#FIFTY FIVE SIXTY FIVE BODIES AT LEAST

[runninriot]

Even Heroes Fail Sometimes

written for @steddieangstyaugust day 17

prompt: "keep breathing, please" | wc: 4.657 | rated: M | cw: blood and injuries | tags: canon divergence, vecna is defeated, hurt/comfort, confessions, angst with happy ending | complete fic on ao3

Thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven,-

Thirty-eight seconds since Eddie last opened his eyes.

Steve doesn’t know why he’s counting. Maybe he just needs something to do, something to distract himself from the horrors with. From the frightening noises of the Upside Down slowly falling apart and the smell. He’s got blood sticking to every part of his body, some is his, some is not. Most of it is Eddie’s, gushing out of too many wounds.

    Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine,-

Steve keeps counting.

Maybe the doctors will need to know how long he’s been unconscious when they get him to the hospital.

Because they will get him there, no matter what Eddie said.

    ‘Jus’ leave me ‘ere. You- you’re better off without me.’

They would never leave him behind, they couldn’t. Steve couldn’t. Because Dustin needs Eddie. Needs to know that at least they tried.

No matter how hopeless it seems.

No matter how slim the chances are that he’ll make it.

They have to try.

    Sixty-three, sixty-four, sixty-

   “S’eve?”

He’s never been happier to hear his name, to hear Eddie’s voice, despite how broken he sounds.

   “I’m here, Eddie. I got you. Just- hang in there. We’re almost there.”

Technically, it isn’t even a lie; the gate is already in sight, gleaming and moving, frayed edges blazing like flames.

They’re so close, just a few more steps. Eddie doesn’t need to know that the hardest part is yet to come.

   “’m not gonna make it, Stevie.” Eddie’s voice is so weak, so small compared to what he usually sounds like.

This is wrong. This is not how it’s supposed to be.

   “Bullshit!” Steve protests, forcing his legs to keep going, forcing his arms not to loosen their grip around Eddie’s mangled body.

This is not the time to give up, not when they’re almost out the gate. They just have to make it to the other side where Nance is waiting with the caravan to get them to safety.

   “Even heroes fail sometimes,” Eddie whispers and Steve can hear that he’s smiling.

Why is he smiling?

   “We’re not gonna fail! We’re gonna make it and you will be fine! We’ll get you to the hospital and they’ll-“

   “Thank you, S’evie. F- for tryin’”

Eddie’s body goes limp in his arms.

    Three, four, five-

He’s unconscious again, that’s all.

He’s not dead. Eddie is not dead. Steve can feel that he’s still breathing. That’s not just his imagination, right?

   “Come on, Eddie! Keep breathing, please!”

Steve tries not to panic but it’s hard not to. With Eddie hanging motionless over his shoulder, he can’t see his face, and there’s no time to stop and take a look at his wounds. They’ve got to keep moving.

Steve feels like his heart is trying to break through his ribcage and his lungs feel like they’re about to collapse. Everything hurts. His own wounds sting and itch, and his muscles tremble from overstrain.

    Please, Eddie. Please don’t die.

---

Steve doesn’t remember how they made it through in time before the gate closed behind them. But they did, all of them.

Poor Robin seems to be in shock. She’s in the front seat next to Nancy, hasn’t said a word since they got out.

Nancy is trying her best to concentrate on the road, doing everything to keep a straight face while Dustin is crying and screaming at her to ‘Drive faster!’

The boy is completely out of his mind, probably in pain – his leg really didn’t look good – and he must be so scared, so worried about his bleeding friend in the back.

Steve hovers over Eddie’s lifeless body, helplessly pressing pieces of cloth against the worst of his wounds. There’s blood everywhere and he still hasn’t opened his eyes again.

   “Come on, Eddie. You can do it. I know you can.”

Steve has lost count, has lost every feeling for time and space, can only focus on the shallow up and down movement of Eddie’s chest.

He’s weak but he is still breathing, still holding on.

That’s good, right? Means he’s still got some fight left in him. That maybe, despite all the fucked-up shit going on, he’s still got something worth living for.

   “You can’t die, Eddie. Dustin needs you.”

    I need you.

   “Alright, Steve, get ready! We’re here!”

The caravan comes to an abrupt halt with the tires screeching as Nancy steps hard on the breaks.

And then, chaos unfolds.

   “Help! We need help!”

It’s good to hear Robin’s voice even if it pains him how broken she sounds, how he can hear the tremble in each word – he knows she’s only barely holding on, knows her good enough to know she’s near tears, on the verge of letting it all out.

But she’s a fighter, Robin is.

His best friend in the world is so brave and so, so strong when it counts. You’d think her clumsy, rambly nature is an act when you see her on the battle field.

She shouldn’t have to be strong. None of them should. They’re fucking kids, for fuck’s sake! All of them. Dustin and his little friends, obviously. But also him, Robin, Nance, Jonathan, Eddie – they’re hardly what you can call young adults and yet, they’re forced to fight like fucking soldiers in a war against powers none of them can even understand.

But it’s what they do.

What most of them have been doing for years now.

They’ve lost so much already and every time evil comes back to haunt them, the losses become greater, harder to deal with.

They’ve lost people they knew, people they loved – not again.

Not this time.

They will not lose Eddie.

---

continue reading here

[katnissmellarkkk]

here’s a compilation of all the times katniss talked about her body.

-

“I’ll be all right, Katniss,” says Prim, clasping my face in her hands. “But you have to take care, too. You’re so fast and brave. Maybe you can win.”

I can’t win. Prim must know that in her heart. The competition will be far beyond my abilities. Kids from wealthier districts, where winning is a huge honor, who’ve been trained their whole lives for this. Boys who are two to three times my size. Girls who know twenty different ways to kill you with a knife. Oh, there’ll be people like me, too. People to weed out before the real fun begins.

-

And then he gives me a smile that seems so genuinely sweet with just the right touch of shyness that unexpected warmth rushes through me.

A warning bell goes off in my head. Don’t be so stupid. Peeta is planning how to kill you, I remind myself. He is luring you in to make you easy prey. The more likable he is, the more deadly he is.

But because two can play at this game, I stand on tiptoe and kiss his cheek. Right on his bruise.

-

It’s the first time we’ve been assembled, on level ground, in simple clothes. My heart sinks. Almost all of the boys and at least half of the girls are bigger than I am, even though many of the tributes have never been fed properly. You can see it in their bones, their skin, the hollow look in their eyes. I may be smaller naturally, but overall my family’s resourcefulness has given me an edge in that area. I stand straight, and while I’m thin, I’m strong. The meat and plants from the woods combined with the exertion it took to get them have given me a healthier body than most of those I see around me.

-

The slight advantage I held coming into the Training Center, my fiery entrance last night, seems to vanish in the presence of my competition. The other tributes were jealous of us, but not because we were amazing, because our stylists were. Now I see nothing but contempt in the glances of the Career Tributes. Each must have fifty to a hundred pounds on me. They project arrogance and brutality. When Atala releases us, they head straight for the deadliest-looking weapons in the gym and handle them with ease.

-

Still, I won’t be the only target. I’m betting many of the other tributes would pass up a smaller girl, even one who scored an eleven in training, to take out their more fierce adversaries.

-

As a precaution, I remove my belt, loop it all the way around the branch and my sleeping bag, and refasten it at my waist. Now if I roll over in my sleep, I won’t go crashing to the ground. I’m small enough to tuck the top of the bag over my head, but I put on my hood as well.

-

This could be it, I think. What chance do I have against them? All six are there, the five Careers and Peeta, and my only consolation is they’re pretty beat-up, too. Even so, look at their weapons. Look at their faces, grinning and snarling at me, a sure kill above them. It seems pretty hopeless. But then something else registers. They’re bigger and stronger than I am, no doubt, but they’re also heavier. There’s a reason it’s me and not Gale who ventures up to pluck the highest fruit, or rob the most remote bird nests. I must weigh at least fifty or sixty pounds less than the smallest Career.

-

I give Cato time to hoist himself into the tree before I begin to climb again. Gale always says I remind him of a squirrel the way I can scurry up even the slenderest limb. Part of it’s my weight, but part of it’s practice. You have to know where to place your hands and feet. I’m another thirty feet in the air when I hear the crack and look down to see Cato flailing as he and a branch go down.

-

The girl with the arrows, Glimmer I hear someone call her — ugh, the names the people in District 1 give their children are so ridiculous — anyway Glimmer scales the tree until the branches begin to crack under her feet and then has the good sense to stop. I’m at least eighty feet high now.

-

“Where do you sleep?” I ask her. “In the trees?” She nods. “In just your jacket?”

Rue holds up her extra pair of socks. “I have these for my hands.”

I think of how cold the nights have been. “You can share my sleeping bag if you want. We’ll both easily fit.” Her face lights up. I can tell this more than she dared hope for.

We pick a fork high in a tree and settle in for the night just as the anthem begins to play.

-

I climb dangerously high into a tree, not for safety but to get as far away from today as I can.

-

Then there’s Thresh. All right, he’s a distinct threat. But I haven’t seen him, not once, since the Games began. I think about how Foxface grew alarmed when she heard a sound at the site of the explosion. But she didn’t turn to the Woods, she turned to whatever lies across from it. To that area of the arena that drops off into I don’t know what. I feel almost certain that the person she ran from was Thresh and that is his domain. He’d never have heard me from there and, even if he did, I’m up too high for someone his size to reach.

-

But when I look at my naked body in the mirror, all I can see is how skinny I am. I mean, I’m sure I was worse when I came out of the arena, but I can easily count my ribs.

-

Cinna comes in with what appears to be an unassuming yellow dress across his arms.

“Have you given up the whole ‘girl on fire’ thing?” I ask.

“You tell me,” he says, and slips it over my head. I immediately notice the padding over my breasts, adding curves that hunger has stolen from my body. My hands go to my chest and I frown.

“I know,” says Cinna before I can object. “But the Gamemakers wanted to alter you surgically. Haymitch had a huge fight with them over it. This was the compromise.”

-

When I manage to pull my eyes away from the flickering fabric, I’m in for something of a shock. My hair’s loose, held back by a simple hairband. The makeup rounds and fills out the sharp angles of my face. A clear polish coats my nails. The sleeveless dress is gathered at my ribs, not my waist, largely eliminating any help the padding would have given my figure. The hem falls just to my knees. Without heels, you can see my true stature. I look, very simply, like a girl. A young one. Fourteen at the most. Innocent. Harmless. Yes, it is shocking that Cinna has pulled this off when you remember I’ve just won the Games.

-

I start out by leaning on his shoulder, but I’m so wobbly he just scoops me up and carries me upstairs.

-

Peeta walks me down to my room in silence, but before he can say good night, I wrap my arms around him and rest my head against his chest. His hands slide up my back and his cheek leans against my hair.

-

Looking at Prim's face, it's hard to imagine she's the same frail little girl I left behind on reaping day nine months ago. The combination of that ordeal and all that has followed—the cruelty in the district, the parade of sick and wounded that she often treats by herself now if my mother's hands are too full — these things have aged her years. She's grown quite a bit, too; we're practically the same height now, but that isn't what makes her seem so much older.

-

I feel him lurch forward and realize Finnick has come back for us and is hauling Peeta along. I wedge my shoulder, which still seems under my control, under Peeta's arm and do my best to keep up with Finnick’s rapid pace. We put about ten yards between us and the fog when Finnick stops.

“It’s no good. I'll have to carry him. Can you take Mags?” he asks me.

“Yes,” I say stoutly, although my heart sinks. It's true that Mags can't weigh more than about seventy pounds, but I'm not very big myself. Still, I'm sure I've carried heavier loads. If only my arms would stop jumping around. I squat down and she positions herself over my shoulder, the way she rides on Finnick. I slowly straighten my legs and, with my knees locked, I can manage her. Finnick has Peeta slung across his back now and we move forward, Finnick leading, me following in the trail he breaks through the vines.

It's not Mags's fault when I begin falling. She's doing everything she can to be an easy passenger, but the fact is, there is only so much weight I can handle. Especially now that my right leg seems to be going stiff. The first two times I crash to the ground, I manage to make it back on my feet, but the third time, I cannot get my leg to cooperate. As I struggle to get up, it gives out and Mags rolls off onto the ground before me. I flail around, trying to use vines and trunks to right myself.

-

I know it's stopped when I feel Peeta's hands on me, feel myself lifted from the ground and out of the jungle. But I stay eyes squeezed shut, hands over my ears, muscles too rigid to release. Peeta holds me on his lap, speaking soothing words, rocking me gently. It takes a long time before I begin to relax the iron grip on my body. And when I do, the trembling begins.

-

“Haymitch said you wanted to talk to me,” I say.

“Look at you, for starters.” It’s like he’s waiting for me to transform into a hybrid drooling wolf right before his eyes. He stares so long I find myself casting furtive glances at the one-way glass, hoping for some direction from Haymitch, but my earpiece stays silent. “You’re not very big, are you? Or particularly pretty?”

-

Boggs quickly examines my face, then scoops me up and jogs for the runway. Halfway there, I puke on his bulletproof vest.

-

Suddenly, I see myself through his eyes. A smallish seventeen-year-old girl who can’t quite catch her breath since her ribs haven’t fully healed. Disheveled. Undisciplined. Recuperating. Not a soldier, but someone who needs to be looked after.

-

[moutainrusing]

party

dorlene july event, 702 words, @enbysiriusblack

For her sixtieth birthday, Dorcas did not want a party. She did not want a big deal to be made about her increment into old age, the fact that her first digit would now be six instead of five.

Sixty was proper old. If she told someone she was sixty, she may as well be telling them that she was old-fashioned and confused about the times. Not not with the times out of choice, but genuinely perplexed, with a worn-out brain struggling to process things. Obviously, she knew sixty year olds weren’t like that; in fact, most of them, if not all, were like their fifty-nine year old selves but more educated, like their fifty-eight year old selves but with a broader range of understanding, like their fifty-seven year old selves, constantly growing and learning new things. But according to society, it was impossible for old people to grow, apparently.

The younger generation. Dorcas hated calling them that. There wasn’t even time for evolution between her and the so-called younger generation. They were all homo sapiens, humans with emotions and reason, people who could relate to each other, except for some reason, they chose not to.

Old people were too old. Therefore, Dorcas would simply not declare herself as old.

With this in mind, she’d requested her wife, Marlene, not to throw her a party. (Honestly, how could someone call her backward when she was a woman married to another woman, who’d adopted all their children to make their beautiful family?)

Dorcas’s present would be the gift of ignorance, the fact that suddenly, the whole world seemed to forget it was her birthday. Surely that meant she wasn’t ageing. Surely that meant she was just living another day in her good old fifties. Perfect, not too old. Fifties sounded so good.

- - -

“Fifty is too old,” Marlene hissed in an imitation of Dorcas ten years ago. “Dorcas always says this. I’m throwing a party anyway.”

Lily bit her lip sceptically. “But won’t she suspect it then? She’ll remember that every time she says this, you go and do it anyway. What if she disappears for the whole day?” From worried to playful in an instant, Lily smirked, “I would, if I knew you were planning my party.”

Marlene scowled. “Well, I’m not the only one planning this party. You’re here to help me,” she grudgingly admitted.

Lily smiled, “For obvious reason.”

Marlene flipped her the bird, but instead of leaving, Lily got to work. She was so good at reading body language. Perfect party planner. Marlene wasn’t going to tell her that though.

- - -

“Okay, fine, you’re the perfect party planner,” Marlene gushed after five hours, because this party was going to be through-the-roof spectacular thanks to her best friend.

- - -

Dorcas was having an ordinary day, one like any other. She was happy. No mention of birthdays anywhere.

Then why did she feel so gutted? She wanted this! This was perfect!

Dorcas felt a bit hollow. Someone just acknowledge her! Just… remember she existed! But she didn’t want that!

When she got home, the house was exactly as it had been in the morning. Her grandkids hadn’t even thought to at least visit her! She raised them!

Marlene wasn’t even home yet! That was her wife! Could she not even kiss her wife on her… well, not birthday, but shouldn’t she at least get a kiss from the love of her life?! Was this too much to ask for?!

She shouldn’t even have to ask! Their love should be one hundred percent unconditional, but no, apparently, everyone had forgotten her existence.

Sulking, she stormed through the corridor and into the living room, reaching to switch on the light—

“SURPRISE!”

- - -

Marlene grinned at her wife, holding up a huge cake decorated with icing sheets of Dorcas’s face through the ages, a celebration of the life of the most amazing person on the planet, who lived in the terrains of Marlene’s heart so comfortingly and comfortably.

Their children and grandkids and friends and family surrounded her, all cheering, “Happy birthday!”

Marlene stepped closer to Dorcas and whispered, “No one cares how old you are. All we care about is the fact that you’re here with us.”

[a-spes]

S I X F E E T A W A Y - One shot.

Words count - 2,6k.

Tags & Warnings - Natasha Romanoff x reader, light angst.

Summary - You were Natasha's girlfriend. It has been a year since she died and you still can't accept it, visiting her grave whenever you can.

Song - It'll be okay, Shawn Mendes.

— — — — —

It has been a year. Twelve months, fifty-two weeks, three hundred sixty-five days. In other words, it has been an eternity. The thought of all the time that has passed makes you sick. Even after a year the pain is still the same, the people that told you it will eventually fade were a bunch of liars. You hate them because you are going through every day thinking the next one will be different but it is not, the urge to cry, scream, throw up and destroy everything around you never disappeared. At best, it fades during the good days.

However, this feeling always comes back. You don’t even know how you survived this year without her by your side. She has been your whole world since the first time you met. At the time, you agreed to join the Avengers only so you don’t have to leave her - you regret that decision now, convinced that she died because of them. 

You were supposed to be a family but the team fell apart on the first difficulties and doesn’t even exist anymore. After they saved the world, bringing back the missing population, the members that weren’t dead decided to leave. 

They said they needed some personal time, which you understand, but never told you for how long. It has already been a year and none of them checked up on you or replied to your attempt to get in touch, you can’t help but feel abandoned.

Since you have been back, being at the compound never felt the same anymore. This place no longer felt like home, it was just an empty building, full of ghosts and memories. After a few weeks you decided to move out, unable to stay here for one more day. 

New city, new start, new life. 

At least, you were hoping it would be that easy but it wasn’t. At first, you didn’t know where to go but you eventually decided to move to a small town in Ohio. She was your only family, you couldn’t imagine being far from her. Even if the only thing left is a stone with her name engraved on it, not even a body, you still wanted to be as close as you could.

The way everything happened made your grief journey harder. The worst is that you didn’t even get to say goodbye. Every time you think about it you can feel how your stomach twists. The last time you saw her, you were oblivious she would be dead the next one. 

As half of the population, you disappeared for five years because of Thanos. Five years for the one who stayed but it felt like a few seconds to you, barely the time to blink but yet you missed so much. 

You are blaming yourself for that. Even now, you are convinced that things would have gone a different way if you were here, that you could have done something. It probably wouldn’t have changed a thing, Natasha being stubborn, but being angry and denial is your way to deal with the pain of a loss.

Whenever you can, you are paying a visit to her gravestone. Sometimes, you would stay for a few days, refusing to leave : how could you when you know that she died alone ? Most of her life she thought she was alone, she didn’t deserve to die like that. So, now that she is gone, you are doing everything you can to make up for that, to let her know that you will always be here. 

You firmly believe that, wherever she is right now, she is looking at you and knows what you are doing, you need to believe that she can hear and see you because it means you are not alone. Even death can’t separate two persons.

That is why you have prepared this visit for days, wanting everything to be absolutely perfect for your lover. You prepared a whole picnic, everything being homemade, and decided to wear one the last outfit you bought together, a classy dress. You even braided your hair for the occasion. That is why your hairstyle is looking like a mess, it has never been your thing, Natasha usually being the one to do it. 

Some people would find it weird to celebrate her death date but it is really important to you. Painfull, for sure, but still important. That day, a year ago, she sacrified her life for the world and she deserves some gratitude. You feel like too many people don’t even know she is the one that saved them, the rest refusing to acknowledge what she did just because of her past. Even your former teammates don’t bother to care. 

So you decided to pay her a visit so you can celebrate her actions like the world should have. However, it doesn’t make you less angry or hateful against the whole world.

You check your bag one more time to make sure you didn’t forget anything. You are feeling a bit stressed because you really want everything to be perfect. After that last glance, you secure it at the back of your bike, ready to go.

Her gravestone is only thirty minutes from where you live. As you are lost in your thoughts, the journey felt like a few seconds. 

You realize you are almost at your destination when you enter the forest. Natasha’s grave is not in a cemetery but in a lovely clearing. As there was no body to bury, you were able to place it wherever you wanted. You spent days and nights thinking about the perfect place to eventually choose this one. It is in a lovely clearing in Ohio, a quiet and hidden place. Only a few people know her grave is here, she didn’t have a lot of family. 

You leave your bike against a tree on the roadside.

After a few minutes walk, you arrive at the clearing. You know she would have loved that place. A smile on your face, you take your time to settle everything around the grave. You brought a blanket, to sit in, a lot of food and even a speaker so you can play music. It feels the silence, making things less awkward for you. 

Obviously, you didn’t forget to bring a gift and some flowers. This time, you choose roses because they have always remembered you of her : they sting but yet are so delicate and gracious. She used to mock you for that, never answering your “ if you were a flower, which one would you be ? ” kind of questions. So you had to figure out the answers by your own. 

However, you know that, deep down, she was enjoying it. She would stay for hours, listening to your explanations about why she would be that drink rather than another one, with a faint smile on her face. She was just too stubborn to admit it. 

The thought of the past makes a sad smile appear on your face as you are replacing the old flowers with the roses you brought.  

“ I- ” once you have settled in, sitting on the blanket with the food out of the bags, you start talking. Except that, once again, you don’t know where to start. “ I made peanut butter sandwiches, … more than the last time. ”

Those are her favourites. She has always refused to share hers but, sometimes, she would make some for you so you had a snack when you came back from a mission. 

Now, you have to do them by yourself and it doesn’t taste the same, it doesn’t taste love. Yet, you still ended up eating the dozen you made last time you visited. In your defense, you were crying and it is the only thing that could bring you some comfort. 

However, you are still feeling bad for not leaving at least one for her so you decided to make some more this time. A lot more if you are being honest. 

“ Anyway, what can I say … ” you are thinking out loud. It is your thing, coming here and telling her everything that is going on in your life. 

Sometimes, you even come here just to share with her something that happened during your day. A bad or a good story, it doesn’t matter, you would come here immediately without considering what time it is when the urge to talk to her hits you. 

Once, you pedaled here in the middle of the night. It was creepy, if you are being honest, so you didn’t do it ever again. Plus, you are sure Natasha wouldn’t appreciate it.

“ I have found a new job. I am a cashier now and it is going well for the moment, I didn’t throw anything at a client yet ” you say, feeling proud about that fact.

A few months ago, you were fired from your job as a waitress for that reason. You definitely don’t have the patience or the tact required by that kind of work. 

“ Even if the clients are really annoying. It is frustrating, you know ? I am being yelled at all day, talked like shit and insulted but I don’t even have the right to be rude ” you stop talking for a few seconds, taking a deep breath - you won’t let the anger you feel towards these people ruin this moment. “ I liked it better when we were kicking bad guys’ asses. ”

You are thinking about this part of your life with nostalgia. You never had a normal job. When you were seventeen, you dropped out of high school so you could join the army. Somehow, mainly because of your curiosity, you ended up in some dirty stories - that is how the S.H.I.E.L.D noticed you, offering you to become one of their agents.

It is only a few years ago that you made the decision to leave the agency to be a part of the Avengers. It was a difficult choice to make but you did it because you wanted to follow Natasha, even a few years ago, you already couldn’t imagine living far from her. 

The two of you met when she joined the agency. As you, when you became an agent, she was lonely. Everyone was avoiding her because of the rumors about her past. You immediately thought it was unfair - if Fury thinks she has a place here, then you can trust her for sure. Plus you knew how it feels to be in that situation. 

So you decided to step up, being the first and only one that has tried to talk to her the first years. You never left her side since, always defending her when the others were talking dirt behind her back - which got you into a lot of trouble.

All that stuff, being a cashier or a waitress, is not something you are used to, you don’t think you are cut out for this kind of work. If you are being honest with yourself, you hate those jobs, you are just not ready to go back working for Fury. 

When you came back, he let you know that there will always be a place for you as a S.H.I.E.L.D agent, you thanked him but said no. For the moment, you just want to give a try to those normal jobs, even if fitting in is harder than you thought, being undercover having nothing in common with living it for real.

“ I also decided to eventually repair the broken things in my apartment. So far, I’ve fixed the front door, the fridge and the light in the living room. I think it is a good start, don’t you ? ” you wait a few seconds for an answer but, obviously, the only one you get is the silence. You eventually chuckle. “ I still hate that place tho’ ” and since you moved in, you can’t wait for the day you will be able to afford a better place. 

But for now you are stuck in that small, dilapidated and cold apartment, trying to convince yourself that it could be worse.

“ Anyway, I am here because I have a little something for you … ” you start, trying to not smile too hard. You take the present out of the bag, it is something in a dark blue box of the size of your hands. “ Ready ? ” you ask but it is more for you this time. You take a deep breath before you resume. “ Natasha Romanoff, for saving the world for so many years, for sacrificing your life for the sake of Humanity and, most important, for ... being the love of my life ... I have the honor to give you a medail ” your acting broke on the last sentence, the fake enthusiasm being replaced by sadness. 

Once you are done with your little speech, you carefully put the medail on the grave, with the flowers and the other presents. 

It is not a real medail, you asked someone to make it. It is supposed to be a replacement for the one the government refused to give her, even if she deserved it. Her name on a wall is the only thing she got from them.

“ But don’t think it means I forgive you. It was very stupid, but yet very … you … to sacrifice yourself for us. You always thought you had a redemption to earn ” you stop talking, trying to hold back your tears. “ And maybe it was true that people never trusted you but I did. I trusted you and you left me like that. I didn’t even get to say goodbye or … or … to give you a last hug. I- I blinked and, just like that, you were … gone, forever ” your voice is shaking, the last sentence being noticed more than a whisper. As tears are running down your cheeks, you still find the strength to add one more thing. “ I will never forgive you ” you say in a quiet voice.

You weren’t ready to lose her, you had plans for your future together. You were supposed to buy a lovely home and found a happy family. She shouldn’t have died before you could live your life together, before you had your happy ending. Only age should have taken her away from you, except that she decided otherwise. 

She has always been so stubborn and so hard on herself because of the things she did in the past. You truly believe that, if someone deserved a peaceful life, it is her but it is too late now that she is gone. The idea that you never had a chance to show her how sweet life can be is making you sick, you should have convinced her to leave earlier. 

When you came back from the dust, you were alone and lost. Not only did you need to accept that five years of your life have been stolen but you also had to learn how to live without the woman you love. It is the hardest thing you ever had to do in your life.  “ But … I love you so much, my idiot ” you eventually whisper. “ I just wish you were still here to hear that … ”

[positivelybeastly]

Hank, how old are you? Do you even feel your age???

"What's that delightful saying? 'It isn't the years, it's the mileage'? More true than Indiana Jones ever knew."

"But. In serious answer to your question - I was born in 1986, on the 16th of June. That would make me, at time of writing, thirty eight years old. Thankfully, while my mutation has done its best to make me miserable and, on occasion, kill me over the years, it does have its upsides.

Namely, my healing factor. Though nowhere near as impressive as the Wolverine's or Sabretooth's, it's of sufficient potency that I'm liable to live until the ripe old age of at least one hundred and fifty, perhaps two hundred, if I cut down on the Twinkies."

A sacrifice he is not willing to make.

"I also undergo a complete cellular renewal each time I mutate. Every cell in my body is replaced, meaning that any long standing structural issues that aren't healed during the normal passage of time are fixed, I get a new set of teeth, and I walk away a slightly different man. A regeneration, of sorts."

"As for the rest of us? My other, Krakoan self is the same age as I am, albeit renewed by the process of resurrection, which he's undergone at least once. That blurs the lines a touch, but he's still pushing forty."

"My youngest self, time displacement or no, is aged anywhere between seventeen and nineteen, depending on when you happen to meet him."

"My . . . classic form, if you like, is aged anywhere from twenty to thirty one, again, depending on when you meet him."

"My feline form, thirty one to thirty five. One of my shorter mutations, and one I look back on with - mixed, feelings."

"My newly resurrected self has the body of a thirty eight year old, but his physical age, due to his unique origin, is actually something more like three months. Add to that fact that he has the mind of a twenty six year old, and he's in a strange place, all things told."

"And of course there's my delightful alternate self, Dark Beast. When he made the crossing over from his Earth, he was thrown twenty years into the past, relatively speaking, so he's actually nearing sixty years old, though you wouldn't know it. A combination of the self-same healing factor I mentioned earlier, and his relentless drive towards self-experimentation."

"Then we come to my other alternate self. He comes from something like twenty five years into the future, making him roughly 60+ years old. He's - hard, to obtain concrete information from, given his rather fractured mental state, and I don't like to bother him too much if I can help it."

"Finally, we come to my more animated self, aged thirty two years old, and looking younger every day, don't you think?"

"Does that answer your question, my friend?"

[sauleline2]

Maths, Gender, And a Number Bigger than the distance to Kepler 22-B

heads up this is loooong

so i was thinking about xenopronouns (pronouns which are impossible for humans to pronounce, mostly used by therians and otherkin. eg. a pronoun that is a lion's roar, bird chirp, or alien language, etc.) while trying to fall asleep. well, i thought, couldn't an example of a xenopronoun be a normal pronoun set, like she/her, but with a different coloured font? well. i got to thinking. how many colours are there? well it depends on what format you use. an RGB colour has 255 ✕ 255 ✕ 255 colours. that comes out to 16,581,375 different colours. HSV on the other hand, has 3,600,000 different colours (360 ✕ 100 ✕ 100). but why stop there? underlines! bold! italics! the possibilities are (almost) endless! (btw im gonna stick with the rgb colour list, because it's a bigger number and i, an idle game player, find that cool) well. im just going to stick with the stock word formatting options (bold, italics, underline, strikethrough, subscript, and superscript). all of these options can be toggled all together, with the exception of superscript and subscript. now. how do we calculate that? well we take how many options there are (8, not counting the subscript and superscript (we'll get to that)) and multiply that by our number of colours. this gives us 132,651,000. we quickly multiply that by 3, to get our full total formats. 397,953,000. now i could say something sappy about how there are infinite combinations of letters, to make infinite pronouns, but that's boring in my opinion. so. there are 149,186 unicode characters (in the current version). sure, not all of them can be made into bold, or some don't have italics. who cares? they still have the italics information. or the bold information. you get the point. well. we take our amount of format options, and multiply that by the amount of unicode characters. 59,369,016,258,000. fifty nine trillion, three hundred and sixty nine billion, sixteen million, two hundred and fifty eight thousand different combinations. now. to make these into pronoun sets. to make this easier for myself, im gonna cap the maximum length of one of these at 7 characters, and the minimum at 1 (invisible characters are cool, like U+2064 or U+2063, for example). each set will be in the format of "she/her/hers", so that means each of the sets will be between 3 and 21 characters long (forward slashes are excluded). i wasn't sure how to do this with a calculator, so i did it by hand. or at least, i was going to. then i realized "wait the way im doing this is shit, and i could very easily have calculated this like the way you calculate how many different states a combo lock has. 343 different combinations of characters. we multiply that by the amount of characters we have, and boom. the total amount of robot pronouns. 20,363,572,576,494,000. twenty quadrillion, three hundred and sixty three trillion, five hundred and seventy two billion, five hundred and seventy six million, four hundred and ninety four thousand. now. most of these will be unintelligible messes of characters in different colours.

i may as well repeat the final number that i got. 20,363,572,576,494,000. think about that. if you want to put that into perspective, there are approximately 100,000,000,000 stars in the milky way galaxy (at a lowball. it goes up to around 400,000,000,000). or, 3,154,000,000 seconds in a century. (im gonna put these numbers up next to each other at the end of this, under the cut, just to help you look at them.

(up to date (as of writing)) (most of these are approximates btw) (distances are in kilometres)

"Pronouns": 20,363,572,576,494,000 Kepler 22-B's Distance: 6,055,000,000,000,000 Distance of All Human Veins: 772,485,120,000,000 Cells in the Body: 30,000,000,000,000 Elon Musk's Net Worth: 205,200,000,000 Stars in the Milky Way: 100,000,000,000 Baby Shark's Views: 14,118,385,910 Earth's Population: 8,100,000,000 Seconds in a Century: 3,154,000,000 Listens my Friend has to Sum 41: 18,306

if this looks like shit... lmao? i guess. it was formatted for web view. idk how it looks on mobile, don't care to check. (Yes i did put elon musk there because i hate him and want to point out how fucking rich he is and i think that we should kill him) (yes i did put my friend's Sum 41 scrobbles there to make fun of him)

[elektrischemaidchen]

Lisztober #2: Daguerreotypes of Old

Our second entry for #Lisztober. Thank you, @franzliszt-official, for your kind words! We gratefully accept your advice and will now publish our postings & lyrics in English as well. (Unsere deutschen Follower finden den entsprechenden Text dann weiterhin auf unseren anderen Kanälen auf Facebook und Instagram ;))

Day 2!

The topic “Daguerrotypes” was somewhat predestined for us. At least, that’s what I thought. But yesterday looked something like this: 14.30 I stare at my notebook, the notebook stares back. 14.45 I pick up the Liszt photo book from the Ernst Burger collection and turn through the pages. I'm distracted by Franz. 15.00 I start a text about Louis Held's court atelier. I'm distracted by Franz again, who is looking sternly from his photos. 16.00 Whatever. I'm just going to write another typical Maidchen sing. Franz smiles, I smile as well. (He doesn't smile at all. Never, actually. Pure imagination). 17.30 I sit down to work on the music. 20.30 “It is pronounced Da-ger-oo-tüh-piiiii, can you please sing it like that?” 20.45 "No? Okay, whatever. We'll just use this take now." 21.45 Miss Lovelace looks over my shoulder and asks: “Well?” 22.30 There's a mistake in the „bridge“. I open a second bottle of redwine and have a cigarette. 23.15 Song finished. 23.30 Continue on writing the Beethoven lyrics for tomorrow. It's been on my desk for a really long time, was planned for the third album,  have a new divine inspiration. 23.45 Miss Lacelove asks me if I already have an idea for day 4 and if I could write something about “Études d'exécution transcendante”. I joke that it is of “increasing difficulty”. We have a good laugh. Afterwards I cry a little.

Lyrics (again, sorry, the translation does not work very well without the missing rhyme scheme):

Daguerreotypes What a beautiful theme Fits exactly Into our scheme I could write About Schenk and Schrecker About Louis Held And everyone else Of the old photographic world Who depicted Franz Back then But I am way too drained for this today And I also know That our listeners Are not into this very much so we just have to add some more blunt sexism So we stay true to ourselves And write about Our favourite dead composer posterboy Oh, only on Lehmann's painting That stands near our bedsides You’ll see the hot Franz who always Works out well Who always works out well It’s just the way it is To be honest Until eighteen hundred and fifty Liszt was so hardcore From eighteen sixty-five on onwards He lost his charms After that, as an Abbé, he was Special Interest Hanfstaengl‘s portraits We can still savour In the Weimar era it is hard to bear Franz as an old man Full of warts The body withered by cognac and smoking Oh, only on Lehmann's painting That stands near our bedsides You’ll see the hot Franz who always Works out well Who always works out well But even in this time still So people say He was still desirable Prey Oh, only on Lehmann's painting That stands near our bedsides You’ll see the hot Franz who always Works out well

[shion-yu]

Day 8 - Seizure

Julian was aware that he may have gone too far this time. Whumptober 2023! I’m using the @ailesswhumptober's prompt list. This story is about my OC Shumei - here’s his profile if you’re so inclined: https://toyhou.se/23743470.shumei-tw. This one’s EXTRA dark, you have been warned.

TW/CWs: Medical abuse!!

Julian was aware that he may have gone too far this time. Shu was out of his mind with fever. It was so bad that his boyfriend couldn’t even get a sentence out. Julian was actually giving him full doses of medication and yet the fever still wasn’t breaking. He held Shu up in bed, his hands planted firmly on Shu’s forearms to keep him from falling to the side bonelessly. “Shu, darling, Shumei, look at me, please.”

Shu’s eyes sluggishly moved in Julian’s direction, but Julian could tell he wasn’t actually seeing anything. This was bad. Really bad. Julian was actually truly worried for Shu’s health and he didn’t like that feeling. 

Julian stroked Shu’s hot face gently, eliciting only weak whimpers from the delicate man in his arms. “Darling? Can you hear me?”

There was a long pause, the only sound Shu’s labored breathing until he grunted in some weak acknowledgement. Okay, at least Shu could hear him, Julian thought to himself. “Shu, I’m going to draw you a bath. Hang on for me, okay?” No response this time.

Julian didn’t want to leave Shu even for a second, but the master bath was connected to their bedroom so he was at least able to leave the door open and watch Shu while he filled up the tub. The sound of rushing water was now familiar - he’d given Shu many baths over the past year, but he’d never felt so anxious for it to fill up. It seemed like the water level wasn’t rising fast enough. He made sure it was lukewarm before he stopped the drain and returned to Shumei’s side. “Just a few minutes, Shu.”

Shu twitched in bed. At first Julian thought that was a good sign that he heard Julian - but then he didn’t stop shaking. His hands were balled into tight fists that pulsed tightly, and soon his boyfriend was straining his neck upwards. “Shu?” Julian asked. The tremors only grew stronger, more pronounced, and Julian realized Shu was having a seizure. “Shit,” he swore. He took the pillows away and pulled back the covers so Shu couldn’t get tangled in anything. He pushed Shu onto his side and started counting.

One... ten... twenty...

His boyfriend’s shaking grew more violent. Grand mal seizure, Julian’s brain supplied. If they were at the hospital, he could order an IV push antiepileptic right away, but they were just at home. There was no one else around. Usually Julian loved that it was just the two of them in the apartment, but for once he wished someone else were here to help him wait through this.

Thirty... fourty... fifty...

A minute had never felt so long to Julian in his life. Foamy, red tinged sputum began to form in the corners of Shu’s lips and Julian winced. Shu must have bitten his tongue. 

Sixty... seventy... eighty...

The smell of urine, blood and bile mixed in the air. All scents that Julian was used to in the hospital, but in their home it felt markedly wrong. He couldn’t go this far again, he told himself. He had to take better care of Shu, otherwise he wouldn’t have a boyfriend to take care of at all.

Ninety... ninety-five...

The shaking was easing up now, Shu’s body relaxing ever so slightly. Julian grabbed his stethoscope from the bedside table and listened intently, relieved when he could hear Shu’s airway had not been obstructed. His boyfriend’s lips were tinged blue, but his heart was beating strong and fast. He’d be fine. Oxygen would have been helpful, but Julian didn’t have any at home. He’d have to order some right away. 

Shu groaned weakly, no discernable words to be made out. “Shh, it’s okay, it’s over,” Julian said, wiping a trail of blood that ran down Shu’s chin with his thumb. “It’s all over.”

Julian stood and glanced back at the bathroom, which immediately prompted him to run to turn the faucet off. The tub had overflown, leaving a thin layer of water on the porcelain floor that soaked the bath mats. He swore and threw several dry towels down to at least make the bathroom walkable before he went back to the bed and undressed Shu. His clothes were damp with sweat and urine and clung to Shu’s skin; Julian peeled them off of his boyfriend and then carried his naked form to the bathtub. Not bothering to get undressed himself, he stepped into the tub and lowered Shu into it. More water splashed loudly over the edges of the vessel. He’d deal with it later; right now, he had to lower Shu’s fever before his boyfriend had another seizure.

The water was slightly cooler than room temperature, so while it wasn’t exactly pleasant, it wasn’t the ice bath that Shu’s body reacted to like it was. He cried out loudly, unseeing eyes flying open in panic as Julian held him in the water. He writhed in Julian’s grasp, but thankfully he was too weak to get anywhere.

“I know it hurts. I’m sorry, you’ll feel better soon,” Julian whispered to him. “Just hold on a bit longer.”

No answer. Julian hadn’t expected one. He cupped handfuls of water and ran them over Shu’s face. “I’ve got you, I’m right here.” The noises Shu was making broke Julian’s heart. He usually liked when Shu cried, but this was different. Shu wasn’t conscious enough to show the emotions that Julian loved - he couldn’t feel sad or needy or weak. He couldn’t feel anything except pain, and that wasn’t what Julian wanted. He wanted Shu to rely on him and him only - not be completely at the mercy of just anybody because he was too unconscious to tell otherwise.

“You won’t get this sick again, I promise,” Julian said softly, because he knew Shu couldn’t understand him. He rubbed the blood off of Shu’s face and began to drain the tub; the water was a sickly brown color that disgusted him. “I won’t let you. I’ll be more prepared next time.” He leaned forward and kissed Shu’s burning forehead. 

Once the bath was empty, Julian filled it once more while they were still inside so that he could rinse Shu off with clean water. Shu was shivering violently, but Julian felt that his temperature had lowered at least slightly, so it had worked. He picked Shu up and carried him back to the bedroom, the soaked towels on the floor squelching unpleasantly beneath his bare feet. He placed Shu down in the chair next to the bed, pulling a fresh pair of underwear on his boyfriend and pulling a t-shirt over his head. He covered Shu with a blanket then changed the sheets quickly, throwing the soiled ones straight into the wash along with the soaked towels and pajamas. There, things were back in order. He changed his own dry pajamas and then put Shu back into bed.

He held Shu’s limp form close to him as he called into the hospital pharmacy, requesting all manner of IV medications that normally would only be available to home health agencies. His assistant would bring it to his house - it  would only take a couple of hours to arrive. Home oxygen would arrive tomorrow, just in case.

“Ju... li...”

Julian looked down at his boyfriend in surprise. He hadn’t expected Shu to wake up yet, but Shu was tough, he reasoned. It was why he’d pushed him so hard - because Julian had watched him take so much already. 

He held Shu closer to him. “Yes, darling, I’m here.”

“My mouth... hurts...”

Julian nodded. “You bit your tongue. I’ll let you have some ice chips later. Not yet.” He didn’t think it was a good idea for Shu to try and swallow yet.

“So tired,” Shu mumbled, his eyes closing again. “I can’t...”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Julian told him gently. “I’m here to take care of you.”

Shu’s eyes fluttered open once more for just a second. “Thank you,” he whispered. Julian felt his heart swell and he smiled.

“You don’t have to thank me, Shu. I love you. I’ll always love you no matter what.” Shu fell asleep once again and Julian kissed him a few more times. He loved Shu more than anything else. Shu was perhaps the only thing he loved. Today had been scary; it’d gone too far. But the thanks he got at the end of the day had made it worth it. The look in Shu’s eyes - fully dependent and trusting in Julian - was enough to remind Julian of every reason why he was doing this. He meant it when he said he intended to take care of Shu forever and ever - for as long as he could make sure Shu needed him.

[obeyelijah]

Thank you @unluckykay for drawing my needy MC, Elijah.

I finally had the time and energy to write out a small fanfic, and while it’s obviously not the best I could muster up, I’m glad that I can at least post it here. 😊

Well, here you go.

The small rousing noise of quiet snoring stirred Lucifer awake, heart beating in his ears, vision still blurred. Despite his grogginess, he moved his eyes around, and was pleasantly surprised to find himself awakened by none of his younger brothers. His foggy sight, heavy with temptation to drift back asleep, disappeared as a loud ‘snort,’ made him flinch in surprise. Before him was the feeling of a small body pulling him into an already tight, now stronger grip.

Glancing down, he sighed with relief. He felt the warmth of the young man’s unconscious embrace, cheek pressed right against his chest.

Elijah? When had he-? Lucifer thought.

“Mmn…?” A small grunt, but none the wiser to awaken, the human man frustrated by the small amount of effort the demon put into waking him from his slumber, he opened his left eye to look up at his demon. “Lushifer…?”

The slight drowsily slurred expression of his name urged out a small smirk from him, as Lucifer wrapped his arms over Elijah’s back.

“Mmmnm…” He grumbled, “Lucfer…” He groaned in a soft manner, “Go back to sleeep…”

Lucifer rested his head on his own shoulder and sighed, “I take it you’re still tired?”

“Mmhmm. Exhausted.”

The demon patted the ruffled cyan colored hair. “Then, how about I get you a few things to help then? A blanket? Maybe a warm drink?” He offered, shifting his arm to get the human to rest flat on the couch.

“No. No, please.” He blankly stated.

“A-are you sure? It’s no problem at all.”

“Please? Just for a bit longer.”

“But-! Eeh!” He tried and failed to move his arm out of Elijah’s weak, but oddly firm grip. Being sandwiched between his fragile human pressed to his front, his back up against the couch cushions.

“No.” Elijah sleepily ordered with a slight pout.

“Eh! Elijah, can you let go of my arm?”

“No, mine.”

“Eh!” He semi yanked. It was honestly endearing to see his human be so sleepily stubborn.

“Mine.” He groaned with drowsy giggling, still hugging his arms around Lucifer.

“Can I-?”

“Mine!”

“But-!”

“Mine!!”

He laughed out loud, “Elijah!”

He looked up at him with his lips firmly together in a flat frown, chin pressed against the dark colored sweater. “Common, you hardly sleep, and I finally got you to rest.”

He allowed a chuckle to escape his usually stony exterior, sighing out, “That is true.” He paused, but then spoke, “Becoming a student council member comes with exhausting responsibilities.” Lucifer moved a small dyed lock of hair from Elijah’s forehead. “Less than a month in. It’s amazing you can get any work done at all these days.”

Yawning, the young man rested his head back onto Lucifer’s shoulder. “How much time do we have until RAD meetings start?”

The demon whipped out his D.D.D phone, thumbing the keyboard password, and said, “Around sixty minutes.”

“Perfect. Now let’s go to sleep for the next fifty-five.” He nuzzled as close as he could be into the chest of Lucifer’s sweater.

“But now I’m not tired.”

Giving him a slight squeeze, a small whisper from him asked, “Then can you just lay here with me until we go?”

Lucifer chuckled with endearment, and lay his head back onto the couch cushion, “You could have told me you wanted that all along.”

No response was given, but he knew he didn’t need one from Elijah. Closing his eyes, wrapping his arms tighter around his loved one’s small frame, Lucifer began to drift off too, smiling softly.

[contentment-of-cats]

WiP bit 20

It burns. It's a dark fire in the eyes of every single Imperial he meets. The Seventh fleet is still going where the Purrgil take them and Ezra can't stop them. Pyrondi was kind enough to send him a staffing breakdown for his kill count.

28 Imperial Class I and II Star Destroyers, average of 45,000 souls per ISD. One million, two hundred and sixty thousand lives.

12 Dreadnought Class heavy cruisers, with an average of 12,000 souls. One hundred and forty-four thousand lives.

Five Interdictor class cruisers. 2,800 souls despite being the size of an ISD. Fourteen thousand lives.

20 Arquetiens light cruisers. 750 souls. Fifteen thousand lives.

Fifty Gozanti-class cruisers, freighters, supply ships, assault carriers, surveillance vessels, and Force knew what else. Crewing between twelve and 150 souls each.

The next communication was a detailed map of Lothal and an extrapolation based on their last sensor sweep of where the wreckage of obliterated ships would deorbit and crash into the world below. That's not counting the construction units that were hit by debris and deorbited in turn. Ezra has potentially killed at least a million Imps and at least that in his fellow citizens. The last slide compares his kill stats to Vader, Tarkin, and others. Saw Gerrera holds a record for the Catastrophe of Jegsziv - Pyro's homeworld. Ezra is second place.

The one time he tried to approach Pyrondi ended with him in medbay and 'Pyro' in the brig. There was a knife in her boot and she was fast, okay, but she didn't get the drop on him that way. It makes him take a longer look at the crew... the surviving crew of the Chimaera. It takes him even longer to deal with what he finds. Most kids never saw a Jedi in their lives. Lots of people lived and died never knowing that the Force existed, much less how to use it. Those abilities were latent - meaning in an entire life, the person never learned they could sense or use the Force. In some, they were dormant - used briefly, then went 'to sleep' after disuse. In a third instance, the abilities were so narrowly trained that the user was often mistaken for a highly gifted individual within their specialty. And lastly, the ability was an all but unusuable quirk. Under all conditions, those abilities could be traumatically awakened or activated in adulthood - and that was when they were the most dangerous to the person with the ability and those around them.

Pyro smashed him with a projection of emotion that Ezra never saw coming. Moreover, he was a sunburn red when they pulled her off of him. Both happened in literal seconds. She never even touched him with the blade. As he recuperated, under guard, he slipped into a meditative state, 'walking' without his body.

Jashin Agral.

Merri Barlin.

Yissa Hammerly.

Odo Lomar.

Albus Marinith.

Ilyana Pyrondi.

Phyrre Yve.

It had to be on purpose.

When Thrawn came to see Ezra, it wasn't to wish him happy birthday. He asked what happened between Ezra and Pyro. Ezra told him, and then added, "I tried to calm her down, but when I touched her mind-"

Very, very softly. "You did what?"

Oh. Bad mistake. "I touched her mind to try and calm her. It... she used the Force, but I don't know if she knows that-"

"You tried to influence her mind."

"To calm her-"

"You violated her mind." Ezra recoiled at the cold fury in those words. "You violated her autonomy. Her grief and anger are her own, and you found them inconvenient when you wanted to talk to her."

"It's not like that."

Thrawn got up and left.

[petitsdieu]

❛ I was twenty-four in sixty... five when my husband turned me. ❜

❛ You seem wiser than fifty. ❜

A whole lot of numbers to cheek — the only math she cares for is the trigonometry of bodies. But at least she can chew on the funnyness of this all. Here she thought Jessie was leaps away from her and really, they are hardly apart by the years.

To think, Hara could have been a vampire for five, maybe ten years at most when Jessie was born. It's hard to think of her as a baby. Or a human. Or anything other than the vision she knows her to be now.

She drums a beat or two to the book's edge.

Likes the closeness suggested in the way she places with her hair.

The book gets put down on the tableside. Gently.

❛ I've never sought out other vampires. I wouldn't know what to find exciting or not about that. Do you know others? ❜

THE QUESTION CAUSES HER TO LAUGH. "Why, cause I can't read?" Jessie muses, looking up at her with an amused expression. The question doesn't offend her, really — not really insecure about that aspect of her anymore since she's actively learning with the rest of her forever. If she was still a teenager, this would be another conversation.

Jessie bites, though. An open book of vague answers, tiptoeing around the tears and agony that went along with being turned, her autonomy being stripped away from her by a conman. Jessie knows Hara was asking about one part of this conversation, not the other.

"I was born in the seventies, turned in the nineties. I'm just dyslexic, ain't nothin' old timey 'bout me." There's a giggle in her demeanor, reaching up to twirl blonde strands around her finger, letting it coil and recoil as she moves her finger up and down.

"Does it make me less excitin' findin' out I'm like fifty rather than five hundred?"

[runa-falls]

flashing lights

summary: Officer Rogers pulls you over for speeding

pairing: police officer!steve rogers x reader

(side ransom drysdale x reader)

rating: explicit 18+ (broh i stg if you’re under 18 imma block u -.-)

warnings: SMUT, PIV sex with clothes on, public sex, misuse of power? (idk wtf), creampie (big emphasis on this), dirty talk, poly relatioship lowkey, second degree cuckhold lmao

word count: 2.3k

A/N: had this idea when I was going to meet a fwb only to be outrageously disappointed by the outcome (the fwb meet up not the fic lmaoo). needless to say, I needed this fic. also i absolutely did not read what I wrote cuz im crazy like that. thank you. amen.

masterlist

-=+=-=+=-=+=-=+=-

Wind rushes in from either side of your car, the sound almost deafening against the pounding music booming through your speakers. Your foot pushes down on the gas, unaware–and frankly, uncaring–of the speed you’re driving, just wanting to get to your destination as soon as possible.

You got a text that your best friend-with-benefits just got home from a business trip and wants a welcome home gift. You hadn’t seen him for a couple of weeks, so you were understandably excited to oblige to his requests.

It’s an unusually cool night, so the dark streets, lit only by sparsely placed overhead lights, are graced with thick clouds of fog making it hard to see far ahead of yourself.

As you zoomed past an empty intersection, you hear the heart-stopping noise of a siren followed by the dull bloom of flashing blue and red lighting up the interior of your car through the back window. Fuck, you look down at your speedometer, wait, you’re only sixty-five in a fifty-five zone. Why are they stopping you?

You carefully veer off the road and stop in front of a forest of trees, making haste to yank out your license from your wallet. This certainly isn’t how you expected tonight to go.

If there’s one thing you hate, it’s confrontations with police. Even when you haven’t done anything wrong, they scare the fuck out of you.

The officer slowly parked behind you and took his sweet time pulling himself out of his car. Based on the way he swaggered over to your window, thumb hanging from his equipment buckle, he was cocky and knew who held the power in their situation.

You wait in your seat patiently, trying to keep your body from shaking in anticipation. The tiny pink skirt you’re wearing rides up your thighs, making your nervous hands pinch and pull them down, stretching out the fabric. You weren’t expecting to have to interact with anyone except Ransom tonight, least of all a police officer.

Your knee bounces when he knocks on the side of the door, announcing his arrival. You look up and have to crane your neck to meet the officer’s deep steel eyes. He gazed back down at your trembling figure, tongue sticking out to wet his lips.

“Good evening, ma’am, license and registration, please.”

“Here, sir.” You keep your voice short and sweet, hoping to get through this without a scratch. You hand him your card and paper, watching as he takes a good while looking over them. You see the name ‘Rogers’ etched onto a metal button placed on top of a navy blue pocket. He stops his scanning and looks up at you with an unsatisfied look on his face.

“Do you realize how fast you were driving tonight?” His head is tilted to the side as he asks the question. He looks down at you with an air of condescension, eyes taking note of your outfit. “Have something important to get to?”

“Just visiting a friend, sir.” You squeak out a response, feeling the weight of his stare. His eyebrow raises at your answer.

“Hm…I’m going to need you to step out of the vehicle.” Your eyes widen, hands shaking as you unbuckle yourself from the seat. Your heart is beating out of your chest as you slowly step out of the car. Officer Rogers casually holds the door open with an arm, barely giving you any room to stand up in front of him.

“Um…what seems to be the pr-” Before you knew what was happening, he forcibly turns you around and pushes the front of your body to the dewy coolness of your car. A gasp is pushed out of you from the aggression of his actions.

You squeak out a whine as your arms are pulled behind you and held by his hand wrapped around both wrists. He tsks at your pathetic sounds of pain.

“You don’t ask the questions here, sweetheart.” You can feel his warm breath against your neck as he speaks roughly into your skin. “Had a rough day and you’re gonna help me feel better. How does that sound, princess?” You give him a stuttered nod, barely able to move your body from the way he pushes into you.

His rough hand glides down your back, tracing each ridge of your spine before squeezing your ass through the thin cloth of your skirts. His close proximity against you fills your mind with his cologne and a faint taste of cigarettes. “You going to see your little boyfriend in this get-up?”

“He’s not my boyfriend-”

“Ah…so you spread your legs for all your friends?” Your eyebrows furrow at his degrading words. You push back against his body, trying to escape his hold but he doesn’t even flinch at your actions. He teases the end of your skirt then changes his mind and pushes both of your wrists to either side of your head against the window. Your breath fogs up the glass, blurring the only reflection of him you could see.

“I mean, you’re letting me do all this to you. Must really be a cock hungry slut, huh?” He leans his hips against you and pushes your legs apart using a booted foot, letting you feel his hardness against your soft body. You melt against him and he becomes the only thing holding you up.

“What would he think if you showed up with a full pussy, limping all the way to his doorstep?” He cooed into your sweat-stuck neck, nibbling at the sensitive skin until he sees purple.

Your back is forced to arch away from him, shoving your hips into his. He flips over the back of your skirt and admires the ruined white panties that barely cover your skin. You’d look so innocent if you weren’t panting for him. He gives you a small pinch, watching as your body jumps at the feeling.

You feel two warm fingers press against your cunt and slide up to your clit. The cloth moistens from your leaking slick and you feel Officer Roger’s hum vibrate against you at the feeling. “I’d love to continue this but I need your hot cunt around me.” You hear the sound of ruffling fabric and the jingling of metal cuffs behind you.

Hot skin presses against your thighs and he prods at your clothes center insistently. Your hair is swept to your shoulder to expose your neck more openly for him. You feel him tug your panties down and let them hang right over your knees, just enough to situate himself at your entrance.

“Baby is so creamy for me…” You let out wordless sounds, desperate to get filled as he uses his head to spread your essence and watches it drip down your leg.

You feel the indescribable pressure of him stretching you open. He pushes in slowly, forcing you to feel every ridge and vein as he goes. Your chest breathes out a moan as you push back against him, frustrated by the slowness of his pace, just wanting him deeper inside of you.

He snaps his hips in quick spurts in response to your greedy behavior, not stopping even as your breaths turn into sharp gasps. “Not very patient are we?” He pushes your face into the window, smashing your flushed cheek against the cooled glass. You hear the squelching of your wetness magnified with the sound of bare skin slapping against each other. It makes you delirious.

Your grip on the car starts to slip as your palms sweat from the intensity of his ministrations. The ghostly streaks run down the glass and disappear as quickly as they arrive

He spots your falling form and lets your wrists go to turn you around to face him. His hands raise to the sides of your face and he pulls you in for a kiss and you almost fall from the intensity of it. His tongue caresses yours, drinking you in as your body squirms against his. You promptly kick off your panties before you’re picked up by the hips and forced to wrap your legs around him for support.

Your back is slammed back onto the metal behind you, and a population of goosebumps explodes from the sudden temperature change against your bare skin. He quickly returns himself into your warmth, holding you up like you weigh nothing.

His rhythmic grunts catch every time he bottoms out into you, stabbing your spot over and over again. His ruthless focus on hitting the bundle of nerves inside of you provokes hot tears down your face.

Rogers watches the stream of dark mascara travel down your chin and into the deep cleavage of your hidden black lace push-up. He loves it when you cry. You lean your head back, taking in the dark starry sky and letting out broken moans.

“You gonna let me fill you up, honey?” You look up at him with glassy eyes, nodding frantically. Your arms hold on to him tighter as his pace speeds up, grabbing you to trust yourself back onto him. As your bodies are pushed closer together, your clit slides against him and you see white at the combined pleasure. You clench around him, so close to your release that you can barely decipher where you are.

He grunts against the feeling of your tightness, struggling to continue his actions. You feel him stutter and throb inside of you. “Fuck princess, you’re so tight for me.” Your chest rises rapidly as white pleasure takes over each of your limbs and blanks out your mind. Your warmth flutters around him and he lurches forward at the feeling, strokes becoming slow yet firm.

You feel his hot cum gush inside of you before you heard his strangled groan. He fills you to the brim, producing a handful of small thrusts until he’s forced to lean his weight against you.

You hear his hum as he pulls out of you, setting you down to stand with your back to the car. Your legs are shaky as they recalibrate to support your weight again. You watch as he swiftly pulls up his pants and relatches his belt of assorted tools onto his figure. He spots your white underwear on the floor and crouches down to scoop them up.

“You won’t need these tonight.” He shoves them in his front right pocket and gives you a smug look, admiring your disheveled form. Your cheeks are flushed and stained from your pleasure-filled tears. You bite your lip waiting for his next move.

“Thanks for the help, baby. You just made my day a whole lot better…You can get back into the car now” He didn’t make a motion to move out of the way, so you scooted yourself around him, and got back in, still in a daze from what just happened.

You squeeze your knees closed, hoping you wouldn’t leave a stain on the car seat. Officer Rogers closes the door for you and uses his arm to lean against it.

“Be a good girl and don’t speed on the way, okay, honey?”

“Yes, sir.” You beam a smile at him and start your car. He pats the car before turning to walk back to his, still sporting the arrogant walk he came up to you with.

—

You pull up to Ransom’s ridiculously windowed house, quickly taking a look at your appearance in the car mirror. You were taken aback at the makeup running down your face and the fluffy state of your hair. Your fingers run through your hair and wipe under your eyes. That would have to do for now, you’re already late.

You see him as soon as you open the car door, waiting in front of the house. A lit cigarette burns in his sweater-clad hand as he sends you an irritated look, obviously waiting for your arrival longer than he’d like to. You send him a sheepish smile, walking with your legs slightly closer together than usual to keep everything inside of you.

“And where have you been?” He takes a puff from the cigarette and lets it blow out of his nose as his eyebrow raises in question.

“I got pulled over on the way here…” You mumble out, knowing he doesn’t really care for the answer.

“Oh yeah?” He flicks the cigarette to the ground and it lands right next to your shoe. You put it out for him as he wanders closer to you, taking in your puffy pink lips. “He punish you again?” You give him a small guilty nod.

He walks inside the house, expecting you to follow him. You see him settled on one of his crazy expensive armchairs. He beckons you closer with a finger and pats his lap. He always knows how to make you feel like one of his little pets. Small and insignificant.

You follow his wordless instructions, draping your body over his legs to let him have a good view up your skirt. He sighs as he places his hands on you, missing the softness of your body.

“Let’s see the damage he left this time…” He drags a warm hand up your thigh and reveals the present that Steve left for him. You were a mess down there, your reddened cheeks contrast nicely with the splattered white cum in and around your cunt. “What was it this time? A broken tail light, loud music?” You softly shake your head.

“Speeding.” He hums in acknowledgment, spreading your combined slick around and pushing back inside of you. You can’t help but moan at the rough way he handles you.

“He always pulls this shit when he knows I’m back. Can’t let me have you to myself.” Ransom grumbles in frustration, eyes not leaving your weeping pussy. “Think you can go again anyway, baby?” A grin pulls at your lips and you nod with newfound energy.

“Yes sir, anything for you.”

[queenlucythevaliant]

Long and happy was their reign. The Pevensie children grew up and grew old. Twenty, forty, fifty years. A golden age.

They all bore scars: from when Lucy took an arrow to the shoulder and Susan took a fall from a horse and Edmund took a blade to the thigh. But Peter’s scars put all of theirs to shame. The various marks and aches of a warrior-king’s body are too numerous to name. Swords to the back and chest and arms and legs. Arrow to the foot. The point of a spear to the side. More than he could remember, after a while.

Peter began to gray before the rest of them too, which wasn’t surprising since he was the eldest. What was, perhaps, surprising was how early he began to gray. Threads of silver began to appear at Peter’s temple when he was scarce thirty-five. Yet this, Lune told him, was the way of kings. Tis a poor ruler whose concerns do not drive the color from his hair, he said. Peter laughed and shook his head, but he wore every gray hair with pride from then on.  

Peter was proud of all that Aslan had entrusted to his concern. His kingdom. His siblings. The images would come back to him in snatches later: Lucy, twenty-three, with the sun in her hair beneath the gold banner of Aslan. Edmund, forty-five, covered in red road-dust as he slid from his horse. Susan, sixty-two, twining silvery ivy through her silver-streaked hair

.

Long and happy. As any fairytale ought to end. Lucy would know.

She shot up fast like a flower in spring, but privately she always felt young for her age. It wasn’t until Tumnus chided her for it that she stopped appending “Mr.” to the front of his name. She never managed it at all with Mr. Beaver, for all the years of their friendship. He was too much like her father—wasn’t he? —well, too much like a father, at any rate.

All those years, Lucy saw Aslan the most, except for when she saw him the least. It was not all a fairytale, you know. For nearly ten years, between 1023 and 1034, Lucy saw neither mane nor claw of Aslan. The absence wrote creases into her forehead. Lucy watched the sunrise from her balcony each morning and whispered her fears across the sea.

When at last Aslan came to her again, Lucy felt each one of those ten years. She was angry, yes, but when the anger subsided, mostly she was just older. She longed for the Lion’s presence more than ever.

She would never forget the soft scratch of Aslan’s mane between her fingers, no matter how long it had been since last she touched it. She would never forget the warmth of Susan’s embrace upon returning to the Cair after an absence, nor the unkempt scruff of Peter’s beard after action, nor the liquid-cool stone of the architectural models Edmund kept arrayed on his desk.

.

Happy. Edmund had been horrified by Narnia for a week, but he was happy there for years and decades afterwards. Happy, like he’d never believed he could be.

The past was washed away with the ocean tide and Edmund found himself eager to build things. High towers for Susan, long bridges for Lucy, strong walls for Peter. He constructed roads all across the country, sealed them with his signet, and anointed them with oil and a song to Aslan. In youth, Edmund’s energetic fervor was nigh unmatched.

His health began to suffer in his later years. Joint pain, mostly, and restless legs after a while. Edmund drifted further and further back from the front lines of battle, eventually landing himself in a command tent that he never again left. He didn’t mind much. Edmund had fought bravely and well as a youth, and he had never been a warrior in his soul the way Peter and Lucy were. Edmund worked, and in rhythm, he rested.

He drank wine in moderation, ate Turkish Delight when it pleased him, and savored every nuance of the taste. He sipped chamomile with Su in the parlor, though he seeped his longer for extra flavor. Lu brought currants and persimmon from her wanderings, apples and blackberries from the yards outside the castle. On Peter’s fiftieth birthday, Edmund ate a decadent slice of the most ostentatious cake he’d seen in his life and tried not to laugh too hard at his brother’s expense.

.

Long. If she was honest, Susan imagined it would never end.

Oh, she made plans for the succession right along with the rest of her siblings. A proper monarch must make arrangements for the future, even if she’d rather not. All the same, Susan tried not to think on it overmuch. She was forever wishing to stay behind, even as time propelled her forward.

Susan struggled the most with aging out of all her siblings, not out of vanity but because she did not easily embrace change. When Cor was rediscovered, Susan loved him at once—but she also missed the bond that just she and Corin had shared. When her siblings strayed far from the Cair, Susan left candles in their windows and wished to have them back home. When Narnia’s boarders expanded, Susan missed the graceful slopes of old lines on old, outdated maps.  

And, Aslan help her, when Susan finally cut her hair, forty-five and practical enough to realize that it was time, she wept into her pillow that night.

So perhaps it was not surprising that Susan still held onto parts of Narnia even after she’d done her best to leave it behind. Years after they had all died far, far too young, Susan was sure she remembered what her siblings had sounded like old. She knew that at fifty Lucy’s laugh had spanned a whole octave, running up and down the notes like chimes. She knew that Edmund’s voice had softened with age while Peter’s had grown louder; that by the time they were sixty, Edmund had sighed like deep river and Peter had snored like a locomotive. She remembered, and she missed them.  

[cosaslocasdeunafangirl]

Hi could you do something about desire where the reader stayed a sleep while morpheus was imprisoned then desire invaded the readers dream and they fell in love similar to what happened to unity in the show I’m curious to how life with desire really was while she slept

Desire is not my favorite character of the endless (But well...Let's give him a chance for once.) And first, English is not my first language, I hope you don't mind. And second, I'm a wh*re for fluff/angst.

Words: 753

Warnings: Drama/ Fluffy/angst

Characters: Desire x F!Reader

1.

Dearest desire

I knew you were there, in the shadows, with eyes tawny and sharp as yellow wine, watching me silently, while I washed away the dirty on my favorite dress.

I was twelve years old when the sickness hit me one night… You know how it goes, right?

A lonely little girl, living in a dreaming world she learned to call home.

2.

I was nineteen when you give me my first kiss.

There was no love in your eyes, or warm in your touch,

but I was in heaven anyway.

I still remember the thing you said to me after, when your hand caressed my right cheek and my body felt like Jell-O:

"Dear mine, what a sight for sore eyes."

If I wasn't the foolish woman

That I am… I would have asked you why.

Maybe, you would have answered me then.

3.

I was twenty-one when I missed my real parents.

Sadly, I haven't been able to tell the difference between the fake ones in the dreaming world.

And that night, I begged you to hug me for a little while.

Dearest Desire,

Your bright yellow eyes finally… were kind for once.

And I understood at that moment why you have a sin for a name, when your skin met my skin and ours lips searched for one another.

Love was what we did.

I refuse to believe otherwise.

4.

I was twenty-five when the house that my parents gifted me

felt too damn big for me alone.

I asked you to live with me.

But Desire belongs to no one, I should have known better.

"Don't make that face, butterfly." you pouted before kissing me.

Not even two days later, you accepted my request.

I still don't believe you really did that, not even now.

5.

I had all of you to myself for five more years.

Day and night.

From breakfast to dinner

again,

again,

and again.

But all this time, you,

my dearest desire

stayed the same.

The one getting old was me.

I was a foolish woman, remember?

I Should have dreamed of me being immortal, too.

6.

When I was thirty years old

and the new things were no longer new things

sex became a routine.

The house bored you to death,

and my kisses did too.

That was when you have the idea of having a kid.

So I said, "No more than two."

7.

When I was Forty-seven,

and our daughter, seventeen

you, my dearest Desire

still young and beautiful,

confessed to me for the first time

how much you love, and cherished the things we did

together in all these years.

"Why are you telling me…"

"Shh… It's a secret between you and me, butterfly."

It felt like a farewell.

Hell, It has one, at least for a while.

8.

I was fifty-nine when you came back.

All my angry yells,

throwing out plates and fury, passed too quickly

for my own good.

Perhaps it was because the house felt too empty

without our daughter here.

Perhaps I missed you a ton.

I don't know, dear...

I'm not the same as I was before.

You kissed me then, softly,

and I felt in heaven.

Exactly the same way years ago, when I was nineteen,

and you kissed me for the first time.

"It's not fair" I said looking at you.

"Desire never is, butterfly."

And dammit, I missed that childish nickname.

9.

We made love one last time.

You embraced me like I was your whole world.

I was old and wrinkled, but you didn't seem to care.

My dearest Desire,

people may say it wasn't love,

that It was a funny experiment…me and our daughter.

Doesn't matter.

I will love her for the two of us, if necessary.

"Goodnight." I murmur on your ear at last.

"Night, butterfly." You kiss my front head, and close your eyes.

10.

I'm sixty-five years old when the dream is over.

And you, my dearest Desire,

is not here to take my hand on the awake world.

Strangely enough, I have a real daughter,

and grandsons to love.

But sometimes, when I'm alone

and I hear nothing but silence,

I feel eyes tawny and sharp as yellow wine

on my back…

Longing the same way I do.

However, when I turn around, there's just shadows and walls instead.

"Where I touch, things want and need and love…" Desire said to me a long time ago.

And maybe, them felt the same with my touch too.

[beef-brisket]

Adam: What?! But- mommy- mother- look at him! He's- he's small!

Sera smiled and cupped her sons face. To anyone else, the action would come off as sweet and doting, but to the royal guard, it was very condescending the Queen using her child's dumbness as a joke.

Sera: Don't worry, my precious darling, he's literate and has a good head on him. With him ruling at your side, our people may have a chance.

Adam pouted when his girls laughed as Sera moved away to stand in front of Lucifer: And you, we will speak privately once you are washed and changed.

Before Lucifer could say anything, he was lifted up and hauled away. Usually, he would complain about being manhandled at this point.

-

Lucifer would have thought being bathed by these women would be the worst part, but they were surprisingly gentle and had an extensive amount of soups, body washes and hair cleaning products.

They even have bags of flowers and aromatics to sent the water.

It was... lovely, to say the least.

First, he was washed thoroughly in steaming water, and then in mill and honey. Out of this whole experience, Lucifer would be very keen on doing this again.

Once he was out and dried, he was dressed. And while the clothes didn't look too much different than what he'd usually wear, there were a few minor changes. Over top of his new robe was mainly leather that hugged his body, with clean furr lining his shoulder and waist.

Lucifer: Huh... this isn't as bad as I thought it would be...

The prince jumped when Lute pushed through the door: Hm... it'll do. That looks ridiculous on someone so small... but, that's the least of our worries.

Lucifer: Uh- worries? What worries?

Lute walked over to one of the tables and poured herself a drink. Not that Lucifer could see her up close, and with better lighting, he noticed how tired and drained she looked.

Lute: The prince is having a tantrum.

Lucifer: Ah... I don't understand. Why would he approve of me, then get... emotional when his mother agreed with him?

Lite sighed and downed her drink, Lucifer's nose scrunched up when he smelt the hard liquor.

Lute: Because she's the last one to approve of decisions around here, especially Adam's decisions. To which she usually overrides or completely changed them. Or just says no. You have no idea how many times I've had to console that child because mommy told him no.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, she sighed: He knew the girls were getting frustrated bringing different men back for him, and all he'd do was disapprove. He was hoping that he'd say yes to you, and then Lord Sera would disagree. Let's say he was extremely surprised that this is the one thing she approved of.

Lucifer nodded: She's desperate, then.

Lute: ...No offence, but yes. You're not the usual type of man we'd bring. Usually, they would be men from other tribes, but... men are hard to come by. It's extremely rare. Many have heard rumours that our Lord will demand that Adam have at least four or five males. Which would mean you two would have to rear at least twenty children.

Lucifer: T-Twently?! That's- what?!

Lute smirked: Imagine how Adam's feeling. And don't worry, he makes his issues and wants VERY known. I'm sure you'll hear all about how "his figure will be ruined" and how he "prefers a good fight over raising children".

Lucifer: Oh god... and... how old is he...?

Lute: Twenty-seven. If you're worried about a time limit, don't be too concerned. Our males can have children until their fifty. Some have their last in their sixties.

Lucifer: What?! That's... physically impossible!

Lute scoffed: Maybe for your pathetic excuses for broodmothers, but our life span is longer, and our people are strong.

Lucifer: I- our women are strong-!

A loud horn cut Lucifer off, and the man watched as Lute stood up straight and held her fist to her chest.

He was more than confused until Sera walked inside. He didn't think it was possible, but he's somehow even more terrifying in this light.

Sera: Commander, I would like a word with our soon to be king. Alone.

Lute bowed and walked out of the room, not giving Lucifer or Sera another glance.

Sera: So. Did you enjoy your cleaning?

Lucifer: I... I did, actually. It was very nice. Relaxing.

Sera nodded: Yes, I would assume you'd need it after the day you've had... and will have.

Lucifer: Uh- your son... uh...

Sera: He's kind. Once you get to know him. Unfortunately for my son, giving me heirs isn't at the top of his priority list. So... I've had to force my hand, which is something I do not like doing. But, our people deserve a leader. A strong one. One to give them many rulers for years to come. And hopefully, a few males... my family line is filled with war chiefs, strong women who have battled in legendary armies, and have levelled some of the most powerful kingdoms. I will not let my bloodline wash away because my ot child is more concerned about growing flowers.

Lucifer blinked. He had a feeling he was being signed on for something he wasn't ready for.

Lucifer: I... why me?

Sera: You are my last resort. My final option. If my son does not wedd you, I will have to parade him around other villages and just hope he'd get impregnated that way. But, I know my people will prefer two kings... especially with my sons... poor brain function. He gets it from his father, unfortunately.

Lucifer: Oh- that's... gene's for you, I suppose.

Sera rolled her eyes: the stupid fool dropped him when he was a few days old. He was never allowed to hold him till the day he died. Stupid fool... oh, how I miss him darely...

They stood in silence for a moment before Sera spoke again: So, do you have any questions? Any concerns you'd like to ask or run by me?

Lucifer: ...Why do I feel like you wouldn't care?

Sera laughed: Because I don't! You're a smart one! Very good!

💝 Barbaric Engagement 💝

@beef-brisket

Lucifer, a prince of Greece walked along a stoney path just going for an afternoon stroll. The fresh air filling his lungs as he made his down to a forest, it was the only place where he could read his book and write in his journal in true peace.

Today he really needed to get away, his father just told him that he was to marry some woman from Rome. Rome of all places!

He walked into the forest until he found a large oak tree where the light was shining just right. Sitting down at the base of the tree, Lucifer took out his journal and began writing down his thoughts.

Unaware of the eyes that were watching him or the hushed mumbles that were too low for his ears to pick up.

Maybe then he would have known who was coming for him.

A woman came out of nowhere, towering over him. She looked muscled beyond any woman he had ever seen.

Lucifer: Hello? Woah!!

Two more women came out and grabbed Lucifer by each arm and tied him up before walking away with him on one of their shoulders.

Lucifer: Hey! Put me down! MMMPHMM!!

One of them shoved an apple in his mouth to silence him, how rude! But the deeper they went into the forest the more fear that crept into Luicfer's very being.

It felt like they walked for hours until they came to a village made of stone and was the same color as a salmon.

Lute: You will be taken to our Prince.

Lucifer bit the apple and spat it out: What are you going to do to me?

Lute: If Prince Adam likes you, you'll marry him.

[give-soup-please]

Heres a fun one! If you were to describe your Narrator when he takes on a form, what would he look like? Tall, short? Greying hair? Dark hair? Glasses? No glasses? I'm suddenly curious now.

Ah, a fun and easy question to answer. Let's see:

My narrator is taller than me. I'm 5 foot, 6 inches, and when I think about him, he usually is at least six inches taller than that, though it has been known to vary. I like tall people, they make excellent hugging partners. Especially when they do that thing where they let you rest the top of your head under their chin. Absolutely underrated.

His hair is a kind of a pale sandy brown, it was once much darker, but it's definitely starting to fade. He's got flecks of gray running through his hair, and if you gave him another five years, it would probably all turn gray by then. My mind switches between having his hair be perfectly combed and gelled, and being a mess because he runs his fingers through it when anxious or emotional, which is- most of the time. Like extreme bedhead.

He wears glasses, with no dark rims, it's all just glass. It's hard to explain their exact kind, but it's a fusion of half moon spectacles and John Lennon's famous pair. 3/4ths moon spectacles? I don't know how to describe it.

His eye color shifts, depending on my mood. Blue and brown are the most common colors, though green has been known to crop up from time to time.

He's always appeared to me as an older man, early fifties at the youngest, late sixties at the oldest. His body type is chubby. I don't know how to explain it, but he doesn't sound young or thin to me, so I don't picture him that way.

He dresses like an english professor, which is very fitting. We're talking tweed jackets and ties, turtle necks, blazers, dark slacks, the whole thing.

And I don't know how much sense this makes, but when I picture him, his form isn't 100% realistic. When I think about other fictional characters, I've got a fairly clear grasp on their form. But with him, he looks more cartoony. Like an alien getting a glimpse of a human and then being asked to make a kids show about them. Details tend to shift around a lot, so a shorthand would be:

Irritated and long suffering English professor who is in desperate need of a vacation, or retirement. He's just graded an essay on why his favorite book isn't really all that great, and he's got a migraine coming on. Grumpy old man with a soft spot under several layers of ego and anxiety.

But yeah, how I picture him tends to change a lot. If you asked me in a week's time, some of the details would be different. It's a matter of personal taste, but some interpretations I look at and instantly go, "yeah, that's him." and some I don't.