#hardened and wise and in so much pain all the time

[unclewaynemunson]

Thinking thoughts about Nancy Wheeler again. About how she was the most Teenage Girl ever, gossiping with her bestie while twirling her phone cord around her fingers and kicking her legs in the air. About how she lost everything that embodied her Teenage Girl self in one night: her virginity, her best friend, her carefree smiles and giggles. How she turned into a soldier, got consumed by guilt, and could never return to the youth that she lost.

[shirefantasies]

The Hobbit Characters + Pregnant Reader (Wife!Reader)

I just love fluff ok and, say it with me, I did this for LoTR 😁 (you can think of the older characters’ as being set when you guys are younger, not during book/film events 😊)

Warnings: conception mentions, some implications of infertility, pregnancy-related illness and symptoms, very long post 😂

Balin

✧ Five years. For five years you had tried. Six you and Balin had been married, happily as anything, but children never came. Your struggles had broken you down, leading you to try all the remedies well-meaning elders and healers alike recommended. Eat more good, strong foods, less of that greasy stuff. Drink this tea, it’s great for women! It’s only a bunch of tiny needles- the pain of birth will be worse anyway. Don’t be so active, let yourself relax for Mahal’s sake, girl! Remedy after remedy, you put your body through it all and put your hands up and prayed. Weeks passed and you had taken ill, attending the healers’ just to get something to ease your nausea, and that was when the questions began. Illness forgotten, you wandered in a grinning daze out of that hall and straight into your husband’s arms. When he chuckled and asked what this was all about, all you could do was snuggle into his chest deeper and whisper “It’s finally happened.”

✧ Such years leant of course to Balin being a bit extra protective of you. You often chastised him, good-naturedly of course, that he hovered so over you, and every time he would simply kiss you and say "That's right".

✧ It brought you both to tears when you began showing, when your condition had persisted long enough to be real, to last beyond the known months of danger. Forehead pressed against yours, your husband held you tightly and warmly for some amount of minutes you did not know, but minded not at all. Balin's words of love and reassurance were as music to your ears.

✧ Hormones confound you some days, pulling you from peace to ruin in mere moments, but Balin is always there with warm arms and wise words, reminding you that whatever you may think, you will never be alone.

✧ The one time during your entire pregnancy that you saw Balin cry was the day you brought home a tiny red coat that looked just like his and showed it to him with pride glowing in your eyes.

✧ He is so calm during all the worst sides of your condition, standing right by you through the good, the bad, and the ugly and dusting and cleaning you off each and every time. "We fought hard for this," he reminds you, "And I'll keep fighting with you every step of the way."

Dwalin

✧ You had wanted children all your life, certainly, and you'd seen Dwalin around them a few times, but what would he say? Your husband was a renowned warrior, hardened in the face of blood and steel and tolerant of no foolishness. But still he went soft as clay when his beloved wife fell into his arms. Thus that night you softened him up but good with all the great food and affection you could muster, so much that you had him remarking what a wonderful home he'd been blessed with. "And would you be willing to share it?" At that, your husband rose from his chair, hands tensing at his sides. "You don't mean-" "I do," you nodded. Without warning, you were swept up into Dwalin's arms, hoisted gently into the air with a giggle. "Just when I thought Mahal couldn't bless me any more! My beautiful wife, with child."

✧ Cue the two of you bickering back and forth like, well, a married couple, about who the child is going to look like. "I'll have 'em look just like you, thanks." "I for one relish in the thought of toting around a miniature Dwalin." "Come now," your husband teases back, running a hand over his shaven, tattooed head, "If they look like you they'll have better hair!"

✧ Dwalin has tiny wooden swords and axes made in time for your little arrivals, ensuring the axes match his to a tee.

✧ He sleeps flush against you now, head leaned against your growing belly and one hand firmly atop it like a lovely little line of defense.

✧ You have him absolutely wrapped around your finger, even more so now. Bat your eyelashes at him and make any request and he melts like butter. You’ll never want long for anything you crave!

✧ Admittedly he knows very little of a woman’s workings, but the moment he hears all your explanations he dubs you as great a warrior as he! “Beautiful as the stars and strong as the mountains to boot! That’s my girl.”

Thorin

✧ He has waited so long for this. So many years of this hanging pressure and yet when he has you by his side, all the feeling of necessity behind trying fades away. You two can simply enjoy life. So when you return to Thorin's side one day, eyes brimming with tears, all you say to him is "It's happened". And with that you see your king, your husband, collapse as if his whole body is sighing, pulling you into him like he needs you to breathe. One hand reaches up to hold the back of your head, gently caressing your hair.

✧ Vows every day that he will protect you both, be the father and husband you deserve, taking your hands in his and then leaning down to address both his queen and your child.

✧ Thorin also assures you that despite what any members of the court say, your new addition will be equally loved and equally worthy of the throne whether you welcome a son or a daughter. "All I wish is a healthy child with their mother's heart." "And their father's good looks," you tease in response, pulling your husband in for a kiss.

✧ You begin stealing his clothes, stating that his tunics are so much more comfortable than your dresses with an innocent bat of your eyelashes that has Thorin relenting every single time, heart rent at the way they begin fitting you tighter.

✧ You see a different side of Thorin in this stage of your marriage, one you’ll never complain about, not when he softens so, gazes down upon you with such love as he hovers over you, kissing your lips, your neck, your belly.

✧ There is no denying that you both glow during this time, pride and joy illuminating Thorin’s features right alongside the radiance of your childbearing state. Everyone stops you to say what a beautiful couple you are and you cannot help the flush of heat that rises to your face as Thorin thanks them and guides you away from the crowd, a protective hand on the small of your back

Oin

✧ Predicts it before you even realize because you’re exhibiting all the telltale symptoms; annoyed as you may be by his insistence that you are with child, what do you know? Oin is right. Oin is, unfortunately, also quite smug about this. Once the initial triumph wears off, though, he’s shouting for joy and crushing you with a hug!

✧ The absolute dream husband to have when you're with child, for he has worked taking care of countless dwarrowdams in your condition. He knows what you need. He understands. And most importantly, he does not judge.

✧ In fact, you two get a kick out of poking fun at the other husbands who roll their eyes at their wives' demands or take shots at their cravings because, frankly, that could never be you. "He doesn't know her body needs more iron!" "I bet he moans and groans about grabbing her a pillow, too."

✧ Having married such a well-known dwarrow, you’ll have all manner of strangers approaching you with congratulations that you reluctantly just accept, correctly assuming they’re patients of Oin’s that he’s proudly blabbed to.

✧ He’s always asking you to guess if you’re having a boy or a girl, insisting that “‘tis the mother’s intuition, after all.”

✧ You insist on remaining on your feet as long as possible, and your husband does not protest, knowing that exercise is good for the baby. That doesn’t mean he won’t be right behind you to catch you if you fall or check on your precious little bump, though, of course.

Gloin

✧ Not so subtle in his so-called 'baby fever', your husband has been going on and on about how his child will be his little flame, the apple of his eye, his world. You have no fear, then, sharing the news, in fact you amuse yourself by dropping your state in conversation like the plainest fact. "I'm glad you've got those new blankets, dear, what with the baby coming in winter and all," you told Gloin, taking a sip of your tea. Deafening is the only word you can use to describe the roar of celebration he gives, wonderfully bone-crushing and teeth-rattling your embrace and kiss.

✧ Tackles you to bed almost every night the first week, covering your cheeks and belly alike with kisses.

✧ Spends that very same time period sharing with absolutely any soul who even remotely listens that he’s going to be a father!

✧ Gloin is very insistent upon your care, even taking it upon himself to make your meals by hand. Which, suffice it to say, is a bit disastrous the first few times but he emerges triumphant in the end and succeeds in filling you with all the hearty things your budding dwarrowling needs!

✧ Being married to a dwarf means you have a husband who absolutely adores the extra pounds you put on and has no qualms about showing you in and out of the bedroom! Even just stopping by the market he’ll be wrapped around you.

✧ Encourages the baby every time they kick, shouting out praise of their strength while you tell him to cool it, all those kicks are going to you!

Bifur

✧ A large part of him thought that he would never be able to experience fatherhood. Not since the injury, and that had happened at such a young age. You cut right through that fear, assured Bifur that he would be an amazing father regardless of if he did some things differently. And that he would soon see, for your family would be growing early the next year.

✧ In all honesty, you feel blessed to have a husband who signs, for your baby will likely be able to communicate early! When you tell Bifur this he breaks out into tears, for what an angel you are to see the beauty in him. Every side of him. He promises to do the same.

✧ And make good on that does he! You will never want for love for even on your illest days Bifur is right by your side, his caresses gentle and speaking volumes of adoration.

✧ Absolutely adores jumping into the bath with you! His excuse being he has to help you and may as well rinse his beard off, but you can see how eager he is to run his hands over your hair and see the way your body relaxes at his cleansing touch. He wants nothing more than to feel useful, needed, and you assure him you cannot do this without him.

✧ Again and again, in fact, on the days when he stands behind you, holding up your burden and cheering you with little jokes and flirtation in Khuzdul even as you are overcome with exhaustion.

✧ Proudly tells everyone who will listen that he’s got a little warrior in there whenever the baby kicks!

Bofur

✧ You hadn’t exactly been trying. You hadn’t exactly been not trying, either. The news comes to you through a haze, muffled by the great rush of other thoughts bombarding your mind and sending your heart beating, but at their heart comes the image of Bofur holding a little one and bouncing them upon his knee and your chest flutters and soars. Your visit is completed all in smiles, and upon returning him to your husband’s questioning about the flu you’ve gone in for, you tell him it likely will not go away until the end of the year. “The end of the year? Why ever that long? I’ve never heard of a flu like that, not even-” “‘tisn’t a flu, my darling,” you smirk at him, “it’s a baby.” “A- you’re- we’re gonna have a-” Bofur is all agape, stepping closer and hovering his hands over your middle like he doesn’t want to grip you in a way that breaks you. “That all right?” You ask, half-teasing, for he has recently confided in you his envy of Bombur’s family. “All right? Song of my heart, I could kiss you!” “Well, what’s stopping you?”

✧ If you thought Bofur was affectionate before, well Mahal be with you, for you haven't seen anything yet! He falls even more in love with your body knowing it's carrying his and your child, hands nearly always holding or roaming you. When you're out and about, your husband usually has a hand at the small of your back, supporting the weight you carry as you walk and running soothingly up and down. Kisses all over your belly in private.

✧ This lends to how quick your husband is to reassure you on days you don't feel so friendly with your body, those times when you'd like nothing more than to shatter the looking-glass. "All I see," Bofur tells you one day, a hand on each of your shoulders as you peer together, "Is the most beautiful thing I've ever laid my lucky eyes upon, and she's not got an easy job. If I were her, I'd be proud of myself. Proud of making a comfortable home for our little one. And if I was her husband, why, I'd take her as she is right here and now! Right nice for me I am her husband, eh?"

✧ “Imagine havin’ a little girl.” Lying side by side, you heard Bofur’s wistful tone and felt a small smile creep onto your lips. “I’ll do her hair up in braids and tie them with ribbons. She’ll have all the pretty things she wants, because I have mine right here,” he adds, turning over to caress your belly and pull your lips into his.

✧ Marrying a toymaker comes with distinct perks: your husband crafts the most magnificent little wheeled contraptions and carven animals for your new addition! He spends hours carving and glazing them, and sometimes you catch him having fallen asleep at his workbench when you struggle to stay in dreamland, covering him up with a spare blanket.

✧ You worry because the baby doesn’t seem to move much, but Oin confirms everything seems to be going fine. “Your wee bairn just got this one’s personality, it seems!” He jokes, stabbing a mock-accusatory finger Bofur’s way.

Bombur

✧ A baker's dozen. For as long as you've known him, that's how many wee ones Bombur purported wanting. Thirteen more than most dwarves have, you always tease him, but in reality every time you see your sweet husband with children and hear him dream of a family your heart leaps. That is why the moment you take his hands and tell him it's come true is special, intimate, a quiet draw in and out of breath that has him sobbing joyously and nuzzling into your embrace with so much love your chest bursts from the flight of it.

✧ Sixth senses never seemed real to you until you became pregnant and it was like Bombur knew what you were craving and was making it before you could even say anything!

✧ Cannot keep away from you. Always wants to be kissing you and cupping your cheeks and holding your hands, just so so sweet!

✧ Bombur is so much more good-natured than you, for all the jokes about how you'll be as big as him soon have you swinging, but he just holds you back and laughs alongside them, saying he's looking forward to it with a twinkle in his eye.

✧ Literally baffled if you ever feel bad about your body; his legitimate confusion alone halfway snaps you out of the sad reverie, and all the following words about your beauty and your husband's appreciation of every inch does the rest.

✧ "You know I'll keep you safe, right? Both of you," he tells you one day, a hand resting upon your bump, "I may not be some great warrior, but Mahal help anyone who comes between us."

Dori

✧ From even before you were actually wed you knew that Dori would be an excellent father. Having taken care of his younger brothers from quite an early age, he had knowledge atop a naturally caring personality you fell for. Gentlemanly Dori waited with you, keeping chaste until after your wedding, but once it is official you know your news could come at any time and you accept that. On your one-year anniversary, in fact, your first gift to Dori is the tiniest bracelet of fine amber beads. “Does this mean…?” As soon as he sees you nod, Dori is taking you in his arms, cradling you gently as if you were made of fine porcelain and thrice as precious.

✧ Caring father-to-be. A little too caring. "If those are too heavy for you, I can carry them!" "They're just books, I'll be alright, Dori." "Oh, don't eat that, you got sick last time." "I haven't been sick in a month!" "That's a lot of steps, should I carry you?" "...Actually, sure."

✧ Always sleeps with his arm wrapped around your middle. No exceptions.

✧ Has every manner of tea and remedy you could desire on hand or otherwise purchases it. Same goes for supplies- Dori even found a ring-shaped cushion for you to lay on! He has your back for any ailment and is often there to make or apply your cure himself. After all, he wouldn't trust anyone else to do it!

✧ You love this dwarf with all your heart. He takes it upon himself to find dwarrowdams willing to let him practice changing diapers on their wee bairns and surprises you with this newfound skill when you return home one day!

✧ Dori’s love of the finer things absolutely carries over into his future fatherhood, as he has the loveliest little velvet clothes made and procures the dearest little bejeweled hairbrush. All in all, both of you amass far more than you need because any time you go out it inevitably devolves into you two clasping your joined hands between each other, gushing over all the wee things, and taking them home!

Nori

✧ He never thought he would get married at all, let alone have a family, but as time goes on the desire to continue his lineage and finally settle down takes hold. Then suddenly there he is desperately trying to seduce you into trying for a little one! It doesn't take long, not with his charm, until the day comes when you teasingly tell him that he got his way. Smirking until the realization takes hold of him, his arms are then snaking around your waist to pull you close.

✧ Always talking about how he's going to teach his little one everything he knows. When pressed about it, responds with such things as fighting and picking locks. His defense? "What if 'e gets stuck somewhere, or-"

✧ Impatient! "When am I gonna be able to feel 'em?" He asks, a hand upon your belly, which has yet to display any changes. "Not for another few months, Nori! I haven't even begun to show!"

✧ Hides things sometimes or puts them up places you can't go just so he can swoop in and help you, saving your day and pressing a kiss to your cheek as he tells you he can handle it, don't you worry your pretty little head.

✧ Nori always teases you when he pours himself a drink. "Bet you'd like some of this, huh? Not for three more months!" He chuckles. Your brows furrow. "Three months? What about when I'm feeding?" "What does tha- oh. Does that really-" "Yes, yes it does." "By the stars, I could have got my baby drunk!"

✧ Talks to the baby quite a bit, especially when he finally can feel the kicks. "Where you running off to, huh?" He chuckles, feeling the flutters against his hand pick up. "That's 'cause of me, isn't it? You hear me? That's right, it's your da. Can you believe it? Me, your da! I'll take good care of you, you hear?"

Ori

✧ "Ori, dear," you implored your husband, "Might you knit something for me?" Looking up from the scarf he'd just finished, Ori's eyes fell upon you and he gave that smile, the special one reserved just for you. "Of course. What would you like?" "A wee pair of booties," you replied, hands clasped and expression dreamy. "Who needs booties?" He asked, head cocked. "We will in the fall," you answered, stepping closer and resting a hand upon his. Ori's jaw dropped. "You... I... We-" Smile widening, you nodded. "I. You. We," you agreed.

✧ Nearly from the first day you know you are with child, Ori is rattling off names. After tossing out a great deal, he finally pauses and gives a sheepish apology. "I'm sorry, I suppose I've thought about this a lot," he confesses with a grin, "I just can't believe it's happening." Your hand joins with his, resting over your little bump. "Neither can I. It's like a dream."

✧ "So," you ask Ori one day, leaning your chin upon the couch where you'd lain, "What should our plan be for when my water breaks?" Your husband's brows furrow. "When your what?" "Oh, no," you mutter. Cue Ori spending his afternoon receiving a great multitude of lessons. What he got for being raised by other dwarf men, you suppose. "That really all happens to you?" He asks, gaping at you as though you came of the Valar themselves. "Yes, it does. Birth is a great deal of work. They don't just run on out, you know!" "Yes, I know. Of course I know." Ori's voice is faint; he excuses himself and you assume it's to faint or be sick, but about an hour later he returns bearing gifts. "I'm sorry I'm putting you through all that." "Sweetheart," you chuckle, cupping his cheek, "You know it takes two, right?" Your sweet husband reddened, but he nodded.

✧ Ori takes on almost all the cleaning himself- you haven't even asked! Finally curiosity gets the better of you and you inquire as to why he's gotten so into housekeeping. "Well, aren't you tired?" He asks simply, innocently, and you wonder how you got so lucky.

✧ He also knits far more than that pair of booties you requested- all three of you will have matching sweaters before your little one has arrived!

✧ Ori's favorite thing in the world is sitting with you in his lap, one hand cradling your growing bump and the other holding a book as you two take turns reading aloud, filling your cozy hollow with the sounds of voices your little one will come to love. The books are hand-drawn, written, and bound by him, of course!

Fili

✧ You two speak of little ones so much it borderline infuriates the others, Kili himself even bursting out in frustration one day at yet another interruption about tiny clothes, "Just get her pregnant already!" "Good idea. See you later," Fili replies, scooping you up and carrying you off bridal-style. "Wait, I- Damn, brother..." In reality, Fili just carried you around the corner and set you down while you two burst out laughing, but about a month later your tries were in fact successful!

✧ Honeyed words were no trouble for your husband before, but now? Praise falls endlessly from his lips. "Never did I think you could get more beautiful, and yet each day you succeed beyond my wildest dreams."

✧ Fili has a near-magical sense for your new struggles of coordination, all but flying to your side to catch your hand or waist whenever you trip or even whenever you must rise up again from your seat!

✧ He loves to tease you, asking what disgusting thing you'll think of him to fix next or joke that he can finally beat you in a fight in this state, but every joke is punctuated by the most loving eyes and gestures that they cannot do a thing but warm your heart and make you chuckle.

✧ Your baby is very active, kicking all the time! "We've definitely got a little Fili in here!" Your husband exclaims with a grin, hand resting atop your belly to feel your little one's exuberant motions. "A strong babe for sure," you sigh, "Much to the pity of my ribs!" "Too bad we aren't having a Kili. Nice and lazy for you." "Hey, I heard that!"

✧ He turns his head, peering over his shoulder at you as you waddle after him, golden hair cascading down. "Care for me to slow down a little?" "I care for you to shut up," you shoot back, crossing your arms and fighting your smile.

Kili

✧ The thought crossed your mind far before it did your husband's. Not that Kili had no desire for children, it was simply that the possibility was all the more yours to consider. It took a visit from your young cousin, who had Kili wrapped around your finger, for the fire to light in your husband's head as well, a smile lighting up his face. "We- we could..." "I know, Kili." You could and you certainly did but a few months later.

✧ "I hope they look just like you." "Me too." Kili pulls his head out of the crook of your neck. "Hey, that is the part where you say 'no, I hope they look like you'!" "I'm doing the work of carrying for how long again? Nine, ten months? Least they can do is resemble me a little," you shoot back with a smirk.

✧ It was Oin who brought the news: "Both babies seem healthy as far as I can tell!" "Both?" You gape. "Both babies?" "'s right," Oin replies, "I know I can't always hear the best, but I haven't been wrong on a heartbeat yet. You can feel 'em." "Guess we did pretty good, eh love?" Kili teases, earning him an elbow to the ribs, but he just shakes his head and tugs you closer against his chest. "Should we make their names confusing as well?" "Don't you think it might get old for them?" "Fili and I switched names plenty of times and we aren't even identical!" You should have known.

✧ Kili takes to sleeping facing you, close enough that sometimes your cheeks brush. Others he slips down lower and you awake with your husband cuddled up to the bump of your belly.

✧ Will come running from any room, anywhere, to feel the babies kick, and also loves tugging along any of his family he can take, too. Childlike wonder fills your husband's eyes every time and pride glistens in his dark eyes when he's brought along his mother, his brother, even his uncle the king!

✧ Never once do you doubt yourself or have one moment of room for insecurity, for Kili still flirts with you as if you were tweens and sneaks all sorts of touches, pecks, and affectionate hands in your hair wherever he can find it! The notion of a baby destroying the romance of your relationship is laughable to you, who married a dwarf that has no shame telling you you're the most gorgeous creature to walk the earth and warm his-and the baby's in a different way-body.

Bilbo

✧ Bilbo's a perceptive hobbit. He knows something's off with you. You don't usually scurry around the way you are like everything has to be perfect. That's his job. "Something the matter? Are you... expecting someone?" Your husband follows you down Bag End's hall as he gives his inquiry, eyebrows shooting up at the look on your face when you turn around. Consternation, resignation, finally a smile. "I was going to tell you after dinner," you answered, "But since you asked it like that, yes I am expecting someone. Our child this spring." At that, it was Bilbo's turn to shift through expressions. Shock, realization, finally a smile.

✧ Nursery shopping has become Bilbo's favorite pastime. Baby Baggins isn't arriving for months and yet your husband is returning from market with all manner of trinkets for the shelves and paper for the walls. You cannot help giggling at his armfuls of supplies and kissing his cheek as you relieve as much of his burden as he allows you to.

✧ So sweet, always helping you dress, pulling on every garment with the utmost of care and even avoiding your reflection on days you feel bad. Quickly kissing each part of your body before he covers it with something he knows will be comfortable.

✧ You'll be eating well whether you like it or not! Bilbo will make you anything under the sun if it means you and Baby Baggins are getting nourishment and he certainly will not have you skimping! Anything that makes you sick simply is not allowed in Bag End at all, end of discussion.

✧ One night, you awake to soft whispers and your heart melts at the sight of Bilbo resting his chin on your growing bump talking to the baby. Not uttering a word, you simply watch, taking in the moment beneath the sheen of tears in your eyes.

✧ "Careful, careful," Bilbo is always telling you, holding your hand and guiding you over the smallest of obstacles, even little puddles and rocks.

Thranduil

✧ He has talked about getting you pregnant before, but speaking of it and doing it are two entirely different things, especially with...well, words of such nature. Thus, you find yourself nervously wringing your hands before your husband as he strokes your face, asking whatever is the matter. At Thranduil's touch, his intense gaze, you fin yourself melting and admitting all, confessing that you are expecting his child. You are certainly not expecting the way his confident smile utterly falters, dissipating in favor of the look of a man near tears. "Truly? A little one of our own?" "Yes," you whisper, finally able to smile as the tension melts from your body, which is soon pulled against the Woodland King's. "Long have I dreamed of this day, my love."

✧ One of his favorite new activities is commissioning you new maternity dresses; you will certainly have plenty to wear if Thranduil has any say about it! In addition, when the time comes of course he requests that you model them for him.

✧ Thranduil loves to sneak up behind you, lightly wrapping his hands about your waist and laying them atop yours, his head resting in the crook of your neck and breathy, pleased laughter warming the skin there.

✧ When you start showing, oh, he loves it. One more sign that you are his, utterly and truly his queen, his beloved, claimed by Thranduil in every sense. He follows your lead, a hand around your waist, letting you shine like the gem he knows you to be. Rarely will you two be seen apart, not when the king can bask in your glow, relish the eyes upon your beautiful form, heavy with his child.

✧ There is one day he catches you in tears and heart tearing he steps to scoop you up against him, cheeks held gently in his elegant hands, which begin to glitter with your tears. "My rings no longer fit," you sob, head falling to his chest. Thranduil holds you close, grip loose as though you might break. "That is not your fault, meleth nîn." "I feel so... so massive." "Who wishes a small dwelling, hm? Piteous thing not to have any comforts. Your body is a host of life, the vessel of a bloodline. Beautiful in all its forms. Never forget that, oh dearest one."

✧ Thranduil is experienced; he knows many little tricks to help you feel better, be they massages or ways to bear your weight. He impresses you with the knowledge he has of the ways of women, understanding your water breaking, dilation, and every complication the healers warn you about and telling you before they even do!

Feren

✧ First to know was neither you nor your husband, but rather your cat, for she had suddenly become your little shadow, following you about your home and taking rest upon your lap as often as she could. "I wonder what it is that got into her," you commented one afternoon, smiling and stroking her back. "Growing up, ours got like this when my mother was carrying my younger sisters. Both times. It was like he could sense it," Feren replied. You both sat in smiling silence for a moment longer before simultaneously straightening, looking each other right in the widening eyes.

✧ Gets a little flustered, frankly. Not so much at your news itself, simply the realization sinking in that he is to be a father. He, Feren, will have a child. He says this out loud several times before suddenly breaking out into a smile. You tease him for going through half his emotions at once, but now the wave of joy has swept him up!

✧ Playfully rolls his eyes and mock-complains every time you remind him that he has to clean up after the cat now! Subsequently adds that he would fetch you the moon if you asked it.

✧ Loves helping you bathe the more difficult your condition makes it, scrubbing your hair with such care and gently massaging your sore feet and ankles as you wash up. Despite your husband's skill in battle, Feren's hands are the most loving and delicate you could ask for.

✧ Your husband has a natural tendency to rise early, so now that your sleep has become more fitful you do find that you have more time to spend together. Your head falling to his shoulder as you whisper to each other, seated as you are upon your bed with blankets draped over your shoulders.

✧ Feren wins your heart time and time again, like the day he lowered you down gently onto the grass of a sunny meadow, basking with you and weaving flowers. He made you a ring, crowned you with a wreath of flowers atop your head, and made another little one to place gently on the curve of your belly, bringing your heart to soar.

Bard

✧ Uncertainty wracks your heart and wrings your hands at the would-be-cheerful news. In fact, you yourself do feel joy, have since your suspicions were confirmed, but would Bard see it the same way? He already has three mouths to feed, three children all old enough to take care of themselves. Will he wish to start it all over so? "What's wrong, love? Your lip is bleeding." So it is. You've practically gnawed the poor thing off in all your stewing. A sigh escapes you. Bard is your husband. No sense in delaying a very necessary conversation. "I know we should have spoken more about it..." You begin, trailing off. At once, Bard senses your reservation and rises to your side, taking hold of your arms; the love in his dark eyes brings a small smile to your lips and relaxes you slightly. "I'm with child, Bard." Almost childlike is the wonder and joy spreading across your face, and before you can say another word you are being pulled into Bard's chest, face snuggling into the fur of his coat.

✧ He knows what to expect, naturally, so Bard is definitely not the type of husband to gripe about your requests, though he does smirk and poke fun if you’re especially outrageous with it or have a funny enough delivery. Then kisses you if you pout about it before fetching what you seek.

✧ Caution overtakes you and your husband as you make to tell his older children the news, particularly you, but your wringing hands relax when you can see the joy in their eyes, particularly the girls! They hope the baby is another girl, hugging you so tight you almost cannot breathe, but you complain not.

✧ Happy is Bard to take on assistance cooking; he knows it can make you sick sometimes and besides, it's a nice excuse to make sure you get all the nutrients you need! You are certainly very lucky in the skill and domesticity of your spouse.

✧ Stands behind you and reaches his arms around you, lifting up the weight you carry and smiling, kissing your neck and cheeks as you relax from your burden.

✧ He also has no qualms about making you rest, down even to physically lifting you up and carrying you to bed if he must!

Beorn

✧ Hesitant as he always would have claimed to be about bringing more Skin-Changers into a world so cruel to them, Beorn feels his nesting instincts kick in very quickly after you become his wife. You see it in the things he gathers, the way your husband moves things such as your blades to higher, safer locations. He is anticipating something. Something you cannot help pulling him aside and asking about, and when your feelings on the subject are made known, well, it is entirely possible you conceived that very night.

✧ Beorn has an almost eerie sense for all the changes taking place in your body. You feel a sharp pain in your back, and without a word your husband is behind you, ushering you down for a massage with some of the oils he's pressed.

✧ The aforementioned nesting instincts manifest early on, your husband carefully blunting corners and tucking away the best blankets so the little one-or ones!- will be nothing but safe and comfortable.

✧ Withdrawn as he could be, Beorn's affection is drawn out by your condition, his big brown eyes soft upon you as he pulls you into his lap, large hands secure about your waist and sliding gently up and down your growing belly.

✧ And grow it does! It seems to get heavier by the day, but that is explained thanks to your husband's exceptional hearing. "Four heartbeats. One is yours. A litter- three are coming!" Spots dance in your vision at that news, but Beorn's smile as he grips your hand brings you back to the light. You could do it with him by your side. "Our little litter."

✧ He attempts to reassure you anytime your anxiety grows. "My dearest flower, I have delivered hundreds of calves and piglets in my day! You will see this through." Reassuring? Perhaps not so much. But in your heightened emotion, that does break you into a wild laughter that does indeed relax you nonetheless.

Want to meet the little ones? Perhaps there will be a Part 2 😉

Taglist: @lokilover476 @kilibaggins @fuckyoumakeart @filiswingman @ibabblealot @stormchaser819 @pirate-lord-of-narnia @datglutengoblin @mossyskinn @wordbunch @tiny-and-witchy @th3-st4r-gur1 @fleurdemiel-145 @mistresskayla-blog1 @misabelle717 | Reply/Message/Ask to join 🩷

[thebiscuitlabryinth]

(ep8 spoilers ahead!)

Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lived a king who honoured Truth.

He was as gentle as a lamb, as pure as driven snow, as warm as sunlight, and his citizens revered him for these qualities. His Truth was his kindness and his hope, and he was said to be able to heal a Cookie of all their woes and pain with a single touch, so blessed by the heavens he was.

Unfortunately, his Truth was no armour, and eventually it became a blade that turned against him. His soft heart failed to protect his kingdom when disaster fell like a fog over it, thick with malice, and those citizens who once revered him came to despise those very same traits they once praised.

The king of Truth, as gentle as a coward, as pure as a martyr, as warm as the remnants of his burning kingdom. The king, dismayed by his Truth failing him, had little idea of what to do as his citizens abandoned him, one by one until only he remained.

One day, a wise scholar happened upon the shell of that kingdom and, curious to know its story, he went to visit the king. The king, still at a loss for what to do and hoping the scholar may impart some of his knowledge, freely shared the tale of the kingdom's downfall with a deep sorrow in his voice.

The wise scholar, taking pity on the king, stepped up to the weary silhouette curled in that old throne and said, "Is it not obvious? You should let go of your Truth."

"My Truth?" The king murmured, disbelieving. "I certainly must have misheard you. I have dedicated my life to Truth. I cannot possibly part with it."

"Whyever not? Look at where Truth has lead your life – to complete ruins, hasn't it?" The wise scholar explained, oh so patiently. "It has paid your dedication back with anguish and despair. Why should you live like that? Deceit would be far more merciful to you, and it would surely soothe your poor heart, if you'd let it."

The wise scholar had offered this morsel of Knowledge out of the goodness of his heart, and for a blissful moment, the king considered it. Sadly, the king could not see it as the act of goodwill that it was, too blinded by his own petty pride, restrained by his years of stubborn devotion to the false idol of 'Truth'.

"No, what you have said is a lie meant to mislead me. I can tell, because Deceit drips from your tongue like poison." The king foolishly declares, his face hardening with misplaced determination. "This must be a test sent to me from the Witches, to test my strength, and I will not fail so easi––"

—No, that's not quite right. Let's try again.

Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lived a great hero.

This great hero was benevolent, noble and self-righteous, known as a friend and ally to all, but he harboured a dark secret. His Soul Jam, the source of all of his awe-inspiring power, was not wholly his.

Indeed, it had once belonged to an illustrious sorceror, a manifestation of his very soul. But this sorceror had suffered a great injustice under the hands of the fickleminded Witches, and his Soul Jam had been torn asunder. While he had clung fiercely to one half, the other had slipped out of his grasp and fell into the hands of our great hero, the unwitting thief.

Of course, the sorceror came to confront the hero, to claim back what was rightfully his and reunite with the full extent of his power. But the hero was unwilling to give it up, and after much consideration, the sorceror decided to be gracious. He allowed the hero to keep his half of the Soul Jam, granted that he never stray from the sorceror's side.

For a blissful moment, it seemed like this compromise would work well for the both of them. One day, however, the hero approached the sorceror, fidgeting with his long sleeves.

"My Soul Jam calls for yours," The hero admits, soft and careful, "and so too does my soul. Even though I am by your side, it is not enough."

The sorceror smiled, flashing teeth, pleased by the admittance because it proved his emerging hypothesis correct. That the other half of the Soul Jam could not have landed in anyone else's hands but the hero's, for they were meant for each other.

"Then come closer." The sorceror goads, reaching for the hero. "Unite our two halves and become one with me, as it should be."

The hero does, pressing into the sorceror's arms, pushing the softened middles of their Soul Jams together until they begin to merge, light melting into the dark of the sorceror's tight embrace. Truth into the comfort of Deceit.

For a blissful moment, they are together and whole and one.

Then pain bursts through the sorceror's back and he screeches as the hero pushes and stumbles out of his twitching arms. The sorceror's wide, blurry eyes catch on the icy glint of a dagger in the hero's hand, sticky with jam.

The sorceror heaves as his hand scrambles to his own back, finding an open wound weeping thick jam that seeps through his clothes. He starts to taste it, sour on the back of his tongue. Sure enough, the hero had stabbed him in the back with a blade he had hidden in his long sleeves.

The hero stares down at him passively, unremorseful. The sorceror's back burns with gouging pain, and his chest burns with boiling rage, coming up through his teeth in a mighty growl. Jam leaks through his clenched fingers as he curls into himself, his Soul Jam crying in the hollow of his throat, calling for its traitorous other half, ringing, ringing, ringing, RINGING. "YOU--"

—NO! No, no, no, that's not right either, absolutely not. Let's take it from the top, one more time.

Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lived a humble shepard.

The shepard was sweet and languid as honey, content in spending his days tending to his vulnerable flock. He had no interest in the world at large, though he welcomed any travellers that passed through with friendliness, making peace in his little meadow.

One day, another shepard, hooded and pale, arrived at the meadow with a single sheep trailing sadly at his heels. He asked for a place to stay for the night, as he had recently lost the rest of the flock to a wolf and, in his grief, took to wandering the lands as a nomad.

The shepard, sweet as he was, agreed. He led the hooded shepard to his flock, where the hooded shepard settled his sheep in for the night. Then, he led the hooded shepard to his little cottage, where the hooded shepard settled himself in for the night, right beside the shepard in his small wooden bed.

Little did the shepard know, the hooded shepard laying beside him was, in reality, a wolfherd. Little did the shepard know, the sheep he had allowed to rest in the comfort of his poor flock was, in reality, a wolf bundled in sheep's wool, trained to behave mildly in the presence of Cookies.

When morning came, the shepard was horrified to find that his flock, which he had dutifully nutured since young, had been eaten whole. The wolfherd's wolf, smeared in red with its woolen disguise hanging off it in sticky clumps, trotted up to its master lazily as the shepard helplessly fell to his knees.

For a blissful moment, there was just the shepard's sobs as his world crumbled around him, ready to be remade.

Then, the wolfherd came up to the miserable shepard and lunged.

He pinned the teary shepard to the damp grass, bathing him in lamb blood as the wolfherd bared his fangs and dug his claws into dough, shedding a disguise of his own.

A thin throat gave way under the wolfherd's teeth, and he discoverd that the shepard really was as sweet as honey, all the way through, as jam spilled into his mouth. He made cracks as the shepard weakly tried to struggle, tearing into his dough in reprimand, in retribution. The shepard deserved it.

He dug into his chest with his wet teeth, pulling out his jammy heart, his pulsing Soul Jam, his writhing soul. He savoured it as he swallowed it whole, as the shepard went obediently still beneath him, because he deserves it, this is his, he is his, and the shepard deserves it too. He deserves it, he DESERVES it, HE DESERVES IT--

—HE DOES, he does, but not quite like that. No, no, something's still off. Maybe a change of angle is needed. A change of perspective.

Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lived a liar.

He was beautiful, magnificent in his dark robes and rough around the edges in a captivating way. He watched the world from the top of a spire, looking down on Cookiekind from above with dozens of golden eyes, turning his back on Truth.

The liar was not alone. At his side, and he at his, was the beast that strung the world in shimmering strings, playing the universe like a grand orchestra to seranade his companion. Their power did not just blend harmoniously; it was a singular one, feeding into an endless cycle between the two of them, driven by the thrum of their Soul Jam.

For a blissful forever, they stood together, casting the veil of Deceit over the world, dampening the blistering light of Truth until it coalesced into the shadow of Deceit, becoming what it always should have been. The two of them were unstoppable, bowing to nothing and nobody, rising above it all. They were unstoppable, they could have been, they would have been unstoppable-- IF--

—IF THOSE GNATS HADN'T– IF HE HADN'T–

(Stupid, traitorous, weak fool!)

—No, no, enough, enough, enough. This still isn't getting anywhere. How about this?

Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lived a saint of Truth.

He was blindingly bright, too bright, and he could drive the shadow monsters away with a single swipe of his staff, so radiant was he. And yet, for all his shining power, he was also a complete idiot, driven by his soft, squishy heart.

For instead he cleaved the monster out of the shadow, held out a hand and said, "Let me be your...friend."

Friend. Friend. How ridiculous! Laughable, really, in its absolute stupidity. The saint's eyes were so soft, gentle in contrast to the harsh edge of the light, gooey like melted chocolate, like the saint was doing the monster a favour even though it was the other way around, it was SUPPOSED to be the OTHER WAY AROUND--

—NOPE, no, that's no good either. Come on, what else, what else, what else– aha!

Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lived an angel.

This angel was once a shepard, once a king, once a hero, once a saint before he ascended to the light of the heavens. He was beautiful and benevolent, warm as sunlight, sweet as honey, blindingly bright and infuriatingly beloved. Until he wasn't.

You see, when the angel had ascended, he had thought that he had risen from the rock bottom of the river. He had foolishly believed that he now knew everything, that he had captured the essence of Knowledge through a brief meeting of two halves of a single Soul Jam.

He hadn't realised that a new rock bottom can always be created – all you need to do is dig.

And so, the demon did, dragging the angel down from the picturesque heavens and back to him, backed by a symphony of screams.

The angel tried to reason with him, with his faulty logic. The angel tried to fight but wouldn't risk crumbling him for good. The angel tried to reach out to him, like he really, truly believed it would work.

In the end, the angel lays crumpled at the demon's feet in a heap, cheeks wet with tears but eyes tired and wild. His painful light dims into something bearable, close to snuffing out entirely, flickering weakly like a candle in the wind.

"You were right." The angel whispers, about his hope, about his kindness, about anything, about everything. "You were right. It was always going to end like this."

And when the angel looks up, it is as if he is giving all of himself to the demon. Properly, this time, no clever tricks even passing his mind. His life and soul forfeit.

There. Perfect.

Shadow Milk sighs, a heavy sound that thickens the air. He is not quite satisfied, because he cannot be, not with his dough crawling with restless viciousness, but he is satisfied enough. With the story, of course. Not with anything else.

Just thinking of that, Shadow Milk scowls, finally looking back down at his hands. He had forgotten about the little plush doll he was holding. It's a cute little replica of Pure Vanilla, small enough to fit neatly into the palms of his hands. He had been fiddling with it for no reason in particular, mostly agitated boredom.

In the midst of his storycrafting, he must have tightened his grip too hard. His claws have ripped its chest in half, stuffing bubbling out of the wound like sea foam.

He stares at it blankly for a moment, claws idly toying with the fluff. Then he narrows his eyes, growls, and twists his claws deeper into the tear.

Lonely, Pure Vanilla had said, with the absolute gall to act like he could read him perfectly. Like he could understand him.

As if! There was no way he understood him, and his new little light show only proved that. Whatever understanding Pure Vanilla thought he had was conjured by his own mind, his poor little heart's attempt to find a peaceful solution. It's like Shadow Milk had told them – in the face of the unknown, Cookies tend to fill in the gaps with whatever fits best with their existing belief system, and what they want to believe is true.

Shadow Milk huffs, finally pulling his claws out of the Pure Vanilla doll. It's a sad looking thing, droopy with the lost stuffing. He considers it for a moment, before gingerly beginning to push the stuffing back in, tuft by tuft.

There is one thing Pure Vanilla got right, though. He really is the only one with the potential to truly understand Shadow Milk. He was close to it, even, tantalisingly close before he pulled himself back out again, but he hadn't gotten there yet.

Shadow Milk knows that he hasn't. Because Shadow Milk knows what it will take to get him there, and it involves tearing him to shreds–

Shadow Milk summons old marionette strings, now mostly unused, and begins to sew up the open chest of the doll with lazy flicks of his finger. Despite the casual movement, the stitches are precise and perfect. Once he's done, the doll looks almost as good as new, but inarguably altered.

—before fixing him back up in Shadow Milk's design.

Only then would Pure Vanilla really be able to understand Shadow Milk. Only then would Shadow Milk believe it.

Shadow Milk rubs his thumb over the doll's cheek, something ugly twisting in his chest. His claws twitch, eager to tear the doll apart again, to have an outlet, but he refrains because he does have self-control and he just fixed it.

Instead, he lifts the doll up and presses a kiss to the little stitched star on its forehead. No, not a kiss. It's more like a curse, a harsh press of lips with the slightest snarl of teeth, with enough pressure to create a dent in its soft head.

Yes, this isn't the end. They have eternity, after all. The wait may be agonising, but eventually, he'll understand him. Shadow Milk will make sure of it.

The something in his chest loosens just slightly, as if relieved.

[flightyalrighty]

please tell me as much as you can about infested sonic and tails

i beg of you

i need to know as much as possible about these two

Well, uh, lemme see

Life Events Specifically Related To Their Relationship:

Sonic first met Tails in the same way as depicted in Sonic Origins; Tails was getting bullied and Sonic saved him from that. They proceeded to grow up together with a brotherly bond, and consider each other their only family.

Sonic, as stated in previous asks, has not been the kindest to Tails. His ego and impatience would sometimes steer him towards saying and doing stuff to the fox that he'd later come to seriously regret. Tails, in the meantime, would push himself more and more just so he could keep up with his hero -- And so he might stop disappointing him.

Despite his own occasionally rocky relationship with Tails, Sonic is fiercely protective of his brother. The only one that gets to pick on that pixel-brain is him.

My god, Tails built a house for himself and Sonic in New Mobotropolis. They do not join the Freedom Fighters, and while Sonic does, of course, have a room there, he doesn't stick around all that often. It's mostly Tails's house. The workshop is built shortly after the creation of the house once Sonic makes it clear that he will be sticking to his nomadic lifestyle. It's the first time Tails does something purely for himself.

Sonic and Tails will still partner up with the Freedom Fighters on occasion, but these instances aren't ever truly planned. More of a bumping-into-them-and-deciding-to-help scenario. Tails hopes to work with them a bit more someday, as he quite likes the group, but Sonic is pretty stubborn about staying entirely independent.

Befriending Amy and then Knuckles and having folks close to him calling him out on his behavior opened Sonic's eyes to how harmful he's been to Tails. Sonic chooses to better himself. It is a slow and painful process, but one that Tails sees and appreciates. By this point, Sonic is terrified of accidental slip-ups in his behavior, and is quick to check himself. He has entered his Last-Episode-Of-Bojack era. Tails has become more independent from Sonic, himself, by this point. Our favorite hedgehog doesn't know how to feel about that.

Whenever Sonic does show up at the house, and nothing's threatening the world, Sonic and Tails will have game nights and movie nights. Tails likes movie nights the most because those aren't competitive.

Stuff About Sonic Specifically:

As stated in previous asks, personality-wise, he's a bit of an amalgamation of Archie Sonic and Fleetway's STC Sonic. He's rude and irritable and escalates problems more often than he de-escalates, because he loves the thrill of a good fight.

Sonic has a toxic relationship with his own reputation. He's driven to make sure everyone feels safe under his watch, no matter what may be personally going on with him. This is a problem, of course, as it means that, yes, Sonic hides his problems like a dying cat. He absolutely refuses to go to a doctor when he's sick, which means he has to privately rely on his friends to not only take care of him, but also cover for him so that his absence doesn't "panic folks." He truly believes himself to be Atlas, holding up the world on his shoulders. Likewise, he believes the pressure has hardened him nicely, like a diamond. It has not.

Chip telling Sonic that he was "too strong to lose himself" gave that teenage boy a complex.

His cheerier Modern Game Sonic attitude is a façade. His public face.

Stuff About Tails Specifically

Naturally still a boy genius mechanic, nothing has changed there. Quite decent as an architect as well. Tails aspires to be a hero like Sonic someday.

Tails is already highly respected in Station Square for what he did during the events of Sonic Adventure.

He will confide in Amy (and Knuckles when he's available) if he's feeling upset. When not with them, Tails will write in a diary that he keeps at a desk in his bedroom.

Tails will often feel stuck in the role of apologizing to those Sonic may have offended. This, in turn, angers Sonic. Tails stands his ground in these cases and, almost always, his brother will back off. He only truly begins standing up to Sonic, however, at the tail-end of the Blue Blur's Rude-Boy-Era, which also happens to be shortly after the events of Sonic Adventure.

There was nothing he could have done. Y'Gaar shor guul deta shor Zuurm.

[nthspecialll]

To me, it always seemed like Eliza came after Mary. Like a one night stand, perhaps a drunken one, as to try and drown his sorrows from Mary essentially leaving him… And in his mind, probably for another man since she did give him a letter if I remember correctly after breaking off their engagement, telling him that she was married. For what I assume Arthur is hinting at, is the fact that both him and Eliza was young and while it is possible that Arthur was younger than Eliza when it happened, I simply thought that he was reflecting on how he didn’t view her or himself as ‘just a kid’ back then since now he has been hardened by life due to all the pain.

And about Mary and Abigail etc, I genuinely think that it was just a miss on rockstars end, since they have overlapped or looked over timelines a whole lot before. Besides, this is just my personal opinion but I highly doubt that Arthur would put himself out there again in the way he did with Mary, seemingly pouring his whole heart out to her as if it had never been broken yet, if he had already lost a son by the time.

That could also be true. I will be honest to say that I think there is no canon timeline, I think Rockstar played around with so many versions that they just all mixed and don't really make much sense. It is like mixing three half missing puzzles and trying to make them into one. For example Abigail mentions Mary and liking her, which timeline wise is a bit strange but is also strange because Mary has a big dislike towards women of lower standing, especially sex workers and Abigail would likely pick up on that. I mean it is canon now, so not much to do, but it is a bit funky.

[alectoperdita]

WIP Wednesday

It was a while ago but started chapter 5 for No light. Finally giving us some Jounouchi POV. Smutty so mostly under the cut!

---

The first time they fucked, Jounouchi couldn't take his eyes off Kaiba.

Granted, he'd been eyeballing him the entire evening; all 186 lean and mean centimeters of him. Somehow it led him to this impossible seeming moment, his hands on Kaiba and his cock pushing deep into him.

Kaiba was a quiet fuck. A fact Jounouchi found somewhat surprising. Other than snapping a few demands at the beginning, he didn't make much noise. Even though Jounouchi knew his asshole must sting the longer they went at it. Lube wasn't available to them, apparently not an amenity Kaiba stocked in his luxurious bathrooms. Instead, Jounouchi had fingered him open with a ludicrous amount of hand cream.

Nor was there a condom. Hopefully, Jounouchi's pre-come kept him slick enough.

God, that was the other wild thing. They were barebacking it. Kaiba was letting him fuck him raw.

Because pain or not, by the looks of him, Kaiba, with his rosy cheeks and kissable lips parted in a sinful circle and tightly shut eyes framed by gorgeous eyelashes, like a fucking model, was enjoying it. Beneath Jounouchi's palm, Kaiba's hip twitched as he moved with purpose, rocking backward to meet his thrust without fail. Kaiba tightened around him, and his cock hardened with a spike of pleasure. Jounouchi's tempo was already faster and rougher than wise, given their lube situation. It took every last but of his willpower to not pound harder into Kaiba's tight ass.

"God, you're incredible," he grunted, pulling back before slamming back into him.

A curious noise bled out of Kaiba. Not quite a gasp. Not really a moan either. But his eyes fluttered open, hazy with desire blackening the blue to new inky depths. Their mere reflection threatened to drag Jounouchi under.

No. He was breathtaking.

Captivated, Jounouchi drifted closer, curling his chest around the curve of Kaiba's spine. His cock couldn't possibly reach any deeper, but he tried. After a beat of consideration, he grazed his mouth against the nape of Kaiba's neck, barely a kiss.

In the mirror, Kaiba's lust-filled gaze sought him out and held his with slow blinking.

What if they fucked in a bed instead? Then Jounouchi could've peeled each article of clothing off him and feasted on his pale skin. The mere sight of his exposed throat, Adam's apple bobbing furiously as he panted for air, nearly drove Jounouchi into a frenzy. To have Kaiba, completely nude at his mercy, might be a revelation.

[i-will-go-with-you-five]

My Five Lore

Heyyyyy I thought it was finally time to make this post! I've been doing ZR for about nine months now and have been posting from the sidelines so I figured it was about time to introduce myself and Five. Just a little rundown on what my Five is like and her story and stuff. She's basically me, but with a couple things changed.

Apperance:

She’s on the shorter side- Sam is always putting his elbow on her shoulder to annoy her but she secretly loves it :) And pretty stocky but really strong. Simon challenged her to a lifting competition once and while he eventually won, she had him sweating and it was a close thing. She wears her hair in really long double Dutch braids, and has a round face with bright hazel green eyes and a big smile. She also wears really brightly colored gear, especially shoes, its a long-lasting joke with her and the other runners. She's unreasonably attached to axes and baseball caps, and is pretty much constantly wearing something Jody made her.

She has a couple of pretty faint nicks and slices on her hands, from before the apocalypse. She got those was first learning to butcher as a teenager. But since the outbreak, she's gotten a stab wound on her left shoulder, and permanent bruising on her shins. She's very susceptible to shin splints, but its the apocalypse, so it's not like she can properly rest and treat them.

UPDATE: she has new scars now from the ending of Season Two. They are Pretty Important.

[One day I will make the most beautiful drawing of her ever. One day.]

Background:

Five is basically me, with a couple things (appearance, where she lived, some family details, etc) changed. She lived in Northern Montana, a stone's throw away from Canada, and was doing college remotely while working on a farm that raised big animals, and took care of her nieces and nephews while her siblings were at work. That's why she's such a jack-of-all-trades, with book and street smarts, she had a very diverse range of skills due to how she grew up. I consider Five as an AU of myself if I had been thrust into the apocalypse, so personality and history-wise Five and I are similar, except for the trauma of the apocalypse, where she was on her own for almost four months after Z-Day, and hardened her a bit. Five's real name is Lydia, but not a single person besides her knows that.

Early Outbreak:

She went on a rare vacation with her best friend, Nina, and her best friend's family to London two days before the outbreak, in early November of 2023. The worst timing. One day she's on a plane, the next she's seeing Big Ben for the first time, and the day after that hundreds of people have turned, including Nina's family, and they're fleeing for their lives in the chaos.

The plan was for the two of them to try and contact Lydia's family and try to find a way to get home, but the phone lines were all down within a day. So they decided to just get out of the city. Nina got bitten when they were on the outskirts of London, after a week of them surviving together. Lydia stayed with her as she died. Nina begged Lydia to kill her zombie-self, but Lydia just couldn't do it- she fled instead. She decided to kill her name, Lydia, along with her friend's death. It was the only way she felt that she could mourn.

She was then on her own for about four months, and her circumstances really changed her. She'd always been a a happy and trusting person, but each person she tried to group up with ended up betraying her, in a multitude of ways. She threw up mental barriers and became pretty grim and trusted no one. She can talk, but only to people that she likes, and only to one or two people at a time. The bigger the crowd, the quieter she is. But when she gets in a place of being comfortable, she has a lot to say. But in those four months, she said less and less, to the point where some people assumed she was mute. She had to stifle who she was in order to survive, and it took a huge toll on her. The pain of her bottled-up emotions was buried deep.

She's a Christian, and the only thing that kept her going in the apocalypse was clinging onto Christ with all of her might, even if her faith had been shaken by what seemed like the end of the world. She just kept running and fighting for something greater than herself. Save the next person stuck in a building, even if they stole her supplies. Run supplies to different groups of people, even if they then beat her bloody and left her for the zombies. Lead a pack of zombies away from a guy trapped in a tree, even if he then throttled her neck and made it even harder to speak. Give a message to a radio outpost, even if they then dishonored their side of the agreement and held her at gunpoint, rather than just attempt to send airwaves to the States in search of her family. Because if she couldn't do the right thing, and try to stay faithful to her values and Jesus, what good was left in the world?

She ended up at Mullins because, once again, she got betrayed. A group of highway robbers caught her unawares, and she literally ran into some soldiers, who promised to just help her get out of the tight spot, but instead brought her to Mullins and enlisted her. Sour and panicked, she was so uncooperative to the point where they shipped her out to Abel for Project Greenshoot so they wouldn't have to deal with her anymore.

Getting to Abel:

While the apocalypse has been The Worst Thing Ever, getting her helicopter shot down was probably the best thing that ever happened to her in the apocalypse. It was the last thing that she expected, a rocket launcher barreling towards her, after everything she's already been through, and it shook her. For the first time since when she had a depressive episode as a preteen, she just simply wanted to die. Death seemed like the best option as she fell through the air to the sound of hungry zombies beneath her. Everything hurt too much. God wasn't answering her sobbing cries of help every night. She'd given it her all and it still wasn't enough. Gave far more than she took and got hurt every time. If she gave up, everything would just be easier. She was about to accept her death and simply let go of life. It wasn't like she had any friends or family left to love her anymore.

But when that voice crackled into her headset, urging her on and giving her a name, Five, which felt right in a way she couldn't explain, encouraging her- she knew she had to keep going. Life wasn't over yet. There was still hope. So she ran. And the longer that voice, Sam, spoke, the lighter she felt and the less emotionally exhausted she became. A voice in the back of her mind told her that this was the answer to her prayers for a friend, and for help. But she was still incredibly cautious. This seemed like the nicest person in the world, but what if he hurt her? What if she got betrayed again? After all, she knew nothing of who this Sam Yao was, beyond being awkward and sweet and kind of adorable. Wait, adorable? Where had that thought come from?

She wanted to be mistrustful of everyone at Abel when she got there, that was her intent. Especially after the doctor threatened to not let her in. But having those people show her kindness that she hadn't seen in months crumpled her barriers like wet paper. By the time her 8-week training was over she'd sunk right into Abel perfectly. Jody was her good friend who was always up for a hug and a story, Janine was smart and practical and reminded her of her older sister to the point where she started to treat Janine like an older sister, Eugene was a goofball who made bad jokes with her while sympathizing with what she'd been through, and Maxine was a God-send for figuring out how to turn off her survival mode again.

And during that time, she wanted to become friends with Sam, the voice who saved her, so badly. But he was wrapped up in grief from Alice's death. Which she understood. Nina's death still ate at her. Not to mention having no idea if her family was dead or alive. So even though it killed her, because this was the first time she'd wanted to have a friend in forever, she kept her distance to protect him from her brokenness. Because even though she'd lightened up, she still was a woman of few words who held all of her pain back from everyone. Even if that voice in her head saying Sam was God's answer to her problems got stronger and more insistent every day. And even if Maxine told her multiple times that Sam relied on her more than he could express or she could realize. She had to hold back.

Being a Runner: falling for each other

Until the night run in the dark. [fanfic one shot here that will eventually become a twoshot once I finish the post-run debrief.] Where all that slammed through Sam's head was I need a miracle for Five, and all that slammed through Five's was I'm running for Sam. And the moment she crashed into Sam's arms, him sobbing with relief and her sobbing with exhaustion and delirium, was the moment that she realized that she did, in fact, love Sam Yao. And for Sam, that was the moment he realized that he had to become her best friend. And the rest of that night was the first time Five told anyone about her past and her pain and what the apocalypse had been like for her. And Sam was there. As they talked and listened to one another was the moment they firmly became best friends.

Five’s love for Sam only grows in the next few months. But… she doesn’t know what to say, or even think honestly. She’s never been in love before. Ever. She’s, well, she’s scared. Which she knows is stupid. But what do you even say about something like that? ‘Hey Sam, you've chipped away at the hardened exterior that I was forced to adopt bit by bit, and I've become myself again, and you push me to be even better than I was every day. Also I am totally in love with you.'? So she says it in every way besides words. With each moment with Sam. Each gesture is her way of saying I love you. And she runs. For the same reasons as before- her faith. Her trust in God. Her putting goodness back into the terrible world. But now for another reason too. For Sam. For his voice. And even if he doesn't understand it, how he pushes her to trust in her faith even more. Her faith and trust in God are stronger than ever now and she's very strong in it and tries to shine that light to others.

Sam realizes that he loves Five when someone sends Five to die out of spite, as revenge. She's coming back into the gates, angry but not as angry as he is. He's ready to throw down with the person who did that to his runner. Then the way she just grasps his shoulders, locking eyes with him, and reminding him to breathe, he just- falls. So hard and so fast. He knew that this was coming. He's felt it growing since she came back brandishing supplies with the biggest smile in the world for the DnD campaign he was starting. But he ignored it. And now he can't anymore. Because it's Five. His Five. But what do you even say about something like that? ‘Hey Five, you mean everything to me, actually. You've given me something to fight for each day, given me hope when I've had none, and have helped me grow so much and overcome my doubts. I really, really, really love you, more than anyone or anything.’ So he tells her with his words, with every single thing he says. Every voice crack of fear or excitement over comms. Except those three, which are coincidentally, the most important ones. He talks, for the same reason as before. To protect the people he loves. But now for another reason too. For Five. For her running. For who she's pushed him to become. How she's taught him to fight for something even bigger than before.

There is an ending for their story (its REALLY good) but you're just gonna have to wait to read it until I'm done writing it tehehehe! It's more climactic that way. I'll link it here when it's done.

And there we go! A little bit about my Five and her story <3 Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed!!

@stellar-collective drew my Five!! You can see her here<3 It's from this fanfic dabble

@tazzy-zooming the incredible made another drawing of her that I adore

and my dear friend @book-girl4evaaa did another here!!! Go flood her reblogs please

oh and @masterfuldoodler who is a WONDERFUL human being did her in her survival running mode SO WELL

and then she awed me again with this one which is like,,, the coolest thing EVER?? All of them are just SO SO SO GOOD IT PHYSICALLY PAINS ME HOW AMAZING IT IS

oh we are EATING now and have even MORE talented friends who have done me the honor of drawing my Five here's @valesyn 's incredibly dramatic rendition of Five fleeing zombies to that epic verse in Heavydirtysoul by Twenty One Pilots

Ao3

[vindott]

"Choose your last words wisely"

The rain poured down, drenching the dimly lit alleyway where Max stood, his hand gripping the knife tightly as he pressed it against Charles’s throat. The blade gleamed in the cold, harsh light of the streetlamp above, casting an eerie glow over the scene. Max's face was hardened, lips curling into a sneer, his eyes cold and unyielding as he held Charles against the wall. The tension between them was suffocating, the air thick with something unspoken, something darker than the storm raging around them.

Charles, chest heaving, could barely keep himself upright. His dark hair clung to his forehead, drenched by both the rain and the tears that had welled up in his eyes. His heart pounded against his ribs as the cold edge of the knife pressed closer, the threat all too real. Every breath felt like it could be his last.

"Choose your last words wisely," Max sneered, his voice dripping with venom. The knife’s tip dug just a fraction deeper, enough for Charles to feel the sting of metal against his skin, but not enough to break it—yet. It was a threat, a promise of what was to come if he said the wrong thing.

Charles’s breath hitched, his body trembling not just from fear but from something deeper. He lifted his head slowly, eyes meeting Max's, and for the first time in a long while, Max saw the raw emotion in them, the vulnerability that Charles had always tried to hide. He saw the tears, not just of fear but of something more—something that made Max's grip falter ever so slightly.

"I love you."

The words left Charles’s lips in a whisper, fragile and soft, yet they hit Max harder than any punch ever could. His sneer faltered, and his grip on the knife loosened just enough for the sharp edge to slip away from Charles’s throat. For a moment, the world seemed to freeze around them, the rain forgotten, the alley around them fading into the background. All that existed was the space between them and those three words, hanging heavy in the air.

Max blinked, his breath catching in his throat. His mind raced, searching for any trace of anger, of betrayal, of the hatred that had fueled him up until this point. But those words—those cursed, beautiful words—shattered something inside of him. The sneer vanished, replaced by a look of confusion, hurt, and something far more dangerous: regret.

“You…” Max began, but the words died in his throat. His hand dropped to his side, the knife slipping from his fingers and clattering to the ground with a metallic thud.

Charles didn’t move, still pressed against the wall, his body trembling from more than just fear now. He looked up at Max, his eyes filled with so much pain, so much love, it was unbearable. How had it come to this? How had two people who had once shared everything—shared dreams, victories, and quiet moments under the stars—ended up like this? Enemies. Strangers.

Charles’s chest tightened as he watched Max struggle to process what he had just said. The villain. The man who had held a knife to his throat, threatening to take his life in a heartbeat, now stood before him as the man he had loved. The man he still loved, despite everything.

"Charles, stop," Max said, his voice a desperate whisper now, not the commanding, cruel tone it had been moments before. "Don’t say that. Don’t make this harder."

But Charles shook his head, his tears mingling with the rain. "It’s the truth, Max. I love you. I always have. Even now, after everything." His voice cracked, the weight of his emotions almost too much to bear.

Max took a step back, running a hand through his soaked hair, his face twisted in agony. He wanted to scream, to lash out, to deny everything Charles had just said. But he couldn’t. Because somewhere deep down, beneath the layers of anger and resentment, he knew. He had always known.

"I… I never wanted it to be like this," Max admitted, his voice barely audible above the rain. His hands were shaking, his heart racing, torn between the man he had become and the man he used to be—the man Charles had loved. The man who had loved Charles.

Charles’s breath hitched, his body aching from the tension and the cold. “Then why did you?” His voice was a broken whisper, pleading for answers that maybe neither of them could give.

Max stared at him, his jaw clenched, his mind a whirlwind of regret, guilt, and longing. He wanted to reach out, to take Charles in his arms and tell him that everything would be okay, that they could go back to the way things were. But they couldn’t. They both knew that.

“I thought… I thought it was the only way,” Max said, his voice hoarse, as though the admission itself pained him. “I thought if I pushed you away, it would hurt less. That if I became the villain, you’d stop loving me. But I was wrong. I was so wrong.”

Charles took a step forward, his heart pounding. “Max…”

Max’s breath hitched as he met Charles’s gaze, the raw emotion in his eyes undoing him completely. “I’m sorry,” he choked out, the words trembling as they left his lips. “I’m so sorry, Charles.”

Charles closed the distance between them, his hand reaching up to cup Max’s cheek. Max flinched at the touch but didn’t pull away. He couldn’t. The weight of Charles’s love, even now, was too much to bear, and yet he couldn’t live without it.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” Max whispered, his voice barely audible as Charles’s thumb brushed against his skin, wiping away the tears he hadn’t realized he was shedding.

“Then don’t,” Charles said softly, his voice filled with a tenderness that made Max’s heart ache. “Just… stay.”

Max’s breath hitched as Charles pulled him closer, their foreheads touching, the world around them falling away. For a moment, there was no villain and no hero—just two broken people who had once loved each other more than anything.

[pythi-the-drawing-writer]

Random unscripted Monster Hunter Rant; Zoh Shia, a thematic empty husk.

Monster Hunter has always been kinda weird about story? Only really since World have they started trying to be a lot more up front about their stories and... Well it's certainly been an experimental period since then.

I have a lot of problems with Wild's story, primarily pertaining to the guardians and Wyveria. And a lot of it can be summed up by the existence of Zoh Shia.

Zoh Shia Stands for and is NOTHING. There's no theme, nothing to connect it to, and even fight wise so much of it is Stolen from it's predecessors.

What's the deal with some notable final bosses from previous games?

Ceadeus; the WHOLE point of that fight is you are NOT here to kill it or even hurt it. You are trying to help it. That some problems don't have to be solved by simply killing the big monster, but instead by understanding it, breaking off the overgrown horn to ease it's pain. It's frankly the closest we've ever gotten to a true gameplay expression of MH's core themes.

Shagaru Magala; 4 in General is interesting. It's a game entirely about cycles and Shagaru represents 2 sides of it. Rebirth and Death. It is the Gore you've been chasing and watching grow, reborn into a new form, and it is the Gore you have grown to understand that You must put down. That you have your own place in this cycle and as hunter that place is as Death.

Xeno'jiiva; the thing about Xeno.... It's a Baby. Not even in the way Gore was, it's a literal baby, you watched it hatch in a burst of sickly blue light, it's Animations are clumsy and awkward as if it doesn't know how to use it's body, it's skin is soft not yet the hardened scales they could be. And at the same time it is horrifyingly dangerous. As a baby alone it's feeding nearly destroyed the new world. And we see it's adult form that has completely decimated the lower regions of the guiding lands. It is just a child that must be killed for reasons it couldn't possibly fathom.

Zoh Shia is... None of these. We get the full rundown on its backstory as it's literally just a weapon created some odd very very long time ago and killed everything. It's quite literally just Evil. Not even in the bizarre and uncanny way Fatalis is who has a very targeted hatred of humans specifically, it's just universally evil. Xeno and Gore's destructive tendencies had a purpose at least, survival. Xeno needs so much bio energy to survive that it unfortunately becomes cancerous, and Gore's Frenzy is very notably a symbiotic relationship as the virus weakens and kills other monsters for it to scavenge. It's just that Gore appears so rarely that most ecosystems have a hard time dealing with it when it does.

Zoh Shia doesn't need to survive or anything. It doesn't need to eat it doesn't need to breathe, it doesn't need anything. It's entirely meaningless and purposeless. It's destructive tendencies don't have an actual reason behind them other than "that's just how it is". There's no bigger theme behind it, it exists solely to be a big final boss. And even in gameplay all of its attacks are stolen from other monsters in a way that frankly doesn't really feel coherent other than being flashy or interesting attacks/gimmicks other monster had.

And if anyone wants to bring up the Equal Dragon Weapon. There's a reason that concept was Scrapped so early. This is a series all about the natural world and thus it's most interesting and strongest points are when we get to see weird shit that's ultimately part of this world and how they interact in weird ways. There's no need Monster Hunter was missing by not having a "and this is why human's shouldn't play God" Monster.

Good night New World

[paellaplease]

12. liberosis - the desire to care less about things.

pairing: revali x reader part: 5 of 6 summary: on the night of calamity ganon’s attack, you find yourself thrown back a week into the past, waking up outside the door of an unusual rito with deep blue feathers.

Read from the beginning

It was pitch black the moment you awoke not for the first time that night. With a cool draft hitting your back, you rolled over in discomfort. The blankets had been stolen, again. 

You tried to free the heavy knitted layer, but just like the previous time it was completely cocooned around him. Grumbling, you released the blanket and opted to press a knuckle into your temple. A horrid pain was beating at the back of your head, rattling your already sleep-addled thoughts. 

The pulse at your wrist was racing, and accompanied by your shallow breaths you knew you were having another episode. 

Even before this recent development, waking up like this was not uncommon. Though your body was reborn and made anew, the mind continued to retain memories from past lives. 

Night terrors were familiar territory for the company you kept. Though the subject matter was something different entirely, and something you wisely chose to keep to yourself. No matter how much effort you dedicated in repressing them, it wasn’t enough to expunge the pain completely. After all, even the hardest of metals lose strength over time. 

And so it led to events like these. Where your body was already panicking, anticipating a fight even after the restful void of sleep.

There was an annoying ringing in your ear. Great, that’s new. You thought to yourself in frustration. As if sleeping wasn’t difficult enough.

It took a bit of tugging to pull the blanket closer, but eventually you had it wrapped around you again. Like clockwork, your breaths fell into the rhythm of an old exercise. You had done it so many times that you had forgotten where you had learned it. It was well worn, like an old coat that had sheltered you from many a storm. 

Inhale, one, two, three, four. Hold, one, two, three, four. Exhale, one, two, three, four. Hold, one, two, three, four.

It had helped somewhat. The pain had lessened, though the dull ringing was still heard in your ear. Growing louder and louder. Some other tones began to join along with it, forming a noise that began to sound suspiciously like…conversation. 

Perhaps I am going mad. 

As you tossed and turned, the voices echoed. They were a choir of the old and young, the weak and the strong, stone-hardened and soft as meadow grass; ordering you to get up and run. Run? Your chest ached at the thought. Run where? 

Your bed partner then rolled to face you, throwing a wing over your waist. 

Oh. 

Okay. 

You were perfectly safe in this hammock. Though the frigid breezes from Hebra blew through the cloth coverings of the window, you were warmer than you had ever been. It was like sleeping next to a breathing pillow. Needy as it was. And despite your little fits, he did not even stir. 

You looked at him properly then, discerning his form in the darkened room. 

This was not the first time you had seen Revali asleep. You had both camped in the wilderness together and taken alternating shifts on watch when the moon had sat high in the heavens. 

Even on the field he slept like a perfect soldier, back straight and beak shut to a thin line. He was so silent you often wondered if he had been unconscious at all. Any noise deemed suspicious would wake him, his bow never far from reach in case of an ambush. 

Now…his eyes were closed, with not a wrinkle lingering on his brow. His beak hung slightly open, a little snore escaping from it as he drifted off in a deep sleep. 

There was no other way to react than in quiet disbelief. You ran a careful hand over his head, watching as a sea of feathers moved against your outstretched palm. Though soft, you could tell which were newly grown. A delicate patch revealing a history of previous injuries. Some were at his wings but most grew at the front of his chest, indicating they were sustained facing an enemy head on. 

You sighed, shaking your head and placing a light kiss over where his heart would be. “Fool,” you whispered fondly. 

As you pulled away you found that in the shadow of the night it was similar to viewing the inky void of a dark ocean. The feathers under your hand were blue. Soft as every suspiciously plush pillow in this village, and blue. Blue as the ink on your fingers. As Rigel in the constellation Orion. 

And you supposed he too was a dying star, with a core long since fated to destruction before you even met. But in this moment he was far enough that you could still see the light that rolled off him, resplendent. And not for the first time did you wonder if the stars knew of your own selfish thoughts. To hold on to the rattling hum of a shade as the supernova burned behind you, unforgiving and insurmountable. 

If you could keep him for yourself, you would. If the goddesses allowed it, more you would ask. More than his memory. More than one fragile plume which remained in your coat’s pocket like a constant companion. 

Never fraying, never destroyed. 

You leaned forward to press a kiss to his shoulder, but in that instance every restless spirit screamed out. 

You. Must. Go.

The pain behind your head flared again, as if you were struck dead on by a blunt object.

Coughing, you carefully extricated yourself from his hold. The tremble in your arms nearly sent you tumbling out of the hammock, the banister acting as your only support. It’s by some miracle that you latched on with ease, climbing your way back down without waking him and landing with a thud. 

The noise echoed, loud enough to rouse any sleeper. Dizzy, you forced yourself to remain quiet, watching nervously for any sign of movement from the hammock. 

A minute passed, then another. The voices raged in your head until you were nauseous. Sure that he was fast asleep, you turned back to the entrance and slipped on your shoes and coat. The voices followed you like angry echoes, urging you to move faster, waging war against your own wishes. 

Don’t look back. Weakness. Forward. Onward. Soles to dirt as wood is to ash. 

Before stepping over the threshold, a small noise rose over the cacophony in your head. It was quiet. So much so that it could have easily been mistaken as sleep addled murmurs or the creaking of a nearby tree. 

You were frozen still at the doorway when Revali called out your name.

It was whispered, as if in question into the darkness of his home. A shaky breath escaped you as your hands trembled by your sides. 

Both of you knew you were about to do something unforgivable. 

Just as well. It was always you disappointing him. In what world did you even deserve a fraction of his affections? You won’t…you couldn’t acknowledge it. Doing so would break you completely.   

Forward. Onward. 

You lurched to the side, slamming a hand on to the doorframe to steady yourself. The voices sang through your blood, picking at your fraying ends like the burnt off end of a cord. If you weren’t careful, you were going to be sick. 

He called out to you again, and despite your better judgment, you stopped and listened. 

“…please. Stay.” 

A flood of shame and guilt gripped at your already aching chest. There were no words that could fix this. 

“Go back to sleep. Don’t follow me, Revali.” 

The breeze which whispered from the doorway felt somewhat colder. You stood and listened, waiting for him to protest. To fight you. And you were ready to argue back through any means possible. 

But ultimately, in the stillness of his home, there came no reply. 

Good, you thought. Yet you remained standing at the door, stupidly hoping to hear something from him, anything. 

Just as you thought you saw the movement of blankets—Go. The voices commanded. 

And so you complied. The dim wooden ceiling of the hut became the infinite yawning expanse of the night sky. Finally outside, you clutched at your chest as if in deep pain, clouds of air leaving your lips as you tried and failed to breathe. But there was no time to mourn anything. Above you, the stars acted as silent witnesses, watching as you turned away from Revali’s home, listening to the voices and running into the night. 

The cold of the outside slammed into you full force, chilling you to the bone. It had begun to snow and even with your heavy coat you knew it would be an abysmal and chilly ride. 

Eimhin complained as you spurred her forward. You didn’t know where you were going, letting the chorus of voices lead you, becoming so loud that it rivaled even the howling of the Tabantha winds. 

Sun up, then sundown. You did not sleep. You did not eat. A supernatural force seemed to keep Eimhin going as well. Though you knew such things were unsustainable—the need to arrive at this unknown location eclipsed everything else. 

Finally, a building of darkened stone drew closer. It sat upon a hill, with the early dawn shining behind it like a beacon. Stained glass windows decorated every level like jewels on a crown. The heavy doors were wide open, with the combined smell of incense and burning candles wafting out into the open air and making your eyes water. 

The pain in your head grew worse. Not even the breathing exercise could temper it. 

With shaking legs you stepped off your horse. You made a break for the church’s spire entrance, climbing the steps by two at a time. 

At the top of the stairwell you stopped to catch your breath, shoulders heaving as the adrenaline from the past few days began to drain. The headache remained, days of enduring and finally it was lessened to a dull beating. You realised that you were afflicted by a fever as well, the violent sweats and shakes threatening to fold your legs from underneath you. 

Approaching an open window, you knelt beside it, resting your head on the ledge. A beautiful view of Hyrule Castle gleamed from the outside but you were too damn tired to enjoy any of it. 

Sleep. The voices urged you. 

“Now that,” you said to the empty tower. “I can do.” 

.

.

.

Planets and stars spun above you. The ceiling was but a vast, never ending canvas that stretched beyond your comprehension into the depths of gloom where dark blue faded into black. 

“—this is wholly inappropriate and a breach of the terms of our experiment. It is not within your rights to interfere.” 

“Be silent. Sibling. You gamble with time.” 

“I created time.” 

As the two goddesses argued, a warm breeze combed the hair away from your face, creating little waves in the water surrounding your supine body. 

‘Stand up, little sprout!’ Though no voice was heard, you could understand the command well enough. Your nose was filled with the smell of honey and jasmine, and like strings around a maypole untwirling, you felt the tension in your muscles be forcibly plucked up and released. 

You stood up, shivering and slightly disturbed. 

“Take me back,” you said. 

Though you could not see them, you felt all three godly presences suddenly turn to you. It took a lot of strength not to cringe under the weight of their collective judgment. Annoying as it was, you were practically a flea dancing under a magnifying glass, the concentrated point of holy light threatening to burn you into a crisp. 

“Behold. What your coddling has achieved. Sibling.” 

“I don’t appreciate your tone. You pulled them away once things were finally becoming interesting. It was their best run yet and you had to stick your meaty mittens into the stew!” 

“A sharpened sword. Wasted.” 

The water underneath your feet rippled. You felt something wet land on your head. Little drops of rain fell from the literal heavens above, hitting the pseudo-sea in gentle pitter patters. It reminded you uncannily of the sweetened notes of laughter. 

“Excuse me. It’s rude to carry a conversation about someone who is right here. Take me back. Now.” You said again, trying to add as much venom as you could to your voice though your exhaustion was evident. The headache had disappeared as soon as you awoke in this in-between world, but if you were to spend any more time listening to these deities argue, you were sure it would rear its ugly head back to torment you. 

“Be still my petulant spark, the adults are talking.” 

“I see anger. Vexation.” That other voice said, seeming to finally pay attention to you. 

“Of course I am angry,” You said, crossing your arms and scowling at the sky. “Why did you bring me here? I deserve an explanation—”

“Acceptable.” Was all you received in reply. There was a sound of protest from the other godly being, before the ocean gave way and you found yourself falling into the abyss. 

.

.

.

X—

The skin of your knees tore as you landed hard on the muddy ground. You caught your breath, shaking away the vertigo of being wrenched from your previous surroundings so abruptly. There were sounds of metal clashing and shields being bashed. It was difficult to discern where you were, let alone hear your own thoughts as you were plunged into the din. 

Groaning, you placed a hand to your face, surprised to feel the familiar surface of standard issue military metal. Your helmet. 

Before you had left the barracks, Revali had made you abandon it, arguing that it would be an eye-sore at Rito Village. In hindsight you knew he just wanted to see your face better. That very fact he had revealed to you the previous night, much to your delight and annoyance. 

Your heart clenched painfully. 

Now is not the time!  

Bottom line, you were wearing it now. And it was dented and wet, a line of liquid sliding down the side of it. You swiped a hand over the area, pulling back and realizing that the pads of your fingers were stained with the frank redness of fresh blood. 

A sword swung above you, and by instinct you heaved the Greatsword in your hands, blocking the blow easily. You kicked at your assailant’s knee, feeling the crack of bone under your boot as they went down. 

There was a whistling sound coming from behind your shoulder. You had a second to turn. The dagger sliced a line over the gap in your armor, barely missing your jugular. Pressing a hand to your neck, you felt the cut begin to bleed, dripping down to the collar of your tunic. 

Another whistling noise, another dagger cut through the air. Your heavy sword was lifted a moment too late as the sharp metal knocked back forcefully against your chest plate, staggering you backwards. 

The attacker was upon you immediately, light on their feet and quick with their daggers which were so fast they appeared as if from thin air. Digging your boots into the muddy ground, you held yourself like a strong pillar. You had fought quick opponents before, with the memory of graceful feathers followed by a volley of arrows coming to you unbidden. 

You exhaled a grunt of pain when a dagger cut through your side, followed by a swift kick to the injury. It would be easy to wince and double over, but the fire within you kept your eyes open. Your fist tightened over the handle of the Greatsword, and you saw it, there. A flash of white, and you feint as if to swing at them. 

They dodged to the side accordingly. You let one hand drop from the handle, using it to grab onto the enemy’s white hair. There is a burning feeling in your mind, as if something out there could read your thoughts. Whatever it was, they were pleased. 

Their cry of pain is lost in the chaos around you. The world you were pulled into had given in to bedlam as you slammed them into the ground. 

Before their head was severed, you saw their red eyes stare back at you. There was no fear. Only a blank acceptance of defeat. And in the reflection of the sword in your hands as you brought it down, you realized your eyes held the same emotion. 

“Power. It befits you.”

“A most cliche line, if I ever heard one.” You griped. Another enemy of similar appearance came running to you, enraged at the sight of their fallen comrade. You let the daggers glance over your arm, ignoring the stinging cut so as to allow yourself an opening to slip your sword between their ribcage. 

You could hear Revali chastising you for such a reckless maneuver. Survival isn’t as estranged from winning as you think, Stranger. 

The earth rumbled beneath your feet, and turning around you were given a split second to blink before you and many other soldiers from both sides were being flung through the air. The ground practically explodes as blood, muck and mud is flung. 

Landing hard on your side, you feel the muscles in your shoulder pull. Your hand was still wrapped around the hilt of your heavy sword. Clutching it in a death grip, you forced yourself to your feet, shielding your eyes from the debris which was kicked up, trying to peer at the giant thing in the distance. 

“Not all songs are sung. Some. Forgotten.” 

For a moment there is silence. The royal soldiers stand like fresh game, frozen by the sound which reminded you of all those terrible stories. Of prisoners being burned to death in the hollow of a bronze casket. Their screams reverberating; mingling into the metal. 

Terror lanced through your heart when the dust cleared, revealing a giant metal animal on four legs. The sky crackled in brilliant white. Lightning. 

“Shame. Perish they did. Quietly. In glorious battle.” 

Someone knocked into your back, and you yelled out in anger and frustration. As your swords met, lightning flashed once more, revealing the tattooed eye on her unwrinkled forehead. The woman opened her mouth and said something to you in a language you had never heard before as she parried your strikes with her longblade. The sword swung through the air, leaving trails of blue light like the tail of a falling star. “Where the fuck am I?” You swore back. 

“The King ordered them. Buried. Their treasures and children.” 

The beast roared again, lightning striking the earth a short distance away. The ground was dug up again as horses, soldiers and limbs sailed through the air. You looked on in horror before you focused on the woman in front of you again. Her mouth was covered by a dark cloth. Her frame was smaller than yours, but you could see the precision in her stance, the fearlessness in the way she struck against you. 

“The Sheikah. Proud. A stone yields not willingly.” 

The beast roared again. You could feel the hairs on the back of your neck standing. The air felt almost electric. There was warmth again, singing through your skin and providing you with inhuman strength as you wielded your Greatsword, cutting down the woman, then the next Sheikah beside you. 

“I can. Immortalize you. In fire. Blood.” 

The battle continued for what felt like hours. Yet you showed no signs of tiring. Your mind was slowly losing itself to the haze of this neverending skirmish. 

“Good. I understand your plaything now. Sibling.”

“Stop this at once, Din! Look at what you’ve done! Another year of this nonsense and their feeble mind will become mush!”

“Never. Relinquish them. To me.” 

Water began to fall from the sky, hitting the dry and cracking earth. It washed the blood from your skin, drenching your hair and wetting your parched lips. You had forgotten what it was like to feel thirsty. To hunger. To yearn for sleep. 

While the two voices clashed, a soft breeze was felt against your skin, like cold fingers brushing against your back. Such gentleness felt foreign, and immediately you spun around to retaliate. With eyes wide and teeth bared, you lifted your Greatsword against your assailant. 

It confused you to find that no one was there. 

The breeze swept past your cheek, making you shiver.

‘I can help you, little sprout!’

‘Simply, turn the sword against you.’

‘Quickly now! Before the other two notice.’ 

‘There we go, like pulling a splinter. One, two, three—’ 

You could feel yourself bleeding against it. Blood spurted from the wound with each squeeze of your heart. You heard your knees hit the ground as the world began to spin. A darkness was bordering your vision, creating a tunnel which gradually began to narrow. 

Looking down, you saw yourself reflected in the sword. The reflection blinked, though your own eyes remained open. Its mouth curled, whilst yours remained in a tight line. It opened its mouth, cheeks stretching and baring teeth like it had read what a smile was but had never seen a human execute it.

And in your mind, you heard them. Speaking through your own voice. 

“Let us leave this dour spot for greener pastures…”

.

.

.

X—

There is no sudden collapse of ground beneath you, no starlight which steals you away. Instead you blink, and that was that. Black void, without even a shadow. Darkness and solemn quiet. 

Exhaling, the echoing sound of your breath brought a semblance of comfort. It confirmed that this wasn’t some crushing box but at the very least a vast cavern. You held your hands out, unable to judge the distance in front of you let alone where you were. 

You stamped your feet and felt the dirt shift underneath your shoe. Curious, you thought to yourself. Bending down, you brushed what felt like the cool touch of several leaves, dew dripping from the ends of them. Tugging on a few blades easily yielded a bunch which fell from the gaps between your fingers. Grass. 

“Ack!” The bones of your spine straightened, making you stand to attention like a soldier. Your mouth opened without you meaning to, words falling from your lips. 

“Step forward. You can walk and sprint, jump even! Let all your fears melt away, little sprout.” You said, your voice sounding stiff and monotone, odd inflections being added at the end of your sentences. 

Tendons pulled like puppet strings, moving your legs forward in an unnatural gait. The darkness continued as you were forced to move deeper into this space. Several times your arms had bumped roughly into a broken column, or you had stubbed a toe against a pillar. But though it ached your body continued to move forward, refusing to acknowledge the pain. 

Then, you were deposited in front of a rock. Shaking hands were forced to feel around it, with your palm falling down the smooth downward slope of a curled wing, the other grasping on to the point of a beak. It was a statue of a bird. 

A crackling noise resounded, and the air stung as if electrified. Then, there was light. 

There was the roar of the wind, then the statue, a torch holder, erupted into flames before your eyes. A ring of similar bonfires came alive in a wide arc, eventually joining until they made a circle. 

There in the middle was a dense fog. Within it played a scene, like a twisted tableau. 

The world spun, a cyclone of memories. You were in the hammock again. The festivities of the village outside drifted like sweet music, a cold breeze rustling the tapestry coverings of the windows. 

“You’re beautiful, you know that right?” 

Turning in the mess of patterned sheets, you buried your face further into the crook of his neck, the smell of pine and violets making you smile. “Handsome, lovely, and now beautiful? Are you still dreaming or do you really say this to every stranger you meet?”

Curling a wing around your waist, he sleepily pulled you closer. “Just stating facts. While I’m at it let’s add exasperating to that list,” he sighed. “And you’re far from a stranger now.” 

Lifting your head, you found that both his green eyes were open and looking at you. You grinned, watching his whole face soften as he smiled back. “Exasperating? That sounds more like it. I’m surprisingly good at that.” 

His eyes slipped closed as you moved to place a quick kiss on his beak, blue feathers shuddering when you sank deeper into his embrace. “Well then, you’re my moon and stars, Revali. Every constellation in the sky pales in comparison.”

“This isn’t a competition.”

“I know,” your hands found his wing under the covers, fingers moving to entwine with his own, holding tight. Resting your head against his chest, you could hear his heartbeat under your ear, thrumming and alive. ”But if it was, I'd have already won.” 

Please, stay. 

You kept your eyes shut, trying to focus on the steady inhale and exhale of his lungs. Listening closely, it sounded more labored, as if he was choking. 

Go back to sleep. 

A sticky substance spilled down your cheek, swiping a finger, you inspected it in the lamplight to be red and thick. Blood. 

Don’t follow me, Revali. 

Any attempts to lift your head were futile, blood began to pool into your lips, tasting like copper. 

You would have been long gone by now. 

You were trapped as the warm body underneath you began to grow cold. His chest stilled, heartbeat drumming slow until to your horror, it stopped completely. 

So be it. 

The air shifted again, and you found yourself suddenly able to lift your head, a sickly ribbon of thick red following you. Lifting your hands proved to be difficult, and as you struggled to stand, you found yourself slipping in a puddle of congealed fat and bone. 

The moblin stood before you, Aryll in its grasp. Rot, decay and death; that trio of horrid stench was more familiar to you than ever, and it reeked of it. 

You’re late. 

You were held by invisible chains to the ground, covered in gore. Seeing the terror in Aryll’s eyes made you fight desperately against your restraints, even as your arm began to pull from its socket. 

Don’t go. 

“This can’t be right. It never went like this!” The words were said helplessly as Aryll called out to you, her cries unintelligible as they mixed with her gasping need to breathe. 

I won’t get hurt.  

You began to sob at the sound of her bones snapping. Her diaphragm crushed to dust like the wings of a little bird. 

Plenty to last me a lifetime. 

The cyclone receded and took the fog along with it. In its absence, the dark forest was clear to you once more. Ancient statues alight like funeral pyres, circling a dark mass at its center. 

If your body was your own, you would have jumped back in surprise. Every nerve screamed to do so as the hulking form of that thing, revealed itself in the light of the fires. 

Divine Beast. 

This was the first time you’d seen it confined to the earth. Its fuschia glowing eyes were dimmed. Yet, even though it was grounded, your heart quivered in fear at the mere sight of the leviathan. 

Then, you saw someone familiar, cowering before it. Their clothes were plain, a basic winter coat to ward away the elements, barely keeping their weak form warm. Around them, star charts littered the floor. 

The glowing eyes flashed, coming alive. 

Why are they standing still? You thought in a panic. 

The air began to sizzle in an all too familiar way. Your eyes refused to blink as the person stood there, frozen dumb. 

The puppet strings were released. 

The muscles in your shoulders suddenly dropped, and you leaned to the side as you greedily inhaled a gulp of air. “Holy hell.” You gasped, your voice your own again. Immediately you dragged your feet forward, pushing past the static numbness and using all your strength to propel you forward. 

Your boots crunched against the precious scrolls and maps, adorned lovingly with constellations and measurements that you once spent hours committing to memory.

The empty sound before the blast stole your breath as you barreled into your past self, grabbing them and rolling away just as the beam eviscerated the grass where you both once stood. 

Grabbing their shoulders, you roughly slammed them into the ground. “Are you stupid!” You yelled into their face. Your words came back to you in that same instant, repeated like a twisted echo.

Their eyes were wide as they looked up at you, the fires reflected in them. Utterly terrified, their mouth moved in a mirror to yours. 

“You just stood there! Fucking coward! It took her! He—he’s going to die.”  “You just stood there! Fucking coward! It took her! He—he’s going to die.” 

“And it’s all your goddesses-damned fault.”  “And it’s all your goddesses-damned fault.” 

You sent a fist at your own self, wanting to cave in the face that you wore in another time. It wasn’t fair, how they lived life so blissfully, how they took everything for granted, how they existed without having known anything. 

But as your knuckles connected with skin, you felt no satisfaction from the act. 

Tears began to build in your eyes as you stood up, hastily wiping them from your cheeks. The past version of you did the same to their own, their gaze still trained on you in fear as their face began to bruise. 

Stumbling away, you fell backwards into the grass. The ruins around you burned and the heat began to singe your skin as a warm breeze, like oven fire, fanned the flames. 

Your past self sat up, massaging their jaw and stared at you unblinking. Bloodshot and beady-eyed, like a doll. Their hands stiffly pulled at their burning skin in unnatural angles, almost like they wished to rip the charred layer off completely. 

Then. Without your own mouth moving, they spoke in a voice that wasn’t yours. 

“And what, little sprout, have we learnt?” 

Your mouth tasted like rust. “Just send me to hell! What are you waiting for?” 

“Always choosing the option to run, to cower and hide.” They lifted their arms as the skin there began to flake and blacken, revealing bone. “You care for no one but yourself.” 

“That’s not—I cared for them. I loved—

“You abandoned them. Need I remind you of all the times you chose death over facing the full round.” The smog made by the fires partially obscured their grinning smile. You didn’t even know your own lips could peel that far. “However, I am benevolent.” 

They reached into their coat, pulling out the blue feather which had followed you through all these lives. “I can end this for you. Grant what my sibling cannot. I’ll take it all away.” 

Your eyes never left that feather, watching as it delicately waved in the oppressive heat, embers so close to singeing it. “Give that back.” 

Gleefully, they crushed it into their hand. “Let it burn with me. And I will restore you to your time. Your star charts, your neighbors farm, your sanity. Like all this had never happened. Is that not what you want?” 

Clenching your fist, you felt the deep ache of every scar that was carved into you. Every night spent without peace, with the anxiety of living wrapped tightly around your neck like a noose. 

The sins which plagued you until you walked this world in a haze of your former self. Aryll’s pain. Revali’s death. The knowledge of these events occurring. This goddess could take that all away. 

Yet, your eyes never left that feather. It’s familiar blue stubbornly showing itself in the cracks of their melting hand. 

“You know what I want?” 

The broken mirror tilted their head, an eye sliding to the side as if no longer sitting correctly in their skull. “Hm?” 

“I want you,” shakily standing up, you made your way towards them. “And your siblings,” with arms trembling in anger, you embraced their burning form, prying the feather from their fists. “To fuck off.” 

The goddess laughed in the prison of your arms, their voice sounding the closest to a human than it ever had in this entire twisted exchange. The flames climbed on to your clothes, excruciating. But it did not matter, you have burned before. 

“Noted, little sprout.” 

.

.

.

X—

The grain of the kitchen table swirled and dipped underneath the pads of your fingers. You focused on the indentations, tracing the marks until you found the chip. Aryll had hit her head there, playing tag with her older brother. It was almost a perfect copy. 

“Take a seat,” a woman said, her golden hair in a braided bun. “Tea will be ready soon.” She wore Medilia’s armor, the crest of the Royal Guard displayed proudly on her back. 

“And which one are you?” Sliding the chair out, you roughly deposited yourself on your side of the table. You noticed it was the place where you always sat whenever you were invited to dinner. “Is this house going to catch fire too? Because you might want to spare me the pyrotechnics. I’ve already seen that happen.” 

The woman shook her head ruefully, her face still obscured as she set down two cups of tea. It was Medilia’s favorite set too, the one her husband had gifted her after their quiet son was recruited to serve the King. 

You took a sip. “Who are you?” 

“A bystander to history,” she said, folding her delicate hands. The accent was regal, not unlike a voice you remembered from other lives ago, panicking over your broken form in the grass. “But that is irrelevant. I am here to grant you guidance”. 

“I’ve had enough of higher powers telling me what to do.” 

The woman’s shoulders shook in quiet laughter. “Apologies.” She said, “you just reminded me of someone.” It was then that she lifted her head, revealing a plain face. Pretty, but fairly unremarkable. “I want to help you.” 

Your hands tightened around the cup, close enough to shatter it if you weren’t careful. “Then tell me how I can save them.”

“The world will end, that is already known. But take comfort in the knowledge that it will be reborn in a hundred years.” 

“Lady, it has been a long day. Day? Year. Hylia’s third toe, I don’t know anymore.” The woman’s head tilted in amusement as you swore. “If you’re going to tell me to give up, then I’m going to stop listening right about now.” 

“You still think you can save him.” 

“I will.” Slamming your hand made the old table shudder, the cups rattling on their saucers. “I swear it. I swear myself to it. Now are we done here?” 

“Mortals always fail to focus on the bigger tapestry.” She sighed, her golden hair shimmering in the afternoon light. Past the windows behind her, the fields leading to Castle Town waved, green and healthy in the late summer sun. “Much sorrow and pain will come to pass, but is it not enough that all this sacrifice will be paid back more than a hundred times in the future?"  

“Excuse my mortal sentiments, but I don’t hold individual souls in such little regard.” 

She raised a brow. “And what of your own?” 

You frowned. "Touché. But I’m…working on it.” 

Taking a sip of her tea, she smiled as if in memory. “I haven’t had an informal conversation like this in a while. I must say, it’s quite refreshing.” 

You shook your head. “That’s great and all, but can we please get back to the point. Return me to the start. I have a lot of explaining to do for someone.” Draining your cup, you saw the Silent Princess at the bottom, its blue core and white lined petals in full bloom. “I can’t do this alone anymore.” 

The woman beamed, and her serene smile reminded you of the statues hidden in quiet alcoves, decorated in offerings and warmed by lit incense. 

Before you could connect the dots, she stood from the table, taking the pot from the stove and refilled your cup. “That’s wonderful to hear.” She said in relief, sounding like a mother proud that her child had added one and one to get two. “Such revelations should be rewarded.” 

“What.”

“Drink that please. Waste not a single drop.” At the sudden intensity in her order, you did as you were told. 

You set the empty cup on the table. Looking at your hands, you flexed them to see that nothing happened.  

“Okay, let’s cut the crap Hylia. What is my purpose in all thi—

.

.

.

X—

Starlight stole you away. 

[vexicwrites]

factum fieri infectum non potest

Warnings: none

"You never loved me."

Hartley's voice was quieter than it had been but no less harsh as he glared at the older man through the glass. He knew it was well after hours - that was the only time Harrison bothered to come speak to him, when he could shut off the security cameras and talk openly without worrying about his team hearing their conversations. So Hartley didn't feel it necessary to hide his emotions either. The man had seen him naked, after all, it was hard to get more vulnerable.

"No. I didn't."

Hartley had expected some more bullshit lies about how he had loved Hartley, would always love Hartley, or something similar. The blunt statement hit him like a physical punch and he looked away, fighting the lump that formed in his throat. He'd cried enough over this man, he definitely didn't want to cry in front of him. He let out a forced, miserable, pained laugh.

"So, what, I was just...just stress relief? An easy fuck?"

"Yes."

Hartley felt like the air had been sucked out of his lungs. He couldn't breathe, couldn't speak. God, it hurt. The rejection, the cruel dismissal, it hurt so damn much. He knew it was true, but he'd still thought…he'd thought maybe there had been something real between them. That Harrison cared about him, even just a little. But of course that was too much to ask for, far too much to hope for.

"Hartley." God, that condescending tone was grating. "Does that really upset you? You knew it wasn't anything more. I cared about you, as one of my best employees. You were my guy. Not my partner."

"Who's your 'guy' now? Ramon?" Hartley spat, trying to override the overwhelming grief with venom and anger. It didn't quite work, his voice shook and his hands were trembling, but at least the tears stayed back.

Harrison removed his glasses, completely unbothered. "I'm not sure what you want me to say. I got what I needed and now we're done."

Another knife straight to the heart, Hartley wasn't sure how much more he could take. But he managed to not crumble right then and there, breathing through the pain.

"Does your pet Flash know this side of you?" Hartley sneered, his tone bitter. "How long until he figures out who you really are now that he knows I warned you about the accelerator?"

Harrison's face hardened a bit, the first sign of real emotion he'd seen from the man...maybe ever. But the flicker of emotion was gone as quickly as it had come.

"Nemo mortalium omnibus horis sapit. I made a horrible mistake but Barry will see that it was just that - a mistake."

Hartley tsked. "Factum fieri infectum non potest."

"Indeed." Harrison replied, turning away from him. "Goodnight, Hartley."

The moment the door to the pipeline closed, Hartley fell back against the wall of his cell and slumped to the ground, feeling broken and empty as he choked on a sob. Harrison Wells had taken everything from him - his future, his career, his heart - and for what? Nothing. Harrison had given him nothing. He was nothing to Harrison.

-----

translation:

Nemo mortalium omnibus horis sapit. No man is wise at all times.

Factum fieri infectum non potest. It is impossible for a deed to be undone.

[silverloreley]

I kind of want to read, kind of want to write...

A story about an immortal falling in love not with a teenager (we have enough of these) or a beautiful young woman, but with a mature woman or one who was never pretty in her life. A story in which he doesn't look young either (who said only youth is attractive?) and young women don't seem that good to him because they lack that light of life experience.

Maybe a story about a vampire who was turned while in his late forties pushing fifty who falls for the mid-fifties housewife with a terribly abusive husband she can't get away from and whose children are already gone from home and won't help her (they're too far, she was good at hiding until they left and it's easier now that they can't see, she's happy she saved them...), but a vampire is already damned, what's some adultery and murder to him? Or charming his way through the scum's workplace to find the right evidence of tax fraud so the shit can go to prison and she can file a quick divorce, the vamp doesn't mind...

Or a story about a deity who is tired of the world and meets this elderly woman who addresses them with kindness and reminds them the world has its ups and downs but love is everywhere, she knew it when her husband was alive and she knows it now, so the deity falls for her so hard and the pain of knowing their time can finish any minute rekindles their own love for the world. (and maybe they'll do their damn best to try to turn her immortal, she'd be one great goddess of wisdom, if only she wanted to...)

Perhaps a story about a demon who trades in souls and meets this short mafia boss lady who's so smart and cunning she managed to stay afloat in the underground for forty-something years after her father's death (no one dares to say her real age) and she's hardened and the demon thought it'd be easy to make her handle that tired soul that lost so much in all those little wars but no, she's willful and the way she smiles, crow's feet becoming so deep they look like war marks, makes the demon want to give his nonexistent soul to her instead.

What about a fairy former king (he long left his place to his son, he ruled far too long and it was time to step down) who doesn't bother to look young (who cares at that point?). He meets this spinster who brews the best beer ever and they say she's a witch, but it's just that her knowledge of plants rivals that of the fairy king himself, so he keeps challenging her, and the more she wins the more he thinks the marks of age and the ill-placed curves of her body and all the other things that make humans think she's ugly are instead the most wonderful things ever, that he found a treasure, but she's too wary and wise to fall for his promises, no matter how genuine they are, until...

Or even about a woman who was never told she was beautiful or even pretty, who felt out of place and undervalued her whole life long and maybe mistaken for one of her brothers from time to time, goes fishing alone one day and accidentally catches a merman (she's bulky and strong enough to hoist him up alone). The merman had seen women like her, with skin baked by the sun and scars from scuffles, often on pirate ships. Still, none had that kindness and frankness in her, so when she sets him free he's so fascinated he follows her home, and every time she goes out at sea he approaches her and tells her stories she never heard of and listens, really listens to her. He wishes so hard he could convince her to follow him down the sea without her thinking he's trying to drown her and even more so that she believes when he says he thinks she's the most incredible person he's ever met.

And if there was a story about a lawyer, who is tired because she fought all her life for everyone but herself (her career was her only pride), and she lost sight of a world beyond law books and grey buildings. Somehow, on her first vacation in far too long, she meets this forest spirit, old as balls, who looks like a tired grandpa who is ill because of pollution. She vows to save his forest from the industrial nightmare up the valley and while they work on it he falls for her so hard and yeah, she for him too, but his appearance depends on the health of the forest itself so he gets more and more handsome while she gets older and more tired and insecure until she doesn't go back in the forest anymore. But the fact she saved it granted her a wish she didn't collect so the spirit cashes it for her and shares his life with her. And maybe she's upset because he got handsome but she stays as normal as she ever was even if the wish makes her seem healthier, but the spirit finds her so perfect she learns to love herself at last.

Just... stories like these. Where do I find them?

[elderwisp]

The Sims is love. List 5 facts about a favorite sim couple of yours, and why you love them so much. Then pass this on to 5 others, whose sim couple(s) you also love. 💘💕

HIHI thank u for this ask! AHHH this is such a difficult question because i’ll get in these sappy/supportive moods whenever i’m working on certain couple arcs! there are even some that are top secret that are truly some favorites GAHHH. this is how i feel like, genuinely:

i do feel like lately, i hyperfixate on atlas’s relationships. one reason is i’m like in the trenches writing-wise where i’m finalizing some things. then the other is it’s one of those interesting dynamics between either parties that feel complicated but also being able to dissect it and go wow, love is truly versatile! both feel valid in their own ways and were the thing that maybe atlas might’ve needed in the moment. i really don’t have a favorite between the two because they’re both so idk, fulfilling to me. i think it would be neat to go over the relationship between atlas/taryn and atlas/rowan ft a wip pic:

𓆩♡𓆪 Atlas met Rowan in a very transitional phase of his life. There was a lot of uncertainty surrounding Atlas's future and it was truly a time where being a pushover was not working in his favor nor authentic towards any of his needs. Rowan has a knack for identifying someone in pain and gravitates towards it. Where Dan believes Rowan tried to take advantage of Atlas's insecurities, Rowan more so wanted to bring out those deeply rooted thoughts to the surface because why hide who you are? There's power in pain.

𓆩♡𓆪 Part of why I believe Taryn and Atlas's relationship would not be viable as of right now is Atlas is still really picking up the pieces of his tumultuous relationship with Rowan. I feel like break ups can go through the similar motions of grief just on a different scale. There's a lot of bouncing back and forth between anger and sadness, so couple that with his coping method creates a lot of chaos. There's a deeply rooted sentiment in Atlas that there is no way in hell he deserves a relationship with Taryn.

𓆩♡𓆪 Rowan sees a lot of himself in Atlas. The both struggle to really connect with their parents and dislike the concept of control. A desire for independence. They're artists and have an appreciation in self-indulgence. However, there is one huge difference and that's confidence. Atlas is much more insecure than he let's on and that causes a huge rift between the two.

𓆩♡𓆪 The other part would be Taryn's current state. I will start off with Atlas has been a huge influence on not only setting boundaries with people but also encouraging her to share her work, growth doesn't come at an incline but almost a jagged, bumpy mountain. (💀) All that encouragement to be vulnerable (the book, trying to open up her heart to atlas, the mf kids at the library) to be met with constant rejection is pushing her back into this almost hardened demeanor. It takes a lot of courage to open up and unfortunately she's reached her limit to do so.

𓆩♡𓆪 Rowan has always known that commitment to one person can feel incredibly constricting for someone who, well, likes to indulge. So while he absolutely adores Atlas, there's some conflict that arises in the notion of an open relationship. Atlas really struggles to grasp that idea (well less of an idea and more of this is reality baybeee) and it triggers those deeply rooted feelings of inadequacy.

𓆩♡𓆪 I will say Atlas and Taryn do take the longest to get together but it is really one of those scenes that makes me emotional. Seeing how they progress until that moment feels like two terrified people finally finding some solid ground in a world that is always shifting. It feels like the one thing that finally makes sense and Taryn, my god, she can be quite the romantic with her words and gestures.

[myfanfictiongarden]

Even upon my first watch of s1 episode 7 “The Eye” was I stuck with the incredibly clever idea of setting Galadriel and Theo on a short journey together. These two who have, since we’ve met them, done nothing but relied on anger and hurt, fighting the whole world. 

And then the world turns to ashes and they have nothing else to fight.

“Why'd they do this?”

“To make this their home. Their Shadow Land.”

“So we take it back, and drive them off.”

“We have neither position, nor reinforcement. These lands are dead. We must rally to the living.”

“Or put steel down their throats!”

“It is over.”

“Not for me. I won't allow it!”

“We must! We must.”

“What are you so bothered about? It isn't your fault.”

“Yes, it is.”

This is the first time- even more that through the short conversations with Elendil and Halbrand on Numenor- that Galadriel realises how her actions, even if there are noble intentions behind them, have consequences. Fatal lasting consequences. There is a clear, visible, palpable limit of how much of your blind rage the world can take before it comes all tumbling down.

“They're dead, aren't they? Arondir. My friends. My- My mother. Everyone.”

“What cannot be known hollows the mind. Fill it not with guesswork.”

How often during the centuries might her thoughts have wandered wondering to what happened to Celeborn? How many horrible images might her imagination have conjured only for her to shake them off, lest she shattered under them?

“I’ve killed Orcs before, you know.”

“When I was your age, there was no such thing as Orcs.”

“And now? How many have you killed?”

“Many.”

“Good.”

“I would not use such words.”

“Why not?”

“It darkens the heart, to call dark deeds "good." It gives place for evil to thrive inside us. Every war is fought both without and within. Of that, every soldier must be mindful. Even I. Even you”

What a striking contrast to how she thought and talked even only hours earlier, taunting Adar with the slaughter of his Orc children.

“My lady. What you said before You're wrong. It isn't your fault. It's mine.”

“You did not intend for this to happen.”

Is she comforting Theo, or herself?

“I gave power to the enemy. So that makes me responsible.”

“Some say that is the way of things. But I believe the wise also look upon what is in our hearts. And this was not in yours. Do not take the burden of this day upon your shoulders, Theo. You may find it difficult to put it down again.”

“But how am I to let it go?”

“There are powers beyond darkness at work in this world. Perhaps on days such as this, we've little choice but to trust to their designs. And surrender our own.”

“My home is gone. Where's the design in that?”

“I cannot yet see it.”

This is the moment she realises that there is something in this world beyond her own will. She knew that already of course- wasn’t she a child in Valinor, playing in the fields while the Valar walked just some yards away from her? But centuries spend fighting, seeing death and pain, seeing so many loved ones perish or lost, it hardened her to only take her own council. But rage and loneliness meagre council gives. What she was reminded of here is that she is not alone in this world, not alone in her anger nor in her pain. Nor in her hopes. And she should not fight against the world, but with it.

[ian-the-existential-crisis]

So I was inspired to write thanks to that song I was yapping about earlier. Here have a Wip [it doesn't have a name yet]

Lilith blinks at the boy. She can only imagine how his eyes glisten while looking out over the skyline. It's a twelve story drop. The view must be beautiful from where he stands, steadfast and strong without sign of tilting or fear on the raised concrete ledge.

Death has always given meaning to life. It's just surreal that a human would recognize it. She had met others that flirted with her, out of curiosity mostly. Others who understood at the end of their lives, long to them but far too short to her, that they would leave behind legacy, names carved into history forever through their accomplishments. But he was different, he was young, not even reaching maturity yet. He shouldn't understand as well as he does.

And yet, he does.

“You're strange.” She whispers in his ear.

The murder caws overhead, watching her. There is a tug on the bond that they share. It should be strange to them, the goddess of death trying to talk a human out of dying. It wasn't her place, nor was it the place of any of her crows. But she felt the gentle tug, as if they, as the collective murder, wanted this boy to live.

She pushes back, melding her will with their own. She wants this boy to live. Not many understood like he seems to. The wise and the intelligent always die before their time. What was that saying that Emily loved so much? The brightest stars always burn out the fastest? Or something poetically romantic like that.

This boy was wise beyond his years. Probably hurt by all that life had to offer. She knew what that was like. When life hurts so much that the souls would beg in the darkness of the night to join her. It crushed whatever soul she supposed she has.

“Step back boy.” She commands, keeping her voice even. She wants him to step back, her hand being left in the air instead of faintly touching the back of his ear.

“Why?” He asks. “You don't even know my name, why do you care?”

He's right, of course he's right. He's stunning and perceptive. He has a gift that allows him to see beyond himself, so he probably already knows the answer. But he wants her to say it.

But he doesn't know that she isn't a human. He doesn't know that Lilith is Death.

“I don't care.”

He sucks in a breath. She can only imagine as his eyes widen with disbelief. No one would expect that answer.

“I figured.” He takes a step back, one foot down off the ledge, the other still perched there as if at any moment he could climb back up. He moves his head slightly, pulling away from her tiny timid touch.

Lilith allowed her hand to fall to his shoulder, pulling him forcefully all the way back off the edge.

“I do not care.” She repeats. “However, I deemed this moment to not allow your death.”

“It's strange.” He says. “You're strange.”

She goes to open her mouth to ask him what he means when he spins to face her. He has green eyes, like poison.

“To have a goddess appear before me is one thing.” He says, eyes hardened. “But to have the Lady Death herself drag me from the edge, I feel as if I have experienced a miracle.”

He's not wrong. Not at all. To have her pull him back, the stars must have aligned. She protected death, guided souls. She did not save humans. All humans experience death in their own time. He would be no different. But she single handedly pulled at his fate, weaving the golden thread that should have been snipped into a knot, unbreakable.

It was selfish of her. Why should this one live when she had tempted others with the gentle promise of an ease to their pain?

[snkts]

unusual muse associations — james 'logan' howlett / wolverine

› spice: cinnamon - warm and woodsy, comforting in the right amount, but too much can be extremely painful.

› weather event / natural disaster: forest fire - all consuming, brutal and wild, but clears the old waste to make room for new growth.

› colour: either yellow, like his suit - bright and vibrant, the colour of warning signs and sunbeams, wolf eyes and wildflowers. he stands out by choice. or forest green, the colour of trees and growing things, of the woods he loves dearly, of freedom.

› colour of the sky: the hue of purple right before sunrise. when everything is quiet and still and the animals are out in force. the danger of night bleeding into the safety of day.

› planet: mars - a connection to ares, a warrior who wanted to protect innocents and was demonized and slandered for what he was until none of the truth remained. a soldier who can never put down his weapons no matter how hard he tries.

› animal: grey wolf - strong and loyal. devoted to its family and a vicious predator to its prey. wise and ridiculous all at once, a symbol and a horror story.

› houseplant: snake plant - spiky, hardy, and almost impossible to kill, the stripes across the leaves bring to mind some of his earlier costumes.

› weapon: not counting his claws or the specific muramasa blade, a katana. his time in japan was fundamental to him, and it's a clean, eternally sharp weapon. so many important people in his life have used katana as well, and one was his marriage gift from mariko.

› subject / major: foreign languages. it'd be his favourite subject - aside from p.e. - if he ever got to go to school.

› gemstone / mineral: amber - a warm brown-gold stone that keeps things preserved far longer than it should be, born from the womb of the forest and hardened by time

› make-up product: black liquid eyeliner - sharp, classy, but good for grunge too. something easy to put on and equally easy to mess up, and hard to get rid of. easy to put in a purse or pocket and versatile for any mood.

› candy: green tea chocolate bars. earthy, rich, a little bitter, something that can be eaten on the go. a good crunch depending on the brand.

› fear: failure / not being good enough - the standards he sets for himself are impossibly high, and the judgement he casts upon himself if he ever does fail is harsher than you'd expect.

› method of long-distance travel: motorcycle. he has at least one of them in every verse where he's free and they exist. the outlaw impression, the wind in his hair, the speed and maneuverability. he likes vintage bikes best.

› art style: charcoal sketches. rough, loose drawings. what catches the eye, passionate and free. messy and smeared where hands touched them and the faded impression of notes erased where more room was needed.

› historical period: the 1800s - the time period he was born into. some of the dust and burnishing of the era never left him, and it's a part of his soul for as long as he exists.

› wood: oak - classic, strong, versatile, home in the boreal rainforests and sheltering the life below it. providing food to the animals that look to it for safety and used to make so many tools and objects for the use of others, regardless of the harm done to the tree.

› mythological creature: the norse wolves that chase the sun and moon, skoll and hati - forever pursuing something they will never get, but keeping the world turning all the while.

› three emojis: 🤬🔪🐺

› celestial body: a comet - forever wandering, bright like a flash, burning up but never burning away in a way anyone can see.

› romcom archetype: the old flame you run into in that small town you either hate or never should've left

tagged by: stole from @cykehead tagging: anyone who hasn't done it <3