her from the world that had been so unkind. But you also knew that she always made her own choices, even if those choices scared you.

After finishing your call, you returned to your own car settling into the driver’s seat, the warm leather a stark contrast to the cool weather. Silence wrapped around you both, heavy and thick, as if the car itself held its breath.

As if on cue, you both spoke at the same time.

“Why did you—”

“Where have you—”

You stopped, your eyes darting to Lila’s. She bit her lip to stifle a laugh, and soon, you found yourself laughing too. It was the kind of laughter that felt like a lifeline thrown into the depths of an awkward ocean, a shared moment that lightened the tension hanging in the air.

“Okay, you go first,” you said, raising your hands in surrender.

Lila took a deep breath, her eyes searching yours. “Why lie about having a girlfriend?”

The question hung there, both simple and loaded. You hesitated, guilt bubbling up, and finally admitted, “I was scared. I thought if I said I had someone, it would put some distance between us. I didn’t want you to show up in front of me as if nothing had happened.” The words tumbled out, and for a moment, you felt foolish, childishly trying to shield yourself from the past.

Lila tilted her head, processing your confession. “Aight den. Fi yuh time now.”

Your heart raced as you gathered your courage. “What are you doing all alone in my city?”

The response came slowly, almost hesitantly. “I… I miss you. I miss home. Mi did waan come back home- fi come back to yuh.” Her words hung between you like a delicate thread, weaving together the fragile remnants of what you once shared.

You could feel the sincerity in her voice, and it washed over you, warm and bittersweet, pulling you back to a time when everything felt easier. The weight of her admission settled in, and you were left grappling with the truth of her longing and the complexities of your own heart.

You felt a whirlwind of emotions surging within you—nostalgia, longing, and an aching vulnerability. Memories of laughter shared, dreams whispered in the dark, and the warmth of her embrace flooded your mind, pulling at your heartstrings. The distance between you and Lila felt both immense and insubstantial, like an ocean separating two islands that had once been one. You yearned for the connection you had lost, the easy rhythm of companionship that had felt so right. But doubt flickered in the corners of your mind, mixing with the hope that maybe, just maybe, there was still a chance to navigate the waters of this complicated past.

As you both sat in the car, the chill of the early morning seeped through the windows, the world outside quiet and still, as if it was holding its breath. The only sound was the soft hum of the car's engine, a low vibration that pulsed through the seats. You could feel it in your bones, a reminder of the tension that hung in the air, unresolved and heavy.

Lila shifted beside you, her movements drawing your attention away from the growing unease. You turned to her, your eyes meeting hers in the dim light. There was something in her gaze, a softness, a vulnerability that you hadn't seen before. It made your heart ache with a familiar longing, a desire to reach out and close the distance between you.

She broke the silence first, her voice barely more than a whisper, but it cut through the tension like a knife. "Can we fall in love like we did before?" Her words lingered in the air, wrapping around you, tugging at the strings of your heart. You felt a lump form in your throat, your emotions warring within you, a mix of fear and hope.

You wanted to answer her, to tell her that yes, you could, that you wanted nothing more than to lose yourself in her again, to feel the warmth of her love. But the words stuck in your throat, trapped by the memories of the past, the pain and heartache that had driven you apart. You glanced away, your eyes focusing on the windshield, the condensation forming intricate patterns that blurred the outside world.

Then, with a sudden, determined movement, Lila reached across the space between you, her hands enveloping yours. The warmth of her touch sent a jolt through you, grounding you in the moment. Her eyes locked onto yours, deep, earnest, and pleading.

"Can I show you how much I adore you?" she asked, her voice trembling with emotion. You could feel the weight of her words, the sincerity behind them. It wasn't just a question; it was a plea, a desperate hope for a second chance, for the possibility of rewriting the story that had once ended in heartbreak.

The memories of your shared past flooded your mind—the late-night conversations, the stolen glances, the feeling of her arms around you, the laughter that echoed through the halls of your old apartment. But with those memories came the arguments, the misunderstandings, the walls you had both built around your hearts. It had been easier to walk away, to let the distance grow, than to face the pain of trying again.

But now, sitting in the car with her, the darkness of the parking lot outside contrasting with the warmth of her hand in yours, you realized that maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe the love that had once been there, the love that had been buried under the rubble of your broken relationship, could be unearthed, rekindled.

You looked back at her, really looked at her, and saw the hope in her eyes, the way her lips trembled as she waited for your response. And in that moment, you made a choice. You squeezed her hand, a silent promise, and leaned closer, your heart pounding in your chest.

"I don’t know if I want the same love as before," you admitted, your voice shaky but honest. "But maybe we can fall in love for the first time again. Maybe we can learn from our mistakes, and start all over."

Her eyes filled with tears, and she nodded, her lips curving into a small, hopeful smile. "Babe," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "Come make we go fall in love."

You leaned in, closing the distance between you. The warmth of her breath mingled with yours, filling the small space of the car with a mix of tension and tenderness. Time seemed to stand still as the world outside faded away, leaving just the two of you, suspended in this moment.

As your lips brushed against hers, you felt the familiar spark ignite, igniting a fire that had been smoldering beneath the surface for far too long. The kiss was hesitant at first, a gentle exploration of what had been lost and what could be found again. But as you surrendered to the connection, it deepened, unraveling the years of hurt and hesitation that had built up between you.

Her lips were soft and inviting, a reminder of all the reasons you had fallen in love before. The kiss spoke volumes—of promises unspoken and dreams rekindled. You felt her fingers weave into your hair, pulling you closer as if to erase the distance of time and regret. The rhythm of your heart synchronized, creating a melody that only you two could hear.

In that confined space, the worries of the world slipped away, leaving just the two of you lost in each other. The kiss was not just a reconnection; it was a quiet declaration of hope, an unspoken vow to navigate the road ahead together. The taste of her was sweet, like the memories you cherished and the possibility of a future yet to unfold.

As you finally pulled back, breathless and wide-eyed, you lingered in that space between closeness and distance, both of you aware that this moment marked the beginning of something new. With a shared glance that held a universe of meaning, you realized this was your second chance.

#Spotify #songfic #angst #wlw #wlw post #black wlw #sapphic #lesbian #lila ike #lila ike x reader

10 notes · View notes

somereaderinblue · 1 year

Text

Gotham's New Stray

Gotham Menagerie Menace AU: 1 | 2

-Lila swore off the ‘sausage tails’ hairstyle but by god she’s breaking that vow if only so she could use them to strangle Marinette.

-The past month has been an absolute shitshow circus. Somehow, LB managed to defeat Hawkmoth who turned out to be Gabriel (jfc, just when she thought the asshat couldn’t sink lower) but *gasp* CN has betrayed her! Worse, Adrien is gone!

-So far, no one, not even LB herself, specified what ‘gone’ meant. Was he missing? Was he dead?? Nobody knows and it’s killing them.

-Poor Marinette is naturally heartbroken & worried sick and oh, it’s so romantic how she’s holding onto hope. Just look at the shrine she made for Adrien!

-(Lila will bet her entire Venetian Mask collection that she isn’t the only one who wants to burn the embodiment of a stalker’s delusions & entitlement to the ground.)

-Chloe was throwing money at PIs but with the Hawkmoth revelation, Andre wanted nothing to do with Gabriel, much less his son.

-Felix doesn’t believe he’s dead. Call it stubbornness, call it desperation, call it faith: Adrien was tenacious long before he got the miraculous with an animal said to have 9 lives.

-More importantly, Adrien would Cataclysm himself before betraying Paris (yes, he & the others know bcz secret IDs are bloody overrated).

-Lila, Chloe, Zoe, Nino, Nath, Marc, Felix & Luka are determined to get to the bottom of this but where do they start?

-Their first lead comes in the form of Nathalie.

-Nathalie, who tells them the instructions she gave Adrien; who also shows them the peacock & butterfly miraculous.

-When Adrien Cataclysmed his sperm donor (damn it, all of them would’ve paid to see that), Nooroo barely hid inside his miraculous in time to avoid damage. Luckily, his dormant state made it easier for Nathalie to snatch him & Duusu before LB could.

-Although very suspicious, they begrudgingly accept her help. An adult would make a better scapegoat cover anyway.

-While the others prepare to leave, Felix reaches out to his Gotham pen pal.

F: I’m coming to Gotham. D: And others say my humor is lackluster. F: I’m not kidding. D: And I’m not laughing. D: You’re also not the type to do something without reason. F: Damn right I’m not. I need your help.

-Before leaving, Nathalie tells them one last thing: she’ll hold onto the peacock (she’ll be damned if she lets another kid suffer for her mistakes), but someone has to wield the butterfly. It’s not combat-orientated but being able to empower someone in a place like Gotham? A boon they can’t waste.

Nathalie: Which one of you will accept this responsibility? Chloe: .....just to clarify, Hawkbitch was wearing that like, 24/7? Nathalie: Yes. Chloe: I love Adrien but ew, no, not it. Others: Not it! Nathaniel: Not- damn it! Lila: Twas fate.

-They could’ve sworn they saw Nathalie smile.

Meanwhile in Gotham.......

-Adrien was adapting.

-He’s found a decent building to stay in (Gotham was full of abandoned buildings), got a job at a hole-in-the-wall café & even better, the city was a fresh start for his alter ego!

-Rather than mope around, he’s more determined than ever to continue being a hero. His dad being a villain means he has more to atone for & Gotham may be a slaughterhouse but she never dictated who could play savior.

-He’s established a routine. Whenever he doesn’t have to work at the café/ run errands, he’s prowling around as Stray. He wanders around, helping wherever & whenever needed; saving a stray cat from cruel assholes with nothing better to do, stopping a mugger, befriending other kids who have it rough, he goes where there's trouble which happens to be everywhere.

-(Lots of crime means lots of work that requires lots of focus! Lots of focus means lots of time & less to be spent lingering on many repressed issues/traumas waiting to bite his ass.)

-He becomes a bit of an urban legend. Slowly but surely, he’s welcomed into the community. It’s imperfect & dirty but the slot he’s carving for himself fits him so much better than Paris’s ever did.

-Back home (...? Dare he call it that?), he’s trying his best to take care of all the kwamis. Each were unique & there was never a moment’s peace but Adrien loved them. These tiny gods gave him companionship & guidance despite what his father’s done to one of their kin.

-They try to teach him everything Fu didn’t & he’s lenient with them. His territory has more paraphernalia for their interests than his. When Adrien’s gone, they use fractions of their powers to chase away any would-be-robbers, giving Adrien’s building the ‘haunted’ status.

-Whenever someone he saves offers compensation, Stray usually asks for some food to feed himself & the kwamis.

-(They probably don’t mind giving food bcz there’s the saying abt feeding strays. But hey, him hanging around means extra protection. It’s a fair price to pay.)

-One night, while feeding a bunch of strays, he gets a visitor.

-Catwoman (he's totally not fanboying, he is.)

-Stray is surprised & a bit scared bcz shit, what if he’s done something wrong? Was he trespassing? Was he unintentionally mistreating the strays?!?!

-Catwoman was simply curious. She heard rumors of a ‘Stray’ lingering around the Narrows. She half-expected the mini menace to be some hotshot punk in over his head but-

-She knows.

-She knows how to spot the signs of abuse with a certainty as familiar as it is painful. She’s seen them all: abused animals, abused women, abused children, abused partners.

-The kit covered it with puns, cockiness & charisma but he wasn’t fooling her.

-It wasn’t just the matching theme. They clicked & before he knew it, they were sitting together on rooftops every night to feed & pamper the strays. Some nights, they sat in companionable silence; others they gossiped & bantered each other into a friendly spar.

-Maybe it was the loneliness & lack of human companionship but Stray found himself looking forward to their nightly hang outs.

-Selina knew it wasn’t her place to take him in like Batman would've; but she tried to teach him some tips before the city’s cruelty could. The first time he appears with a cut on his cheek & a split lip, she doesn’t hesitate to treat his wounds.

-Stray wouldn’t call her a maternal figure (she's neither Emilie nor Nathalie), but he comes to view her as a reliable cool older sister/aunt figure. She was nothing like LB. They were parallel lines: heading in the same direction but never intersecting.

-He’s glad that he’s made a friend.

-But some nights, when he thinks the kwamis are asleep, all of them can hear him cry for the friends & lover he never got to bid goodbye to.

To be continued

#adribat #gmm au #miraculous ladybug #adrien agreste #nathalie redemption #marinette salt #WE NEED MORE ADRIEN & SELINA CONTENT #LET THESE TWO MEET #they can have a deep meaningful relationship without it being full on mother-child from the get go #that's what development is for #they look out for each other but never look AFTER each other bcz both sides have faith in the others abilities #if that makes sense #au of an au #selina kyle

48 notes · View notes

guiltyidealist · 1 year

Text

Body count.

Hidden but insidious little piece of fatphobia:

you cannot find a single fucking page on INCREASING your appetite. On coping, struggling with a LOW appetite. Having a lowered appetite. On managing your health when your appetite is low. On how to get yourself to eat and NOURISH MORE. more efficiently, more FREQUENTLY.

By which I don't mean "how to gain weight" but by which I mean how to MAINTAIN A WEIGHT that's healthy for you. or more specifically, how to nourish SUSTAINABLY. over the LONG-term. How make sure you nourish and KEEP nourishing CONSISTENTLY. How to maintain your health in spite of an appetite that is too low.

Hell. even just what it means for your appetite to be low, how to TELL if your appetite is LOWER than is HEALTHY for you. the consequences and problems people face when they have a low appetite. the RISKS and DANGERS of a low appetite.

Because every fucking search result is

how to gain weight (muscle)

how to eat more foods that don't make you gain weight (fat) as fast as other foods

Tragedy Strikes: the Misfortune of Fat & How to Protect Your Precious Soul from Falling Victim to This Cruel Fate😢

how to lose weight (fat) (new fad diet for starvation and you will have a net loss of 0 lbs or less by the time 5 years elapses)

how not to lose weight (muscle)

how to eat less how to fucking starve how to deprive yourself the little things and be miserable and fucking die

if I eat too fast I'll feel nauseous. As a result, I graze over longer stretches throughout the day (er I did, before meds changes slaughtered my appetite).

People were always fucking like "ah! I hear that's better for you anyway😊"

by which they fucking mean "To my understanding, that eating pattern facilitates weight loss a bit more than normal patterns do, therefore it is superior because weight and supremacy are inverse correlates😊"

Nowadays I don't eat that way because my appetite is really fucking low. Today I managed a bowl of oyster crackers, an applesauce, some carrots, a piece of cornbread, a few pepperonis, and a scoop of cookie bake.

Plus x2 cans of Mountain Dew (my usual daily caffeine intake is maybe 1 glass of Coke), because I have to pass this final semester at the expense of my body.

Fuck I did not even realize how jack shit I ate today until I listed that out. With that combination it's really not a wonder that my whole digestive tract has been fucked for like 3 weeks straight now. On top of that I'm not getting ample nourishment, neither in nutrient nor caloric terms.

Low appetite is a problem.

and nobody cares. Nobody cares! Nobody fucking cares. You know why? Because this problem results in weight loss. See high appetite on the other hand, that causes weight gain, so you understand all energies must be allocated toward solving that problem🙂.

Noooo low appetite is a gift! A blessing!!! A privilege!!!!! God I wish that were me!!!!!!!!

How to lower your appetite!! 3 Vitamins that will lower your appetite!! Lower your appetite with these 15 yummy recipes!

6 easy ways to shame yourself for having wants and needs! How to stave off hunger and ignore your body's signaling of needs! How to replace the sound of your body calling you to action with blaring fad diet commercials. How to convert your body's begging for its life into an incessant and intrusive need to self-sabotage instead.

How to dissociate from your body and fixate upon doing the opposite of what it needs to stay alive. How to fret over whether or not you moved enough in the last 24 hours. How to take the energy out of every day to meticulously COUNT every single piece of material you dArE put in your body. How to count your body. How to develop one or more of the MOST DEADLY mental illnesses. How to wind up having the sole variety of mental illness that fucking kills you whether you wanted to die or not

How to tally the body count

#rant #vent #sorry #the entire. everything after the '' low appetite is a fucking problem'' text is /s #disordered eating tw #ed tw #suicide tw #starvation tw #eating tw #low appetite #fatphobia #weight-shaming #diet culture #eating disorders #ocd #Adderall #adhd #fixation #obsession

43 notes · View notes

loremastering · 7 months

Text

~ - Mountain Sound - ~

“I only went out for a walk and finally concluded to stay out till sundown, for going out, I found, was really going in.” - John Muir.

- ESSENCE -

Alias: Halordin (Father name) Telphindor (Mother name) Daerhovan (Epesse and main name.)

Other names: Heruthan (given by Mallovorel) Madhawin (by Lossenduin, shortened)

Age: Mid 600's.

Born: T.A 2390. April 9th.

Species: Silvan Galedhrim elf. (Quarter Sindar on his mother’s side.)

Gender: Male

Sexuality: Bisexual. Monogamous. Demisexual, Demiromantic

Scent: Pine woods and decaying leaves.

Vocals: Deep-ish voice with the musical lilt of the elves. Speaks loquaciously as his people do, but gradually begins to adopt quirks from other languages.

Build: Lean physique and sinewy limbs. 6′1 at the crown. Weighs at least 170 lbs.

Occupation: Vine tender, (former) scholar of the trees (former) nomad, wanderer, herbalist, conversationalist, biologist, zoologist, botanist.

Residence: Was both in Caras Galadhon, Lothlorien, but considers the whole world his home.

Ref sheet: X

Theme Song: Lonesome Dreams - Lord Huron.

- NATURE -

Protective - Independent - Playful - Affectionate - Nomadic -Adaptable - Inquisitive - Patient - Genuine - Humble - Collected Circumspect - Neutral - Vindictive - Impulsive - Dense - Melodramatic

Daerhovan was always a restless soul from the day he was born it seemed. Desiring to find new lands and discover what secrets they hold. He has an almost ravenous yearning for knowledge, a trait that got him into trouble in his youth, and shaped him well into his adult years and onward. His favorite subjects are those pertaining to the natural world, but he’ll dabble in the histories of the free peoples on occasion. It can be said he never learns some things however, as Daerhovan gets rather impulsive, which has led to dangerous situations. He calls it thinking on his feet.

In social situations he can come across as aloof and even cold. With so few children to grow up alongside with and living in self isolation for centuries while he studied; conversation can be awkward with him. Getting him to talk about a subject he knows or likes can make him a little more involved and even lively. He does crave interaction at times, but doesn’t know how to go about it often. Small-talk is his bane. Jokes have a tendency to go over his head.

While he’s happier than most of his elven peers during the years they’re still around it seems, he s subject to existential crisis’s every now and then, especially as he ages. Can be very melancholic during episodes as he thinks about the eventual fate of all temporal beings and his place in the big picture.

He’s normally a calm sort when it comes to disagreements and can keep a level head most of the time. Hurting anyone or thing he loves or considers his own however, can incite a violence within him that can scare both the antagonist and the person who was wronged.

- Has a long scar from his left pectoral to his navel from a maddened huorn that never fully heals. Though it becomes a white line that can be hard to distinguish in his older years.

- A little bit neutral. But can be easily swayed by the opinions of close friends and loved ones. The only forces that are black and white to him are Sauron and the Valar.

- Knows a vast slew of languages. Silvan, Sindarin and its dialects. Westron, and just a smidge of khuzdul.

- Will hoard things he finds interesting in chests buried throughout multiple regions of Middle Earth.

- Extremely connected to the natural world. Can mostly understand the language of beasts, and knows how to communicate with them in turn. Can sense when an environment is plagued with blight if it’s not obvious at first. Tends to feel depressed in places that have been ravaged somehow by disease or very heavy industry. The longer he stays in a place as such, the worse he begins to feel.

- Fond of wearing feathers in his hair in memory of avian friends.

- An avid scholar, mainly of nature and history. Has written tomes on the study of living things himself. Likes to hoard books and find abandoned ruins or peaceful glades to spend days reading/studying in.

- COMBAT -

- Avoids conflict when he can, but will fight when the need arises.

- Uses his staff as a club when it’s useful.

- While he doesn’t claim to be a swordsman, he’s quite proficient with them thanks to training by his nephew. Often carries one and can dual wield on the battle field with both sword and staff, making him a force to be reckoned with.

- Used to be a very competent healer, but because of his much needed efforts to fight in the War of the Ring, has lost most of his ability to heal by elvish means. Can still do basic procedures, but the magic associated with elves who are true healers has gone.

- While not as in tune with the elements as he is with flora and fauna, has some influence over them. As little may be thought. Can beseech trees for help in battle to stir the earth. If purified by elvish means, can use water to more proficiently heal wounds and encourage plant growth. Senses that something could be done with fire, lightning, and air, but will need to study further on it.

Relationships:

here

Experience:

here

#bio #daerhovan #lotro oc #lotr oc #heavily HEAVILY based on lotro loremasters #finally re-doing his bio for hopefully the last time

11 notes · View notes

separatist-apologist · 2 years

Text

The Great War

I vowed I would always be yours

Summary: Feyre Archeron's kingdom has been warring with King Rhysand for longer than she can recall. When, on an unlucky stroke, he stumbles upon her and her sisters locked in a tower, Feyre will do whatever it takes to keep him from finding them.

Even marrying him.

Happy @feysandmonth (but really LB appreciation month!) My only multi-chaptered offering.

Read more on AO3

Chapter 1

Feyre retreated to her room for another week, outright refusing to dine with Rhysand until food was begrudgingly brought for her. She still bathed and allowed that angry servant to dress her, but when it came time to leave, Feyre plopped in a chair and steadfastly refused. Nothing could remove her. Let him see what his proposal might earn him when it came to her.

Nothing.

Of course, staying in her room made escape hard. Feyre was not provided anything that would assist with escape. She’d requested boots and pants and a warm cloak and instead had been brought clothes so thin she thought it was Rhysand’s idea of a joke. Who wore pants like the ones he’d provided—cuffed around her ankle while billowing around her legs, as if she lived in some warm climate and the breeze was necessary to keep her warm?

The top was just as infuriating, cut four inches too short for the hem of her pants. No amount of tugging made it better—either her navel was exposed, or half her calf.

No more knives, either. Her food came precut like she was a child. Feyre tried to imagine him giving that order. Was his hand still bandaged? Did the servants know? If she left her room, she could have learned that information. Or any information. She didn’t know if Cassian had returned, if he had news of her sisters. Even bodies were better than nothing.

Three weeks. That's how long, between traveling with Rhysand and being sick, and hiding in her room, she had been gone. She could see the effects of her time out of that tower. Feyre’s body was starting to fill back out, greedily holding on to everything she ate until her eyes stopped looking so glassy and hollow. Each morning, when she studied herself in the mirror, she disliked him a little more.

It shouldn’t have been him bringing her back to life.

The start of the new week drew a new character into Feyre’s life. She’d just been dressed in a navy dress, her hair half swept from her face with silver pins, when the door just pushed itself open. She expected to see Rhysand standing there, scowling or smirking.

It was the other man. The one made of ice, his beauty a writhing, terrifying thing. Dressed casually in a muted tunic of deep blue and dark black pants, he didn’t look like the warrior who had come for the three of them—or Graysen, she supposed.

Hazel eyes swept over form, his lips pressed in a disapproving line. “With me,” he said, his voice rich like midnight. Feyre couldn’t help her shiver. Something told her this man wouldn’t take kindly to her disobedience, and Feyre didn’t know if she had the guts to try.

“Breakfast?” she asked, hating how small her voice sounded.

Those eyes looked her over again. “Probably should. Quickly,” he added.

Yeah, yeah, she thought. Everyone thought she looked hungry–because she was. A week wasn’t enough time to undo a year and a half of neglect, and Feyre still winced at the memory. She didn’t look back at the mirror, suddenly filled with loathing. Had she thought herself pretty? This man clearly didn’t. And for whatever reason, that bothered her.

No one in her life had thought that of her, and as Feyre trailed after the muscular Azriel, she thought that this was merely more of the same. Would the king have proposed if her sisters had been with her? If Nesta or Elain stood beside Feyre, would he had been so quick to try and trap her in an ill-fated alliance?

He didn’t know she was her father's least favorite daughter, after all.

Her thoughts swirled about her head as Azriel led her down those winding stairs. She panicked a little the further they descended, but Azriel didn’t notice. Likely didn’t care. He took her into an area of the castle that clearly belonged to servants. Azriel nodded to each as he passed, occasionally murmuring a name—like he knew. Close as he was to the king, this man was familiar enough with the servants to not only know their names, but to have earned true respect. They looked him in the eye, smiling at him as if he were one of them, though his fine clothes proved he clearly was not.

He pushed open a swinging metal door, revealing a large kitchen filled with people. Feyre, who had never once seen where servants retreat to once they were done working, stood stock still right in front of the door while Azriel pushed in further. People in white aprons busied about, washing dishes and preparing the next meal. It was so cheerful—they laughed and talked over the clanking serving ware and sizzling food.

“Got anything easy to eat on a horse?” Azriel asked, proving that he was capable of smiling if he wanted. The elder woman he spoke with looked up at him, brown eyes dancing with amusement.

“You tell that lord of yours he works you too hard,” she chided. Azriel’s cheeks warmed and Feyre wondered how he’d come to know these people.

All eyes were on him for a moment—handsome Azriel, commanding every space he was in that silent way of his. No one noticed her for a long moment, hastily putting together a sack of things they assumed he must want to eat.

And then they saw her. Standing by the door, clearly frightened. All the chatter died as elbows and fingers poked ribs, drawing even the busiest attention to her. Gaping mouths and wide eyes looked at the foreign princess, and too late, Ferye realized they must hate her just as fiercely as she hated Rhysand.

The elder woman, hands frozen over a half-completed sandwich, looked back to Azriel. “I heard the rumors, but…” “She can hear you,” Azriel replied, amusement lacing his words.

“Why doesn’t your king feed you?” A voice from the back called, before several voices shushed. Feyre swallowed her embarrassment.

“Of course he’d treat his own daughters as badly as he treats the rest of us,” the woman before Azriel sniffed, her condemnation damning. “Is this for her?”

“It is,” Azriel said solemnly. “I’m taking her to the coast.”

A different sort of silence fell over the room. No one moved–not even fidgeted, as they considered what he’d said. Feyre’s heart hammered in her throat, her feet rooted in place. Everyone in the room knew what that meant—except for her.

“Are…are you sure?”

Azriel placed a broad hand over the womans, revealing flesh so viciously scarred that Feyre recoiled for a moment. What had happened to him?

“Is this enough?”

More eyes were back on her body, their assessment of her—of her father—near overwhelming. “Let us hope.”

And that was that. Azriel reached for the sack and pressed a kiss to that woman’s cheek with enough tenderness that Feyre considered they might be related.

“Tell your mother we’re thinking of her,” the servant added after Azriel’s retreating back. He waved her off, a blushing smile on his handsome face. He wiped it in favor of his stony scowl when he saw her again. As if he remembered who he was supposed to be.

“What’s the coast?” she asked when they were back in the hall. His steps were quicker, forcing her to jog in order to keep pace with his long legs.

“Where the ocean meets land,” Azriel replied dryly.

Her fingers curled to fists, pressing crescents into her palm. “Thank you.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Did your father not educate you, either?”

Shame crept up Feyre’s spine, cold and slimy. No, she might have said had she not thought he’d privately mock her for it. Her mother had taught Nesta expressly against their father's wishes, thinking a future queen consort might need to know how to read, to write, and other things. Nesta had, in turn, taught Elain when she was born—a poor education, though Elain had always been adept at picking things up. And when they’d been locked in the tower, both Elain and Nesta had taught Feyre to read and write, along with some very basic arithmetic. Without books and other materials, they’d done the best they could but Feyre knew it was paltry.

Her and Azriel lapsed back into silence, walking back up the steps and through a new part of the palace. It all looked the same to her—lavender and cream, silver and ornate. Pretty, wintry flowers and windows covered in icy frost. Servants all greeted Azriel with a nod or a soft hi, while ignoring her entirely. She wondered if that might continue, should Rhysand get his way. Would they always ignore her with quiet disdain? An interloper their king married in order to try and secure peace? What would Rhysand do when he realized she was merely the expendable daughter? He’d marry Nesta to Graysen before her–Feyre was only ever the spare. She could die, so long as his other two lived. Which reminded Feyre.

“Has Cassian returned?” she asked when Azriel pulled a heavy cloak off a hook and handed it to her. They were just beside a heavy door twice as tall as her. A scene carved into the marble depicted men with wings holding swords, beating back horrific enemies as they stood on a hill made of bodies and bones.

“No.” Then Elain and Nesta were alive or Cassian was dead, too. Azriel, like Rhysand, did not seem terribly concerned for Cassian’s safety and Feyre couldn’t decide if that was because none of them liked each other very much, or they knew something she did not.

Azriel pulled one of the silver handles, opening them to the frigid cold. Even with a fur-lined hood, Feyre shivered. She thought she was used to the cold, given she had grown up in the north, but this was cold unlike she’d ever felt. It seeped into her bones, eliciting a shiver as her slippered shoes touched the snow-cleared path.

No boots. Escape would have to happen with what she had, which meant Feyre needed to find some way to keep her feet warm.

He was smart enough not to take her to the stables where she might also have found an armory. No more weapons, a tragedy given she would have liked the opportunity to fire an arrow into Rhysand’s gut. She’d be a hero when she returned, perhaps with his head in a box. Feyre held on to that image when Azriels scarred hands circled her ribs, hauling her up atop a snowy horse bridled in black.

He swung up behind her and before she could ask him a thing, wrapped a silken blindfold around her eyes.

“Is this necessary?” she grumbled.

“You stabbed my brother,” Azriel replied with what she swore was amusement. “I can’t risk you harming innocents, too.”

That wounded her. “I wouldn’t.”

Azriel didn’t respond. He merely clicked his tongue, setting them on a canting pace down the mountain. This time, Feyre didn’t find herself in danger of passing out in his arms, though if she had to, she would have preferred Azriel. At least he didn’t want to marry her.

Feyre swore she heard the sounds of distant civilization. A mountain city seemed unlikely. She’d never seen a hint of it on any map, and could not imagine anything existing so high up. Not happily, anyway. Still, she knew she heard the sound of clopping hooves and spinning cart wheels. She might have heard the shrieking laugh of a child—or the wail of someone suffering terrible torture. It sure sounded like joy, though Feyre couldn’t be certain.

It had been so long since she’d experienced such a thing.

Salty air stung the exposed parts of her face long after the sounds of yelling and the smell of spices vanished. It was only then that Azriel pulled the blindfold from Feyre’s face with gentle, polite fingers. Feyre expected to find an icy sea and frozen sand. She knew what the coastline looked like, despite Azriel’s questions to the contrary.

She found a burning wasteland. The closer they came, the worse the smell was. Feyre recoiled in the saddle, pressed against the solid mass that comprised Azriel’s chest. She started to turn her head, but scarred fingers gripped her chin firmly, though not painfully, and made her look.

“The people who lived here were fishermen,” he began, his breath warm against her neck. “Families, mostly. Poorer than a lot of places, and most importantly, unprotected. We never considered putting a garrison here, given its remoteness. The mountains protect this place on three sides and an inhospitable sea on the fourth.”

The horses' hooves clipped over a cobbled street, snorting at the ashy snow and crumbling infrastructure around them. Azriel didn’t stop, pushing his horse through the only street in the village. Feyre could see the remnants of familiar objects. Pots and shoes and a children’s bear, the stuffing half picked apart by a curious gull.

“We have a treaty,” Azriel continued, still holding her chin so she couldn’t turn away. They were heading towards what had once obviously been a modest dock. She could see the charred remains of it, the splintered fishing boats half rotted from the unrelenting surf.

“Your father helped write it years and years ago. It outlines the terms of engagement…under what conditions we are allowed to war with each other. Who we can fight and how. Unarmed civilians and people who surrender are supposed to be off-limits. And in the middle of the night, while people slept, General Nolan stole into this village—and many, many others along the coast—and destroyed it. He left no survivors. Just a pile of bodies we discovered weeks later.”

Feyre’s heart hammered against her ribs. It was foolish, perhaps, to argue with a man very likely armed, even if she couldn’t see it.

“As if you’re any better.”

Azriel went stiff behind her. “We’ve surrendered to your father more times than I can count. Just as the west has…and the south. He wants the continent—and will not be satisfied until he has it.”

Feyre was trembling.

“You’re a liar,” she whispered.

“He didn’t feed you,” Azriel’s cold voice was laced with condemnation. “How can you call me a liar?”

She twisted in her saddle, wrenching her face from his grasp. “What would you know about that?”

Azriel raised his hands, facing the scars towards her. “I was kept in a dungeon for half my childhood. Starved, just like you, by a father who hoped he might find me dead…just like yours.”

“You…you’re wrong…” But Feyre’s bottom lip trembled as tears threatened to spill down her face. She reached for his hand but Azriel snatched them back, as if he couldn’t stand the thought of her touching them.

Neither of them spoke for the duration of the journey. Feyre was too much of a coward to ask what happened to the bodies, proof of which no longer existed. All Feyre could think about was that ripped bear and the child who had likely loved it. Where had they gone?

Could her father's favorite man—someone he considered to be a son, a person he intended to marry his favorite daughter to—really have looked a child in the eyes before driving his blade through their chest?

Rhysand was waiting in the door when her and Azriel returned, a question in his violet eyes. Of course he’d sanctioned her little trip. Wanted to show her that he was somehow some secret good guy. A wave of anger slammed into her chest as they approached him.

“Velaris?” he questioned Azriel softly, his eyes bouncing from her to his friend.

“No,” was all Azriel said in response. Feyre swore she saw disappointment but internally was grateful. Whatever—or whoever—Velaris was, she wanted no part of it. Feyre pushed past Rhysand without a word, arms wrapped around her middle as she made her way back to her bedroom. She slammed her door shut, unable to lock it without a key, and slid down the door. Drawing her knees to her chest, Feyre buried her face in her knees and sobbed silently.

Her family was responsible for the massacre she’d witnessed, and she thought one of them out to grieve. Had her father felt any guilt when he learned? She wanted so badly to believe it was an accident, that they hadn’t meant to and once they realized, it was too late.

But that would mean survivors. Children spared, mothers allowed to care for them, fathers who could help rebuild. And there was no one.

Desperation clawed at Feyre’s chest, rising into a crescendo of anxiety as the sun set over the mountains. She waited for dinner, scarfing it down to be done, and then she waited. A servant came, sweeping it away silently and still, Feyre waited.

The lights in the hall flicked off, bathing the palace in darkness. Only then did Feyre, without a plan, dart into the night. All she knew was she had to get out. It was reckless and she knew it. Dangerous, given all she had was a cloak. No knives—those had been taken a week ago. No bows, no food. Just herself as she flung herself into the freezing, inky night.

Her slippers were immediately soaked the moment she strayed from the drive, running through shin-deep snow towards a pine forest in the distance. The trees, she hoped, would provide some protection from the howling air burning her cheeks. Feyre was crying as she ran, the tears freezing to her skin.

Her teeth chattered as her steps slowed and as she plunged into the greenery, Feyre realized she didn��t even know which way she was going. She twisted, looking upwards through a gap in the towering cones, looking for stars or the moon. There were only clouds, blotting out any light to keep her company.

Feyre took another step, running her hand through the spines of the tree absently. A new panic seized her as the full realization of what she’d done hit her. She’d fled. Instead of waiting for the eventual trade—if there was even one to be had—she’d chosen to try her own luck in the dark.

She’d likely die for it.

Still, it was better than what she’d found today. Better than submitting, than crying in her enemy's palace while he fed and clothed her. It was enough to keep her going. Feyre was motivated by the spite of it all. Maybe it would kill her—but he wouldn’t get what he wanted. Whatever endgame he imagined by marrying her would be thwarted when he realized she was gone. It was enough to make her smile, to let her feel victorious for a moment.

Just a moment, because the next, Feyre was flat on her face and the wind had been knocked from her lungs. It took her a moment to realize the thing that held her into the snow was not a boulder, or even another animal.

It was a man. Fingers curled around her wrists as thighs bracketed her hips, pinning her as he twisted her body so she no longer had her face buried in the breathless ice. Feyre blinked, her body aching from the pain of the brutal takedown. She’d expected Azriel, given he seemed to be the king's lackey, but hovering above her with a face twisted in anger, was Rhysand himself.

“Going somewhere, darling?”

She spat in his face, which earned little more than a savage grin. She twisted and writhed against the hardness of him, looking for any weakness that might free her. As if she, with her shorter legs and her exhaustion, might truly outrun him. She couldn’t let him see her give in.

“I hate you!” she screamed, bucking under him as he held steady, betraying no hint that her struggle inconvenienced him.

“You hate me so much you’d die for it?” he asked when Feyre settled beneath him, unable to move with the weight of him holding her. “You’re marching straight into the Illyrian wilderness. It’s a death sentence, out in the tundra.”

“Let me go,” she whispered, her words shifting to a plea.

“No.”

Rysand leaned forward, his nose brushing her cheek and though she turned her head, he kissed the frozen path her tears had left. Gripping her wrists in one over large hand, the other turned her face so he could kiss the other.

“You can’t force me to be your wife,” she whispered, her heart leaping in her throat. She was confused, unsure what to make of the twin kisses burning heat against her otherwise frigid skin.

“It’s your choice,” he murmured, his mouth still entirely too close. She wished he’d pull away, that he’d climb off her. The snow beneath her was seeping through her cloak, wetting the rest of her. Perhaps that was his strategy—to leave her hypothermic and delirious, so she agreed out of desperation.

It wasn’t a terrible plan.

“There is no choice,” she retorted, teeth chattering.

“Of course there is,” he protested gently, brushing his fingers against her lips. “I’ll withdraw from the fighting entirely, in exchange for this alliance. Your people will be safe, my people will know peace. Your sisters can return safely—”

“They’re alive?” she whispered, tears springing to her eyes again.

“There is a rumor a northern princess washed up on Helion’s shores. Another in the borderlands with, as luck would have it, my general. Unconfirmed but…perhaps for my new wife, I might be inclined to check the veracity of those claims. To offer sanctuary to her sisters.”

“You’re a liar.”

He reared up, thighs still tight around her as he released her wrists. Feyre took the opportunity to try and sit up, her hand striking him across the jaw. Rhys didn’t react, reaching for the knife at his belt.

“Shall I swear it in blood, then?” he asked her, holding his blade against his palm. “A promise before the Gods isn’t easily broken.”

“And what do you get out of all this?” she asked, her palm still ringing from hitting him. “Tell me what my father has that belongs to you.”

“Marry me, and I’ll tell you everything,” Rhysand replied, holding the serrated edge against his wounded hand. She could see the healing skin, still raw from where she last stabbed. Feyre jerked her chin and Rhysand slashed his palm, spilling brilliant red blood against the pristine white around them.

“I swear, Feyre Archeron, on my life and the vow I make you that I will not betray you.”

His words hung metallic in the air, shimmering like brilliant starlight. She could feel them clang through her, warming her like some ancient form of magic brought back to life by his very words.

“It’s a political marriage only,” she whispered, unsettled by the intensity in his gaze.

“You’ll be my wife in all ways,” he growled in response. Why he’d want that, Feyre couldn’t fathom. She understood the reasoning behind such a request. A wife might bind the north for a time, but children kept Feyre from abandoning him—betraying him. A child united their two homes in a way a simple marriage struggled to. She was merely a piece in a larger game.

“I’m not a virgin,” she whispered, watching for his own revulsion.

He merely smiled. “Good. I’m a shitty teacher.”

Rhysand, with his bleeding hand, lifted himself off her. Feyre clambered unsteadily to her feet, sweeping snow from the back of her skirt. Even in the dark, it was impossible to deny how utterly handsome and imposing he was.

Her husband.

“When you sent word to my father…what did he say?”

Silence yawned between them, the only sound the crunching of his boots in the snow as they walked back to the palace. Feyre was limping from the cold, her feet long numb from the satin slippers on her feet. Feyre couldn’t ask for help.

She didn’t need to. With a beleaguered sigh, Rhysand stopped, twisted, and scooped her upwards so she was curled against his chest. It was awkward, given he was balancing her weight on his wrist to keep his bloodied palm from touching her, and yet his strides returned to normal once he had her adjusted.

“He’s said nothing,” Rhysand finally told her once she stopped squirming.

She swallowed the knot in her throat. “I told you.”

He looked down at her, leaving the forest behind them. Ahead, the palace sparkled against the snow like an opalescent gem, stretching in all directions against the rising mountains. Which of those towering windows belonged to her, she wondered? Which were his?

Rhysand didn’t offer a response to her snide I told you so. If he cared or not was unclear, and unimportant. She’d agreed, and Feyre suspected things would happen quickly in the aftermath. He’d marry her before her father could truly protest, and announce it throughout the kingdom. Her father would be forced to yield, to back down.

To give Rhysand back whatever he asked—especially if he possessed all three Archerons. Feyre tried to imagine the life stretching before her. She imagined he’d leave her once he got what he wanted. Pick a mistress, privately shame her while trotting her out whenever something to the north displeased him. She’d bear him a son he could crown, and then—

“I like to paint,” she said just as they reached the palace doors.

He looked down at her, lips parting with surprise. “You do?”

“Yes. Before…” Before she’d been locked up, all her time was spent hunched over easels. Sketching, painting, anything to still her constantly moving mind.

“Before,” he murmured, setting her to her feet so he could let them both inside. “What else, darling?” “That’s it,” she replied, nerves spearing her gut.

“I suspect that’s untrue,” came his murmuring reply.

Feyre halted. “This doesn’t make us friends. I don’t forgive you.”

Bathed in the hazy light of the palace, Rhysand’s features came fully into view. Handsome and terrifying in equal measure, and yet soft somehow. Not kind—not exactly. But not as cold as he’d been the night he’d stormed the tower.

“Why didn’t you put me in the dungeon? Did you know when you kidnapped me?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

He shook the head of inky black hair, the light gilding it blue. Snow melted in the heat, slicking it to his forehead. He seemed younger at that moment—less regal, more man.

“I knew when you stabbed me,” he said, his mouth quirking upwards in a wry smile.

“Liar,” she hissed. He only grinned wider.

“You underestimate your appeal,” was his only reply. He turned his back to her, smug to the last. She ought to have been grateful and she knew it. He was offering her a strange sort of freedom, though the terms weren’t entirely known. And to Feyre, who only knew how to fight, only understood survival at all costs, it seemed like just a different cage. He fed her, sure, and offered her clothing and shelter, and perhaps he’d give her paint.

But not a weapon.

And not sturdy shoes.

It was that thought that saw her rip off her sodden, half-frozen slipper and launch it at the back of his head. His shoulder bunched the moment it slammed against him, bouncing to the ground harmlessly. He whipped around, eyes wide even as she was pulling off the other.

“I dare you,” he hissed.

Feyre wasn’t one to back down. She threw it, heart racing. Rhysand caught it seconds before it hit his face, tossing it over his shoulder as though it were nothing at all. The pair of them faced off in that foyer, the only two people around.

They could have been the only two people in the world, for all she knew. His chest rose and fell rapidly, like he was just barely containing himself.

“You better run,” he whispered, taking a step towards her. Feyre didn’t need to be told twice. She spun on her heel, taking off in the opposite direction. She didn’t dare look over her shoulder, swearing she could hear his boots on the wood floors behind her.

When she reached her room, Rhysand was nowhere in sight. She closed the door with an exhale of air.

And wondered what would have happened if he’d caught her.

A small part of her almost wished he had.

#feysand month #feyre archeron #rhysand #feysand #feyre x rhysand #im a day behind so sorry #no reason other than yesterday i was in a grumpy mood

110 notes · View notes