#putting it on my wall and repeating the mantra that ill get there

[ellearts]

I love seeing my beautiful brother finns artistic talent I aspire to be like him

[flowercrownsandherondales]

Against the Odds pt. 25

Alexa play “Fresh Out The Slammer.” In all seriousness, plz enjoy and let me know all your sad thoughts on this one. Love y’all, sorry this took so long. 

XXV: Now Pretty Baby I’m Runnin’ Back Home to You

It took them two weeks to get a team together. Two weeks of constant planning, under the threats from Katniss, Finnick and I. We would not move a muscle for the revolution until our loved ones were extracted. 

Our days of waiting were filled with nothingness. 

It took around a week for Plutarch and Coin to ban us from attending meetings detailing how to get into the Capitol. Citing we were too “emotionally charged” to be helpful. 

There weren’t many children in 13. I’d overheard that there was some sort of illness that went around a few years ago and had taken most of them. With the new influx of children arriving from 12, though not many, there was still enough for some kind of school to be held. 

Twyla still hadn’t spoken a full sentence, but she did repeat one word over and over again, her little eyes bloodshot and full of unshed tears. 

Mommy. 

Everytime I looked at her I felt my throat close up, my nose start to burn and I pushed down for her sake. My little girl had already lost her mommy, the last thing she needed was for me to fall apart on her. There wasn’t anything I could do but hold her close to me and rock us both through the night. Y/N would have been better at this, would have said something soothing, sang a sweet song under her breath, anything at all would have been better than what I could provide. 

But I was all she had. And I hated myself for it. 

She craved her mother’s touch, her comfort, the soft scent of vanilla that clung to her clothes. She needed Y/N’s steady hand on her back, not mine that shook heavy with aftershocks of alcohol withdrawal. 

Astrid and Prim had started helping with the medical ward, which left me no choice but to drop Twyla off at the makeshift school. She’d clung to me, shaking her head as little sobs wracked her body. It took a few days before I could leave the room without her screaming her head off. The first day I was able to leave without a meltdown I found an empty corridor, put my head in my hands, and attempted to muffle my tears. The kids weren’t learning much, most of them too traumatized to focus for more than a second. Instead they drew, read stories, or met with one of the therapists who would come in and speak to them. 

That’s one job I didn’t envy. I couldn’t imagine what those therapists heard, and what they had to sleep on. 

The rest of my days were spent in either mine, Katniss, or Finnick’s quarters. The three of us would just sit, not speaking much, just holding space for someone to fall apart if they needed, knowing the other two were there to put them back together again. 

Finnick stuck to his rope, tying knots over and over until there was nothing left but a ball. 

Katniss fiddled with her mockingjay pin, muttering her mantra to remind herself where she was and where Peeta was. 

And I stared at the wall like I could burn a hole in it, bouncing my leg to try and distract myself from the shakes rattling my body, and the desperate need for a goddamn drink. 

The minute the clock hit 5 I was racing out of the room to get Twyla, scooping her up and forcing her to eat whatever borderline paste 13 gave us for dinner. It’d been a challenge to get her to eat anything for awhile, now she just grimaced and swallowed it down. 

The evening was spent cuddling up in bed, her between my legs as I read a book I’d swiped from the school. A year ago she would have begged me to read another, then another. Now she just sat in my lap, staring blankly at the page, letting me finish and closing her eyes softly, no protest. 

I tried to get her to speak. I knew the therapist was working with her, attempting to gain more information about the day her mother was taken. She refused to open up about it, shaking her head at him and staring at the door until he gave a sigh and left. 

I asked her about her day, about the other kids, and what she drew. I joked about the shitty food, made little puns that used to make her hunch over in giggles, anything at all to get her to speak. 

Still, absolute nothing but downturned lips and a blank stare. 

I often fell asleep wondering if she blamed me for her mother’s absence. It was either that or a nightmare about the terror she faced when Y/N told her to hide under the couch while several peacekeepers came into our home and dragged her away, apparently trashing everything we owned in the struggle. 

Finally the night came. 

I woke to the sound of our door opening, my body instinctively pulling Twyla’s little frame under me, other hand reaching for a knife on the bedside table, only to find nothing. 

“Haymitch, it’s me.” Finnick’s whispered voice cut through the dark. “It’s time. Hovercraft just left, everyone’s in the control room waiting.” 

I jumped out of bed, not bothering to change out of pajamas, leaving a kiss on Twyla’s head. Katniss stood outside the door, Prim by her side. 

“I’ll keep an eye on Twy.” The blonde girl’s voice was soft and sweet, giving me a half smile before ducking inside. I nodded, clasping a hand to her shoulder as she passed, muttering a gruff thanks. 

Katniss was a bundle of nerves, as we all were. We collectively took a deep breath and made our way to the control room, shoulders squared. 

I took a deep breath from inside my cell. 

The night’s beating had taken more of a toll. I couldn’t tell how long I’d been here, or what the final goal even was. 

If they were going to kill me, when were they going to just do it already?

The screams had stopped for the night. 

“You need to start getting ready.” The boy said, tossing his coin in the air and giving me a pointed look. 

“Ready for what?” I groaned, attempting to breathe again, the rhythmic ache of broken ribs making every breath or word excruciatingly painful. Still it was better than what I felt in my hip. They’d decided to take a baton to it tonight, easily cracking bones like they were pencils. They’d made me crawl halfway to my cell, before finally taking mercy and hauling me up by my bruised arms. 

The coin in the air stopped. 

“To go home.” was all he said, the glint of a smile appearing. My brows furrowed, sweat collecting from the pain. 

The lights flickered above us. 

I felt a hand come to my back, a larger one on my arm. Wyatt and Wiley, attempting to help me stand. 

Wyatt and Wiley. Wyatt and Wiley. My lover and my son. 

I blinked at both of them. “Finally.” Wyatt said, a grin breaking out on his face. 

“C’mon mama, we gotta get you outta here.” Wiley added, nudging my back, getting me to my knees, my hip giving out on one side. I bit my tongue to stop the scream, leaning towards my good side to get the pressure off.��

“Any minute now.” Wyatt, ever the strategist, glanced to the door, having a silent conversation with Wiley. My boy nodded, a smile starting on his small face as they helped me get towards the door. 

It was gruesome, probably the top three worst moments of my life, only challenged by childbirth and the whipping. Still, I made it, grasping at the bars, waiting on my good knee for help. 

Wyatt rubbed my back, Wiley placing his hands over my hand, leaning down to kiss my ironclad fist. 

“Twyla’s really strong.” Wiley whispered, attempting to distract me while we waited for rescue. “She didn’t even cry once, when they came to the house. I hid under the couch with her, held her hand, promised her our mama was gonna be fine.” 

“Haymitch has been taking good care of her. Lenore Dove gave him an earful, he isn’t drinking anymore.” Wyatt added, moving to swipe sweat from my brow. 

My mind was in a pain filled haze, but still, I managed to nod. “You aren’t mad at me, are you?” My voice was rough, rougher than I’d ever heard it. The question wasn’t really to a specific person, more generalized guilt.

Wyatt let out a deep laugh, shaking his head. Wiley’s brow was furrowed, looking so much like mine. He shook his head hard at the question. Wyatt moved my face towards his, his eyes, seam grey but differing from Haymitch’s, darker to match his features, peered deep into my soul. 

“God no. Y/N, the time we had, it was more than anything I could have asked for. But it was borrowed. I love you, I will always love you. I miss you more than anything, but it was always him. You two, you two have something you and I will never have. Something deep. The odds are always going to be in favor of him. Both of you were crafted from the same clay, it was only a matter of time before you made your way home to each other again.” 

Wiley tightened his little hands around mine. I moved to look at him. My first born, my sweet baby boy. 

“Mama, we could never be mad at you for livin’. It wasn’t in our cards. I’m sorry you had to see me go, that you had to see daddy go. I know you feel guilty for Twyla, but she’s everything. She’s going to see everything, grow up, live a good life. And I’ll get to do it through her, beside her, even if she doesn’t know it.” Tears fell down my cheeks for the first time since I’d been here, my baby boy, always by his sister’s side, protecting her like a big brother should. 

The girl with the curls and red dress knelt in front of me, reaching forward through the bars and cupping my cheek in her soft hand, giving me the most gentle smile I’d ever seen. 

Lenore Dove. 

“He’s all yours, Y/N. You had his childhood, I had our teens, now he’s ready for you to have the rest. Take him all the way, honeybee.” I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. 

And with all their strength, with all of them behind me, holding me straight, I banged my fist against the cage, the lights cracking off as a man suited up unlocked my cage, another coming with him as they hauled me to safety. 

I looked back one single time, just long enough to see Wyatt holding Wiley to his side, his fingers flipping a coin one more time before putting it on the ground in front of him, as if fate had finally decided the winner. Lenore Dove on my son’s other side, running her hand through his hair with a teary smile. 

Wyatt let a tear fall down his face, a shaky grin as he mouthed.

Against all the odds, I’m glad I got to love you. 

And I knew that’s the last time I’d see them. 

It was like seeing her for the first time all over again. 

After some of the single handedly worst hours of my life, she was here. 

Johanna had been brought in first, thrashing against the wires as they tried to pump her with fluids. Annie was next, immediately tearing off her blood pressure cuff and bolting to Finnick, crashing herself into him, the typically charming and composed man sobbing into her wild hair. 

And then she was wheeled in. 

Y/N was broken. I looked back to Annie and Johanna for a brief second, both looking worse for wear but nothing compared to my wife. 

Her hair fell lifeless, matted with blood in certain spots. Her eyes were sunken in, deep circles around them. She was thinner than I’d ever seen her, ribs uneven and jutting against her skin, which was almost completely covered in bruises. She was sitting up, but it was awkward, as if all her weight was shifted to her right side. Then I noticed the large mass of swollen tissue around the hip she favored, certainly broken. Her hands gripped the sheet, her right hand only having her thumb and pinky, index, middle and ring finger bloody stumps haphazardly stitched up. 

I couldn’t contain my yell of anguish, the immediate sobs that overtook me as I took her in. 

My feet were moving towards her, her frail body unable to meet me as Annie had. Nurses slapped an oxygen mask on her, attempting to lay her back, unable to as she whimpered for me, reaching out her disfigured hand. 

I caught it instantly, gently pulling her body in and cradling her head to my chest, sobs nearing screams as the both of us enveloped each other. I ran my hands through the ends of her hair, careful to avoid any of the scrapes that caused the matting in her scalp. 

“Haymitch…” She sobbed, body convulsing in my arms. I just shushed her, holding her like porcelain to me. 

The nurses eventually pushed me away, begging me to let them work on her. I nodded, standing just outside the glass window, watching every movement they made like a hawk. 

Katniss came up to me, her hand sneaking its way into mine and squeezing tightly. 

“Her and Peeta are the worst out of all of them.” She whispered, trying not to cry and failing, hot tears coming down her cheeks. 

I just nodded, squeezing tighter. 

“I need to see him, I just–” I turned to her, hand instinctively wiping the tear away. 

“Give them a minute to check him over. Once I know Y/N’s stabilized, I’ll come with you.” She nodded, leaning her head on my shoulder as we watched the nurses work. 

Y/N had been knocked out, the nurses finally finishing up nearly an hour later. Katniss continued to stand next to me, waiting for any news. 

“Mrs. Abernathy has sustained multiple injuries, but should make a semi-full recovery. She has 6 broken ribs, 3 on each side, A few lacerations to the head, several whip marks along her body, specifically her back, and three severed fingers.” I nodded shakily, letting a whimper turned sob out. 

“What else?” Katniss demanded, eyes hardening. The nurse seemed unsure, biting her lip and looking back down at the chart. 

“What is it?” I whispered, voice horse. 

“She sustained some sort of beating to her left hip. The bone is fractured in several places, as well as part of her tailbone. We expect she will walk again, but likely it will be with a cane for the rest of her life.” 

Katniss let out a gasp, I let out a sob. 

“We have her in a medically induced coma for the moment. Her body will need a few weeks to recover. We will wake her in a few days, and after that she will be allowed to go back to your quarters with a wheelchair. We expect she will use a chair for around 6 months before we are able to get her on a cane.” The nurse explained, holding the chart to her chest. I just nodded, utterly in shock. 

Three hours later I found myself at her bedside again, watching the rise and fall of her chest, the beeping of the machines keeping her alive, but asleep. 

Katniss had been strangled by Peeta. 

Peeta had been “hijacked” 

But my wife lay beside me, my hand clasping her bandaged one, still breathing, still remembering me, still alive. 

And I let myself cry myself to sleep.  

[lanaindublin]

This post is probably going to be too nsfw...

2/2/2025

But fuck it, here´s as good a place as any to have a dream journal, and it was a damn intense one too, so, yea I´m just going to post it, nearly had it all written out a week ago, but as per my previous post, tumblr drafts fuckin blended the whole thing when i was two thirds done. Anyway, I´ll put a warning and a cut for when it REALLY gets NSFW, but for most of it its fine enough to read, and pretty interesting in its own right, so yea Ill just get into it.

The dream takes place in an abandoned, open-air storage warehouse/shed (photo for reference), the roof caving in in places, vegetation growing through the holes in the paved concrete, and only a few stacks of rotting wooden palettes left lying around. The warehouse is surrounded by a short stretch of grass, and a dense, wild treeline beyond that. An old gravel road leads from the warehouse to the treeline, I know not where it goes. And I have no desire to, as this place is my home, it is quiet and secluded. But in the dream, I am not myself, at least not at first, rather I am someone I used to be. A young, boyish adolescent with wild unkempt hair, and an otherworldly ability. By repeating the phrase “ignore me, ignore me” in my mind, I can make myself invisible. This is fortunate, as sometimes I am not alone. Ghostly apparitions of every shape and colour sometimes appear around the area. They approach me, reach out and try to touch me with their spectral limbs, though not an existential threat, their touch can curse me with painful emotions, shame, grief, fury, despair, or sometimes their touch will result in far more benign, merely annoying curses, depends on the spirit. But using my mantra, willing them to ignore me, I can pass by unnoticed, or escape a pursuing spirit.

Some time passes, I have changed somewhat, a certain awakening has transpired, my hair has grown longer, my gait now more feminine, and I have become more limber too, taking to climbing the stacks of palettes and the criss-crossed steel of the warehouse's walls. But on this day, something has wandered in, from beyond the treeline. A beast of ferocious nature, with analytical eyes and a thirst for blood, a tiger with golden fur. It eyes me as it approaches, unsure what I'm looking at I stand my ground, and having encountered prey that did not immediately flee the tiger pauses, sizing me up. It begins to circle me, and I circle too in response, I don't know what it is but I've seen it's teeth before, on those most vicious red spirits, the ones that cause physical pains, and I can see that these teeth are not at all phantasmal, and may well rend my vulnerable, physical flesh.  The tiger pounces with a swipe of its claw, I dive to the side thinking "ignore me, you cannot see me", I disappear. Holding the invisibility is difficult, repeating the mantra is repetitive and irritating on the mind, it drains my strength, especially as I hold my breath, lest the beast here my breathing. The tiger peers about, bewildered in the inexplicable absence of it's prey. I jump onto the bars of the wall as I reappear, the beast turns to look at me and begins pacing back and forth, ready to intercept my escape. I take a deep breath, and leap towards the beast. In my mind I utter “you cannot see me, you cannot hurt me”. As the beast rises to meet my trajectory with claw and fang, I disappear, and its swipe passes clean through me. I tumble on my landing, still invisible, and unscathed, by willing it to be not only do I become unseen, but immaterial, untouchable. It feels easier to hold the mantra now, less taxing on the mind, and I can breathe easier, feeling light as the very air.

////OKAY HERES YOUR WARNING THE DREAM DEVOLVES INTO PURE SMUT BELOW THE CUT, it also devolves into low key warhammer 40k fiction to I guess? Anyway, you've been warned////

More time passes, the spirits rarely trouble me now, for it is a fruitless endeavour with how strong I've grown. The tiger still prowls the derelict warehouse, but doesnt bother to come close, it is biding its time, but never tries to act. I now appear in the dream most like how I am writing this now, a young woman with wavy flowing hair, and more nimble than ever, I clamber across the walls and swing through the rafters of the ceiling with ease, and life is good. But on this day, the most curious thing occurs. A tear in reality rips apart the air in the warehouse, the floors and walls turned to smooth black stone, the ceiling now composed of an amalgam of countless statues, and held up by buttresses featuring the carvings of strange figures. From the rift in space time steps a group of Drukhari, the dark elves who delight in torture and slavery, and all around the warehouse smaller rifts open, birthing strange and terrifying creatures of pink skin, purple chitin and beady black eyes, demons of Slaanesh, one of the four chaos deities. Before any of them could see me, I began my mantra and moved silently to a nearby pile of rubble to observe the curious congregation, one of the drukhari shifting their gaze to the spot where I had vanished from.

As I spied on the drukhari, no longer holding my invisibility, they took their seats, on chairs of dark wood that had appeared, with red satin cushions. A tall, imposing demon approached the congregation, there was business to be discussed. Before I could make out any of what was being said, a flash of blue eyes and claws lunged at me, the tiger had snuck up on me while I was distracted, but I was faster, as it's jaws fell towards me, my mind rushed into my mantra “you cannot hurt me you cannot see me”. I faded from sight just as it's claws pushed me to the ground, and it's fangs closed in on the soft flesh of my neck, all of it's weight phasing through me as I walked away. The commotion alerted the drukhari, their leader nodded her head, sending an Incubi, her dedicated bodyguard to investigate. Demons from around the warehouse closed in on my hiding spot also, the tiger scampered back into the shadows, and I rushed to climb the nearest pillar, heading for the now statue-filled rafters. I swung across the ceiling, gazing down at the congregation, focusing my mantra on them: “ignore me, you cannot see me”. Desperate to make distance I rushed and strained across the ceiling swinging between statuettes and gargoyles, until I tried grasping around the breadth of the stone coils of a giant snake. Exhausted, and beginning to lose my grip on the stonework I swore in my mind between the lines of my mantra “no no NO, stupid fat snake!” as I fell away from the roof. I landed soundlessly on the floor, far enough away from the dark elves.

I was getting to my feet when I heard a voice passing through the strata of my consciousness, “What did you just say?” The fall did not hurt, but it dazed me a little. I searched for the source of the voice, while I did not hear it with my ears, I could feel a certain proximity to the source. And then I saw it, in the gloom as my eyes adjusted, a giant serpent's winding tail, coils of scarlet scales that twisted through the darkness all around, and at the tip of these coils, a humanoid body towering 9 feet tall, with four arms ending in scaly sharp claws. The red scales faded around where the serpent tail met the pelvis of this entity, giving way to smooth purple skin, which seemed to flicker like a mirage between firm bulging musculature, and tender soft flesh. Its face was pristine, with white locks of hair, floating as if suspended underwater. Its upper lip was full and bright, undercut only by two sets of fangs jutting out from under it, its jawline was hard and angular, chin tipped with sharp bards, cheeks speckled with red scales, framing its face in perfect symmetry. But it's eyes, despite the being's terrifying physical form, it's eyes were not black voids like the other demons, they were the most human part of the being, bright green irises, speckled with flecks of gold. It was these eyes which beheld me now, as it spoke once more. “Who are you, such a lowly soul, to criticise my divine form?” its words echoed in my skull, it was then that I realised, it was the very same demon as the statue on the ceiling which I had cursed when I lost my grip. And not just any demon, but a demon prince of Slaanesh, a being of power second only to the chaos gods themselves.

My mantra faded and my body trembled as my invisibility flickered away, there was no use trying to hide from a being of such power. I could tell, under its menacing gaze, that if I were to run from or to fight this being I would surely perish. So I dropped to my knees and spoke: “Forgive me, I would never intend to disrespect a being of such power. I would only ever wish to serve, and bathe in your divine light.” The words came easy to me, they appeared in my mind just as the demon wanted them, but it was out of fear for my life that I uttered them, and perhaps something else… The demon prince's expression shifted, it seemed amused by my display. It reclined its body into the mass of coils, splaying out three of its arms, but running the claw of its fourth across its breast. It traced a line from the shifting form of its chest, down its navel and onto its serpentine half, where its clawed fingers alighted on a subtle slit in its scarlet scales. The claw splayed and spread its slit open to reveal a smooth, violet vulva. “Then serve.” Wracked by nerves, I got to my feet and moved towards its massive serpentine body, it eyed me with delight as I approached. Pressing my hands against its smooth red scales, I lowered my face into the slit, and began to slowly run my tongue along its deep purple folds. The demon prince let out a sigh that felt like a cool breeze running straight through my frontal lobe. I moved my lips upward, and wrapped them around its engorged throbbing clitoris, gently sucking as my tongue caressed its sensitive underside. At this the demon let out a moan that I felt with every synapse of my brain, as it laid its scaly clawed hand on the back of my head, pushing my face deep into its demonic mons. The scent of its silk-smooth lips was mild, yet heavy, humid, and intoxicating. I could feel the coils of its serpent body beginning to writhe around me, another arm reaching down to stroke my head as I probed and lapped at every corner of its sensitive nook. I continued for what felt like hours, all the while the demon prince would let out coos and sighs which caressed the recesses of my mind like a lover's touch.

I do not know if I passed out from exhaustion, or perhaps entered a cunnilingus induced sopor, from the intoxicating scents and mind-addling sounds. Regardless, I awoke shortly after, lying against the demon prince’s coiled body. Across the room, I saw its top half conversing with the drukhari, while countless demon's lurked in the shadows nearby. One of the dark elves turned to look at me and I heard the demon prince speak “Not that one, I have already claimed her as my own.” With a wave of its hand, the demons and drukhari faded into the shadows, and the demon prince slithered towards me. My mind still felt foggy as the demon's words pierced it “You have proven yourself an adequate servant, come now, drink of my nectar, and be complete.” The slit which I had busied myself with before, no longer bore a flower of slick violet petals, but instead protruded an inhuman phallus. Animalistic in features but unlike any one beast that exists in the material plane, unlike the consistent deep purple of the vulva before the demons cock shifted colours along its length, from dark purple at the base to light blue along its shaft, the start of its glans faded to pink, with a pointed tip of vibrant yellow. I might tell myself what compelled me was merely measured self preservation, but that would be a lie, I was obsessed. As I drew close to the beastly member, it began to dribble an unsightly mustard yellow liquid. Hesitant to imbibe the excretions, but eager to taste the smooth member I pressed my lips to the taught, light blue skin of its shaft. I sloppily kissed along its length, much to the demon's pleasure, as the stiff flesh of its cock twitched and swelled beneath my touch. Reaching the pinnacle of the vibrant phallus I let its tip enter my mouth, my lips spreading open as they descended its length. Suddenly, a large spurt of the strange ichor was shot into the back of my throat, the expulsion caught me by surprise, causing my eyes to widen and gagging on the peculiar load, half of it spilled out the sides of my mouth, running down my cheeks. But just as I was about to pull back to clear my mouth I stopped, the bizarre excretion wasn't unpleasant to taste, it felt oily on my tongue, tasted much like nothing, and from wherever it touched spread a pleasing numbness. My face relaxed, much like the rest of my form, as I took the demon's member even deeper into my mouth, feeling it brushing my uvula causing my eyes to roll back, trying hard not to gag again. This elicited another torrent of the strange nectar, this time pouring straight down my throat, the numbness spread up through my head and down my neck and into my belly, and from there it spread to the rest of me. As my mind began to go blank, the demon's clawed hand held the back of my head once more, forcing the full length of its cock past my lips and down my throat, even as it swelled thicker and greater in length.

My mind was a fog, lost in the feeling of the massive member gently probing my throat, the demon's soft sighs and whispers penetrating my brain, all the while the soothing numbness spread to every edge of my being. Then, the demon let out a mind-shattering melodious shout as I felt the entire length of its cock tense from my lips to the depths of my throat as it climaxed and I felt a deluge of the godly nectar flood into my body, but it did not feel like it was filling my belly, rather it was seeping out across my entire body, the numbness quickly dissipated giving way to an overwhelming warmth through every fibre of my being, I felt my nerves light up like a million shining filaments. My eyes watered at the pure ecstacy I was experiencing, and then, I felt tingling starting in my scalp before spreading across my entire body, and a wondrous swelling in my breasts, the demon's golden ichor was physically changing my body, and I loved every second of it. As the demon's climax subsided, the overwhelming full-body sensation faded and it released my head from its grasp. I must not have been aware, but I had taken its cock right to the base of its serpentine slit. As I fell away I felt the entire length of its phallus sliding up and out of my throat, I fell to the ground coughing and desperate for air. Gazing back at the demon's softening cock, I realised the extent to which it had grown, when I took it to its base it must have indeed been reaching all the way down to my stomach. I looked down at my now-tender form, I was now completely naked, though I did not recall disrobing, my body seemed much the same as it was before, but as I stroked the skin on my arms and body, it had an otherworldly smoothness to it, my breasts had indeed grown at least three cup sizes, and my hair had grown down past my waist and was an ethereal silvery white. I heard the demon prince softly laugh as I puzzled over my new body, “I see you like the blessings I have bestowed upon you.” At this I felt suddenly embarrassed and flustered, tucking my knees to my chest and wrapping my silvery hair around to conceal my form, my cheeks reddening profusely. “You have been given gifts of body and mind, and are now pledged to my service. I know you will continue to serve me well” uttered the demon with a fang-filled grin. But in my mind I felt something new, where my mantra would grind and drone; it felt as if sat a pure black pearl. I willed myself to be unseen, and my body felt lighter than air, as I began to float off the ground, ethereal and unseen, even to the immaterial eyes of the demons abound. I heard the demon prince's voice once more “You may go, with this you will be safe, and I will call on you when I desire your service once more.” And at that, I floated away from the warehouse, away from the ghosts and the beasts, my new form shining and beautiful, into the infinite wonder of the universe.

[tfotababe]

Only love can hurt like this.

Description: I'm really going a bit crazy with the 'Jurdan can control the weather' thingy...

Synopsis: Cardan was a good King and Husband. Cardan WAS a good King and Husband. Well, times change. Or -- In which Cardan doesn't get the ending that he wanted.

Tags: Major character death || Alternate Universe - I created it but I hope it never exists || It doesn't end well || I warned you.

Word count: 3, 767

Dark clouds had been coming and going in the Kingdom of Elfhame. Almost every day it looked as though rain was threatening to fall. It never did, at least for the first two months. Today was the end of those two months.

Everybody has their eyes on the High King. Well, their eyes had always been on him. Perhaps to look for a weakness, an opening to slay him. Maybe a way to charm him, to climb up into a high rank. Currently, however, they are looking at him to see if he feels dissatisfaction.

The storm must be caused by the King's displeasure. His subjects thought as one.

Still, when they looked at him. He showed no sign of irritation. He looked the way he did as a princeling. Only more powerful, intimidating, and a tad more regal.

Thunder shook the ground. Women and children at the revel exclaimed.

"My King!" The doors to the throne room opened, revealing a royal astrologer whose face was blanketed in horror. Horror that was not at all there, even as he prophesied an ill-starred prince. Whatever news he carries, it most probably is not a good one. Seeing such a sight made the boy King, as some refer to him, sit up straight in his seat. An action he jumps to do only when his wife is the one barging-- no, entering the room.

The royal astrologer takes long strides, not of pride but rather of urgency. He stops just in front of the dais. "My King, please forgive my impertinence. I --" He tries to apologize, only to be cut off. "Get to the point." The High King demanded. Baphen glanced behind him. He needed not to talk about his concern; his King understood. He was, after all, a good leader. "I am saddened to end our revel so early in the night, but alas, it seems to me that something urgent has come to happen in my leisure. If you will, my dear subjects, Will you allow me to postpone our revel at a later date?" Cardan asks his people. For a bit of time, there were only murmurs. Cardan kept his eyes on his people. It was soft, really, the way he looked at them. It was only with time that his gaze hardened. One of the Fae seems rational enough to want to keep his body and head intact. He bows, and as if willed by the action, the others follow. In no time, only Cardan, Baphen, and the King's knights remained in the throne room.

Cardan sat back down on his throne. "Now tell me," He said, "What urgent news you wanted to tell me so badly that you interrupted my revel."

"I truly apologize, Your Majesty." Thunder shook the walls and the bright lightning illuminated the knights' armors. "I'm afraid this storm is no ordinary one." The royal astrologer stated, peeling his eyes from the King, instead looking out the window, into the murky view outside of the palace.

"Hmm... It seems so." Cardan told the astrologer with a mocking tone.

"It is, Your Majesty. I had read the stars just tonight, out of curiosity about what is happening to our beautiful land." Baphen looked at his King again.

"I see you have also heard about the dying lands." Cardan tries to mask his worry. He is alright. He is doing fine. He longs for her, sure. Yet, even though the words' long for 'is an understatement of what he feels, it is not enough to turn the lands into this. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. JUDE. He repeats her name in his head like a mantra or a prayer. As if doing so would alter what he worries about.  Jude got hurt. The land had already chosen her as its Queen the second he put the ring on her finger. When they lay in their bed, sharing chaste kisses, things they hadn't known about the other. His Faerie sight showed him red flowers blooming once, twice, thrice, many times on the bedpost. A sign of passion, excitement, and love. When he exiled Jude the next day, they were replaced by thick vines that had thorns. Hatred. He angered Jude. Jude hated him. Jude even when banished, had affected the land. If it is not him causing this, then it is her.

Baphen only nodded. "A clock ticks for three fortnights. Separated, the land rots in preparation for mourning. The stars had told me so." Baphen tells his King.

"There is a third part that stated;  a new High Queen of royal blood shall be gifted to Elfhame shall we persevere." Baphen continues. Despite delivering good news, he does not appear to be happy.

Cardan's heart dropped. He didn't feel joyous at the news either. Had there not been anybody besides him in his rule, it would have been better news than it is now. It won't be good news then, but it would make for a better instance than now when he still has a Queen who was chosen by the land itself. A Queen who vowed to be beside him until life ends.

"I'm heading to the mortal realm." He had stood up so fast that the knights and Baphen had no chance to stop him.

The storm was at its strongest. Traveling now would mean risking his life. Unfortunately, love made him blind.

~~~~~

As he arrived at Vivi's apartment. Even far away, he could hear an ear-piercing sound that went up and down and up and down. Red and blue tinted almost everything.

He went closer to the crowd surrounding a metal box that seemed to be used for transportation.

He was taller than the mortals that surrounded him, so he saw. He saw, with nothing blocking his view, that terrifying scene in front of him; Jude. His Queen, one chosen by the land. His wife. A woman obstinate as a bull, persistent as a sword. Lying on a bed of some type, bleeding from her side. Gashes and bruises all over her body. Seeing her bleed is nothing new. Seeing her covered in blood isn't new either. Seeing her covered in her blood is.

Red starts to overpower blue.

He spots Vivi talking to a man. She had tear stains on her cheeks, some more in her eyes threatening to fall. Oak held onto her, shoulders shaking, face buried in his step-sisters' stomach. He comes closer. "V- Vivi... What happened--- What happened to Jude?" The High King seldom stutters. Right now, however, he feels not ready to hear what happened to his wife, even so, still wants to know. The Faerie raised her head at the familiar voice. Her expression instantly turned into one of wrath. "You, it was because of you!" The tears in Vivi's eyes finally fell. Oak looked up. When he saw Cardan, his face lit up. Hearing what Vivi says next makes Oak look at him with almost the same amount of anger as Vivi had. "You crowned her only to humiliate her, you piece of shit!" "Why did you do that, uncle Cardan?" Oak didn't have too close of a relationship with Jude. Saying that he didn't love Jude however, would be a big lie. "Is that why Jude always cried? Because you hurt her?" Oak continued. Hearing that Cardan almost stepped back. He was not ready. Not ready at all... "Jude went on suicide missions every day to forget you and your selfishness. If anything happens to her now, I will not hesitate to kill you." Vivi looked ready to do that now but it seems Cardan could do so by himself. Had he not exiled her this would not have happened. Had he at least explained, this wouldn't have happened. "We're heading to the hospital." a man in a white coat told them. "May I go with you?" Had the Fae in Elfhame heard that they would not believe it is the same King that had made another island rise from the sea. The Faerie holding onto her brother's hand only stared at the King with tears running down his face. She just turned to the metal box where Jude was getting put in. Cardan tried to follow, waiting for a reaction, but nothing came. He continued into the transportation. He was thankful that the Faerie let him go with them. Vivi, on the other hand, didn't feel pity, it was so that if Jude died she could kill him too.

~~~~~

The three waited outside until they were called into a room.

Cardan hated to see Jude connected to those machines. Cardan hated that Jude's hair was not as shiny, that she had lost so much weight, and that it was him that caused her to look like this. Cardan hated what he did to Jude. Cardan hated himself.

Oak didn't like to see Jude like this. To Oak, Jude is strong. She was never in pain and even if she was, Oak never felt it because even when she cried, she was strong. Even as she came home with bruises, she was strong. Now, Jude seemed vulnerable. Not weak, just very, very, incredibly vulnerable. He didn't like that. If such a strong person looks like that, it can only mean they are in great pain. Then for it to be the creature he favored that caused it, he didn't like either. Oak felt no more affinity toward Cardan.

Vivi saw Cardan clasping Jude's hands. She had never seen Cardan bawl his eyes out that much, but nonetheless, it did not change her desire to do away with him. She liked Cardan, at least a bit. But she cares about Jude. She didn't know that Cardan had climbed over the walls of her sister's heart. Walls that block even her and Taryn at times. When she did discover, however, it had already been too late because Jude, who showed up at her apartment, eyes puffy and visibly worn, had almost no emotion in her eyes. After a few days, she started going out, coming home with bruises if not injuries.  When she doesn't do that, she's holed up in her room. The Jude Vivi saw was unrecognizable. The ambitious Jude became desperate simply because a wit-less, dry-brained, over-grown boy like Cardan broke her walls down to shatter her next. Vivi, more than ever, felt the blood of a redcap running in her veins.

~~~~~

Jude saw a glimpse of black beside her, two figures on a sofa beneath her; one sitting up with their heads bowed and the other laying down on their lap. Jude felt weak and very tired. Her whole body was aching. She had just been kidnapped by the undersea, only taking a few days to heal, before she started to brawl with degenerated Fae in the mortal realm. She shouldn't have done that. She still wanted to see Oak grow. To protect Taryn from Locke. To see Vivi and Heather. To tell Cardan she loved him. Really, she should've taken the chance to tell him about that... She didn't like the tightening in her chest. She didn't like feeling dizzy and short of breath either.

I don't want to... Not yet...

~~~~~

The three Fae were woken up by the continuous beeping of the heart rate monitor.

The lines started to take more likeness to waves rather than the jagged edges of a cliff. Cardan panicked, Oak cried, and Vivi called for a doctor. The waves started to become smaller, smaller, and smaller. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. JUDE. JUDE. JUDE. PLEASE. JUDE. PLEASE. NO. JUDE. His wife's name came out of his mouth like a wish for his fear to not happen. But then only Oak and Cardan's sobs filled the room. When Cardan looked up at the machine, all he saw was a straight line. He heard Vivi tell Oak that the green strand that was like an unevenly serrated edge of a knife was Jude's heartbeat...  If it did not look like such, what would that line mean? Doctors came in. Cardan swears he saw a tinge of pity glide over their faces. Vivi told Oak and Cardan to get away from Jude. Though she also had tears in her eyes and that she might even be the one sobbing the loudest. Everything goes fast. They use a needle to inject some type of liquid into Jude. Another doctor pushes her chest down. When the panic goes down, Cardan can't process anything. Only that Vivi was on top of him shouting inaudible things at him, the doctors were trying to stop her, and Oak had gone to Jude's side, shaking, crying, sobbing more than ever.

Jude died.

His dearest undoing won't be there anymore. Gone, she seeped through his hands like fine sand.

~~~~~

Jude, oh, Jude, The precious High Queen of the Fae. -The wind blew. The poison to High King Cardan's wine. -The land shook. Life to the corroded lands of Elfhame.  -The sea grew wild. Has perished. - The wind, land, and sea chorused, showing respect to their befallen queen.

Blowing, bringing clouds of storm; You showed no adherence to your Queen. The wind raged. Rotting, a plague taking over; You jest of your Queen. The land split. Flooding, drowning all life in its way; You have shown disregard to your Queen. The sea spilled You killed your Queen. The wind, land, and sea chorused, showing their anger in the stead of their befallen queen.

The subjects of Elfhame suffer the consequences of their negligence.

~~~~~

Cardan didn't know how he escaped the wrath of a redcap but in a matter of hours, he is back in Elfhame. Back in their Kingdom. Now, only his Kingdom.

The King feels numb.

His shoulders heavy, his chest constricting, his feet leaden, his recollection blurry.

It must be a dream. Right, it is but a dream. A bad dream to help me realize the value of my Queen.

And so the King heads to his chambers. Ignoring the cries for help coming from his 'dear' subjects. He notices not the difference in the Kingdom he rules over. ~~~~~ The King wakes up, cold sweat lining his limbs. He had dreamed that Jude had been alive and that she woke him up from a nightmare terrorized slumber. He almost rejoiced but even in his dreams, Jude bled to her demise. The undersea. Invite the undersea for a revel. A voice in his head told him. It was a warm voice, the voice he heard when his Queen said her vows. Charming. Cardan's shaking lips formed a lopsided smile.

~~~~~ "My respected Queen of the undersea, Rejoice we must. The..." He winces as if writing the words hurt him physically. The traitor has died at the hands of a mortal disease. He had wished to write. He couldn't. It hurt. It was his wife he was writing about. She was his demise sure, still, the fact just made her so much better. So much more lovely. He crumples the paper and throws it in the fire. How dare he. Jude Duarte shan't ever be spoken about in that way. Not even by him. He sighs, tears falling down his cheeks. Cheeks that once upon a time, felt Jude's warm lips... Cold it is now. He wants to joke and laugh. The thought, however, only made his sorrow burrow deeper into him. His sobs start to fill the room. Even as he covered his face with his hands the sobs were ever so stubborn -- Like Jude -- Oh, oh, how he hated it. "Your Majesty? Are you alright? You have been screaming and striking at things since a while ago." Only when The Ghost asked him did he feel the soreness of his throat, the pain of his fist, the sting of his neck, and the damage to the table and handrest of his seat. "I feel as good as a tree in winter." He wanted to say he was fine, since it won't leave his though, it must be a lie. The Ghost says nothing more. The High King of Elfhame goes to the mirror. He sees himself more worn out than paper filled with words front and back. His eyes rimmed with red rather than gold, black tracks running down his face, scratch marks on his neck, blood and ink mixing on his right hand. Behind his reflection, he saw what has happened to their formerly green land. He turned and walked over to the window. It had not been raining anymore yet the scene he sees before him seems gloomier than when he left. The land was devoid of color, soil full of cracks, trees only twigs. What has he done? To himself, his Queen, and their land? Why did he exile her? Why did he have to ruin what they had? Invite the undersea for a revel. The voice told him again. This time it pushed him to finish. "My respected Queen of the undersea, Rejoice we must. The former Seneschal of mine, Jude Duarte. Has reached the end of her mortal life in the mortal realm..." It hurt him, those words. Still, he had to continue. "My respected Queen of the undersea, Rejoice we must. The former Seneschal of mine, Jude Duarte. Has reached the end of her mortal life in the mortal realm. I invite you to celebrate with me. I would also like to accept the precious princess Nicasia of the Undersea as my Queen to show my gratitude toward you and your people.

With all due respect to the venerable Queen of the Undersea, Cardan Greenbriar, High King of the land" He expects not the sea Folk to accept his invitation. Just the same, he had everything prepared. While what he asked for was getting readied he talked to his people, calming them down and reassuring them. He attended more meetings than ever, listened to all the problems of those underneath him and started calming the mourning land. ~~~~~ The day of the revel quickly approached. In no time, the King is already preparing to face his subjects. ~~~~~ "I greet the Folk of the Undersea. Welcome back to the magnanimous lands of Elfhame. I believe our last meeting has not been pleasant and so I wish to correct my mistake. Let us all celebrate the acceptance of a new High Queen." He gestures over to Nicasia. "And the..." He pauses, "The death of my traitorous former Seneschal. Let us drink in commemoration to such a special day." He raises his glass, the folk following. The revel went on. Nicasia went to the High King's side. "It was smart of you to dispose of that mortal refuse." Her voice proud as ever. It took Cardan all his might not to slam his goblet of wine onto Nicasia's head. "Truthfully." His voice came out more guttural than he anticipated. He is talking to the woman who hit Jude. The shrew who bruised his wife. The traitor who harmed the High Queen's body. He peeled his gaze from Nicasia. Instead focusing in front of him. His eyes landed on the Queen of the Undersea. Their eyes met, He smiled at her. She's the Fae who brought Jude back, thin, pale, and unhealthy... Cardan tries his best not to scowl. ....... The..... He.... No murderer...

He is no murderer... But what exactly counts as murder? The sea will only be receiving the punishment for causing the loss of his wife, their Queen. It is not murder. It is merely an execution. There was a sudden gust of air to his right, then the smell of iron filled his nose, liquid falling down his cheeks. He hasn't moved yet? "THE PRINCESS!" He looks beside him. Oh. A thick vine from the ground pierced the princess of the Undersea. He didn't do that. The land must've heard his thoughts. "It seems the Undersea angered the land." Cardan stood up. "Harming it's chosen Queen doesn't seem to be such a great idea now does it?" Orlagh opens her mouth. A branch from a tree outside broke the window, stabbed her right in the heart, and went back out. The Queen of the Undersea falls. Her blood spilling on the soil. The Sea Folk try to rush out of the room but a thick bush covered the door. It was the only thing Cardan commanded the land to do. He sat back down onto the throne as he watched the ground break in half to ingurgitate the Folk. Amidst all the screams, some tried to get to him, as retaliation. The knight's tried to slayed them. "At ease!" The King commanded. He is no murderer. He is only executing the antagonists who went between him and his Queen, personally. He took a sword from one of his knights, swinging it rather recklessly towards his foe, but nevertheless, killing them. He felt unlike himself. He felt that all he wanted to do was slay those in front of him. To spill their blood the way they did to his Queen. He swung and spiked rashly at his opponent, sight going black with rage. By the end of his spectacle, even his knights, he had done to death.

He fell onto his knees, onto the gore dampened soil. Barring his throat like the animal that he was, letting the once thought dried tears come back to life. He felt empty yet angry at the same time. Happy yet remorseful. The blood on his hands being Vivi's and Oak's rather than his, glamouring countless mortals to ignore him while he stole Jude, laying Jude in the most luxurious of soils in Elfhame because she deserved more than the mortal realms dirtied soil --- All of what he did is coming back. He looked around him. Is it wine? Is it blood? The High King didn't know... Are they fallen red flowers? Are they rumpled clothes of those who harmed his Queen? Maybe it is their spilled entrails? He couldn't comprehend... He walked out the blood bathed throne room walking to the garden of his palace. Weeping, limping, the blood-soaked High King of Elfhame walked to where he left his beloved Queen. The soil around the Queen is brighter, greener blades of grass growing on it, a vine coming out of the ground protectively wrapped around the Queen. The Land of Elfhame wants not to let go of its chosen Queen. Cardan smiles. Jude looks peaceful. The King has avenged his Queen... Now what?

[hiswhiteknight]

Unbelievably Outlandish– Part 9

Summary:  Before starting down a new crossroads, the Reader goes onto an adventure of literary traveling. Suddenly tossed into an unbelievable story that has swept the world, The Outlander Series itself. How will a twenty first century woman survive?

Note: I own no characters, except reader, clearly this is based off the lovely book series Outlander by Diana Gabaldon and tv show. This follows more the tv show, but it’s far from accurate. I’m going to try to get better with using less proper English, but who knows maybe I’ll get into Scottish slang.

Pairing: Jamie Fraser x Female Reader

Words: 1900

 Warning: Angst, playfulness, cursing, slow start, obviously fighting and such

You heard Jamie’s word after he left, ‘You should go up and spend some time with the clan, it might be worth learning a bit more.’ He wasn’t wrong, though it was hard for you to admit it. You took a deep sigh, fixed your hair, and went back up the stairs. You found Mrs. Fitz, who passed you a drink. “Lovely you joined us again Y/N. Everything prepped for the hunt?”

 “Sure is, Mrs. Fitz, sure is, which means I can drink and be merry,” you watched as the line started to dwindle down as the men took their oaths to Colum. “Anything happen after the oath taking, like that musician, will he be playing today. Love that guy,” you smile down at her.

 She looked at you bemused and shook her head, “No, he won’t be playing this evening. There will be dancing later, I’m sure quite a few men would be interested in dancing with you.”

 You shook your head at her, “You are not a match maker Mrs. Fitz. I would not dare to go out on that floor. I would insult the good Mackenzie clan with my lack of grace.” A man tripped over his feet in front of you and stumbled on to find his friends.

“Grace is nothing you need to worry about here dear,” she grinned at you. “Not too difficult to figure out, I’ll have Laoghaire show you later,” she tapped you. Laoghaire stood next to her, giving you a strange look, you were sure you didn’t warrant. Suddenly the room grew quiet and you looked up towards the entrance of the hall. Jamie was weaving through the crowd slowly. He had changed and making his way towards the oath taking line. And every eye was on him, except when you turned to observe everyone’s reaction Murtagh was looking at you. You gripped Mrs. Fitz’s arm and pushed towards Murtagh, there was no way you were taking credit for this.

 When you made yourself up to him, he was towards the back of the room with his hand gripping the top of his sword, “Why do I have a feeling this involves you?”

 “I didn’t do it,” you whispered harshly to him, sounding like a child defending their lack of innocence. He tipped his head over not believing you for a second, “I didn’t do it on purpose, and he told me he could get back just fine.”

 “You don’t understand what you just did to him. You signed his death sentence,” he pulled you back further. Murtagh caught you up in the severity of Jamie’s predicament. With every word, you grew more worrisome and filled with guilt. The thought of not having Jamie to rely on as a friend tousled around in your head. You tried to find a way to free Jamie from this situation and the only thought you could manage was start a fire or faint and you didn’t believe either of those situations would help him out of this.

 It was Jamie’s turn next and you didn’t acknowledge that you started to hold your breath. Suddenly without reason or thought, you grabbed Murtagh’s forearm. And without much thought, Jamie diplomatically got himself out of the situation looking like a leader. You cursed under your breath, before dusting off the front of your dress, “And you were worried Murtagh. See Jamie came out looking like a,” you paused not being able to come up with a metaphor that would make sense in the 18th century, “I don’t know. He is just fine. Now you can’t be mad at me.”

 Murtagh rolled his eyes as Jamie walked up to him, “Couldn’t stay away from trouble, aye?”

 Jamie looked towards you, his face grew a knowing smile I didn’t quite understand, “Sometimes trouble finds me than I’m like a moth to flame. Y/N, I see you decided to join the gathering again.”

 “You made it sound so exciting and here you were not wrong. Though it doesn’t bode well that you got caught. And now Murtagh here is blaming me for your lack of discretion,” you use your thumb to point back at Murtagh, “And I was starting to win him over.”

 Scratching the back of his neck, leaning in to whisper, “Not everyone can be sneaky as you and not get caught.”

 “Tis right there sir,” you shoot back at him.

 Hearing a big sigh come from his partner in crime, Murtagh gave Jamie an eye roll and pulled him out of the hall, “You’ve had enough of trouble this evening, let’s go.”

 “Enjoy your evening, Y/N.”

 You shook your head, biting back a snarky comment. You could throttle the man for making everything seem so suave and charming. As Jamie and Murtagh rounded the hall entrance, the phrase you repeated to yourself, ‘your charm doesn’t work on me Jamie.’ It was slowly hitting you that, that mantra might not be as strong as you needed it to be. You looked around, feeling someone starring at you and caught eye contact with Laoghaire. And suddenly she was storming out of your eyesight. The dancing had started and you watched the mesmerizing dance of the culture. Everyone’s laughter put you at ease for a moment. Then suddenly, you were in your head missing your home and brother. You weren’t meant to be here, everything you are is fake or reserved. You couldn’t live like this and the bought of hopelessness took over your soul. In this moment, something inside you became a little toxic.

  The next morning, you were up early for the hunt. The way the night ended with the uneasiness sat on your chests as you dressed for the day. This wasn’t your place, this wasn’t your job, and it started to bother you how different the times are. You would never be respected as a woman, an unmarried woman. You tossed your hair in two French braids, per usual fashion when having a busy day. You dropped your hair piece under the bed and you ducked down to grab it to suddenly find a strange bundle. You finished with your hair and brought the bundle down to the kitchen.

 You grabbed some bread and sat the bundle on the table, “Dear what are you bringing that into this kitchen,” Mrs. Fitz yelled catching you off guard and causing you to stumble backwards.

 “I,” you paused to comprehend the situation, “I, I found it in my room, under my bed and I was going to ask it was some weird potpourri thing. What is it?”

 “It’s an ill-wish, a witch’s making,” she tossed it into the fire.

 “An ill-wish, what?”

 “Someone be wishing to bring you harm dear, what have you gotten into,” she put both her hands on your face, “Try staying out of trouble, someone has an eye to hurt you.”

 “I didn’t do anything, literally I have been making myself small at possible Mrs. Fitz,” your voice started to raise. You have done everything in your power to win people over, treat people with kindness, not start a stir when you found injustice to your gender and status. You didn’t believe in witchcraft, though it should cause you to question since you are living the 18th century, which is something you would never believe in.

 “All due respect, Mrs. Fitz, but someone is going to get their ass beat hard,” you shot catching everyone’s attention.

 “Lass, mind your tongue. That is not the language a lady speaks,” Mrs. Fitz tried to sooth you.

 You pull away from her, “No,” you start to gather your things feeling the heat of this betrayal crumble the wall you built around your true self to keep you protected from these people. Every comment, action, and lie you’ve told to keep yourself from being killed, shunned, raped, or imprisoned is bubbling out of your pours. You have reached you limit, “I am not a lady Mrs. Fitz. I do not belong here. I wear pants damn it, I swear, and I could probably kick the ass of half the men here,” you paused, “At the same time,” you paused again, “Maybe not, but I sure would die trying. I do not belong here. Look at how everyone looks at me, treats me, I’m the enemy because I’m different. I’m not part of the clans, I’m an imposter. And rather than whisper about their hatred, someone wants to cause me actual pain with this bullshit. Fuck that. I’m sorry Mrs. Fitz and pardon me, but fuck that.” Your packs were hanging from my shoulder, “Let this spread around the village, anyone that can guarantee me the name of the person who put this under my bed gets all the money I have earned over the time I’ve been here.”

 “Y/N,” Mrs. Fitz called after you. She clearly was not offended by your lewdness, but more she was concerned about what you were about to cause with your burst of feelings of revenge and anger.

 You stomped up to Angus, “Where the necklace man, I didn’t escape or leave, now give the piece back?”

 “Don’t speak to me like that lassie,” he started to feel around his body for the necklace you gave him the night before. With every pat, your already boiling anger grew. That was the only piece from your family you owned. “Might of lost-,” he started to say.

 With the beginning of his sentence, you went for your dagger lying on your waistband. Before you could pull it out, Rupert pushed your hand down holding the handle down, “Settle down Y/N, Angus gave me the necklace to watch over. He noted he would lose it.” He pushed the charm in your hand, “If that would have came out, Angus would have gutted you. Does the hunt have you on edge lass?”

 “Stupidity has me on edge Rupert and it’s not much of your business,” you stormed away to find your horse. Something had changed in you and you weren’t sure what to do about it.

 You struggled to get on your horse, when someone came up and offered you an extra push. Jamie stood in front of you and your horse, “Mrs. Fitz asked me to check on you. She shared you were upset and threatening people. I heard you tried to pull a knife on Angus, what has gotten into you woman.”

 This time you didn’t make eye contact with Jamie, “Mind your business Mister MacTavish. If I want to fight or punish someone for their actions against me, then I’ll see fit to do it. Now get out of my way, there is a boar to chase down and murdered.”

 Jamie didn’t move, keeping your horse in place, “You going to get yourself killed and as your friend, that does in fact concern me. You shouldn’t be going on the hunt like this.”

 You pushed forward with the horse causing Jamie to back up quickly, “I’ve seen Old Yeller, I get the dangers that come from a boar. Right now, you should be worried about the clansmen Mackenzie. Now if you’ll excuse me,” you started to move towards the field.

 You were fully aware he would not get the reference from the 21st century, but you did not care. The thought of taking the horse and charging out of the village to the stones drifted to your mind. But you still cared to get back to your brother at the moment and that meant you had to have a chance to survive, “Y/N,” Jamie yelled after you.

 “Leave me alone, Mister MacTavish, I have business to attend to,” you shouted back.

 Part 10

Taglist:  @doctorwhatwhenandwhere @damnedandbroken @blushingpogue @blancastans @slytherinambitious @kinky-asher @lovesanimals @bilesxbilinskixlahey

[rainydawgradioblog]

RDR Essentials - Hip-Hop/R&B (4/21)

RDR Essentials is a weekly newsletter of alternating genres that outlines key releases of the past month, upcoming events around Seattle and happenings in the specified music genre.

Made in collaboration between Rainy Dawg DJs and the Music Director.

Releases:

Armand Hammer & The Alchemist - Haram

New York rap duo Armand Hammer have become known for their dreary, dense, and thought-provoking poetry, often paired with gloomy instrumentation and symbolic storytelling. Haram, the duo’s newest full-length album, marks billy woods and Elucid’s first collaboration with one producer for an entire record. The Alchemist lends his ear to the pair on this album, providing an eerie, haunting and emotive soundscape that still sounds like nothing the legendary producer has made in the past, pushing his own boundaries and proving that he is capable of evolution even after a career spanning two decades. Tracks like “Indian Summer” are laced with a menacing energy, while “Falling out the Sky” sounds almost summer-esque, like the sun peeking through an otherwise dark place, beginning with an abstract verse from Earl Sweatshirt, centered around mentions of the sky, space, and supernovas. This track starts a three-song run of the record’s only rap features, as well: “Wishing Bad” contains a furious verse from Curly Castro, transitioning with a more than menacing audio sample that forebodes in an echoing fashion: “There’s a lot of blood early on here”. This next track,“Chicharrones”, is one of the most fear-inducing beats the Alchemist has concocted thus far, and acts as an anger-fueled climax of the record. Quelle Chris delivers a seething verse, focusing on police brutality, not from a perspective of fear or sadness, but rather unrestrained rage, rife with references to George Orwell’s seminal Animal Farm but grounded in a clear disdain for the police. “If you off the pig/ Is you offin' pigs or offerin' figs?/ Oh, you big and bad?/ Blowin' hay and sticks, huffin' bricks” Quelle Chris chides in the chorus: “off the pig” likely refers to not eating pork as a convertee to Islam, in reference to the album’s title, “haram”, meaning “forbidden”, and the record’s stomach-churning cover art. The chorus seems to call out those who claim solidarity and yet “offer figs”, a phrase with roots in the biblical tale of Adam and Eve, who, in shame for their behavior, cover their genitals with fig leaves.

These guest features reinforce the record’s themes of drug abuse, class theory, racism, and the cultural ramifications of the “forbidden” in all its forms. Those who use the forbidden to cope, those who are able to get away with doing the forbidden, and everything in between seems to manifest within the record’s walls. As with every Armand Hammer release, however, it is the energy and poetry of these two MCs, seemingly almost psychically connected, that makes their staggeringly dense words so potent. At every turn, the two seem interlaced. Elucid brings invigoration to his verses, combined with sung choruses that sound as raw as can be, like on the solo track “Roaches Don’t Fly”, with soaring guitar riffs carrying an explosive verse (“My new name, colonizer’s can’t pronounce”) swelling to an enormous sung mantra: “You don’t gotta be here if you don’t wanna.” Elucid’s unique style of delivery often sees him, as many have noted, emphasizing unexpected syllables in his words, leaving his performances consistently engaging. Billy woods’ signature vignette-style storytelling and dry, dark humor are intact once again as well. The first verse of “Indian Summer” sees woods start a track as menacingly as one can (“I swore vengeance in the seventh grade/ Not on one man, the whole human race”), leading to a chilling tale of a man’s past in drug sales using a job cutting grass as cover, with detail to spare, painting a clear scene of “the stink of gas in the evening” and “the intoxication of counting cash in secret.” Highlight “Squeegee”, too, sees woods providing an unbelievable lesson in telling a full story in a short amount of time, chronicling a man’s attempt to turn his life around: eating healthy, working out before dawn, and barely smoking weed. Ultimately it’s all for naught, as paranoia takes over. He wonders if someone will follow him home, he wonders what his neighbors are doing, and it seems that old habits creep their way back in: ‘The taste in his mouth just like before.” It’s a chilling vignette, and undoubtedly one of woods’ best verses to date.

The album ends on an emotive high note; if “Chicharrones'' was the angry climax, “Stonefruit” is the album’s explosive and heart-wrenching finale. Elucid’s sorrowful chorus makes clear a turn inward, after an album focused so heavily on societal ills. “I don’t want to lose control” he repeats: “I’ve got so much left to undo.” Finally, billy woods delivers the album's most painful and emotive verse. Woods seemingly chronicles a rocky relationship perhaps interrupted by a sudden passing, a relationship filled with strife (“Said ‘OK’ to save face, but she never forgave”) that is yet anchored by an irrefutable love. The beautiful instrumental turns into a droning, and the euphoric emotional climax is once again drowned out by the ills it is surrounded by. This album is dense, difficult, and often a hard listen. But if one chooses to give it the attention it asks, it is more than rewarding enough, and once again proves billy woods, Elucid, and The Alchemist as three of the best artists we’ve ever seen.

- Casey Chamberlain

Kenny Mason - Angelic Hoodrat Supercut

Atlanta artist Kenny Mason is beginning to make a name for himself. After his impressive Angelic Hoodrat last year and a standout feature on Denzel Curry & Kenny Beats’ UNLOCKED 1.5 remix album, the 26 year old is back with a sequel project, Supercut, and continues to impress with his astounding mix of rock and rap. The project is a tightrope act that balances the genres, bringing trap beats, triplet flows, and bedroom guitar passages in equal measure. Rap cuts like the excellent “A+” featuring Denzel Curry see Kenny bringing technical flows and quick wit to the table, alongside standout “Much Money” which sees Freddie Gibbs making an appearance, bringing his signature swagger and Instagram-story quotables.

However, the most impressive aspects of the record are where things begin to change up, seeing Kenny swing more into rock and indie territory. “Play Ball” feels like a teenage anthem, accompanied by driving guitar riffs and bouncy drums and vocal mixing more reminiscent of a live performance at a house show than a recording booth. Opener “43”, too, immediately sets the tone, with a powerful sung chorus and heavy guitar rhythm and booming drums. Perhaps the biggest highlight, however, is the two-part “Pup”, which sees a low-key first half blend into a spacey and introspective second half. Not only is the production here at perhaps its most interesting of the record, combining gritty guitar and a pulsing trap beat, but Kenny’s songwriting stands out as well, with a strong emotive performance and personal lyrics highlighting insecurities. If there’s any critique to be had of this record, it would be that it most certainly feels like a part two of the first Angelic Hoodrat (in fact, the record’s title even makes it sound more like a deluxe than a separate album). Yet, Kenny’s style is most certainly exciting, reminiscent in equal measure of contemporaries across the musical spectrum, from Jean Dawson to JID. If refining his sound means putting out music as impressive as this, then Kenny Mason is on the right track, and is one to watch.

- Casey Chamberlain

Benny the Butcher & Harry Fraud - The Plugs I Met 2

Benny The Butcher has rocketed to heights previously unknown in the last year, with his full length project with Hit-Boy, Burden of Proof, being his biggest project yet, and seeing him steer into different sonic territory, moving away from the grimy Daringer and Alchemist production he had become known for on projects like Tana Talk 3. 2019’s The Plugs I Met was the epitome of that sound, and it’s perhaps inevitable that Benny would move past it at some point. Plugs I Met 2, however, feels like a marriage of those two sounds, sounding like a true sequel to the first project while still pushing into new territory and incorporating bigger features. There’s nothing as grimy here as the first album’s “Sunday School” or “Dirty Harry”, but tracks like “When Tony Met Sosa” and “Plug Talk” carry that same energy.

Highlights include “Overall” featuring Chinx, where the production feels like a brilliant mix of the street sounds and the lavish flashiness of Benny’s wordplay, alongside heavy drum kicks and incredibly dense production. Harry Fraud produced every track on the project, and this consistency shines. Each track sounds different from the last, but they fit neatly together. Even the tracks that tone down the energy feel just as lyrically impressive, such as “Live By It.” The features are mostly standout as well, with guest verse from 2 Chainz, Rick Hyde, and more. Overall, this is a solid project and logical sequel to the first Plugs I Met. Those who miss Benny’s grimy, TT3-era sound may be disappointed not to hear it return on every track here, but for those who remain impressed by Benny’s newfound flexibility, Plugs I Met 2 will no doubt remain a worthwhile addition to the Griselda catalog.

- Casey Chamberlain

Denzel Curry & Kenny Beats - UNLOCKED 1.5

Not content with waiting for the already-announced sequel to release, Kenny Beats and Denzel Curry return with a batch of remixes of tracks from last year’s excellent UNLOCKED with UNLOCKED 1.5. Featuring guest production and verses, this collection feels less like a full project on its own and more of a playful invitation to collaborators to make something brand new out of an already energetic album. The original UNLOCKED made clear its influence from MF DOOM, Madlib, and a host of others, seeing Kenny Beats branch out into new, cartoony territory and seeing Denzel Curry flex his lyrical prowess on a non-stop barrage of high-octane tracks. 1.5, in comparison, takes many of those rambunctious verses and places them over entirely new production. Standout “So.Incredible.pkg”, with production by the great Robert Glasper brings a jazzy and laid back energy, where Denzel still feels right at home, followed by an excellent and sly verse from Smino. “Cosmic.m4a [The Alchemist Version]” brings in the legendary producer for a brand new beat with beating drums and piano passages, alongside a vengeful, if not far too short, verse from Joey Bada$$. “Pyro” sees bouncy new production from Sango, with a witty and childlike feature from Kenny Mason. The highlight, however, has to be “DIET_” which, as the standout of the original project, with Denzel’s ferocious and guttural delivery inspired by the late DMX now enhanced by an effortless verse from Benny the Butcher, marking an unlikely but incredibly fulfilling appearance. The original UNLOCKED was a lighthearted project that showcased the talent of Denzel and Kenny Beats. 1.5, while not necessarily a fulfilling EP taken on its own, is something of a victory lap for the duo and their friends, a fun counterpart to the original project and a flexing of creative muscles.

- Casey Chamberlain

AG Club - Fuck Your Expectations PT. 1

When AG Club titled this album “Fuck Your Expectations”, they meant it. Fans, like me, who became hooked on AG Club after their debut melodic rap masterpiece Halfway Off the Porch, have been patiently awaiting a completed “Fuck Your Expectations” since its anticipated debut date in the summer of 2020. After months of waiting, with a few eclectic singles sprinkled in, AG Club decided to fuck our expectations once again by only giving fans part one, released April 2nd, with part two expected (I’m hesitant to use this word) on April 30th. Although it’s not the drop fans were expecting, it’s more than enough to tide us over. AG Club, now only composed of Jody Fontaine and Baby Boy on vocals, brings a fresh and exciting energy on this album that is more comparable to their early singles, like “Holy Shit” or “Ay, G”, than it is to their last full release. Tracks like “NOHO”, composed solely of bass and percussion, and “Columbia”, which features a blaring horn like they just brought the cavalry out, are the album’s “bangers”. AG Club hasn’t settled - they still have chips on their shoulders - and these songs prove that. To round the album out and further their pattern of genre-warping, tracks like “HOT PINK” and “A Bitch Curious” mix R&B, indie pop and rap to produce a completely new sound for the group. And just when you thought your expectations were certifiably fucked, the “A Bitch Curious” instrumental suddenly morphs into an EDM beat around three minutes in. Although it’s filled with an absurd amount of interludes for a nine track album, this project will still leave you saying: “Thank you AG Club, may I have another?”

- Charlie Darnall

BROCKHAMPTON - ROADRUNNER: NEW LIGHT, NEW MACHINE

The visuals for BROCKHAMPTON’s latest record say a lot about it. The video for “BUZZCUT”, the album’s opener, is a glorious clusterfuck of outdated animation and strobing color. On Spotify, every song is accompanied by a video of each vocalist’s face slowly morphing into the next. The self-proclaimed boy band’s visuals, although abrasive at first, are full of depth; every scene in a video or clip has spot on color pallets, an energy that accurately mirrors the song and an attention grabbing theme. And ROADRUNNER is equally as dense. Sonically, the album can range from the aggressive, east coast rap inspired “BANKROLL” to the all acapella, gospel inspired “DEAR LORD”. Between these polar opposites, lie eleven eclectic, constantly morphing tracks. “WINDOWS” is an eerie, acoustic laced song about all the boys being “outside your window” (oh no!) Following it, however, is the accessible and breezy R&B/pop track “I’LL TAKE YOU ON” featuring the legendary Charlie Wilson. “DON’T SHOOT UP THE PARTY” contrasts a beat that could send an Ibiza nightclub into a frenzy with passionate lyrics about racial injustice and the media and government’s inability to condemn white mass shooters. In the spirit of a “new light”, BROCKHAMPTON decided to include features on this album - a first time for the boy band. In both popularity and sound, these features are equally as eclectic. Features range from industry titans, like A$AP Rocky, to smaller, indie pop artists like Baird. Amongst the album’s themes of religion, hedonism and new beginnings, you will find density, both instrumentally and lyrically. 

- Charlie Darnall

Young Stoner Life - Slime Language 2

The second installment of Young Thug’s Slime Language series is undeniably essential. Young Thug and Gunna together are arguably two of the biggest figures in rap right now. Do you have a cousin or sibling in middle or high school? What about a friend in a fraternity? I’ll bet you $100 they’ve both heard a Young Thug or Gunna song in the past week. Both these Atlanta artists have transcended your average rap fan; their songs might be on your dad’s favorite radio station. And I think they’ve realized that. Out of the many things this album succeeds in, its greatest accomplishment is playing into the popularity its creators have achieved. Features include Drake, Lil Baby, Lil Uzi Vert, Travi$ Scott, Skepta, Kid Cudi and even the controversial YNW Melly. The beats are accessible and lend themselves to millions of streams. Tracks such as “I Like” and “Trance” model the more melodic side of Travi$ Scott’s sound with a low tempo and spacey synths. “That Go!” sounds like Playboi Carti had a beat to spare after finishing Whole Lotta Red. In terms of lyrics, there isn’t much to say. Gunna and Young Thug are still two of the biggest rappers alive, they’re still quite wealthy and they’ve made sure to mention that, although their lines seem to prioritize memorability. Every song is either hard enough to make a JV basketball team go nuts, melodic enough for late night drive or bouncy enough to make your mom go “oh, this is fun!” The album plays on many established themes and styles, but I asked myself two questions after I first listened and these are the answers I came to: Is it trying to be popular? Yes. Is that necessarily a bad thing? No.

- Charlie Darnall

Upcoming Releases:

MIKE- Disco! (6/21)

New York rapper MIKE has released a steady stream of incredible, personal, and beautiful records over the past few years, and it seems he is gearing up to release another project, titled Disco! this June. The rapper’s raw delivery and soulful production has brought him to the forefront of the burgeoning abstract hip-hop scene, and projects like 2019’s Tears of Joy and the seminal May God Bless Your Hustle have garnered not only critical acclaim but a fanbase of passionate fans. The lead single for the project, “Evil Eye” provides a gorgeous sample and instrumentation and a short but sweet verse, and is a perfect taste of what is sure to be another personal and important record from one of the best rappers currently working. Disco! arrives June 21st on MIKE’s label 10k.

- Casey Chamberlain

Paris Texas - “BOY ANONYMOUS” (5/14)

Compton-based duo Paris Texas have announced their debut EP, BOY ANONYMOUS. The group has made a splash with the project’s lead singles after dropping the explosive “HEAVY METAL” earlier this year. The group mixes rock and rap, and brings a ferocious energy to their music while staying introspective. The group’s name comes from the 1984 movie of the same title, often cited as Kurt Cobain’s favorite film. The duo has released two other tracks prior to the project’s release, “FORCE OF HABIT” and “SITUATIONS.” The eight-track EP is out May 14th.

- Casey Chamberlain

[mushykat]

i am failing 4 classes

I’m sick and I don’t like it. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, and I don’t like how it hurts to wake up. I don’t like how the feeling of hearing damage is the only thing grounding me to a plain of nothing but heartache and tragedy. I hate how much I’ve let myself spiral. I’m tumbling down a black spire that I’ve built for myself. What lays at the bottom will hopefully kill me when I connect with the waters below. 

Sometimes I want to draw. The picture I want to use to express the swirling mass of razors and burnt scraps of thoughts that plague my consciousness never turns out how I want them to. I don’t want to sit down and put time into something that I cannot love. It’s why I refuse to try and dig myself from the pit laden with the shreds of memories I hold on to in order to justify the horrible things I see. 

I don’t want to write as a career. A career path means choosing a secondary school, and it means going and applying myself to something. I can’t put the effort into keeping myself afloat in the sea of that of which troubles me, and yet I’m expected to weigh myself down with books full of repeated sentences that will suffocate me with a bad credit score and the inability to apply for a loan. 

I don’t want money to be spent on me for college. I’m going to do bad and eventually give up, like I always do. I never apply myself to anything like I should. I know better. As I sit and write, and let the crisp feeling of the screen sear the exhaustion ridden pupils I’ve tormented as such the night prior, I have assignments I haven’t turned in. If I can’t bother to not fail an 11th grade math class over my own impotence, then how am I supposed to swallow down the poison that is higher education. 

What’s the point of using flowery language to cover the corpse of what I write? What will the sprouts of tulips and daisies do against the rot of myself. Why must I try and work every word into an intricate tapestry to illustrate the images my hands refuse to draw. Why do I try to form the pictures my mind refuses to accept of what I see of myself. Why am I fucking sick? 

I can feel the rise and fall of my chest, and yet my lungs always feel empty. I can feel the beat of a heart cradled behind the intertwined digits of marrow that tuck it away in a forest of fleshy fat, and yet I wonder if I am truly living. Is this all life is to be? Am I expected to carry on in the future. Carry on and carrion are easy to mix up, I presume. But what a simple mistake for such a bloated carcass such as myself.

I feel like if I try to chase after the fleeting ideological wisps of smoke that arise from the coals I smother, and do in fact explore writing as a career, I fear I will run out. I think the only mirrors I can truly accept are the ones others have pointed towards me. The only thing I can see anymore is warped and distorted by the heat of a long burnt-out inferno that ate away at the only thing I could hold dear to myself. 

These little mirrors sit behind my eyes, and reflex off of each other. They shine beams of light to one another, as some sick paradox that I am too shaded to partake in. I want to see the light, but I fear what I may see if I allow illumination into the crevices of where I hide. The dark is cold and safe, and lets me shelter away from that which wishes to harm me. 

The world isn’t out to get you, after all. The only mantra I can remember clearer than the burning gazes of reflected disdain directed towards me. Are the shattered mirrors that try to piece my reality together warped from the heat of myself or others? I think I know who ignited me, but I would rather let the coals die away as I wish for myself. I envy the carbon lumps sitting in the sludge pooled at my feet. 

I am one of the ants that get burned alive under a child’s magnifying glass. I can still feel the heat enveloping me, and can taste the smoke as it hangs around my throat in a familiar noose. I welcome it, even. Why else would letting the smog from burning leaves powder kisses of slime and tar across my lungs? I relish the taste I’m left with. It is impure.

Impurity is the only state I know. Disgrace and dissidence is the only way for me to view myself through the shattered lenses that have been scratched and dulled with age. I wish I could pry them out of my skull with the screwdriver that sits in the drawer on my desk. Maybe if I slipped them out of my head and gave them a good rinse, I could have a clean look at the world around me. Maybe I could be happy. 

What’s to say they aren’t responsible? Holding tender orbs with a sheen of slime from the crevice they reside, smeared with the crimson shame that comes with self mutilation. I wonder if I could view myself with such an event. Could I get a good look? Could I watch myself desecrate the corpse that I walk in? 

Maybe my eyes aren’t the problem. The ants nibbling behind my eyes made my sight throb, as if what I’m viewing of the world is wrong. It’s never right, though. Maybe the ants are just more noticeable when I decide to grace them with acknowledgement. But they’re not real, of course. The idea of something being out of place would require something to be wrong, which there isn’t. I know because you told me. :)

I hate writing. It’s horrible and I’m disgusted with anything I read from myself. I do not approve of the venom that drips from my lips, and yet I refuse to pull my fangs. Maybe I could shatter the rest of my teeth while I’m at it. I could run my tongue over the raw indents where the abused shards of enamel I refused to care for would be. But since when do I care about taking care of myself? I’m scared of what I write. Every word is a little sliver of the mirrors that have cracked behind my eyes. The tears that fall hold shards of the reflective glass, and lands upon the scarred hands with which I type. I’m scared that the mirrors will be gone, and I’ll be forced to see the reality of what is before me in its entirety. And yet, I’m more scared of running out of escaping sorrow.

Why would I pursue a career in writing when I don’t know of what I write? Why would I try to make money off of a skill I do not have? What’s the point of humoring the idea that I can write? The illness that lets the steady drip of sickly ichor flow through me is the only reason I can type as I do. It’s the one who puppeteers this horrid poppet of flesh bound sinew and bone. If I am not sick, then how will I write? 

I cannot write. There is nothing to write about. Any of the scorch marks sitting heavy in my chest, and any of the burns lingering against my face from the reflected magnitude of the heat of the abhorrence of the mirrors others hold are from fault of my own. I am the reason I am sick, and I am the reason I refuse to get better. The feeling of the keys popping under my fingers is proof enough that I am not dead, and yet I let myself make allusions as to why I can only experience a dullness in place of stimulations. 

Every time I try to sit down and write like this, I try to crack a piece off of the mirrors. They’re melted into a grotesque putty, and it’s not delicate work to try and pry shards of it apart. I can swing and shatter the mass of heathenry, but then I would have to stare into the space between the shards. The spaces where I can see. 

How long can I chisel at a deformity before it is gone? Doesn’t the idea of writing to clear my mind imply that there's an end goal. That perhaps I can someday empty myself of the acid that eats away at the tissue behind my eyes. Doesn’t that mean that I’m the reason I’m ‘sick’? I don’t have the right to be upset. I know this. It’s my fault. 

The way others see me is the same, even if they claimed to have shifted their realities. Is it so easy? Why haven’t I done it for myself? I know why. I am lazy and prefer the glorification of necrophagous fantasies over the reality that the only rot in me is my own. The only poison that reaches me comes from inside. The bed of soil I rest in is free from mites and grubs, and yet I wrote. The only desecration is my own. 

As I write and try to put these pathetic ideas against a sickly backdrop of a fake shade of white, I can’t help but yawn., It seems to be tiring to do the most basic of tasks. Sometimes I wish that I could lay amongst the blankets marred with the imbecility of myself and not be roused. I want to slumber for the rest of time, and let the roots overtake me. Maybe as my flesh is eaten away and my bones are dissolved by a hundred rains, I could finally rest. 

I wish that I could bash my head against the wall and shatter everything going on inside of me. If it was in pieces, maybe it would be easier to weep under the rug. I want to hide it from myself. I don’t have anything wrong with me, I am just a hypochondriac that has done too much research. I know seven people who could agree with me. I live with three of them. Even if stories change, the words that linger are the ones that left bruises. Lying can’t fix the purple and yellow that litters my mind. 

Sometimes I wish I wasn’t like this. Sometimes I wished I was loved. But why would it change anything? I would be loved and broken. I would be shattered and adored. I would be coddled and ruined. What difference would circumstances make when I’m the one who sets the table against me? I’m the reason the betting is so low. I picked the numbers, and I knew what I was doing. I’m aware of the horrible things I do, and yet I do them. I know I’m failing classes, and yet I write with blurry vision to try and alleviate a fake weight keeping me from breathing. 

I don’t like school. I wish I didn’t have to go. But what else would I do with my day? I’m stupid. I’m tired of being told I’m not. I don't know the things people think I do. I only know things I can remember, and things that I care about. Neither of those apply to much. My mind’s empty enough that the few thoughts I can hold are the only thing keeping me from falling back into the static burning the edges of my subconscious. 

My neck hurts.

[youareiron-andyouarestrong]

39 + 87 + rebelcaptain

survival/wilderness + aroused by the sound of her voice 

always had high, high hopes 

It could be worse was the first thing Kay had said after the meeting that officially declared he had been put under Cassian’s jurisdiction. The one they got after Cassian had to convince Intelligence and the members of the Council that walking into the Rebel base with a reprogrammed Imperial enforcer droid was a good idea. 

It could be worse, Kay had said, they could’ve dismantled me down for parts and had you demoted. 

Intelligence agents don’t get demoted, Cassian had replied. We get burned. 

Oh. Kay had sounded like he was recalculating his formulas. Not much worse, then.

Since then, it became a kind of mantra Cassian had adopted. It could be worse. That was what he told himself when times became darker and harder. Things could be worse. He could be dead. It was always easier to feel a little better about your immediate situation when you weren’t irreversibly dead. 

After… well, everything, he had made the mistake of saying such around his team (his people, his network, his rogues). Then of course, inevitably, someone (Bodhi, Kay, Baze, Jyn) would start listing all the ways it could be worse. They could be stuck on a swamp planet. Bodhi could be missing another arm. Baze could lose all his guns, and the spare grenades. Jyn might miss the evening meal. The suggestions would become increasingly more and more ridiculous as time went by and they stretched their imaginations (which were truly considerable) to the limit.  It became a game, a slightly morbid one perhaps, but one that amused them at least, and allowed for them to gently tease Cassian out of his darker moods. Of course, someone would eventually trump them all with pointing out, We could all be dead on Scarif. And then game would end, at least until the next time someone said, It could be worse. 

Cassian was trying to remind himself of that now. Things could be worse. 

He and Jyn were on an uninhabited (hopefully) forest moon, true. They were laying low from the Imperials searching for them, that was nothing new.  Practically routine. It would be about seventy-two standard hours before their ship came into orbit and Kay and Bodhi could reach them. They had food and shelter and it wasn’t raining anything other than water outside their little cave. Frankly, Cassian had survived on less than that. 

If it wasn’t in a Force-be-damned cave, then he might’ve gone so far as to say he had definitely had worse. 

But it was a cave, and anything that wasn’t in the immediate city proper was outside of his experience and thus Cassian hated it. None of his training had covered wilderness survival. He had been placed solely in cities and military bases and maybe an outpost or two, if he was unlucky. He had never needed to learn to survive in anything other than outside the law and within the Empire, and that was hard enough by anyone’s standards. 

This was probably what kept Jyn from needling him too much about his (entirely deserved) grousing. When it was established that they were stuck here for the next seventy-two hours, Jyn had simply nodded, and said, “Time to find shelter.” In the time it took for Cassian to try to set up a transmitter and send Kay the needed coordinates, Jyn had found them a cave, wove a curtain of vines together to disguise the opening, found firewood and then headed out and returned with this particular moon’s species of fish. Somehow she’d gotten wet wood to catch flame and was now comfortably cooking what she’d neatly gutted and cleaned out of her catch. 

Cassian could only blink at her. 

Jyn raised her head, caught his bemused stare. “What?” she asked. “I learned with Saw. He was pretty empathetic about it, actually.” 

“I can see that,” Cassian said finally. “How did you get the fire to catch?”

“I keep a little bit of flint in my pack at all times,” Jyn replied. “Plus, I used your spare flimsy.”

Cassian’s head snapped up at that, only to see Jyn’s grin flash like silver in the gloom. “Very funny,” he said flatly, in much the same tone of voice he used when Kay was attempting to be comforting or encouraging. 

“I thought so,” Jyn replied comfortably, giving the fish a little tweak. “I only used my spare flimsy.” 

The fish was good. Better than good, though Cassian had privately wished he could have a little pepper, maybe some spices to season it. He had given Jyn some of his closely hoarded supply of coarse salt for the fish, a small packet he kept on his person at all times. Along with roasted in the embers an edible root Jyn had also found and brought back, it was, all in all, not the worst meal Cassian had ever had. 

“Are we starting the I’ve-had-it-worse game again?” Jyn asked as she smoored the fire. “You’ve got that look on.”

“I can think of other things to do,” Cassian said, mostly for the form of it.

“Mmm.” Jyn settled down comfortably. “Better string them out, if we’re here for the next seventy-two hours.”

“I have my datapad,” Cassian said, his eyes drifting closed. The sound of the rain was soothing, the smell of woodsmoke and fish comforting, and Jyn’s voice a pleasant hum in his ear. “I could get some coding done.”

A chuckle escaped Jyn. “With what signal?”

He opened his eyes then to give her a look, which just made her chuckle again. “City boy spy.”

“Civilized,” he grumbled, not with any real heat. 

“I can’t believe you never had any wilderness training,” Jyn said, stretching out in the heat of the fire like a lazy felid. “My next training for the Pathfinders is going to cover that.”

“Poor bastards,” Cassian murmured, just to hear Jyn’s chuckle again, a sound he valued more than the beep of a transmitting code, the whirr of a well-programmed droid, a whisper in the crowd, Fulcrum, freedom and rebellion一 “And I wasn’t stationed in the wilderness; there was no use for me there. I was more useful in the cities.” 

“Useful,” Jyn echoed, and then shook her head. “It was still short-sighted and ill-prepared. When you write the report for Draven, you can tell him I said so.”

“He’ll take it under due consideration,” Cassian replied and Jyn snorted. 

A companionable silence fell between them for a moment, until Jyn tilted her head back to glance outside. “We’re going to have to share body heat once nightfall comes.” Her profile was averted to him and her voice now dispassionate, which might explain why Cassian’s initial response was an absentminded “Hmm.” Then when what she said registered, he let out a startled, “Pardon?”

“Body heat,” Jyn repeated, now stubbornly facing away from him. Hiding a blush? The rich light of the fire made it hard to tell. “Plus the bedding. The ground’s not going to do your spine or leg any favors,” she added with a scowl in her voice. Any mention of his bad leg or back always made Jyn glare like she’d like to make the misbehaving tendons and bones work for him, or else.  “And I don’t know how much the temperature is going to drop between now and nightfall. Probably a few degrees, enough to make us uncomfortable. So it’s only practical.”

Cassian felt himself automatically move to wet his lips before checking that tic. Never mind she couldn’t see it.  “I’ll trust you then.”

Now Jyn did look at him, straight through the firelight and into his eyes. “I know.” The words vibrated with the seriousness of the statement, and how Jyn was going to follow through with it with every fiber of her being. The dim red gold light make her look gilded and shadowed, something wrought from gold and onyx and ivory. 

Cassian gave an involuntary head shake. This what came of being in caves. They stripped away all your common sense. 

*

The night came on, and Jyn’s prediction about the temperature came true. It was more than enough to make them uncomfortable and to break out the temperature conserving blankets. Jyn had layered their bedding as much as she could and rolled up their jackets to use as blankets and pillows, as needed. One thing they both knew all too well in this life of theirs was to sleep whenever it was offered to them. Jyn slept facing the fire, and Cassian’s back to the right wall of the cave so that they both faced the entrance. He ran warmer than Jyn, who always seemed to be a degree or two cooler than everyone else. There was some awkward fumblingーwhere to put his arm, where she could rest her head. But they managed it. Cassian could smell the woodsmoke clinging to her hair, the weave of her scarf under his head. He kept himself as still as possible behind her, resting on his good hip. 

It didn’t feel like his life, this part, this small island of quiet. His life was shadows and hard edges and smog filled skylines. It wasn’t the smell of rain and the warmth of a fire on his face and Jyn resting on his arm. 

This wasn’t his life. It was just a respite. 

*           

Cassian woke slowly, only to find that the fire must’ve died down at some point during the night. That would be the only plausible reason for why Jyn was currently so thoroughly entangled with him that he couldn’t tell his arms and legs from hers. 

It was either still dark or almost dawn. That strange, unreal, dreamlike time when the edges of the world were misty and indistinct. It could be worse, he tried to tell himself, registering Jyn’s warmth and her slow, steady breathing. The way her cheek rested on his arm. How relaxed and soft she was in sleep, such a contrast to her waking self.  Things could definitely be worse一

Jyn let out a sigh, a little sleepy sound of pure contentment, snuggled back into him, her rear fit so snugly against his hips that he almost choked. 

He did not want to think about any other time Jyn might make that noise. He absolutely did not want to imagine what other circumstances could possibly arise一

Shut up, Cassian told himself only somewhat frantically. Just shut. Up. He wasn’t some over eager teen falling all over himself over a member of the opposite sex--

Jyn rolled over in his arms, somehow one leg sliding between his, blowing all of Cassian’s rational thought to pieces. Another soft sigh, warm breath brushing against his neck, her left leg slung over his hips一who knew Jyn was a cuddler? Not him. He hadn’t even given himself permission to imagine what Jyn was like when she was asleep一

This is a dream, Cassian thought. It was arguably the worst (best) dream he’d had in awhile, so he might as well enjoy it while it lasted, and hoard the memory for the dark nights and shadowed days. 

Jyn sleeping peacefully in his arms, soft sighs in his ear, warmth against his skin, the sound of rain and a quiet place untouched by anything bad or hard and dark一 

Another sleepy sound, almost like a moan as she tried to get comfortable against him, tugging his arm to better adjust it for her head… 

Don’t let me wake up, Cassian thought. Please, ancestors, the Force, whoever is running this forsaken galaxy, don’t let me wake up. Let me keep this, I have asked for so little for all my life, and this isn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, it’s probably the best, please let me keep it… 

Jyn sighed against his neck, shifted slowly and languorously, her lashes falling and rising against his skin. “Cass…?” her voice was a low, husky rasp, one that made his blood run hot and fierce and what time was it even? Was this still a dream somehow? 

In the dim light, he could see Jyn waking herself up, getting her bearings again. Her eyes flicked down to take in their entwined limbs and then back up to his face. Unconsciously his arms tightened around her, and then loosened again immediately. If she didn’t want to be there, then he wasn’t going to keep her there, he would never do anything against her express wishes if he could possibly help it.

“Cass,” she repeated in a whisper. If she wasn’t comfortable in this clench, there was no sign of it in her voice. But her eyes were watchful. “How’s your back?”

“I think it’s fine,” he whispered back. It felt too early to speak. 

Jyn was quiet for a second or two, her fingers flexing against him.  “You need to… do you have to go?” he asked still in a whisper. 

“No,” she whispered back. “Do you?”

Never, ever, they could kill me here and I would die content, only you’d never allow that一

“No,” he said. “I don’t.”

They lay there in the dim, the world a very great distance away. 

“We don’t have to go anywhere,” Jyn said softly. “We can just stay here… just for a little while.”

“Yes,” Cassian agreed. This was, after all, a very nice dream. “Let’s just stay here.”

The corners of her mouth lifted into a smile, a smile Cassian had once thought he would die to earn, and maybe still would. 

“You make for a very good pillow,” she murmured, her body utterly relaxed along the length of his. “Best sleep I’ve had in awhile.”

Cassian was silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “Me too,” he said back, almost too low to hear. But she heard it. Of course she did.   

[letsdiscoverkitty]

27.02.2020//There is nothing quite like a little “surprise review” with your consultant...

So last week I ended up having a “surprise review” with my consultant. Okay it wasn’t a COMPLETE surprise, I was told about it about 6 days in advance, but for the service I am with that is VERY rare and reviews are usually planned weeks, if not months, in advance due to how little the consultant works in the area. 

I am not going to lie, I got myself quite worked up beforehand as I definitely overthought about ‘why’ it had been called, which in the end was so unnecessary as it ended up being a complete waste of time (hence the late posting about it as it was that uneventful).

She was a little mellower than usual, which I think was thanks to her being shadowed by a student, but she was still quite, idk how to explain it other than being quite de-humanised? Anyway, all that came from it was that I am on “thin ice” and that if things deteriorate then they will have to send out more referrals as there are apparently no beds in the usual places and unlikely to be any anytime soon (I really don’t want to go down the route of another admission as I don’t see how it could help) and it was reiterated that if it does come to an admission it will only be to “thicken the ice slightly” i.e. get your weight up a little. She did ask how I was managing with my parents being away and I was honest about my mood/isolation/loneliness/just focusing on getting through the days/surviving, which was hard as I very rarely let down some of these walls and tend to put on a front/act without realising it. She didn’t really say much other than to then ask how I spend my days and said it sounded very sad/lonely and that they want me to ‘thrive’....*great*. She has not put in another review meeting yet as she wants to take “my case” to discussion at the next Sussex Hub meeting (whenever/whatever that is). She reiterated that I know what I need to do and that it is not an intellectual/“meal planning” issue that I have, which yes we have talked about numerous times, and agreed on. She suggested maybe looking back at my MANTRA workbook, which I will try to remember to do, and reiterated (yep there was a lot of repetition in this meeting) that she thinks that my home situation perpetuates my illness....as for where we go from here? *shrugs* there was no plan. No forward thinking...They are leaving things to me. I am going to be seen every 2 weeks by the HCA for monitoring - if things deteriorate then yeah it might be a top up admission, otherwise it has to come from me and I have to make sufficient changes and motivations to change and willingness to commit to recovery to be able to get any more support. So nothing new.

I feel paralysed. I WANT to want to get better. And I DO want to get better.  I DO. Yet....well here I am?  I keep wondering if there is something more wrong with me? if I am just being pathetic? if I am simply not meant to get better? if this is all there ever will be? They say that recovery is possible for everyone yet no matter how hard I have tried before, here I still am. It is disheartening. And makes me feel like I am an exception/that the rules don’t apply to me/that this is all there will be...which I just can’t even....sigh. These past few weeks have been exhausting and I feel like my head is a million miles off the ground. I so desperately need some grounding as I feel like I have just being goinggoinggoing, trying to hold things together just that bit longer, but where is this leading? where does this get me? ultimately nowhere. I feel like I am a million miles away. Disconnected from reality/myself/everything. only able to focus on the next 5 minutes and getting through. The more I keep giving into anorexia, the stronger it gets. I am not full on relapsing but neither am I in recovery or trying to recover. I feel paralysed. Stuck. AGAIN. I am a stuck record through and through. repeating myself years down the line. I feel so incredibly alone/unsupported. I know that is very ungrateful of me to say and that I have had a lot of input over the years from services but I feel so at a loss as to where to turn anymore. what to do. what will help. what I need. sigh.  I know that it has to come from me at the end of the day, that no one is going to magically come and save me, that there is no magic/perfect plan or way or admission or therapist or professional or dietitian or programme that will make things magically better. I KNOW IT. but I suppose there is always that part of me “searching” for that alternative that does not elicit so much fear or anxiety, one that skips the messy and horrible part, but the reality is that there is no such thing is there? You cannot jump ahead and skip that part of “recovery” and suddenly be better/fixed - it is impossible. It simply does not work like that. Recovery is not meant to be neat and tidy and easy and fun and nice and happy; I mean yes it brings back life etc but if it were simple and easy then, well, none of us would be in these places would we?

The truth is that I am tired. no, I am beyond tired. Exhausted. Sick to death of sickness. Of illness. Of mental health. Of barely surviving. Of loneliness. Of everything really. I am so tired that even just thinking about change knocks me for seven. How can just thinking about change be so exhausting? 

I honestly hate everything that my ‘life’ has become; the hurt and pain that I have caused to others; the time that I have lost and wasted and ruined; the things I have missed; the “person” that I have become....I hate it.I hate it.I hate it. YET here I still am. Feeling more lost and disconnected from reality than ever before.

I am sorry. This has turned into a bit of a self-pity party, I am not really sure where that came from but I needed to get it out. I think I might try to have a look back at a few things and try to remember what has helped in the past/maybe look into my archive online from when I have gone through the messy difficult initial stages of “recovery”....sigh. I hate this. I really do. I just don’t know what to do anymore.

[inviouswriting]

Primal AU - Void

I still have this going. Just been trying to think of things to write in it.

Then a song kind of inspired this. In to Hades from Domina Noctis. A Eurydice song.

Kivera curses to herself vehemently. The things she does for Divinity. The reaper traverses the different realms and dimensions till she finds one swirling with anger and sorrow.

“Ah, I found you.” She had just seen Divinity enter into Dusk Vigil, and she herself only has a few hours to work before a tragedy takes place. A voice rings in her head.

“You know what you are doing goes against what is set in motion.” 

“Bite me Kronos. She’s not dead yet.” Kivera barks at the voice, and shuts the god up out of her head.

“And what do you plan to trade in for this soul?” 

“Nothing. She is not dead yet. The underworld does not own her yet.” Kivera puts a finger to her lips.

“Now silence!” She uses a spell to quiet the time deity up. Kivera approaches one of the masses in this void, the fight against Mormo had began, and now she really only has seconds to snare her out.

There is a mantra of sorry repeated in hushed strained voice. Kiya curled in on herself, locked into this, from Kivera’s guess since she entered it. 

“A possession.” Kivera kneels to the soul, waving a hand in front of her to get the miqo’tes attention. When green eyes meet matching green eyes. Kiya almost swears she is looking into a mirror. Only one that is much more stunning than her own profile. The face concealed by an elegant mask.

“I didn’t want this...” Kiya starts.

“I know. You do not have to say anything. If you can talk, come with me.” Kiya is dragged to her feet, and watches as this being lights a path, mirroring the one she had ran through from the World of Darkness.

Kiya is on shaking feet, her soul ached from having her aether drained so much by Mormo. Kivera sees this and lifts her mask and briefly gives a kiss to Kiya to share in some of her own energy.

“Come now, we only have minutes before you are killed.” Kiya knows the battle raging on, she feels the blows on her body from fire, sword, and lance. Kivera pushes Kiya in front of herself.

“Walk to that gate now!” She swats her back and makes her move. Kiya does not hesitate and makes a run on her feet. She starts to turn her head back.

“Don’t you dare look back! Or you lose everything!” This keeps the miqote on her feet and looking forward. Behind her the path she is on lights in fire and starts crumbling after her steps. Kiya feels jagged thorns in the soles of her feet and stumbles. She feels a surge of white magic through her, and energy returning.

She makes a run for the gate, and once she does she feels heavy, but surrounded in warmth yet cold. Kiya is overwhelmed in her emotions as she feels her very soul healed and reached.

“Aymeric! I am sorry! I am so sorry! Forgive me!!” Tears brim her eyes, and she buries her face into the shoulder belonging to Divinity. Kiya passes out brief as her mind and soul adjusts back to her body. Having lost weight to it from the years she spent in Dusk Vigil.

Divinity says something she can’t make out to someone else. She is helped to her feet, but quickly loses footing till she is carried on Divinity’s back. Kiya felt safe and protected on her back, she was warm and curled in towards her.

Once they reached outside the stronghold, Kiya perks her head up hearing a familiar voice to her. Aymeric. She suddenly feels guilty and her heart ached in sorrow. She ducks her head down and turns her head away. Kiya feels eyes on her, and closes her own tight to avoid Aymeric’s stare, afraid if she looks into his eyes, she’ll remember all her mistakes she made.

Hands press to her face, warm and strong. 

“Please... look at me... Is it really you....” Kiya hears the hope in his voice, and opens her eyes. She is greeted to searching blue eyes. Her own green eyes search his even as she is pulled off Divinity’s back. Kiya’s eyes brim over in tears once more.

“Come on now, isn’t there something you want to tell him? You were crying it earlier.” Divinity’s voice is soft and reassuring. Kiya turns her attention back onto Aymeric.

“I-I’m so sorry! Aymeric!! Please forgive me.... I’ll never do it again! I’m sorry!!” Kiya in a quick blur of arms clings to him, and feels strong arms wrap around her.

“Kiya... my Kiya... my love, My Love!” Kiya sees absolute relief on his face, like she saw after she awoke after Ghimlyt Dark. Aymeric pins her down onto the cold stone floor. She yelps and squirms as her body registers the cold. She has lips crash into hers, and feels hot tears against her cheek. If he could hold her tighter he would, but her form makes him delicate.

After he breaks the kiss and feels relief at having his beloved back in his life. He reaches his hands to her face and helps sit her upright. Lucia bringing a cloak co conceal Kiya’s nude form. 

Aymeric brushes his hands over Kiya’s cheeks sweet and tender. Then grabs hold of her cheeks and pulls on them in a manner that makes people around them wonder and realize not to make him mad.

“You have any idea what you put me and your friends through!? What I had signed? Your death sentence!?! Those adventurers in there... I sent them to slay you! How you survived and were brought back... is beyond me.. I am grateful... but you! I will never forgive you for what you did!” He keeps hold of her face, for the first time since their very first fight. She sees the anger in his normally gentle ice blue eyes, reminder of how piercing they can be. His tone holds his emotion. She is crestfallen at his words how he won’t forgive her. She tries to look to the side, but his hold on her face keeps her still. 

“However, you can spend the rest of our life together making it up to me.” Aymeric presses his forehead to hers and locks his eyes as they soften. Full of love and warmth for her.

“Soul crystals, all of them.” He holds a hand out for her to give him all of her soul crystals. Kiya doesn’t hesitate in giving them to him. Seeing him hold them, his thumb gently pressing over her black mage stone.

“Three years. Hear me? Three. Years. You will not travel, and you will not go and put yourself in harms way. Understand me? Till you are strong enough to handle these roles again.” Aymeric keeps her stare, and she nods.

”Yes, Aymeric.” She says.

“Yes, Lord Commander, Ser Aymeric. Say it.” He corrects her.

“Yes! Lord Commander, Ser Aymeric!” Kiya repeats his words back, and after she does. Aymeric tucks the crystals away, then pulls her into his arms giving her the tightest hug she can ever feel. She is overwhelmed in emotions again. She feels herself lifted into Aymeric’s arms. Another knight approaches, and Aymeric wears an expression not wanting to deal with more than he needs.

“Ser Aymeric? Aren’t you not concerned of whether or not she might be enthralled? Or lingering effects from being a primal?” The knight is met with a sharp annoyed stare.

“Look at her. Does she look enthralled?” Kiya ducks her head down, seeing the way people are scared of her.

“The threat has been neutralized.” Divinity pipes up. 

“I saw to it myself. Kiya is returned and this day does not end on a tragic note. I say.. leave them alone.” Divinity continues, and the knight does not miss the look from Aymeric.

“I will not hear of anyone within my line of hearing slander her. Let us count our blessings. She is much returned in the same manner Estinien was spared from a needless death. If I hear anyone else speak ill of her. I might lose mine temper. Not another word.” He warns. He earns nods out of several people understanding. 

“Lord Commander. You should get her out of the cold before she freezes to death.” Lucia urges him on to get her to Ishgard. Aymeric nods, and is thankful for her to draw attention back to what was important.

Divinity lingers back and sees a broken mirror in a hallway. She is curious and peers into it, she is met with green eyes.

“I had a feeling this was from you.” Divinity smiles, making the reaper blush enough that the green flits to pink. 

“You owe me. I pissed Kronos off.” Kivera looks away with a huff. Divinity only smiles.

“I know. Thank you for stepping in.” Kivera looks over Divinity’s shoulder and spies Estinien regarding the interaction. Divinity straightens herself up, and Kivera vanishes from the mirror in wisps of smoke.

“Do not mind mine presence. Carry on.” He had chanced on them talking. Kivera he had encountered a few times since their night together.

“She is still a bit shy, forgive her Estinien.” He does see green eyes peer around the corner of the mirror like a wall.

“Aye, word of wise however. This place is not suited for conversations with those from the void. Too many onlookers. My place or the Inn would be better.” Estinien regards both of them.

“Agreed. Then we’re visiting you tonight? To celebrate?” Divinity smiles as he nods.

“I believe returning our friend and Aymeric’s beloved is celebration enough.”

Kivera regards them both.

“That should be payment enough for sparing her life.” Kivera chimes in, and disappears for now. Estinien does not know how he came to have these lovers. But glad to have Death on their side.

[timeoutforthee]

Like it or Not-Chapter 25

Taglist: @itsausernamenotafobsong, @sea-blue-child, @iaminmultiplefandoms, @princeanxious, @uwillbeefoundtonight, @zaidiashipper, @arandompasserby, @levyredfox3, @falsett0, @error-i-dunno-what-went-wrong, @scrapbookofsketches, @podcastsandcoffee, @helloisthisusernametaken, @amuthefunperson, @michealawithana, @yamihatarou, @heck-im-lost, @unlikelynightmareconnoisseur, @idkaurl, @bubblycricket, @fnp-alizay, @neonbluetiefling, @comicsimpson, @a-little-bit-of-ace

Summary: Logan, Patton, Roman, and Virgil are all struggling in their recovery. Their doctors, Thomas Sanders and Emile Picani think they can help each other out.

Aka Group Therapy AU

Trigger Warnings: disordered eating habits, death mentioned, parents not understanding mental health, general ignorance, parents fighting

Read it on AO3!

On the one hand, Logan’s support system was growing stronger. On the other hand, he started to see the cracks in its foundation.

Patton and the others seemed to be willing to celebrate any small victory, but his parents had much higher standards for him. They didn’t know what their son was struggling with, they just knew they wanted it to end.

Obviously, Logan thought to himself, They are my parents. They love me. They want me to feel better.

That was the mantra he repeated to himself, but some days it seemed less about love and more about convenience.

“What do you mean by that?” Thomas asks him.

“I mean…,” Logan trails off, unsure of how to phrase this, “They just don’t...understand. And part of that’s my fault, I haven’t taken the time to properly educate them, but sometimes I wonder, if I stopped this tomorrow, would they be happier?”

“It’s not your job to educate them,” Thomas says.

“It feels like it is,” Logan admits, “How else are they supposed to learn?”

“They’re adults, Logan, they should take the initiative to research themselves.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Well, then, they’re not being very supportive, are they?” Logan is quiet at that. “Have they been supporting you, Logan?”

It takes Logan a while, but he finally says, slowly, “No.”

“How do they react to this, then?”

“They ignore it.” They ignore me.

“Can you elaborate on that?”

“They take me to therapy, but we’re silent in the car. We don’t talk about therapy, they’ve never even asked about what I’m coming here for. They’re against me taking a psychology class. And there are certain things I have to do that they don’t understand and I-”

“Wait, pause there. What do you mean there are things you have to do?”

“Like I have to eat my food a certain way. Like I have to keep track of my calories. It’s just something I have to do.”

“I see, are there any more rituals you have to do that aren’t related to food?”

“No,” Logan says, “Well…”

"Yes?"

"There was the instance, when I was younger."

^

Logan was eight when he learned about death.

His grandfather passed away, quietly in his sleep, and suddenly death felt a little too real. He had seen it in movies and tv shows, but now suddenly it felt like it was around the corner. He knew it wasn’t after him, necessarily, but the main person he worried about was his grandmother.

So every time he visited, he’d leave, dragging his feet behind his parents, before turning and walking back up the steps to knock on her door. She’d open the door, and he’d nod, satisfied. But not for long. He had to walk down the steps and turn back around at least two more times before he would finally pick up his feet and follow his parents to their car.

“Why does he do that?” his grandmother asked one day when she thought he wasn’t listening. Logan had closed his eyes during a movie, and now he was slumped over on the couch. But he wasn’t asleep yet. “It’s annoying, you know.”

“Aww,” his mother replied, “I think it’s funny when he does that.”

“I do too,” his father said, shrugging, “Kids are a handful. At least with Logan it’s something as tame as knocking on the door a few extra times.”

“So you’re not going to stop him?” his grandmother says, her annoyance creeping in.

“Come on, Mom, it’s just a little quirk, he’ll grow out of it,” his mother says.

Mental health has a funny way of expressing itself, especially in kids. How people reacted to it could change the whole trajectory of an illness, completely changing their lives. And when it came down to it, when Logan started acting a little different, his family laughed it off.

Logan didn’t grow out of his knocking ritual, it only ended when his grandmother passed. And Madelyn and Kurt didn’t grow out of ignoring their son.

^

Thomas is staring at Logan, listening intently.

“Tell me, Logan,” his doctor says, “That sort of panicked feeling you had when it came to death before, do you ever have a similar feeling now?”

“No,” Logan says.

“Really? Not even when it comes to food?”

“I mean…,” Logan starts thinking. Thinking of the moments before he cuts his food, when he arranges his food on his plate, when he’s counting steps, calories, carbs…

“...yes.”

Thomas makes a note of that. “Logan, I have a question for you. Have you ever heard of obsessive compulsive disorder?”

“OCD? Yeah, though I’m not sure how accurately it’s been portrayed to me. It seems to involve a lot of cleaning.”

“Not quite,” Thomas says, “It’s when we have intrusive and upsetting thoughts-obsessions-that can cause us to perform rituals to try and keep them away-compulsions.”

Logan feels something in his stomach sink. “Why are you telling me this?”

Dr. Sanders smiles softly, “Why do you think I’m bringing it up?”

“I thought I had an eating disorder,” Logan says, ignoring the question.

“Oh, you do. One doesn’t cancel out the other. There is such a thing as comorbidity.”

Which makes sense to Logan. He’s read enough of his psychology book to knows it’s actually pretty rare to only have one mental illness. He had a feeling that a day like this would come, but he didn’t think it would be this.

“So...if I did have OCD...what would happen?”

“We would work on it,” Dr. Sanders says, shrugging, “I have an OCD workbook around here somewhere that you could work through, but it would also give us a new way to approach your eating disorder.”

“And you think that would be more beneficial?”

“I do. But we can discuss that at length next time. For now, we’ve run over time.”

Logan looks at the clock on the wall behind him. They’re fifteen minutes past when he was supposed to be out of here. His dad would probably be worried.

No, says a voice that’s a little too honest, Dad probably won’t care.

^

Dinner that night is tense.

More accurately, Logan is tense and it’s starting to infect his parents. They’re having hamburgers and fries which made Logan even angrier than he was because if they spoke to him for even a second they would know how much he hated french fries and how triggering they were. Yet they had the nerve to make passive aggressive glances at his plate and at each other as he was cutting the fries into bite sized pieces.

“How was school, Logan?”

And Logan knows he should bite his tongue. Should play nice like he always has, but after the session he just had with Dr. Sanders, he can’t put forth the effort.

“Fine.” Maybe if he just doesn’t talk everything will be fine.

His parents glance at each other which just makes his blood boil more.

“Are you sure, honey? You seem stressed,” his mom says.

And just like that, he deflates. Maybe he’s being unfair to them. Like he told Dr. Sanders, he never tried to educate them. Maybe it was time he tried.

“School was fine, I just had a stressful session,” he says, honestly.

His mom purses her lips, trying and failing to keep her face neutral. “Oh?”

“Yeah, we…,” Logan’s throat goes dry. He doesn’t know why talking about this makes him so nervous, but it does.

“Are you going to be done with that soon?” his dad asks, cutting him off.

“Done…? With therapy?”

“Yes, with therapy.”

“We haven’t discussed that at all. In fact we just made a breakthrough today, we’re going to start working on something new-”

“Breakthroughs should mean ‘almost done.”

“But I’m still struggling!” Logan snaps, “So that means continue.”

“Honey, I don’t think you’re struggling as much as you think you are. I mean, everyone has struggles, I think yours are normal.”

“They’re not!” Logan is getting emotional and he knows that’s only going to hinder his argument, but he’s getting desperate. “How can you guys not see it?”

“See what?” his dad asks.

“The counting, the compulsions, the-the,” Logan never stumbles over his words, but his emotions are overtaking him right now, “The OCD, the anorexia.”

His dad leans back in his chair. “Anorexia? Like when you don’t eat?”

“Yes, dad, when you don’t eat.”

His dad stares at him. There’s no recognition, no realization, no sadness. Just confusion.

“Boys don’t get eating disorders.”

And maybe Logan should have expected this or seen it coming, it’s not exactly an uncommon belief, but he’s always seen his dad as an intelligent man. Clearly, he would listen to reason.

“Mental illnesses don’t discriminate, they’re chemical imbalances in the brain-”

“Chemical imbalance? I thought you were talking about anorexia-”

“I am.”

“That’s a behavior. A behavior is choice, Logan,” his dad says, slowly, as if Logan is the confused one in this instance.

“Dad, that...isn’t the way it works.”

“Of course it is!” his dad says, “That’s the way it’s always worked, that’s the way it’s always been! Maybe these doctors you’ve been seeing are just hacks in disguise.”

“They’re not hacks what are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about some new age doctors who think they know everything, when in reality they’re just taking my money!”

“They’re not-”

“You know what? I’m tired of waiting for this to be over. It’s over now.”

Logan suddenly feels like he’s been plunged into the arctic. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you’re not going back to therapy.”

“Dad,” Logan stutters, which is unusual for him, “Dad, you-you can’t mean that, I need it, please-”

His dad doesn’t say anything, just stands up and goes to his room.

“Mom,” Logan says, turning to her, “You can’t let him do this, please, I need therapy, I need group, I’m sorry, I’m sorry-”

His mom is staring at her plate. She finally shakes herself and looks at her son.

“I can’t control what your dad does.”

“You can take me to group,” Logan says, desperate, “please.”

She sighs, “We’ll discuss it.”

[lovemesomesurveys]

Do you actually think it’s gross to talk about body functions? It’s not something I personally want to talk or hear about. I know people who are so open about it and I’m just like... T M I. I get it’s something normal and we all do it and whatever, but it doesn’t mean we have to talk about it lol. 

Would you rather sleep (zzz) alone or next to your SO? I’ve only ever slept alone, so if the day ever comes where I share a bed with someone it would take some getting used to. I’m used to having the whole bed to myself and I can move around and do whatever without disturbing someone else. Especially because I stay up late AND sleep with the TV on. I also have to have the room nice and cool, soo... future SO would have to be cool with all that. Or get their own bed, ha.

Are you trying to forget about something? Currently, I’m trying to ignore this stomach cramping I’m having from the new iron supplement I’m taking. It’s a patch, so I didn’t think there would be the same side effects, but unfortunately for me there is. D: It has to be on for 8 hours. :/ Tomorrow I’m just going to put it on as I sleep instead. I’m so glad I found the patch, though. No pills, no metal tasting liquid supplements. Hoping it gives me a little more energy and look a little less pale.

Have you ever sent a love letter? Not a love letter per se, but I sent a long ass Facebook message to someone laying it all out on the table. I told him exactly how I felt and the issues I had with how things were going between us.

When you look up at the sky do you ever NOT see a plane or vapor trail? Yeah, a lot of the time.

Have you dated someone of another race? No, but not because I wouldn’t. It just so happened both guys I dated were either Caucasian or Mexican, and I’m both. 

Do you wear any shoes with holes because you can’t give them up? No. One perk of being a wheelchair, I guess. My shoes never touch the ground or get scuffed up. 

When you go out to breakfast, what do you order? Biscuits and gravy with scrambled eggs and hash browns. And coffee, of course.

Have you ever had a job that required a uniform? No. I’ve also never had a job--period.

What’s the best compliment you’ve gotten from a boss/teacher? Compliments on my writing. 

What’s a weird or interesting nick name you gave someone? When my brother was a baby I called him “Ish” or “Neds.” Hahaha I have NO idea where I came up with either one. His name is Jon, so there was no relation at all. Like Neds? Wtf? I don’t know wth an “Ish” is either haha. 

Is there a phrase or mantra you repeat when you are frightened? Sometimes I just try to calm myself and be like, “It’s fine, you’re probably just overreacting. You’ll be okay.”

What are you most envious of? People who are able to be functioning adults and are doing something with their lives. Everyone has their problems, but a lot of people still get up and go to work or take care of their responsibilities. They just do what they gotta do. I envy that the most. 

Do you have a friend with a habit that worries you? No.

Would you rather have coffee, cocoa, tea, or soda? Coffee, always. 

When you walk into your best friend’s room, what do you smell? My mom’s room (well, my parent’s room) smells like either my dad’s cologne or my mom’s perfume or lotion. 

Have you ever purposely broken something that belonged to a sibling? No. 

Have you ever worked at the same place as your best friend? I’ve never had a job. 

Do you like to visit famous people’s homes? Oh yes. I have lots of famous friends, ya know. I visit all the time.  ....

Do you take days off from shaving when you can get away with it? I shave as I need to. 

What color do you see when you shut your eyes tight? Black with like different color dots.

How would you react if you found out your crush had a terminal disease? I don’t have a crush, but I imagine I’d be devastated. It’s heartbreaking to hear someone has a terminal illness. 

Has anyone ever baked you cookies? Yeah.

What’s the lamest present you’ve ever given? I don’t know...hopefully none of the gifts I’ve given were lame. 

Would you rather eat free hotdogs or pizza you pay for yourself? Pizza I pay for myself. I don’t like hotdogs. 

Do you ever wear socks with holes in them? No.

Is there anything hanging on your bathroom walls? There’s a clock, a towel rack, and a framed picture.

If your SO agreed, would you want an open relationship? I don’t want an open relationship. That’s definitely not something I’m interested in.

Have you ever slept with three people in the same bed? When? Why? No.

Does your family regularly eat sit down meals together? No.

Who would you like to slow dance with? To what song? I don’t want to slow dance with anyone.

What’s your favorite pet name someone calls you? I don’t know if it’s a “pet name”, but I like when my family calls me “Sis.”

If you could talk to one species of animal what would it be? Dogs! 

What’s the largest animal you’ve ever seen in person? Giraffes. Well, I guess that’s the tallest. The largest would be lions or tigers.

Have you ever used the change counting machine at a store or mall? No.

Would you give mouth to mouth to your dog to save it’s life? I would do whatever I could. In a scary moment like that, you just jump into action.

Do you collect anything? Do people give you tons of stuff related to it? Stuffed animal giraffes and knickknacks, as well as keychains. My family does contribute to my collection.

If you came with a warning label, what would it say? Oh jeez. There’s a lot to say... I’m just a mess and I come with a lot of issues. Don’t waste your time trying to get to know me. I’m also sensitive, awkward, and stubborn.

Have you ever tried to learn a language on your own? Kind of. I practiced Spanish on my own, but I also have taken classes in school.

Where do you keep your change at home? In my bags.

Have you ever had a pet destroy something valuable or important? No.

What’s the best burger EVER? I don’t care much for burgers.

Did you ever show up late for an important event? Possibly, but I’m very much the type of person who has to be early and freaks out about being late to anything, so if it has happened something out of my control caused it.

[spn-rewrites]

01x12 (part 1)

Season One Episode Twelve: Faith

A/N: Alright, a quick note. my computer is effed up. The updates may start to slow down unfortunately until I can figure out how to fix this mess but they’ll still come, I promise. I love hearing from you guys, so please keep the feedback coming! Let me know of any ideas you guys have for future episodes, storylines, ect and as always, please REBLOG if you enjoyed. 

Word Count: 2.7k

Summary: a hunt gone wrong, hospital beds, and another call to John.

`“What do you have those amped up to?” Sam asked as Dean rummaged through his trunk for the taser guns.

“100,000 volts,” Dean grinned, handing one to you and Sam and taking one for himself.

“Damn,” you commented, moving it around in your hands. You were careful with your

inspections and Dean filled his backpack up with any extra supplies you may need but truly, this was the one and only thing that could actually kill this thing.

“Yeah, I want this rawhead extra freakin’ crispy,” Dean mumbled and then looked at you, pointing the butt of his taser gun at you and dancing it between you and Sam. He was really only talking to you and you knew that. “Remember, you’ve only got one shot with these things, so you better make it count.”

“Yeah, I remember,” you mumbled with a little attitude laced in your voice at his reminder. You accidentally fire one of these prematurely once and you’ll never live it down. Dean closed the trunk to the Impala and you snuck your way into the old, creaky, house. It seemed to be abandoned for the most part, the floors hardly kept up with, garbage everywhere. You made your way to the basement, guns pointed and flashlights ready.

It was quiet until it wasn’t and there was a bang coming from one of the walls. All three of your flashlights instantly went to the noise and you crept closer to it. On the count of three, Dean pulled open the little door that you assumed led to a little crawlspace. You jumped when he opened it but relief flooded you when you saw it was two little kids.

One boy and one girl, shaking with their knees pulled to their chest. “Is it still here?” Sam asked, loosely looking over them for any obvious injuries. The boy nodded to his question and you gestured for them to stand up and get out of the crawlspace.

“Grab your sister’s hand. We’re gonna get you out of here,” Dean said. You put your hand on their backs, carefully walking them over to the stairs with Sam and Dean guarding your back. You and the kids made it to the landing but Sam’s groan was too loud in your ear and then there was a thud and some screaming and Sam tumbled down the stairs. “SAM!” You and Dean both called out for him. Dean shot his taser gun in the direction that he must have seen this thing but he missed.

Sam quickly got up and ran back up the stairs to you, tossing his taser gun at Dean. “Take this!” He ordered. Dean caught it easily, nodding towards you and his brother before you disappeared behind the corner and ran out of the house. Sam told you to stay put, guarding the entrance to the house while he secured the girls in the car.

You couldn’t hear much coming from the basement but you were anxiously waiting. Dean could handle himself was the mantra that you repeated over and over again while your leg shook in anticipation. “I’m gonna go back down there!” You called for Sam. He didn’t say anything, just waved a hand at you to give you the go ahead and you whipped around, running back down the stairs trying not to make too much noise but the second you saw Dean lying in the corner of the basement, unconscious, you ran.

You could feel a pulse on your fingertips but you didn’t know if it was his or just yours from your heart beating so quickly. He wouldn’t wake up, no matter how much you tried to shake him awake or slap his cheeks or begged him to. You knew you couldn’t carry him up the stairs alone and it felt like an eternity, you sitting there, checking for pulses on his neck and his wrists while crying out for Sam until he eventually showed up. He ran to your side, doing all the same steps that you just did until he grabbed him and helped you carry him to the car.

Getting the kids to safety was your first mission but it felt insignificant to you as you cradled Dean’s head in your lap in the front seat of the Impala. You tried not to cry now that you weren’t alone and you didn’t want to freak the kids out so you sniffled to yourself quietly until the kids got out of the car and then Sam and then Dean to take him into the hospital. It wasn’t until you were left alone in the car while Sam delivered him to the ER that you let yourself really, really cry. Like snot shooting out of your nose, not being able to tell the difference between snot and tears on the back of your hand, whole body shaking kind of cry. When you were done and your eyes were bloodshot and your nose was rosy, you went in to join Sam.

You and Sam were at the reception area, trying to figure out how to pay for this mess when the lady gave you a solemn look, “there doesn’t seem to be any insurance on file.” Sam mumbled a few words to himself, grabbing his wallet out of his pocket. He was just as shaken up as you, maybe even more but he was handling it much better. You hadn’t seen him cry but that didn’t mean he wasn’t and he handed the lady a credit card - stolen. “Okay, mister Berkovitz,” she said, reading the name on the card.

You looked over your shoulder at the policemen waiting, watching, staring at you. You pulled on Sam’s jacket after the lady went to run the card and made your way to the policemen. They gave you another solemn look and you were already tired of all the pity looks you were receiving from people. You wanted to be left alone. “We can, uh, finish this up later,” the policeman offered.

“No, it’s okay,” Sam told them, shoving his hands in his jacket pocket. “We were just taking a shortcut through the neighborhood and our windows were rolled down. We heard some screaming when we drove past the house, and we stopped and ran inside,” he explained the fake version of it all. The civilian version it.

“And found the kids in the basement?” The officer finished, you and Sam both nodded. “Well thank god that you did,” he said, offering you a proud smile. This was one of the more friendlier encounters with the police you’ve had in the past few years and you were disappointed that it was under such grave circumstances.

You heard a door opening from behind you and you excused yourself from the officers, Sam quickly following. The policemen yelled a thank you down the hall as you ran up to the doctor. “Is he-” You started but the doctor held out a hand, suggesting that you calm down. You took two deep breaths and then the doctor smiled.

“He’s resting,” he said.

“And?” You pushed.

“The electrocution triggered a heart attack - pretty massive, I’m afraid. His heart is damaged,” the doctor explained. You felt like your heart was damaged hearing that news. You felt Sam’s body tense up.

“How damaged?” Sam asked and you braced yourself for the worst news possible. You could see it in the doctor's eyes that that was coming. You wrapped your arm around Sam’s, leaning into him for comfort.

“We’ve done all that we can. We just need to try and keep him comfortable at this point but I’d give him a couple weeks at most, maybe a month,” he explained. You thought that you had cried all of your tears but more threatened to come. Your heart was pounding so hard in your chest you thought that you were going to vomit all of the doctor’s white coat.

“No. There’s gotta be more that you can do,” Sam protested, his face falling and there they were: the tears. “Some kind of treatment,” Sam suggested.

“We can’t work miracles. I really am sorry.” Your lips parted and you could feel the tears streaking down your face and you felt paralyzed in that hallway with that doctor but Sam pushed you off of him and pushed past the doctor and into Dean’s room where the TV was lightly humming.

When you entered the room, Dean was mumbling something about daytime TV with his raspy voice that cut deep into your skin and left you bruised. You popped up behind Sam, who sighed and let out a sharp exhale. “We talked to your doctor,” he said.

“That fabric softener teddy bear. I wanna hunt that little bitch down,” Dean said, pursing out his lips as he changed the channel of the TV.

“Dean,” you warned. He rolled his eyes, putting the remote down on his lap.

“Looks like you guys are gonna have to leave town without me,” he said bluntly.

“What are you talking about? We’re not gonna leave you here,” you said, stepping out from behind Sam’s back, getting braver and braver but it was hard to see him in this condition. It was heart wrenching.

“You better take care of that car,” he warned. “I swear I’ll haunt your ass.”

“I don’t think that’s funny,” Sam said and you agreed but you bit your lip to prevent yourself from smiling.

“Oh come on, it’s a little bit funny.” You couldn’t help but let out a little laugh and Sam smiled, looking down at his feet. The room fell silent then and Dean let out a sigh. “Look, Sammy, what can I say, man? It’s a dangerous gig and I drew the short straw. That’s it, end of story.”

“Don’t talk like that, alright? We’ve still got options,” Sam pleaded with his brother. You knew just as well as Dean that there were no options but Sam would play the devil’s advocate until Dean died. He would always beat the horse too thin. Pray for a miracle that would never come.

“What options? You got burial or cremation,” Dean deadpanned.

“Hey,” you warned, shooting him a glare. He licked his lips, raised his eyebrows at you apologetically and then sighed again.

“I know it’s not easy but I’m gonna die. And you can’t stop it,” Dean said. He was the first one to really say it out loud. In those words. Sam’s face was scrunched up and red and you saw the tears pooling in his eyelid but you knew he wouldn’t let them fall around Dean. You put your hand on his forearm briefly and then sat on the edge of Dean’s bed.

“Watch me.”

The next few days were spent searching the internet and calling everyone in John’s journals to figure out a way to fix this, but Sam wasn’t sleeping and he wasn’t crying and you felt like maybe he was holding back for you because even when you were hiding in the bathroom, waiting for him to do something while he was alone - there was nothing. You couldn’t even hear him crying in the shower.

You were perched on the edge of the bed, the laptop on your lap while Sam tried John’s phone. No answer. “Hey dad, it’s Sam. Uh… You probably won’t even get this, but, uh, it’s Dean,” he started, his voice shaking and cracking. You closed the laptop and pushed it to the side. “He’s sick and the doctors say there’s nothing they can do.” He paused, his face scrunching up in pain. “But hey,” he chuckled, “they don’t know the things we know, right? So don’t worry, cuz I’m, uh, gonna do whatever it takes to get him better.” Sam kept hitting his ankle that was crossed over his knee and playing with the frayed ends. “All right, just wanted you to know.” Sam hung up and you were angry at John for not answering and not being here and making Sam do this alone.

“Hey,” you whispered, putting your hand on his shoulder. He jumped at your touch, almost like he forgot that you were even there but he softened when he looked at your face. You gave him a weak smile. “We’ll fix this, okay?” You promised him. It wasn’t something you could promise or that you should have promised but you did it anyway to make him feel better.

He pushed off the bed and started to pace around the room, running his hands through his dirty hair. He looked like such a mess. You could almost see the anger building up inside of him on his face. The way he squeezed his eyes shut, the way his lips were tight against each other. Sam turned around and in one swift motion, he cleaned the table clean of all the magazines and take out menus that littered it.

You jumped to your feet and put your hands on his biceps, coaching him to look at you. Begging him to look you in the eyes. When he finally did, you gave him another weak smile. “Breathe, okay? Please?” You asked. Sam licked his lips and then took a deep breath, nodding at you but when he let it out, he shook his head and crashed his body into yours.

You wrapped your arms around him and he squeezed you so tight you thought your head was going to pop off but you didn’t mind because that was Sam and you were willing to hold him for as long as he needed or wanted you to but a knock at the door broke the moment.

You sat him down on the bed and got the door yourself. “Dean?” His skin was pale and he was sweating even though it was cold outside and his body was pressed against the doorframe. “What the hell are you doing here?” You scolded him for leaving but the smile on Sam’s face when he saw him, made you regret it.

“I checked myself out,” he smirked, limping into the room, holding himself up with the chair.

“Are you crazy?” Sam asked but his face was filled with relief and joy that his brother was here with him. You knew just how crazy it made him think about Dean in that hospital bed, alone, watching daytime TV that he hated.

“I wasn’t going to die in a hospital, especially where the nurses aren’t even hot,” he joked as you closed the door behind him and helped him sit down in the chair. Neither of you laughed at his joke, but Dean still thought it was funny and he chuckled.

“You know, this whole “I laugh in the face of death” thing is crap. I can see right through it,” Sam told him, trying to scold or be serious but he was still smiling a little bit.

“Yeah, whatever, dude,” Dean rolled his eyes and adjusted his jacket so that he was comfortable and you couldn’t imagine that he was but he was putting on a brave face despite the fact that he looked like he was dying. “Have you even slept? You look worse than me,” he teased.

“He hasn’t,” you answered for Dean but giving Sam a glare. You had been begging him the last few days to just get a few moments of sleep and you would do the research for him but he insisted on staying up until he found a solution for his brother. Even as you slept, you could feel his body stirring next to you.

“I’ve been scouring the internet for the last three days. Been calling every contact in dad’s journal,” Sam explained, sitting down on the bed across from his brother. You sat next to him, pulling out the laptop and opening it up. There weren’t many solutions out there, but the one that you had so far, was pulled up on the computer.

“For what?” Dean groaned, visibly uncomfortable.

“For a way to help you. One of dad’s friends, Joshua, he called me back. He told me about a guy in Nebraska, a specialist,” Sam explained. You pulled up all the reports of the guy that you could find online, up, spinning the computer to show Dean. All the articles you could find showed nothing but good things. This guy healing people from even the brink of death.

Dean scanned the screen and shook his head, “you guys aren’t gonna let me die in peace, are you?” He asked.

“We’re not gonna let you die, period. We’re going.”

tagged: @matchamendes @stuckupstucky @sillydecoy @kaelyn-lobrutto24@liztorr1212 @icanreadbookstoo  @rachael-mae @jessewa26

[justsomebucky]

Cinderella (Part 1)

Summary: AU. After the tragic passing of reader’s father, reader is left with a cruel stepmother and two miserable step-sisters, who not only don’t care about her, but they use her for their own gain. Will a handsome stranger offer her the freedom she longs for?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Word Count: 2,416

Warnings: mentions of death, angst, sadness, mentions of crime, mentions of murder

A/N: This is a RE-POST of my entry for the @stories-from-stark-tower ‘s AU movie challenge. It’s based off of the 2015 Disney adaptation of Cinderella, only with a bit of my own spin on it.

“Once upon a time, there was a girl called Y/N,” your mother began, her hands stroking your hair gently.

The two of you were sitting on a blanket in the meadow behind the house that your family had owned for generations.

“But that’s my name, Mommy!” You made a face at her. There was no way you and the little girl in the story had the same name.

“It’s her name, too, sweetness, I promise you. As I was saying…once upon a time, there was a girl called Y/N, and she saw the world not always as it was, but as perhaps it could be...with just a little bit of magic.”

“Magic isn’t real, Mommy.”

“It is too, silly girl,” she leaned over to nuzzle you, and you giggled. “You’ll see, Y/N. Someday you’ll need a bit of magic, and if you keep believing, it will be there for your taking!”

“It will?”

“Yes, love, as long as you remember one thing.”

“Remember what, Mommy?”

“You must always have courage and be kind. Can you remember that my darling?”

“Have courage, and be kind,” you repeated carefully.

“Yes, love, that’s it.” She gave you a nod.

“What happened next, in the story?” a familiar voice asked.

You both looked up as your father walked over. He sat down on the blanket beside you and pulled you into his lap, giving you a big hug. “I want to hear more about beautiful Princess Y/N.”

Your mother gave him a warm smile. “I suppose I should continue, shouldn’t I?”

“Yes!” you squealed happily, leaning back against your father as she resumed her story about the little girl who shared your name.

You awoke suddenly, sitting straight up with a gasp.

It had been so long since you’d dreamt of your mother and father.

Your hands brushed away the tears on your cheeks as you glanced at the clock on the nightstand beside you. It was three in the morning again. You had developed a habit of waking up before you were needed.

Might as well stay up, you thought to yourself. Your step-family would be ringing for you soon, anyways.

The very thought of them made you cringe.

You were only ten years old when your mother fell ill and passed away. You’d thought the pain would never end. The loss of a parent at a young age is not something you get over quickly.

Time passed, though, and pain turned to memory.

Your father had looked after you as best he could, but he’d been so lonely, and you were never one to deny him his happiness. He’d found another partner, someone to call his wife, someone to be your stepmother.

She was an angry, cold woman with two daughters of her own, Drisella and Anastasia. Your stepmother had apparently known grief herself; she’d told your father that her first husband, a successful businessman, had died of a heart attack.

It wasn’t until your own father had passed on that you learned the truth.

She’d killed him herself.

Stepmother had wanted to take over her husband’s business, which as it turns out, wasn’t a coffee business at all. He hadn’t been making trips overseas to sell Columbia’s finest; no, he’d been a professional thief.

He was often hired by very wealthy people to steal very specific items for their collections. Sometimes it was famous artwork, sometimes it was an antique or two, but most of the time, it was jewelry. Gold could be melted, gems could be refitted…yes, the black market for heirloom jewels was booming for him.

She told you all about it the day she threatened to kill you (if you didn’t do what she wanted).

Her method of choice had been poison. It was a refined woman’s weapon, she’d told you. One moment, her husband was alive and well, sitting down to dinner with his family. The next moment, he was choking on his food, turning all shades of blue and purple, until he was gone.

No one seemed to care. There was no investigation, no arrests made in the case.

The royal guards were thrilled when they heard he’d kicked the bucket. They’d been after him for years and years to no avail.

What they never anticipated, though, was his wife picking up where he left off.

Not that anyone suspected her. No, never her, with her fancy outfits and ladylike mannerisms. She would never be that way, they said. She was the real victim here, they said.

The moment she recounted her story to you, it struck you that she’d probably killed your father, too. He must have known too much, must have seen something incriminating.

She’d simply needed him for a new name and a cover story.

And now she needed you to clean up after her and her two daughters.

Every time they had a new job, they’d take up the entire dining room table. Blueprints of buildings and timelines and everything they needed, including weapons and tactical gear, were always laid out as they checked things off their lists.

It always started the same:

Know your mark.

Prepare a plan.

Execute the plan.

Clean up.

That last one was always your job. They’d even nicknamed you Cinderella just to piss you off, after you’d come back from a job covered in soot from a  fireplace.

You had no experience with an actual heist, but you were skilled at removing any evidence. If you slipped up, one of them would kill you. If you refused to comply, you were dead.

There was no way out.

The one time you’d tried to run away, you’d tripped their security system (that they purposefully didn’t tell you about), and they’d dragged you back, locking you in the attic. That’s where you’d been living ever since, alone with your thoughts and misery.

You leaned back against the cold wall that served as the headboard to your bed, your breathing finally evening out.

Clean up…what a joke. Getting rid of fingerprints, evidence, sometimes even blood…you weren’t meant for this life. You longed for the days where magic was still in the air, and your parents were protecting you.

There was no magic in this world, not any longer. It was a bleak existence, indeed.

You heard your phone’s alarm go off at half past three.

“Time to start another day,” you muttered, slowly throwing off your threadbare covers and stretching your arms and legs. You grabbed your change of clothing and made your way to the guest bath downstairs.

“You’re late, Y/N,” your stepmother snapped. She was leaning over photographs that must have been from Drisella’s reconnaissance mission, tapping her finger urgently. “We have a new mark.”

“Useless Cinderella,” Anastasia added with an exaggerated eye roll. “You had better not slip up! We need this job.”

“I won’t,” you told her calmly. It was mornings like this that made you keep your mother’s words in your head; have courage and be kind. Even if they don’t deserve it in this case, you were still inclined to listen. “What’s the mark?”

“There’s a home not far from the hunting grounds, the one made of brick with the little blue shutters,” your stepmother began, shuffling some of the pictures around. “This one.”

You peered over, recognizing it immediately. “I’ve seen it before. What do they have?”

She looked up at you with her icy glare. “Our client is in desperate want of a very precious, very rare coin that the owner of this house keeps locked away.”

“Won’t that draw suspicion when the client takes it to the buyer?” you asked.

Didn’t people ever learn? You always get caught trying to resell the rare items.

Stepmother waved a hand at you. “That is none of our concern. We are simply going to retrieve and…reallocate the item.”

“Fine,” you said impatiently, biting your lip to stop from being snarky. Be kind, you reminded yourself. “Who is going in first?”

“Anastasia is. You will be her secondary.”

Your eyes widened. “I’ve never – I’m not ready for that. I just do cleanup!”

“You’re her secondary, Y/N. Do not make me repeat myself for a third time.”

You looked down at the pictures, your stomach churning. “Yes, Stepmother.”

“Good.” She righted herself and motioned for you to follow her. “Anastasia is waiting. The two of you will go on foot.”

“Won’t our tracks be fresh, then?”

“That’s your job to worry about, not mine.”

Your eyes met Anastasia’s as you walked into the foyer behind your stepmother.

“You ready, Cinderella?” she asked with an evil grin. “If you screw this up, Mother says I get to kill you myself.”

You ignored her and looked down at the gear you had to put on.

Your main pieces tonight were night vision glasses that were way too worn out for the sort of precision you needed, a harness with a grappling hook in case you needed to scale the side of the house for a quick exit, and of course, your earpiece for communication with your nutjob stepsister.

You snapped your gloves on and pulled your hat further down over your ears. With a nod, Anastasia pushed the front door open, and you followed close behind.

Have courage, you chanted in your head, over and over again. The kindness part wasn’t applicable this time, because it wasn’t kind to steal. It made you feel dirty and unkind...it made your heart ache.

So instead of focusing on that, you just kept up your mantra. Have courage…have courage…have courage…

“Y/N, you had better move a little faster,” Anastasia hissed.

She secured the coin from a downstairs den, where it had been nestled in a fire-proof safe. You replaced the real coin with a fake, and with your black light you retraced your footsteps, wiping the room for any prints or hair or anything that might give you up.

“Come on!”

You shoved the light into your pack and slid out the window, closing it behind you as quietly as possible. Since the house was only two stories, you were able to climb down a bit further before you could jump to the ground. You landed as nimbly as a cat, immediately bolting for the cover of the trees.

“Out of sight,” you whispered to Anastasia via your earpiece. That was the code phrase to let her know you were done.

“Out of mind,” she replied coolly. You knew she didn’t care if you made it back okay. She had the coin secured in her backpack. She was probably halfway home by now.

You knelt down near a large oak tree, shoving your earpiece and the rest of your gear into your bag. The hat and gloves followed, since it wasn’t a cold night by any means and you didn’t want to raise anymore suspicion than you already would if someone found you.

When you stood back up, you turned around to head back home, and nearly ran into someone.

Good timing, you thought to yourself, trying to hide your nervousness.

“Excuse me, Miss,” a deep voice apologized. You squinted and made out the figure of a man in front of you. “I’m sorry for frightening you. But I have to ask, what are you doing in the woods before dawn?”

You stared at him, heat rising in your cheeks.  “I’m very sorry for nearly running into you, Sir. I’m out for a walk to clear my head. I’ve had a nightmare, and couldn’t fall back to sleep.”

His beautiful blue-grey eyes glinted with sympathy as he came a little closer, errant beams of moonlight shining on his features. “Ah, we’re out here for the same reasons then.” He motioned for you to walk, and quickly fell into step beside you. “What do they call you?”

“Never mind what they call me,” you replied softly, looking away from him. He was almost too beautiful to be real.

Each step you took was hesitant, because you knew you had to get back. You weren’t quite ready for farewell, though. There was something about him…

“You shouldn’t be this deep in the woods alone, especially at this late hour.”

“I’m not alone, I’m with you,Mister -?” You realized that you hadn’t caught his name, either. “What do they call you?”

The stranger chuckled. “You don’t know who I am? That is, they call me Bucky. Well, my father does, when he’s in a good mood.”

“And where do you live, Bucky?” You gave him a side-glance, knowing that if Anastasia saw you right now, she’d definitely squeal to her mother. You hoped she was home already.

“At the palace. I, um, I’m taking after my father, I guess you could say.”

Your eyes widened. “Oh, are you both in the King’s guard? That’s amazing.”

Bucky gave you a genuine smile. “Something like that.”

“Do they treat you well?” you asked, your voice uncertain. “That’s not why you have nightmares, right?”

“I’m treated well, better than I deserve, most likely. My nightmares are somewhat related, but not entirely.”

You knew he didn’t want to speak about them any longer, so you stopped your line of questioning.

“Are you treated well?” he asked gently.

You wanted to scoff, to tell him no, to beg him to bring his fellow guards and save you from your nightmares, but your mother’s mantra echoed in your head again. “They treat me as well as they’re able.”

“I’m sorry.” His brows furrowed in concern. “I highly doubt you deserve that.”

“I just try to have courage and be kind,” you told him, attempting to smile.

He was about to reply when a tall man dressed as a King’s guard stepped in front of you both.

“There you are, Pri-“

“Bucky!” he called out loudly. “Yes, here I am! Give me a minute, I’m right behind you.”

“Oh, no,” you said with a small smirk. “Looks like your fellow guard has discovered you at this early hour.”

He turned back to you with his own sheepish grin. “I’m afraid so.” Bucky took a step backwards, away from you. “I hope to see you again, Miss.”

“And I, you.” You gave him a nod and a wave, and then turned to walk the edge of the woods, back towards your home. You checked your watch, groaning to yourself when you realized how long you’d taken with Bucky.

If you weren’t home in five minutes or less, there would be hell to pay.

Part 2

no tags because it’s a re-post from December 5th, 2016. I am moving it from another blog. It was probably the second thing I ever wrote for this fandom so please forgive me in advance.

[collecting-stories]

In the Hallway | John Shelby

would you be able to do something around the reader and John being married and the reader is in the room when Tommy reveals the police are coming for them (end of S3) and just like, something cute where John tries to reassure the reader that everything will be okay? You’re an unbelievably talented writer!

In The Hallway | John Shelby

You were the first one to leave the room. You didn’t want to embarrass yourself in front of the rest of the family so you stood, with some difficulty due to your being nearly seven months along with another baby, and headed for the door. It slammed behind you and you walked down the hall, rounding a corner and collapsing on the floor in tears. Tommy had called everyone for a family meeting and, while you had been reluctant to go, John had insisted. “Everyone means everyone”.

Now there was nothing you regretted more than stepping into that room. You wished there was some way that you could rewind time, just stay in bed this morning with your husband and not bother getting up. You had walked into that room expecting the usual boring meeting, instead you were met with Tommy’s cold stare and the announcement that the police were coming for his family. For his brothers. For John.  

“There you are, are you alright?” John sat beside you, carefully pulling you against him so that he was cradling your upper body. “Tommy says to be careful of the baby.”

“Fuck Tommy, he can go to hell.” You replied bitterly. You recognized the calming tone of John’s voice. This was the John that told you he was going to war or going off to London for business. This was the John that tried to convince you everything was going to be okay or better even. This was the John that was trying to convince himself of the same thing.  

“It’s gonna be alright, Tommy knows what he’s doing.”  

“I can’t do this again.” You admitted.  

That was the first thought that came to mind when Tommy broke the news of the impending arrests. You couldn’t do this again. You couldn’t say goodbye to John not knowing if he would be back. You couldn’t chance him not returning to you, or returning as a stranger. The war had been hard on both of you. It all felt too similar. You’d been pregnant the last time he left and had fallen ill during the last month of your pregnancy. The baby died three weeks after it was born and everyone, the children and Polly and even Finn, had been sworn to secrecy. You had never told John that you lost a baby or even that you were pregnant.  

All you could think of was that time. Then there had only been two children to worry over. Now there were six and one on the way. What if you got sick again, what if the stress weakened you too greatly? The doctor had told you that you were susceptible to another bout of illness if you weren’t careful.  

“It won’t be so long this time. Tommy knows what he’s doing. He’ll get us out and I’ll come home to you and the kids.” John replied, repeating a phrase that he had engrained in his head.  

Tommy knows what he’s doing. It was a favorite among the brothers. If anything ever called sanity or reason into question then they were sure to repeat that line like a mantra. Tommy knows what he’s doing. It could be substituted with “Tommy’s doing what’s best” or “Tommy’ll get us out of this.”  

“John…”

“Listen, I know it’s scary right now but it’s not forever. I came home from France didn’t I? I’ll come home from this too. I just need you to hold on and trust me.”  

“It’s not you that I don’t trust.” You replied.

“Please, it’s out of my hands. I can’t change this.”

“I know you can’t. And I’ll be here when you get out John, but that doesn’t change the way I’m feeling right now. I’m scared, the war was so hard and you were gone so long, every day I woke up and I prepared myself for the possibility that you wouldn’t come home. And I can’t do that again. I can’t wake up afraid that something with happen to you in prison and I can’t go to bed worn down from children and work.” You stated.  

“Linda’s here and Finn, they’ll not leave you alone. We’re Shelbys, we’ll be okay. And this won’t be like the war. I won’t let anything happen to me in there. Arthur’ll be there with me. We’ll be out before this one.” John promised, laying a hand on your stomach.  

You placed your hand over his and closed your eyes, trying to calm your breathing. “When are they coming?” You had left the room so quickly that you hadn’t heard any more information. All you knew was that Tommy had turned his family over to be arrested.  

“Soon.” John replied, he couldn’t say for certain but he knew that the time he had left with you was limited. “I don’t want the kids knowing where I’ve gone.”  

“I can’t keep that from them. At least not Katie and Will.”

John sighed and leaned his head against the wall. He was still holding you and his hand was gently rubbing your stomach, trying to calm you down. He couldn’t tell you that he was upset with his brother. He couldn’t say that he wanted to cry when Tommy delivered the news to them. John knew he had to be strong for you, put on a brave face and make sure that you would be alright through this. He didn’t want you sick again. 

No one had told him about the baby you’d lost. Polly and Finn had kept their word to you not to say anything, even Katie and Will were unbreakable in their silence. But John had known before he left that you were pregnant. He had seen the slight changes, the same ones that had manifested when you were expecting Katie and Will. His suspicions had been confirmed when he found a letter in hidden in a drawer in the kitchen that you’d been intending to send when he was deployed. You’d never sent it and he’d known then that you’d lost one. 

He never said anything to you about the baby because he understood why you had remained silent on the topic. You didn’t want to add to his troubles. You wanted to keep this one thing away so that there was still some balance of hope and happiness within the small family. He didn’t to remind you of something that you had four years of distractions to forget. So he let you decide when you were ready to have another with him and he never told you that he knew. 

“I love you,” John said, “and I know you’ll be okay. You’re so strong and I know that you’ll see this through. There’s nothing in this world that could keep me from coming home to you.”

“I love you too John.” You replied.  

“We’ll ride this out, same as before, and when I come back this little one will be healthy and strong just like her mum.” He leaned down and placed a kiss over your stomach.  

“How do you know it’ll be a girl? Might be a boy.” You couldn’t help but laugh as you asked.

“Whatever it is, they’re ours.”

Is this comforting fluff…it feels a little too sad. 

[abrahamwebster]

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Reiki Healing Johannesburg

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