#suddenly overcome by fatigue

[liketolovexx]

I want some drama and angst :( can you write a james x reader fic? They broke up and couple months later she find out shes pregnant? She went to tell james but then he told her he’s dating lily and thats why she didn’t tell him cause during their relationship she was always feeling insecure like she can never be lily and always felt like shes the second choice. Someone that he settles for? Then she move away?

James find out couple weeks later after she moves away that shes pregnant bcs of the potter tapestry. So he went to find her (i want him to work and grovel a bit lol)

Of course I can, lovely!! Thank u so much fir the request <3

Sorry that it isn’t the best, I’m really tired 🫶

Feel free to send in requests for me to get to though!!! Love you all

You’re pregnant? ~J.F.P

{In which you and James have broken up, and you haven’t told him you’re pregnant.}

It had been weeks since you and James had broken up, and it had left you pretty torn up. It was obvious to anyone with eyes that you were still in love with him. You were just as smitten as you were in the beginning, and he had, presumably, completely moved on. You hadn’t heard from him once since the breakup, and it had really ruined you.

With a little help from your friends, you eventually got back on your feet. You read, listened to music, watched movies. You were yourself again. However, your heart was still tender, and James still unknowingly held ownership over it. Things went okay, as of late. Thing we’re looking up. Until you started throwing up in the early morning, and were overcome with dizzying fatigue. When you missed your period, again, you started to worry. You decided to overcome the embarrassment of buying a test and get one from the corner shop.

That was probably the worst night of your life. Impatiently, you stared unblinkingly at the pregnancy test that lay on the table before you. When the unholy little pink cross faded into view, your heart dropped. You hadn’t had sex with anyone, not since James. Which only meant one thing. Suddenly, you couldn’t breathe. Falling forward onto the table, You crept a hand up to your chest, grasping at it as choked sobs started to tear through your throat. Everything was numb, but so excruciating at the same time. Your arms wrapped around your stomach loosely, shakily. The scar of James’s old love for you engraved in your body. He could love you and decide to take it back whenever he saw fit, pretend you two never happened, but you now had the solid evidence of your love in your womb. And you had no doubt the child would look unfairly like its father. And its father had to know he was just that. A father.

The next day, face red and blotchy from crying nearly all night, you dressed in the nicest clothes you could find without being too formal, and made for your ex-lover’s house. The address you’d memorised. Cruel nostalgia threatened to kill you as you took in the painfully familiar path to the painfully familiar door. When you knocked, the door opened to reveal an agonisingly familiar man. James. His face twitched in confusion. You knew his little tics and giveaways like the back of your hand: you had all of his features and quirks tattooed into your heart. His smooth voice saying your name ripped you out of your thoughts. “What are you doing here?” He asked you, and you smiled weakly. You looked at your feet. “James, I’m sorry, I’m-“ “Jamie? Who is it?” Another voice called. A honey-sweet, beautiful voice. Lily.

Freckled arms wrapped around James’s waist. Silky red hair cascaded down his shoulder when Lily placed her head on his shoulder. His face shifted in awkward shock, as he went rigid under her touch. “Lily, Uhm.. it’s…” he mumbled, nodding his head towards you. It felt like your heart had been ruthlessly ripped from your already sore chest. You were expressionless, unable to breathe and unable to deal with the agonising aching pain that throbbed unbearably inside of you. Oh, god. You felt like you were going to throw up. You nod stiffly, eyes glassy with unshed tears. “Lily.” Lily looks almost guilty, but doesn’t remove her soft arms from around James’s middle. She addressed you back, gentler than you did.

“What did you wanna say?” James asked quietly, face flushed slightly. “No. Nothing.” You murmur, turning on your heel. You needed to go home. You felt like you were about to black out. Is this what it felt like to have your heart shatter like glass in your chest, shredding up everything else? You wanted it to stop. You heard him shout your name after you, but the world around you felt muffled, and far away. It should be you with your arms around his waist, not the girl he told you not to worry about when you were dating. It should be you fixing his glasses, playing with his hair, raising his child with him. You’d always been insecure about Lily. She was beautiful. Flaming red hair, mossy green eyes, soft curves and plump lips, a kind aura and glowing smile. You knew you couldn’t compete with her. In your eyes, James would always love Lily, and you were a second choice. He couldn’t have Lily, so he settled for you. Tears had begun to drip down your cheeks, but the feeling was all too regular now, and you felt too empty to care.

James had sat on the sofa with Lily after he’d closed the door. He rested his head in his hands, visibly raging. “What the fuck was that?” He almost spat, glaring at her through his eyebrows. He’d never display this anger to you. “Sorry, James, but you were the one who broke up with her. And she deserves-“ “stop it!” James interrupted, his voice trembling. “I know! I fucking know she deserves better! But…” His lip twitched, a sign he was furious. “We’re over, mate, you know that. And you’re my friend, so I don’t know why you’d do this to me. You fucking know I love her. You know, Lily.” He says, his steady tone cracking at the end as he buries his head in his hands. He suppresses tears of his own. Lily moves over to him, trying to take him into a hug, which he accepts, always in need of physical touch while upset.

“Lily, I don’t know what to do.” She sighs, rubbing his back softly. “I won’t take back that she deserves better. Because she does. You broke up with her, James. But, I know you. And I know love when I see it.” Lily says, petting his hair. James was staring intently at the wall, frozen in place, not even sobbing anymore. “And if you really, really love her, you need to go to her, James, because-“ “Lily.”

Her eyebrows furrow, looking at James who’s still staring at the wall with wide, watery eyes. He looks fucking scarred, like a soldier in war. He looks devastated. Lily follows his gaze, and her eyes fall onto the potter tapestry which hangs pride of place above the fireplace. Her eyebrows twitch downwards as she leans forwards.

Between your full name in gorgeous italics and James’s in the same font, was another name. The name you’d planned to embellish your child with. Lily froze right beside James. She turned to him. Slowly.

“You need to go to her. Right fucking now, James.”

He turns to her, and slowly nods, wide eyes reminiscent of a terrified puppy.

You were curled up in your bed. You’d run out of tears a while ago, and so you lay there in silence. Not moving. Not sleeping. Not doing anything. You were numb and empty and so tired. You couldn’t find it in you to cry anymore. When there was a frantic rapping at your door, you couldn’t even drag yourself up to get it. Did it really matter? You felt like you were chained to the bed. You’d just rot there forever, you decided. until you heard a desperate voice screaming your name from outside. Immediately, you recognised it.

James.

Hesitantly, you crept down the stairs and clicked open the door. At the sight of how ruined you looked, James let out a pathetic whimper: his glasses were askew and his hair was messy, his face tear stained. He was beautiful even now. “What do you want, James?” You spoke blankly, not a single suggestion of emotion creasing your face. “I know you’re pregnant.” He admitted. Just when you were about to ask him ‘how?’ He dropped to his knees before you.

He was so pretty like this. James’s eyes were big and teary and betrayed what little sleep he’d been getting. His soft pink lip was wobbling like a baby’s, his glasses were seconds from falling from his nose, and his hands were clasped together as he knelt, looking up at you desperately.

“I- I’m in love with you. I need you, I fucking need you.”

He whimpered, shuffling closer to you and pressing his forehead to your legs. “Please take.. take me back.. I want to raise my baby with you.. you’re my only love, you always.. always have been…” he pleaded, his heart wrenching and his voice cracking like a teenage boy. He sounded downright pathetic.

You knelt beside him. “This time, Jamie.” You whispered, and he gasped in relief, collapsing into your arms. You let a weak smile embrace your features as you consoled him. “I love you too.” You confessed. “Only you. Only ever you.” He clung to you tighter. “I’m never leaving you again. I pinkie promise. My girl. Mine.” He promised, linking his pinkie with yours in a heart-wrenching act of childlike innocence. You were confident it would work this time. Now that you both knew how life felt without each other.

“Okay. Pinkie promise.” You replied.

[zukosdualdao]

a soft place to land

zutara month, day 16: injury recovery, @zutaramonth

summary: in the aftermath of an assasination attempt on katara, she finds herself safe in his bed, zuko looking after her from the bedside.

warnings: assasination/murder attempt, complicated thoughts about punitive judgment and executions, etc, excessive use of adverbs, lmao.

other notes: title taken from "a dream is a soft place to land" from waitress.

Katara’s eyes flicker open. She immediately sets to prop herself up on her elbows, struggling not to groan with fatigue and discomfort as she does. 

The sheets underneath her are gold and silken, the room around her faintly familiar.

She’s in the Fire Nation. She’d been here as an Ambassador for the latest treaty revision. A servant… a man dressed as a servant, anyway, he’d served her tea in the private chambers kept for her here, and her throat had begun to swell, panic building as it did, chest burning as the door slammed ominously shut behind him. She remembers lifting her hand shakily, trying to guide her blood to keep the toxins from working through it, but she couldn’t tear it out of her without extracting her own blood, it was no use, she couldn’t think—her head met the floor, brow slick with sweat, she was going to die…

As she looks around in the darkness, it occurs to her exactly where she is now.

“Zuko?”

He’d come looking for her just in time.

The last thing she remembers before her awakening is the taste of something herbal and sickly sweet, being overcome with sick and the aftermath of bile, Zuko’s gentle hand cradling the back of her head, and then succumbing to the darkness.

“I’m right here,” he says quietly in the dark, and when she turns just slightly to her right, she can see shadows cast over his house face. He’s sitting in a chair by her bedside, folding in on himself and wringing his hands until he casts his worried gaze up to meet her eyes. “It’s okay. You’re really okay.” He sounds almost disbelieving. “How do you feel?”

It’s quite the inverse of the last time she was here when he was the one prone on the bed, marked by lightning, and she waited up all night for him to wake again, too wired to sleep, needing to keep a weathered eye on his wound.

“Not amazing,” she manages a bout of shaky laughter. “But I’m alive, so that’s something. How did you know what to… ?”

Zuko was alone when he arrived and fed to her what must have been the antidote, though she thinks she remembers the patter of other footsteps arriving after the fact, possibly a sea of medics.

At this, Zuko leans back in his chair a little, rubbing an embarrassed hand at the back of his head. “Oh—my mother learned about plants and things from her mother.” Zuko’s mouth tilts into a frown. “I think she was an herbalist? I’m not sure.” He shakes his head. “I didn’t know what they’d used but—we keep something stocked here. It’s not a cure-all, but…” Shrugging again, he sighs. “Thank Agni it worked.”

“Forget Agni,” she murmurs. “Thank you.” Something that might have been panic if not for her weariness swells in her chest suddenly. “The man… ?”

Even through the darkness and the haze she still finds her mind in, she catches the way his pupils dilate, the way his posture stiffens. She’s seen him angry like this before. Protective-angry. She imagines his fingers are probably curling hard against the edge of his chair as he grips it, but looking down to check seems difficult and unnecessary. “Hired assassin.”

“Oh.” It’s sort of strange to think she’s an important enough figure that someone would try to assassinate her, that her death wouldn’t be a simple murder but rather to make some political statement or another. “That’s new. For me, anyway.”

Zuko’s had a few attempts on his own life in the past year, as she recalls. Most of them she read about through letters after the fact—she was here for the last one, though, and thank the spirits for that. Stab wounds are simple enough to heal with her bending—if they don’t bleed out first, which can happen more quickly than one might expect. Needless to say, Katara’s glad she was around.

Zuko says the next like an oath. “The assassin is being dealt with.” With a confusing mix of shame, fear, and relief, she wonders how. Zuko’s not the type to execute, certainly not without trial, which is how things would have been done in the Fire Nation in days past. Mostly, she’s relieved for that, but still, she finds herself wondering whether she’ll regret being such a ready proponent of the right to trial and imprisonment over execution in the weeks to come. There is a swallow of fear in her throat, but it might wisp away once this isn’t all so fresh. 

But perhaps that’s something to think on later.

 “So are his benefactors,” Zuko spits out the word like it’s full of poison itself. “I’ve written to your father and Sokka and to Aang,” he adds. Katara’s stomach clenches unpleasantly in a way she suspects only has a little to do with the day’s events. Zuko doesn’t know she and Aang haven’t spoken in months, that they’re no longer together. “Spirits, Katara, I’m so sorry.”

Katara frowns as she leans back against the pillows. “What for? You didn’t poison me.”

“It was done on my watch, in my palace, because some group of fucking noblemen I’ve been trying to appease are—I keep trying and failing to make things better, and instead…”

“Zuko,” she glares at him in the hopes that it will quiet his self-recrimination. It does, quite efficiently, and she smiles. “Not everything gets to be your fault. Will you just accept my thanks for saving me instead?”

At this, she yawns, and she watches as his expression softens in the dim light of his bedroom.

Zuko rolls his eyes then, but there’s a faint smile playing on his lips, too, and she’s glad to feel the mood lighten again, though she can feel weariness starting to take her once more.

“That’s what you and I do,” he allows quietly after a moment, his (pretty, she thinks hazily, so pretty) amber eyes shining with the truth of what he’s saying. “We save each other. Get some more rest, Katara.” 

Still a little awake, but with her eyes closed, she asks drowsily, not even sure she manages the words, “Will you be here when I wake up?”

Zuko’s answer is quiet but certain. “Of course I will.”

Katara hums as she falls back into the allure of sleep, safe with the knowledge Zuko is watching over her. 

[froggyfics]

Play Fighting

You have a training session with Slade.

This was suppose to come out in September 2023...It's now February 2024. We're gonna just be happy this is finally completed.

Additional note at the bottom

I categorized this as a fem!reader, just because I mentioned “girl” once in this fic. So, I hope that those who prefer gender neutral readers will still enjoy this. 

Feedback is always appreciated. Feel free to message me privately or comment below to let me know what you think. Constructive criticism is always welcome! 

Pairing: Slade Wilson x fem!reader

Theme: Fluff

Word Count: 1,279

You grunt as your back crudely hits the mat once again. The pain shocks your system, but you’re not at all surprised that you’re in this position.

“I told you, I’m not good at this stuff,” you grumble.

“Get back up,” he commands.

Rage surges through your body and if looks could kill, he would be six feet under already.  He laughs heartily, with his palm clutching his chest.

“You think you can intimidate me, doll? A little girl like you?”

His mocking tone acts as a battery for you, and your depleted energy disappears. You grab the sword that you dropped on the ground and position yourself in a battle stance. 

“Make sure you protect your chin,” he instructs.

You ignore his suggestion.

“Protect your chin,” he repeats.

“Protect your own chin,” you mutter.

He doesn’t respond with words, but instead lunges at you. The speed at which he travels makes you shriek, and you can’t help but drop your sword and cover yourself with your arms. You glue your eyes shut, waiting for the impact.

It never comes. Seconds pass before you slowly open your eyes once again. He’s just standing there with a smirk on his face and his arms crossed. His hair droops down due to his sweat and is sticking out in different directions. The rash guard he has on clings to his body - his muscles barely contained by the thin polyester. The sight of him in front of you makes you salivate, but of course, you can’t let him know that you’re desperately attracted to him. You have an intense crush on him, but you know better than to fall for those ocean blue eyes – sorry – eye. 

“Stop looking at me like that, Slade! C’mon,” you exclaim, as you pick your weapon back up. You can’t stand how he looks pityingly at you. “Fight me like a man!” You try to goad him, but Slade, ever the patient one, refuses to indulge you. 

You beg, plead, and even shout expletives at him to resume the training session. Slade continues to stand in front of you, arms crossed, with that knowing smile on his face. 

The situation is more frustrating given that your gaze falls onto his lips every few seconds. You’re so angry that you can’t control your own impulses. It’s cruel that a man with such a hideous personality could look so attractive.

Well, if he’s not going to fight you, you’ll have to bring the fight to him.

You leap towards him, sword in hand, stabbing the air repeatedly as Slade easily dodges your every attack. He’s light on his feet for a man of his stature. Within seconds, you can feel your fatigue overcome you, especially in your arm.

“Getting tired?”

“Not at all,” you heave. You’re definitely tired, but you won’t let Slade in on that information.

“You can tell me if ya get tired. I know pretty girls like you aren’t used to being pushed around like this,” he purrs.

Thankfully, your face is already red from the training session, otherwise, his comment would’ve made you look like a tomato. 

“Whatever.”

Something in the air changes once the word leaves your mouth. Slade no longer has a playful smirk on his face. He neither smiles nor frowns, but his eye gives away his true feelings. He’s glaring at you.

He lunges at you once more. This time, you don’t cower. You desperately swipe at him with your sword, but it’s useless against him. 

He’s suddenly within arm’s reach, and he slaps your wrist with an open palm. You nearly lose your grip on your sword’s handle, but you recover quickly. 

“I like you girl, but you got one hell of a bratty attitude. Don’t think I won’t teach you a lesson if I got to.”

“You seemed fine with my attitude not too long ago.” You struggle against his grasp, but he has a firm grip on you.

“Yeah? Well, my patience has run out.”

“That’s too bad, I like giving you an attitude.”

He forcibly yanks your arm, and suddenly you’re dangerously close to him. You’re so close that you can smell him. He smells a bit of sweat, with an undercurrent of…vanilla?

“I like correcting attitudes.”

A polite smile crosses your face. “Wait till I tell everyone that the big, bad Deathstroke uses girly body wash. You smell like a bakery.”

Pain radiates up and down the column of your spine. Your back hits the mat before you even register that Slade had leg sweeped you.

For the millionth time in this training session, he has the advantage. He hovers above you in a lunge - triumph oozing out of him. 

You want to humble him so badly. 

He clutches his hip after you punch the bony part of his pelvis as hard as you could. The punch distracts him momentarily, but it’s long enough for you to slither your way out from under him. 

For good measure, you slap him once. Redness immediately begins to surge on his cheek as his capillaries break. You know you’re definitely going to regret doing that later, but you just couldn't resist!

You swing your sword and stop just before it connects to his neck.

Slade wobbles for a moment, still in a lunge, but rights himself within a few seconds. His gaze moves from the sword to you and back to the sword several times. 

It’s at this moment that you think you’ve gone too far, specifically with the slap. Sure, you’re cheeky with Slade every once in a while, but he's always real quick to set you straight when he’s not in the mood.

Based on his expression, he’s not in the mood right now.

However, he’s right where you want him. The upper hand you have - however momentary - makes you all the more confident to do what you’ve been wanting to do for so long.

“Kiss me.”

Slade rarely gets caught by surprise, so you revel in his stupor. “You have a sword to my throat,” he responds with an air of disbelief.

You roll your eyes. “Don’t act like you can’t get out of this situation.”

He doesn’t move. You continue to stare at one another. Sweat gathers in the crevices between your palm and the sword handle, loosening your grip. You swallow loudly. Has it always been this hot in here? Did you just make it creepy? Can he not be this damn irresistible?

“Kiss me,” you whine, a bit more desperately this time.

He sighs deeply, taking a moment to mull over his options.

“Fine,” he says. He leans forward to reach your lips, and you raggedly bend over to meet him halfway. The sharp blade presses into his neck, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

When he’s near centimeters from your face, a great idea crosses your mind. An idea that would solidify your victory for this training session. You let him lean even more closely to you - so close that his eye begins to close in preparation for the kiss. Once his eye closes, you remove the sword from his neck and swiftly move to the side.

The sword acted as a barrier for Slade to keep him upright - once the sword was removed, he fell forward. 

Any other person would have laughably landed on their face, but Slade, ever the skillful mercenary, plants his palms on the floor and pulls himself into a half-plank position. 

He turns his face to look at you with a look of annoyance.

You unceremoniously drop the blade and place your hands on your hips. “Oh, Slade, you take things way too seriously. We were only just play fighting!”

Note: I got the prompt "kiss me...you have a sword to my throat" from @celestialwrites however!!!!! I cannot find for the life of me the exact post that inspired me

[shunsuiken]

LEAN ON ME.

pairing. scaramouche/wanderer x gn!reader

genre. fluff + comfort + reader has insecurities and wears a mask + he might be a lil ooc here forgive me + he also says you have a pretty face <3

synopsis. a tiresome day of travelling leads to you revealing a part of yourself to your travelling companion. and in the same moment, he stumbles upon revelations about you.

wc. 1k (i know. its short. bear with me please)

an. I WAS STILL EMO AFTER THE 3.3 ARCHON QUEST SO THIS HAAAAD TO BE WRITTEN MAN ig this is also a late scara/wanderer bday fic ? take it any way you like <33 also yes there are spoilers for the 3.3 archon quest here

“you don’t have to show me if you don’t want to,” the wanderer reminds you, fixing his gaze on the wall of the inn so you don’t feel pressured. “the final decision is always yours.”

“no, no. i want to—i’m just… i’m gonna need some time,” you explain as your eyes turn into crescents. one of his favourite expressions you made a lot. considering its the most he’s seen. but at least he’s able to see some visible feature of yours beyond the mask you wear. he knew you were smiling and that was all that mattered.

he would never say that to your face though.

“do as you wish.”

you look at him and realise he’s offering his lap for you to lie on. his eyes bore into your wide ones before switching his gaze to his lap then back to yours again.

he’s asking you: what are you waiting for?

your eyes soften at the confirmation of his offer, positioning yourself to comfortably lay your head on his lap. your hand boldly slides under his thigh and to your surprise, you hear no immediate complaint to your actions.

instead, the wanderer is putting every ounce of his power into holding his indifferent expression. suddenly, he doesn’t know where to put his hands, where to look or even if his lap is as comfortable as your pillow made of cotton wrapped in silk.

the warmth of your palm underneath his thigh feels like a reminder. a reminder that you aren’t going anywhere. a reminder that you will be his travelling companion and stick by his side despite all those empty threats and remarks he throws at you.

the wanderer’s lips are held in a line tighter than rope as he ponders about these heartfelt revelations. the air is comfortable. nature beyond the windows whisper and coo, he sighs inwardly and gently caresses your head once you’ve fallen asleep.

the wanderer never gets tired—one of the perks of being born a living puppet. but you, on the other hand, often find yourself falling into the hands of exhaustion. he obviously can’t see the expression on your face, but as a puppet that’s lived longer than you, he’s picked up on reading your body language whenever fatigue overcomes you.

your eyes become droopy, the steps in your walk become sluggish, your breath shortens and most of all, your posture wanes like someone turned you into an old person when he wasn’t looking. so the least he can do is calm your heart after such a trifling day of brawling fatui agents, stumbling upon domains and getting chased by wild fungi is… some peace.

such a pathetic creature you are. he mutters during those moments but his actions make his thoughts meaningless.

-

it’s silent. you don’t feel nor hear any movement. you’re obviously aware that a puppet doesn’t breathe, so you’ve tried picking up on other signs that lets you ascertain his presence.

unfortunately for you, none of them have worked. hence why trusting your luck felt like a better idea.

you lift your head a little, using the most of your peripheral vision to determine whether or not he fell asleep. and when silence greets you after the loss of contact from his thigh, you slip a finger under the string of your mask and pull it off.

the cool air of the inn splashes the lower half of your face, it’s uncomfortable at first—very exposing too, you almost feel naked. steeling your heart and pushing away your thoughts before they take over you, you quickly but gently rest your head on his lap again to continue napping.

it’s quite some time after, but the wanderer’s eyes finally flutter open—and the first sight he gazes upon is you. your face. he has to furrows his brows. there’s no way this is real.

he closes his eyes—if he’s dreaming right now, then he’ll need a word with lesser lord kusanali about this because, okay, sure! he’s been curious about his companions’ face but it’s not that serious! (which is the biggest lie he’s ever told since he started his new life as the wanderer).

it is, in fact, very serious. but he doesn’t let the curiosity win. it’d be rude to expose what you’ve hidden without your consent.

when he opens his eyes he realises that this moment is very much real.

he blinks, processing the situation before it hits him that you’ve taken your mask off. all his movement pauses completely at this realisation. he’s also aware that he’s never getting this chance again once you’re awake.

you are quite the sight. he thinks, peering over his lap to take one good look at you. he’s always wondered what the rest of your face might look like. he’s proud to say he’s not disappointed.

to think you hid such a pretty face behind that mask too… he’ll have to berate you for this betrayal (he’s half-joking). however, these emotions dissipate into the air when it strikes him again that you’re in front of him. without your mask.

now this means a lot of things. and one of those things is that you’ve learnt to trust him a whole lot more than you did in the beginning—no, that’s not it. the mask was your safe haven, it was your zone of comfort. plus, you’ve always trusted the wanderer. if not, why did you always yell out his name whenever danger was up your ass? this can only mean…

they let their walls down. he supposed, unsure what to make of this. so, they are letting themselves be vulnerable… in front of me? he continues his train of thought albeit how ridiculous it sounds to him.

he sighs, putting his thoughts away as he observes the lower half of your face. your cheek is squished from sleeping on your side and the fat of it accentuates the unintended pout on your lips.

the wanderer has nothing particularly in mind when the pad of his index finger gently trails along the bridge to the apex of your nose. he’s barely touching you to keep you from awaking.

he finds you rather mesmerising like this, napping quietly on his lap, without a care of your bare face. the back of his mind just knows how liberating it must have felt to remove the mask.

it is a shame you are asleep. because if you were awake, at least you’d be able to catch a glimpse of the soft smile the wanderer gazes at you with.

[jheseltheunswerving]

Bill Cipher is an Icarus

Originally posted on the Gravity Falls Amino in August, 2019.

In Greek mythology, Icarus was the son of Daedalus who was ordered by King Minos to build a structure that could contain a creature called the Minotaur. Rather than building a prison, Daedalus constructed a labyrinth so complex that anyone who entered could never find their way back out. 

Wanting to keep the Minotaur a secret, King Minos locked away Daedalus and his family, including Icarus. 

But Daedalus was clever. He built two pairs of wings out of wax and feathers. One for him and one for Icarus. Once the time came to make the attempt to escape, Daedalus warned Icarus not to fly too close to the sun or the wax in his wings would melt. With that, the two started flying toward freedom.

Caught up in the sensation of flight, Icarus forgot his father’s warnings. He went higher and higher, seizing as much of that freedom as he could. He didn’t even notice the wax holding his wings together was melting. Suddenly, the feathers became too loose, and Icarus fell to his death in the sea. 

The story of Icarus is referenced to a couple times in Journal 3 by Ford. The first time he’s talking about how jealous he is of his “Muse” (Bill Cipher) for being free from all physical limitations. If a person spends eight hours of every day asleep, then they would be wasting about ⅓ of their life. While working on the portal, Fiddleford was the first to give into fatigue, and warned Ford not to stay up too late:

“‘Don’t forget what happened to Icarus,’ he told me as he packed up his things and left.

‘He didn’t flap hard enough,’ I replied.”

When Ford finds out what Bill was really planning, he admits Fiddleford was right. 

“If only Icarus could see me now.” Ford’s confession that he has flown too close to the sun, a consequence that almost resulted in his and the world’s undoing. 

But we know how that story ended, and it wasn’t just Ford’s wings that burned. The moral of Icarus’s story is to never forget your limitations. This is why I argue that the other Icarus in “Gravity Falls” is Bill Cipher.

Over the course of his story, Bill had one goal: to be free from all limitations. How this ambition developed doesn’t matter. What’s important to understand is that Bill’s ultimate goal was to be free from laws and restrictions, and that is why he burned his dimension.

Oh, and for some reason there is still some question if Bill burned his dimension. Let me clear that up. 

It’s in the Axolotl’s poem 

It’s in the journal

He admits to it

I hope that cleared up any doubts anyone may still have had.

However, burning his dimension didn’t give Bill the freedom he was after. After the fact, he was trapped in the Nightmare Realm for one trillion years, only able to interact with the physical world by means of possession or through the mindscape. That’s a pretty big limitation. That’s why whenever he came close to overcoming that barrier, and failed, he got visibly frustrated and angry. 

Absolute freedom is what Bill preached to justify what he was doing. It was his way of convincing himself that what he was doing, however messed up, wasn’t wrong. Why does he need to convince himself? Because freedom, the one thing he’s after, is the one thing he can never truly have. 

The Axolotl’s poem, as I showed you before, gives hints to Bill’s possible return. It’s not a particularly new discovery. Most everyone knows this by now, but for the sake of completion, let me recite those hints one more time:

“If he wants to shirk the blame, he’ll have to invoke (the Axolotl’s) name

One way to absolve his crime. A different form, a different time.”

Basically, if Bill wants to further avoid punishment for the arson, he can invoke the Axolotl. But this proves something about Bill. He’ll never be truly free from the responsibility of burning his dimension. He knows this, and it enrages him. 

I mean, how infuriating it must be that the one limitation he can never be free from is the one he imposed on himself. And it’s almost poetic that his downfall happened in a blue fire, similar to his blue fire that he ignites when he makes a deal. Almost like the deal he made with Stan was the moment he flew too close to the sun. 

Since the show ended, there has been a debate whether Bill is evil or tragic. This is my way of arguing both. The truth is, I don’t think there is an evil character who isn’t tragic. Anyone who believes that instigating fear and chaos is the right thing to do must have gone through a lot of pain themselves. That doesn’t make it okay. But it is tragic. 

I think what makes an Icarus is when a person gets too cocky and too comfortable, and they start to think they’re invincible. That’s when they fly too close to the sun. But I don’t think the moral of the story should be “remember your limitations”. I think it should be, “stay grounded”. Don’t be afraid to take risks, just remember that they’re risks. And be prepared that you might fall. 

2024 Review: This is the second of two posts from Amino I'm posting on this blog. I will be creating one more, original post that briefly summarizes my opinion on Bill as of today, which I will later reblog after The Book of Bill comes out.

[geekywritings]

Don’t leave me

I usually don’t add it, but I kinda felt like writing some angst.

So have Cal x reader, where you worry that Cal might die. But no worries, there is a happy end!

___

Sobs were wrecking through your body, as you desperately tore at Cal’s vest and shirt to get to the damn blaster wound at his side. Too much blood, you realized, panic rising even higher, as you willed your body to function.

As a medic, you had seen all kinds of wounds and injuries. You had brought people back from the brink of death without losing focus. But this was different. This was the man you loved slipping away right beneath your hands.

“Another stim, BD!”, you called, and the little droid obeyed instantly.

The third one already, keeping him alive, while you tried to stave the bleeding. You had already used up whatever bandages you always carried on yourself and had resorted to tearing at your own shirt for more material.

“Y/N…” In your panic you had almost missed what barely qualified as a whisper coming from him. He was conscious! That was an improvement, though moreso for you than for him, as the pain seemed to hit him instantly.

“Shhh, lie still. I got you.”, you spoke, trying to sound calm and soothing, as you tightened the bandage around his torso, feeling the groan he gave deep in your soul.

“I… want to… see you… one…last…”

“NO! Die with whoever comes after me, Cal! You do not leave me! Not now! And not like this!”, you yelled, refusing to let this become your final goodbye.

“After you?”, his voice was so quiet. But the fact that he was able to speak at all gave you hope. “Nobody…ever…could…”

“Then even more reason for you not to die here.”, you continued, now taking care of the other blaster wound in his shoulder, which was bleeding equally badly. “Because I have every intention of growing old with you, you hear me? You and I are gonna spend our final days in some nice house by a lake, looking at holos of our children and grandchildren.”

“Is that… what…you…want?”

“I haven’t wanted anything else since you told me you loved me, Cal…” Why did you suddenly feel like crying? Deep down you knew. If the Mantis didn’t pick you up soon, giving you access to the rest of your medical equipment, you would lose him…

“Sounds…nice…”

“Another stim, BD!” The droid opened his compartment, revealing the very last he carried and you swallowed. You had to time it right or it would all have been for nothing. His heartbeat was so slow… his breathing so faint… and he was undoubtedly in a lot of pain…

But Cal was also fighting. You’ve seen enough patients in his state. Those, who had given up would fade quickly. But your experience also told you that a will to fight wasn’t always enough. Even a Jedi aided by the Force could not overcome too much blood loss…

Suddenly you heard it. An incoming message with Greez’s familiar voice. A huge relief washed over you and you injected the last stim quickly, before getting everything ready to dock your stolen vessel to the Mantis.

Once on the ship, you’d be able to treat him properly. At least until you reached a proper medical unit in one of the secret rebel bases.

“Hang in there just a little longer, Cal. Don’t leave me.”, you urged, as the crew came in to help you move him.

A few days later, you woke up from a restless nap at a table in the medical unit. Bacta tanks were rare, but the rebellion had managed to secure a handful. A fact that you were more than grateful for. Day in and day out you spent by Cal’s side, waiting and worrying. The crew would bring you food, but you ate just enough to stay awake a little longer.

On the third day, fatigue had taken over and you had fallen asleep at the table, Cal’s vitals still flashing on the screen before you. He was stable now, with a high chance of recovery. Yet you still refused to move. You wanted to be there when he woke up properly…

Yet in your sleep you missed exactly that moment. It was someone else from the medical unit that came in and moved the recovering Jedi to a bed for a check-up and more rest.

Waking up and not finding him there… you feared the worst at first. Only to be assured by the first person you ran into that everything was well.

“There you are.”, he greeted you, voice still weak and eyes barely open, when you entered his room.

“How are you feeling?”, you asked, instantly taking a seat by his side.

“Probably better rested than you.” Ah, humor again. It meant good things and you managed a tired smile.

“What planet?”

The question confused you and you gave him a quizzical look.

“The house you spoke of… What planet should we build it on?”

He still remembered that. “Naboo would be nice… or Koboh… but I am open to suggestions.”, you indulged him.

“Sounds nice… What about names for the kids? Any ideas there?”

You laughed, while tears brimmed in your eyes at the same time. “Plenty…”

A trembling hand came to your face, wiping the first tear that had dared to travel over your cheek. “I thought of nothing else… that future you planned for us… it’s what kept me alive….”

More tears now, as you placed a hand over his. “Will you stop fighting now?”

He nodded slowly. “I guess I found my place in the galaxy… and it’s next to you.”

It was time for a peaceful life. For both of you.

[ivyprism]

A Dance with Death (Dusk x Reader)

Warning: Implied death, implied war, TOXIN, just a couple mentions of the warnings, nothing explicit, dancing etc.

-------

You looked up at him, and he didn't acknowledge the people surrounding him. He organized this ball but did not seem to participate in the festivities. His tentacles move slightly as he gives himself another glass of crimson wine. The people called him the Angel of Death. He was described as a warmonger, someone who would slay, rend, and tear his way through an enemy army. The protectors of the AUs fight tooth and nail to overcome him, but eventually, they discover the true destroyer of the AUs: Toxin.

You know everyone should be afraid of him. He loomed over everyone, seldom recognizing their presence. On rare occasions he acknowledges skeletons you don't know but, you do know at least one of them is his right-hand guy. They always spoke quietly at these gatherings, before the skeleton was sent away by a wave of Dusk's hand.

You sighed, you wished these dull balls would have some kind of flare to them, but no, most of the time they're just incredibly boring. That was, until today when you, for a reason you're not too sure yourself, walked over to the looming skeleton and asked for a dance. You felt your heart in your throat, you can't believe you did that. He stared, his eyes focused on you.

"Can you repeat that?" Dusk inquired with a chilly and concentrated voice. You proceed despite knowing better.

"May I dance with you?" You repeat with an unexpected lack of preservation. He stares at you, his gaze studying your every movement. He watches before suddenly standing up. You gulp. You close your eyes, bracing for his fury when you feel his hand grip yours and pull you against his chest. Your eyes widen as he glances at you. His eyes, which were ordinarily cyan, were somewhat purple.

"Very well, we shall dance." Dusk hummed, and you could feel his deep voice resonating off his rib cage as he led you to the center, where the dance began. He pulled you close as he guided the dance.

You had never seen him dance before, yet he seemed natural at it. Every stride, every gesture, the sight in his eyes was fixed on you. You looked down to avoid his gaze when he puffed.

"Do not look away from your partner's eyes." Dusk's rich voice made you raise your gaze back to him. He shifted the dance so that you felt like the center of attention. His cloak, which he only donned on special occasions, whirled and moved around. He moved so in sync with you, his eyes glowing as he spins and dips you, you were half-expecting to fall, but he so easily caught you and then pulled you up. Of course, you had plenty of anxiety about this dance, as he was the Angel of Death.

He spun you again and he held your hands as you pressed your back against his chest. He moved with you, he was leaning over your shoulder, his cape moving again as he seemed focused. He moved with you. He guided your steps, you felt like you were flying in this dance with death. This was the most dangerous thing you've done in so long, you glanced at him as he seemed focused on you. Then he spun you again and he was dancing face to face with him again. The dancing picks up in a grand finale.

You actually felt like you were flying. He moved with you so easily and fast, and he never took his gaze from you. His eyes became a lighter hue of cyan. He spun you and danced with you so seamlessly that as he dipped you for the last time, you felt as fatigued as he did. When he heard the claps, he stopped dancing with you and turned to face you. You had to admit it: he was attractive, and you blushed as he pulled you up again. He bowed towards you, and you reciprocated the formality. You saw him return to the throne on which he sat, but he was lighter, and you swear you saw a pair of wings beneath that garment.

You flush and shake your head as you remember the dance. You had literally danced with the Angel of Death and survived. You doubted anything would come of it, but part of you wished you could have a meaningful chat with him one day. You did not see his gaze following you. He turned to face Dagger, who blinked at him.

"Find out who that is, Dagger…" Dusk murmured to the skeleton, who nodded. "I wish to dance with them again one day." As you reveled in the festivities, Dusk returned your gaze. Dagger nodded once more, and you could spend the rest of the night entirely oblivious of the skeleton who had become interested in learning more about you.

---------

[leggerefiore]

Taking Care Of Villains With A Cold

cw: fluff, colds,

characters: Colress, Cyrus, Maxie, Archie

thought about doing Volo and Lysandre but couldn't think of a good scenario for either. May return for them lol

🥼Colress🛸

🧪 He was an oddity, that was for sure. Someone who never seemed to quite belong wherever he was and fully dedicated to his personal research no matter the cost. So it made sense why your dear scientist kept working despite the obvious signs of sickness taking over his body. A congested nose paired with an annoying cough were more than clear something was going awry in his body. Then came the sneezing and fatigue, yet still, he worked. Even after developing a fever, it seemed next to impossible to stop him. Until he fainted.

🧪 You dragged Colress to your bed and tucked him in while panicking about his health for a moment. His breathing and pulse were fine and there was no obvious injury to his body as he had passed out at his desk, thankfully. He thankfully woke up with no issue a few hours later, obviously a bit confused about where he was. Despite your explanation and concerns, he seemed to insist that he continue what he was working on. You had to pin him to the bed and remind him he passed out. He only relented when you insisted his research was not going anywhere, and he could take at least a single day off from it.

🧪 Colress found it interesting how caring you were. You wiped the sweat that would build up from the heat of his fever and checked his temperature semi-regularly. While you insisted on him taking a fever reducer, he shook his head. It was not at a concerning enough temperature to warrant that, he explained. It was better for the fever to be there to help get rid of his cold. Instead, he felt grateful for you bringing him water and other medicines he had requested. Even an unexpected tea was a pleasant surprised for his raw throat. Coughing sure got annoying. It was oddly endearing to see you wish to dote on him. Human to human connections could almost be as fascinating as human to pokemon connections. Perhaps, your love could bring out his full potential. There was little time to consider it between his moments of unconscious, however.

🧪 You had been bringing him many light soups throughout the day. Colress had always been a bit neglectful of his appetite, so it was odd being so well-fed while sick. The soup was fine and nutritious, obviously considerate of his state. He was happy that you had made him such a nice thing. The scientist needed to be sure to return the favour with a special Colress meal when he got better. He was amazed that you actually went out of your way to feed him during a moment of weakness for him, too. He felt certain your kindness was aiding in his recovery as much as his immune system.

🧪 When he was nearly recovered, he immediately grabbed his tablet to begin outlining theories and thoughts that had overcome him during his illness. You stared at him in confusion, but let him go free, since all that remained was a congested nose. Whenever he broke from that fixation, he suddenly hugged you and grinned eagerly at you. Now he wished to study how sickness may affect human and pokemon relationships. Great.

🌌Cyrus🛰

☄️ His health had obviously been in decline for a few days. It was easy to note how quickly he fell to exhaustion and the constant coughing and sneezing that came from him. Cyrus was obviously aware of it, too, as he had decided to stay home and work instead of physically going to the office. You worried his health would only get worse as he stayed up late still working on whatever his current project was and making calls to whomever he had left in charge in his stead about handling everything. It was little surprise when he woke up one morning with a headache and a fever.

☄️ He chided you as you pressed a hand to his forehead and then his cheek. His health was fine, he had to tried to reassure you. However, you refused to budge. He had been working himself ragged during the early points of his apparent cold, and there was no way you were letting him keep it up with a fever. You, bravely, scolded himself him about his health and demanded he take the day off. His work would be impacted by this, and having to redo his work would be more obnoxious than just doing it later. Cyrus eventually relented when it was clear you were absolutely not going to let him, and his thoughts were too foggy to think clearly.

☄️ It felt strange to him as you brought in soke medicines for him to take and refilled his water whenever you popped in to check on him. While he had only been sick a few times as a child, he had been expected to power through it or left alone to handle the worst of it. You seemed to only want to dote on him, making him feel extremely embarrassed. Any time that he complained about his throat, you brought him tea, too. It was strange how sweetly you gazed at him and offered to wipe away any sweat from him.

☄️ You would bring him light soups, so he did have to strain himself too much to eat, even offering to feed him yourself if he felt too weak to do it. Though, he declined when you tried, heart uncomfortably pounding fast in his chest. Cyrus wished terribly for the image of you offering him a spoonful of broth to leave his mind. (Unfortunately, a time did come when he felt too weak to feed himself, so spoon-fed he was by you. He decided he needed to get rid of disease in his new world pretty quickly after that.)

☄️ In the end, he felt much better after two days of rest. His cold almost completely gone away, while he felt oddly refreshed from everything. Cyrus politely thanked you for your kindness during his illness, but you just smiled and shook your head. You had wanted to, you insisted. All you wanted was for him to get better and stop overworking himself. He sighed. You were always too much for him. It was with a quick peck to your cheek that he finally departed from his apartment to return to his plans. A brief look at his phone showed over two hundred missed calls from Saturn and many distressed texts from the commander. His others also had tried calling and texting. They were apparently convinced that he died.

☀️Maxie🌋

🪨 There was something sad about a sick Maxie. Normally, he has much too confident and composed for any of his more needy behaviours to come out. Yet, as his sniffly nose turned into a cough and sneeze, he seemed more and more reclusive and demanding. He refused to step away from his work, but was annoyed and distressed by his worsening health. Maxie had debated many times where he could have possibly caught something, but with no obvious answers, he was left in his room in his team's hideout with frustration burning in his heart. He was mortified when he woke up to a pounding headache, chills, and a fever.

🪨 You were at his side in an instant, chiding him for working through his obvious bout of sickness. This only added to his frustration. He almost wanted to force himself out of the bed and to his desk to spite you, but the touch of your hand to his forehead stopped him. The touch was careful and calm, obviously checking him for a fever. When you were confident it was that, you softly told him that he needed to rest. The concerned look in your eyes made him swallow dryly. The red-head suddenly felt bad for worrying you and agreed.

🪨 His brain rushed back his times spent sick in his youth. Admittedly more often than he would like, but nothing that was manageable. He had learnt to just work through it, despite the concerns of others around him. All that had to be pushed away as you brought him water and medicine. You dedicated to doting on him as he rested. Maxie would want to assure you he could handle all this himself, but felt strangely weak when it came to you. All he could do was accept everything you did, from wiping the sweat away from his skin to bringing him tea.

🪨 One thing he found himself accepting was the good you made for him. It felt a mark above the pre-made soups he would get on his own. It was obviously lovingly made by you for him, and he felt grateful. Thankfully, he was already a big fan of soups, so being sick did not change his diet too much. Though, he did get a bit flustered when you had to feed him during a moment of weakness. The great Maxie reduced to his lover having to spoon-feed him while ill… It would almost be too embarrassing if it were not necessary.

🪨 When he began to feel better, he slowly began to head back to doing minor things related to his work. The leader of Team Magma needed to be reliable, after all. You had protested a bit, but he promised to keep it limited. He certainly did what to end up bed-bound again. Maxie genuinely thanked you for your caring for him while he was ill and wrapped his arms around you in a warm hug after it was nearly faded. However, the tender moment was interrupted by the warp pad in his activating and a distressed Magma admin showing up and running towards Maxie. Right. You forgot to Courtney he was sick.

🌧Archie🌊

💧 He was quite in denial that he had actually fallen sick. It was remarkable, nearly. How he powered through despite almost hacking up a lung during his many coughing fits. His stuffy nose and that were just hay fever, he insisted. Nothing to worry about. Archie had too much to do as the leader of Team Aqua, and no time to dilly-dally on things like resting and taking medication. That was until Shelly and you managed to trap him in his room after he woke up with a high fever. Despite both of your worried concerns, he just grinned and insisted a dip in water would fix him right up.

💧 The Aqua admin was a bit stunned when you pinned the man to his bed and began recalling all his symptoms before ending off with the fact he would most likely only get more ill with a dip in water. He seemed to get the message as he stopped trying to escape and laid against his bed. At some point, Shelly had slipped out, seemingly confident you had their leader under control for how. Archie complained that he did not like being bed-bound, but he was obviously not wanting to upset and worry you further by neglecting his health even more.

💧 The water-loving man was not above admitting how much he enjoyed being doted on you. The way you pressed a cool wet rag to his forehead to help beat off his fever made him give a weak smile, or how you brought his medicines to help better manage his symptoms. It felt oddly nostalgic to youth. He broke it off with a laugh. You were not his concerned parent, after all. Not with how you complained about having to sleep somewhere else and being unable to kiss him. (Granted, he had those same frustrations but was powering through them.) He even relented and drank the tea you brought him to help soothe his throat when you noticed how scratchy his voice had got.

💧 He was not that big of a fan of his food choices, but knew he couldn't really handle a big meal or anything too heavy, so accepted his fate of soups. Though, he did feel thankful for you going out of your way to cook for him. Something about the soups made him swear it was making him feel better than any of the medicines. Sadly, however, you denied his true cure of drinking ocean water. Archie even let you feed him at one point during the worst of it. It really made him feel better through the pounding headache and muscle cramps.

💧 When it finally was mostly over, you watched as he nearly forced himself out of bed to squeeze you into a tight embrace and a kiss was pressed to your temple as he let out a contented sigh. His Luvdisc would take care of him through anything. Knowing that he had a loving partner and reliable crew made him truly feel like he can power through anything. Now, however, he desperately needed to touch some water. Your pleas to not do that went ignored.

[lycemagee]

Forgotten and Rebuild?

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

It's been some weeks since Elbert stepped on Florence's shadow, causing a breakdown and the truth of her being cursed. She distanced herself most of the time, just joining the members in some missions and then writing in her room. Often she left the castle and will come back a day later, not telling where she was. Florence would glance angry at their questions and give them a snappy answer. But Victor especially showed great worry for her behavior and her condition. And her being rude was the last thing he was worried about.

On numerous occasions she would just stand in the middle of the floor and the rooms, not being able to speak, to move it or to react. Usually she would snap out of it after a short while and keep going, but more and more he would find her for minutes or even hours not moving. He promised her to not touch her and he kept his promise, so he and also the other members stayed around keeping care, so she could wake up safely. Roger, who regularly checked her physical wellbeing and also her psyche, would ask her about the state, but she didn't give any answers. She knew, the more she talked the more trouble she would get. They will call her mad. Insane. But Florence knows herself. She does. She just needs to forget. Taking care of her. Building the wall anew. However… with each day it gets harder to stabilize herself. She couldn't sleep. Every night she would wake up, pictures, voices and emotions stabbing her heart and head. She never could remember what it is, whenever she opened her eyes, all the memories would be back behind her broken wall, trying to seal them away. The fatigue that came with it made her mind dizzy, unable to dispel her delusions, her consciousness fading. She would suddenly fall asleep on her desk while writing, while eating, or for a few seconds while standing. Florence's head felt heavy, the little girl tried to talk to her, but often she was not able to listen. She felt so exhausted. She tried her best to regain herself, to live like before but she couldn't. What was missing? What could she do to rebuild the wall? She NEEDS to forget. Florence forgot but she didn't. She knew there was something but she couldn't grasp it. What a torture to relive it at any moment but then it disappeared, being left with the pain and the emotions.

Florence woke up, cold sweat covered her body. She was wearing a big Nightshirt with loose cotton pants. She breathed heavily, her head hurts. Her hands grasp her shirt pulling it, like it was too tight on her body, her long messy hair clinging on the wet fiber and her skin. She threw the blanket away and stood up, going to her desk to grab the water jug and gulped it down. The water ran down her chin and onto her nightshirt. She took some of the water in her hand and threw it in her face. The sudden sensation made Florence shiver and her breath catch a little. The little girl sat on the bed, looking at her with a worrisome face.

“You didn't sleep…”

“I did.”

“No, it was torturing us. To sleep means to rest.”

“There was no rest the last few days.”

Florence looked back at her, her eyes cloudy, the circles under her eyes so dark and deep and her skin, pale and mat, showing thin lines between her eyebrows and under her eyes.

“What did I do… what did I do to overcome it?”, Florence asked her, but the little girl was silent. She held her forehead, the pounding in her head making her sick and she leaned against the desk. She felt so tired. Florence tried to think for a solution, she knew she couldn't work like this forever. A sudden picture came In Front of her eyes from a time where the world was light, her head bright and the pain forgotten. She could taste something sweet on her tongue and she held her crook of the elbow. The little girl jumped from the bed and went to Florence, who played with dark thoughts.

“You promised to never do it again!”

“It helped to seal it away.”

“That might be, but doing it again could cause you to forget your being.”

“But the pain is gone!”

“Because you would be nothing more than a living corpse!”, the little girl screamed at her. Florence didn't react. She didn't want to think. She didn't want to hurt. She wants to keep the little one close and sleep. But that wasn't possible without any help. Asking for help hurt her pride. Not able to help herself hurt even more.

Being deep in her thoughts she left her room with slow steps. The floor of the castle is in bluish light from the moon and she could see raindrops on the windows. She walked further, the little girl clinging on her nightshirt pulling it, but Florence didn't care. She walked down the hall to the main entrance of the Cursed and opened the door a little. The smell of water and grass filled her nostrils and she felt a few soft raindrops on her face. The cold air gave Florence goosebumps and she breathed the fresh air in. Before she had one foot outside, her naked feet touching the cold stone, she heard a voice behind her.

“Going out so late?”

The little girl turned her head so quickly, she felt dizzy. Her face brightened and she pulled Florence even more. Alfons stood in the shadow of the staircase, but she could see his usual smile on his face.

“Him! Him!! He can help us!!”, the little girl said quickly. Florence looked at her tiredly and waited for a few seconds, until she looked back at Alfons. He stepped from the shadow and he frowned, almost chuckling.

“Looking at you… what happened to the confident and radiant woman?”, he asked dramatically.

“Tainted by your own.”, Florence said dryly.

Alfons chuckled and stood In Front of her looking at her up and down, not trying to be subtle.

“This is not clothing that is suitable for a walk outside. Especially if there has been rain.”, he changed the topic casually, gesturing elegantly.

“You can ask him! You can ask! He is kind!”, interrupted the little Girl and looked impatiently at Florence.

“He is not…”, whispered Florence and Alfons raised an eyebrow. He came nearer to her face looking at her dull eyes.

“Or are you sleepwalking?”

He moved his hand closer to her face, almost touching her cheek.

“He would use me.”

“But we could use him too! His Ability-”

“His ability is a curse.”

“His ability can help us.”

“It makes them dependent.”

“And drugs do not?!”, the little Girl gasped in frustration, trying to be reasonable with her, even though all their solutions are tarnished with madness. It's not about morality, it's about taking the least amount of harm.

She was so tired.

Alfons held his hand near her cheek but didn't touch it. She craved it. Remembering his touch on her neck, losing herself in this sweet dream. She remembers so well. Florence swore to not give in. To deny him. But why? For who is she doing it? Just because of her pride? However, her pride was so strong, it hurts to think about it. Pride didn't save her back then. And it will not save her now. Just swallow it. Swallow it!

She blinked a few times and sighed. She leaned against his hand with a deep resignation. Alfons looked at her with surprise and his smile disappeared. But before he could pull his hand away, she put his hand on his. She shuddered. Florence could feel the cold through the glove. That made her realise how cold she was, the wind blowing against her. She could hear the heavy raindrops falling to the ground, the rustling of the forest and Alfons breathing. Alfons noticed her light shaking, but didn't say anything. Instead he was watching her carefully.

Florence took in his sweet smell, with a touch of tobacco and detached herself from his hand. Her eyes locked in his and her gaze is not recognizable.

“Can you help me… please?”, she asked him quietly.

“You're not quite right in the head.”, Alfons said casually, not denying her gaze. She grabbed his coat, smiling at him.

“I never was Alfons", she laughed.

“Isn't it ironic? Asking you for help, even though I was threatening you? I despise you and your curse, the vulnerability it has given me, but now I am just desperate.”

“For what?”, he asked curiously and gently stroked her hand.

“I… want to sleep.”

Alfons smiled amused, taking her chin in his hand and pulling her to him.

“Too many Nightmares Ms. Florence?”, he asked mockingly, his eyes cold. “Why do you need me to deal with your darkness? You clearly dealt with it so well all this time. And with your curse you are able to forget it and play ideal world.”

“It does not work anymore!”, she snapped, but realized her tone and rowed back. She looked away, releasing herself from him and stepped away.

“No no no! Don't give up! You can still make it work!”, the little one begged on the verge of tears.

"Oh? How come?”, he asked and Florence looked a bit irritated at him. It made him chuckle. This was more the Florence he loved to tease.

“Don't pretend to be interested.”, she said exhausted, her gaze became gloomy again and the defiance disappeared.

“It doesn't matter… it doesn't matter…”, with a shake of her head, she turned away, heading for the entrance. But Alfons grabbed hold of her wrist and pulled hard on it.

“Ms. Florence, as a gentleman, I am not in a position to allow a young lady to leave in the middle of the night." he said sweetly next to her ear. His grip was uncomfortable, but she relaxed, knowing that she was not strong enough to loosen his grip.

“Just let me… let me… I need to sleep… I need to sleep…”, Florence sing-sang closing her eyes. She felt Alfons body on her back and she leaned back. Her head felt so heavy and she was not able to gather her thoughts.

“How about we make a little deal?”, Alfons began, still holding her wrist and stroking her hair with the other hand.

“I am quite bored lately. So how about we play a little game together, and I will give you the dreams that you wish for.”, he proposed.

Pictures flashed before her eyes and her body tensed. Florence immediately forgot the pictures and tried to focus back. She opened her eyes, looking at the hand on her wrist. He let go of her and held out his hand instead. She didn't hesitate and took his hand in hers.

“Oh? I didn't expect you to take my hand so eagerly.”, he asked teasingly, however she looked at him with empty eyes, little desire in them. She opened her mouth but closed it again. Florence was at a loss for words and Alfons noticed her overwhelmed state. With a chuckle, he pulled her to his side on the way to her room. In there he let go of her hand and dropped his coat, opened his collar and took off his shoes. When he dropped himself backwards on her bed with a teasing grin on his face, leaning against his arm. Florence stood there, breathing deeply in and walked towards the bed. She felt how she was shaking, not sure if it was the cold, the tiredness or even her anxiety. She leaned to him with a knee on the bed and seeing her strained face, he began to laugh.

“You look like a deer looking at his Predator.”, he said amused and played with one of her locks.

“Just make me sleep… everything else I can deal with afterwards.”, she said, a bit annoyed about his behavior.

“Even if I would love to devour you, have a taste of your skin, I'd prefer you more… in a clear state of mind.”, he said, looking her up and down provocatively.

She sighed indifferently and just dropped herself on Alfons. He moaned a little and gasped for air.z

“That was not really Ladylike, Ms. Florence.”, he said, muffled.

“I thought you wanted to ‘play’.”, Florence changed the subject and she settled her chin in the crook of his collarbone. Her eyes were more than tired and Alfons removed his gloves while speaking.

“I didn't say I will play with you tonight. Dear me, to use you now would be criminal, don't you think? You could break so easily. Where is the fun?”, he said theatrically and stroked softly on her nape with his fingertips. Florence sighed and closed her eyes, relaxing deeply, resting her head on his chest.

One of his hands pushed her hair away, while the other stroked her neck gently. “I would've accepted the conditions… even if it would've broken me. I don't care. Use me however you want.”, she mumbled more to herself than to him, her mind and eyes heavy. He paused for a moment, frowning and shook his head.

“You are beyond help… Does it bother you so much that you would rather inflict other kinds of suffering on yourself?”

“I was ready to destroy my mind with drugs, as I once did…”, she said, every word quieter than the other and opened her eyes slowly, filled with tears, seeing the little girl with a content smile sitting on the desk.

“But she preferred you wholeheartedly…”, Florence said bitterly, while her tears ran down her face.

“She?”, Alfons asked but did not get any answers. He heard her regular breathing and sighed. His smile disappeared and his eyes, void of any emotions, glanced over her again.

“You are so pitiful-”, he began but held himself back.

“No, I shouldn't say it like that… you are as manipulative as me. Maybe even worse…”, he said while curling one of her locks around his finger.

“You lived in a dream world for years and now you are not even able to survive on your own."

"I told you… isn't it better to just escape in a dream?”

Informations about Florence

[motsimages]

One of the most interesting things of Seven of Nine would be the connexions and parallels with disability and the change of self-perception, not only cultural, but personal. But disability is not sexy.

A bag that collects pheces is not sexy but is very likely the only way she can evacuate once she learns how to eat. The pain from having implants and from having muscular atrophy where there are no implants, the discomfort, the lack or excess of sensibility in certain parts of her body, the complete disconnect between emotions and feelings (not recognising hunger or fatigue because she hasn't been faced to it in decades).

"I am weak" she says, as if being a lone drone is what makes her feel weak, unable to recognise that she is physically and emotionally weak as well, that she may overcome some weakness but probably not all.

It's Born Sexy Yesterday because she is a hot adult woman who doesn't know cultural norms and needs help with relatively basic tasks while being an engineering genious. But if it it was Born Yesterday, we have an adult woman who suddenly doesn't have sphyncter control, doesn't know what menstruation is or why it happens and forgets to eat until she has to be intubated in Sick Bay.

And it really angers me because it's always about the nature of Humanity and what makes us all human in Star Trek, but caring for the disabled and being disabled also makes us human but it's unexplored because we need an adult woman in a tight suit developing anorexia.

[worlds-oldest-teenager]

Kind of controversial but why are people acting like TSATS is Rick Riordan's first queer book? Like Magnus chase who? Trials of Apollo?

Warning ⚠️: Long rant under the cut. It's not very tsats friendly so please scroll if you don't want to read.

Idk it just feels like sometimes the fandom doesn't really view queer rep as valid unless it centers around romance. Completely biased as a toa fan but toa had so much rep. The bi mc, the gay geysers, the kindly old lesbian couple taking in unwanted kids, ace characters, characters struggling with comphet, characters crushing on people of the same gender and none of it being taken as something out of the ordinary. It just wasn't centred around romance.

The toa fandom has always been pretty small and chill with activity spiking everytime a new book releases. Then suddenly when Tower of Nero came out there were so many people. So what changed, what brought in so many people who weren't even interested in the premise of the book?

It was Solangelo.

I like solangelo as much as the next person (minus the year of seething rage when they were dominating the toa tag) but the way that people discount an amazing series about change, growth and overcoming abuse with some of the best casual queer rep I've seen and consider the only thing of value being a minor mlm couple with a few pages of screentime leaves a pretty bad taste in my mouth.

Magnus chase is another book. Alex fierro isn't perfect rep (stop calling Alex slurs holy fuck) but it was revolutionary to have a gender fluid character in a children's series and this was back in 2016. Fierrochase is pretty popular but I wonder sometimes if Alex and Magnus would be as popular as they are if they never got together. They're still not as popular as solangelo but in good faith that might be because people became too fatigued to read mcga.

It just feels sometimes that these books are viewed as lesser queer books just because there's no shipping or it's not a (I'm so sorry don't kill me ) heart stopper esque gay couple. Idk if im taking this too personally as a potentially ace *slides nsfw art under desk* person whose gender is wonky but it's just my thoughts on this.

But I just feel like the focus should be on the countries banning and censoring the book instead of people with perfectly valid criticism of it. There are so many of his books with queer rep and most of the criticism I've seen have come from LGBTQIA+ people that like these books or at least put the same energy into scrutinizing them too. Idk why people assume anything bad said about TSATS was a bad faith reading done out of homophobia.

All that being said, tsats is definitely being marketed as the first queer book. It's banned not very accessible in my country despite all the others going through- which sucks. It's being treated like the first queer focused book Rick has written and it's coming out at a bad time for everyone but especially people in the US apparently. So I understand why any reactions would be taken as the fandoms reaction to the first queer book.

So who is more homophobic? The person who doesn't like a queer book or the person who holds a queer romance as the pinacle of queer? The answer : no clue man it's complicated and it's sucks that we're all so on edge in these trying times that we automatically assume the worst. There's nuance that a smarter person than me can elaborate on but I am not he.

Sorry for writing something so divisive during pride month but it is a conservation that should be had and what better month than one celebrating queer identity and representation. Hope everyone has a great pride month and stays safe.

Peace and love ✌️🏳️‍🌈💜

[bunnyscar]

A Link to the Past Link Character Analysis

Story Premise: Links from different Hyrules are suddenly transported from their own worlds into an entirely different one. Together, they must use their triforces to open portals and travel to several different worlds in order to try and find their own Hyrules. Along the way, they discover that someone is intentionally messing with the worlds, and their new goal is to find and defeat the troublemaker. Things will not be easy, though, not least because they all have their own issues they must work through....

Name: Peregrine ("traveller")

Age: between 15 and 16

Issue: Fatigue

Peace has been restored to his Hyrule, and he now serves as Princess Zelda's knight. However, he has been having a lot of trouble with feeling tired and falling asleep all the time. Going back and forth between the light and dark worlds was taxing on his body, and without the triforce, he would not survive. His triforce, however, is slowly fading for some reason. If the triforce fades completely, he will die. Unable to find a way to stop the triforce's decay, he decides to hide it and enjoy life as much as he can with the time he has left.

Characteristics:

--can fall asleep anywhere, even in the middle of a battle; he'll be awake one second and then the next he's out; always tired and sleepy even when he is awake

--acts nonchalant and carefree; likes to tease and play around, especially with Mungo (Minish Cap); his cheerfulness is somewhat of a facade to deny his own problems even to himself

--Knows more than he'll tell; has a good amount of knowledge about magic and dark worlds

--Like Ainsley (Ocarina of Time), he's already overcome most of his guilt and shame, but also like Ainsley keeps his painful emotions to himself

--has some doubts about Fingal (first Link) at first, because he can sense there's some darkness in Fingal's heart; but eventually they become good friends

--saved by Fingal giving up his triforce and giving it to Peregrine

--learns to open up more to the others when he is feeling sad

--realizes that Alvin (Link's Awakening) will die if he goes back to his world (because he's stranded at sea), so Peregrine offers to take Alvin back to his own world which is a parallel to Alvin's Hyrule; sort of adopts Alvin as a little brother

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Week 3 - Gathering

Oh after accidentally posting this to the wrong account...

here we go with chapter 4 of this!

Prompt: Maedhros x Fingon, Fingolfin, Finrod

Pairing: Gathering

Words: 2 090

Warnings: Sadness, betrayal, drama, and fear

“A terrible creature,” Ñolofinwë gasped and waved his hands frantically to impress upon his spellbound audience just how tall and looming his mysterious jailor had been. “With fangs like knives and claws like curved daggers…”

He put all his failing strength into this impassionate speech for he could sense the natural disbelief in the shrewd gazes of his young kinsmen—he could not fault them for believing him to be merely overcome with delirious fatigue. Had he been in their stead, he’d also have struggled to simply accept so lurid a tale.

“It has my son,” he finished his diatribe feebly. “Help me!”

“You are the King,” Findaráto, ever eager to throw himself bodily into any interesting adventure, conceded. “And if this be your command, I shall be more than happy to follow your orders.”

Ñolofinwë smiled wearily; he heard the end of the sentence his nephew didn’t speak out of respect and caution. “Even if I don’t believe a word you say.”—the meaning was there, hovering like a foul smell in the blessedly warm and dry throne room, but the King was too exhausted to take offence to Findaráto’s potentially selfish, reckless motives when all that mattered was the retrieval of his son and heir.

“I’ll be off before morning light,” Findaráto promised. “I shall assemble the best men I can rouse on such short notice. Worry not, Uncle, we’ll bring back my dear cousin. Rest and recover!”

There was deep love and earnest pity in his mellow voice now, and Ñolofinwë sank back against the soft cushions someone had piled around him as if they were afraid he’d collapse without support.

“Very good,” he croaked. “May your road be blessed!”

Nelyafinwë had managed to ignite the damp wood in the old, draughty fireplace and was now sitting back on his haunches, strangely self-conscious of his glaring nudity in the face of one dressed in such torn splendour.

“How did you get cursed?” Findekáno asked, cautiously taking a sip of his bitter, stale tea. He couldn’t fully understand the strange and cruel fairy tale in which he’d found himself, but all thoughts of murder and escape had long since fled his mind.

How could he sustain such absurd musings when the captor he’d expected to be barbaric and brutal had turned out to be a touchingly sad youth of such exquisite beauty that the Prince couldn’t bear to avert his gaze from those long, sculptural limbs for even a single moment?

“My father angered the wrong sorcerer?” Nelyafinwë sighed. He’d agonised over that very question for too long without having come to any satisfactory conclusion, and he was sick and tired of the torturous doubt rearing its venomous head every so often. “He was an angry man—haughty, dismissive, and regrettably short-sighted at times—and he must have crossed one who sought to take revenge.”

“Was? Anyway,I don’t see how that is your fault,” Findekáno interjected pointedly. “Is there nothing that can be done? It was not mere posturing that made me claim that someone will come to deliver me…and I’m afeared for your safety.”

A terrible silence fell. Then, somewhere deep within the labyrinthine bowels of the castle, a clock chimed.

“We’ll be fine,” Nelyafinwë smiled gratefully. “You must be tired; let me show you to your quarters.”

“In the dungeons?” At that thought, Findekáno’s face hardened suddenly, and his gaze automatically sought the sword he’d cast aside earlier. It lay still where he’d left it, but a pair of scissors and a hammer had inched up to it in what he could only interpret as a pose of menacing challenge.

Shaking his head, Nelyafinwë got to his feet once more. His motions were jerky and awkward as if he was no longer used to performing such mundane, unaggressive movements.

“You’ve proven that you’re willing to keep your word; you shall be given a room. I’ll attempt to make sure that all the lighting fixtures are functional—you have my leave to explore our shared prison at your ease. I’d only ask you not to intrude upon the west wing—some secrets are better left undisturbed.”

Even though he nodded, the very picture of amiable compliance, Findekáno resolved then and there to disregard the exceedingly polite and undoubtedly reasonable request.

It was amply clear to him that his host—for Nelyafinwë had supplied much-needed warmth in the form of a blazing fire and a hot drink which warranted a change in title—was reluctant to share the whole truth.

“I’ll save you yet,” the valiant warrior thought stubbornly. He would not wait for the inevitable confrontation in which he would, there was no doubt about it, lose one way or another.

Indeed, he didn’t want to see either his friends and kinsmen or this bewitching contradiction slain before he’d exhausted every other avenue.

Many an ungenerous thing had been said about his father behind his noble back, but nobody could have ever accused him of neglecting the education of his children, so Findekáno was fairly confident that he could and would devise a solid plan to reverse this unholy curse and become a rescuer rather than a mere detainee.

If only his brother or his cousin had been with him—Turukáno’s love for lore and Artanis’s uncanny instinct would surely have cut his research and frenzied cogitation in half.

Alas, all he had at his disposal was his own intellect and a fierce heart, set aflame by the endearing beauty and charm of the tall redhead now fleeing the fire’s revealing glow to plunge into the obscuring shadows of the passage leading away from the dining room.

“Will your brothers guard me?” Findekáno asked as innocently as he could, hastening after the retreating gleam of a long, white back.

“My brothers are a harp, a knife, creaking scales, a hammer, and a pair of rusty scissors respectively,” Nelyafinwë chuckled. “They might keep a screw on you—for lack of actual eyes—but I rather think that they’ll prefer hounding me for my breach of the rules.”

Feeling the biting sting of unwelcome guilt, Findekáno was about to ask whether it would be more agreeable to everyone if he spent the night in the same cell his father had only recently vacated when Nelyafinwë asked a question of his own.

“Do you have siblings?”

Findekáno sighed. “Two younger brothers and a sister. My brothers are quite unlike in temper and tastes, and my sister cannot be compared to another living being without insulting one or the other…”

“What about you? Do you share many traits with them?” Nelyafinwë turned around. The light of a nearby window washed across his sharp collarbones and his almost elfin face in a way that made it so inexplicably hard for the mesmerised onlooker to breathe that Findekáno nearly failed to so much as understand the question put to him.

“They’re much like me in some ways,” he finally said slowly. “And completely unfathomable in others. Turukáno is smarter than I could ever endeavour to be, Írissë is so fearless and independent that she frightens the living daylights out of our parents, and Arakáno is impetuous to a fault.”

“You love them dearly,” Nelyafinwë commented feelingly.

“That I do. I wish you could meet them—they would be just as fascinated by you as I am.”

“You flatter one you barely know. However, you actually might understand better than most that I also have my own brothers’ well-being in mind in everything I do and say. Unfortunately, they’re as different from one another as the seasons or the times of day, and it’s nigh-impossible to make all of them happy.”

As he spoke those words, full of regret and unequivocal devotion, Nelyafinwë halted outside a richly decorated door. “My room is just down the corridor,” he informed Findekáno in a low voice, tinged with embarrassment. “Do not hesitate to seek me out if Káno’s mewling keeps you awake—you shan’t disturb me.”

“Will you be enjoying the fleeting pleasures of your magnificent body?” As soon as the words had left his lips and returned to his own ears in an avenging echo, Findekáno flinched vehemently. “Oh, my mother would have me take nought but bread and water for a week as punishment for that comment. I meant no offence—I don’t know why I said it…like that.”

Caressing the strange and unexpectedly stimulating visitor with an unreadable look, Nelyafinwë allowed himself to display that gentle, cryptic smile that had once driven maidens and squires alike mad with delight.

“Mayhap, it’s considered unrighteous that any living man should inhabit such a dangerously corrupting form for more than half the day—justly so, if I may be so bold—and it’s in an effort to preserve the nutrition and sanity of those around you that you’re perforce deprived of so fearsome a weapon,” he muttered under his breath.

Suppressing what could have been a groan or a fit of giddy laughter, Nelyafinwë pushed open the door. “Justice—as an eternal, immutable concept—is not for us to know or to question. I bid you good night, Findekáno, honourable son, loving brother, and astounding guest. This evening might have been the best I’ll ever have, and my raging regrets have dulled into a sense of bittersweet sadness—I thank you for that.”

With a crisp bow, he withdrew, followed by various metal objects clanking after him in the impenetrable darkness.

“Good,” Findekáno whispered, not even taking the time to enjoy the exceptional beauty of his lodgings, and slipped out again noiselessly to explore the forbidden wing.

He was sure that Nelyafinwë would have to contend with a gathering of irate weapons and instruments of different natures, and he pushed aside the pang of instinctive sympathy and solidarity.

His sister often reproached him for being too loquacious, but—in this instance—he was almost certain that all the conversations he’d prompted since arriving would ultimately lead to a happy resolution of his sensitive but stirring conundrum.

Nelyafinwë didn’t need to turn around to sense his brothers’ presence.

“We cannot keep him here,” he enunciated, trying to dissimulate the note of imminent grief in his voice. “To protect and defend you, I shall set him free come morning. Once he’s seen my bestial form, he shall be glad to leave this place.”

Angry sounds of scraping metal exploded behind him, but still, he didn’t have the heart to face the lacklustre objects. In his mind, Nelyafinwë conjured up the images of his brothers as they’d once been.

Even now, he could easily recall Kanafinwë’s twinkling eyes and Morifinwë’s characteristic blush. Of all the cursed members of this family, Curufinwë The Younger might have been the only one who was relieved to no longer glimpse echoes of their father’s glory in his reflection, but even he surely regretted having been reduced to unyielding intransigence.

Turcafinwë had been cutting in his remarks and actions, and the twins undoubtedly had ever been two blades slashing in perfect synchronicity, but they’d also been warm and funny.

Nobody, not even beings of such ruthless violence as they’d been, deserved to be nought but weapons, forever barred from touch without risking injuring another.

A slow, questioning melody threaded itself into the hum of the others’ discontentment.

“No, there shall be no forgiveness for us,” Nelyafinwë replied. “I just want to prevent any unnecessary bloodshed.”

The harp’s song became more insistent, pleading without needing words.

“Yes, I did enjoy this evening, but I cannot keep him for my own pleasure,” Nelyafinwë sighed. “He has siblings as well—I’d never bereave them of their older brother any more than I could desert you lot.”

A single note, a strident accusation, cut him short. Nelyafinwë winced—he hated being reminded of his attempt to find the one who’d cursed them. Not only had he failed to undo their misery, but he’d also risked leaving his siblings stranded and rudderless.

“I’m here now,” he said, turning to his bed and lifting the sharp-edged tools onto the soft blanket one by one. “It’s you and I, forevermore. I love you.”

He couldn’t bear to close his eyes, so he lay awake, staring at the ceiling and listening to the soft clangour of the resting tools.

Suddenly, an incongruous sound startled him out of his drifting reverie—he slipped off the bed and snuck out, counting the hours until sunrise.

Heavy-hearted and soft-footed, Nelyafinwë apprehensively turned towards the condemned wing to bravely face his oldest and most intimate fears.

@fellowshipofthefics

-> Masterlist

[inevitablysomber-dark]

Shackled (Chapter 14)

(I couldn't quite find a gif I was looking for so this is as close as I could get to what I wanted)

Dark! Rafe Cameron x Pogue! Reader

Warning: There are some intense, dubiously consenting and nonconsensual sexual themes in this series, MATURE AUDIENCES ONLY. MINORS DNI.

Summary: You hate Outer Banks with a passion and are working hard to get out despite all the obstacles in your way. Rafe himself eventually becomes one of those obstacles after a night of low impulse control. Will you be able to overcome him or with you have no choice but to submit.

Slow Burn

Series Masterlist

It was a failure. 

You limp down to the docks, sitting on a bench where no other bodies were found. 

You needed to be alone and didn't think you could face another person in your condition. 

You went to Barry's just to be rejected before giving your proposal. Your loyalty and consistency all these years meant nothing, as he seemed to already have his mind made up before you arrived.

You tried returning home, hoping to crash on the couch, but the house was riddled with police officers and yellow tape. And it seemed that the backyard had been dug out.

Was your father serious when he mentioned what he possibly had done to your mother?

With nowhere to go, you found yourself at the docks, near the marsh. 

Now you were stuck on this god-forsaken island with no home, money, family... nothing. 

You could feel tears forming at your hopelessness as frustration creeps up the base of your neck. 

You lay your head back as you find it increasingly more difficult to breathe,  heat from the sun beating down on your body as it was midday. 

"Hey," you open your eyes to find Pope Heyward standing in front of you, and what seems to be concern painting his eyes. 

You shut your eyes since keeping them open took too much energy. "May I help you?" you ask. 

"Are you ok?" you felt a bit of movement as his body hovered, shielding you from the sun. "You don't look too good."

"I'm fine," you just wanted to be left alone, was that so hard?

"You don't sound too good either," he states, ignoring your sentiment. 

"I think she needs help." another voice states this one more feminine. You assume it was Kiara since she was the only girl besides Sarah who kept Pope's company.

The island was small, and with a rag-tag group like theirs, it was difficult to not know who they were.

This time you don't open your eyes, fatigue has quickly settled in your body. Doing anything at this point would be futile. 

Irritation suddenly began to bubble at your helplessness, and you needed to vent. 

"You know what pisses me off," your voice sounded weak and stiff. "I worked so hard to get away from this place, and it all disappeared in one night," you ball your hands, trying to push your body to do something, anything. 

"You both were given the opportunity to do something with your lives, and you squashed it." you try to push your body up. "How is that fair?" your voice barely a whisper, and your attempt at moving found you on the ground.

"H-hey, be careful, don't - Kie, go get help - don't move, we'll get you some help." 

You knew what he said, you just couldn't register the meaning behind his words. "How is that fair?" you whispered again, as your body relaxed in a moment of peace and darkness overtook your consciousness.

"Wait, stay awake," were the last words you heard before a peaceful slumber took you. 

***

You constantly fell in and out of consciousness, taking in pieces of evidence as you drifted. You knew you were at the hospital, hooked up to many machines, and you were pretty sure you were handcuffed to the bed this time. 

Of the handful of times you found yourself awake, you thought you saw Rafe or Sarah. You weren't sure, so you couldn't say. 

When you were finally fully awake, you found your vitals being taken by Nurse Annie Rose. When she finally does look your way, she gasps and, in a low whisper, asks. "Blink once if you're awake."

"Why do I have to blink if I can talk?" Your voice is very raw and scratchy. The sudden movement of your vocal cords has you choking on your own spit. 

"That's why." she pulls a straw from her coat pocket and puts it in a bedside pitch before putting it to your lips. Cool water falls into your body as you greedily pull from the straw. Damn, you were thirsty. 

"Honestly, the first thing you give me when you wake up is an attitude," when she hears that I've emptied the pitcher, she removes it from my lips. "You young ones just have no respect these days, huh?" she moves the straw to another jug and puts it to your lips, the water wasn't as cool, but it still felt good going down. 

"You were out for a few days, so you're gonna be thirsty for a bit, I'll have someone bring in more water for you," once you've emptied the jug, she sets it down before placing her hands on her hips. 

"Now, why would you sneak out of the hospital in your condition?" she looks disappointed " You're in worse shape than you were the first time. What were you thinking?"

It all came back at once your father, the bank, Kelly, Barry... So much had happened in the last several days, and you just couldn't catch a break. 

Tears began to roll down your cheeks. 

"I can't afford this, Annie, I nothing...and no one," you sniffle and wince from the pain it caused. 

"Oh honey, I wouldn't say you have no one," she comforts, moving over as she gestures to a sleeping figure on the recliner next to the window.

Your stomach drops, and you sob even harder, elevating your body's pain. You didn't mean to, but it wakes him up. As soon as he sees your eyes are opened, he quickly moves toward you, concern etched on his face, as your sobs become uncontrollable.

"Oh dear," Annie says before pulling a syringe from her coat pocket.

"What's wrong with her? What are you doing?" Rafe asks.

"She seems to be having an episode." you feel a prick in your arm as she holds on to it. "This should help you relax a bit, dear." when she pulls it out, you feel your body relax into the bed. 

"What happened?" Rafe asked, never taking his eyes off you. 

"Her situation is a lot to take in now. We should give her a moment to reflect while she's relaxed, and she should be fine by the time medication wears off. "

You close your eyes as black clouds overtake your vision.

"She should be fine in about 12 hrs," 

***

As you wake, you can feel someone playing with your fingers. Your eyes flutter open as you take in your surroundings, noting the man beside you. 

You felt so tired and lethargic. Your fingers twitch as you attempt to move, catching Rafe's attention as he looks towards you. He looks back down at your fingers as he moves them around. 

"We'll pay your hospital bills," he says, still holding on to your fingers " And I'll take you home and nurse you back to health" he puts your hand down and looks you in the eyes. "But then you have to do something for me."

You swallow, scared of what the something might be.

"We don't have to worry about it now, we'll discuss it when you're better, but you do have to agree to it now,"

You were scared, but what choice did you have? Your two options were Rafe or dying somewhere random in the cut. You could figure out a way out of this later, but right now, you couldn't do this on your own, and you were too scared to try. 

You squeezed the finger he had against your head and nodded. 

"Help me," you whispered.

He breathed relief before placing a chaste kiss against your lips.

"You're mine now, and I'll take care of you."

[theantonian]

BATTLE OF FORUM GALLORUM, APRIL 14TH 43 BC

This battle was fought between the forces of Marcus Antonius and legions loyal to the Roman senate under the overall command of the consuls Vibius Pansa aided by his fellow consul Aulus Hirtius while Octavian remained behind at senate's camp.

After leaving a part of his forces under the command of his brother Lucius Antonius to hold Decimus Brutus in siege and engage Hirtius and Octavian with a feigned attack on their camp, Antony secretly marched off from his camp with the Second Gallica (Legio II Gallica) and Thirty-Fifth Legions (Legio XXXV) and his praetorian cohorts, and those of Marcus Junius Silanus along the Via Aemilia over the marshy ground to halt Pansa’s progress. Antony’s ambush attack in a forest and marsh near Forum Gallorum was masterly. Antony himself led the center. But his move was discovered and the Martian legion led by Carsuleius and Servius Sulpicius Galba (one of Caesar's killers) and Octavian’s praetorian cohorts were dispatched to meet and reinforce Pansa, with the result that when Antony made his attack, he found himself fighting not only the newly recruited legions but also this legion of veteran soldiers who were thirsting for revenge upon him for the executions at Brundisium.

According to Appian, “there was a suspicious agitation of the bushes, then a gleaming of shields and helmets, and Antony's praetorian cohort suddenly showed itself directly in their front. The other troops divided themselves in two parts and advanced into the marsh on either side, the one commanded by Pansa and the other by Decimus Carsuleius. While the praetorians of Octavius confronted the praetorians of Antony. Thus, there were two battles in two marshes, and neither division could see the other by reason of the elevated road, while along the road itself the praetorian cohorts fought another battle of their own. The Antonians were determined to punish the Martians for desertion as being traitors to themselves and allying with the senate. The Martians were equally determined to punish the Antonians for condoning the slaughter of their comrades at Brundisium. Recognizing in each other the flower of either army they hoped to decide the whole war by this single engagement. Being veterans, they raised no battle-cry, since they could not expect to terrify each other, nor in the engagement did they utter a sound, either as victors or vanquished. As there could be neither flanking nor charging in marshes and ditches, they stood together in close order, and since neither could dislodge the other, they locked together with their swords as in a wrestling match. No blow missed its mark. There were wounds and slaughter but no cries, only groans; and when one fell, he was instantly borne away, and another took his place. They needed neither admonition nor encouragement, since experience had made each one his own general. When they were overcome by fatigue, they drew apart from each other for a brief space to take breath, as in gymnastic games, and then rushed again to the encounter.”

In this fierce and bloody battle, Carsuleius had fallen mortally wounded and the Martians began to fall back while still repulsing Antony’s cavalry assaults.

Finally, the Martian legion were routed with Antony’s praetorian cohorts completely destroying Octavian praetorian cohorts to the last man. In the marshes to the left of the Via Aemilia, Pansa suffered a serious injury; his wound said to have come from an enemy javelin. This shook the morals of cohorts of the Martians. While the injured consul was transferred to Bononia, the Antonian veterans of Second Gallica put the cohorts to flight. When the new recruits of Pansa saw this, they fled in terror, disorder and with loud cries towards their camp. Antony fell upon these veterans and new recruits, making a great slaughter.

While Antony’s troops celebrated, collected booty of victory and singing hymns of victory, Antony soon realized that Hirtius’ fresh troops were approaching towards them from the north. Antony could waste no time on pursuing Pansa's broken army and began marching his disorderly troops back towards Mutina.

Antony hurriedly got his troops in line and bravely faced the enemy forces. Despite their tough resistance and instances of great valour, greater part of them were slain in this encounter, although Hirtius could not pursue them. As darkness was coming, he allowed them to escape in fear of being lured into a trap. A wide stretch of the marsh was filled with arms, corpses of men and horses, wounded men, and half-dead men. Some were unhurt but were overcome by fatigue. Antony and his cavalry, as many as he had with him, went to their assistance and collected them throughout the entire night. Some they put on horse-back in their own places, others they urged to take hold of the horses' tails and run along with them and so secure their safety. Antony then encamped without entrenchments in a village nearby, called Forum Gallorum (Castel Franco).

Thus, the long and bloody battle of Forum Gallorum came to an end.

Sources: Plutarch’s Life of Antony

Cicero, Philippics

Appian, The Civil Wars III. 66-70

Eleanor Goltz Huzar, Mark Antony – A Biography

Ronald Syme, The Roman Revolution

[faoighiche]

PARTNER : @banisheed TIMING : A few months ago. LOCATION : Somewhere downtown. SUMMARY : A vampire tries to feed on Siobhan, so she passes him to Burrow. To Siobhan's dismay, Burrow enjoys that kind of thing. WARNINGS : Under skin (minor)

Vampires were terrible: abominations of un-life, pests, occasionally strangely obsessed with bats. But lazy vampires? “Honestly, this is insulting,” Siobhan sighed, palm pressed to the cold forehead of a snarling vampire. It was the same principle that deterred curious sharks, a swift hit to the head to send it swimming the other way. Or so she assumed about the sharks; what did she know about sharks? It worked on vampires. “It’s just rather embarrassing for you, isn’t it?” At arm’s length away from her, his jaw clomped uselessly in the air. Through his snarls, the deconstructed plea repeated. Please, he was saying, just a little taste. Back in her day, vampires actually worked for their meals; they didn’t just flail at her fingertips and beg for a sample. Something-something-televisions rotting attention spans and dissolving backbones. “Isn’t there a little bit of shame left in that smooth brain of yours?” The vampire continued to chomp on the air, held back by Siobhan’s outstretched arm, which was getting tired. 

That was the catalyst for all of it: fatigue. Fatigue had probably forced the vampire to flail at her like a child, thwarted by the superior reach of her arm, feet scraping against the asphalt as he tried to push against her. Fatigue had certainly made Siobhan drop her hand and grip the worn collar of his t-shirt. She flinged him down the street like an egregious sack of potatoes. Fatigue pushed her to say: “Just go for that kid over there.” She pointed at the figure coming up on them. “Do us both a favor and feed on someone else.” 

He looked back at Siobhan, as if suddenly taken by the morality of feeding from a child. He blinked, then addressed the girl. “C-Can I suck on your blood, p-please?” 

Burrow heard the commotion: sounds of cloth ruffling and shoes scuffling. Sounds that began and ended in the same moment, to be replaced by a grunt as a human fell into her view. She continued on her walk, though was wise enough to keep an eye on the human. A caution to prevent him from causing harm. Curiously, she did not need to be so alert in order to notice his attack. He begged her to let him do it. To let him bite — to let him feed — to know her in the most intimate way. The thing was not a human at all. She saw those fangs barely covered by trembled lips — those sunken eyes that flashed crimson, the same color as the thing he craved. He was one who walked in death and hungered for life. Hungered for her, for the fae were the essence of all life. A life that could return his own to him, if he was able to take it all from her. How delightful.

Burrow was no fool, she would not seek out those that wished to be her end. Still, there had always been a fascination with the poor dead. They reminded her so much of her parasites. Things scorned by society, cast into the shadows, but forced to the light in order to survive. Forced to take from those that hated them so much. She did not hate them, though she did not love them enough to give without taking. “You may take as much of my blood as I allow, if you promise me a favor of my choosing.” That bind readied to dig into the dead’s neck, the same as his fangs into her own. Desperation had him accepting the deal without hesitation. The bind claimed him, writhing in anticipation for what would become of it. The dead did the same, overcome with eagerness that she would not grant him access yet. 

There was the issue of the other: the one who had thrown the dead on her path. Burrow held him in place, the power of her bind assisting her. She led him to the shadows, away from the watching eyes of the other in the distance. When she had tucked the two of them in a corner, her leash on him slipped with intention. As soon as she nodded her head, his own was lost to the curve of her neck. It was followed by a flash of pain that was so familiar it had her smiling. 

And that was that! Siobhan clapped her hands together, brushing off imaginary dirt. She didn’t care as the vampire and the child went away, vanished into the dark. She certainly didn’t care as a shiver ran down through her spine, telling her that this child was a fae—family, a friend. There wasn’t an ounce of care inside of her as her mother’s chiding voice boomed through her skull: fae take care of eachother, or some variant. Fae are family, fae protect each other. One fae’s pain belongs to another. All fae are connected. No harm shall come to another fae. Fae are family. Siobhan sighed; she did care. 

“Alright, that’s enough.” Siobhan snapped her hands around the shoulders of the vampire. As she pulled back, he didn’t move. As she leaned the weight of her body in the opposite direction, his latch on the child seemed only to grow stronger. In a huff, she released him, fingers throbbing. “Leanbh, push him off! What are you--” Siobhan dug her fingers into the vampire’s cold flesh again, pulling back. “This is enough! Release her!” Or was it the girl that had him? Siobhan looked down, trying to figure out who held the power between them. Why would anyone willingly subject themselves to this?

That desperation, that hunger, that need for another’s life. Burrow knew it so well. She could feel it with each gulp of her blood. As if the two were made brothers, as they shared in that same blood. But he was not a brother: he was a strange and unknown thing. As familiar as he was a mystery. How exciting, to feel such beautiful greed without a presence in its existence. It was a wonder to consume and be consumed. Why did the humans fail to appreciate such a joy? 

Or the fae as well, for that matter. The burning alerted Burrow to the intruder’s presence immediately, sucking away her pleasant mood faster than those hungry fangs. Then came the vicious tone and the yelling — all things she had experienced before. What was unique was to see the fae struggle. The intruder was no match for the might of her bind, rendering the dead into a statue. A thing that only moved when Burrow did, as she craned her neck to the side to reveal her face to the fae. Her eyes locked with the other, staring in silence. A stare that lasted until she felt the creep of dizziness. “You are done.” The fangs were out of her neck before she even finished the statement. “We will meet again to discuss my favor. You will not stray far from me.” The dead scampered away without another word.

Burrow finally addressed the fae. “Hello.” She brushed away the trickle of blood still left on her skin. She licked what remained off her fingers. “Do you know of an Aos Sí?”

Siobhan blinked; she imagined it happened with the tink-tink of a cartoon. Incredulity swept over her in a cold wave and her jaw, hanging open, didn’t close until the blooddrunk vampire stumbled completely out of sight. “Hello,” she said in repetition more than greeting. Her head turned to watch the darkness swirl around the place the vampire had walked away into, and then back at the young fae. “You let him do that to you?” It was beyond degrading: it was confusing. The constant analysis of her mind—the churning logical machine in her head—could make nothing of it. It spun like old gears, grinding, and produced a cloud of black smoke. She blinked some more. 

“I do know of an Aos Sí, I grew up in one. As most fae do.” The confusion turned Siobhan honest. It didn’t occur to her to stomach the pains of lying, or to question what she was being asked. “But as for any here… I am not so… I do not…” What was the nicer way of saying that as a disgraced fae, she had no desires to ingratiate herself within local fae communities? “I do not know of any in this town. Though, there must be a few—the fae community here is larger than most. I do not…” What was the nicer way of saying it was strange that a fae who was interested wouldn’t know this? Was there a nice way to say ‘you are stupid, go walk into a fae bar and ask anyone’? Probably not. Why did she care about being nice? Siobhan’s head, as if answering her internal query, turned to the empty space the vampire once occupied, and then back again to the fae. 

“Why did you let him do that?” She jutted her thumb out into the empty space. “Leanbh, you do not deserve a… it’s degrading to…” Siobhan sighed; she should’ve walked away when she first thought about it. “Why are you looking for an Aos Sí?” 

The stare from before had been a mere prelude. Burrow’s eyes did as her namesake: burrowed into the fae after her admittance of awareness. Digging into the soul that lay behind that false skin, as if she could pluck out her secrets. The secrets of her home, so that Burrow would make it her own. But distance would be her enemy today. Though not a stray, this fae was as useful as the rest. Her sigh was quick and sharp. Burrow’s awaiting home dangled further away, by the hands of the strays and the imbeciles and the far from home. 

“I also assume there are a few of na Aos Sí in this nest. Well, somewhere, in this nest. Many of the fae of this nest do not know the location of an Aos Sí or what an Aos Sí means. It is sad… for them. I only feel irritated about their ignorance of na Aos Sí.” An irritation Burrow let slither out of her with the flicking of her wrists. Nature slept in the depths of winter’s belly. To avoid its hungry maw, those that were homed stayed nestled safely behind the féth fíada. She knew this. She will find success when the warmth of the sun drew them back to the light. She will wait, and watch, and practice, until their return. 

At least a piece of them did, in the presence of the intruder. Unlike the others of the town, she reminded Burrow a bit of her family. That disgust on the fae’s face was so familiar. “Chan urrainn dhuibh a thuigsinn.” You can not understand. None of them ever could. “It is not degrading to be consumed. It is wonderful. It is affection.” The dead offered a meager imitation, but one she appreciated nonetheless. Appreciated more than the poor excuse of love the fae showed her. “I look for an Aos Sí because I am in need of sanctuary.”

Something was wrong—wrong beyond the things that were usually wrong. Yes, she lacked her wings. Yes, she was a disgrace. Yes, this fae was staring at her like she wanted to dig into her skin like a worm in dirt. But something picked at her guts, rearranging the ribbons of flesh. Something was wrong, Siobhan thought. Something about all of this was wrong. Unguarded, unsure of where her guards should be, Siobhan’s voice wavered. 

“Many fae do not leave their Aos Sí; why would they? So, either you find someone out on some manner of errand or someone who…” The words caught in her throat. She shifted her weight between her feet, dislodging her unease into the bowl of her dry mouth; the words spilled like sand. “Someone who’s been thrown out.” Quickly, she added: “or someone who abandoned their home.” But the possibility that there could be a fae who would willingly leave home seemed so unlikely to Siobhan that, even though she could think of a certain annoying baby-banshee it applied to, she considered it impossible. “If you ask enough fae, maybe, eventually…” She trailed off, no longer able to stomach being helpful. 

Siobhan’s face betrayed all of her confusion and discomfort. “Affection exists in servitude—worship—not consumption. You allow a lesser creature to feed on you and what do you become?” The echo of her mother was summoned, swirling inside her head in streams of words. She could tug at any number of them to make her point: you would be weak, you would be pathetic, you would degrade yourself into the ranks of prey. But the fae’s admittance cleaved her mind instead, parting her mother’s thoughts. ‘Sanctuary’, the fae said and the strangeness of it burned; not a home, not just a shelter. Sanctuary. “What do you mean?” she asked. “Are you in trouble? Do you need help?” 

The way the other spoke became strange. As if stones replaced the fae’s uvula, striking on the membranes of her throat with each syllable. Burrow was not sure of the cause. Was she succumbing to the effects of the weather, or perhaps the effects of the heart? Perhaps it was the topic, for she herself knew the… complications of home. Still, the answer to the mystery mattered little. She was more interested in the actual words themselves. They were all things she had thought before, but they did offer something new: this fae was inclined to help. “Yes, I am aware. I remember the visits to the human nests during the springs.” Visits she was never allowed to join, but she did recall their existence. She had watched as those groups returned, bringing trinkets and tales. In her first year of exile, she had hoped to find such a group and join them in their return to home. This plan, obviously, had not worked. “I am also very aware of… the exiles and the strays.”

The helpfulness did not extend to those that reminded Burrow so much of her kin. What did this fae have to say of her precious ones? Perhaps more of the same. Her own face betrayed those soured thoughts: creases formed against her lips and brows. “I become happy. The dead desire me. You saw how much the dead wanted me. The dead wanted me so much, he would have killed me if I had not stopped him. It is lesser than…” Than her own precious ones, who were better at taking their spoils. “It is lesser, but the feeding is still love.” She did not expect the fae to understand, for she had long given up on that prospect. Still, she would not let the misunderstanding stand without a rebuttal. 

“Yes, I am in trouble.” Trouble always found Burrow, in a world that wanted her dead or locked away. Peace was never an option for her kin, only fleeting moments of comfort. “Yes, I do need help.” Her lips pulled down, resembling a frown. The expression seemed effective on Teagan and Cass. She wondered if its power could sway others. “Will you help me?” 

The exiles and the strays. Siobhan’s skin prickled; the twin scars on her back burned, as they always did when something approached the memory. The air is thick suddenly, or maybe it’s her throat all seized up. The dull, wet grass molded to her shifting weight. “The undead desire you,” Siobhan said. To her, the distinction was important; Death wasn’t something that had desires. Siobhan huffed. “At least your notion of love is more understandable than…” Her mind drifted to other people; to the stupid books she’d read under moonlight. This time, the words of Dickinson, who wrote in the style of hymns, contorting rhyme and religion—“the wind does not require the grass”. Whatever love meant, that inescapable curse to her surroundings, it was at least tolerable as the younger fae said it. It didn’t align with her understanding, and it seemed far more degrading than poetic, but she could abide that to this girl, consumption was love. “Aye,” she sighed, “that’s your love then: fed and feeding.” 

The mystery of love would wait another day for her, preferably, she’d never have to answer the damn question of it. “Eh?” Siobhan shook her head. “What are you doing with your face?” Was it supposed to be a frown? To someone else, she imagined the look must have been effective: people did hate when others were sad. However for Siobhan, displays of emotion only served to make her uncomfortable. “Yes, I’ll help you—no, I’m not promising it. You’re fae. Fae help fae. We’re family.” Siobhan frowned. “But never display emotion at me again; it’s unbecoming.” It was unbecoming of both of them. It didn’t occur to her to ask what exactly this child needed help with.

The distinction was less important to Burrow. Undead, dead, marbh beò, zombie, vampire — all words to describe the same entity. A cursed thing that walked and continued despite death’s claim on them. A thing that disregarded the cycle of nature: to take and to give. The dead only took. Only fed, as the other put it. She was surprised that there was understanding admitted from the fae, from whom she mostly knew rejection and disgust. Perhaps this one was not as terrible as the rest. A hope to be justified or denied in time. How funny that she even dared to still hope. Teagan and Cass had certainly wormed their way into her better judgment, infecting it the same as her own kin. “Yes, the feeding is… one part of my love.” Much more than food can be admired and wanted and taken. There was so much splendor and spoils to be claimed in the world, and she wanted them all. 

A want that was as attainable as the garner for sympathy. “I am doing a frown.” It was clear the frown was not as sufficient as Burrow had hoped. It had felt correct. The tension on her cheeks were similar to when she had stood in front of her mirror — her face had been quite pitiful and pathetic then. She would practice once more. At least she had no need for what next overcame her face. Lips twitched and curled and peeled back to reveal a small sliver of teeth. Fae help fae. Hinder, harm, and hate: that is what the fae did. But, she had learned that, yes, the fae could and would help, whether they wanted to or not. The lack of promise hinted that this fae was of the latter sort. She would take all the offered generosity, and then some, when the moment was right. “Ok. You will help me, cousin.” 

Burrow’s moment of amusement was gone, fizzling out of existence for it was no longer needed. She returned to her usual quiet, both of mouth and soul. Not because the fae asked it from her, but it was convenient that the other did. At least it was one less thing expected from her to get what she wanted.