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aliasnz · 4 months

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Undesirable Presents: Le/vi Acker/man for @nametakensff and @kawaii-kushami's snzblr secret santa event <3

Tags: aot/snk-canonverse, allergies (pollen), cold, contagion mention, spray, mess, language. Word count: 2000 (and counting) A/N: I have several apologies to make about this fic >-< First of all, I am so sorry that it is so late! Secondly, I apologize for being unfamiliar with the other fandoms requested, I couldn’t help but feel guilty for writing for my fav. Third thing: just so I can have something out sooner rather than later, please consider this a part 1 that will be edited, updated, and self-reblogged upon completion. Finally, this fic may be too indulgent, but I am crossing my fingers that it is enjoyable anyways ~

If Levi had his way, he would have spent the day in solitude.

His ideal birthday was simply his ideal day. In the warmer months, it would have been a sunrise run followed by a cold shower, his warm sweat and clingy pollen swirled down the drain. Then, his civilian clothes and a walk to the brick cafe at the edge of town. Black tea, white croissant, yellow pages of his favorite novel. Head ducked down and buried in his book, anyone who recognized him - for better or for worse - received the message: leave him be. He would sip until the porcelain ran dry, would stay until his stomach rumbled. With the last hours of daylight, he would stop at the butcher stand and purchase a few ounces of meat. It was about all he could afford on his military salary, but with rare optimism, he preferred to say it was all he cared to buy. Steak dinner for one. Lights out by dark. It was his way.

But Levi hardly ever had things his way.

He was a December baby, as Hange so mockingly put it, who loathed winter cold and winter colds. Instead of that morning jog and downtown stroll, he shuttered himself in his room with intermittent napping and tidying. Some considered his celebration traditions pitiful, but he could not complain. In ways as weighty as a family to visit or write to, yet also in aspects as miniscule as a good night’s sleep, Levi had been cheated in most realms of life. In time, he had come to live with it, found comfort in little joys, and wished the others understood that. That wish was most wanted on his own birthday, for everyone else seemed to celebrate it more than the man himself.

In the depths of his heart, he knew they cared about him. The yearly plethora of visits all accompanied with gifts should have proven that, but he loathed the treatment he received. Perhaps the early symptoms of the annual cold were to blame for that. No matter how hard he tried to avoid it, contagion made quick work of the barracks. Sooner or later, it would catch up to him, and that onset always seemed to hover around his birthday. On occasion, he wondered if he would be better off facing that inevitable infection head on rather than repeating the futile delay, but his train of thought was always cut off one way or another. A pang of headache, a harsh cough, a runny nose, or a sudden sneeze. This time, it was a knock at his door, the first of the day, one of many sure to come.

Levi swung his legs over the side of the bed. Bright rays reflected off the metal buckles of his gear and reflected into his eyes, garnering a wince and dawning thought: just how late did I sleep in? Standing up, he immediately noted how his shoulders felt heavy, his breaths labored. If he had to guess, his cold would take hold of him before the 25th was over. Lucky him.

Hand clamped down hard on the handle, startling the two on the other side just before he creaked his door open. The tall couple cast shadows over him: Nanaba and Miche with -

Shit...

Levi braced himself for their scream, but instead, they spoke calmly, handing over the bouquet with a pair of matching smiles, “Happy Birthday, Levi.”

He startled, not because he was surprised by their presence, but intimidated by their present: a bundle of bright-red poinsettias, pointed with specks of pollen he doubted they had noticed. They were far too innocent to have purposefully gifted him such a slew of allergens. Others, however, he was less sure about.

Instead of reaching out to grab them, Levi crossed his arms and tipped his tongue in refusal - refusal of their gift and refusing to indulge in the sneeze he already felt budding. Speaking quickly, he aimed to rush them out before they could witness his unravel, “I don’t want them.”

“C’monnn, Levi!” Nanaba pleaded, bending at the knees and shooting up again quickly. In her eager bounce, his eyes widened as he watched the petals flutter with her. His arms instinctively flinched before him as if he could block the microscopic wave. “Miche and I stood outside for hours in this freezing cold -”

Great, two more patients upcoming.

“- waiting for the flower shop to open.”

“First in line,” Miche added. “Do you know how popular these things are at this time of year?”

Levi’s stance remained unchanged, Nanaba saw his disinterest and felt compelled to play it up, selling the present rather than gifting it. “They smell good, too!”

Miche, on the other hand, preferred the path of insistence. Snatching the stems from his partner, he thrust them to Levi’s face, nearly touching, “Go on, smell them, you’ll see for yourself.”

He held his breath, reluctant to inhale as long as those were within reach. Aiming for subtlety, he feigned to nonchalantly scratch his nose with his wrist, “If you like them, keep them.”

“Someone’s ungrateful…” Miche teased, unhurt by the shorter man’s attitude, but never passing up an opportunity to rag it. “Y’know, most people would say ‘thanks’ or something…”

Levi frowned, he wasn’t ungrateful. Deep down, he was touched. On the exterior, though, he was objectively irritated, and could understand why they misread him. With a pang of guilt, he sought to correct the miscommunication, but that pang was miniscule compared to the burn of his nostrils, a flame that the leaves were now fanning.

“No, it’s just…” his face scrunched as he attempted to fight it off, just until he could finish the sentence, at least? “It’s… just…”

However, that bouquet was set on denying him. Throwing in the towel, a rare occurrence for humanity's strongest, he whipped around and buried his nose in the crook of his elbow, “Hah’AESCH-ihh!”

Fuck, all three parties unknowingly shared the same thought. For Levi, the nature of his curse was multifaceted. Foremost, the unexpected harshness of that sneeze, the wind knocked out of him first thing in the morning. From that, the daunting notion that this was the first of many sure to come, either from allergies or the cold. Finally, the flush that flooded his cheeks. That outburst had shown enough vulnerability already, Levi lingered behind his arm and remained turned away, waiting for the blush to disappear as well.

Yet, even after those awkward seconds of silence, neither Nanaba nor Miche could erase that image from their mind: his tan coat spotted brown, the mist that shot from beneath his elbow and faded into the room’s sunlit atmosphere. With the captain turned, they allowed their faces to contort with disgust. When his audible sniff confirmed what they thought they saw, they looked to each other and cringed, agreeing that this birthday visit was over.

His comrades did not put the dots together, that the sneeze was a symptom of his allergies rather than the cold that was notably floating through the halls. Fearing for their own immune systems, they retreated several paces, but not before Miche thrust the flowers in Levi’s grip and snapped his hand back, no chance of handing them back now.

By the time Levi turned himself around, arm still bent at his nose, the pair was already a distant blur.

Nanaba waved over her shoulder, “Feel better soon! Don’t come near us until you do!” A joking-not-joking singsong to her departure.

“Have fun with those!” Miche cupped his hand around his mouth, allowing his bid to beckon from down the corridor, “You can thank us later!”

Levi dropped his arm, prepared to call back. Doing so, however, meant that his guard was let down, and he should have known better, that his assailant would be quick to take advantage. With the distance, Levi did not turn or cover - not that he had the time for that - and instead ducked his head down, sneezing onto his own torso. “Hnn’kkshu! Heh-ISHhew!!”

Unfortunately for him, the height at which he landed placed him adjacent to the very bouquet that set him off. A dire proximity, each inhale killed every second - any hope - of relief.

The mess was not only audible, it was tangible, piercing the threads of his button-up and sinking through to his undershirt, summoning a shiver. The clean freak could not bear the sight, nor was it his habit to. After each sneeze and before opening his eyes, he assessed the tickle. If it remained, his lids likewise remained shut until his system managed to kill it. The first attempts at regular breaths informed him outright: you’re not done yet. Levi kept his head down, bangs intercepting his eyeline with each jolt. “Heh’tchew! Kk’shuu!!”

Once again, he paused to survey his own state. Although he beckoned for a break, his body merely mocked him. That all you got? Clearly unsatisfied, with frustration, he submitted to its demands, exacerbating the expulsion as best as he could, aiming to please. “Hah-ESHhew!! HIH’kit-chew! Hah…Hah-AEshih!!”

His intakes had been audible even from those meters away, his fit an early alarm clock for all still asleep in the vicinity. Dammit. As an insomniac, he was especially remorseful to have been responsible for waking anyone on the weekend. Even redder now, he tried to convince himself it was not his fault, that they should have known better than to shove those flowers in his face. However, as his voice crescendoed, it became more of a stretch to blame the gifters rather than the receiver, the inducer over the screamer.

The burn in his sinuses was unbearable, he decided to look to the windows behind him, hoping to coax relief. Before he could lure his gaze that way, though, he caught a glimpse of pity on his teammates, and somehow, that was what bothered him the most.

Fuck, this has to stop. At this point in the fit, breaths were hard to come by, and his life-or-death experiences had molded his mindset to meet his most urgent needs first. Perhaps counterintuitive, Levi understood that defeating the irritant meant battling with it. Working through rather than around. Meeting their eye contact, Levi yanked their gift to his face and took a deep, deliberate intake, figuring that his unconventional strategy could get two messages across: he was allergic to their gift, but at least it was good for something. And maybe they’ll remember this scene come next year.

Indeed, they would, and Levi would be lucky if the memory remained confined to those two. The finale was a sneeze that made them cover their ears and made the last few sleepers snap up in panic. For him, the aftermath resembled the end of a workout: tire and exhaustion, yet inexplicable relief. For them, it read like a newspaper headline: steadfast, hardass germaphobe of the branch soaked in his own saliva and other unspeakable substances. The tight-lipped, ever calm captain engaged in the toughest battle of his life: no titan in sight, but tiny irritants also impossible to see. Screaming the barracks awake, he would have been the last culprit anyone suspected. Only true friends would keep this episode a secret, maybe he shouldn’t have been so terse with them.

Vengefully, and with the slightest bit of told you so, Levi motivated himself through the end with the anticipation of seeing their guilty faces, but by the time he opened his eyes again, they were long gone, either cowering from contagion or gossiping already. Around here, viruses and rumors spread like wildfire.

Worked up and let down, Levi released a shaky exhale, wiped his face with his sleeve, flung the door shut behind him, and tossed the bouquet onto his bed.

One down.

tbc!

#snzblr secret santa 2023 #snz kink #snez kink #snz fic #snez fic #aliasnz's #snz #snez

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ape-apocalypse · 3 months

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Road To The Kingdom - My Planet Of The Apes Retrospective

With the hype for Kingdom Of The Planet Of The Apes on the rise, I decided to do a bit of a deep dive into the trilogy of reboot movies starring the incredible Andy Serkis and the various tie-in titles.

Why ramble on about a series that most people seem to overlook? Well, I think back to an interaction I had here on Tumblr in 2017, just one week before War For The Planet Of The Apes came out. While scrolling through the POTA tags, I found a post that wondered if anyone was actually excited for the new film or if the studio hadn't gotten the message and was making it for an audience that didn't exist. I responded that I was genuinely excited for the new film, that I loved the motion capture apes and the action scenes and the surprisingly engaging story, and would be seeing it opening weekend. The other person seemed surprised by my honest answer and apologized for their snarkiness (a truly shocking turn of events in the history of the Internet!).

I explained that I'd gone into these films thinking of them like Jurassic World series; I wasn't there for a great story and deep writing, I just wanted to see dinosaurs destroy things. So when I went into the POTA films, just expecting to see fun action movies with monkey chaos and apocalyptic results, I was surprised that I was swept up in the characters and their stories. I loved seeing the life of Caesar from tiny carefree baby to resilient revolutionary to fearsome leader, and the lives of all the humans and apes around him. The other poster said they hadn't actually seen the movies, just expected them to be shallow cash-grabs on reboot nostalgia, but they might have to reconsider giving them a shot after my enthusiastic response.

So if I can sway the minds of anyone who has written off these films, more movie tickets sold might mean more films and other media told in this ape apocalypse world!

And even if you already know and love the films, I also want to give some love to tie-in materials. Books, comics, YouTube shorts, video games; POTA has a surprisingly large catalog of bonus material for a series not considered mainstream like Marvel or Lord Of The Rings or Star Trek. I don't see them get many mentions in the fandom so hope a little spotlight on them can help them shine. They have delicious tidbits of world-building and character backstory, filling in gaps between the movies. I already have my fingers crossed there will be some tie-in material covering some of the huge time jump between War and Kingdom. With three hundred years passing between them, there is so much to learn about the ever growing and changing ape societies. I'm eager for any scrap of info they'll share!

But really, even if nothing I write changes anyone's mind about this franchise, it's still fun to gush about one of my favorite fictional universes.

My brief history with POTA was that I didn't know much about the original films before going into the new Andy Serkis trilogy. I'd heard enough about the original film to know the main beats of the first movie (quotes like 'damn dirty ape', the reveal of the planet being Earth with the Statue of Liberty). I saw the Tim Burton film which didn't leave any kind of impression other than the incredibly realistic costumes/make-up, so much so that I was apprehensive of the CG apes. Since getting into the new films, I've started watching the originals and may cover those just for fun.

So whether you're a long-time die hard fan or a fresh face to Caesar's legacy, I hope you'll enjoy my thoughts on the Planet of the Apes franchise!

Links to all my posts as they are released:

- Rise Of The Planet Of The Apes Film

- Prelude and Contagion Comics

- Motherboard YouTube Shorts

- Firestorm Tie-In Novel

- Fall Of Man Comics

- Dawn Tie-In Comic

- Dawn Of The Planet Of The Apes Film

- Revelations Tie-In Novel

- Last Frontier Video Game

- Crisis Video Game

- When Worlds Collide Comics

- War For The Planet Of The Apes Film

- War Tie-In Comic

- Caesar's Story Novel

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forasecondtherewedwon · 2 months

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remember it once - chapter six

Fandom: The Artful Dodger Pairing: Jack x Belle Rating: E Chapter: 6 / 7 Word Count: 3555

For today's @dodgerfoxweek prompt: soulmates/protecting each other

read on tumblr: one | two | three | four | five

“You aren’t meant to drink that,” Belle observes as Fagin tips the bottle of surgical alcohol to his lips.

He lowers it again and gives her an indulgent smile.

“It’s got more to fear in my body than my body has of it,” he assures her, taking a swig.

“That is incredibly inaccurate.”

“Ah. It’s only trepidation in the face of the unknown what makes you say that.” Fagin extends the bottle towards her.

“Definitely not.” She cuts a hand through the air to emphasize her rejection, then, unthinkingly, settles it on her stomach. It’s only a reflex at the thought of what the contents of that bottle would do to her insides, but Fagin watches the gesture knowingly. Belle drops the hand to her side.

Thankfully, Jack barges into his old room at that moment. He looks from Fagin to Belle before striding to his bed and sitting down heavily.

“It’s… whatever it is… it’s under control, for the moment,” he announces. “I mean, it’s not, it’s most certainly not, but we’ve moved the rest of the patients out of that ward.”

“Al?” Belle inquires gently.

Jack hangs his head.

“I have no sodding idea what to do for Al—what to do about Al.” He raises his head. “Fagin? Did Belle…?”

“Oh yes,” Fagin pledges with a deep nod. “She’s told me all about it. Got a bit bitey down in the ward tonight, eh, Dodge? Reminds me of when you was four or five.”

Belle stares at Fagin in horror and, admittedly, some curiosity, but the story, apparently, ends there.

“Please, Belle,” Jack implores exhaustedly. “Anything will help.”

“Alright,” she says, feeling more self-conscious than usual about sharing her knowledge. This is beyond the realm of medical texts and repeatable scientific experiments. Even before Belle speaks, she knows it will sound more like fiction.

“We left London in a hurry. On our first voyage, out of the colony, my mother was very cautious about which ship we took. She made sure the captain was a man of good reputation, that there would be other… members of our station aboard. Other women. Families.”

She begins to pace in the small room.

“Returning, sickness had broken out, not contained to the hospital. My mother became anxious, likely more anxious because of my previous condition. There was not time for her to be as discerning when selecting the vessel for our homeward journey.

“Perhaps a week after setting sail, there was rumour of an illness onboard. A member of the crew, it was said. Of course, this made everyone nervous, but I had been at the hospital—as much as I’d been permitted to be. Besides, I have medical knowledge.” Jack nods firmly. “My mother, unsurprisingly, did not wish me to go anywhere near my intended patient, but we were on a ship. I put to her that, should I not attend to him, it was extremely likely that the illness would spread and infect me eventually. It was better that I attempt to assist the man and thereby treat or contain the contagion as early as possible.

“I was relieved, at first,” she recalls, brow furrowing, “to find that he did not seem to be sick after all. There were no immediate signs to make me worry that whatever ailed the man—because something was wrong with him—would be easily spread amongst the passengers and crew. Speaking to him was not especially helpful. He seemed…”

“Confused?” Jack guesses.

“Yes. He couldn’t tell me precisely when or how he’d become ill, but while he was thinking, he raised a hand to his face. I noticed a wound on his hand. At the time, I couldn’t be sure, and it seemed so strange…” Belle fixes her eyes on Jack’s. “It was semi-circular.”

“Like the impression of teeth, do you think?”

“Exactly like teeth.”

“Bitey, bitey,” Fagin says under his breath.

“What happened?” Jack asks urgently.

“The wound was infected. Worse than. Necrosis,” Belle pronounces, “as you observed at the site of Al’s injury.”

Her fiancé is gripping his knees, jaw clenched. She almost smiles because she can tell he wants to leap into the story and rescue her. But she survives it, she is here, and she crosses the room to take his hand and remind him of that fact.

“The man died,” she says.

“Without attacking anyone else?”

“What happened with Al tonight… there was nothing like that,” she swears. “Never any aggression. I travelled with some supplies, so I sprayed the wound with carbolic acid, but I didn’t trust myself to operate to remove the necrotic skin. There weren’t the facilities on board, I didn’t have the tools… I convinced myself botching it would do more harm than good. I did my best to keep it clean and wrapped. I likely killed him.”

Jack squeezes her hand tenderly.

“You tried to save him.”

“They threw the body overboard,” Belle continues numbly. “I instructed them to. It was so early into the voyage.”

“You aren’t responsible for his death. Or for Al getting ill, for that matter.” Jack releases her hand as he gets to his feet. “The man who attacked him clearly didn’t come from your ship, unless there was another severely infected person aboard who you’ve somehow forgotten about.”

“Not likely,” Belle says dryly.

They share a smile, but then Jack’s expression grows more serious.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” he asks softly.

“I felt like I’d failed him,” she confesses. “I didn’t expect I’d ever have to think about it again. Since it happened, I’ve been trying not to.”

He rests a hand on her cheek. “Your worries are my worries.”

Abruptly, he turns to Fagin.

“By the way, Belle’s parents have given us permission to marry.”

“And you’ve waited this long to tell me!” Fagin appears elated at the news. He slams his bottle down on the nearest surface and reaches out to clap his hands to Jack’s shoulders.

“It has been a bit of a busy night, if you’ll recall,” Jack says defensively, shrugging out of the hold.

Fagin waves off this excuse as Belle looks on with amusement.

“A wedding! My Dodge, a blushing bridegroom! Who’d have ever thought, my dear? Who’d have ever thought, eh? And to our own Fancy Skirt!” he gushes, shifting his warm gaze to Belle. “What a pair!”

“Thank you, Fagin,” Belle says genuinely. Unlike her own parents, Fagin has always been for the match, and—often distressingly—unafraid to make his endorsement obvious with little nods and comments.

“This is splendid!” he says. “I’ll officiate, will I? Still got the holy garb from Father Whatshisface.”

“No,” they say, loudly and together.

—

It couldn’t feel more bizarre to Belle when her mother becomes the most helpful person involved with the wedding. She tells Belle who will be invited (which doesn’t bother Belle in the least; as long as the handful of people she insists upon are there, what does it matter?), and what the invitations will look like, and when the wedding will take place. That’s rather the critical bit, Belle knows, as the propulsive force behind the wedding is the pregnancy she claimed during the dinner with Jack and her parents. Her mother is very firm about the ceremony needing to take place within the next two months. This, like the rest, suits Belle perfectly well. She will be glad to marry Jack, and in the meantime, not having to concern herself too much with the plans leaves her free to spend time at the hospital.

Where hell has made its home.

If Belle’s mother knew how bad it’s becoming, she would forbid her from stepping inside. It would be London all over again, but what would they do this time? Where would they go?

Soldiers found the man who bit Alexander. Or, they believe they did. While attempting to detain him, he bit one of the soldiers. He bit the other as well—in the throat, and so badly that there was no need to bring him through the front doors of the hospital; he went straight to the morgue. It was getting crowded in there, last Belle checked. There had been a third solider. He shot Al’s attacker right in the chest, so the cause of at least two known infections—three, if they count the nurse bitten by Al in the ward—and one death is dead as well. And that’s not even a mercy because they have no way of knowing how many others he might have infected before the confrontation. People are missing. Besides that is the thing that Belle can’t help hanging on to: that just as Al was once a healthy boy, the attacker was once a man. No one in the colony knew him, he was meant to be a passing sailor, but she has no reason to believe he was a violent man before he became sick, the kind of man who would hurt a child.

The time to make a decision about that same child is nearing. Each day, Al worsens. With his head strapped down, they rebandage his wound when there aren’t bandages to spare. Jack cuts away more flesh when he hasn’t the time to spend away from the other patients and Al’s surrounding skin shows no signs of healing. He doesn’t eat, doesn’t recognize them.

Eventually, Belle arrives at the hospital and is told the boy has died. Jack believes the infection spread to his heart. Charlie is inconsolable. Belle gives him the instruction that was so offensive to her in London: stay away from the hospital.

Thanks to the wedding plans, her mother (a master at denial) answers a question they haven’t even noticed they stopped asking amidst the rising chaos: where are all the ships? Belle’s father first brought the shipping delays to their attention, and that was all they were believed to be at that time—delays. By chance, after corresponding with a dressmaker in Adelaide about Belle’s wedding gown (it is all seeming very close, very real now to Belle, in the best way, despite the sickness), her mother has pieced together that ships from elsewhere in Australia are making it to port, while those failing to arrive are largely from Europe, England most of all.

And there are more strange stories. Only, not so strange to Belle, since she’s told one of her own. Stories of sudden deaths aboard. Violent crewmen thrown into boxes and nailed inside. Ships in distress. Wrecks on the rocks, on clear nights, with lighthouse beams swinging to guide them into port. Belle isn’t the only one to suspect the delayed vessels won’t ever make it to the harbour. If even one person on a ship should be stricken with this disease… if that person should survive into the violent second stage of it and infect someone else… if there should then be two such beings onboard… if the ship should be overrun, with no one spared, no one to steer the vessel to its berth…

It’s too horrible.

Belle pictures smashed hulls, torn sails, bodies caught on the rocks, healthy skin rotting away while the heart still beats. Of course, then she banishes such fancies from her mind, because there is work to be done, so much work. A vicious argument with her mother that Belle wins due to an old reflex; when her mother’s voice rises, Belle instinctively presses the heel of her hand to the site of her old pain. Where she thinks aorta, her mother sees and believes baby. Not that she’s much happier to see her pregnant daughter on her feet, tending to the mysterious and increasingly violent ill, but if Belle is calm, that is what’s most important.

Not once does Belle confess that the baby is only a possibility. It’s been extremely handy in helping her get her own way, which, truthfully, she feels she deserves. There won’t be any harm in the end, and in the meantime, she and Jack are free to… enjoy one another’s company howsoever they choose. So long as it isn’t flagrant.

So they curl into each other during the time they permit themselves between shifts in the ward, Belle continuing to turn up at times exactly corresponding to Jack’s schedule. Harrowed and exhausted, they trudge up to his old room, talking over the new patients (is it possible that the disease is progressing faster, that the symptoms are more intense?). They’ve had some luck with slowing the symptoms—are monitoring one patient whose symptoms they seem to have completely stalled, though not yet reversed—but too many cases are bleak. Once alone, Jack embraces her like she is the setting sun on a darkening world. She kisses him, reminds him that there is life as well as death. She reminds him quickly with her words. She reminds him slowly with her body.

—

Not everyone in Port Victory is careful, not yet, but the hospital quits welcoming spectators to surgeries in the operating theatre. Being head surgeon, Jack makes this decision. He supports the practice in general—believes it generates income for and interest in the hospital, as well as educating the colony’s populace on biology and medical advances. And on all sorts of idiotic things they should avoid in their daily lives. He also credits public surgeries with assisting him in improving the speed of certain procedures, when speed is necessary and helpful for curtailing the suffering of his patients. But Belle is aware of their flaws: the distraction, the competition fostered between surgeons, the impossibility, still, of her performing a surgery when she is not actually a doctor.

The temporary suspension of audiences is doing wonders for Jack and Sneed’s working relationship, Belle observes. It’s mainly their rivalry that’s been affected, and a collegiality she was already startled to see upon her return to Port Victory is now positively flourishing. She’s even seen them saying hello to one another in the halls. Without scowling as though what they were really saying is that they wish the other were dead!

This sturdier partnership is much needed, especially the day a nurse walks into the ward while she, Jack, and Sneed are all present. There isn’t anything wrong with this, except that the nurse died the day before.

Aputi’s been so busy with the burials that Jack found the money (Jack gave Hetty access to the hospital’s financial records and Hetty found and reallocated the money; “Well, you’re not going to need Prof’s bourbon budget.”) to get him an assistant—and then to get that assistant an assistant. Practically, this means there are three men and sometimes three shovels, sometimes more, sometimes fewer. They still barely keep up with the deaths, and so, although they would like to get the diseased bodies in the ground as quickly as possible, it doesn’t always happen. (Belle complained about this once; Aputi pointed at one of the shovels. She understood that she was more helpful staying out of it, unless she wanted to dig the graves herself.)

Still, the dead nurse is a surprise.

It’s a chain-reaction of shrieks as those of them well enough to spot the incongruity do so. Worse is the reaction from those in the beds; the arrival of the dead woman energizes the ill. After Al, they’ve all been strapped down to varying degrees, but they fight those bonds with all their strength.

“Go behind her,” Jack instructs Sneed. “Get her arms.”

Belle watches them—her fiancé and her childhood companion—with her heart fluttering in her throat. The woman’s expression is vacant, her eyes clouded, yet, somehow, she senses the men. Belle can tell her focus is torn between them. With a dash and a grab, they take hold of her. She struggles, releasing an awful groan. Belle doesn’t realize how stiff with fear she’s gone until that noise, that terrible noise, sends her staggering woodenly backwards. Her legs collide with a bedframe just before Jack and Sneed strongarm the nurse through the doorway of the ward. By the time she feels pain, they’re out of sight.

For a moment, she thinks she’s backed into a pale of boiling water, brought in to help with the endless battle for sanitation; the pain is incredibly hot. She jerks and turns. In a heated panic, Belle sees that the patient on the bed has escaped the straps that secured his head and arm. There’s no time to assess her injury—was she scratched, bitten?—because Jack comes flying back into the ward. She didn’t even hear herself scream, but he acts like he’s reacting to her, wide eyes only briefly on her face before he pulls her farther from the bed as the patient lunges for her, headfirst. The bed’s legs scream as they scrape the floor, and Jack shouts for the patient to be resecured. “Better. Tighter.”

Jack propels her down the hall, to the supply room. Belle’s in a daze.

“Show me,” he demands, already reaching for carbolic acid.

She can’t seem to make heads or tails of the cuff of the blouse she buttoned herself that morning. Jack ignores her fumbling and spies the place where her sleeve was torn. He grips the fabric and rips.

Just as she remembers, there’s no burn from the acid. The thought allows her to come back to herself, allows her to refocus on assessing damage—something she is very skilled at. Unfortunately, the wound is not easy to decipher. She twists her arm back and forth, studying the torn skin that almost doesn’t feel like her own.

“Do you see teeth marks?” Jack inquires with a forced calm. He sprays acid, dabs away the blood, sprays again.

They examine her together. The wound is ragged, likely because of the roughness with which Belle yanked her arm away from her attacker. There isn’t a clear impression of a bite, which could mean she wasn’t bitten, or that the patient sunk both teeth and fingernails into her, gripping as he bit. She snatches the clean cloth from Jack, wiping tenderly along the edges of the gash with a shaking hand.

“Do you?” she asks, eyes darting between his, loose coils of hair drifting into her eyes.

The harder Jack focuses, the more of a toll it appears to take. There’s a yell from down the hall and Jack snaps, throwing up his hands.

“I don’t know, I don’t know!”

His expression is an immediate apology for the outburst, and he gathers her to his chest. Belle rests her head lightly against him, holding her injured arm out and away from their embrace.

—

She’s married in white lace. The long sleeves don’t hide her skin, but they obscure the thin layer of protective gauze wrapped around her forearm. In the church her family has attended since moving themselves, their lives, from England to the colony, she stands before Jack, who looks dashing if slightly fidgety in his officer’s uniform. There are flowers in her hands, in her hair. When Jack leans in to kiss her, the petals crush between them, and she inhales sweetness as their lips meet.

Most of the people her mother determined had to be there are there; all of the people Belle insisted must come smile when she and her groom head back down the aisle towards the front of the church. Fagin blows his nose loudly and Hetty places a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

Afterwards, standing in the back garden of Government House before the large dinner they’ll share to mark the occasion, Belle’s father, who gave her away, is blustering with pride rather than drink. Her mother, ever the hostess, navigates the scene with shrewd grace.

“Dr. Dawkins,” she says, arriving at the married couple as Tim steps away to protect Flashbang from himself (he’s found Belle’s quiver of arrows). “I wanted us to speak.”

Jack watches her warily. Belle slips her arm through his in the kind of open support she is completely free, at last, to demonstrate. As his wife. She presses the new ring against his sleeve.

“The events at the hospital… I wanted to thank you for protecting my daughter.”

“I will always protect her.”

“Yes, I know,” her mother says, glancing between them, and Belle thinks she finally sees. “I felt I should recognize… that I should assure you… I see that you were meant to be together. Congratulations, Doctor.” She looks to Belle and the love in her eyes, stern and deep, makes Belle’s nose tingle, her own eyes welling. “Mrs. Dawkins.”

She leaves them to go chaperone Fanny, who Belle can tell at a distance is pretty clearly flirting with the new Gaines.

“Mrs. Dawkins,” Jack repeats when she’s gone.

Belle smiles up at him.

Later, they have their photograph taken in the parlour. They fumble to get arranged, feeling silly, feeling shockingly grownup, feeling like children in costumes and adults who will retreat to their own home when this is over, sleep in their own bed with their legs tangled up beneath the sheets.

The photographer directs them into position. A flash, and they are captured, as they are, forever: Jack standing at her back while Belle sits, hands folded demurely in her lap, wedding ring and bound wound both tilted towards the camera.

#dodgerfoxweek2024 #my writing #dodgerfox #The Artful Dodger #Dr. Jack Dawkins #Lady Belle Fox #Norbert Fagin #Lady Jane Fox

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chrkrose · 2 years

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Nettles: A Targaryen bastard and Daemon’s daughter?

Nettles is a dragonrider that fought for the Blacks in what’s known as “The Dance of the Dragons”. She was the first, and possibly last, dragonrider of Sheepstealer.

Since I’ve read Fire&Blood, I’ve been fascinated by her character. She is, unfairly imo, not appreciated enough and seriously underrated by the ASOIAF fandom, but I digress.

The reason why I decided to make this post is because, for years now, and in the light of House of The Dragon tv adaptation based on Fire&Blood, I noticed there’s a few theories around fandom where Nettles is concerned that are taken as canon, when in fact they aren’t. So I thought perhaps it would be nice to give my interpretation of certain things, as a fan of hers.

Buckle up, this is going to be huge.

Nettles, a Targaryen Bastard

The Targaryens have pushed for a very long time the idea that only a Targaryen is able to become a dragonrider. Because of that, for the better part of their dynasty, only Targaryens had unrestricted access to dragons. And it’s such a rooted belief, the one that only Targaryens are capable of bonding with such creatures, that Westeros never questioned this unshaken truth.

Targaryens are set apart from everyone else. Their blood purity is so important because they are above the common men.

It had long been the custom amongst the dragonlords of Valyria to wed brother to sister, to keep the bloodlines pure -TWOIAF, The Reign of the Dragons: The Conquest

Narratively, they have compared themselves to Gods many times, and one of the reasons why is because only them, and no one else, are able to tame these powerful creatures. Their power resides in their unique ability to connect and ride such a massive living weapon.

“The Targaryens were different. Their roots were not in Andalos, but in Valyria of old, where different laws and traditions held sway. A man had only to look at them to know that they were not like other men; their eyes, their hair, their very bearing, all proclaimed their differences. And they flew dragons. They alone of all the men in the world had been given the power to tame those fearsome beasts, once the Doom had come to Valyria.” - Fire&Blood

“The line must be kept pure, Viserys had told her a thousand times; theirs was the kingsblood, the golden blood of old Valyria, the blood of the dragon. Dragons did not mate with the beasts of the field, and Targaryens did not mingle their blood with that of lesser men.” -AGOT, Daenerys

Still, history proves time and time again that their belief in their blood purity is misguided,

“For Jaehaerys and Alysanne, however, the death of their beloved daughter must have seemed especially cruel, for it struck at the very heart of the Doctrine of Exceptionalism. Princess Daenerys had been Targaryen on both sides, with the blood of Old Valyria running pure through her veins, and those of Valyrian descent were not like other men. (…) Targaryens did not die of (…) any of the myriad pestilences and contagions that the gods, for reasons of their own, see fit to loose on mortal men and women. There was fire in the blood of the dragon, it was reasoned, a purifying fire that burned out all such plagues. It was unthinkable that a pureborn princess should die shivering, as if she were some common child. And yet she had. Mayhaps the Targaryens were not so close to gods as they had believed. Mayhaps, in the end, they too were only men.” - Fire&Blood

I indeed think early Valyrians bound themselves with dragons somehow through magic, causing a change in their genes that would be passed down generations, and that having Targaryen blood (as the only Valyrian dragonlords to have survived the doom) gives them an advantage to tame the dragons, as they might become more receptive towards them.

With that said, I don’t think this is an essential requirement to become a dragonrider, and having “dragonblood” doesn’t automatically make you a dragon rider. I don’t think you need to have Valyrian (or more specifically, Targaryen) blood to tame dragons.

And I think Nettles is proof of that.

@kaymcgivemeacall has a great meta on Nettles and why her being a Targaryen descendant is not the best choice in terms of narrative when it comes to ASOIF saga, which I fundamentally agree with and was one of the sources I used to gather my thoughts on the matter, that you can read here.

Thematically, it's a lot more powerful if Nettles is NOT a secret Targaryen bastard, and has no Targaryen blood AT ALL in her veins.

It is not only exclusionary to have only Targaryens being capable of taming dragons, it also plays and validates the very idea that blood purity does matter. That the supremacy of a particular race is justified. Which is something that, imo, doesn’t fit with G.R.R.Martin themes in the ASOIAF saga. A series that go out of its way to emphasize how it's the characters' choices that define who they are, and not where they came from or what type of blood runs in their veins.

Within Fire&Blood and other “in world” sources, it is rationalized that Nettles' success came through her unknown parentage. It is assumed that she must have Targaryen blood, since she's able to ride a dragon. She’s then categorized as a Dragonseed, and like that, the myth of the dragon blood is kept alive.

It is a rhetoric, within the world of Westeros, among Targaryens and their loyalists, that makes perfectly sense from a political standpoint. We saw how fast the Targaryen empire crumbled without their dragons. I think it also comes from a place of not wanting to shake an entire system, to shatter such a rooted belief, that has in its very core the premise that Targaryens are the only one capable of being dragonriders.

If the rest of Westeros learned that people who put some effort and persistence in can claim dragons regardless of heritage or bloodlines, how would Targaryens ever hold onto their exceptionalism and idea of supremacy?

Nettles, Daemon’s bastard daughter

Another common theory that is taken as basically canon where Nettles is concerned, and one I’ve seen spread around as fact in many places (specially Twitter) is that she’s Daemon’s bastard daughter.

This theory was born from a quote from Maester Norren, who was a Maester in Maidenpool at the time of The Dance, the place where both Daemon and Nettles made their base while searching for Vhagar.

His description of their relationship is in his Chronicles of Maidenpool:

“Maester Norren writes that […] the prince instructed her in “common courtesies”, in how to dress and sit and brush her hair, and “doted upon the brown girl as a man might dote upon his daughter” - Fire&Blood

I think this quote is often misinterpreted by fandom as a whole. The problem with the theory of Nettles being Daemon’s bastard daughter is that, with the exception of this particular quote above, there isn’t any other textual evidence that Daemon might be Nettles actual father.

Nettles was born in 113AC, in Driftmark. At the time, Daemon had been ruling Bloodstone in the Stepstones, exiled by Viserys, since 111AC, and would not return to Driftmark until 115AC, where he met and married Laena Velaryon shortly after arriving, before flying away to Essos with her. He would return to Driftmark only by 116AC, where he asked Viserys to give blessing to his daughters with Laena and would patch things up with his brother one more time.

I believe that if George wanted us to suspect that a Daemon might have fathered a bastard that later would return to the story and play a significant role in The Dance and in Daemon’s life, he would have made it known that Daemon was in Driftmark when Nettles was conceived/born, he’d have hinted at Daemon sleeping with “dockside whores” in his time there, we’d have more significant clues planted about such twist.

Daemon also was never a character who’s fatherly traits were highlighted, or that fatherhood had substantially changed him in any significant way. He had several children from his previous marriages, so I believe if he cared for a supposedly bastard daughter as much as he cared about Nettles, he’d simply legitimize her as his own. I doubt this would have caused any problems with Rhaenyra, especially because Nettles would have been conceived way before his marriage to the Queen.

So as you see, there isn’t any real textual evidence or even hints that Daemon was related to Nettles in any way.

Now when it comes to the nature of their relationship, there’s more to unpack when we read the several accounts of how Daemon and Nettles spent their time together while in Maidenpool.

When Lord Mooton suggested that they should part ways to divide their search for Vhagar, Daemon refused. His reasons were that Vhagar was too powerful and could not be taken down by only Caraxes or Sheepstealer alone. So he spent his days flying with Nettles. Still, that doesn’t explain why he kept Nettles by his side at all times while in Maidenpool. According to Maester Norren, “the prince and his bastard girl” supped together “every night, broke their fast together every morning and slept in adjoining bedchambers”.

As noted before, Maester Norren was the one to claim their relationship was purely platonic, and sleeping in adjoining bedchambers would imply that they did not share a bed.

But the Maester might have contradicted himself when it comes to that. When Lord Mooton received the orders from Queen Rhaenyra that Nettles should be murdered, but no harm should come to Prince Daemon, Lord Mooton reunited with the captain of his guard, his brother, his champion, Ser Florian Greysteel and Maester Norren himself, to discuss what they should do about the Queen’s orders:

“This thing is easily done,” said the captain of his guard. “The prince sleeps beside “her, but he has grown old. Three men should be enough to subdue him should he try to interfere, but I will take six to be certain. Does my lord wish this done tonight?”

“Six men or sixty, he is still Daemon Targaryen,” Lord Mooton’s brother objected. “A sleeping draught in his evening wine would be the wiser course. Let him wake to find her dead.”

“The girl is but a child, however foul her treasons,” said Ser Florian, that old knight, grey and grizzled and stern. “The Old King would never have asked this of any man of honor.”

“These are foul times,” Lord Mooton said, “and it is a foul choice this queen has given me. The girl is a guest beneath my roof. If I obey, Maidenpool shall be forever cursed. If I refuse, we shall be attainted and destroyed.”

To which his brother answered, “It may be we shall be destroyed whatever choice we make. The prince is more than fond of this brown child, and his dragon is close at hand. A wise lord would kill them both, lest the prince burn Maidenpool in his wroth.” - Fire&Blood

If Daemon and Nettles slept in separate bedchambers, even if those were connected by a door on the inside of the rooms, it would be easier to place several men in front of both doors, and kill Nettles without worrying about the prince interfering while it was happening. It wouldn’t fix the problem of what Daemon would have done once he found out that Nettles was dead, but this is a concern that is only thought about and brought up later in their discussion, which to me proves that their immediate problem was the fact that Daemon would be sleeping in the same bed as Nettles.

Why would Maester Norren “lie” then, about the nature of Daemon and Nettles relationship? I believe the Maester simply didn’t want to acknowledge that Rhaenyra was correct in her suspicion of Nettles and Daemon being lovers, and instead wanted to reinforce that Lord Mooton and himself were right in not following and betraying the Queen’s orders. That they were justified in declaring for the Greens as soon as Daemon left Maidenpool.

We also have other accounts that shine a light on Daemon and Nettles' relationship. While Maester Norren wrote that the prince taught Nettles how to wash, the maidservants who brought water to their bath said that Daemon often shared a tub with Nettles, “soaping her back or washing the dragon stink from her hair, both of them as naked as their namedays”.

Daemon also made and brought her gifts such as “an ivory-handled hairbrush, a silvered looking glass, a cloak of rich brown velvet bordered in satin, a pair of riding boots of leather soft as butter. […]”

This behavior from Daemon towards Nettles resembles the way he behaved towards Rhaenyra when he supposedly tried to seduce her/taught her the arts of seduction early on in Fire&Blood, when Viserys was still alive.

“Daemon spent long hours in her company, enthralling her with tales of his journeys and battles. He gave her pearls and silks and books and a jade tiara said once to have belonged to the Empress of Leng, read poems to her, dined with her. […] Uncle and niece began to fly “together almost daily, racing Syrax against Caraxes to Dragonstone and back.” - Fire&Blood

Honestly, I don’t think Daemon was treating Nettles as a daughter. I think he was actually courting her, even if they already had a (possible) sexual relationship. This speaks of his feelings towards the girl, which in my opinion were more than just simple lust.

And that ties with Daemon’s reaction to finding out that Rhaenyra wanted Nettles dead and what happened after that.

“All we know is that the maester, a young man of two-and-twenty, found Prince Daemon and the girl Nettles at their supper that night, and showed them the queen’s letter. “Weary after a long day of fruitless flight, they were sharing a simple meal of boiled beef and beets when I entered, talking softly with each other, of what I cannot say. The prince greeted me politely, but as he read I saw the joy go from his eyes, and a sadness descended upon him, like a weight too heavy to be borne. When the girl asked what was in the letter, he said, ‘A queen’s words, a whore’s work.’ Then he drew his sword and asked if Lord Mooton’s men were waiting outside to take them captive. ‘I came alone,’ I told him, then foreswore myself, declaring falsely that neither his lordship nor any other man of Maidenpool knew what was written on the parchment. ‘Forgive me, My Prince,’ I said. ‘I have broken my maester’s vows.’ Prince Daemon sheathed his sword, saying, ‘You are a bad maester, but a good man,’ after which he bade me leave them, commanding me to ‘speak no word of this to lord nor love until the morrow.’ ” - Fire&Blood

If she was his bastard daughter, he could have sent word to Rhaenyra about it. He could have gone to her himself, since his life was not in danger. Rhaenyra had been clear that Dameon wasn’t supposed to be harmed. He could have sent Nettles away, realizing that his adventures with her had gone too far, and returned to his Queen’s side, to rule beside her. Daemon could have even killed Nettles himself if their relationship was simply transactional in the sense he wanted someone to sleep with while on his mission, and that would reinforce that even if he strayed away in their marriage, Rhaenyra was still his queen and the one he was loyal to.

Instead, he allowed Nettles to escape alive and unharmed, in a scene that is written to convey how hard it was for them to be parting from each other and that they weren’t doing that willingly:

“How the prince and his bastard girl spent their last night beneath Lord Mooton’s roof is not recorded, but as dawn broke they appeared together in the yard, and Prince Daemon helped Nettles saddle Sheepstealer one last time. […] Maester Norren records, “her cheeks were stained with tears.” No word of farewell was spoken between man and maid, but as Sheepstealer beat his leathery brown wings and climbed into the dawn sky, Caraxes raised his head and gave a scream that shattered every window in Jonquil’s Tower.” - Fire&Blood.

Daemon’s actions after Nettles is gone is to fly towards Harrenhal to face Aemond and Vhagar by himself. It’s a suicide mission: he has no intention of surviving and coming back to Rhaenyra’s side.

“You were a fool to come alone.”

“Were I not alone, you would not have come,” said Daemon.

“Yet you are, and here I am. You have lived too long, Nuncle.”

“On that much we agree,” Daemon replied. - Fire&Blood

Conclusion

It’ll be interesting to see how House of The Dragon will adapt Nettles, and if I’m right in my interpretation of her character, her significance and the nature of her relationship with Daemon. Either way, I hope we get to see these scenes played out faithfully, especially Nettles taming Sheepstealer and Caraxes shattering every window in Jonquil’s tower.

TLDR; Nettles doesn’t have Targaryen/Valyrian blood in her veins and she’s not Daemon’s bastard daughter.

#asoiaf #nettles #daemon targaryen #daemon x nettles #Fire&Blood #house of the dragon

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just-here-with-my-thoughts · 2 months

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Day 18: Too Weak To Move / Bundled Up In Blankets

@febuwhump prompt: Too Weak To Move @badthingshappenbingo prompt: Bundled Up In Blankets

Fandom: The Bad Batch Characters: Wrecker, Tech, Omega, Hunter, Echo, Cid Word Count: ~670 Click here to read on AO3

Synopsis: The Batch are camped out in Cid's Parlour in Ord Mantell, recuperating from the flu.

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

"Geez, you lot have been lyin' in here all day," grumbled Cid, her coarse voice cutting through the grunts and sniffles from the darkened room. "When am I gonna get rid of you all?"

"We're hardly in a state to commence our next job," Tech pointed out, in the slightly thickened tones of someone with a heavily blocked nose. Indeed his nose was puffy and red, as were his eyes, goggleless, which he was rubbing profusely as they watered.

"Yeah, have pity Cid!" bawled Wrecker, reaching for another tissue and trumpeting into it. "We're sick!"

Hunter merely burrowed completely under the blankets, folding them up around his head and pretending not to be there.

"I thought you clones weren't meant to get sick," the trandoshan needled them. She picked her way past the pile of bodies and blankets to the light switches, flicking them on so that the bulbs strobed to life. Tech gave a grunt of displeasure, and Wrecker howled and threw an arm in front of his eyes.

"'S too bright! Turn it off!"

A series of soft, clicking footsteps entered the room. Echo grinned without sympathy, eyeing up his brothers who had built themselves a nest of cushions and covers in the back room of Cid's parlour.

"You're right, clones don't usually get sick," he told Cid. "We've got pretty good immune systems, and usually when we're sent to a new planet we're given all the inoculations needed before we touch down."

"But these three missed their boosters," Omega announced chirpily, following on Echo's heels with a tray of drinks.

"So why aren't you sick?" asked Wrecker sulkily, glaring at Echo.

"Echo takes his multivitamins," Omega answered for him, doling out mugs of hot tea with honey. Tech took his and sipped it, wrinkling his nose against whatever else the girl had dosed the drink with to help fight their flu.

"And Omega is likely still protected by the adaptive immune system of her childhood years," he said, even in sickness unable to resist a lecture. "Children's immune responses are typically more effective at fighting off contagion than adults, unless the adult's system has been primed by exposure to deactivated virus."

"Hence the need for inoculations," Echo finished. "Clones grow up so fast that they lose their childhood immunity pretty quickly."

Cid was unmoved. "Well I think this is all a big fuss over a bad cold. You boys ought to go out and get some fresh air!"

"We can't!" lamented Wrecker, doing his best to look pitiful as Omega handed him his drink. He cradled the mug carefully as he sunk into the veritable fortress of pillows he was propped up against. "We're too weak to move."

Omega crouched down by the side of the makeshift bed and poked at the pile of blankets that was Hunter. There was a groan, and a hand emerged and batted her away. Omega rolled her eyes affectionately and cleared a space on the ground in easy reaching distance to place Hunter’s drink down.

Their grumpy employer rounded on Omega, poking a scaled finger into the girl’s chest as she straightened. “I expect you to motivate these lazy boys to get out of bed and take a walk!”

“I agree, Cid,” said Omega cheerily, drawing reproachful looks from Tech and Wrecker. “We can air the room out whilst they’re gone!”

“Omega,” Tech began, in his most reasonable-grown-up voice. “We are far too sick to go out.”

The blonde girl bounced over to Echo, taking his datapad and tapping at it. “There! I set a timer,” she beamed, showing them. “You can drink your medicine, and have a nap… then we’ll all go for a walk together.”

The blankets in Hunter’s direction groaned. Omega glanced at Echo with a grin, and the cyborg clone had to turn away to smother his laughter.

“We’ll let you get a bit more sleep,” promised Omega, going to the lighting control panel that Cid had just activated and switching it off again. “But we are definitely going out after that!”

#febuwhump #febuwhumpday18 #too weak to move #badthingshappenbingo #bundled up in blankets #the bad batch #tbb fanfic

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lyriumlullaby-ao3 · 7 months

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okay i’m sorry i didn’t rejoin tumblr and the da fandom to just spew forth meta all the time, but…

tryna keep this short but pls yell about this with me if you wanna, i just!! i refuse to believe it’s a coincidence that there are seven Old Gods/Archdemons and seven Evanuris (not counting Solas)—

and then if you read the creation story in the Chant (Threnodies 5 but also check out Drakon’s vision in Exaltations, while you’re at it, it’s catalogued as being about “the return of the Maker” and very clearly contains the formation of the Breach and the start of the Inquisition!), where “the Maker” creates the Veil and casts out the seven “Archdemons” and seals them in prisons of earth…?

so one, Solas is the Maker, this is not a doubt in my mind anymore, but more importantly… are the Evanuris the same as the Tevinter Old Gods and the Archdemons?

there’s one more thing Cole says in the deep roads during Trespasser that makes me wonder, he says, “They made bodies from the earth. And the earth was afraid. It fought back. But they made it forget.”

now would be an appropriate place to say that i think it just makes sense that the blight, the contagion that’s spread by darkspawn and red lyrium, was a biological weapon created by the Evanuris during the war with the titans, it somehow lead to Mythal’s death (i have theories about that too, but i’ll save it for some other time) and Solas creating the Veil to seal it away. it just makes sense, trust me for now.

and Solas likes the idea that if all the Archdemons are dead, there would be no more Blight (capital B, the times when darkspawn infect an Archdemon and overrun the surface lands, as given in a party banter with Blackwall; tryna keep this shorter but poke me if you want details), but is upset about the idea of the Wardens seeking out the Archdemons to prevent it?? there’s more to that then he lets on, guaranteed.

anyway i don’t 100% know where my thoughts on this are heading but. here you go, have fun with them

#there’s so much meta in my brain i’m sorta just now realizing lmao #i feel like that it’s always sunny guy with the wall of papers smoking a cig who hasn’t slept in four days lmfao #dragon age meta #solas dragon age #the evanuris #meta #it’s all connected. i’m telling you.#antares speaks #antares' meta

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katzkinder · 1 year

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I have never done this before, swore to myself I never would, but I feel obligated after my initial encounter with tumblr user @nurul-cerise led to a friendship based on lies and culminated in the most painful discovery I could have made, and I want to spare others the kind of hurt that comes with learning someone you thought was your friend is actually a violent queerphobe who wants you and all your friends dead, and only played pretend because she liked the things you wrote and drew, and then has the fucking NERVE to claim that your and others anger is only because you're """islamophobic"""

I apologize for the length, but I will not be putting this under readmore because I believe it is that important.

Cerise is a part of a lot of fandoms with strong LGBTQ presence, and it doesn't sit right with me to ignore that, especially given how american cartoon fandoms like ROTMNT and Ben 10 have a much more saturated number of young and vulnerable viewers.

This is her Instagram account, and her tumblr URL is listed above.

On this account she has made reels featuring videos from Jordan Peterson, a well known anti trans activist who has called being trans a "contagion" and made multiple appearances on the podcast of Joe Rogan, another well known extreme conservative who holds about every bigoted feeling towards a minority you could think of. The third video from him she shared is especially telling because she isn't even american. The only reason she has to share it is to be hateful and cruel.

She also shared this video of Ben Shapiro mocking trans identities in the classic style of “if you identify as x i can identify as y”. In this case, it’s claiming he should be allowed to identify as 60 years old.

This is proof of her supporting and being friends with other homophobes, with the first screenshot including OP being blatantly proud of their hatred. Be warned, the third screenshot is very upsetting.

This last set of screenshots is mostly from her tumblr. She claims to be a "peaceful" non-supporter. We all know that isn't possible, as no such thing exists. You are either helping to protect us or you are helping to murder us.

And even IF that were a possible stance to take, the above reels on instagram, along with this video she shared of a woman burning a rainbow flag, prove that she is lying through her damn, hateful, hypocritical teeth.

When I personally confronted her after a friend found some concerning things on her instagram and shared them with me, initially I only spoke to a few others in a discord server for a very tiny fandom, Servamp, about it, and warned them to stay away for their own safety. I regret not bringing that to tumblr immediately now, because not only did it not prevent people harassing her like I had hoped to (I'm soft, sue me), she has since that incident gotten even more bold in her disgusting behavior. Completely mask off in how much she hates those of us who literally make every single bit of content for these fandoms she claims to "love" so much.

Block her, don't talk to her, get rid of her. Don't tolerate this kind of person in our safe spaces. I don't want all of you to be hurt the way I and others were.

#bungou stray dogs #rotmnt #bnha #ben 10 #spy x family #servamp #nurul cerise

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beautifulpersonpeach · 1 year

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I don't call myself army, just a music fan, like to follow grown up fans of kpop and other groups and honestly up until now I thought your characterization of kpop fans and multis behavior to BTS was very one-sided and overblown. But now I'd like to offer you an apology Bpp. I keep up with a bunch of kpop podcasts run by kpop fans and black women and I follow this 30+ black woman whose whole shtick is being in kpop for vibes, not engaging in fanwars and overall being above the gross behavior from immature racist armys. So imagine my horror when I open my Twitter today and the first thing I see is this:

https://twitter.com/SideShowShit/status/1647483768423464961?s=20

My heart is so heavy and burdened by this I don't even know where to start bpp. Just last week I saw a Shinee/taemin/multi fan say the hate against Jimin should 'show give those armys a taste of what they do' when Jimin has been the target of overwhelming hate from the same shinee fans since his debut. I'm thinking to just leave kpop completely because this kind of brain rot in adults over nothing makes me depressed as fuck. I sympathize more with armys now more than ever. I love Jimin and don't want to stop actively following him. How do you deal with all this hate? Seriously how do you do it?

***

Hi Anon,

Your link.

Abridged answer: "I got no worries because you can't stop me lovin' myself" - reference linked here. :)

Long-form answer:

Like I've said before, if you've managed to make your way to the podcast side of k-pop stan environments you already have my condolences lmao. I won't state the exact reasons for that here but you're already experiencing a few of those reasons it seems.

That user is actually familiar to me - she's a black woman who works in the US entertainment industry, Hollywood to be exact, in a semi-administrative role. That person is a Blink who runs in the same circles as Ash - a k-pop writer/podcaster and multi in the US; Carrie - an Exol and Shawol in Toronto who writes K-drama/film reviews; Tamar - a Jewish Blink and multi who is a k-pop journalist; and a bunch of other k-pop writers, journalists, DJs, and otherwise 'grown-ups in k-pop' who can't seem to speak even in a neutral capacity about BTS, let alone ARMY, despite many of them deriving their livelihoods from the spread of k-pop in the West spearheaded in a large part by BTS. It's partly why ARMYs are extremely skeptical of k-pop journalism because oftentimes these content creators, journalists or reviewers are just stans of other groups with barely concealed animus for BTS. And also why the quality of critical conversations in k-pop fandom is so poor. I mean, how can you trust the opinion of an adult Black woman who should intimately know the implications of racism, calling Jimin, Oli London, unprovoked? It's all so comical but also kinda tragic lol.

You sent me this ask just as I was publishing this post so perhaps you hadn't yet seen what I've said about the dominant behaviours of k-pop stans in fandom.

I understand how painful it is to see things like that but I suggest you ignore them, report and block the account if it bothers you that much, but otherwise focus on celebrating Jimin and the things you love about him. I keep saying that hate does nothing but create more of the same. Many of the people who belong to rival fandoms, especially the fandoms that have a history of being abusive to BTS and ARMY since as far back as 2014, including fans of Shinee, EXO, Beast, Super Junior, and since 2018, BlackPink, many of the people in those fandoms default to hating anything connected to BTS, and it fascinates me even now how it's like a social contagion.

If seeing opinions like that really distress you, it's okay to step back from k-pop completely. In fact I recommend it for people who tend to get really emotionally connected to the artists they support, because none of those people are going to learn to do better, and chances are you could begin mirroring their behaviour if you get too attached. I'm friends with many people from those fandoms because they've known me since before I became ARMY, they know what I think, value, and tolerate, and they share the same values as me. But a few of those friends have been sort of 'excommunicated' from their fandoms because they refuse to engage in the hate towards BTS, and this happens far more often than you think.

I write as much as I do about this topic because I get it. Nobody wants to see shit like that. But at the same time, those sentiments towards Jimin and BTS have always existed and Jimin is still happy, thriving, more concerned with knowing what his fans think about his music, so if he's the reason you're here, then focus on him.

For me it's really that simple.

#Juwon Park too used to run in their circles since she's a VIP who doesn't like BTS and ARMY #That was until she said something anti-black and they realized she had very limited access to the industry anyway #You'll see these sorts of characters from time to time the longer you spend time outside ARMY spaces #If that bothers you then I strongly hope you detach from k-pop completely because it will only get worse the longer BTS remains on top #kpop #kpop fandom #multis #bts army #fandom behaviour #fandom behavior #bts #jimin #park jimin

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agro-carnist · 1 year

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omfg when did fandom become this bizarre puritanical space?? I thought on the internet we were letting our weird flags fly as long as it is appropriately tagged. Utterly bizarre why people are dragging you, and I'm so sorry this is happening. Leda and the Swan and the conception of the Minotaur prove that humanity has always had funky little fictional fantasies. Don't let the haters get you down!

I remember the wild west of the internet days and while that time had something fucked up about it we shouldn't return to, I miss the "live and let the weirdos live" mentality (and the lack of ubiquitous corporate advertising). I'd take the batshit niche drama over the moral contagion of today any day

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itsallsternutation · 6 months

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Pinned Intro Post.

CW before we start: this is a sneeze blog (duh) and will probably feature a few mentioning of contagion and mess and that kind of thing. No emeto or anything dangerous here like that though.

If you wanna skip the exposition, here's all the links to my stuff:

My sneezefics (These are my forte. I'm a bit of a word nerd and sneezefics really bring out the demi in me. They're mostly F, but with plenty of M and Enby in them too. Also sorry some of my reblogs are in there. Tumblr's being uncooperative with me lol)

My sneezing (most of them are on youtube, but who knows, maybe I'll make some tumblr exclusives).

Hiya, I’m Saul Stern (not my real name. It’s short for It’s All Sternutation and I thought it sounded nice). Pronouns are he/him and they/them, but any work for me. I’m not picky.

I’ve been a big fan of sneezing all my life, whether they be in fics or in wavs, I thought it was the right time for me to give something back. I’m a cis guy with no allergies, but with really strong, desperate sneezes that come out real easily with a rolled up tissue. I love both reading and writing wonderful fics about itchy allergies and stuffy colds (I usually prefer F and enby sneezes, but I might throw in a few M in the writing part as well as a few of my own M sneezes). I’m also a big time handkerchief fan and would love to see some of yours.

Here you can find…

My Fics (I was blessed with being really really good at writing, but I’m also a very busy person. I mostly just like stuff with original characters, but I might throw in some fandom stuff if you ask nicely.)

My Own Sneezes (I made a YT and I’m gonna try to share my inducing sessions there)

My General Sneezy Thoughts (I’m not used to expressing them with words, but I sure as heck can try)

Please do not reblog, interact, or message me if you are a…

Minor (Pretty obvious one. Just wait a few years, it won’t be that long)

Non-Kink Blog (If you’re into sneezes, just get an alt. If you’re not, why are you even here?)

An Asshole (If you’re one of these guys I won’t just block you like the others. I’ll do something worse: I’ll make fun of you).

So yeah, here is me. If you’re within my age bracket and wanna talk, DM me at either here, Snzliker on kik or at [email protected]. My YT is also @SaulStern/https://www.youtube.com/@SaulStern and I post some sneezes there. I’m also Itsallsternutations on the SFF.

Cheers, achoo’s, and bless you’s to all of you,

-Saul

#snz things #snz blog #snz fet #snz kink #snz thoughts #sneeze #snz #sneeze blog #sneezeblr #sneeze kink #sneezefucker #snez #sneezing #contagion #mess

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perfectpaperbluebirds · 8 months

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Sicktember #11

Prompt: Beginner’s Guide to Faking Sick

Fandom/OCs: Knives Out (post canon-AU, Ransom and Marta)

Words: 580

Sicknario inspo: Being kissed by someone who’s sick when asked to share their cold from this post.

Author’s comments/background: Another one where the prompt basically wrote itself, just needed some extra words. In my AU for this fandom, Ransom only has a short prison sentence if any and he and Marta have a traditional enemies-to-lovers plotline as he helps her navigate the realm of the wealthy and she helps him turn over a new leaf as a decent person.

~~~***~~~

Ransom had just woken up from his latest sick nap and was enjoying a cup of tea at the kitchen table when Marta burst into the room.

"I need your help. I need to get sick before this weekend."

Ransom cocked an eyebrow. "What could possibly be so horrible that a goody-goody like you is trying to get out of it?" he asked, the husky rasp of an upper respiratory infection making his voice somehow more attractive, if that were possible.

"Ugh, my cousin is getting married for the third time and each man she's chosen is more horrible than the last. This one is an alcoholic and so are all his friends. And my other cousins will end up in a screaming fight one way or another. I refuse to go to another miserable wedding."

"So why don't you just fake sick instead of going the whole way? Even a princess like you can fake a few coughs over the phone I'm sure. I can give you a full course on creative ways to get out of social events. I've been doing it my whole life. Playing hooky 101. I should write a book… "The Beginners Guide to Faking Sick". It'd be an instant hit." He forced out the last few words just in time before breaking into a nasty coughing fit. "See?" he croaked after a few sips of tea. "Trust me, you want no part of this in real life. Just pretend."

Marta shook her head. "Someone would come check on me. They'll send my mother or one of my aunties to make sure I’m telling the truth. My cousins don't allow anyone to miss their weddings. But this cousin is also deathly afraid of being sick. It has to be the real thing. I need you to give me your cold." She eyed his contagion-ridden mug, but Ransom didn't follow her train of thought.

"If you insist," he said with a smirk that at first she couldn't decipher. He stood and was at her side in two long strides. Before she knew what he was doing, he was tilting her head back and pressing his hot lips to hers. His tongue was in her mouth before she could blink.

"Ransom! What the hell?" She shoved him away. "I wanted you to let me drink from your mug, not suck my face off!"

"Hey, you said you wanted my cold. I was just taking the most direct route," he said, smiling wickedly. "Plus I kinda thought you were flirting." He held out his mug. “But if you want to try it your way too, be my guest.”

She took the mug from him, trying to hide a smile as she took a few sips. "You're impossible. I would never."

"Hmm. Well now you'll get your cold one way or another. Just wait and see," he laughed.

~~~

Two days later, Marta appeared for breakfast with red, watery eyes and nose, looking pleased, though she was also pale and shaky.

"Your cold worked. Just in time for the wedding, exactly like I hoped. Thank you."

Ransom, his cold much improved, grinned wolfishly. "No thanks necessary. That just goes to show how good of a kisser I am too, to give you my cold in one go after just a few seconds of tongue."

"You're impossible, as usual," she said, rolling her eyes, though with unmistakable fondness, at her rescuer.

#sicktember 2023 #skt 2023 #Kni/ves O/ut #prompt 11

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spookyshipperfics · 1 year

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Viewing Experience

Find it: a03 / Fandom: The X-Files / Rating: Teen & Up

Tagging @today-in-fic

What is it About? Mulder and Scully have a scary movie night that inspires them to reveal their feelings. Basically, the ’90s version of “Netflix and Chill.”

Read it: It was horror, plain and simple. The crying. The screaming. If Scully was being dramatic, she’d say that God had forsaken this place, had forsaken them. Their office had burned down. They’d been assigned to Kersh, and the ensuing background checks were like monotonous thorns in their sides.

It’s how they ended up here, in an overstuffed daycare in Virginia on a hot summer day. Mulder had somehow been saddled with holding a toddler, and Scully was waiting for paperwork that may never come. Her gaze landed on her partner right as vomit exploded onto his face. It was a pale green like fresh-cut grass turned vile.

Peas. It had to be fucking peas, she thought.

She was sure her mouth hung open, her shock apparent for all to see. Mulder’s eyes were narrow; his lips twisted into a grimace of disgust. The green goo dripped down his face onto his white dress shirt and suit jacket—an Armani one, of course.

“Oh, my goodness! I’m so sorry,” the daycare owner gushed, rushing across the small room filled with toddlers and crying babies. “I shouldn’t have asked you to hold her. That was unprofessional of me.” The woman retrieved the unhappy toddler from Mulder, who was now holding the child at arm’s length like a bomb, rigged and ready to explode.

“It’s no problem,” Mulder replied, but he was already backing away, excusing himself to the bathroom where Scully suspected he’d be muttering under his breath and cursing Kersh for sending them on this poor excuse of an assignment in the first place.

As Mulder and the daycare owner retreated to take care of their respective messes, one of the childcare workers approached Scully with an apologetic smile. “Here’s that paperwork you were looking for,” she said, handing her a manilla folder. “Oh, and extend my apologies to your partner.”

The fresh air and sunlight were a nice change from the chaotic daycare. Crying leaked through the doors, and Scully hoped it was just the heat getting to the kids. It was certainly getting to her. Mulder grumbled from behind, and she guessed it was getting to him too. That and his encounter with a puke-happy toddler.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Oh, I’m just great, but my dry cleaner might not be quite as happy.” The sarcasm rolled off his voice with a thickness that made her uneasy.

As they approached the car, she took the opportunity to look at him, really look at him. He’d done the best he could in the daycare bathroom. His face was clean, but his shirt was still stained around the collar. Mulder was right–his dry cleaner wouldn’t be happy.

His jaw was clenched, eyes blackened with aggravation. The expression had become all too frequent since they’d been booted from the X-Files. A man like Mulder wasn’t cut out for repetitive tasks. Background checks and busy work were eating away at him. It seemed he was always antsy these days. His patience slowly slipping away from him with the rest of his soul.

His tension was like a contagion. A cold Scully didn’t want but always seemed to catch. They were so interwoven; his pain was her pain. Something needed to change. She knew what she wanted. It was there, simmering under the surface—a desire she could never seem to say out loud.

“At least we got what we came for,” she offered.

“You mean evidence that the local daycare wasn’t, in fact, a front for a methamphetamine cooking operation? I’m not surprised.”

“Muld—”

“Kersh knew this was a waste of time. It’s why it was assigned to us.”

“I guess we can be grateful it was an easy case.”

He huffed. “The only thing I’m grateful for is that you weren’t taken away from me as punishment too.”

Their eyes locked, and her knees suddenly felt weak. The idea that they could be separated at any time felt like a guillotine hanging above their necks. Every day they silently prayed Kersh wouldn’t pull the rope and send the shiny, silver blade careening down.

“I don’t think I could do this without you,” he added. “Any of it.”

And there it was again. That low tug of desire. That nagging, frantic feeling to tell him what she desired. His mouth against hers. Slow and deep.

They got into the car and drove off in silence. It wasn’t until they reached the freeway that she dared to glance at Mulder. She replayed the incident in the daycare. Her composed partner covered in half-digested peas. Mulder barely concealing his disgust as he held the toddler at arm’s length. He could be so dramatic at times. She’d seen him handle biohazard bags with more grace, for crying out loud.

Scully felt wild giggles rising in her throat. The absurdity of their life, the tension, the stress all spilled out into laughter that would have made a hyena cringe.

“What?” Mulder asked, his eyes bouncing from her to the road.

She shook her head. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

“It’s clearly something. You’re acting like you have front-row seats at a comedy show.”

“The peas,” she uttered between giggles. “The peas just reminded me of The Exorcist, that’s all.”

His lips quirked into a smile. “I almost wish that had been the case. Then, at least, our involvement would’ve made sense.”

“Are you implying you’d rather encounter demons than run a simple background check?” she questioned, her laughter finally settling.

“That’s a tough one, Scully,” Mulder began. “Facing demons from The Exorcist or taking orders from Kersh are both pretty awful choices. A coin flip might be in order.”

“Hey,” she said in faux outrage. “You better not be insulting The Exorcist. It is one of my—”

“Favorite movies,” he finished. “I remember.”

She smiled. Of course, he remembered. Leave it to Mulder to catalog a throwaway statement she’d made five years ago in passing. He barely remembered her birthday. The big stuff didn’t seem important to him, but the little things were his specialty. He knew how she took her coffee. He knew she added bee pollen to her yogurt. Just like he knew teasing her about it would get under her skin because he was right; she was a scientist and should know better.

“I have it, you know,” Mulder announced, breaking her thoughts and redirecting her gaze from the passing trees back to him.

“Have what?”

“The Exorcist. I have it on VHS.”

“And here I thought your videos only included one particular genre. The kind with big-breasted blondes on the front.”

“We could watch it,” he said, ignoring her sly remark. “Tonight. Together.” A second passed, maybe two. “It’s Friday,” he added as if that would strengthen his cause.

It did.

“I’ll be over at 7,” she responded and went back to staring out the window.

They sat at opposite ends of the couch. The room was dark apart from the glow of the fish tank. Scary movies were always scarier in the dark, Mulder had insisted.

As The Exorcist began, so did the game. It was one they often played. The name? How close they could get to each other without being too obvious.

Mulder started it (he usually did). He rose to get them beers. When he returned, he sat closer. He repeated the move when the pizza arrived thirty minutes later. Handing her off a slice, he plopped down only a foot away. She got the next round of beers, closing the space and bringing them inches apart. By the time the movie reached the hour-and-a-half mark, their thighs were touching.

Mulder stretched his arms above his head, and in a moment of excited horror, she realized he was using it as an excuse to wrap one around her. He was about as suave as a teenager, but that was okay. She felt like a teenager, too, with her heart beating wildly in her chest.

She was a mess of hormones and nerves. Still, when Mulder pulled her closer, feigning terror after the head-spinning scene, she let him. And when he jokingly swore to protect her (From what, Mulder? If anything, I’d be protecting you), she sunk into him, placing her head on his upper shoulder.

It was the closest they’d ever been—surely a new high score for their unspoken game. And when the movie ended, neither of them pulled away. For all Mulder knew, she was extremely interested in the end credits.

Mulder cleared his throat. “So, what did you think of the… movie?”

“What do I think of the movie I’ve seen a half dozen times before?” At some point, her hand had found a home on his chest. She wasn’t sure when that had happened, but it didn’t stop her fingers from fidgeting with his T-shirt. “I don’t think it should shock you that I enjoyed it.”

“Hmm. Yeah, I guess I just never really talked to you about the movie before.”

It clicked, then. The inflection of the word. The way it sounded round and slow on his tongue. He wasn’t asking her for a film review. He was asking her thoughts on him… on this… on the situation that had her snuggled against him on the couch in a very unpartnerly way.

“Oh,” she gulped. “The movie.” She paused. Collecting her thoughts was difficult with two beers in her bloodstream and the butterflies in her stomach. “Well, Mulder, the movie was familiar but also a little scary.”

“Scary, huh?”

She shrugged. “Not in a bad way, more like in a I’m-scared-of-ruining-things kind of way… with the movie, I mean. I wouldn’t want my fear to tarnish your… um… viewing experience.”

He chuckled at that. “I don’t think you could ever ruin my viewing experience, Scully. I think you and I could handle whatever viewing experience was thrown at us.”

The hand that had been playing with his T-shirt seemed to have a mind of its own. It had slid lower to his stomach. She could feel his abs through the thin cotton and suddenly wanted to slip her hand underneath the fabric. It would be so easy to just—

“So, you like it then… the movie?”

“I like it,” she affirmed just above a whisper.

“Just like it?”

Her heart was pounding wildly. They were so close, she wouldn’t be surprised if Mulder could hear it. Just say it, her brain screamed. For once in your life, just say what you feel. “A part of me would even say that I love the movie.”

His hand found her jaw then, and he tilted her head to look at him. “Love is a strong word, Scully.”

She wondered briefly if she looked normal. If Mulder could tell that she was a gelatinous pile of goo beneath his fingertips like something out of another horror film. “I told you already, Mulder. This is one of my favorite movies.”

He kissed her then. Slow and deep. The way she’d fantasized about him doing earlier in the car and countless times before. His tongue entered her mouth only after he had thoroughly explored her lips. He tasted like beer and pizza and something so very Mulder. The combination had warm. And when his hands began to roam her body, it had her blazing hot.

As he eased her backward onto the cushions, he broke the kiss. “Did you say, ‘ONE of your favorite movies?’”

She rolled her eyes. “Shut up, Mulder. You know you’re my favorite.”

His eyes crinkled with a smile. God, she wanted to kiss him again. “There are no other movies,” she assured him, and then she pressed her mouth against his as the VCR whirred.

*I normally don't post my entire fics on Tumblr, so this is a first. Comments and kudos on ao3 are always much loved

#the x files fanfic #xfiles fanfic #msr #msr fanfic

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oh-no-my-hand-slipped · 2 years

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The Sneeze of Doom

Fandom: The Stanley Parable

Length: Full fic

Rating: General Audiences

Genre: Contagion, caretaking

Content warning(s): Guilt, emotional moments, might be kind of bad

****************************

Sneeze of Doom (n.): The literary trope of a character sneezing at the worst possible moment.

Stanley rubbed the familiar stinging pain away from his eyes. As his vision cleared, he was already thinking of what he would do this time. Had he already done the “Escape” route? What would happen if he took the bucket through? Could he find the figurines again, since he had missed that ending the first time? Or maybe he could try to speed run?

Finally, his office appeared before his eyes. The blinking cursor on the black computer screen, the unfinished paperwork, the boxes…he knew Room 427 like the back of his hand. Stanley stood up from his chair, stretched his arms, and stepped out into -

Thunk!

Stanley stumbled back, clutching his face. He had run into the door. The closed door. To most, this would just be a silly mistake to laugh off. But to Stanley, this was an omen. The door had always stayed open, unless he decided to close it. As many times as he had woken up in the his dim quarters, the door had never, ever been shut. What new, terrible path awaited him?

He tried the knob. As if on cue, the door swung open, almost hitting Stanley a second time. Still nursing his smarting nose, he walked through the doorway. He began his routine - looking through the desks, turning off the computers, and taking a quick peek through the white windows. Everything looked normal, but something didn’t seem quite right. It wasn’t until he had crouched to look under a desk for the fourth time did he realize what was making him so uneasy.

The Narrator hadn’t said a word.

He had dallied in the first room for almost fifteen minutes, but The Narrator hadn’t snidely commented on his meticulous searching, or nudged him forward with decreasing subtlety. Stanley’s heart sank. Only the worst paths started so quietly.

With newfound caution, Stanley inched towards the door to the next hallway, which had also remained closed. He touched the doorknob. Unlike his office door, this one creaked open. The frame shuttered on its hinges as it came to a slow stop. Stanley craned his neck around the corner.

“Stanley!”

Stanley jumped, ducking from the doorway and against one of the walls.

“Oh dear, Stanley, I had no idea you had…snf…made it this far. You mustn’t…you mustn’t run off ahead of me like that.”

The Narrator coughed.

“Now, where were we? Oh, I’ve completely lost track. Did…snf…we do something important last time? Is there an arc we need to finish? Or an acheh…chieve…HXX’CHNK!”

Stanley heard a groan, then the sound of multiple tissues being pulled out of a box.

“By head feels lige it’s filled with coddon wool,” The Narrator snuffled, blowing his nose. “I don’d think id has buch room for anything else, I’b afraid.”

Stanley’s face must have shown his confusion, because The Narrator sighed.

“I dow, I dow, Stanley. I didn’d think I could be sick either. I bean, I’m an omnipotent being, you’d think such things would be below be. But here I am, by dose running like a tap and my body aching lige I’ve been run over by a bus. I subbose anything can happen as long as id moves the story forward.”

Stanley thought about the last few runs he had taken. He had just finished with the Escape ending. Before that was the Stairs ending. And a few before that, he had gotten the Skip Button ending. The more he reflected, he realized that there had been a streak of the worst possible endings. Ones where he betrayed The Narrator, or had been killed brutally, or had gone insane. He had the luck of being rejuvenated for each run, but he wasn’t sure that The Narrator had that privilege.

No wonder his disembodied companion felt so run down.

“Could you pick sobething short this tibe?” The Narrator said. “Maybe…snf…I’ll feel better once we restart. Please?”

Stanley thought, looking between the open door in front of him and his office. Like many of his other paths, he had a choice to make. After all, this was something new. Didn’t he want to see how this ended?

But, on the other hand, wasn’t that how The Narrator became ill in the first place? His morbid curiosity?

Stanley sighed and turned on his heel, going back the way he came.

“Oh, thang you, Stanley,” The Narrator said, sniffling. “We’ll ged back to the story soon, I probise. I’b sure this is just a…snf…one-run bug.”

Stanley stepped into his office, and closed the door. He knew that after a few lines of dialogue, the game would start again.

“Bud,” The Narrator began, “Stanley just couldn’d handle the prehsure…p-pardon me-!”

With a sudden click, Stanley was thrown into darkness once again.

When the office faded back into view, it was clear that things had only gotten worse. Not only was the door still closed, but the lightbulb above the computer was beginning to flicker. Papers that had been neatly stacked were now scattered on the desk and the floor. But, most of all, there was a string of strangled sneezes instead of the normal introduction.

“Oh, god…bless be…” The Narrator said when he finally finished. “Stanley…snf…I don’d thingk thad restarting will do any good.”

He blew his nose again.

“Perhaps only by bebory is reset, not by physical condition…? Bud then how could you recover from fatal injuries? Is this a story arc thad bust be completed? A glitch? Is this a sign thad I have a physical form, but bay belong to a different dimension? Bud, if thad’s true, how could I…oooooh…”

The Narrator groaned.

“I can’d thingk about it without giving byself a headache.”

Stanley ignored The Narrator’s complaining, and opened the door to his office. Like his desk, the first room had become messier, with reams of paperwork covering the floor and the air dullened with a dusty haze. A few of the cubicles had even turned over, the shattered remains of mugs and computers laying next to them.

“All of his coworkers were gode. Whad co-!”

The Narrator cut himself off with a rough coughing fit, and the reason for the mess soon became clear. With each cough, papers began to flutter, and the office chairs rolled into one another.

“Oh,” The Narrator moaned, his voice becoming more and more hoarse, “I can’d go on lige this. There’s doe restarting, the map’s a bess, and I…I…HXXX’TCHNX!”

Papers were flung high into the air, and a cubicle teetered on its edges. More tissues were pulled out of a box, followed by a quiet, muffled whimper.

“Ow…”

Stanley heard a shuddering breath, then silence. He idled in the same place, afraid to move. As much as he had delighted in torturing The Narrator in the past, something about this seemed different. Closer. More sympathetic.

More human.

Stanley had been sick before, he was sure of it. It was one of the things he knew without having experienced them as long as he could remember - an instinct that his body was fragile. The Narrator, this god-like being, was now revealed to be just as frail. Compassion welled in his chest as Stanley realized that both he and The Narrator had a connection he had never noticed before: the quality of weakness.

Stanley bent down and began to pick up the papers littering the floor. Once he had a decently sized stack, he used one of the few remaining coffee mugs to keep them steady on the cubicle.

“S-Stadley? Stadley, whad are you doing?”

Stanley continued to tidy up, trying to weigh down lighter objects as much as he could. After a while, the office looked more or less the same as before, with only a stray piece of glass or copy paper out of place. The Narrator sniffled.

“Oh…Stadley…” he whispered. “Thangk you. I dow it’s only one room, bud…thangk you.”

Stanley smiled.

“Perhabs waiting won’t be so…hih…!”

The papers fluttered under their weights, and the light bulbs began to flicker again. Stanley put his arms over his head. The Narrator struggled above him.

“Snf…I don’d thingk…I can…heh…!”

There was a noticeable breeze now, like the beginning of a storm, blowing against Stanley. Out of instinct, he crouched down.

“I can’d…hih…HIH…!”

Stanley squeezed his eyes shut.

“HEEE’TCHIIIIEW!”

The desk careened on their sides, making what had remained after the first fit slide onto the floor. Papers whirred around Stanley like locusts. Broken glass began to fly into the air, leaving thin cuts on his face and clothes. A stapler hit him in the side.

Finally, the heaviest objects fell, leaving only the paper and the smallest bits of shattered mugs lingering in the air. Stanley stood up slowly. He brushed pieces of debris out of his hair, and rubbed his stinging face and aching rib.

A moment of silence fell upon the destroyed room. The only sound was the fluttering of paper and the clinking of glass.

Then, with a quiet gasp, The Narrator began to cry. It started softly at first, but as he caught his breath, the sobs became more desperate. Stanley tried to pick up some of the pieces, to try and clean up the mess, but was stopped by an earth-shattering thud.

“THERE’S NO POINT!” The Narrator wailed. “I RUIN EVERYTHING I TOUCH!”

The thudding continued, knocking Stanley onto his back.

“I’VE RUINED THIS GABE! I’VE RUINED THIS MAP! AND I’VE RUINED YOU!”

The Narrator howled, coughing between his sobs.

“I’VE KILLED YOU AGAIN AND AGAIN, I’VE DRIVEN YOU MAD, I’VE-!”

He hacked, his throat finally giving out. Stanley backed himself beneath a desk. The terrible sound of wheezing, slamming, and sobbing shook the building as The Narrator let out everything that has built up through their many runs together.

As Stanley struggled not to bang his head on the bottom of the desk with every tremor, he realized that this was all his fault. All the existential horrors, all the unfathomable destruction, all the mind-numbing gags…and for what? His entertainment? Inapplicable knowledge?

No, he realized. He did this just because he could.

And this was the result.

Finally, The Narrator quieted. The floor stopped shaking, and debris stopped falling from the ceiling. Stanley slowly ducked out of the desk.

Between the sneezing and the sobbing, The Narrator had covered the office in glass, ceiling tiles, splinters of wood, and broken desktops, causing the floor to crunch with every step Stanley made. He looked up, trying to hear the slightest sound from his omnipotent companion.

But it was completely silent.

A rush of determination filled him. Stanley had to fix this. It was his choices that made The Narrator ill in the first place, so it was his choices that would make him well again. Until then, he had to clean up this mess.

He stepped over piles of wires and office supplies into the next room.

“Stanley?” The Narrator rasped. “Whad…where are you going?”

Stanley ignored the question, going straight through the second office and down the left corridor. After a few twists and turns, he found exactly what he was looking for.

“Oh god, please…no…”

Stanley opened the broom closet and stepped inside. The Narrator groaned.

“Usually I could indulge you, Stanley, bud I’b really dot in the mood for this.”

Stanley looked around the cramped space, hand over his mouth in thought.

“Listen, a bit is well and good, bud…I…snf, god, it’s dusty id here…when’s the last tibe sobeone ran over these shelves with a rag…?”

With a bit of searching, Stanley finally tucked a roll of duct tape and red wire under his arm, as well as a broom leaned against the corner. Supplies in hand, he marched back down the hall and set to work.

The Narrator said very little as Stanley taped, tied, and shoved his way through the office. But, every once in a while, a piece of paper or a chunk of ceiling would move slowly towards the dustpan.

After the floor was cleared, the desks were tied down, and the mugs were tucked away, Stanley sat in the middle of the floor, looking up expectantly.

“You really are…I bean, I can’d…” The Narrator stammered. “I subbose what…after all…just…”

Stanley waved his hand. He then gestured broadly to the office, then up to The Narrator - or, at least, where his voice seemed to be coming from.

“Pardon?”

Stanley pointed to his nose.

“Oh! I subbose…snf…you’d lige to test your handiwork?”

Stanley nodded.

“I don’d know, Stanley. You worked so hard on this, and I’d hade to see it ruined again. Besides, I don’d believe I have another sneeze in be.”

Stanley looked around the room. There had to be something he could use. A feather, some spices, eraser specks, anything.

As he looked down to check his pockets, he realized that he was filthy. Between rooting around in the broom closet and cleaning the office, his shirt was covered in a thin layer of dust and debris.

Perfect.

He began to brush himself off, making a thick, white cloud around him. The Narrator coughed.

“Stadley, quit that! You’re baking a…snnnf…a beh…heh…”

Stanley grinned, then scrambled under one of the desks he had tied down.

“Oh, you ch-cheeky little…hih…!”

The wind started again, but the desks held fast under Stanley’s handiwork.

“Hih…! Gih…!”

The Narrator fought against the urge, which only lapped the whirling office into a frenzy.

But he couldn’t keep it back for long.

“HYESH’SHIIIIIIEW!”

The wind howled, pushing against the desks with a thunderous roar. But, even still, they didn’t move an inch.

The Narrator’s first sneeze spurred a desperate fit, only fueled by the remnants of dust still in the air. Still, everything still stayed firmly on the ground.

Soon, the sneezes became quieter and more tired, and the wind stopped altogether.

“Ungh,” The Narrator snuffled, having finished. “Dear be…koff…”

Stanley crawled out from under the desk, taking his seat in the middle of the floor.

“You’re a bastard, you doe thad?”

Stanley just shrugged, leaning back on his hands. The Narrator sighed.

“Thank you, Stadley.”

As they sat together in the room, The Narrator’s breath became steadier. Soon, soft snoring filled the air, and Stanley felt his eyelids become heavy as well. He laid on the carpet floor, stretched, and promptly went to sleep.

Stanley wasn’t sure how long he had slept - it could have been anywhere between a few minutes and a few days - but he woke up to find himself back in his own office.

“Stanley? Oh, good, you’re awake! As I was feeling quite a bit better, I took the liberty of restarting the game.”

Stanley blinked, wincing as his sore joints twinged. Instead of a mild stinging of the eyes, his head pounded from his temples to his cheeks.

“I even cleaned up a few of my drafts rooms for you to try,” The Narrator continued. “I even put a little spin on that broom closet you like so much! What a run this is going to be! Come on, Stanley, up and at ‘em!”

Stanley tried to stand, but the resulting dizziness made him sit back down. His head felt like it was filled with water, swishing back and forth as he turned his head.

“Ah, always the kidder, aren’t you? I’m in so good a mood, I’ll even indulge you. Sit there for as long as you like.”

Stanley rolled to his desk and laid his head in his arms, as that was the only position that didn’t make him feel like this was in a funhouse. After a while, though, The Narrator grew concerned.

“Stanley?” he said quietly. “Stanley, are you alright?”

Stanley shifted his head to look up.

“Did I…say something? I know the last run wasn’t ideal, or even functional, but I’ll make it up to you, I promise! All new content, new paths, even-”

“hp’TCH!”

Stanley pitched forward, burying himself in his arms. He sat up, coughing roughly from the sudden sneeze.

“Oh, Stanley…don’t tell me…”

The Narrator clucked his tongue.

“I never knew I was contagious. No wonder you were asleep so long.”

Stanley rubbed his now reddened nostrils, another sneeze not far away. The Narrator fussed like a mother chicken as he rummaged around, looking for something.

“Oh, and in this office! The air-con is always on high, you could catch a cold just from standing in here…I feel just awful…I never knew you could become ill, really I didn’t…”

The Narrator hummed nervously, clicking a few buttons

“Hold on, I think I’ve got it. This should help you feel a bit better.”

Suddenly, the office door opened, a warm light streamed through.

“I found a few sprites I never used,” The Narrator explained. “It was from a childhood ending or something like that. Very sappy, very sentimental. The whole idea was scrapped, but I kept a few things in case I needed them.”

With much difficulty, Stanley stumbled into through the doorway.

The room full of cubicles and computers was now a ring of pillows and stuffed animals, with a large blanket fort in the middle. Fairy lights hung from the corners, filling the room with a comforting glow.

Stanley took a few steps, then collapsed, basking in the warmth of the room. A blanket was pulled over him.

“Good night, Stanley.”

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