#finished the book again this morning

[anchovarc]

time is a flat circle

[easprouts]

Do you remember?

zoom in babies

[amethystpath-writes]

To Traitors

NOT A PR0MPT

******

"The general wants to send me to your homeland."

"For war?"

Villain hummed. "We knew it was coming."

"Of course." Hero shook her head and pushed a shirt further into the bucket of water. She bent it and twisted it and shoved it again. "How did she react when you told her 'no'?"

That was the thing; Villain didn't deny the general. No one denied the general.

Hero picked up on the silence. She always did. “Where does that leave us?”

A choice.

War?

Or her?

“You know this decision is not mine.”

"Sure, it is. I always wanted to travel- try camping."

Camping. Hero knew rejecting orders would be considered traitorous. She would rather be homeless and shunned than to standby while her homeland was being attacked.

"Hero..."

"Is that something you are not willing to do?" Her movements became rushed, like she was trying to maintain a calm, but the only way to do so was to move along with the emotions. She grabbed a shirt, dunked it, rung it, tossed it. Grab, dunk, ring. Grab, dunk, ring. They weren't even becoming clean, and the water needed changed. "My family is there. Where are they meant to go?"

"Even if I did tell the general no, I cannot stop an entire army from marching. The war will happen with or without me."

A sigh veiled the tension in the room. Villain's weight creaked beneath him as he stepped towards his lover. He took a linen shirt, wet and soaked, from her hands, and dropped it in the brown water. He found her hands next, then tugged her up slightly. She took the cue and stood, let herself be held.

"I love you," Villain said.

Hero didn't like crying. This is why Villain began rubbing her back as he pulled her into an embrace. She buried her face into his chest and sniffed once, twice...wiped a face full of tears, sniffed again...stopped, then began sobbing. No amount of squeezing could console the thought of her family being innocently slaughtered.

"You would hide them, wouldn't you? If you found them, you would save them?"

His grip loosened. He whispered, “Of course I would.” Did Hero know it might have been a lie? Even Villain wasn't sure what he would do when the time came that he marched onto her homeland.

"When do you leave?"

"Tomorrow."

"Then I'm leaving now." She attempted to pull away from Villain's chest, but he held her firmly. Her muscles tensed beneath him, but Villain knew she knew better than to try again.

"Hero, be level-headed.

"I want to warn them," she whispered, so quietly that Villain only knew what she said because of how well he knew her. He knew her every thought before she even had it herself. It wasn't magic; just love.

"And you think you will outrun an entire army overnight?"

"I know I won't!" her tone had changed, and this time when she pulled away, she didn't stop until Villain let her go. "But who am I to not try at all? Who would I be, Villain?" Her face was red and swollen, glistening with sad, then angry tears.

For a moment, she stopped. She took a breath. then swallowed as if she needed to stop herself from asking what obviously came to her mind. Alas, she said it. "How long have you known?" Her voice cracked, and Villain could see she already knew the answer: longer than he should have known before telling her.

"I'm sorry."

"I didn't ask for an apology." Her eyes refused to meet his. Villain was almost glad for it. He couldn't bear her anger, not when it was directed at him. "I asked how long you have known."

"Hero..."

"Clean your own damn clothes. I'll pay the Baker family back when I return."

"Pay them back? For w-" No. "You're not taking their horse." Hero was already scrounging around, first grabbing a raggedy sack, then stuffing one random item after another in. "Hero, stop. Hero-" She was going to take the neighbor's horse just to get caught up in the war herself. "Stop!"

She fell to her knees in the next moment. Broke down as if his voice took out the last support beam keeping the house together. hero cried, screamed, and wailed. "No. No. No. No. No," she repeated, and her voice broke time and time again as she screamed.

Tears sprung into Villain's eyes. What did he do?

"I'll send a bird. It will arrive before our army does, and when they receive it, they will know to leave."

Hero's head lifted, and her puffy eyes finally met Villain's glistening ones. "I will prepare beds. We have pelts; I can throw something together, and my brother can take-"

One blow after another, each and every passing moment. Just when Villain thought all might be well, the both of them realized there was no saving anyone. The war was an ambush, and Hero's brother would be expected to take a stand, to protect his own homeland.

"I won't-" Villain swallowed. "I won't harm your family. I will send the bird, and I will pray with every moment of travel that they receive it and leave. I will not draw my sword until I find their home empty, until I am sure they have left."

"You would be a traitor to your own kingdom."

"Better it this kingdom than you."

[muncaster]

thikning about... bulgakov basing the character margarita after his wife elena... margarita caring so much about the master’s pontius pilate book... “manuscripts don’t burn”... bulgakov ruining drafts of this story during its creation because of heavy soviet censorship... the master grappling with guilt over how attached margarita was to him... margarita insisting there was no other person & story she would rather tether herself too... margarita’s “you know i put my whole life into this work” & the master’s “nothing around me interests me, except her”... bulgakov finishing the master & margarita right before he died... elena keeping the master & margarita hidden for decades during soviet censorship, despite it being highly dangerous to do so... elena publishing it 26 years after bulgakov had died because it was finally safe... manuscripts don’t burn and real love exists because bulgakov had it and he knew it.  he knew it.

[bigcats-birds-and-books]

Books of 2023. VILLAINS by V. E. Schwab.

Time for a NaNo Prep Reread! I love Victor and this vicious little family with my whole chest. This'll be my second time rereading VICIOUS, but only my first time rereading VENGEFUL.

[electricpurrs]

in the last two days or so i was able to actually properly take my meds at night, sleep, and wake up fully rested in the morning, had actual filling meals, and i just did those simple exercises in the video i reblogged and they werent super hard or time consuming like daily exercises usually are for me. so now.. im feeling actually pretty optimistic? maybe i can make my life a little healthier. thatd be pretty nice

[parttime-creative]

Not much missing anymore...

[saeshiraw]

tired girl hours i’m just ranting bcos i don’t have enough time to cry

[da-proti-toku-grem]

having a week off and having to spend it in a little village where i don't know anyone but my grandma and i have no wifi and almost no signal........

[kittlyns]

I had yet another long, strenuous day yesterday and didn't finish work until super late and then I couldn't fall asleep until well past 2am cuz I was in so much pain from standing literally all day

[steelycunt]

GOOD MORNING BLOGGERS!! say it back or i'll cry (*real*)

[hiddenbeks]

should i. study french. or go home and watch atonement

[ididloveyou]

Hello! Tumblr suggested me your blog and I had to check if you're my big batfam fic supplier from ao3 and you are! How's life?

Oh anon I am busy. So so busy. But thank you for asking <3

[prettyboysdontlookatexplosions]

On the pleasant shore of the French Riviera, about half way between Marseilles and the Italian border, stands a large, proud, rose-colored hotel. Deferential palms cool its flushed facade, and before it stretches a short dazzling beach. Lately it has become a summer resort of notable and fashionable people; a decade ago it was almost deserted after its English clientele went north in April. Now, many bungalows cluster near it, but when this story begins only the cupolas of a dozen old villas rotted like water lilies among the massed pines between Gausse's Hotel des Etrangers and Cannes, five miles away.

The hotel and its bright tan prayer rug of a beach were one. In the early morning the distant image of Cannes, the pink and cream of old fortifications, the purple Alp that bounded Italy, were cast across the water and lay quavering in the ripples and rings sent up by sea-plants through the clear shallows. Before eight a man came down to the beach in a blue bathrobe and with much preliminary application to his person of the chilly water, and much grunting and loud breathing, floundered a minute in the sea. When he had gone, beach and bay were quiet for an hour. Merchantmen crawled westward on the horizon; bus boys shouted in the hotel court; the dew dried upon the pines. In another hour the horns of motors began to blow down from the winding road along the low range of the Maures, which separates the littoral from the true Provencal France.

f. scott fitzgerald, tender is the night

[icehot13]

i have a new fear and it’s ‘is that leafblower sound coming from the roof above me and i’m about to have dirt absolutely fucking rained down on me while i’m outside’ if this seems like an oddly obscure fear to have, it’s not

[lit-in-thy-heart]

what's your favourite fic that you've written? (Or, I suppose a scene from a fic that you're particularly proud of?) (although saying that so much of your fic is top tier 🩵🩵🩵)

hello anon!! this ask made me 🥺🥺, thank you so much for dropping it in my inbox <3

my favourite fic that i've written... this is actually more difficult than i thought, as there are some that were hell to write but i'm really pleased with how it turned out, and some that are not absolute masterpieces but i had so much fun writing them. and the one that's a mix of all of the above (as contradictory as it may seem) hasn't even been finished and posted yet lmao. i think, overall, my favourite that i've posted is we left the book of love signed in blood on every page, which looks at the breakdown of gwaine and merlin following lancelot's death. i enjoy writing angst like that and i also had fun with the sustained imagery

but in terms of a scene that i'm particularly proud of, the moment in bitter is the antidote where gwaine begins to relax around lancelot and both of them are pressed close to each other and reaching out to merlin is one that i'm quite proud of. the full scene is below the cut and i enjoyed trying to depict the hesitancy on both gwaine's and lancelot's parts. also i really like the line 'so he let his tea go cold and his shoulder grow numb' but i couldn't tell you exactly why

thanks for the ask anon, hope you have a wonderful day! 💜

Lancelot had one hand buried in Merlin’s hair again, twisting the short strands between his fingers, knees pressed against the bed. Hesitantly, Gwaine hovered on Lancelot’s left side before sinking down to the floor, one leg strewn out beneath the bed. His hand reached for the one Merlin had draped over the edge of the bed, taking it between his fingers and, upon receiving murmured permission, gingerly leaned against Lancelot’s leg. He was aware of the bone pressing into his shoulder, just as he was aware of Merlin’s grip tightening around him, but it didn’t scare him half as much as it should have done.

Never, never had Gwaine thought that he would be so close to two others when all three of them were conscious. Never had he thought he would be confronted with the knowledge of his best friend having magic, either, and Gwaine couldn’t help but wonder what other unexpected things fate had in store for him. He didn’t dare move, in case it all proved to be an illusion and the slightest twitch dispelled it. So he let his tea go cold and his shoulder grow numb, let his abdominal muscles ache with the effort of not allowing all of his weight to fall on Lancelot’s leg and his hand be manipulated by Merlin’s touch.

Merlin, assured by their physical presence, had closed his eyes and Gwaine took the opportunity to use his gaze to sketch out the angles of Merlin’s body in his mind, safe in the knowledge that Lancelot couldn’t see his face. Before, he’d been convinced that he’d successfully memorised each dip in Merlin’s form in the same way that he’d memorised the placement of his own gaping traps in woods over the years. He’d thought that he’d be able to sculpt Merlin flawlessly from ribbons of clouds and wind. But, as Merlin shifted and the tip of what looked like an old scar peered over the neck of his shirt, Gwaine realised just how wrong he’d been. It was a blessing that the hand not holding Merlin’s was engaged with a cold cup of tea because Gwaine could feel temptation running its fingers along his arm, leaving a trail that ended at Merlin’s chest.

The skin looked leathery, much like Merlin’s burned leg, and, if it had been fire… Just how many times had Merlin narrowly escaped the flames? How much of himself had he kept protected from Gwaine with a clumsy cut of material tied around his throat? Dropping his gaze to his right hand, Gwaine pushed one side of it into the bed, careful not to squash Merlin’s hand. He was one to talk.

Faintly aware of a subtle movement behind him, Gwaine rotated his head by several degrees, glancing over his shoulder and through his hair. Lancelot was no longer holding the cup in one hand – if Gwaine shifted his hip, he’d knock against it on the ground – and the hand was now hovering above Gwaine’s shoulder. Gwaine began to phrase a silent question but cut himself off as he reached an answer; it seemed that Lancelot was reluctant to place his hand in his own lap for fear of elbowing Gwaine in the head.

Returning to look straight ahead, Gwaine raised his left hand and took his little finger away from the cup, hooking it around the tip of Lancelot’s middle finger. Careful not to spill his drink, Gwaine slowly lowered his hand, taking Lancelot’s with him, until Lancelot’s palm met his shoulder. As Gwaine rested his own hand on his thigh, Lancelot made port with his thumb at the muscle between Gwaine’s shoulder and neck. It was then that Gwaine registered that, in leaning against Lancelot, his jacket had slipped a little off his shoulders and had dragged the neck of his shirt down with it.

Most of Lancelot’s hand was planted firmly over Gwaine’s shirt, his wrist grazing the collar of the jacket, but his thumb was on that muscle – a muscle bearing layers of tension that Gwaine hadn’t even been aware of – and his index finger was dangling over Gwaine’s collarbone. And then Lancelot began to sweep his thumb back and forth along that single muscle, collecting the tension in Gwaine’s shoulder like a bee picking up pollen, and Gwaine couldn’t hold himself up any longer.