#give him sepsis and severe scars

[acowardinmordor]

We should give Steve sepsis more often. Saves Eddie. Hospital busy. Used to walking off injuries. Hasn’t stopped to peel off the bandages because it hurts and touching it will hurt more. Nothing malign. He’s not kept from a doctor. It’s just a crazy day or two, and he’s stuck in guardian mode. He’s a little hazy and his entire body hurts and he’s sweating and breathing too fast, but hey, panic attacks do that, and he’s earned a bit of a freak out after all of this.

So it’s not until relief nurses arrive from nearby, and one of them actually turns to look at the kid guarding the wanted murderer that they see it.

[meetinginsamarra]

mayprompts2024, #25 intuition

White Pony Tattoo - Part Five (intuition)

Sherlock took a sip of his tea and John felt a wave of jealousy for the teacup that was embraced by this perfect cupid’s bow of Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock swallowed and John mirrored the movement subconsciously, fascinated by Sherlock’s bobbing Adam’s apple.

He’s far too beautiful to concentrate, John sighed internally, how will I even survive getting tattooed by him, with his hands all over me? Well, all over my arm at least. But he will be so close. I’ve never met a person who at the same time is such a seductive menace and an annoying dick. Seems like he’s just my type, dear me.

“So,” Sherlock stood up again, unable to contain his excited energy about explaining his deduction, “how did I know?”

“I’m all ears, oh great Meastro.”

Sherlock flashed John an amused smile.

“When I first saw you, you had pulled off your jumper and were looking with disdain at the Virgin Mary tattoo on your upper arm. It sports the face of a real woman, your ex-wife apparently because of the marks on your ringfinger where your wedding band had been. Ergo she left and betrayed you and you’ll be divorced soon and want to eradicate every memory of her.”

“Okay, I get this. But the soldier? Getting shot and surviving in Afghanistan?”

“Your whole stance and demeanour screamed ‘military’. You still cut your own hair in short military style. Scar tissue on your shoulder peeked out under your vest. You’re not shy about showing off your naked arms but hate the scar. I’ve done a lot of research on skin and also cover-ups. I know a gunshot wound when I see one, one that got severely infected by bacteria and you survived sepsis. The skin is badly healed, so a quick emergency job. There are tiny spots of sun damage on the skin of your neck, they are fading but still visible. Ergo, you’ve been in a hot country with a war going on and got shot not very long ago where the British have fought, so soldier in Afghanistan or Iraq.”

“Amazing!”

“You think so?”

“Sure. What about the doctor part? Intuition?”

Sherlock snorted. “No. I don’t deal in intuition. I knew you were a doctor already, even before we talked about achieving perfection in our respective trades.”

“How so?”

“The position of getting shot in your back while you were kneeling. Exit wound is on chest, causing an intermittant tremor in your hand. You hate the scar tissue on your shoulder, you conceal it as it insults your ideals as a doctor. Only a doctor would have scrutinized my frontroom for cleanliness like you did. You saw the flyers about proper hygiene and skin care after getting a tattoo. You appreciated the skin care products I sell in this shelf here, obviously acquainted with them and knowing they’re the best you can get.

Also, a doctor because it’s the only logical reason why you should have been kneeling and bent over in such an unusual angle, so helping a comrade wounded in action. You wouldn’t have been distracted otherwise and missed the shooter because you automatically scanned the shop for any possible dangers when you entered and subconsciously stand at attention when you have to face a perilous task…”

“Perilous task as in getting you to tattoo me?” John intterrupted with a grin.

“Obviously, do keep up, John! You loved being a soldier and wanted the happy memory erasing the one of your ex-wife. You’re attracted to dangerous situations and people, they make you feel alive. Final conclusion, you wanted a soldier in full combat gear for a cover-up.”

“Holy Christ, you’re spot-on.”

Sherlock beamed, not hiding being very satisfied with himself.

“And are you?” John continued.

“What?”

“Dangerous to me?”

“Of course, I am. Firstly, I’ll come at you with a loaded gun…”

“…a tattoo gun…”

“…that still can cause a lot of pain and damage to your skin if wielded incorrectly.”

“I’ll give you that. And secondly?” John asked and took a sip out of his cup.

“Secondly, you find me dangerously attractive.”

John spat some tea onto the coffee table.

+++++

tagging some people @totallysilvergirl @peageetibbs @lisbeth-kk  @raina-at @calaisreno

[chxrrylime]

if you’re still looking for requests could i please ask for smutshot of price w power bottom m!reader and price being a subby hubby just an absolute simp for reader like the kind of simping that he’d kneel before him if asked, he worships the ground his husband walks upon and obviously worships his body during the dirty, please just.. i’ve got a thing for big, strong and capable men kneeling at the feet of their partner, it’s a dynamic that got me by the fucking throat— thank 🫶

This got out of control honestly... it's kind of sad so I apologize for that. Hope you enjoy either way!

Price x M!Reader ↪ 1844 words — 18+ / SMUT & ANGST.

Content tags — cis male power bottom (combat medic) reader, cis male service top/dominant Price, unsafe sex, referenced/implied Ghost x Soap, crying, hospitals, description of injuries, referenced/implied character death, established relationship, penetrative sex, anal sex, fingering, oral sex, hand jobs, semi-public sex, tantric sex, body worship, probably inaccurate medical stuff. 

Soap’s stuck in the infirmary. Unconscious half the time and miserable. Fucking sepsis, blood poisoning, from toxic shock—some gas he inhaled too much of when his mask got shattered in CQC. Idiot didn’t remember the wet cloth advice you’d given him, obviously. You have nurses on shifts giving him blood transfusions every hour on the dot. The bloody bastard hates needles.

Ghost won’t leave his side—not since you told him the mortality rate for sepsis is anywhere from 30% to 50%. You had to pull the shrapnel from his leg and ribs while he sat in the bedside chair, hand twitching on the bed like he was keeping himself from grabbing for Johnny.

Gaz is the most well off. Just a nasty concussion from having his shit rocked by a juggernaut, though you still had to sit and check him over for wounds with how he was caked in mud and still high on adrenaline. He was more than happy to go take a hot shower and collapse into a medical bed (softer than the quarter’s beds) to let the nurses watch over him.

Price hasn’t spoken to you outside of barking orders since he pulled Soap heaving and choking out of the helo, Gaz barely supporting Ghost’s limping weight behind him. Since then you’ve caught glimpses of him moving around the infirmary like a shadow, watching over his team but never sticking around long once you catch his eye. 

He had a gash on his forehead leaking blood into his eye when he got off that helicopter. It was stitched up by the time you saw him again. You could tell from the shoddy craftsmanship that he did it himself, probably in one of the bathroom mirrors.

You gently swipe your thumb over it now, as he stands in front of you, looming ever so slightly. He winces at the sting, but doesn’t move away. You’re frowning, staring at the scar, and he won’t stop looking at you.

“I wouldn’t have changed your orders,” he says, voice firm.

“John—” you huff out, eyes rolling.

“Not for any of them.”

He’d made you stay. For the first time since you’d join the task force as the combat medic, he’d made you sit this mission out. Because it was too dangerous he’d said. Well, that was the bloody point, wasn’t it? If you’d been there you could’ve treated the sepsis earlier, reduced the severity, or you could’ve patched Ghost up properly so he wouldn’t have lost so much fucking blood, half-dazed as he was in that chair. Christ, you could've at least have given Gaz some ibuprofen, the poor fuck.

But Price made you stay.

“You would’ve been killed,” Price says, sounding almost offended as you glare at him.

“I would’ve been hurt, like them, but they’d be better off. That’s my job, Captain.”

The vitriol behind the title has Price caught off guard. You only ever call him by rank in private moments like this lightheartedly. 

“You almost got Johnny killed,” you whisper, and Price’s eyes squeeze close for a mere moment. When he opens them again he’s not looking at you anymore. He takes your hands in his and stares at them instead.

“I don’t want to argue,” he says, sounding so soft. So defeated. 

You don’t need an apology, or an admittance. You know that tone is as good as it gets with him, pride wounded as it is. Heart too. He knows he made a bad call, and yet you know he still wouldn’t have changed it. Not if it met sacrificing you.

“Hey,” you murmur, cupping his cheek to get him to look back up at you. The two of you stare into each other’s eyes for a short moment, searching. You don’t find anything other than blue. His eyes flutter shut and he leans in to kiss you. So, so soft. Chaste, almost, and slow. 

You know what he needs. What you both need.

You move your hand from his cheek to his short hair, petting him lovingly, encouragingly. He trails gentle kisses to the corner of your lips, your cheek and jawline, down to your throat and shoulder.

"Kneel," you whisper.

He lowers slowly with a low groan, knees resting carefully on the fatigue mat beneath you, looking like he’s about to pray. His head is level with your stomach, and he buries his face against the softness there. Both your hands comb gently through his hair now, nails scratching at his scalp, his noise of contentment so deep and rumbly like a purr.

His thick arms move from wrapped around your waist, loosening so he can glide his big hands up and down your legs, spreading wide over your thighs and squeezing before he leans back enough to unbutton your fatigue pants and zip them down.

He lowers to nuzzle against your bulge, pressing kisses through your boxers until he can feel you half hard and twitching beneath his lips. Your soft, rattling breaths above him make him content, humming and sending soft vibrations through your crotch. 

You lean back against the desk behind you, ass perched on the edge of it. You fumble through the drawers as he frees your cock and takes into his hot, wet mouth with another hum. You moan, fingers wrapping around a half-empty tube of lube that you set into his waiting hand.

He so slowly bobs up and down your prick, eyes caught between staring up at you half-lidded and fluttering shut in focus. He doesn’t even have his hands on you, both of them working open the lube with a click before squirting some onto his fingers. You push your pants further down your legs, careful not to jostle him, allowing him the access he works towards.

His thick fingers tease between your cheeks and against your hole. He stops moving his head, just acting as a gentle suction as he works the first slick digit into you. You moan softly, aware you’re still both in the infirmary—in your office, sure, but it’s thin glass and drawn blinds separating you from your nursing staff.

He pulls off of you completely, the cold air of the room causing you to gasp as his saliva rapidly cools around your cock. He sucks kisses into the fat of your thighs, nuzzling his furry cheek against you like an affectionate cat whenever he gets the chance. 

He slips a second finger into you, the angle too awkward for him to focus on your prostate, but pleasurable nonetheless, the feeling of being filled. The stretch feels good, grounds you like your groans do to him. Remind him he’s alive after the day he’s had, that he’s living and breathing and you’re still a warm body waiting for him to come home.

“Where do you want me?” you ask lowly, getting impatient. You can feel his smile against your thigh before he looks up at you, scans the office a bit before slipping his fingers free.

You let out a soft breath at the emptiness as he stands, his hands, one still slick, resting on your hips as he kisses you slow and deep, tongue licking into your mouth to explore. You moan around him, sucking on the intruding muscle. 

He helps you to kick the rest of your pants off before lifting you ever so slightly further onto the desk, and you don’t miss the way he winces. You break the kiss, eyeing him warily.

“Don’t—” he starts.

“Take your shirt off,” you cut him off, already pulling on the hem. He sighs, raising his arms with a grunt so you can slip it off and over his head.

He’s got bandages wrapped around his upper chest, looping over his shoulder. The center of the cloth is stained a light pink from what blood still waits to clot. You let a breath out through your nose, hands so gently skating over the covered plains of his chest.

“I didn’t want to worry you,” he rumbles, pressing closer, picking your legs up to wrap them around his wide waist as your crotches grind slowly against each other. You are worried, but the blood doesn’t leave the south. 

“Who fixed you?” You ask, and Price sighs again.

“Love—”

“Who?”

“Monroe, I think.”

You nod approvingly. You trust Monroe, he knows what he’s doing. There’s no point in arguing, not when Price is pulling his cock free, hanging heavy, blood flow not enough to keep it tall and proud like usual. He strokes himself a few times with his lubed hand, pressing the tip to your pucker and rubbing as he kisses you again. 

You want to cry, want to pull him close and never let him leave again. You want to tie yourself to him so he can’t go without you again. You wish you outranked him or, something, something. You know it’s too much for you to ask for him to be safe, but you wish he’d let you be there to keep him safe. That’s your entire goddamn job.

He can feel how tense you’re getting, hole resisting against him trying to slide in, your arms tight around his neck. He kisses the corner of your mouth, and realizes at the taste of bitter salt that you’re crying. 

“Breathe for me, love,” he swipes his thumb across your cheek and trails soft kisses along your neck.

You do so, and he slips into you on the exhale, making you moan and cling tighter to him. 

“You’re okay,” he murmurs, holding you close to him as he slowly rocks his hips, making you whimper, “I love you,” he says, and you sob.

“Love you—love you,” you say back, rambling, rocking your hips down onto his cock as he slowly takes you apart. Neither of you are going to last long, not with how pent up you both are, and the heartstring vibrating between you two—deep, deep connection.

"Harder," you growl, and he complies with only the slightest hesitation, hips slamming into you.

You pant against each other’s mouths, breathing each other’s air. He smells like smoke and lavender and whiskey and a fire in the summer and it feels like coming home. 

His big hand wraps around your dick, pumping you in time with his thrusts. It doesn’t take long for him to get you there, his thick cock grinding so perfectly against your prostate. You cum, wet hot splatters onto his stomach and dribbles down his fist. 

You clench so tight around him, flexing in waves around his cock. He groans so loud as he cums, grabbing the back of your head to pull you into a heated kiss, desperate and heavy as he fills you up, makes your insides all warm and sticky.

You whimper against his mouth, the two of you breaking free for air, catching your breaths. His head is on your shoulder and you try not to think about how his shoulders are shaking as you pet through his hair, the two of you still connected.

You’ll both be okay.

[wolfeyedwitch]

And Still, Part 19

COMFORT

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13, Part 14, Part 15, Part 16, Part 17, Part 18

Masterlist

Devin’s strange focus, the attention to all the wrong details that kept him from completely losing his mind, lasted until the hospital staff wheeled Lynnura away, shouting out orders and status reports as they disappeared through a set of doors.

Abruptly, he felt exhausted. The last few days— all that had happened, all that he learned and all the things he had to unlearn, to change his view on— were pressing down on him, and his knees felt like they couldn’t support his weight.

A nurse came over to him with a wheelchair. “Sir, we can treat you now.”

He shook his head, not wanting to get out of sight from Morgan, Blaire, and Avery, somehow convinced that if he took his eyes off them, they would disappear forever. “No, I’m fine, I don’t need treatment.”

The nurse looked politely skeptical. Blaire urged him forward. “Go on, get checked out. We’ll be right here.”

“Wait,” he said, remembering something. “I’m a minor, I don’t have a guardian present, don’t call him, he can’t—”

The nurse shushed him gently. “That’s okay, we can get that all sorted out.”

Devin looked between the nurse and Morgan and Blaire. “You called the lawyers, right? Do they have something I can sign, to give you permission to make medical decisions for me or something?”

“Medical power of attorney,” Morgan said.

Blaire nodded. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll get this all sorted out.”

Avery was just looking at the doors Lyn had been wheeled through, not seeing anything else. Devin could see the staff eyeing her warily; no doubt at least some of them knew who she was from the hero and villain gossip magazines.

“Avery,” Devin said gently. Her head whipped towards him, eyes still too wide and face too pale. “Can I give you a hug?”

She blinked uncomprehendingly before finally nodding. He hugged her tightly; she returned the hug gently, avoiding all the injuries that littered his torso.

Devin turned to the nurse. “Okay. Now I can go.”

The nurse looked between him and his companions several times, before finally wheeling Devin off to get treated.

The doctors and nurses were all brusque but kind. They noted all the injuries he had, and for the most part, they couldn’t do any more for them than Avery already had. They adjusted the wrapping on his ribs, saying that he had to make sure to breathe fully to prevent pneumonia from setting in, and gave him some medications.

They also photographed him, for some reason. They took pictures of his current injuries, as well as all the burn scars Marcus had left. When asked about them, Devin answered truthfully: his guardian, the pyrokinetic hero he had been apprenticed to, had been abusing him.

All the scrutiny made Devin want to camouflage, to get away from all their eyes on him. He forced himself to stay still and undergo the examination through sheer willpower.

Eventually, Devin was brought back to the waiting room where he was reunited with Morgan and Blaire.

Avery was nowhere in sight. Apparently, both City Police and Heroes League officials had come to take her into custody. Blaire was furiously contacting lawyers for her.

Another Heroes League official came for Devin, eventually. He left with a promise that it would be okay and a slip of paper with both Morgan and Blaire’s phone numbers written on it.

---

None of them would learn until much later what had happened with Lynnura. She had been taken to surgery to remove the bullet still lodged in her guts and repair what damage could be repaired.

The bullet had shredded her large and small intestine and nicked her kidney before finally coming to rest next to her spine. Getting it out was the easy part. Repairing the damage was much harder. The heroine lost a lot of blood to internal bleeding and had to be on a high strength course of antibiotics to prevent sepsis.

All of this was compounded by the damage her time in solitary confinement had caused. Lynnura’s immune system wasn’t at its best, and her adrenal and thyroid functions were what medical professionals would call “a mess”.

On top of that, she was also suffering from mild malnutrition, and had an infection in her mouth from an extracted tooth.

The doctors had their work cut out for them.

---

With the three heroes (well, three individuals with powers, as one was an apprentice and one was currently classified as a villain) gone, Blaire and Morgan turned to what they could accomplish to improve the situation. They had money and they had contacts, and were willing to throw all of it into the effort to help these three superpowered messes that they had come to care about.

Blaire contacted the best law firms they knew, trying to find ones that would best suit the situation. They ended up with a small team of lawyers working for them: one to help Devin in his attempts to get away from Marcus, one to advise Avery on her legal case with Heroes League, and one to work with Lynnura to clear Avery of the suspicion that she had kidnapped or otherwise harmed the heroine, as well as a small army of paralegals working behind the scenes. Blaire also hired a PR team for Avery, to help the public see her as a victim of circumstance rather than a villain.

Morgan dug up all of their research and information from Corporation: all of the files on the human experimentation, the long captivity of Asset 541, the unethical and illegal trials and methods used. They had to get a lawyer for themself as well, to help them navigate the treacherous waters of being a whistleblower.

It was a slow process, but it was all they could do.

---

Eventually, the truth of the matter came to light. The public came to know Avery as an awkward but lovable mess with a tragic backstory. The forbidden love angle between her and Lynnura didn’t hurt their public image, either.

Devin was able to gain the status of an emancipated minor. He no longer had to worry about being entirely dependent upon a guardian who might not have his best interests at heart.

Morgan became a controversial figure: some thought them brave for speaking out against Corporation, while others thought they should have spoken up sooner or not worked for Corporation at all.

And Lynnura? After making a full recovery, she was welcomed back to Heroes League, where the more senior heroes finally started listening to her. She became their poster child, the face of the organization, and started pushing for the heroes to be more independent and less swayed by corporate bribery.

She took her first apprentice, a young mimic who needed someone to believe in him. Devin, of course.

They might all be scarred from their past, but they were healing. Avery might never be fully comfortable inside traditional buildings, but she was able to make more trips into the city to speak to the press and spend time with heroes. Devin would always carry scars from the abuse he suffered, but he was becoming more confident in himself and his abilities, both with his powers and with general social norms. Lynnura had a new-found fear of solitude and enclosed spaces, but she still worked to improve herself and her city.

They were all hurt, and still they were willing to try.

@heathenville @nonbinary-disaster @kim-poce @whump-world @dolls-circus @pickleking8

[prurientpuddlejumper]

Burned Chilton Research

After chatting about Chilton’s post-canon recovery the other day, I thought I’d make a fact-sharing post for everyone, because I’ve done enough research that Google thinks I’m a nurse now 🙃 

Feel free to use, ignore, or take liberties with this in your own Crispy Chilton HCs & fics (you know I have). Also I am not a medical professional in any sense so if you are, and some of this is wrong, please correct me!! 

The fact that he was conscious and talking immediately after being brought to the hospital is actually realistic, but his condition will deteriorate rapidly. It’s highly likely that he would die within hours or days of seeming “fine.”

That’s for two main reasons: 

Dehydration & organ failure: Being burned causes a huge amount of fluid loss, blood pressure crashes, and stress to organs. His single kidney is not happy. 

Infection: His entire body is a gaping wound with nothing to prevent bacteria entering the bloodstream. Most severe burn victims die from sepsis. 

Treatment will include:

Paralytic drugs to keep him immobile and unconscious. Because one: he’s in unimaginable pain, and two: any movement could rip his own skin off. He may be unconscious for several months. 

Rehydrating him with IV fluids. This is a surprisingly gristly part of the process, because he needs fluids to keep his blood pressure stable and prevent extreme dehydration from causing kidney failure, but giving too much fluid will cause him to swell up like a bloated cadaver floating downstream. The pressure can get so high, he’ll need to be intubated to breathe, and it can cut off circulation to extremities, leading to amputations or death.  

Escharotomy. Surgical incisions are made through the skin to relieve the pressure of swollen tissue and prevent compartment syndrome. 

Debriding his wounds (the removal of dead tissue). You know how Frederick’s facial features were still mostly intact? He still had a nose? That will probably change. There’s a good chance a lot of the structure of his nose is actually dead, and will need to be surgically removed. Because, you know, having rotting flesh attached to your face is bad.

Temporary grafts to act as bandages to close the wounds and keep bacteria out. Hannibal was slightly misleading, making it sound like his grafted skin would be permanent. “Allografts” with skin taken from donors (not your own body) are like getting an organ transplant. The body will reject it unless it’s close match and the immune system is suppressed with drugs. Since Frederick’s risk of infection is extremely high, immunosuppressants are off the table. The grafts he’s getting are basically band-aids made of cadaver skin. 

Blood transfusions. A lot of them. Like… a lot. 

Oxygen tank. Hannibal gets it right! He’ll be spending a lot of time in there to promote healing. 

Compression garments. After a few months, once his skin is healed enough to withstand the shearing of having elastic fabric rubbing against it, he’ll be fitted with compression gloves, a mask, and probably a full (crotchless) body suit. It basically looks like shapewear/Spanx. The compression helps scars heal flat, rather than growing outward. 

Physical therapy. Scars are not as flexible as skin, so he’ll need to do a lot of stretching exercises to get back some flexibility. His joints may not move. Even simple things like touching his face will be impossible at first. He’ll also do strength training to rebuild some muscle before he’s able to even try walking again, because he will have lost a significant amount of muscle mass. 

Corrective surgeries like Z-plastys to release tension around joints and allow his limbs and fingers to move. Having burn scars is essentially like having a too-tight cast around your whole body. Physical therapy and surgery are needed to regain movement.

His total in-patient hospital stay will take at least 6 months to over a year. Then he will start out-patient treatment, probably once a week at first, gradually getting more infrequent. He’ll have plenty of follow-up surgeries to continue correcting constricting scars.  

Additional concerns:

Hypertrophic scarring is when a scar is raised instead of staying flat to the skin. Sometimes the scars grow out of control. In burn victims, this can cause eyelids to seal shut, ear canals to get blocked, etc. Essentially, it makes your skin look like melted candle wax.

Eating & drinking. According to a real guy with no lips, he learned to tip his head back to keep things from falling back out. Please imagine Frederick eating like a seagull swallowing a fish. It also might be a long time before he can feed himself. He will have a feeding tube for much of his hospital stay. 

Drool? Yes. He can’t really help it. 

Face transplant. It takes a long time to find a perfect match because it has to be an aesthetic match not just an antibody match, and he’ll have to go on immunosuppressant drugs, but it’s the only way his face will look “normal” again, so I suspect Frederick will be on that waiting list!

Odds of survival: honestly less than one in a million. It’s one in a million for anybody to survive 3rd and 4th degree burns to over 90% of their body, and Frederick is already missing vital organs. But he’s immortal, so it’s OK.

Sources:

(Warning: Most links contain graphic images of burns/burn recovery)

https://nypost.com/2019/10/25/boston-doctors-perform-first-full-face-transplant-on-black-patient/  https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3924868/  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OR9hDQyR4Hc  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Turia_Pitt#Accident_and_later_life  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ljxWaB8Up1A  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7gA_a9FXIBo&t=2011s  https://time.com/5709294/first-african-american-face-transplant/ https://edmonton.ctvnews.ca/edmonton-man-burned-in-accident-nearly-10-years-ago-says-he-wouldn-t-change-a-thing-1.1117535 https://www.gq.com/story/richard-norris

[nebula-starlight]

Sepsis (Pt. 15: Their Weapon)

He was weary and seeing the stormy gray clouds overhead as he flew only confirmed the melancholy nestled in him. How long had he been out on his mission now? It had been months since he last saw Versila, always kept busy with being the Shield he was desired of by Magnus. To be without an active task made him feel sluggish and worn down but while on the hunt his mind and senses were razor sharp. They had to be in his line of work now. Hunting down those Corrupt that plagued their beautiful lands and ending them before they could spread their vile disease to innocent others. 

But even now, with only the cool damp breeze and the sounds of his own wingbeats to keep him company, he had little else to do other than reflect. Reflect on how his life had spiraled into the position he now was in. Far more than ever before he wished to have Igna in his life again. He had tried to find the tunnels he had fled from that fateful night, tried to find her broken body so he could at least give her a proper burial, but it had all been for naught. Searching the thickly overgrown woods had only left him with disappointment and a seething inner loathing that he couldn’t give the only friendly spirit he’d known for moons one simple act of kindness in return. She was like a mother to him deep in his soul. A comfort to him in the darkest nights when the dreams and past terrors threatened to consume him with their long claws of fear. 

There was no doubt he was happier now than he had been in his youth. He had Versila, had a job, and even held some measure of respect amongst the citizens of the Capital to his utter surprise. The repeated meetings with Magnus in private only served to further the feeling that he was on the right path for his life. Sure he seldom saw his beloved mate much between the lengthy searching for those Corrupt but she seemed to support his decision. After all, she had cried on the night he first told her of the position Magnus had offered to him. He’d thought at the time it was tears of happiness and delight but now… He scowled, gliding to another wind current that would hopefully lift him higher. 

Versila… Had he caught her sneaking medication when he wasn’t looking? It had just been a brief glimpse when he saw the bottle she hastily shoved deep into a drawer before kissing him as she left to go to her job. Why would she not bring up that she was ill to him? Did she not trust him? Surely whatever it was they could face it together as they always had since becoming joined in union. Perhaps if time allowed he would ask her about such things when he arrived home. He doubted Magnus would send him out again without a day or two of rest. 

Overall it was the end of a long task he was looking forward to as he finally caught sight over the vast rolling plains of their gleaming, towering Capital. He was so close to being back home he could almost taste it and the sight seemed to breathe fresh strength into his weary wings. Soon he would see her again and put to ease the doubts that had begin to nag at the back of his mind. 

Glancing at the few brave soldiers under his command who had survived and were accompanying him back, he gave his instructions with a silent nod. They had their lives to return to and, if needed, he would call for them each separately to provide details for the statement that was to be delivered to The Council. They flew in close formation, each a varying shade of gray or black depending on their level of exposure to Corruption save for him who had been made to be a weapon against the dark. Taking the lead, Nethreis guided them over the Capital, calling out with a bellow to those who guarded the outer walls of the high city. 

“The Shadowcrest return! No shoot!” 

Once he was assured they would not be attacked by those who did not recognize the armor or what it stood for, he circled around the grand city with his following troops before taking to the well cared grounds in front of The Council’s observatory skyrise. Nethreis landed first, wincing as he folded his weary wings against his side and turned to thank each member who had returned with him. There would be time to mourn those lost once the fight was well and truly won and he knew those under his command knew it likewise. 

“Each go and rest. I see to statement personally.” 

The older of his soldiers nodded in relief and took flight with warm wishes that it would be quick and uneventful while some of the newer, younger troops seemed unsure. His eyes scanned over theirs, seeing a mix of eager anticipation of rest and apprehension that he would still be in need of their services. 

“Be with yours. This is mine task.” He kept his voice gentle, trying to persuade them to trust his words and see to their own restful recovery following the long journey that had taken them months to complete. 

Even after the last of those under his command left he still stayed, watching long into the distance at the dim auburn hue of the sun’s fading light upon the thick clouds along the horizon. Perhaps his report could wait until morning to deliver? They had made excellent time in returning and his last correspondence with Magnus had ensured the Councilmember that they would be “arriving within a fortnight should Soleil bless them with strong winds.” That deadline was in fact in the morning and he was, quite frankly, exhausted from the return flight. Besides, Versila had to be missing him terribly and he longed for her so much… 

Making up his mind, he turned and started down the worn cobblestone towards the housing district of the city. A goodnight’s rest was very much owed him and he would gladly take it before relaying the news of their vast quest over the wild lands beyond the Capital. With any luck he’d surprise Versila as well and she would be overjoyed to welcome him safely home. 

—————

He looked around the messy interior of the house he had bought for them with the money he received from his promotion to being the leader of the Shadowcrest at Magnus’s proposal. She had never been one to let things go into such disarray before and it frightened him deep inside to think for just a moment that perhaps the home had been ransacked by street scum looking to make easy money. Growling, he shook his head, reminding himself that at one point his Versila was among those who roamed the Capital streets begging for food or shelter from the cold. 

Glancing again at the broken mirror overhead of the empty, burnt out fireplace, he twitched at the creak of wood from behind him. Turning, his eyes glowed as fire rose in his throat and the instinct of being ambushed by those tainted nearly overtook him before the source of the noise spoke up softly. 

“Oh, you came home. She’s not here. Hasn’t been for days now. But- But nothing is stolen or missing, Monsieur Shield.” Their neighbor, an elderly air spirit, stuttered from the open doorway into the house. 

Nethreis forced himself to relax, fire cooling even as his shoulders stiffened in alarm. Where was his beloved? Why would she just up and leave without telling anyone? Had she even told anyone? His crimson eyes blinked as he tried to reign his swirling thoughts in so he could hear if the old spirit chose to say more. When several minutes passed in awkward silence he realized that he was the one who needed to respond. 

“Thank… Does anyone know where went?” 

“No sir. Charlia even went to check with the Healers but she never reported to work either. I’m just lucky my wife happened to see you walking home.” 

So Versila hadn’t gone to work then… Work was her source of peace, he supposed. She’d said once that her working there was a way for her to atone for her sins but at the time he hadn’t understood what she meant. Even now he was uncertain but he quickly decided it might be wise if he went to the Healers personally to inquire. As much as he trusted Charlia and Atros, they were still common members of spirit society. 

“Appreciate tell.” He nodded, shifting uneasily as a plan started to form in his head of how best to go about getting information. Rest would have to wait for now until he knew more. 

“Don’t stress over it. If you want you can sleep at our place for the night. No offense but you look about ready to drop where you stand.” 

Nethreis ignored the remark, eyes flickering back to the shattered mirror again. Why break a mirror? Was there something in her reflection that Versila didn’t wish to see? She had never expressed a reservation about the mirror before that he could recall. Yet for some reason he kept glancing at the broken shards as though they held an important piece of the puzzle. 

“Monsieur Shield…?” 

Cold crimson eyes darted back to the old spirit with bitter disdain as for but a second the illusions faltered to show the orange scars along Nethreis’s dark scales. “Leave.” 

He didn’t bother to see if Atros obeyed the request or not, putting a forepaw to his chest in a moment of silent self reflection. If he could just find her or find where she might have gone… Maybe his distance had left her feeling hurt or abandoned? Naturally he never wanted her to feel that way but he had to follow the orders of The Council and Magnus. It was just like when he was out hunting down the Corrupt. He just had to find a strand to be able to track them down. Now he had to use that same technique to find his beloved and get answers. 

Sleep was no longer an option to him for the foreseeable future it seemed. He had far more pressing matters than allowing himself to relax now. And he wouldn’t stop until he knew the truth. 

—————

Going to see the Healers had not given him what he had expected to find. While it was true Versila had not checked in to work in several days, one younger member of the group had seen her the day before she stopped coming in and she had “seemed off.” He tried to ask for more clarification but was shooed away and told trying to question her would only complicate the current murder investigation underway. That was troubling news as killings simply were never openly talked about within cities. They still happened of course but almost immediately got swept under the rug by whoever the spirit ruling over that particular area was. 

But Nethreis was determined to know and so he decided to find out by questionable means. By which he took a seat outside and seemed to sink into the evening shadows, becoming as invisible as the approaching night so he could listen in without being in danger of being discovered. Truthfully it was a power he seldom used because extended, prolonged duration tired him out but with how dire things were he figured the risk of pushing himself further into exhaustion was well worth it. 

Luckily it didn’t take long for him to discover why it was so secretive. It wasn’t every day one of the Lead Healers went ballistic and murdered another in the same practice. He knew the levels of panic that would instill in the common citizens and quickly retreated from his shadowy hole that he’d been listening in. When he resurfaced it took him a moment to steady his breathing, the last bit of news he’d heard as he left hitting him in the chest just as sharp as a whip. His beloved was last seen fleeing in the night out of the city and out towards the mountains that rose to the north. 

He blinked, feeling hot, inky tears roll down his cheeks. It… It had to be wrong. Versila wasn’t like that. Surely something had to have happened for it to be… for her to… to… She wasn’t a killer! But what if it wasn’t her anymore? What if somehow she’d become infected? They’d said her color was starting to gray in spots and ke knew that as a sign of one exposed to Corruption. Finding her, even in the dead of night, had to be his single focus now. No matter how much his wings ached as he flared them and rose to his feet. She was a part of him and there was no mistaking the hollowness that felt like a weight tugging at his soul. Wherever she was, she needed him. 

Glowing irises surveyed the skies for a moment before he threw himself upwards into the air and immediately all thoughts ceased in his head. All except the realization it was a hunt and he very much enjoyed indulging in those with anewed sharpened senses. Magnus would be pleased if he got rid of another poisoned by the vile darkness. Relation didn’t matter in a hunt. It just got in the way of enjoying the satisfaction of killing. At least maybe this time he could bring back a trophy to remember later. 

As far as Nethreis Ignis comprehended things, he had his next task all without even having to be issued one by those greater in position than he. Surely Magnus would be delighted that he went to confront and subdue another potentially Corrupt entirely on his own. He had the Councilmember’s favor after all and that was vital to his reputation within the Capital. For now his flight would take him to the Northern Mountains no doubt where snow fell year round upon the lofty jagged peaks. Should her coloration still be mostly pristine ivory, tracking her would be somewhat challenging in the arctic terrain. A hunter never turned away from a hunt they believed themselves capable of winning. 

He forced his wings down, catching an uprising draft and began to ascend, screeching a challenge as far as his voice would carry. Their home would be free from the vileness of Corruption and he would make it so as his most sacred vow. None tainted should have a home within the gilded gates and now, with his hunt newly begun, he bellowed again a warning into the biting winds. If by chance she sought to return, whether innocent or not, she would need to pass by him first. The Capital’s Shield was his title and he wore it with the utmost pride a spirit of his caliber could. Relaxing his still weary muscles, he set his crimson sights on the white blanketed cliffs towering in the distance and flew onward in complete silence. 

[dumpster-of-the-lost-souls]

@tsukikoayanosuke

Hi I’m really sorry about pinging you like this but I wanted to let you know that your story Twisted Wonderland: Our Precious Treasure has inspired me somewhat to write my own thing of sorts and I wanted to hear your thoughts.

The Protagonist is Yuu Fechín who is 17 years old, 178 cm tall, and is very pale but muscular. Yuu hasn’t seen sunlight on a regular basis until he got to NRC. Short black hair that’s sort of “feathery” according to Grim. Very striking blue eyes.

Much more reserved and quiet when in comparison to Ace or Grim but still polite. Shrewd and observant. Has strong protective instincts. Versatile when it comes down to lodging and income, such as when Yuu has to bunk at Savanaclaw he deems the storage room acceptable. A good judge of character and can act similarly to an older or more mature sibling. Yuu is slow to anger most of the time and has excellent control over his temper but if you stomp on the right nerves he’ll be ready to snap your neck. If Azul had stepped on one more of Yuu’s nerves the next day’s headlines would have read: “Octopus Mob Boss found dead in Miami” when irritated has quite the sharp tounge

Meticulous when it comes to appearance and items, (his total amount of personal items is enough to fit in a duffel bag with room to spare) his posture is almost picture perfect. Wears these military-esque fingerless gloves to help him grip items.

When Yuu arrives at NRC he can only remember his name (Yuu Fechín) but the word geode is in his mind. The only thing aside from the ceremonial robe is a strange headpiece similar to the mic/earbud combo you see in theatres.

Yuu’s memories slowly return over the arcs. Heartslabyl causes the memories of his boss and her dedication to the people she chose to protect and her strict way of ruling them. Savanaclaw returned the memories of the wasteland and the Marauders who have turned on common decency and their fellow man in favor of self centered survival. Octavinelle returns the memories of the people trapped in deals that only end in misery and despair with the only possible escape being death and the weasels who duped them. Scarabia returns the memories of brotherhoods forged through blood, sweat, tears, and time, with allies that span the globe. Pomefiore reminds Yuu of the position he holds and the weight that comes with it. Ignihyde gives clarity by showing Yuu his home and how it got that way and just how much effort was put into rebuilding. Diasomnia gives the second to last chunk that Yuu’s home does have magic it’s not the same type but there is magic nonetheless. And the final piece of Yuu’s memory is that of his magic that fundamental part of who he is.

I didn’t have any specific characters that I twisted Yuu from but I think that fits considering that while Yuu has a connection with Twisted Wonderland through the friends he made while at NRC it’s not his home.

Yuu instead has a more broader theme around knights and chivalry. Since of all of the kids Yuu has the strongest moral compass he actually follows rather consistently. His weapon of choice being a rapier either metal or forged by magic. And is part of what is essentially the army having the rank equivalent to that of Lieutenant Colonel. If there are any characters Yuu can be tied closer too it would be The Black Knight from Monty Python and Weiss Schnee from Rwby. Though that’s mostly due to color schemes injuries and references.

Yuu can be incredibly blunt with his words to either your detriment or benefit. He can and will shoulder more then he can carry since that’s what his boss did and still does. When he fights it will be until either he falls unconscious or drops dead or he’s managed to drive off/kill whatever he’s fighting. Yuu is also stubborn as all hell it takes a lot for him to give up on something or to realize that he is in the wrong or something he believes in fundamentally is incorrect.

Added fun facts: 1) Yuu can barely cook and only manages due to following the directions perfectly. 2) Yuu’s hobby is ice skating. 3) Yuu wakes up at 5:00AM every morning and goes to bed at 10:00PM. 4) he loses his entire left forearm to sepsis which was caused by the arm being broken while he was strung up by rusted barbed wire. 5) has a fair amount of scars and gains several more when he fights Grim, then gets captured and tortured by Marauders and barely a week out of getting out of the hospital fights off a sea dragon and nearly shatters his own soul from the strain. 6) durning the fight with the sea dragon Yuu gets some rather nasty looking scars on the left side of his face. 7) he gets Leona to cooperate by singing “I know a song that gets on everybody’s nerves” for the entire night at the top of his lungs and almost tears his vocal cords doing so.

[angstymdzsthoughts]

Ignorance is a bliss

Imagine if “come to gusu with me” ends up with wwx passed out of exhaustion before he could reject the offer. Lwj did brought him to gusu and under the jurisdiction of the elders, after wwx is nursed back to health, his demonic cultivation must be sealed and he must received say maybe 15 lashes as punishment for straying off the righteous path before were sent to seclusion with lwj so that wwx will finally be ‘cleansed’. Wwx wasnt happy ofc but what he could do with his powers are sealed away? Now , 5 strokes of discipline whip may cause a cultivator bedridden for months, how about to a non cultivator ? It must affect them severely so that is why discipline whip can never be used to a non cultivator. Lwj was forced to a house arrest guarded by three disciples due to him trying to (forcefully) persuade the elders to not hurt wwx. Lwj never thought that the elders were so hell bent on punishing wwx , where he promised wwx that gusu will be his safe haven (oh lwj, ignorance is a bliss).

The elders of Lan assumed that wwx’s core is still intact but maybe diminished due to demotic cultivation. So they still proceeded with the punishment. But halfway through the session, wwx lose consciousness and healers were called to heal him so that they could finish the punishment.However, upon trying to heal him , the healers discovered that wwx does not have a golden core. Lxc was horrified and ultimately barked an order to bring wwx to the sect’s infirmary to put him to rest. Glaring at lqr and the elders , he told them if wwx did not survive the ordeal , they would have become a murderer.

Lwj was devastated on the state wwx in. Wwx had a bad fever due to infection despite how hard the healers were trying to use medication. Bandages were changed thrice a day to ensure the infection does not spread to other parts of body. Wwx never gained consciousness for 3 months. He was delirious in fever as his health rapidly declining over the days. Healers concluded that wwx may not he able to perform his daily routine without help as the whip has cause major backlash on his physical and mental health.

After a discussion, the lans decided to finally informed the jiang sects of the situation wwx was in. JC was on his way when wwx woke up. Wwx was in confusion and struggling to get out of his bed. Lxc and lwj had to restrain him to ensure he doesn’t hurt himself. The last thing wwx remembered that his back and legs were excruciating painful and people in white robes are the cause of it.Paranoia settles in him causing wwx to be on alert every second and never utter a single word after waking up, not even to lwj. For wwx, lwj has brought him to gusu because he hated wwx so much that he let those people hurt him. He was betrayed.

Although he was reluctant at first, he forced himself to eat to regained his strength and escape this hell. When the jc arrives at gusu with a group of disciples , lxc and the elders met them at the entrance leaving lwj and wwx alone at the room. Wwx for the first time spoke to lwj, requesting for a new change of robe. “I just dont want anyone to see me in this dirty robe” . Lwj acquiesced.

When lwj came back with new set of fresh robes and a basin of hot water , wwx was gone. Due to the envoy from Jiang sect , the entrance was not guarded as usual and wwx miraculously managed to flee gusu. Wwx put his guard up even he has successfully escape and ran to the most secluded part of Caiyi town. After resting for few hours and after the adrenaline was gone ,wwx realised that he was severely injured and crippled. His left leg cannot be bend without causing painful jolt like feeling. Him running all the way from gusu to caiyi with a bleeding back and hurting leg was indeed a miracle. Now , if walking was painful , then running was courting death. With careful planning using his survival skills and experience , wwx continues his painstaking slow journey and enters a forest , opposite direction of gusu and lotus pier. Wwx was last seen by a fruit vendor of Caiyi Town ; limping away without a trace.

Lwj without a doubt used an inquiry to find wwx , but wwx was an ambitious lad. Wwx somehow managed to create a talisman that can hide his presence even to spirits. Jc has issued posters all over the place , in hopes that someone might give an intel for him to find his brother but to no avail , no one has a clue of where wwx has been gone to. Wwx - like a ghost , has disappeared . JYL and JXZ was also at deeps end, unable to trace her missing brother. Other major sects also keep an eye for wwx, though the Lan clan has claimed that wwx’s demonic cultivation was sealed and was severly injured, who knows what can that young man do ?

Timeskip to 13 years later, JL LJY and LSZ (assuming that the siege never happened, but lwj adopted a-yuan as per requested by wq and wn to ensure he was raised at a proper & healthy background and the wen remnants survived and disperse for safety) was attacked at goddess temple only to be saved by a mystery crippled guy with mask (JL: a non cultivator nonetheless!) (LJY: what an amazing talent ! Only using talisman to beat the statue!). The teenagers were awestruck with the masked man’s skill, that they wanted to thanked him with a meal and few drinks but was rejected and the man leaves.

JL who never accepts no for an answers suggest to secretly follows the man so that they can send drinks or some offering for him to his house instead. Ljy and Lsz tagged along as they were curious of their saviour after all. A non cultivator cannot detect presence like a cultivator do, so the man was unaware that he was tailed. Upon arriving an old shack with a small potato farm , the man limped and sat with a grunt. Taking off his mask , he took a bottle of water and consumed a few concoction of medicine before coughing. The teenagers was surprised on the living condition of their saviour. JL however upon seeing the face of the man, went wide eyes.

“That man, he was in the poster my jiujiu used to issue around LP . My A-niang talks about him a lot,” looking over his other two confused companions. “I can never forget that face. The face that always make my mother cry upon looking at his picture and frown at his name. He is my missing big uncle , Wei Wuxian of Jiang Sect.”

“Ah i heard about him. Apparently our Elders punished him until he was missing his golden core , i think? Or is it the other way around?” Ljy spoke. “But i think the limping was the consequences from our Sects’ punishment. That time , Lan sect and Jiang Sect almost broke the treaty. I heard Madame Jiang managed to convinced your uncle to stop”.

They saw the man plowing a part of his potato field ,who occasionally stopped due to his heavy cough and resume his work. “Wwx , he is the person my father has been looking for the past 13 years. I need to let him know” Lsz finally spoke, smiling.

“Oh my potatoes , I hope you grew up fat and yummy for this master over here! I need more money , or i wont be able to buy medicine. You dont want me to die yet are you~” sang wwx. The 3 looked at each other and finally decides to leave for their respective inn, bringing a joyous news for their leaders.

Next day, both JC and lwj accompanied by the 3 went to wwx’s house. Both heartbroken on the state of the old shack . Knocking the wooden door and clearly listening on the voice mumbling from inside “who the hell would come here early in the morning at middle of a forest”, jc and lwj was shocked on the physical appearance of their missing person. Sunken cheeks and dark eyes as indication of fatigue , limping , voice hoarse from sickness and the obvious whipping scars marring from behind his neck to under the ragged clothes , jc couldnt help but to greet wwx with a hug , holding him so gentle in fear that wwx would break with the slightest of strength. Wwx frozen in shock couldnt hug back but made eye contact with lwj. “Weiying, please forgive me that I couldn’t protect you. I am very sorry.” After 13 years of internal pain and agony , wwx for the first time shed his tears . “I forgive you , so you all should leave me alone. I am a burden. Im no longer a cultivator , but a crippled man with not much time to left. I am nothing but a burden. Please” sobbed wwx.

“Idiot. Give us a chance to take care of you. A-jie misses you so much, every day and night. You haven’t met your nephew , Jing Ling . Don’t you want to eat her soup? And about your health, i can call WenQing to help you. She is still the best doctor alive. Come back with us , okay ? And no one will hurt you. “ jc.

Wwx was shocked to hear wq was still alive and her name was spoken by jc without an ounce of hatred. What have been happening for the past few years he have been isolating himself ? With shaking hands , he grabbed jc’s robe and nodded. He made another eye contact with lwj and could see how sincere he is from his eyes. Maybe , all this time , the fact that lwj hates me and sending me to my demise was all a misunderstanding?

“I am no more a cultivator.”

“It’s fine , WeiYing”

“I cannot contribute to Jiang sect anymore.”

“Who cares about that, idiot?”

“I’m going to be a burden !!! I cant even walk properly. My health is deteriorating”

“WeiYing, if tired , I can carry. Let me take care of you when sick”

“Lan Zhan, i dont want to go to gusu”

“We can go anywhere other than Gusu.”

“I wont let you take a single step to that damn place , no offence Second Young master Lan”

“None taken.”

———

(Alternate ending)

Wwx was still unconscious and attacked by a high fever due to infection in his wound. Numerous method has been used to mitigate the after effect of the whip , but to no avail. Infection starts to spread to his legs, and wwx was delirious and moaning in his sleep due to pain. The severity of the wound caused both of his legs to sepsis and the healers has no other way than to amputate the legs to make sure that the infection will not spread internally.

After the surgery of removing wwx’s legs , the infection are able to be minimised but still needs to be monitored. Still, wwx has no signs of waking up. Lwj was loyal to his side , taking care of changing the bandages . Every night , lwj had a nightmare of the reaction of wwx waking up with no legs . One particular nightmare that haunts him the most is weiying took out his own life out of despair. Lwj couldnt sleep for two nights watching over wwx after that nightmare occurs.

After 6 days, lqr visited the room and berates lwj for neglecting his duty as a student of Lan sect. Lwj angrily talks back, and was taken to kneel in the hall for one day. When he came back , no one was watching wwx. He came back with pure silence from wwx .Where there should a ragged breathing from wwx , it was only silence. Wwx’s usually pale lips was ashen. Bandaged chest that should be heaving was still. Wwx finally succumbed to his injuries after 11 days of fighting and lwj (again) was not by his side. His sect (again) are the cause of pain for his beloved ones and has taken everything from him.

—-

Wow took this one hour and a half. This is my second time posting here. 😋 enjoy?

-b

[galleryfake]

answering every question from muse things - !

❄ — all striked answers are things that do not apply to him, and even if they do, he has no opinion/doesn’t find it relevant. three of the sections have been omitted entirely due to their lack of relevance to his thought process.

SELF + HEALTH

how do they see themselves? — as a part of the spider, nothing more or less. without it, he’d be just another person living uselessly until death.

how do they want to be seen by others? — he hopes he can be useful & that he can bring even the most fleeting, temporary meaning to his loved ones’ existences. he also, secretly, wishes to be loved, and to have it expressed to him in any of its forms.

what is their life motto?

would they rather lead or follow? —follow.

what motivates them? — working as part of a group, & discovering hidden or sealed away knowledge.

are they most likely to fight with their fists or their tongue? — his tongue, as he dislikes physical fighting as anything other than a means to an end. he only fights to kill and doesn’t like to spar. 

do they have any pet peeves? — acts of pure emotion that have no thought or planning put behind them, that end up deconstructing something that could’ve been handled more sensibly. so basically... most things done by enhancers, in general. looking at you, phinks & uvo.

what do they most regret? —not many things, in general. when things get screwed up despite him having thought he had made the best judgement at the time, it will keep him up for a few nights, but he’ll eventually forgive himself and move past it. paku’s death, for example.

what achievement are they most proud of? — being the troupe’s only #12, yet to have been killed and replaced. 

what would they like to improve on? —nen is a very versatile pool of energy to work with, he will always be tweaking with his abilities one way or the other. see: his ice transmutation.

do they have any scars? —several very tiny blips on the expanse of his skin that tell of countless IV insertions and things strapped to him when he was younger. a fair amount of battle scars, mostly centered around his hands and arms. #justconjurerthings 

do they have a disability? — anxiety disorder & ptsd, both which he quietly shoves down and rarely ever discusses their symptoms - as both are essentially a given, considering their line of work.

do they have any allergies or food intolerances? —mildly allergic to pollen, VERY allergic to latex. the latter is the reason he doesn’t ever wear disposable gloves even though he prefers to keep his hands clean.

do they have any long-term illnesses or injuries? —being a clearly very premature infant having inhaled the toxins of meteor city’s trash, he spent his infanthood all the way up to his early double digits extremely ill and practically on the verge of death. his body went into sepsis several times due to a weak immune system, and complications with his blood vessels left him with acrocyanosis well into adulthood after being on and off a (cheap) ventilator for years at a time. nowadays he’s mostly fine, though, just very small and very purple in the hands. 

PERSONALITY

describe their personality in one word. — cryptic. 

their predominant emotion? —contemplative. 

someone wrongs them. do they respond with revenge or forgiveness? — calculative neutrality, then, depending on which conclusion he draws, either forgiveness or cautious distrust, but never revenge. 

do they make snap judgments or take time to consider? — almost always takes time to consider, except in rare cases where his emotions run high and cloud his reason. 

are they a glass half-full or a glass half-empty kind of person? — depends on the situation, he will assess it accordingly.

do they express themselves through words or deeds? — a combination of both, most likely a deed followed by a bit of helpful explanation.

how often do they lie? — not often, unless it’s to conceal his own weakness or to deceive someone on orders from chrollo. 

do they listen to their head or their heart while making a decision? — his head, but sometimes his head and his heart war with eachother, and his heart wins in tense split-second decisions. 

HABITS

how organized/disorganized are they? — quite organized. organizing is a small hobby of his, and he’ll often do it without even thinking as he busies himself in thought. 

do they have any routines? — his life is a bit too hectic for that, but he does have a specific way of washing + caring for his hair out of a shower and right before bed, to avoid tangles. 

talk about their mannerisms. — gesturing with his hands. making small noises to himself. flicking his head to either side to adjust his hair-to-vision ratio.

is there an item they take with them wherever they go? — his cellphone, for obvious reasons, and often a small weapon he can clone for traceless murders, such as a knife or a handgun.

good habits and bad habits. — good habits: cleanliness and organization. bad habits: repressing his feelings and keeping himself up at night with anxious scenarios and telling no one. 

THOUGHTS

their views on formal education vs self-education?

what are their thoughts on animals? — sees them as no different than humans, selfish survivalists staying alive by whims and instinct. this is not a good thing. he kills them as effortlessly as he kills humans, if needed. 

how much do they care what people think about them? — when it comes to the troupe: he cares a lot more than he lets on. anyone else? strictly 0. 

do they enjoy being the center of attention? why or why not? — he typically doesn’t, he gives himself performance anxiety by holding himself to a high standard, even though he typically accomplishes whatever he sets out to do with a high success rate. 

how do they feel about learning? — one of his favorite hobbies, and the easiest way to bond with him. 

which do they value more: creativity or practicality? — they go hand-in-hand, he’d say. they are both tools to be utilized at their proper times. 

thoughts on material possessions? — he doesn’t keep many himself, but somewhat understands the need to have them and assign them value. under no circumstances should anyone be deluded into thinking anything can be owned, though. even objects. 

would they rather win an argument or avoid conflict? — avoid conflict, though purely intellectual arguments thrill him and he actively seeks them out on occasion.

views on people in general? — food for the spider’s web. 

what qualities do they admire in other people? — confidence in one’s actions, clear sets of boundaries that they follow, and the sense that someone knows what they’re doing beyond a shadow of a doubt.

how do they feel about fun?

what do they want written on their tombstone? — nothing. he’d much prefer to have no trace of himself left behind.

what would an ideal day, in their mind, be like? — discovering something new to revel in for a while, and then ending his day in the warm presence of someone he loves. 

thoughts on privacy? (are they private or are they “tmi”?) — most people assume him to be very secretive and locked away, but he’s actually rather honest about things when asked directly - he just doesn’t divulge them on a whim. like with most things, he never speaks first, but this doesn’t mean he never speaks at all. 

thoughts on superstitions or the occult? (do they believe, not believe, etc.) 

what are their religious views? — none. as far as he’s concerned, everything is put into motion by someone’s individual will. if some god doesn’t exist, he’s not particularly concerned about it.

THE PAST

where did they grow up? — meteor city. 

how would they describe their family? — the spider. 

what was their childhood like? —plagued by illness. 

what did they want to be when they grew up? — alive to see it. 

as a child, what were they most likely to be found doing? — struggling to breathe in a medical cot somewhere in meteor city.

the worst thing that has ever happened to them. — first running away from the city by himself and experiencing withdrawal from being taken out of intensive care for his weak body.

the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to them. — whenever he’s called out for his emotional weakness for the troupe. he just loves them, okay. 

the best thing that has ever happened to them. — a little bit after being recruited, the first time he felt truly acclimated with them. like he had a family for the first time. 

which memory stands out most clearly? — meeting chrollo, and getting close to shal and fei. those memories still visit his pleasant dreams once in a while. 

TOUGH STUFF

do they have any phobias? — medical rooms or establishments such as hospitals. they make him instantly claustrophobic and if he absolutely HAS to be inside of one, he will make an effort to complete his task there as quickly as possible while still doing exactly what he needs to do.

do they get nightmares? — sometimes, but they’re never violent, mainly just sad and vaguely hollow and empty. from these, he wakes up feeling like he didn’t even sleep at all. 

what kind of person are they? — one you would likely be much worse off for meeting, if you’re not a spider. 

would they let someone take the blame for something they did? — sure. it was their choice to do so, after all. 

what are they insecure about? — his own emotional weaknesses. they’re a nuisance to his thoughts and strategies and no one should be bothered with them. 

what is one way to earn their trust? — simply make plans and follow through with them. display confidence and the skill with which to back it up. 

what is one way to lose their trust? — be an enhancer. *COUGH* i mean, be primarily emotionally driven and cause destruction as a result. such a bringer of chaos would no doubt be a headache to have around regularly. 

one thing they would hate anyone to know about them. — that he’s very soft and with simple desires. he’ll verbally deny being slightly clingy and affection-starved, but his actions will say otherwise. 

they have to pick one: to be loved, to be feared, or to be admired. — to be loved. no question.

have they ever been bullied or teased? — due to his size, typically, but he doesn’t really care. there’s no impact to his life if people think he looks weird due to his appearance, or his voice or his powers. they’ll simply have to live with it. 

FUN STUFF

what is their character archetype? — the quiet but deadly one. 

what are they confident about? — he is confident in his efficiency and ability to carry out tasks and speak truthfully. 

talk about their moral alignment.  — true neutral. pretty self-explanatory. 

describe them in three words. — helpful. devoted. curious. 

describe their aesthetic. — ancient libraries covered in dust. a snowstorm in the night. an iced-over lake reflecting an overcast sky. 

what will make them laugh? — seeing his loved ones happily goofing off and being relaxed, as well as any number of empathetic reactions shared by the happiness of ones close to him.

what makes them feel safe? — simply being near the others, or being somewhere very far-off and secluded from largely populated areas.

favorite color and the reason for it. — blue, simply because his hair and eyes all fall in line with its palettes and it looks good on him. 

favorite book genre? — informational textbooks of a certain field of expertise, or, in the case of fiction, mystery &/or crime solving. 

favorite movie genre? — psychological thriller. also may or may not have a thing for hallmark movies with cheesy happy endings. 

favorite type of muse?

if they could have a superpower, what would they choose?

do they have a role model? — definitely chrollo, and also, to a certain extent, feitan. 

what is their personal kryptonite? — choosing things/planning for things that involve the life or death of someone in the spider. in that moment, his emotions cloud his judgement and he can only find himself reaching the conclusion most likely to keep them alive. he can hardly bear to lose any of them. 

how do they entertain themselves? — organizing things, studying a particular topic, or playing a boardgame/doing puzzles.

[ejzah]

@mashmaiden requested a fic using the following prompt, preferably in an early season: Whumpee is feeling sick at work, but the colleagues don't take him seriously. They're even making fun of him. So the whumpee tries to hide how bad he is and wants to tough it out, but he can’t focus on his work and makes mistakes. The colleagues are jerks and keep mocking poor whumpee, until he just collapses in front of them.

A/N: I might not have followed it to the letter, but hopefully it’s still ok. Set in season 2.

***

Infected

“Shake a leg, Deeks!” Sam shouted as Deeks hauled himself out of a ditch, leaving behind the remains of a burnt out SUV.

“A little help might be nice!” he shouted back. Sam just chuckled, crossing his arms and watching as Deeks struggled to climb the muddy slope while carrying several evidence bags and a camera.

Callen came to stand beside Sam and peer down at Deeks, looking vaguely interested.

“You’re still down there?” Deeks bit back a nasty retort and finally pulled himself out. His right arm protested the abuse, aching and burning.

“Hey, I was shot last week, remember?” he said, not completely able to keep the whine from his voice. Sam rolled his eyes as he started walking back to the Challenger.

“Deeks, it was a graze. I’ve gotten worse paper cuts.”

“You know, if I wanted to be treated terribly, I’d go back to LAPD.”

“Is that a promise?” Callen asked, tossing another evidence back towards him. Deeks caught it and once again, his arm twinged. It actually felt worse than it had this morning, burning at the slightest movement, the surrounding skin uncomfortably tight.

“Your concern is touching,” Deeks joked. “I’m gonna find Kensi.”

“Maybe she’ll kiss your boo boos for you!” Sam called to him, snickering as Deeks walked away.

***

Deeks peeled the white bandage off his upper arm, wincing as even that small movement caused a significant amount of pain. He had the sleeve of his t-shirt rolled out of the way and frowned at the reddened skin he’d just revealed.

The original wound had been about three inches long, not too deep, but enough that he’d needed stitches. He’d thought it was healing well, but a few days ago it had started hurting more and developed a red tinge around the edges. This morning the whole thing had looked swollen and now it was bright red, hot to the touch and something nasty was seeping from beneath the stitches.

He grabbed a couple tissues and wiped the liquid away with a grimace, trying not to think too much about the yellowish color.

“Deeks, what are you doing in there?” Kensi shouted through the restroom door.

“I’ll be out in a minute,” he said, hastily throwing away the used bandage and replacing it with a bandaid. It probably wasn’t the best idea, especially since he’d forgotten to grab the prescription strength cream he was supposed to apply whenever he changed the dressing.

Kensi made an exasperated sound and pounded on the door a couple times.

“God, I swear you spend more time in their than any woman I know. Hurry up, Eric has an update.”

Deeks bit back a sarcastic retort and yanked his sleeve down, spinning around. A wave of unexpected nausea rocked through him and he felt both cold and hot at once. He took several deep breathes until he felt less like throwing up, conscious of Kensi impatiently waiting on the other side.

“What were you doing, touching up your roots?” Kensi asked when he came out, snorting at her own joke.

“Well, one of us has to look pretty,” he said, fluffing his hair. Kensi rolled her eyes and pushed him down the hallway.

“Now that, is a hilarious joke.” She looked at him suspiciously as they walked upstairs. “You’re not sick, are you?” she asked.

“Of course not.” He debated telling her about his arm, but he didn’t feel like giving Callen and Sam more fuel. Hell, they probably thought he was a wuss for going to the hospital in the first place.

“You look a little...off.” When he just shrugged off her concern, she sighed. “Well, if you’re coming down with some kind of stomach bug, you better not give it to me.”

“It’s wonderful to know I work with such caring people,” he commented and Kensi smacked his arm. Fortunately it was his left or he probably would have made a very unmanly sound.

“Is Deeks still griping about his arm?” Sam asked as they walked into the OPS center.

“Actually, I think he fell asleep in the bathroom,” Kensi replied, smirking in Deeks’ direction. She crossed her arms, clearly waiting for a response, but he merely glared weakly, concentrating on tamping down the latest wave of nausea.

The walk upstairs had left him feeling weak and shaky. He went to stand by the table, using it to support himself. Was the room always so hot? Hetty needed to invest in better air conditioners.

“Deeks!” Kensi hissed, jabbing him with her elbow. She nodded at Eric who was talking about...something. Kensi jabbed him again and he grunted. A drop of sweat trickled down the middle of his back, adding to the overall feeling of awfulness.

He must have tuned out again because the next thing Kensi was standing right in front of him, her slightly blurry face filled with concern.

“Deeks, are you ok?” She repeated, no humor in her voice this time.

“Actually, I’m not feeling very good,” he admitted weakly. He swayed suddenly and Kensi steadied him. Sam and Callen joined her, the case forgotten as they both stared at him.

“You do not look good, man,” Callen observed and Deeks glared malevolently, feeling clammier by the moment. His hand trembled as he leaned heavily against the table. Naturally Kensi noticed and grabbed him by the shoulders, directing him towards a chair.

He couldn’t hold back a groan as she pressed directly on his wound, the pain radiating down his arm. She brushed the back of her knuckles across his forehead, her frown increasing.

“He definitely has a fever,” she said, turning to Sam and Callen, effectively excluding him from the conversation.

“You know I’m not dead yet,” he muttered irritably.

“Do I need to call an ambulance?” Eric asked, already reaching for his headset.

“No,” Deeks said more loudly. The last thing he needed was to be taken away in an ambulance over a little fever. “I think my scar is just a little infected.”

“A little?” Sam repeated, taking a peek under Deeks’ sleeve. He ignored Deeks’ futile attempts to push his hands away and yanked the large bandaid off. Somehow Deeks wished he would make another joke, but he just looked concerned. “This looks like the beginning stages of sepsis.”

Kensi leaned over to get a better look and made a sound that pretty much summed up how Deeks was feeling.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” she asked and Deeks couldn’t tell if she was angry or concerned.

“I didn’t think it was that bad,” he said honestly. Ok, he knew it wasn’t great, but definitely not sepsis level.

“You need to get this taken care of before the infections spreads or your temp goes up.”

“Can’t you just left me stay here to die in peace?” Deeks begged, closing his eyes and pressing his palms over the sockets.

“I thought you said it wasn’t that bad,” Callen reminded him. He was smirking. Deeks knew it even without seeing him.

“That was before my head started pounding.” He groaned again and felt Kensi’s hand settle on the back of his neck. She started stroking his skin in a soothing rhythm.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to call an ambulance?” Eric asked again.

“Nah, I’ll take him in,” Kensi said, reaching for Deeks’ uninjured arm. “C’mon partner, let’s go get your pus drained.” Deeks grimaced as he laboriously got to his feet.

“If you don’t want me to throw up, I suggest you stop talking about pus,” he warned her

“You even think about throw up in the SUV, I’m making you walk to the hospital.” Despite her words, she wrapped her arm around his back and let him lean against her.

“I knew you loved me.”

“You’re lucky that your all sweaty and pitiful looking right now,” Kensi retorted with a hint of cheerful menace in her voice.” As they slowly walked through the sliding doors, Callen called after them,

“Try not to kill him before you get to the ER.”

***

A/N: I may have expedited the symptoms of mild sepsis just a touch. And naturally, Sam knows what sepsis looks like.

[the-sober-story-so-far]

A pre-snippet to the past 10 years

 Hi there, i’ve got quite a few posts to catch up on since i’m on day 3 of sobriety but I feel like any story should start with where I was these past 10 years. I became a mother at 19, happily. My son was planned, I had met the love of my life a bassist in a metal band and fell in love with the lifestyle that came with it.

 When I had first met Matthew I had never partied before, I was in a very abusive relationship before where I wasn’t allowed to experience what most teens did. Parties, drugs,drinking, hell even my proms. So when I met Matt (before i was pregnant keep in mind) I went wild. We would party almost every night, we fell in love fast too. One of those loves that just hit you right in your face like a bullet. We were inseparable and we were both wild as could be. Once we had decided to slow down and stop going out as much we decided we wanted to get married and start a family together no matter how young we knew that regardless it was meant to be. So we were engaged, we were actually trashed when we got engaged it was pretty punk rock if I say so myself. In the middle of an alley in baltimore, he didn’t have a ring and it didn’t matter. We were just jamming to some Coheed and Cambria in my car drinking a 30 pack parked in this alley when he suddenly told me to get out of the car and follow him. At that point he got down on one knee and asked me to marry him. I thought he was just drunk or joking at first and I remember I kept asking him the next day if he was serious well, obviously it turns out he was. 

 So fast forward a bit, we were engaged and started trying to get pregnant and it took a few months but with luck we ended up pregnant. We decided to get married at the courthouse since we were already on the way to getting married that year anyways. Then we had our beautiful son, I was sober my entire pregnancy. I remember the first week after I had him I got trashed though just to celebrate 9months of pain and hell but at this point i was still a social drinker. The toddler years were happy years, we would only drink on the weekends or here and there when friends would come over. It wasn’t to the point where I had a problem yet. 

 Then he turned 4, and life got really hard. Problems with my family arose, financial problems as well. My mental health declined and i was diagnosed with Bipolar Type 2, as well as OCD, Severe Depressive, Severe Anxiety and Borderline personality Mercurial type. As well as having PTSD from my childhood with my parents. My mom almost passed when I was younger from liver failure. She ended up having a transplant and living. I had an emotionally abusive father, my mother’s mental health was never stable I actually use to remember her waking me up at 4 am and screaming at me as a child for things I had done the day before. I witnessed so many fights and insane moments a child shouldn’t. I then ended up in an abusive relationship from 14-18 with a boy who would hit me, verbally abuse me, gaslight me, manipulate me and then one day eventually sexually assault me in my sleep. The thing about trauma is it always catches up to you.

 And that’s where I think it all started going wrong, it began catching up. I moved out in my first apartment with my husband and my son and finally had freedom. We had lots of parties, I met lots of “friends” who only cared about where the next party was or who had the drugs. I began partying more and more, and made decisions I was not proud of. Including hurting my husband more than I ever could have even fathomed, I don’t like to speak of it. I have faced my guilt about it daily but in short I was unfaithful. Even if it was one time, it was inexcusable. My cousin had moved in with me, and though I love her back in that time she wasn’t the best influence either. She always wanted to party or smoke weed as well. We became partners in crime, we always wanted to get into some chaos and have fun. Then we were forced to move back to my parents all 4 of us this time due to a shooting in my apartment complex where we were no longer safe. It was unbearable living there during that time, before my mom began fixing herself and facing her own demons and dealing with my father and his emotionally abusive ways.

 So we ended up moving to my grandparents, where we were later kicked out of for having people over partying almost every night. At that point I had also assumed I wanted to be polyamorous, which indeed I am not. I am bisexual yes, but the polyamory was just an excuse in my own mind not to work on my own marriage and fix the damage I had unleashed upon it. When we lived at my grandparents was when the peak in my drinking began. I began drinking daily with my cousin starting early in the morning drinking bottles of rum and vodka all day to the point of blacking out, mixing clonopin with it. Smoking spice, smoking weed, just drugs and booze constantly. One night I overdosed and slit my wrists so bad that the scars are still there to this day I am lucky to be alive and you’d have thought that would have been enough to stop me from my path of destruction but it did not.

 I did end up quitting spice, once we were kicked out of my grandparents I saved money at my job and we rented a place with my cousin and a “friend”, the drinking only got worse there. More parties, more drugs. I started dabbling with Molly and Adderall while i was there and almost ecstasy. My mental health declined so bad due to being worried about a relationship with a girl I thought I loved and spending my money on substance that we lost our house after I lost my job.

 I moved back home again with my parents, just my husband, my son and myself and the drinking continued then for a few months it was daily drinking until one day I did finally get sober and quit drinking, months later I started to become incredibly sick and was still sober but thought I had cancer from how violently ill I was but I was too afraid to go to a doctor for it, instead in my fucked up mind I decided to attempt suicide twice. I lost many friends along this journey from the choices I made, and from who I was. I felt that being sick was my penance for being such a piece of shit for so long.

 Months passed after this, I was sick for at least 9 more months vomiting at least 9 times daily sometimes more. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t shit and I knew something was wrong but I had doctors who didn’t care to find out, who brushed it off as IBS because I was “young and healthy”. 9 months they let it go, it turned out to be my appendix and a dead bowel. The day my appendix ruptured sepsis poured into my abdomen and i was dying, I was actually dying like I had wished for all those years and then it was in that moment that I knew I didn’t want to die. I wanted to live, I wanted to fight. I had my surgery and had 3 months of severe complications including seizures, fluid ruptures and a massive hole left in my abdomen from those fluid ruptures. September of that same year my intestine popped up below the surface of my skin and I had to have my first hernia surgery, it was successful until November of last year when it tore open and I had my final one. During the process I was foolish enough to keep the same doctors, to be dismissed over and over until the first hernia surgery when I had finally had enough and found doctors who actually cared. However, now I have severe PTSD with practitioners not to mention a nurse  who physically and sexually assaulted me and a doctor who possibly did while I was under anesthesia. This is getting back to the trauma creeping up on you, it all has a purpose.

 So, I went through severe anxiety, and experienced what real PTSD was. I was still sober until one night my husband and his friends and myself were all hanging out in the garage and they said have a beer you’ll be fine and that was when it all started again.

I used to look forward to every Friday and Saturday just wanting to get drunk to feel something, all the while i was still using marijuana daily as well. Well, maybe not to feel something i’d say more to feel nothing. And then it went from 6 drinks to 12 drinks, from Saturdays and Sundays to every day of the week. From 6 packs daily to 12 packs daily. From 12 packs daily to 15 drinks daily, from 15 to 18 and so on. This was a year ago i relapsed and this is my first 3 days sober since it all happened.

 This is to document my journey, this is to look back and feel pride in how far i’ve come and this is so that I know I can do anything and how much I refuse to go backwards. If you’re reading this, i hope if you are in a place where I was it gives you strength, I hope you never feel alone. 

 Welcome to my sobriety diaries.

[yabakuboi]

good winter, I’ll be with you Chapter 8: carry on my dear

Read it here!

There is fire licking wet across Jon’s face and chest, and he wakes with a scream. Above him, there is cursing, strong hands holding his body down as he convulses. Cherng, the wildling hag with steel eyes and white hair, fills his vision as she leans over him, wrinkling her nose as she pours more of white liquor over the open wounds on his chest.

“You’re awake,” she says over his wailing, her voice is as gnarled and aged as her wrinkled face. “Good, fool boy that you are.”

“Tormund,” Jon chokes, and she sharply tuts at him.

“Don’t go calling for your man now,” she snaps. Despite her harsh words, her fingers are incredibly gentle as she inspects the claw marks that have split open the skin of his face, from forehead to jaw. “He’s outside cursing you a storm, so let him be.”

Jon shudders and tries to hold himself still. He distantly notes several men surround him, and it’s Whitebone’s broad hands clamped over Jon’s shoulders to hold him steady.

Clucking her tongue, the hag sits back. “Damned luck that you didn’t lose an eye, Snow. You’ll need more of it though, if you’re to last the week. Shadowcat wounds are poison, and I can’t save you from the infection no matter how much good liquor I pour on you.”

Shuddering and blinking away tears, Jon nods. “Probably… deserve it,” he bites out around the pain and anguish crawling up his throat, choking him from the inside out.

A waste, he thinks, everything he’s ever done is a waste.

He can’t meet Cherng’s eyes when they soften and fill with pity. She smoothes back his sweaty hair, sopping up the blood dripping down his cheek and into his ear. “Only a direwolf could kill a shadowcat like that, alone in the darkness,” she says quietly, her voice hard and unforgiving, taking a bowl of fresh snow melt from one of the men at her side. She soaks a thick cloth in it, and lays it over Jon’s chest.

It feels like ice, so cold against Jon’s over-heated skin. The hag packs snow on top of it, her fingers tinged with blue as she works, until Jon’s body is numb with the cold, shaking. The world fades and focuses, and spins in dizzying circles.

“Drink,” another man says, tilting Jon’s head up and pouring the liquor into his mouth. Jon swallows it despite the burn.

Cherng looms over him again. She holds a knife, flaming red with heat. Hands descend upon Jon, holding him down as the snow is scraped from the top of him.

“You fought the teeth,” she says, holding the blade close to tattered flesh of Jon’s chest. “Don’t go dying by the bite.”

She presses the hot metal to Jon’s skin.

—

Everything wavers, wiggles, swims, and for a while Jon wonders if he’s under the ice again. But it’s too hot here, too many noises, and too many things touching him all at once. His throat works against the dryness in his mouth, and always there’s a hand at the back of his neck, tilting his head gently up and pressing cool water to his lips.

Sometimes he thinks he’s back in Winterfell, and Lyanna Stark is singing him a lullaby. But her voice is Sansa’s and her face is Arya’s and her hair is lit with flame. Once he thought he was talking with Grenn and Pip, only to realize that it was Mirma sitting beside him the whole time. The hag is a constant presence looming over him like a threat, waiting through the nights for him to die of infection and sepsis. She cuts open any wound that festers, and seals them back with a burning knife.

And Jon lingers on, tired of the stink of blood and fever. It smells like death, and death haunts him enough in his sleep.

Tormund is rarely there when he wakes, but there’s always the warm imprint on his palm of a large hand in his, his fingers tingling where they once were entwined with another’s.

—

It must be late the next Jon wakes, because the fire is low and the tent is filled with the sound of sleeping bodies. Cherng sits at his side, her legs crossed beneath her and her elbows resting on her knees. She regards him tiredly as he blinks up at her.

“Awake again, are you?” she says, reaching for a bowl. She tips it over his lips and he drinks greedily, the water fresh and cool. “I suppose you’ll live then.”

Jon aches from head to toe, his entire body too heavy to move. But he’s awake. Head lolling to the side, he realizes that Tormund’s at his side, his hand cradled between Tormund’s, his pale skin stark against the freckled tan of Tormund’s fingers. His face is relaxed in sleep, but Jon can see the stress and exhaustion catching tight at the corners of his eyes and his mouth.

“You owe that boy for staying by your side after you near got yourself killed,” Cherng huffs, her voice quiet in the stillness of the tent.

“I owe him for more than that,” Jon says, his voice barely a rasp and a whisper.

Cherng hums, her old bones audibly cracking as she stretches. “Heal up well then. The best repayment is your life.” She pats Jon’s shoulder before she stands. “Might s’well belong to him now.”

“Yes,” Jon agrees. He doesn’t look up as she leaves, her footfalls near silent as she goes, eyes still caught on Tormund’s sleeping face. “It does.”

—

The tent is empty, devoid of all the sounds that Jon’s grown used to: the sleeping breaths of the wildlings, Whitebone’s terrible jokes, and Mirma’s soothing voice. Instead Jon can only hear the cackle of the fire and the deafening silence as Tormund stares down at him.

“Tormund,” Jon breathes.

“You’re alive,” Tormund says, his words blunt and cold. “You better be glad, because I would have killed you twice over if you hadn’t.”

Swallowing, Jon nods. Tormund’s eyes are bright with unshed tears, and the silence between them is more painful than the slowly healing scars or the pounding of his head or the thirst in his throat. Jon helplessly searches for the words to thank Tormund, to beg his forgiveness, to ask if he can still stay. He reaches out a shaking hand, wanting even the slightest touch, his fingers brushing against the well-worn fur at Tormund’s ankle.

“Do you know you talk in your sleep?” Tormund says before Jon can gather himself.

Jon doesn’t say anything, just clutches at Tormund’s pant leg and wishing he were strong enough to stand.

“Every night that you’ve slept, ever since you came back from that fucking red city, you’ve begged me to kill you,” Tormund says. “Did you know that?”

Tears brim in the corners of Jon’s eyes. “No,” he croaks. “I didn’t.”

Tormund sighs, bows his head. When he looks once more at Jon, there are tears on his face. He reaches out, tracing the new scar across Jon’s jaw. “I know you need me right now,” Tormund says, his deep voice cracking as he face twists in grief. “But I can’t…”

And Tormund stands. And Tormund walks away.

Beneath the tattered and burned remains of Jon’s chest, his heart pounds a heavy, drumming beat, more painful than the shadowcat’s claws and teeth in his flesh. Tormund’s already at the doorway before Jon can take a breath. Desperate, he rolls himself to his knees, panting and panicking. He’ll crawl after Tormund if he has to, but he manages to push himself to his feet. Something tears along Jon’s chest, the thin skin of his wounds opening up to the sudden movement.

“Tormund,” he gasps.

Tormund turns, his face a mask of regret.

And Jon’s knees buckle beneath him before he can take one step.

Tormund is there, catching him before he hits the dirt and cursing, hands steady but gentle on Jon’s weakened body. “Why,” he hisses, livid. Anger dances in his eyes as he lays Jon back onto the bedding. “Are you such a fucking fool?”

Jon doesn’t give him another moment to curse him, finding what little strength he has left to lift his hands to Tormund’s hair, to pull him down against his lips, crashing their mouths together. Tormund growls into the kiss, fingers tightening around Jon’s arms and Jon clutches him back, doing anything he can to pull himself closer, to pull himself into some semblance of a man that can breathe in Tormund’s air, taste his warmth, feel his touch.

Grunting, Tormund presses him to the ground as he kisses Jon, his beard scratching along Jon’s mouth in a pleasant burn, and Jon can’t think past the blood zipping through his veins and the feel of Tormund above him, the expert tilt of his head and the hand that finds its way into Jon’s hair.

“Tormund,” Jon breathes into Tormund’s mouth, desperate tears on his face. “Please, Tormund.”

Tormund shushes him, his kiss turning tender and sweet, stealing Jon’s words before he can speak them until Jon falls limp into his arms, fingers still weakly grasping at Tormund’s hair.

“S’okay,” Tormund says, backing away only an inch and resting their foreheads together. He cups Jon’s face, thumbs rough against his cheeka as he wipes away Jon’s tears. “S’okay, Jon. Just give me some time.”

Jon nods, swallowing back the urge to cry as Tormund kisses him one last time, mouth soft against Jon’s lips, before he stands and walks away.

—

It’s good to be back in the familiarity of the hut, where Jon’s black cloak is still nailed over the door and Tormund’s collection of wooden carvings are scattered around, hanging from the roof as if they’re guarding their heads from the night. Ghost is curled in his corner, the large fur blanket that Jon had skinned and sewn together for the direwolf under his paws and sleeping head. Their pots and cookery are where Jon had left them last, cleaned and unused, and the fire is cackling merrily as if nothing at all has changed.

But Tormund is no where to be seen, and as Hrenna helps Jon to his bed, Jon tries not to dwell on it, tries to bite back the tears threatening to spill over.

“There you go, Snow,” Hrenna says gently as Jon settles onto his back, panting from the short walk up the hill. “Back where you belong.”

Jon nods, not trusting himself to speak. He can’t meet Hrenna’s eyes when her face turns down in sympathy.

“He’s just pissed, that Tormund.” The wildling woman, with her straw colored hair and round face downcast, pulls several blankets over Jon. “He cares a hell of a lot for you, you know. When you— Well, there’s no reason to say.”

“Tell me,” Jon croaks. Shame burns through him as tears roll down his face and into his hair. “Please.”

Hrenna sighs and runs a hand through her flyaway hair. “When you disappeared that night, no one saw you go. Still can’t figure out how you managed it, with the horse. Tormund… I think he thought you were just going on a walkabout to calm down. Said you’d fought, but then that wolf,” he nods to Ghost. “Gets up and starts snarling like nothing else.

“I thought we were under some attack when I saw him, because Tormund had blood all over his face and spitting curses, but when I got a good look at him, I realized how scared he was.”

She stops a moment, shrugs her shoulders.

“Ain’t ever seen him scared. Not like that, not proper scared. Not like his world was ending.”

Jon chokes on a sob, pressing a shaky hand over his eyes, over the raw scars across his face. Hrenna sits silent at his side, with only a comforting hand on Jon’s shoulder as he cries.

—

Jon sleeps fitfully, in and out, and Hrenna sits with him through most of it, watching silently over him. She changes his bandages, helps him up to relieve himself, feeds him and waters him as his fever comes down and finally breaks. The pain dulls, heals and itches, and Jon’s exhausted when he next wakes to find Hrenna gone and Tormund sitting at his side.

“Tormund,” Jon starts, takes a too-sharp breath that catches painfully in his lungs. He doesn’t quite know what to say, no matter how many times he's thought of it. Doesn’t know if Tormund wants him to say anything at all. “I’m—”

“Save your pretty words for someone who wants to hear them.”

Jon stops short, swallows the leaden weight that’s dropped down his throat. Tormund’s words aren’t harsh, aren’t damning. But it’s enough to make Jon hurt, fresh blood on old wounds.

“I feel like I should say them regardless,” he says, as steadily as he can. He struggles to sit up, struggles to meet Tormund’s eyes. “I know I… broke this. So I need to be the one to fix it.”

“There’s nothing to break,” Tormund says likes it’s the simplest thing in the world.

And Jon wants to cry, wants to beg.

“You’re a man of the Free Folk, Jon,” Tormund says gently, leaning over to press a whiskery kiss to Jon’s forehead. “And the Free Folk don’t break.” His touch is soft as he wipes away the wetness along Jon’s cheek, his blue eyes sparkling.

“Can you,” Jon says, swallows down the emotion reach up his throat to still his tongue. “Tormund—”

Tormund shushes him, leans over and presses another kiss to Jon’s hair. His beard tickles along Jon’s cheek, and when he draws away, Tormund is smiling. Gingerly, he eases himself by Jon’s side, careful of the still healing gashes that are more burns than anything else across Jon’s front, stretching his arm over Jon’s waist to hold him

Jon lets himself sink into Tormund’s warmth, a solid body at his side.

[junkyardlynx]

i feel like oversharing right now

it was always just me and my dad since i was very young. my mom was never in the picture, she passed when i was very young due to narcotic abuse, so he took care of me himself. his family shunned him for the most part and by extension, me.

we moved from the west coast to the midwest and settled down. at this time my father was already struggling with a few medical issues (a drop foot from an incident back in ‘89, a left hand near-permanently stuck in a claw shape due to an infection after a drywalling accident, a thumb that was torn off and re-attached on his right hand, chronic pain from rheumatoid arthritis) but he was capable of work. he worked at a die shop. on saturdays i’d end up at his work, napping on a forklift or playing a game on my gameboy. 

after that die shop closed, he got a job at a steamer / griddle manufacturer and moved up slowly. he eventually headed the shipping department and got a job that mostly consisted of being at desk and managing other people. since he needed the money, they gave him some extra to come in saturday and take care of a bunch of cleaning and odd jobs around the cubicle farm. i’d end up there, and played a metric fuckton of Diablo II on his computer. sometimes i’d help out, but he never made me. if i did, he’d throw me a few bucks for some cards and we’d go get lunch. 

i was happy. he did everything in his power for me. he raised me right, he taught me love and respect, he’s honestly the reason i get people i deliver to saying shit to me like “I just wanna look out for you because you remind me of my son.” he taught me compassion and kindness. also taught me some snark and gave me a love for sci fi. i still fondly remember him telling me i’d probably have the day off from school, so i could hang out in his room with ice cream and watch x-files all night.

of course, happiness doesn’t last in stories like mine. when i was 12, going on 13, my father was involved in an accident at work. he’d been taking care of things at a warehouse and a steamer fell and crushed his hip. it caused part of his hipbone to break off. being the stubborn man he was, he refused to go to the hospital until he couldn’t walk. turns out he was suffering from spinal cord compression and ended up accruing permanent nerve damage. 

my 13th birthday was spent with my dad in an understaffed, underfunded nursing home. i brought my ps2 up there so we could watch movies on DVD. a coworker of his picked me up late at night and asked if i wanted to get food. i declined. she took me home and said she’d be staying the night. i told her it was fine and she didn’t have to. i just wanted to be alone. she relented on the terms that if anything happened, i called the police immediately and then her. 

my dad was my man. he was my hero. still is, honestly. it just shook me. i’m not trying to brag or anything, but i was a pretty smart kid - blind as a bat by the time i was in third grade so i got sucked into reading and other shit that involved being close up so my idiot eyes could see. i knew things would never be the same. in the last three months i’d seen my father cry out of fear and pray to god. god never answered. 

eventually, he came home. he used a walker from that point on. before, due to his drop foot, he always wore a sort of leg-boot-brace that supported his foot and ankle, but he could still play catch and everything with me. ah, he fucking hated that walker. my dad was only 60 when he died, so from the time he was about 48 until he was 60, he used a walker or a wheelchair. the image of my father swearing and burning with embarrassment on the few times he tried to go to the store with me is burned into my mind. it makes me so sad i feel like i want to puke. my dad was a handsome man and had a budding romance with the woman who’d taken me home. it didn’t go anywhere after his accident. 

as i turned 14, i ended up driving around town for all of the errands and groceries, only letting dad drive for his doctor’s appointments so they wouldn’t ask questions. i matured relatively quickly, i had facial and chest hair in my freshman year. thankfully i was never pulled over or anything. 

my dad and i felt guilt towards each other and it showed. we were overly cautious of each other’s space as i turned 16. for me, i basically blamed my dad’s poor health on my entire existence, reasoning that if i had never been born, he would still be out on the sunny west coast, living life to the fullest, probably happy and in love. for him, he confessed years later that he felt like he’d failed me because i never ended up going out much in high school, always being at home to make sure he was okay. i just wanted him to be okay. comfortable. happy, if possible.

we continued like this until i got out of high school. i had very poor credit when i was 18 due to bills being put in my name and then subsequently being unpaid due to my father losing his disability benefits several times over, and even then, i felt like i couldn’t really devote myself to my studies because his health was always getting worse. he was constantly plagued with MRSA and cellulitis in his legs among other things, leading to weeping sores on his frightfully small-but-swollen legs that never went away. i never ended up going to college. 

i got a job, and i’m still at that job. i’ve managed to grandfather myself into a somewhat ridiculous hourly rate while still working delivery, so other prospects are incredibly noncompetitive. i started paying the rent for him and trying to do what i could to help, but we could never get ahead. copays and equipment costs piled up, culminating in him requiring a nurse to come by every week and check on him. 

i remember coming home to our apartment one day to find a box of my dad’s medical supplies unceremoniously ripped open and scattered along the stairway outside of the apartment proper. all that was in the box was gauze, medical tape and a bunch of xeroform patches (commonly used to treat burned flesh, but used for my dad’s sores). the upstairs neighbors apparently thought he’d had some drugs delivered right to his door or something. i think that was the most murderous rage i’d ever felt in my life. i did nothing about it, other than stuffing the contents into the box and telling my dad that i’d accidentally ripped it open, laughing it off. 

things continued like this until i was 23, with my father sliding further and further down the scale of healthiness. i tried to live my own life. i fell in love. it was good. i had a bout of almost dying of sepsis at this time and even in the hospital, my main concern was my dad. i made sure that nurse showed up once a day to check on him instead of once a week. it took my entire tax return but it gave me peace of mind.

a few months after i got out of the hospital, my father went back in. he’d been passing out for periods of time and his lungs were heavily degraded along with the rest of his body. they shuffled him around to a few nursing homes, but eventually, there was no chance of recovery and they sent him to hospice.

i still remember the call. i was playing destiny and eating dinner alone in my new apartment that i’d been forced to relocate to (it’s where I live now) after they refused to sign the apartment lease over to my name where i was. i was doing good. i didn’t know they were about to give up on my dad. 

he called me. went a little like this.

“hey buddy”

“hey pops, how ya doin’?”

“i’m alright, are you playin that one game? still having trouble with that deathmatch stuff?” 

“nah, i finished that. what’s up? did you need me to run something down? you want some more peanut butter m&ms? i picked some up at walgreens on the cheap.”

“nah buddy. you don’t have to worry about that anymore. they’re gonna put me in hospice.”

his voice broke; i lost mine. it was a solid minute before i could speak. my fingers kept moving out of sheer rote muscle memory.

“hospice? but i thought you said you were doing okay.”

“i am buddy. i don’t wanna live in pain anymore, and i had a good life. i’m really proud of you, and i love you. i gotta get off the phone now, but you’ll be okay. they’ll call you in the morning to tell you where i’m being moved. i love you so much, spencer.”

that was the last time i ever really got to talk to my dad while he was lucid. we had a few rambling conversations while he was drowning in pain medicine, and i ended up leaving just a few short hours before he passed one morning. i still regret it.

i miss him so fucking much. my girlfriend broke up with me the week my dad died, telling me i was “too sad about it” and that “she couldn’t help me deal with that.” turns out she was cheating. 

i lost everything i ever loved two years ago. i nearly died the year before that. i’m not okay, really. i’m still not. i’ve been pulling the broken pieces back together but all i am is a collection of scars and bruises. i can’t find the places that don’t ache anymore. 

it was just my dad and i, and i still feel like i ruined his glorious, brilliant, shining life by being born. i know it’s not what he believed at all. it just hurts. it hurts so bad and it’s hurt so, so long. 

i wish you guys could have met him.

he was so fucking funny. he said the craziest things and always had a witty reply. he liked to mess with me and others. 

he was tender. the face he made when he met Kitty Pryde (my cat that i drove an hour to pick up) was the first real spark of joy i’d seen on his face in years. they were joined at the hip. she basically just settled for me after we left - if she had a choice, it’d always be snoozing on dad’s lap. when i’d leave for work and they’d be asleep on the couch, curled up together, i felt like things were gonna be okay. 

he was kind. even to those who treated him poorly, like the doctors that ignored his pain and refused to treat him like a human being. 

he taught me how to cook. he’s the reason i’ve been able to function like an actual person since i was young - he believed in self sufficiency but not pointless pride. 

he never once berated my interests. my dad grew up in the 60′s and 70′s and his spheres of interests were pretty far from mine until later in his life - man, i got to burn my dad a CD of my favorite music. and he loved it. and made me put all my favorite tracks on his phone. he watched anime stuff on netflix. he wishes he could have played games with me more, but his hands were so bad.

my dad was the best person i’ve ever met. if i turn out half as kind and giving as him then maybe i won’t waste the life he’s given me. 

i just. miss him. i had a good dad. he was the only family i really had, but he was all i needed.

and now he’s gone. 

and i’m alone, struggling to make ends meet, struggling with my creative outlets, struggling to make sense of everything in the calm waters of absence and loss.

[golbatgender]

A coda to all this yelling about transness and dysphoria and disability and the assertion that you can still have happiness around those things:

Currently, I'm in the hospital. I got a very bad infection and lost most of the muscle mass in my right leg. Since it was a closed injury that got infected, it took an entire extra week of pleading for answers before anyone recognized the signs of sepsis and believed that I was as sick as I felt. (And because this is orthopedics, not trans care, we will probably sue, because I almost died.)

It all happened so fast that it feels like my body was stolen. I never expected to be strong forever—I knew I would eventually age, I suspected I might get severely sick though not in this way at some point—but it happened so fast that I was entirely unprepared for it. And I want my body back, but no one can give it back, and there's no one really to be mad at, because you can't hold a grudge at bacteria. (Mostly dead bacteria, now.) And it is very difficult for me to look at that wasted leg right now without crying.

But my body is still a body worth having. It is a body that is not yet dead, somehow. (Though if I take the pain meds, part of my brain sometimes gets scared it's really undead, and I tell that part of my brain to shut up.) And I don't focus on how it's bad and broken, I focus on the parts that still work and the other things in my life that are good, because there is an option other than be unbroken or die, and that's using your malfunctioning wetware and finding solutions to its limitations and getting shit done anyway.

I've been thinking a lot about the late Stephen Hawking. I knew who he was, but in the articles written around his death recently, I learned that he was about my age when he had to start using a wheelchair—and that he was an absolute speed demon with the thing, and one of his few regrets in life was of never having the opportunity to run over Margaret Thatcher's toes. (He did run over some other important British government person's toes once, but I forget whose.) He essentially had accepted his own death very soon after his diagnosis (at first, the doctors only gave him two years; he turned out to have a very unusual form of his illness), and decided that being miserable about it didn't sound like much fun, but subverting people's expectations of what a cripple in a wheelchair could do by zooming around campus really fast and finding out how black holes work sounded awesome. So that's what he did. He had limitations and they gradually got more restrictive, but he kept doing the most awesome stuff he could within them, and by all accounts had a pretty satisfying life with plenty of good memories to look back on. (The guy even died on pi day. Legendary physicist and all that, dies on pi day, completely by chance. You really can't beat that as a way to go. None of his contemporaries is going to pull as cool a stunt as that, or even if they do, he did it first.)

I'm not Hawking. (First of all, I'll never be that cool.) I'll get better, and just have a few scars and maybe a slightly stiff ankle. But I do want to have that same approach to the ways in which my body does not work like it "should"; that I should still find cool and occasionally reckless things to do anyway. And this goes for both my gender and my health problems. And my hope has been that everyone can learn that sort of balance, or at least believe that it exists.

And sometimes I do cry about my leg. But then I am done, the emotions are released, and I do something else. I am broken, but my life is worth living and that's what I'm going to do, as much as I can for as long as I can. Because I deserve to be happy, and a malfunctioning body doesn't change that. Kill or cure is out and living is in. Who cares about perfect bodies? (Do they even exist?) Ice cream exists. Etc. That's all I need to be worth being alive, even if it's not perfect. Some joy is enough.

[pocket-anon]

10 Questions Every Fic Writer Secretly Wants to be Asked

After answering these questions for A Fairytale Beginning, @kmomof4 rewarded me by prompting me to answer these same questions for The Long Way Home.  She’s too nice to me, you guys.  Here we go!  As with the other post, spoilers abound.

1. Of the fics you’ve written, which is your favorite and why?

See my previous answer.

2. Which scene was your favorite to write in The Long Way Home?

Definitely the scene where Killian realizes he’s in love with Emma while staring up at the stars.  I just love the visual and all the delicious angst of that moment.  Killian being flummoxed by Emma’s first climb up the mast comes in a close second.

3. Which part of The Long Way Home was hardest to write?

The hurricane scene was probably the hardest to write simply because it involved so much research into how a square-rigged vessel could try to survive a storm and I had to try to describe it using enough jargon to be realistic and yet not so much that readers would be overwhelmed. That’s a difficult line to walk. You can get away with a TON of jargon in the movies/TV (pay attention the next time you watch Pirates of the Caribbean; I checked a transcript of one of the battle scenes for inspiration, and I barely understood anything), but it’s harder to get away with the same level of jargon in fic because readers are less likely to just shrug it off.

4. If you could change anything in The Long Way Home, what would it be?

Mmph.  This is a hard question to answer about a fic I just finished.  I probably would have made the story longer - thrown in another incident/adventure or just thrown in more fluff.  One of the most common comments I got from readers was that they didn’t want the story to end (goodness, you people are so sweet).  If I hadn’t been limited by the CSBB deadline and if I’d known how much people would enjoy this story, that’s probably what would have happened.

ADDENDUM: In retrospect, I should also have made what was supposed to be emotional context for Killian’s vigil for Emma a little less subtle.  I had him mention how his mother died in order to give people some insight into how much more torturous it must have been for him to wait for Emma to wake up.  I’m pretty sure zero people picked up on this.  LOL.  I really should have included a line of dialogue about it.  :p

5. Did you make an outline for The Long Way Home? Did you stick to it?

Yes, and yes (mostly), though the outline it was very general and many scenes that ultimately ended up in the fic were not plotted out ahead of time (eg, Emma’s scene in the tavern attic, Emma and Killian’s entire day in the Southern Isles, the whale watching, Emma pulling away from Killian after realizing she’s in love with him, etc.).   A lot of those scenes got thrown in later after writing the pre-planned scenes; this fic was unique for me in that it was not written linearly - I had holes to patch all over the place for a while!  It was a mess.

The order of the events also changed.  Originally I had the hurricane happening immediately before the encounter with the slavers; ie, they meet the slave ship after Emma saves the Jolly and Killian declares his feelings for her but before their TLK.  Reordering those events was probably the biggest deviation from the original outline (and SUPER frustrating, because I had to ditch several days’ worth of words making that transition).

6. Which scenes did you cut, and which were added in The Long Way Home?

The only scene that got cut was related to the reordering of events mentioned above.  It was a scene where Emma waits for Killian to come back from the slave ship and worries she won’t be able to be the princess Misthaven needs without her memories or her control of her magic.  She tries to do more magic and gets frustrated when she can’t, and when Killian returns, he encourages her and that conversation ultimately results in the TLK.

As for scenes that were added, there were a ton.  See my answer to #5 for examples.   

7. Who was your favorite character to write in The Long Way Home?

Killian - he’s usually my favorite to write, and this fic is largely (in my mind) about his transformation from Captain Hook back to Killian Jones; it’s more about him finding his home than about Emma finding hers.  Writing a lot of the ensemble cast (Maggie, Roberts, Smee, and Charming) was also a blast, though!

8. Which came first, the title or the fic?

The fic always comes first for me.  I had a short list of candidate titles but didn’t settle on one until I was getting ready to email the fic in for the final CSBB check-in, LOL.

9. Which idea came to you first in The Long Way Home?

I actually started this fic two years ago, back before I’d joined the fandom (before I was even aware of the fandom), when I was just writing for personal pleasure.  I came up with this Captain Duckling AU (I didn’t even know the fic terminology back then) involving Princess Emma under a memory curse and Killian kind of Sherlock Holmes’ing his way to discovering her identity.  That concept and Emma’s encounter with Blackbeard were basically all I started with; I had no idea where it was going at the time, and I certainly never intended for it to become a complete story that other people would read!

10. What are some facts readers may not know about The Long Way Home?

- I didn’t actually intend for this fic to be an Anastasia AU, but one of the CSBB mods labeled it as such after reading the plot, and it just stuck.

- This was by far the most frustrating fic I’ve written to-date in the sense that the nature of the CSBB made me as obsessed with word count as anything else.  It was also difficult for me to only have the feedback of a handful of people to go on during the process - I had so much anxiety about whether this story was any good and whether I could pull it off the way I wanted.  Still, this fic would probably not have happened at all without the CSBB, and I’m very glad to have participated!

- My CSBB artists @giraffes-ride-swordfishes and @waiting-for-autumn helped me design all of Emma’s non-canon wardrobe for this fic.

- Topics I researched for this fic include historical pirating and aspects of that lifestyle, 18th century ships/sailing/navigation, 18th century clothing, 18th century soap recipes, the average size/speed of hurricanes, and swords (types, parts, sword fighting techniques, care, etc.).  My Pinterest boards for my fics always include research references as well as visual inspiration; the board for this fic has 175 pins.

- The number of pictures of the Jolly Roger/Lady Washington I saved for reference - OMG.  

- Killian’s line about the Dread Pirate Roberts is an obvious homage to The Princess Bride, which, in addition to being part of the inspiration for Hook’s character on the show, is one of my favorite movies.  The Jolly’s quartermaster is always named Roberts in my fics (see also A Fairytale Beginning) in honor of the movie.

- Killian and Emma’s dancing was largely inspired by Rose and Jack’s dancing in Titanic and Rapunzel and Flynn/Eugene’s dancing in Tangled.

- The cut on Killian’s cheek is a reference to Colin O’Donoghue’s scar.

- For any medical-types out there, Alec suffered from a wound infection which progressed to sepsis and was complicated by disseminated intravascular coagulation, pulmonary embolism, and delirium.

- Emma’s thoughts on Liam’s ring came from a mini-crisis I had trying to figure out what color the stone was on OUAT.  I posted about it at the time to try to find group consensus.  Ultimately, we did find proof that the stone is actually red, and this sappy little metaphor about it being like Killian’s heart popped into my head, and there you go.

- I thought about putting Emma in the silver princess dress from canon for the wedding, but I’d already used this dress in A Fairytale Beginning, so I nixed the idea.  I tried coming up with a custom design, but ultimately I went with an existing dress I found while looking for inspiration.  It’s the dress I used to Photoshop this picture.  I wanted feathers on the dress both because Emma was nicknamed “Swan” and because Snow also had feathers on her wedding dress.

There you are.  Much more than any of you ever wanted to know, I’m sure.  Thanks to those of you who made it to the end (of the fic and this post), haha!  You guys are the best.

[kiss-my-kitty]

I need help.

(I am posting here on Tumblr because my domain name expired, and my hosting account is suspended due to non-payment.)

This is, without a doubt, the hardest blog entry I’ve ever written. In this post I will reveal just how bad things are, and the depth of my failings, humiliation, shame, and despair. But I have truly hit rock bottom, and I am in desperate need of help, as well as an outlet so that I am not internalizing everything - because it has become too much to bear. The summary is: we have lost our home and just about everything we own, Alyssa and Ryan are in foster care, Daniel had a mental health breakdown and hit me (he punched me in the face, giving me a black eye swollen cheek), and we have nothing left and no money, with our only resource being our 12 year old vehicle with a nearly-empty gas tank. We need help, desperately. PLEASE HELP: my PayPal address is x@jenn.nu. * * * * *

Six years ago Daniel had to resign from his restaurant management position due to debilitating and worsening anxiety, depression, and physical fatigue, pain, and sleep disturbances.

Five years ago I lost my very well-paying job due to the company I worked for going under.

Around this time (2012) I began suffering from significant medical problems myself - multiple emergency and planned surgeries to correct a variety of life-threatening gastric issues, including twisting/strangulating intestines, perforated ulcers, strangulated hernias, and twisted ovaries due to PCOS and endometriosis. I became very ill and septic twice, nearly died, have dealt with various painful procedures as well as feeding tubes and drainage tubes, and needless to say, have spent a lot of time in the hospital.

As if all of the gastric issues and surgeries weren't enough, three years ago my lower back suddenly gave out - I deal with constant severe and unrelenting lumbar pain due to arthritis, degenerative disc disease, a torn, leaking, and bulging disc at L4, a completely degenerated disc at L5, and healed fractures at L5 and S1.

In January of 2017 I suffered a medical emergency that led to a large vertical abdominal incision, a 6-day hospital stay, and over a month during which I needed assistance just to get out of bed and go to the bathroom. I was very, very sick and weak from this surgery; and I was still weak and underweight from surgical complications that caused sepsis and organ damage in May-June 2016.

Around this time I was also taking a prescribed SSRI, Amitriptyline (also known as Elavil), to help me sleep. While it did not help with sleep, as the pain in my lower back and random bouts of abdominal pain from all of the surgeries and consequent scar tissue and adhesions woke and continues to wake me up almost every night, it ended up causing SEVERE short-term memory loss. The best way I can describe it is like this: every two to three days my short-term memories were completely wiped from my memory. On a Monday I might go grocery shopping. By Wednesday of that week I would have no recollection of shopping on Monday, or of doing anything else that day.

Our ongoing financial issues because of Daniel's health problems and mine snowballed. The short-term memory loss complicated and worsened everything.

In June of 2017, we lost our home of 10 years. We were able to put everything into storage, and we moved in temporarily with my mother and 19 year old brother in their 2-bedroom apartment while we figured out what to do next.

In August of 2017 we were accepted into a transitional living program. This entailed the five of us -- Daniel, myself, Alyssa, Ryan, as well as my 19 year old brother, who had nowhere to go because my mother was evicted from her apartment due to non-payment of rent -- living in a hotel room in a large hotel that had been converted into a transitional living program. The program was very supportive, and entailed us living there, abiding by curfew and other building rules, and working with counselors to rebuild our life. While Alyssa and Ryan went to school and various after-school programs, Daniel and I helped my brother get re-established with high school, his SSI payments, getting a state ID, etc. - all of the things that my mother should have done for him but didn't. She, meanwhile, had been hospitalized since late July due to infected and gangrenous diabetic ulcers on her feet, and blood infections stemming from those infected ulcers.

By September of 2017 Daniel and I told my mother that we were done helping her. We could barely help ourselves; but worse, she did nothing to help herself with her own financial and medical difficulties. Instead, she was dragging us down because she would create numerous disasters for herself, take no responsibility for them, and do nothing to try to improve her circumstances. She expected everyone else to do this for her - namely, Daniel and I.

Writing my mother off caused a lot of conflict and drama between her and us. In her rage and fury, she went so far as to create a lot of drama based on outrageous lies and accusations. While we tried to stay ahead of this mess by informing the staff at the transitional living program of our problems with her, her allegations and pot-stirring ended up causing us to be abruptly evicted from the program - while my brother went to stay with my mother at the hospital/long-term care facility she was in, the four of us (Daniel, myself, Alyssa, and Ryan), were literally thrown onto the streets.

We were evicted on October 2, 2017. For the next six weeks we bounced around between a friend's home, a pastor's cabin, a retreat camp, and motel rooms.

On November 20, 2017, a false allegation about us staying in a cabin with no electricity or water was made against us, and Alyssa and Ryan were removed from our custody. Currently they are staying with the family of a friend of Alyssa's. Fortunately they are with people they know, and they are still attending the same school and are still active in the same extra-curricular STEM programs as they were before.

Because of having to spend so much money to keep ourselves afloat after being evicted from the transitional living program, we fell behind on our storage unit payments. We were unable to save our belongings - we have lost everything we own, with the exception of the belongings we had with us (about a large duffel bag worth of clothing, toiletries, and personal items for each of us; along with my laptop and cameras, and most of the kids' small electronics).

Through all of this Daniel and I have done our best to try and tackle one problem at a time, to see and talk to Alyssa and Ryan as much as possible, and to desperately explore all of our options to try to rebuild. His Social Security Disability Insurance (SSDI/SSI) application, which was started in April of 2014, is still at the highest level of adjudication - we are awaiting a hearing date. Meanwhile, Daniel has had several more sleep disturbances and diagnoses added, and it looks like he has a very rare disease called Neuromyotonia - basically, all of the nerves in all of his muscles are constantly firing. It's comparable to a seizure, because of the nerve overactivity. But instead of seizures, Daniel endures constant and severe muscle pain and fatigue, due to his muscles constantly spasming and mis-firing.

I am working on my own SSDI/SSI application - with the memory issues, but more significantly all of the gastric surgeries and complications, and my severe back issues, I qualify five times over for both SSDI/SSI, and because of the constant pain I am in and the resulting fatigue I deal with, there is no way I am capable of working a "traditional" job - or even work online/remotely as much as I did before. I am ashamed to admit this, but it is true.

The final blow, which is a poor choice of words, came to us on December 29th, 2017: after abruptly and inexplicably cold-turkeying his anxiety and depression medications in mid-December, after days of escalating irritation and verbal clashing between Daniel and I, he snapped and lashed out at me - literally. We were having a relatively calm verbal argument, and out of nowhere he punched me in the face. He has never laid a hand on me before. He punched me, full strength, in the face - his fist hit my right cheekbone. I had, and still have, terrible bruising and swelling. Even with layers of makeup the injury is still visible, and obvious. It has been hard to go out in public and deal with the stares and silent as well as not-silence questions and judgment, on top of everything else I am dealing with. But while I make no excuses for what Daniel did, I do understand that the severe stress he has been under (that we have both been under), combined with the mental instability caused by the sudden lack of and withdrawal from his SSRI medications, definitely played a role in him losing control.

Immediately after Daniel hit me I exited the vehicle where we had been sitting. He took off. Not knowing what to do, and afraid Daniel might do something to himself out of guilt, I called the police to report what happened, and to ask them to please find him because I was afraid for his mental well-being.

That same evening, Daniel overdosed on three medications. He researched what medications to take in order to overdose and die, and wrote a suicide note. He was barely conscious when he messaged me an apology and goodbye via Facebook Messenger. But he did answer when I called him, and after pleading from both me and my friend's husband, he gave us his location, I called 911, and he was found and taken to an emergency room. He was given charcoal to drink as well as Narcan and other medications via IV. After he was medically stabilized, he was involuntarily committed to the hospital's psychiatric ward.

This past Monday, January 8, he was discharged from the psychiatric ward, and taken directly to jail because of the domestic violence charge against him from when I called the police on December 29th.

Yesterday was the domestic violence court hearing. Because I have been in touch with Daniel since December 29th, visited him daily at the psychiatric ward, and most importantly because I have truly forgiven him for what he did and I am not angry, and he himself is guilty, remorseful, and determined to make things right for himself and more importantly for both of us, I spoke with both the domestic violence advocate assigned to him and the district attorney who brought the charges against him, and it was agreed that Daniel would plead guilty to a harassment charge. This is a lesser charge that means he will not serve jail time; but he will have to take both domestic violence and anger management classes. And, his check-ins with a psychiatrist and a psychologist will also be mandated.

Daniel and I need to rent a room somewhere in the county, at the cost of anywhere from $75 to $100 per week, in order to have something to call "ours". From there we can rebuild:I can continue to do the bit of online work I have been able to find, he can focus on his mental health recovery and working with a local retained lawyer (free, due to our limited income) to get his SSDI/SSI case pushed through, and I can also focus on finishing up my SSDI/SSI application. While Daniel has more diagnoses than I do, I have a consistent trail of doctor visits, specialist visits, hospital visits, tests, surgeries, and diagnoses going all the way back to 2009 to prove my case several times over. Daniel's medical trail is more inconsistent due to all of my emergency surgeries and hospitalizations.

* * * * *

This is my plea: we need financial help, desperately. At this point we have nothing except our vehicle, a gas tank on empty despite me using the last $4.00 I had to put one and a half gallons in it, Alyssa and Ryan in foster care, and only several duffel bags and a laptop bag of belongings.

I am begging anyone who reads this: please help us get back on our feet. Any and all PayPal donations will be used to pay as many weekly/monthly rental fees as we can to ensure a room we rent remains ours. We'll also use any donated money to fill our gas tank, and to buy as little food as possible to keep us going. PLEASE HELP: my PayPal address is x@jenn.nu.

Please know that Daniel and I have been doing everything we can to rebuild ever since we lost our home last June, but we have been hit with one financial and/or medical crisis after another - in fact, in the midst of all of this, I was hospitalized for two days in October and then had an urgent surgery to remove my remaining ovary, because it was twisting and torsing due to the presence of cysts as well as many adhesions. I know that I have asked a lot of my friends both offline and online, but please know we are desperate, without any resources, and are truly trying the best we can. At this point I don’t know what else to do. I have nowhere to go, and I can’t stay much longer where I am now. In a matter of days we will be living in our car, but with no money even for gas, let alone food or shelter. I am putting all of this out here, online, in the hope of not just asking for help, but to clear up the vagueness and silence that has taken over my social media accounts. I’m so sorry to anyone I’ve offended or upset and I promise that once we are finally back on our feet, however long that takes, I will right the wrongs I’ve committed in inadvertently with any of my friends. PLEASE HELP: my PayPal address is x@jenn.nu.