#i am trying to cook with rotten scraps here

[hauntedjohnny]

100% Real julie crawford lore and backstory (not clickbait!)

fairly happy home life. fairly well-off (probably the wealthiest of the victims). i imagine them similar to the parents in easy a. free-spirited. not controlling. very loving. julie's dad, however, spent a lot of time away at work so she didn't see him as much as she would like. when she was younger she would act out a bit when he spent all day in his home office and she wanted attention from him. probably has a job as an estate agent or something similar. mom used to be a teacher but retired early, now crafts things like jewellery to sell at markets. julie has an older brother except he's like 10 years older than her so she was basically raised as an only child; she was always making friends with everyone in her neighbourhood though so really it was as if she had 20 siblings.

spent nearly every weekend at the beach as a child. her dad taught her to surf which is why it's very dear to her. she also dabbled in beach volleyball and rollerskating but she is a water baby at heart. at some point, she realised she loved being the centre of attention and when she was a tween she would compete with the older kids in surfing and volleyball etc. and win (nearly) every time. when she hit puberty she got more attention than she realised, naively thinking the older boys were interested in her talents or personality.

when she went to high-school things changed for her. a senior 'dated' her as a freshman which dragged her into the wrong crowds. she was always the youngest one at the senior's parties being told that she's 'mature' enough to be there. despite her better judgement, she enjoyed these parties; she loved dancing, she loved music and she loved people. it was only when she found out the senior was cheating on her and left school without so much as a phonecall did she realise she'd been played for a fool.

except, unlike gun says, this didn't make her a stronger person. she crumbled at the thought of being played with and tossed aside. so, she did what she knew best, basked in the attention of others. it sent her on a mental downward spiral as she spent her weekends at parties instead of the beach, clinging onto any guy or girl that would give her the time of day. she told herself that she was spreading love, dating one person wasn't 'freeing' enough for her but it was all an attempt to control how close people got to her. there were a few girls she got close to, confident they wouldn't hurt her as they'd experienced similar before.

during these years, her dad was taking regular business trips while her mom encouraged her to go have a fun and be social as 'you're not gonna be this age forever', not truly realising the extent of her partying. she'd always been naturally smart, but it was clear her grades were dropping. other than that, her friends and family were none the wiser, julie being able to keep up the sunny facade she's always had.

at some point the alcohol wasn't enough for her so days, she would find the rougher crowds on the outskirts of the beach bonfire, hidden in the coves, taking hallucinogens she probably shouldn't. this led to the night that changed her life. sometime in her junior year her and her friends driving too fast along the coast, a little bit tipsy, a little bit high, causing them to crash. she was the only one to come out of it with no injuries. her best friend lay unconcious in the passenger seat as julie panics trying to save her. no one died but, to julie, it felt like something died. its like her whole world sobered, she couldn't keep spending her life like this so for her senior year she cleaned up her act. told herself she wanted to become a medic, almost as if she was repenting, almost like it was a secret apology for her friend. at this same time, she started running, starting as night runs to clear her head. she soon took to stamina running, short bursts of energy needing to be released. and like most sports, she was good at it.

when she got to university, she roomed with maria. julie was able to make friends with everyone so always included maria in her plans (and vice verse). the parties at university were different, more relaxed. there were actually people her age there. she felt comfortable to drink again, especially when maria is with her. maria grounded julie and made her realise that her love doesn't come with a cost. she begins to love like she did as a child, earnestly. she gets overprotective of maria at times as she doesn't want her to experience the same things she did. she always stick by her at parties and interrogate boys who come up to her. one time she went to the bathroom and returned to her giggling with this long haired boy she learnt to be danny. she soons loosens up and realises maria can hold her own.

there were a few 'relapses' in her first year, the biggest one being the anniversary of the crash, where she would get black-out drunk and dabble with people she typically didnt. julie admits to maria she thought she was meant to die that day and every day since has been extra time, death around the corner waiting for her. one party a few weeks after a relapse, danny suggested she try weed instead of alcohol; it allowed her to feel a high but lose her inhibitions. at 21, she would rather spend a party smoking weed over a single beer than taking shots with strangers.

throughout her years at uni she learnt that she wasn't as good under pressure as she once thought so specialised her medical training into physiotherapy/sports medicine as the environments are less intense and she has a lot of amateur experience in that field. in the back of her mind, however, she always dreams of owning a small house of the beachfront where she spends her days teaching younger kids to surf. she would have a lot to confront mentally before she could do that though. she planned to do this before she graduated but maria went missing and julie would always put maria before herself.

[lupismaris]

Blackberry Crepes- silverflintham black sails modern au ficlet

(i saw a few posts about how love is sharing food and making breakfast for your loved ones and lets just say this is part 1 of a series in which Flint cooks for his loved ones when saying i love you might not be enough)

Sleep was something of a stranger to Silver. He liked to joke that he didn’t need it, that he could just cat nap for half an hour here and there, and be good for a few days, that he was just built different, the perks of life on the run and never having a real routine. But in truth he’d push himself until his body gave out and he slept for 18 hours and woke up feeling like death warmed over. That was the only way he’d be able to get any real sleep. Pushing himself to the point of exhaustion, or, as he had eventually learned with Flint and Thomas, getting well and truly laid until his brain shut off and his body felt like lead.   He preferred the latter, of course, but it still wasn’t something he felt he could readily ask for. Especially when it wasn’t enough to keep his mind quiet. Dreams, nightmares, they’re funny things. You can think you’re too tired to dream and then on your way into an REM cycle you get blind sided by the most vivid night terror you’ve had in the past three months. You could be napping on the couch when the phantom limb starts acting up and your mind conjures memories of when you lost it or just vague ideas of what life would be like if you hadn’t and you wake up unable to tell which is worse. You could be strung out and coming down from an orgasmic high and then feel your stomach drop when you finally fall asleep and your mind tells you it isn’t safe, jolting you violently back to consciousness. Or you could be dozing in the early morning hours, the way Silver had been, after a good night, a genuinely good night, and find yourself halfway between deep sleep and waking, faced with fears you’d buried so far deep you hoped they’d suffocate. They’d gone to dinner, on a date even. Flint and Thomas had made a point to be home and get dressed up and take him out on the town and pay complete attention to him, like he was just a normal lover and not, well, himself. It was still an adjustment for him, this idea that he could just have this, a normal relationship with men who actually wanted him, where using each other wasn’t part of it, where the end game wasn’t someone’s bank account or an act of violence, where there wasn’t even an end game to consider. By the end of July the charms of summer had started to wear thin, even for Silver, and he was tired of the heat and the mirror like cage of the city, he was tired of the long days and the long conversations and the longer shadows on the blistering asphalt. He was tired of the haze that made his mind question what was and wasn’t real, despite knowing what was. It left him on edge and he knew Flint could tell, no matter how hard he worked to hide it. If Thomas knew, he was at least polite enough not to give it away. Dinner had been lovely. A little Spanish place by the promenade, followed by a short walk since the evening was cooler than expected and a breeze of the Hudson meant it was almost blissful. There had been wine and Flint’s homemade limoncello tarts when they got home and endless lazy kisses and one of them always touching him as if trying to keep him tethered. There had been sex, great sex, not that Silver had ever had bad sex with the pair of them (the smug rotten bastards), but the kind where Silver had been able to let go and drown in it for a while, let someone else carry the load, and do the thinking for a while. It still hadn’t been enough.

Silver sighed, a cloud of smoke curling around his face as he watched the rooftops shift and glimmer in the faded teal skies of four am, his second cigarette of the hour dangling somewhat carelessly from his fingers. He had tried, valiantly he felt, to stay in bed with Flint and Thomas, to sleep curled up with them the way Flint always hoped he would after sex. Some nights it worked and he’d wake up when Flint went for his blasphemous morning run. Most nights though he’d wait until Thomas was out cold and snoring like a bear, then kiss Flint goodnight, and slip back to his room next door. He’d fallen asleep tucked into Flint’s chest, with Flint’s arm around him and the deep rumble of his breathing filling his ears. Thomas was spooned up behind Flint, clinging to his husband like a child and snoring loudly, but that too was somehow comforting. He was safe, he was loved, he was home. And suddenly the next thing Silver knew he was choking on nothing and fighting the air, sitting bolt upright in bed with a wordless, noiseless scream of fear. The only saving grace was that it didn’t wake the others, Thomas still sound asleep and curled up under the covers, Flint spooned up behind him, years younger in sleep, a different man. Silver had sat there shaking for some time, half an hour, five minutes, he couldn’t be sure. Once he could breathe without wheezing and his hands had stopped shaking violently, he steadied himself and slipped out of bed, grabbing his crutch from where it rested dutifully against the nightstand. There wasn’t much he was good at in life, but John Silver had always been good at running. This wasn’t any different. Now, he was wrapped in an old blanket, hidden away on the roof where he’d been putting together his own little makeshift garden. Plants that he’d found half dead or dying on the curb, abandoned succulents from friends, houseplants he found on discount at the hardware store that he’d barter down to a dollar. He liked the distance heights gave him, always had, was always climbing things as a kid to try and get a better view, try to hide away from prying eyes. It was harder now that he had the prosthetic, but the elevator could take him up to the loft, and the stairs to the roof weren’t too steep, so he could manage them with his crutch. It wasn’t that he didn’t love the little patch of green paradise that Flint and Thomas had nurtured down below, he loved it and the time they spent there. But this- this little scrap of roof top, with it’s homemade shelves of plywood and resurrected plants, was his. Silver took another drag from his cigarette and watched a flock of pigeons shift their course in flight, heading west towards Manhattan where the morning crowds were no doubt slowly beginning to stir. Even on Saturdays, the city got a bright and early start if it ever truly decided to rest. He could hear tidbits of conversation from his perch, voices carried up to him like secrets as their owners walked past, heading home from work, from a night out, leaving home to go to work, whatever their little lives demanded, existing in spite of themselves, for themselves. Cars hummed past, cabbies and uber drivers trying to catch the last of the club goers as they left the bars in search of a trip home, picking up the true early bird tourists as they tried to beat the others to some absurd event or another. He could even hear music, someone’s window open on their block he thought, and the faint repetitive sound of a piano as they worked through their scales. Maybe he wasn’t the only one having trouble sleeping. The neighborhood would be well and truly awake soon. The running group would be on the corner waiting for the stragglers, hitting the asphalt by five am. The store fronts and bodegas would start opening up around six, the bars by eight if they served brunch, and the world would come to life at Silver’s feet. He had until then to quiet the noise in his head and remember how to put his mask back on. The sound of the door nearly gave him a heart attack. He thought for a moment that maybe, if he kept still, he’d go unnoticed, they the sparse shelves and plants and the blanket might hide him well enough that Flint, because it was always Flint, would go back down stairs and go for his morning run and leave him well enough alone. But he knew better. “Do I want to know how long you’ve been up here?” came the sleep heavy rumble of a voice. “Depends on whether you want to be disappointed this early in the morning,” Silver replied dryly. And there it was, the telltale sigh of disappointment, because Flint was going to be disappointed no matter what answer he got. “Silver-” “I don’t want to do this right now.” “Do what?” Silver sighed and rubbed at his eyes. He heard Flint move across the roof, the soft footsteps of bare feet on the weatherproof matting slow and well chosen, stopping next to him. “This thing you do where you try and bully answers out of me. I don’t fucking feel up to these games, alright? I just- I don’t,” Silver said, risking a look upwards. Flint was shirtless, as he always was when fresh out of bed, but he’d pulled on a pair of old sweatpants before going to look for Silver. He’d left his hair loose, the rich copper strands hanging in a curtain around the left side of his face, the shaved under cut peaking out along the right. Silver could still see the pillow prints on his cheek, and his beard was disgruntled and unbrushed the way it rarely was when he left the house. Silver loved him like this, he loved Flint always, but there was something about Flint like this, soft and at ease, bare chested and vulnerable that managed to settle even the worst of Silver’s deep seated insecurities. Because who else got to have Flint like this? Who else but Silver and Thomas got Flint at his gentlest? They looked at each other for a moment, Flint frowning softly with his hands on his hips and Silver wrapped up in his blanket, saying nothing, saying everything they could. Then Flint sighed and sat down next to him. “I’m not here to bully you,” he said gently, taking the cigarette that Silver was neglecting. “You were gone when I woke up, thought I’d check on you,” He paused, relighting the cigarette with his trusty old lighter, “but as you were not in your room I figured something was bothering you and you’d be either working in the office or up here.” “You didn’t have to check on me.” “It was for my sake, not yours.” Silver smiled faintly, his eyes stinging from what he hoped was just exhaustion but was probably tears. He didn’t look at Flint, just blinked them away and watched the sky lighten little by little as Flint finished the cigarette. “You know that’s not what I’m doing, right?” Flint asked after a few minutes of silence. “Whats not what you’re doing?” “Bullying you.” “I mean it’s kinda what you do.” “Is that how you see it?” Flint wasn’t looking at him. He was reaching for the French enamel cigarette case that was sitting next to Silver, one he’d stolen in Monaco several lives before, and lighting another cigarette. Silver watched him, a little wistful, and incredibly exhausted all at once. “No.” He said. “Yes. Depends on when you try and do it I guess.” That got a low hum from Flint, smoke filling the air for a moment in a pensive cloud. Silver waited, oddly tense, hoping that Flint would listen to him, and not try and play one of their fucked up little games so early in the morning. They were doing really well these days, not playing any games at all, having real, honest conversations like well adjusted adults who hadn’t done all the awful things they’d done, to each other, to others. But sometimes it was so much easier to just be awful to each other, to fall back into the old way of doing things. “I only check on you to know you’re still here,” Flint said finally. “I only ask if you’re alright because if I can fix it, I want to. I don’t care if you lie to me about what had you out of bed this morning. I don’t give a shit if you never tell me the names of your ghosts, I’ve told you that a dozen times, I know you remember that as well as you remember the names of my own ghosts.” Silver did remember, both the ghosts, and the plaintive way Flint had asked him to trust whatever it was they had between them. “I just want to know you’re still here. That you’ve not gone running off again. That you’ll run to me next time this,” he waved at the rooftop and the skyline as if encompassing all of Silver’s faulty coping methods, “fails and you’re out at sea. I just- I ask those questions to reassure myself, alright?” He paused, taking another drag from the cigarette, tipping his head back with a heavy sigh. Silver could see the age starting to show on his face again, in the soft lines around his eyes, the firm set of his mouth, the scars on his nose and throat, the endless sea of freckles, the faded ink of his tattoos, the streaks of gray in his beard. Before his eyes, the man he loved, his Flint, was appearing, returning to flesh and blood from the land of dreams. “You’re not the only one who’s scared, pup,” Flint added, finally turning his head and catching Silver looking at him. The sea green of Flint’s eyes always seemed to hook Silver, regardless of whether he wanted them to. They could be the deep inky black full of secrets or the still gray of quiet waters, it didn’t matter- if Flint looked at him, soft and open and endlessly patient the way no one else was, Silver would eventually break. Flint knew it, but so far, he never seemed to abuse the power he held. Silver smiled faintly. With a soft groan he shifted onto his knees, loving the way Flint’s hands immediately reached to steady him whether he needed it or not, and crawled into Flint’s lap, straddling his hips and wrapping the worn blanket around them both. He took the cigarette from Flint’s lips and stubbed it out in the ashtray, as Flints hands settled like an anchor, warm and sure, at the small of his back. “I’m not goin’ anywhere, old man,” Silver said, brushing Flint’s hair out of his eyes, “I promised you were stuck with me. No amount of nightmares are gonna change that.” He kissed Flint softly, smiling at the low rumbling purr it got him, at the way Flint’s hands pulled him closer, spread wide on his back. It was a soft, innocent thing, no heat, no hunger, and that too was still something novel to Silver, that he could have this innocent kind of intimacy with someone, with a man like Flint. He craved it as much as he craved the wilder side of love and was grateful that Flint seemed happy to satisfy both moods whenever they arose. “Good,” Flint said, once the lazy kiss broke and Silver tucked his face into Flint’s shoulder with a happy sound. “Because while I would absolutely give chase, I’d rather not have Thomas trailing after us as well. You know the kind of trouble he gets up to, just imagine him trying to find you.” Silver snorted with an undignified burst of laughter. “No, god, he’d be impossible.” “Exactly. I’d have my hands full just trying to keep him in one piece. I’ve got enough gray hair as it is, pup, don’t go giving me anymore before my time, alright?” Flint lifted his chin as Silver’s fingers petted the gray streaks in his beard, letting out another soft rumbling sound. “Alright. Though I do think it’s sexy.” “Yeah yeah, you’ve made that perfectly clear,” Flint kissed the top of Silver’s head, nuzzling his messy curls. “C’mon, why don’t we head inside, I think it’s a reasonable time for coffee.” “What about your run? Your awful five am morning ritual I can almost never talk you out of even for a blow job.” “I feel like skipping this morning.” Silver lifted his head, leveling Flint with a skeptical look and a raised eyebrow. Flint returned it with a fond smile. “Its Saturday, I feel like making breakfast,” Flint said with a shrug. I love you, Silver heard. “Can we have blackberry crepes? And scrambled eggs?” Silver asked after a moment. “And that fancy bacon you got from the farmer’s market?” Flint smiled, still fond and impossibly warm. Silver’s heart skipped, flipped, and settled in his chest. Flint had heard the unspoken, skittish, and undeniable “I love you too” tucked into Silver’s reply. Flint coaxed him into another soft kiss, still wearing that same smile.

  “Blackberry crepes it is.”

[starcunning]

Injurious

And the other thing that’s been cooking since last November (it was revised after more recent events). Sometimes you have to break a bone so it will heal correctly.

This story contains MSQ/ending spoilers for FFXIV patch 4.56, “Requiem for Heroes.”

Odette

At eleven bells I take up my cane and go for a walk with Grandpere. It is much too late for a morning promenade, but the intention is not to see and be seen; in my current state I do not much desire to be looked upon in any case. Much of the bruising has faded, but bandages betray the mending of more serious wounds. The one in my side pains me, but the chirurgeons have instructed me to walk as much as I am able.

It is spring; soon it will be Hatching-tide, but snow still dusts the roof of the Athenaeum, visible across the thoroughfare. We take the steps slowly; I have learned to place the cane down first and lean into it, compressing my favored side a little. It hurts each time I do it, but better that than a torn stitch. Again. How embarrassing for a lady who favors white to find herself blotted unexpectedly with crimson. Such a thing had not happened to me in nigh-on fifteen summers, when I was just in the earliest blooms of womanhood. Am I to be helpless as a child for the fullness of my convalescence? I am thirty-seven winters old—or thirty-two; there is some debate on the matter owing to the five years I cannot count after Carteneau.

There is no moon falling upon us now, and yet I still feel some great doom hanging overhead. Certainly there is someone trying to impress that knowledge upon me, and he—whoever he is—is responsible for my injured state. It is half a miracle I did not die; though Aymeric is too circumspect to say so, my sister does not share his compunctions.

Whatever calamity it is we are meant to forestall, there is no evidence of it along the Arc of the Venerable. Its august houses rest safe among the Pillars, dusted by snow. Eventually we come to a grander set of steps; the houses that rise to either side of the thoroughfare are slightly dingy—soot-dusted.

“Where are we going?” I ask, because I count dozens of stairs. “I’m reporting to the construction site,” Grandpere says. “I thought you might like to come, considering it’s your money.” I smile wanly, though it becomes more a grimace as I totter down the stairs. Before we’re halfway down, I am leaning on Grandpere’s arm. The stone is heat-cracked and crumbling despite the ever-present fog; old scaffolds are laid in broken heaps along the sides of the street. Children pick through the leavings of rotting wood, trying to find scraps small enough to carry away for the fire.

In the distance I can hear the steady pace of hammering, the rasp of saws, the back and forth call of workers. We pass terraces of row houses, and I peer down the streets, trying to make them familiar to me. There is one I should know; one I should be able to pick out from the rubble, but fire and desolation—and new construction—have made these facades unfamiliar to me. The impulse to stand before it is perverse anyway, and I smother it the way every breath seems to smother me, fog in my lungs. I can feel the damp on my cheeks; my makeup threatens to run.

Still, it isn’t all bad. I can see smoke rising from chimneys and the children do play, chasing each other round and round the middenheaps, laughing. Mother calls me a populist, and blames this on the education she was forced to give me—and my sister. While supplemented by private tutelage in the afternoons, most of what Colette and I learned was at the hands of beleaguered schoolmarms who—while well-accustomed to teaching the sons and daughters of merchants—were unprepared for the sudden influx of noble children. Grandpere—who even Mother would not dare accuse of the same heresies she pins on me, despite his stances being far more overt—tells me it was some manner of compromise; a gesture meant to show that the High Houses were not so far out of touch—or reach—from the common man.

I will never have children, but I suspect that my peers who are of an age with me will be faced with a similar edict.

I am less sure if the children we pass have been taught their letters. I wonder if Aymeric will raise the matter in the House. Perhaps that is putting the cart before the chocobo, if they are scavenging rotten wood to keep warm. Ishgard’s troubles are many; she still bears the scars of her thousand-year war, and it is difficult to know in what order to do things.

Perhaps then it is foolishness for me to rebuild the homes the so-called True Brothers set ablaze, but that is what I have the resources to do—I collect an allowance from my family and a stipend from the Temple Knights, to say nothing of the honoraria my sister and I are accustomed to collecting. There are those who claim we should work for free, but my belief is that no man should work for free, lest his employer compel others to match him. Instead, having no need of the money I collect, it is purposed toward other causes. And the House artisans are glad of steady work and steady wages. Grandpere collects a sum as foreman of the project; I suspect he, too, reinvests it in the project. His retirement as Count has left him with free time enough to pursue this endeavor, and I am glad of his expertise.

His office is small; I suspect that before he took possession of it the Forgotten Knight used it for storage. The windows are small and the scent of barley clings to the place. He does not linger overlong there; his desk is perfectly neat and his blotter has no waiting messages, so we wander through the work site. It is slow going; the stones are uneven and I must move carefully, unsure of my cane in such conditions. The masons wear the silver-and-red livery of our house, but there are other tradesmen who bear no such allegiance. They wear wool caps against the chill of this fog-cloaked bank, and I try to imagine Mother knitting beside the fire.

Fond as she is of the activity, I have not known her to do such a thing as this. She seems to prefer blankets and booties, to be given as gifts to the children of other ladies, since Colette and I insist upon disappointing her hopes.

Though the sun is nearing its apex, it has yet to burn the fog off this place. Despite that, morale seems high here. It is not impossible, I consider, that some of the men have roots here. After all, Rempart was of this place, once, before he came to our service. Even if not, they seem glad to have meaningful work—or perhaps it is simply that the prospect of it being undone by dragons in short order has greatly diminished. I am proud for a moment of what I have done, and allow myself to survey my work with a faint smile.

Then I spy a head of blonde hair and the bottom drops out of my world.

Rielle

The bucket is heavy and I know my arms will ache tomorrow, but I don’t complain. That’s a small price to pay for the work, and I’ve done harder things. I’m stronger than I know—Fray says so sometimes, but I’m not really sure I believe him. I know exactly how strong I am; I’m just not sure that’s all me.

I’ve been at this for moons, and my regular visitation allows me to watch the houses climbing back up out of the rubble. Home’s a funny word; I lived here a while, and somewhere else for the first few years of my life, but the place I’ve done most of my growing up is one I never want to go back to. This summer will be my fourteenth; I’m eager for it because it officially tips the scales and I’ll have spent more time out than in. Soon the oubliette will be a diminishing fraction of my life, though who knows what will grow to fill that space.

I hear a woman’s yelp and look down at my bucket of water and I want to help. I know a little conjury; Fray taught me some and I get books sent from Gridania. I used to have a—not a tutor, exactly, but someone used to teach me the arts of the astrologian, but that hasn’t happened for a while now. She disappeared along with her sister a few years ago. After the argument.

Anyway, rather than stand there frozen, I set my pail aside and hustle over. Master Tarresson is kneeling, leaning over someone I can’t see around a corner. He looks exasperated but amused; it’s a look I’ve seen Sid wear a thousand times. “What are you doing?” he asks, chuckling fondly. The unseen woman only hushes him in response, though perhaps it’s simply a hiss of pain. “She’ll hear you,” she says, and though her voice is raw there’s something familiar about it. “Who?” Master Tarresson asks, seeming amused. He outstretches an arm. “The girl? What have you to fear from a girl of fourteen summers?” Fourteen! I stand a little straighter, trying to look taller, older, as though this will make me fourteen summers in truth. I can feel myself smiling, my cheeks warm despite the cold. “That’s,” she says, gritting her teeth. I see her hand close around his forearm and hear another cry of pain escape through gritted teeth. “That’s Rielle de Caulignont.”

I know her then, as surely as she knows me, and I approach them closer still, looking upon them. Though it’s twisted with pain, I know that face. “Odette,” I say. She only lets out another wail, letting go of Master Tarresson’s arm and trying to press herself back against the stone wall, as though she might melt into it. “Are you alright?” I ask. “I think,” she says, panting, “I sprained my ankle.”

Trying to hide from me. I don’t understand, but I don’t ask, only kneel down next to her. She shrinks from my touch and I try to smile. “I want to help,” I say. “I’ve been studying …” Her face is pale, her lilac eyes fixed upon the sky, though I glance up and see nothing but fog. “Rielle,” she says, and something softens, though I can still see the tightness of pain in her brow.  That’s still the same, then; Fray shows his in his shoulders and Sid in his jaw, and I’ve gotten so used to seeing it. She stretches her leg out, gritting her teeth. The ankle is swollen, bruises begun to flood beneath her pale skin like a spreading stain.

There are no Elementals here like the ones they write of in the Black Shroud. Nature seems remote to this place; there is the snow and the distant mountains, but Ishgard has stood for a dozen centuries, defiant and apart. Still, there is power in dragon’s blood, which has anointed every stone in this city, and which runs in my veins, and I call on that power, feeling it rise and awaken within me.

I haven’t just been studying; I’ve been practicing too. Ishgard is different now, but change doesn’t come all at once—it begins in one place and spreads unevenly, like a mottled bruise. My magic is the same; I can direct the streams of aether and speed the natural healing of the body, but changing the currents is harder. I let it pool in her leg, mending the tears in the ligaments. It wants to flow elsewhere, too; there are deep valleys of pain in her that threaten to empty me out, great spirit and all, but I stop before the torrent of aether can begin.

“You’re hurt,” I say, and for the first time I notice the cane that Master Tarresson holds. I’ve never known him to walk with one, and the head of it is fashioned after a swan preparing to take flight, so it must be hers. “’Tis nothing for you to worry on,” she insists. “I have a chirurgeon to tend me. But … thank you.” “So,” Master Tarresson says. “You’re that Rielle.” I feel the tips of my ears grow hot. “I didn’t realize I was so famous,” I say. “My granddaughter spoke of you all the time,” he says. “They both did.” I don’t know what to say to that for a long moment.

Into the pause he simply says “Up you go,” and takes Odette beneath her arms, pulling her with him as he rises to his feet, as though she were a child who had fallen playing in the courtyard. She takes her cane from him. “Is Miss Colette here, too?” I ask, pushing myself to my feet and dusting off my knees. The two of them exchange a look. “No,” Odette says after a moment. “She visits home occasionally, but we still have a job to do, and since I can’t …” “Oh,” I say. “I see.” “I’ll tell her how well you’re coming along,” Master Tarresson says, and I lift my shoulders, embarrassed. The bells of the city resound over the stone—twelve chimes, bright and clear like skies ought to be. “It’s quitting time for you, young miss,” Master Tarresson says. And lunch for the rest of them, I know; I can hear the hammering stop and the particular groaning of wood as the workers begin to climb down the scaffolds.

I look at Odette, who is looking back at me with a curious expression on her face. “Do you want to walk me home?” I say. Maybe she can stay for lunch. Maybe Fray can help her. He’s not a very experienced conjurer, but he still knows more than me. I know he was angry with her, but that was a long time ago, and she’s hurt. Maybe … She closes her eyes, and then she nods. “Alright,” she says, and offers me her hand.

It seems a childish gesture. I am almost thirteen summers old, and easily mistaken for older, but I have missed her, so I take it. Her hand is soft—she holds her sword in the same hand that now grasps her cane, leaving this one gentle.

Climbing the stairs is a very slow process, and I can tell how much it hurts her, though she never makes a sound.

“How did you get hurt?” I ask. “Saving the world,” she says, through gritted teeth. “As usual.” “Oh,” I say. Then, “Is that why you left?” “Yes,” she hisses. The wood groans too, but soon we are at the landing and can walk out into Saint Valeroyant’s Forum. The shattered statue of that saint still overlooks the plaza, and far overhead the dragonkillers still bristle, but they are unmanned. “How long are you home for?” I wonder. “Until I’m needed elsewhere. Until I get better.” She produces a lace-edged handkerchief from her sleeve and dabs at her brow, but the mask of pain has not quite left her. “So you have to go away again,” I say. She doesn’t take my hand again, just leans on her cane and starts off. “Eventually.” “Well, as long as you’re in the city, maybe we can see each other,” I say, smiling at the thought. “What were you doing in the Brume anyway?” She turns her head to look at me. “It’s my worksite,” she says, as though it should be perfectly obvious. “What?” “I’m paying for it, so I thought I would go see how it’s coming along. Moreover, the chirurgeons suggested it was good for me to get out of the house a bit.” “Oh,” I say. I hadn’t realized—the Dzemael livery was obvious enough, but I had assumed they were merely contracted for the work by the state. “Why?” Her gaze goes distant, her knuckles on the cane growing white. “I guess the house I bought you isn’t good enough for Fray,” she says. “What?” I’m bewildered. It’s a nice house, and I’m happy there, and that, at least, seems to make Fray and Sid happy. “I’m rebuilding the old one,” Odette says. “And the rest of them. Maybe then he’ll be satisfied.”

That doesn’t seem right. And she doesn’t sound happy when she talks about Fray. I want to ask her, but that seems too obvious, so I say something else instead.

“Did you miss me?” I ask, and the words come out quieter than I meant them to. No one would mistake me for a young lady of fourteen summers hearing that; more likely they would assume I was eight, and I hate it. She looks at me a long moment before she answers. “Of course I did, Rielle,” she says.

When we come to the house, Fray is standing outside, his arms folded across his chest. He doesn’t look happy either, and I wonder if I’ve made a mistake, but these two loved each other once, and I don’t understand why that should have stopped. His eyes are like a wolf’s eyes.

“Rielle,” he says. “I found Odette at the worksite,” I say quickly. “I thought we could have lunch, and—” “Go inside,” Fray tells me in a tone that brooks no disagreement.

Fray

I cannot believe she’s here. That she would dare to come here. I haven’t seen her in two years, but Halone help me, I could have gone for twenty more without having to see her face. She’s never completely absent my life, of course—that’s just how it is, given who she is, but she doesn’t come down here, and she shouldn’t, and she has.

I hear the door close behind me, and glance back to see the curtains twitch, so I jerk my head to the side and make my voice as calm as I can. “Let’s take a walk.” She doesn’t say anything, but she follows me. She’s leaning on a cane—for what? Sympathy? I wonder why she needs it and then remember she’s always had her crutches, and am angry all over again because I used to be one. At the end of the street there’s a little garden, a communal patch of green that overlooks the plaza below, though the fog rolling over the lower reaches of the city obscures much. I was born down there. I belong down there.

Instead I’m up here, with her, and she’s looking at me, brow furrowed like she can’t figure me out. “What in the hells do you think you’re doing?” I ask, my voice low and soft. We are well out of earshot of the house but somehow I still think we’ll be overheard. “Rielle asked me to walk her home!” Odette protests. There’s something almost whining in her tone. “And you said yes,” I point out to her. “Rielle is a child. You’re an adult. You’re supposed to be the responsible one. Or did it not occur to you that you wouldn’t be welcome?” “I didn’t know you were going to be home!” I shake my head. “Whether I was here to see it or not, you shouldn’t have come. I don’t even know why you’d want to.” “I didn’t want to disappoint her,” Odette says. There’s something about her voice when we argue; she gets shrill and girlish. Right now it annoys me, because there’s no point in granting her my sympathy. “Didn’t want to disappoint her,” I repeat, the words blustering out of me, scornful. “You disappeared! For two years!” “You don’t even want me here, so I don’t exactly see what the problem is,” Odette says. Her hand tightens on the cane.

“We’re not talking about me right now,” I say, setting my teeth. “We’re talking about Rielle, and how you never said goodbye to her or wrote to her while you were gone. You don’t think that’s disappointing?” “Would you have even let me write to her?” she asks. Her lips are set into a firm line. The fog is dewy on her brow. “I sure as hells won’t now,” I say. “She needs stability, and she has it now, no thanks to you.” She huffs out a sigh. “You have no idea the pressures I’m under,” she says.

It’s true; I don’t. I know she’s a Warrior of Light—along with her twin. Sometimes they count her manservant and companion, a fellow bastard of the Brume she probably thinks of as a charity case, but Rempart is much less famous than the twins, and I suspect that’s not entirely an accident. I can only guess at the circumstances they and their companions find themselves in.

“If you’re going to start telling me about that now, it’s far too late,” I tell her. There was a time where that was all I wanted, but for all the times she talked about herself, Odette never spoke much about those things in particular. “Why don’t you go tell the Lord Commander?” I sneer. She averts her gaze, her brow furrowing. “Perhaps I have,” she replies, tone bitter.

I grind my teeth. It’s a surprise only insofar as I assumed she had discarded him too, but that admission is a confession that she chose him over me, and she turns her head to look at me. There’s something like pain in her expression for a moment before it transmutes to anger. Disgust. “Oh, don’t look like that,” she says. “You still have Sidurgu, don’t you?” “I never endeavored to keep Sid a secret,” I snipe back. “I believe, in fact, you had firsthand knowledge of that relationship.” “So what?” she replies. “In the end you’d choose him over me anyway. Just like you’re going to blame this on me even though Rielle was part of it too.” “Rielle and I are going to have a discussion,” I say, “and I will make it clear to her that I don’t want you to come here and I don’t think that you’re going to be a positive influence in her life, and if she does it again, yes, there will be consequences. It’s my fault for assuming she knew better.” She looks at me, bewildered, as though the concept of boundaries is completely foreign to her. Maybe it is, reflecting on our time together. “But I didn’t do anything,” she says. “You abandoned her,” I snarl, no longer able to keep the anger from my voice. “You don’t think she’s had enough of that after her mother?” “What do you know about mothers!” Odette shouts back. “That’s exactly why I should talk to her!” “Your mother is still alive, last I checked. I don’t think it would pass unnoticed, exactly.” She has no answer for that, so she only huffs, tapping her cane against the stone to give vent to whatever roils inside her.

“You can’t be that mad at me if you still live in my house,” she says. “It’s not your house,” I point out. “You made that very clear when I asked you to move into it!” “If you hate me so much I don’t know why you’d stay there,” she says. “Because Rielle needs a stable environment,” I say, frustration radiating down my spine. “So you’re not going to move back into Ser Ompagne’s house once it’s rebuilt?” “Once you finish paying for the reconstruction, you mean,” I say. I can’t stop myself from rolling my eyes. “Why do you even care so much?” “Because!” she shouts back. “You were right! I can’t buy everyone a house that lost theirs, there just aren’t enough of them, and it seemed like this is what you wanted! To just—just go back to the life you had before you met me! Like I didn’t even matter, but if I could do that, then …” She turns away, blinking. “Oh, save your crocodile tears,” I spit. “What do you want me to do, fall at your feet in worship? You made it pretty clear when you left how you felt about us. Like it wasn’t already obvious.” She hunches her shoulders but doesn’t turn back, mumbling something I can’t quite hear. “Why did you even buy us this house in the first place, Odette?” I ask, stalking up to her shoulder so I can look at her face while she doesn’t answer me.

But she does, to my great surprise. “I wanted to do something important. I thought you’d be grateful.” “What,” I say, “grateful enough to forgive you for stringing me along? For fucking around behind my back?” “You knew who I was,” she says, her tone a lot less fragile than it was a moment before. “What I was like. Did you just assume I’d change for you?” “I don’t understand you at all,” I admit. “I thought you bought the house because you wanted me to forgive you for those sins you hadn’t confessed to yet. But you don’t care about that at all, do you?” “I didn’t,” she says. “They’re two separate things,” I say. “Thank you, I guess, for saving my life and making sure my family didn’t become homeless. Is that what you wanted to hear?” “Yes,” she replies, but it’s robotic, like she’s somewhere far away from here. “But you hurt me, Odette. Did you think you didn’t?” “No,” she says, just as flat. “No, I knew.” “I don’t have to forgive you for that,” I say.

She blinks again, turning her face away from me, and some smothered part of me that cared for her once—that loved her, even—cries out that perhaps her tears are real, and wants me to do something about them. But that isn’t my problem anymore. It can’t be. She made that clear, and anyway she has the Lord Commander to salve whatever wounds she’s nursing.

“Is there anything else you want to say to me?” she asks. “Before we say goodbye for good and you just go back to your life like—” “Like you don’t matter,” I finish for her. “Do you think I’m obligated to let you matter now?” I ask, and she’s still, silent, the breath rattling in her lungs. “I can’t say I’m happy to see you in pain, Odette, but if you want to talk about people mattering, when did we ever matter to you? When did I ever matter to you?” I ask. “I let myself believe that you were committed, because I admired your convictions in other things, but you were never anything less than halfway out the door all the time. I just didn’t let myself see it because you were a fucking hero—you saved my life and then Rielle’s, of course I felt something for you, but you were never going to let yourself be part of this. Not really. And when I did notice, you didn’t seem to care that I had. So who doesn’t matter, Odette?” “I never meant to hurt you,” she says, but her voice is weak. “Bullshit,” I say. “You did too. That was your way out.” “Maybe,” she says.

That’s about as much closure as I can expect to get, so I turn to go and leave her there. “Tell Rielle I said goodbye,” she says, her voice reedy and choked. I don’t dare turn back to look at her, because there’s nothing I want to see back there. “Fine,” I say. “But I’m not doing it for you.”

[wolfpawn]

The Art of Survival

Chapter 11

Chapter Summary: Robert and Fianna are in a very precarious position, can they get out of it?

WARNING: More mentions of cannibalism

Robert's eyes widened as he heard a familiar voice. On seeing Fianna, her eyes wide and fearful, he tried to shout to her but his mouth was gagged with a rag of some manner.

*

Robert had been convinced it was Fianna behind him in the bushes, but he could not have been more wrong. The first he knew of his error was the cloth going over his mouth. He tried to struggle but his deep inhale of breath meant the potent liquid that doused the cloth entered his lungs immediately and hastened the effect of the drugs it contained and forced him to lose consciousness. When he woke, he felt pains under his arms and around his neck but had been tied and gagged so he could do nothing to try and ascertain what was happening.

A man and woman eyed him and spoke about him as though he was unable to understand them but their words terrified him. They had seen Fianna and let her pass but not him. The man gave the order to see what Fianna was doing while he dealt with Robert. Terrified, Robert had tried to convince them to let him speak, to offer something in return for his freedom, but his grunts and groans as he attempted to speak only irked the man, who kicked him in the stomach to wind him before leaving him tied in a locked room and awaiting his fate.

When he was finally dragged from the room, he was startled to see the people eating a meat of some sort. Hungry, he wished to have some also. It was only when he noticed the execution devices did he gather how they came to have meat and became incredibly fearful, as well as feeling any sensation of hunger leaving him immediately.

“Which will we give him?” One man asked. “Drowning?”

Robert felt his legs go weak at the mere thought of such a prolonged and suffering form of death.

“No, he did no harm, hang him.” The one in charge ordered. “Drop hang. We are not sadists.”

“You heard him.” The first man stated, clearly disappointed at the declaration.

That is when Robert was dragged to the makeshift gallows, fighting them as best he could. When he heard his name in that voice, he thought himself already dead. When he saw Fianna in front of him, he shouted into the gag for her to run.

She did run, to him. “Please, no.” She looked to the man that had asked her what had been her profession. “He is a doctor. Please.”

“You know this man?”

“Yes, his name is Robert, Dr Robert Laing.” She stated quickly.

The man eyed the pair, noting the way she held onto the man and the manner in which the man looked fearful for her. “Untie him but stay vigilant.” One man came forward and cut the ropes around Robert's wrists and stood back again with a raised weapon, as did others. Robert's reaction was to take off the gag then pulled Fianna to him, kissing her temple.

Those gathered watched silently, coming to a unanimous conclusion. “A pair.” The head woman stated.

“Perhaps.” The head male responded. “Let us see.” He stood forward and noted Robert pull Fianna to the side, his body in front of hers. “What is her name?”

“Fianna Butler, she was twenty eight when this started, born on the south coast, near Devon, father British military, mother an Irish nurse and worked as a veterinary assistant before this.”

The man gave a curious smirk. “That is a start but not proof of a pair in itself.”

“She has a beauty mark, on her right shoulder and a scar on her right arm from a wound she received falling through a floor.” He recited. “She had seventeen freckles on her nose and two closed piercings on each ear.”

“He either knows her or is the most thorough stalker in history.” The woman scoffed. “Come this way.”

Robert and Fianna looked at each other for a moment before walking forward, both sensing that to ignore the request would not be met with a positive result. They did so, Robert ensuring to have a good grip on Fianna's hand to prevent them separated. Other's, who too were armed, followed them.

“We can never be too careful.” The woman explained. “We have bad experiences with lone males, they are second only to grouped males for danger, women tend to be better, but still something to be wary of, but pairs, they seldom are a concern.” She explained. “I am Gillian, I was one of the first here.”

“Robert.” Fianna pointed to Robert. “And Fianna, obviously. We are from the occupied tower.”

“So how did you survive there? Anyone who gets there is usually on the pavement within an hour?”

“It was bedlam at first, men fought, drank, killed and raped but numbers decreased and people began to lock themselves into floors. Now there are only a few and if they catch you on their floor, you're dead.” Fianna explained.

“So why did you risk the journey out?”

“Food is gone. What limited supplies were there are gone and there's nothing left. I went hunting and clearly…” she glared at Robert. “Robert followed. I felt it safer that I go alone.” She turned to him again. “And I was right.”

“Yes, but I could not leave you go alone.” he defended.

Fianna shook her head. “I had not realised he followed. We mean you all no harm, nothing of the sort, we just needed to try and find food.”

“What did you find?”

“A dog, some seeds and a few rotten leaves I was hoping to use to make soil for them.”

The woman laughed. “Farming? Well, that's a new one. A dog isn't much eating and surely you like animals.”

“Yes, but needs must.”

“I saw your reaction to our food.” Gillian stated, studying Fianna's reaction. “You have doubts.”

“I read about those rugby players in the Andes a decade ago, of their reluctance but circumstance that forced their decision, I said then that it was a difficult decision. Today, many face the same one.” She replied.

“When we took this tower, there was no food, nothing, it was completely barren. We faced certain starvation, it was our only hope. Children would have died.”

“And they are all those who would harm you.”

“Exactly.”

“I never planned to hurt anyone.” Robert growled.

“Robert.” Fianna placed a hand on Robert's chest and looked up at him while giving her head a shake.

“It is as we said, only one of the twelve single men that came here has been non violent, Jeremy is the only one to not wish us harm and be an asset to our group, all others wanted to form a coup or simply take over. We have had to create a blanket policy these days, we have lost children to these monsters.” Laing swallowed. “You see sense, paired couples usually do. I think it is the sanity of having another to tend for that keeps a paired man from going feral. Women seem less inclined to do so, single ones tend to cause no harm, but we cannot accept everyone, food is too limited.”

“Of course.” Fianna agreed.

“You wish to return to your tower?”

“We do.” It was Robert that answered that time, his arm around Fianna.

“I understand but we have dire need of medical assistance here.” The woman explained. “It is imperative that we check a few people. If you are a doctor, you can do so.”

Robert cleared his throat, all too aware of the threat thinly veiled in her words. “I do not have any supplies.”

“There is a rare place that does nowadays.” Gillian retorted.

“I will, of course look over anyone that requires it, though I would ask that if none are life threatening, that Fianna and I be allowed rest first.” He pleaded.

Gillian looked to one of the heaviest armed men and nodded. “Trevor will show you to a room.” She stated.

“Thank you.” Robert smiled, keeping Fianna with him as they walked after the frightening looking man and through those gathered at the now cooked leg, eating.

Trevor showed them to a room. “I fear there isn't much here.” He stated.

Fianna and Robert looked at the makeshift bed on the floor and the blanket sewn together from scraps. “It is more than adequate, thank you.” Robert assured him before ushering Fianna over.

As soon as Trevor closed the door, Robert turned to Fianna who, to his shock, slapped him across the face, startling him. “What were you thinking, following me?” She shriek-whispered.

“Me? What were you thinking coming out to begin with and not saying anything to me?”

“I had no choice, the food is gone. I had to try and keep us alive, speaking of which, who is minding Toby?”

“I ordered him to The Lair. Him and Dog.”

“Well, Dog is dinner by now.” She sighed as she went to lay down on the makeshift bed. “I liked that dog.”

Robert inhaled deeply. “I'm sorry.” He sat beside her, looking at her for a moment before laying down also. “Thank you for saving me….again.”

“When I was scared I would be killed, do you know who I thought of?” He looked at her curiously. “You.”

Robert gave a small smile before leaning over and kissing her. Fianna gave a moment's thought to her possible reaction before kissing him back, Robert then leaning over her and pressing his body to hers, and her not reacting aggressively against it, instead allowing her hands to slide down and to his ass.

*

“Well?” Gillian looked to her partner who looked up from his meal to speak to her.

“They are resting and are very much a pair.” Gillian informed him, sitting down to her own food. “He will tend to the ill soon.”

“Good. A doctor and a veterinary assistant, that's a good night, I mean, she's not a nurse, but it's something.”

“They want to go back to their tower.”

“No, we need them here.” Her partner declared authoritatively. “They stay, at all costs.”

[thebrowneyedlolita]

MILLI

A long time ago, during what I would call a moment of self doubt, I remember writing to one of my friends this particular message: “ Wish I didn’t feel this much all the time”. I guess the signs were all there already… Now, his reply is the best part. He simply, without any further context given, just said: “I thought about it, but I always end up with the conclusion that I’d rather feel too much than too little”. And there you go. Here I am at the brink of my mid twenties, coming to terms with the reality of it all, and it is slightly terrifying but definitely liberating. I feel too much, I internalise every single little movement and word spoken and to feel for me is to live, experience in strong waves that exaggerate and amplify ‘til my whole body and mind are left exhausted.

My sadness, no matter how little, comes and leaves a mess of shattered glass everywhere, which I diligently and continuously pick up again and reassemble in the best way I can, ‘til the next wave of hurricanes hit the port. And the regularity of it has made me the best of my class at it. I have developed different techniques and methods to regroup and return to a formation, fit enough to fight the next battle. This shouldn’t inspire feelings of pity in the reader, as there is nothing quite as vulgar and easily manipulated as pity. I don’t want pity, in fact it’s not at all as bad as it seems. Happiness for example, can translate into a very strong and powerful emotion to me too and trigger a beautiful wave of intensity that washes over me and leaves me feeling complete.   

For as long as I’ve known how to talk and fully understand emotions, my cognitive ability to process the world around me has always fascinated and scared me at the same time. Every stimuli from the external world has the ability to single handedly knock me off my feet and affect me in such a way that I can’t quite put into words. I’ve decided to scrap up a list of things that I am, the good and the bad, in an effort to come to terms with all of it and hopefully use this as a therapeutic ground for acceptance and growth. 

When I was a kid, my grandparents had a cassette of Riverdance (Irish dancing),the whole thing fascinated me so much I spent two weeks learning the dance over and over again until my legs hurt. I devour books and songs, to the point where people don’t get how excited a bass line makes me feel that it changes my whole mood. Not to mention the immeasurable amount of times I’ve attended a concert and felt my heart would explode, or the times I’ve fallen into a complete trance whilst listening to musicians play jazz at my favourite spot. 

I hate confrontation to the point where I physically feel pain after an argument and my stomach closes up, I frequently laugh and smile whilst walking on the streets which I recognise might scare the people surrounding me but I can’t help it. 

I associate every track to a moment, a word, a feeling, an image, a time and space. I daydream on a regular basis which causes me to miss my tube stop very often. I am obsessive about my hygiene and will floss and oil pull and wash myself way more often than necessary but strangely am not compulsive about anything else. If I think a song sounds like another one I will spend the whole day trying to find what the other one’s name is. I look at colours and images very often and associate them in my head.

I am extremely responsible and I never wanna rely on anyone so am often the person that takes you home at night, tucks you in and leaves water by your bed. I don’t like change to be honest, I love the routine but only if it has excitement in it, if not I try and construct a new set of habits that incorporate that. I dance when I brush my teeth, when I take a shower, when I cook and when I’m supposed to work out. I am not great at sleeping, I am very wired at all times so to ask my head to shut up is a mission.

I love people that are passionate about something, and I will surely fall in love with you if you spend time trying to explain to me how much your passion means to you and let me into your crazy little world. I don’t care if your passion is collecting pencils, just walk me through it with lit up eyes and excitement and I’ll love it.

I love to make other people feel better even if I am not feeling great, I have a bit of a nurse complex but hey it is what it is. I don’t like criticism unless it’s feedback. I have developed a fear of heights which particularly affects my ability to climb up ladders.

I find comfort in music and being alone. I work well in social environments but thrive alone. Sometimes I am very hard on myself and it sucks cause no matter how well I do, it’s still not good enough to my ideal standards. I’ve been put on a pedestal my whole life and I’ve just recently found pleasure in stepping down from it and doing the unexpected. In fact being a bad girl turns me on. I love studying and academics is something I do miss a lot. I love past times and nostalgia for places and people I’ve never met. I’m extremely anxious about missing out and not knowing enough so I try to listen and learn as much as I can about history and science and music and movies and cultures and all the rest this world has to offer.

I can be a bit of a moon in scorpio but I guess it balances out with my sun in Leo. I make a lot of playlists and wish the days of mixtapes were still around. I idealise everything and everyone and it always bites me in the ass when reality hits. I find it hard to receive affection these days because of a rotten apple I’ve had in my past relationships but I’m working on it. I love the mountains and I could spend my whole winter season there. I can be very spiritual as well as very cynical and it’s a weird balance if you ask me. 

I don’t suffer from PMS nor have a painful period which is usually very short lived and I thank the gods every time for this. My mother says I was born to be a mumma and to be fair I can’t wait to have lots of kids and have them wear Led Zeppelin t-shirts and buy them as many instruments as they want. I write a lot and it helps me process stuff. I eat pretty healthy but would down an IPA and pasta every day of my life if I had the chance. When I was a kid my dad used to cook pasta with tuna when my mum was away flying and that was pretty much the only dish he knew how to cook.  Still to this day, I make the best pasta with tuna and vinegar and it’s my favourite dish ever.

I am a very sunny person that lives off of light and warm energy but unfortunately find myself contemplating the darker side of things more often than I wish. 

I am extremely sensitive to people’s emotions and can usually get a good sense of how the other person is really feeling, therefore I go out of my way to make them feel comfortable and give them whatever they need which in return drains the energy out of me. 

I love Woody Allen’s movies and walks at night in lit up cities. I love breakfast, it’s my favourite meal of the day. I have a necklace my grandad gave to me before he passed away and I always carry it with me so when I walk it sounds like him walking in the house. I am not scared of death and would be okay if I had to leave tomorrow cause I believe in fate. 

My favourite movie is When Harry Met Sally and it’s a comfort blanket for me, I used to be able to recite what Billy Crystal said to Meg Ryan at the end. For a long time I wanted to be an actress and got into the actor’s studio in NY but decided I wanted to pursue music instead as I couldn’t see myself living without it. I also wanted to be a ballerina for many years and pursued ballet, frequently visited Julliard with my mum until I grew up and decided it wasn’t for me. 

I don’t get along with technology and partly, I admit, it’s due to my rejection of all things that I find lack human touch. I am extremely fascinated by complex individuals, people that have different layers to themselves and think too much. 

I am scared of clowns and anything relating to the circus.  I have found out after an unfortunate incident that I talk a lot and calmly in situations of danger as an adrenaline release, like this one time where a robber came into my house whilst I was home and as a 15 year old girl at the time, I had long meaningful conversations with him although in a situation of panic and terror. 

He caressed my face before leaving and said “You’re a clever girl”, that episode is still stuck in my mind. He was actually nice to be honest. I also didn’t cry for a while after that.

I don’t like to look at violence not even in movies. I am constantly split between a more tomboy aesthetic that comes naturally and a less comfortable feminine look. I can definitely tell the difference between filtered and unfiltered water and admit I might have a slight addiction to coffee. I don’t like to relinquish control, that’s why drugs have never really had a hold on me. 

My dream is to get to see Michael McDonald perform live. I also wish I could just take a plane and go to New York tomorrow, see Allen perform and eat the best bagel from Zabar’s but I also have rent to pay. I never go shopping for clothes, and if I have to I will smash it out in a couple of hours. Lord knows how people find that interesting. 

I sing because my granddad made me fall in love with it and was my biggest supporter. I love high end fashion but have mixed feelings towards it as I realise the negative impact it has on the environment. Sometimes I wish I could just be reckless and impulsive instead of a responsible routined human but can’t do much about that. 

If I tell you I love you, it means I love you. I once had an outer body experience at a Tinariwen concert and I keep trying to see them live as much as I can to get that feeling again. My favourite instrument is the bass and unfortunately I have a tendency to start many things and never finish them.

I am a bit of a hypochondriac and am always freezing, always. Leo in Titanic was my first ever crush and as a funny coincidence, I too, draw with charcoal. In the summer of 2017 I couldn’t get out of bed, a really special person helped me get out of bed, gave me a job, a purpose and helped me get over it. I weighed 48 kilos, I made a promise to myself one day I would always make sure to never let myself get to that place anymore and I’ve been pretty good at that. I am thankful for people in my life that saw me at that time and helped me through it, I will never forget.

Other than that instant, I am generally very happy and my favourite flower is the sunflower. My favourite colour is dark green and if I could have a superpower I’d probably wanna fly. I have a very bad habit of chewing loudly and I’m tryna work through that. I also have a long time dream of doing stand up comedy but am not great at delivering punch lines. 

I do believe that Christopher McCandless really hit the jackpot when he wrote “happiness is only real when shared” in his diary and I also think that people should put down their phones and talk more. I’m trying to make an effort to improve on that. I think that sums it up, although I do think I’ve left out a lot of stuff for sure. Ah yeah one last thing, no cilantro and Waffles over Pancakes any day. 

EL xx

[empresskatariah]

unfinished thing

"You're sure you want me handling a blade?"

It was too small to suit her taste, but Izzy knew that the right combination of desperation and creativity could turn the utensil in her hand into a deadly weapon. It was just the right size for, as the saying went, a knife in the back.

Silver just snorted, as if the notion of her trying anything was completely laughable. "Yer sure as sin not cuttin' greens with a spoon," he pointed out, gesturing at the pile of untouched vegetables in front of her. "Now, would ye mind gettin' started?"

Izzy's brow furrowed, nearly scrunching into a glower but stopping at a look of ponderous annoyance. She glanced at the task before her, then at the knife clasped firmly in her right hand. Her real hand. But not the hand she had spent all her life using for eating, writing and every other task that demanded finesse.

"I don't really see the point of this," she muttered, reluctantly transferring the knife over to her other hand. It clicked and whirred faintly as it closed around the hilt, a touch she couldn't feel at all. Everything below the shoulder of her left arm wasn't flesh, wasn't living, wasn't human. "You're the captain of this lot. Have them cook their own dinner."

"An' eat their slop? There's only so much I'm willin' t' put meself through, now. Dunno about you, but I prefer my meals t’ be edible."

The disconnect between the casual, matter-of-fact tone he took and the sheer amount of activity was enough to make Izzy stare. He was already slicing and dicing, trimming the gristle off whatever meat was going into the stew, wielding the many implements built into his mechanical arm with practiced speed and grace that made it all appear effortless.

Izzy bit her lip to hold in how deeply, how dearly envious she felt. Not envious of what had happened to him, no, one could never envy that -- but while her own artificial limb felt like an awkward, heavy eyesore, Silver's appeared to be a finely honed utility. An asset, not a burden.

Spurred on by this envy, she tried cutting into one of the plants. Her arm seemed too sluggish, her hand too uncoordinated, to do much more than clumsily saw through the fibers instead of making a clean slice.

When she glanced up to see if this failure had been witnessed, she saw Silver giving one of those unreadable expressions, clearly having observed her blunder.

"What?" she snapped, lapsing into defense and hoping it succeeded in hiding just how rotten she felt on the inside.

See, this is why you shouldn't try to include me. I don't know what you're on about, but I'm not part of your crew and I've no interest in taking part in these useless, tiresome rituals...!

"Never cooked a day in yer life, have ya?"

Izzy bristled at the question. "So what if I haven't?" she retorted. "I can boil eggs and make toast. That's about all I care to do, if you must know."

Instead of mirroring her antagonism, Silver just sighed and ambled over to peruse her work up close. Izzy reflexively took a step back, though she knew she didn't feel threatened at all.

"Holdin' a knife like yer holdin' a sword won't get you very far in this business," he admonished. He held out his hand -- the one with skin and bones, not the one with gears and plating -- and she cautiously gave him the knife.

Gesturing that she should watch, he made a few quick cuts. Izzy noted the angle he was using, the part of the blade that rested on the cutting board while the part closest to the hilt did all the cutting, the approximate force applied... and she emitted a  grudging hmph.

"Why do you care if I can do this or not?" she asked when he returned the knife to her.

The pirate shrugged. "I'll not have you tellin' Jimbo I never did nothin' for ya," he quipped. "Way I figure it, yer lookin' t' polish up the use a' that arm o' yours. That's a feelin' I ain't unfamiliar with. But yer not gonna figure it out unless ya practice."

"Practice by... doing this?" Izzy groused, eyeing the cluttered galley unhappily.

"Not just this. But this's where I got started." Silver turned his back to her, dumping more ingredients into the soup. "Can't run if ye haven't picked up walkin' yet."

Izzy tilted her head slightly, a sudden surge of curiosity welling up inside. It was almost enough to overtake the envy smoldering there.

"What do you mean, got started?"

She half expected him to ignore the question, but when he turned to face her again she knew she was going to get a solid answer.

"Well, y'know..." Another shrug, followed by a halfhearted laugh. "When ye've got one arm an' one leg, s'only so much usefulness  t' go around. Yer either at the mercy o' everyone's pity or dead set on gettin' so good at somethin' ye earn yer own keep."

An uncomfortable feeling twisted Izzy's stomach. Part of her didn't want to hear any of this, but the other part wanted to hear more.

"Started out small, learnin' at a tavern. Got real lucky an' had a patient teacher. Don't think they expected me to be more'n a charity case, but I wasn't just there t' make food. I wanted t' learn how t' use this." He opened and closed his metal hand, smirking. "Turns out doin' the same small, tedious things over n' over again makes for great reflexes. An' the better I got at choppin' things up, the less I needed t' think about what I was doin'."

Izzy looked down at her own boots, wondering how many small, tedious things it would take for her brain to treat her cybernetic arm like an actual limb instead of an unwieldy piece of scrap.

"It all just feels so..." She strained for words, hated how small her voice sounded to her own ears. "So hard."

A month ago, the very thought of showing weakness in front of this man, this pirate, this enemy would have had her scoffing in disgust. But over the course of the last few weeks she had come to realize something revolutionary about herself, and it was this: no matter how much she barked and threatened, it wasn't going to change the fact that she was vulnerable. It couldn't protect her from the reality that six months of recovering from a near-death experience had stolen away her strength and left her floundering.

Here at the bottom there was only one way to go: up. And she knew she couldn't do it alone.

She didn't realize Silver had approached her until she found herself in his shadow, and it spooked her enough to look up sharply while attempting to take another step back – only for her back to hit the counter. Her instincts were still geared toward utmost caution, still expecting foul play at any turn, and the concern that flickered across her former rival's face told her he was expecting her to lash out as well.

Will we ever stop sizing each other up, anticipating that first blow?

“Sorry,” she said quickly, mindful not to hold the knife as if she meant to use it on him. “Here I am whining about everything when I should be pulling myself up by my bootstraps, as it were.”

In truth, she felt a bit guilty for voicing her self-pity after gaining such a rare admission from the pirate. It felt... personal, as if receiving the information was some sort of privilege.

Eager to hide her growing discomfort, she turned and began trying to cut up the vegetables in earnest, doing her best to imitate what she'd been shown. Her movements were sloppy, her slices less efficient, but she didn't stop. Not until it had been reduced to a pile of diced-up shreds.

“Hm.” Silver had been watching her the whole time, unusually quiet, and judged her results with scrutiny. “It'll do.”

“It'll do?” Izzy repeated, feigning offense. “After all that effort I put in?”

“Ah, beggin' yer pardon, thankee for blessin' us all with your bounteous greens,” Silver drawled, making a show of  a slight bow to her.

“You stop that,” Izzy pouted.

[xxprincessjewelsxx]

BTS | Their s/o Is Physically Attacked By ARMYs

Anonymous said:

Can I request a BTS reaction to their S/O being physically attacked by ARMYs

Jin: When your relationship was outed it was taken 50/50 with the fans; some were okay with it and accepted the fact that Jin was dated especially if the relationship made him happy...others, not so much. So when you joined him at a fan meet, helping out the staff things were going well until a couple of ‘fans’ decided that they didn’t like the fact that you were even near Jin.

When you went over to take some of the fan gifts from him and move them over to his growing pile one of the fans reached around the table and grabbed your hair pulling you forward, he’d immediately intervene pulling the fan off of you and getting you out of there before turning to the fan.

“I would’ve hoped you’d be happy that I was happy, and I am so disappointed that one of my fans would go so far as to put their hands on someone I love.”

Suga/Yoongi: For the most part your relationship with Yoongi had been accepted and any bashing about you had been few and far between. So when Yoongi had a day off and wanted to take out out to lunch, you both weren’t particularly worried about going out and being seen together. 

“I’ll be right back,” he said, heading to the counter to pay for your lunch, leaving you alone by the door.

As soon as he left you alone, three girls approached you looking like they smelled something rotten. “So you’re Y/N....” one of them said, scowling at you. Not really sure if you should answer because of the look on her face, you stayed silent, which only caused them to become irritated. “Listen,” she said, pushing you back hard causing you to hit the wall behind you, “You’re not good enough for Yoongi and-.”

“Aren’t I the one who should decide who’s good enough for me,” Yoongi said coming up behind the girls, startling them, “I suggest you three leave.” The look on his face showing that he was trying to hold back what he really wanted to say to them. After they took off he would pull you into a hug asking if you were okay.

J-Hope/Hoseok: Your relationship had been well received; at least that’s that you had thought. On social media or even at fanmeets there had been no bashing or mentions on how you “weren’t good enough” for him. However it seemed that some fans had been holding out on expressing their feeling on the topic of you and Hoseok dating.

“I don’t see what he possibly saw in someone like you,” a fan said to you when they saw you making your way through the crowd of a fanmeet. You tried not to let it bother you, the only thing that mattered to you was what Hoseok thought.

But what really caught you off guard was when you tried to walk away from the fan and they grabbed your wrist tightly, yanking you back harshly. “Hey! I was talking to you!”

“Hey!” an unmistakable voice said. You looked over, Hoseok running over breaking security protocol to get to you and pull you away from the fan. “There is absolutely no reason for any of that. You should be ashamed of the way your acting, it makes me sad to see a fan of BTS and mine act like this towards someone I love.”

Rap Monster/Namjoon: You had tried to hide what happened from him, but he started to get suspicious that something had happened when you had showed up at the dorm like you said you were going to, but you were slightly upset and had scraps on your hands and arms.

“Oh, I tripped on the curb on my way over here...that’s all,” you lied, not wanting to cause trouble.

But the problem is we live in the age of technology. So you “tripping on the curb” was actually caught on camera by someone and posted on the internet. “I was right...Y/N was attacked by someone.”

‘STAY AWAY FROM NAMJOON! YOU DON’T DESERVE HIM!’

He knew there might be some issues after he confirmed your relationship, but nothing like this. He was disappointed with his fans and at the next concert he made sure to make an announcement. “I would like to address a video that recently surfaced on the internet...someone physically attacked Y/N who as you know I recently confirmed we are dating. To the person who did that, I would’ve hoped that you accepted the fact that I’m happy. Attacking someone I love is like you attacked me and I hope you think about your actions and what you did.”

I know it’s hard to ignore that adorable face, but just ignore Jimin

Jimin: The last thing he every expected was that you would be attacked by “fans”. He was happy when he was finally able to confirm your relationship so that you two weren’t having to hide so much when you tried to go on dates. 

“You wanna go find the seats while I go get the food?” Jimin questioned. You had decided that instead of your usual dinner date, you would go out for a movie instead.

“Sure,” you said, before you both went your separate ways. You were halfway down the hallway when some girls stopped right in front of you. “Oh, excuse me...”

“I don’t see what’s so special about you that would make Jimin want to choose you,” one of them said.

“Huh?” you questioned.

“You’re so plain it’s almost sad,” she said.

“Maybe this will help,” another said, before throwing her soda at you. The smell of cherry filling your nose.

“Y/N!” you heard Jimin yell before pulling you away, “I hope you aren’t fans of mine because real fans wouldn’t do that to someone I love.” His emotions getting the better of him. “Real fans would let me love who I want and be happy for me...”

V/Taehyung: You hated to see Tae upset, so the last thing that you wanted to do was tell him that you had been cornered by a couple of his fans after work and they had pushed you around a bit. You knew if he found out you were hiding that from him he would be upset about that too, so it was really a lose lose situation.

“Ouch,” you said when Tae came up behind you and back hugged you when he saw you in the dorm kitchen cooking.

“I didn’t hug you that hard, jagi...are you okay?” he questioned, quickly letting go of you.

“Oh yeah, I just lifted a box wrong at work and now my back is a bit sore,” you lied. That lie however didn’t last long when you bent down and your shirt rode up revealing a bruise from when you got knocked you the ground.

“Y/N...tell me what really happened,” he said. You knew that you weren’t going to be able to lie your way out of this one so you just told him the truth. He didn’t say anything to you after you told him what happened; he immediately went and did his weekly V Log and among everything else that he talked about he talked about how disappointed he was in those who called themselves his fans and pleaded for everyone not to bother you at your job.

Jungkook: There’s no instruction manual on how fans are going to react when an idol announces the fact that they’re dating or confirms any rumors. The fans will either accept the fact that an idol is dating, they won’t, or it will be 50/50.

For you and Jungkook it was 50/50. He had done a lot to keep your dating life private until he announced that he was dating so the fans didn’t really know anything about you until after the announcement.

‘As long as he’s happy’

‘Did you see the pictures on Instagram from their date, they’re so cute together #Kookie&Y/N’

‘Are you all serious, he’s the golden maknae and she’s some Plain Jane, she’s got no business with him’

‘How can she even possibly think she’s good enough for him????’

Jungkook knew that after a while the social media bashing would settle down. What he wasn’t expecting was when you were at your job for you to be harassed and attacked.

“You work at a grocery store and you think you’re good enough for Kookie?” one of the girls now standing on the other side of the cash register said.

“That will be 34550.37 ($30.55 I used google, correct me if I’m wrong),” you said trying to ignore their comments and get them out of your line as soon as you could.

“I asked you how you thought you were good enough for Kookie!” she said reaching over and grabbing your arm, seemingly trying to pull you over the counter.

“HEY! LET Y/N GO!” You looked over to see Jungkook with an angry look on his face, causing the girl to let you go, “Just pay for your stuff and go.” The girl ran out without even taking any of her items with her and Jungkook walked over to you. “Are you okay?” 

“I’ll be fine...thanks Kookie.”

That one was a little long

xxBTS-Masterlistxx

[mer-m-a-i-d-s]

on the house

okkkkkkkkk I guess I have avoided writing for a few days because it helps me but it also makes me sad. Also sometimes I get embarrassed about how fucked up I really am and also how willing I am to let strangers or people who actually know me know these very intimate details about my life.

like whats UP i’m LONELY and HATE MYSELF please act NORMAL when you see me in public PLEASE.

Anyway, tonight I want to talk about the house. My house. Because this house hurts me in a big way. It represents a future I will never have and that really kills me.

Before I met my ex I was living on my own in a studio in Costa Mesa. It was great, I loved it and still think back fondly to my time there. But then I met my ex and decided that I wanted to live with him in Anaheim. The apartment he lived in was hell. I’m not going to lie about it. I hated it, I hated the area but I was happy to be cohabiting with someone I loved so I dealt with it. His goal was to purchase a home so my rent allowed him to save a larger down payment.

We ultimately decided on the Inland Empire as he is from Ontario. I was happy to get away from Orange County because..I just don’t like the vibe there sometimes. I won’t lie, I had BIG TIME OC snobbishness about anywhere east of Yorba Linda, but once I actually went out here and saw how beautiful it was in certain places, I kind of fell in love. Especially Riverside. ESPECIALLY the Wood Streets area. Riverside felt like old OC to me in a way I can’t really explain. The last faint shreds of memory from my childhood that I had of the very late 80′s in unincorporated Tustin where I grew up. The history is here. The victorian influence, the craftsman homes, the 1940′s-1950′s cottages and ranch houses, the 1960′s businesses. I love it all. 

Our house was kind of a whatever. I was in love with a scary ass Victorian home over on Lime that had a fucked up foundation but was way out of our price range and he kind of probably just wanted to get a shit ass track home. I just can’t vibe with that...sorry if you live in a track home. No, really, sorry because that just ain’t for me but I have a bad habit of talking shit about them. ANYWAY, I told him that it was 1950 or older or NOTHING. This house was kind of a “whatever...should we go to the open house and see?” But when I saw the neighborhood, when I saw the back yard and the adorable 1940′s influence I just fell head over heels. It had to be mine....it had to be ours. This was THE place.

So we got it. And it was the happiest time of my life. Even when I had to spend my first month alone here while he was in Spain. I learned to love my home even more. It reminded me of my childhood home, only better and I intended to fill it with period appropriate antiques and love.

My house is a 1942 Harry Marsh cottage. It is so full of potential. Everyone who saw it said “WOW, that is a Maile house.” It has two bedrooms, real wood floors, it has beautiful built ins, a rounded ceiling in the dining and living room, a backhouse/room that we used for the home gym. But what I really loved most was the front and back yard.

There is a beautiful old Ginkgo tree that turns yellow in the fall, but I don’t know what color it is right now because going out there makes me cry. I have a raised bed garden in the back, but I’ve let it go fallow because I can’t bear to plant or or dig my hands into the dirt or even look at it anymore. There is an amazing blood orange tree that gives me beautiful fruit and smells like my childhood (I grew up next to an orange grove) when it blooms but I can’t enjoy it anymore. There are fruit trees, flowers, bulbs, herbs and vines that used to bring me such immense joy and now just make me so, so sad. I’m crying right now because gardening is such a huge part of what makes me happy and I’ve let it go because now it's just marred with sadness. 

I’ve let so many things go. My room looks a little bit like a bomb went off in it. There are pictures I never put up on the walls. I never cook anymore and I haven’t for almost 10 months. I rarely sit on my couch and watch TV. I don’t enjoy my home because it doesn’t feel like a home anymore. I feel displaced. And at the same time, I think it would hurt me very much to leave here (if I could even afford it, which is it looking very much like I cannot at the moment.) So I’m trapped in this colorless kind of purgatory. I come home, glue myself to a screen and then sleep. Work has been my respite and I am very happy for it. I stayed until almost 8PM tonight in order to leave early for Halloween but to be honest, I would have stayed, unpaid, just so I didn’t have to go home. And I do that. I stay until 5:30 all the time now until my Chief and the captains leave, citing an hour break but in reality...I just don’t want to face my reality.  

So the other day I kind of came to the conclusion that maybe, despite the fact that I feel my time here is limited, that I should try to enjoy it. Originally, I told myself no, fuck no, I wouldn’t be putting any more of my money, time or effort into something that was supposed to be ours but turned out to be plainly his. He drew the line in the sand. He can do that shit. I’m fucking out. I’m a boarder. I just rent here, man, you fucking mow the lawn alone bro. Pick up all the rotten fruit off the ground by yourself, asshole. Last year I would probably be listening to 1940′s music and making jam in an apron or some shit BUT NOT NOW. Now I’m listening to Lana del Ray and skipping dinner to cry in the bath like a lil bitch. ITS SAD BITCH HOURS 24/7 NOW, MY GUYS. I’m done playing house. Playing wifey to someone who’s grand gesture to me was “on second thought..” once I was already one foot out the door. I’m pretty fucking desperate and alone but I don’t need any fucking scraps. I don’t need to be someone’s second fucking thought. I should have had a fucking ring on my finger already but now he will join the list of men who have loved me and looked me in the eyes and told me that losing me will haunt them for the rest of their life. Fucking great. But I’m still alone and you feeling like shit about it doesn’t make me feel good.

Whoa. Apparently I’m pretty mad still. So where do I go from here? Should I start trying to put love into my house again, even if I won’t be here forever like I thought? Should I plant a winter garden? Will it hurt? Should I put up pictures in my room? Even if I have to take them down soon? I feel like maybe I should instead of forcing myself into the purgatory. Maybe I can make peace with the fact that this is a fleeting moment in my life. That this beautiful house was here to teach me a lesson in appreciating things in the moment. Because I don’t think I will find a better place...at least not on my own and at least not for a while.     

[heironymous-smash]

Because, come on.  CHICKEN SOUP.  A good chicken soup can slay even the nastiest physical or mental cold-weather malaise.  It also freezes great, and is the perfect thing to grab and run over to a sick friend's house.  (Also, I've noticed that pretty much every winter I post some recipe…I think it's because winter is my natural enemy, and I've been fighting it with food for quite a while now — and winning, if I do say so myself!  \o/)

I don't hold with watery or bland soup; mine is NUTRITIOUS and will stick around, keeping you full and your energy up.  (It is, in the tradition of soup, easy to digest, though.  For tender stomachs or weak digestive systems, you can dial the spicy back / make mild batches and limit or eliminate the chunks of meat.) 

I *am* a fan of broth, as a nice hot not-sweet not-caffeinated drink for the cold night hours especially.  Since I make my own broth/stock and use it to make this soup, I'm going to tell you how to do both!

(Making your own stock/broth is in no way mandatory — you can use storebought or, if you give it a little extra time and seasonings to compensate, just skip the broth altogether.  But making it is not only cheap, it actually saves you money by using ingredients you'd otherwise throw out; and it's fun and awesome to have around, so why wouldn't you?  If you have the freezer space, make stock!)

I.  THE STOCK

–  put a gallon freezer bag in your freezer.  Label it "STOCK" or something equally clever.

–  whenever you have scraps from cutting up veggies, or bones from meat, or awesome sauce left over from making a thing — seriously, basically ANYTHING — instead of throwing it away, put it in the stock bag.  (Obviously you can use only veggie ingredients to have vegetarian stock, if you prefer.)  Just fill that sucker with anything that looks like it could be a good flavoring for liquid.  Carrot tops, potato shavings, rib bones, chicken skin, the scrapings from the pan when you made that awesome thing — whaaatever.  Cooked or raw; doesn't matter as long as it's not rotten.  Just freeze evvvvvverything, until the bag is full.

–  when the bag is full, put on a large pot (the big ones are called "stockpots" for a reason) and fill it with 3-4 gallons (yup, gallons) of water.  Or just use a big pot that holds a gallon or two and make several batches.

– at some point before it boils, empty that bag into it

– check your fridge for leftovers too, while you're at it, and throw in anything that will taste good.  You're going to strain out all the bits and just use the liquid here, so almost anything you liked the seasoning of, or which contains meat or veggies that still have some flavor to offer, is fair game.  Plus, stock that has seasonings in it from past meals is always tastier than just the plain-veggies kind; AND it lets you use things you might have otherwise thrown out, so go for it!

(Gods I love stock.  Even writing about it is fun.  :D)

– bring to a boil, then lower the temperature so that it's barely boiling / simmering

– ignore for as long as you can — stock that cooks all day is wicked good, but an hour is enough for the basics.  Just make sure you leave the lid closed and keep the heat low enough so you don't boil off all the water!  If it starts to get low, just add a little more water to compensate, but try not to do that too much.

– you can add extra seasoning if you want, but I don't!  You're going to use this magic fluid for cooking other things mostly, so you'll have a chance to salt/spicy/etc it later.  Some people who really like a certain seasoning (garlic, cumin, whatever) add it to their stock for that extra-layered oh-hell-yeah flavor — go for it.  Stock is really hard to screw up, if you haven't figured that out yet!

– once you declare it Done, strain it all into containers, cool and freeze the extra.  Now USE IT IN EVERYTHING, because it's amazing and nutritious and it was free!  Dump it in soup/stew/etc., use it in the crockpot with anything, pour it over food you're cooking that needs a little moisture, you name it.

– you can also just drink stock, as mentioned above; I ususally salt it a little and yup, that's it, just drink it.  If you like tea and sometimes want a savory hot thing that's low on calories (especially if it's veggie stock, but stock made by boiling meat-bones forever is not exactly high-cal either), go for it.  You can honestly do pretty much anything with this stuff!

FOR INSTANCE, YOU CAN DO THIS:

II.  THE SOUP

– there are three layers to a good soup:  The allium layer (garlic, onions, shallots, whatever kinds of those things you like), the meat layer (if using meat; I'm just assuming you are but obviously feel free to skip it if that's your bag — if you substitute tofu or mushrooms or something though, do the same things to it that I talk about here for meat), and the veggie layer.  

– almost EVERY ingredient here is substitutable, as long as you have something from each of those three categories.  I'll make suggestions, but wow are they *just* suggestions!  You can also have just one thing, or sixty things; it's all gonna be good.  BE BRAVE, because this is some of the hardest-to-ruin food there is, given these basic steps.  

– start by prepping / chopping the alliums, chicken/whatever, and big or hard veggies like potatoes and carrots.  Go any size/shape you want. 

BTW, I REALLY like using chicken gizzards (especially hearts, but all gizzards are good really) — they're high-nutrition, wicked cheap (because they're not great for a lot besides soup) and taste wonderful when chopped smallish and cooked forever like this.

A NOTE ON MUSHROOMS:  You can add these in either with the meat, so they get super soft and seasony, or near the end, with the "soft veggies", so they stay bigger and chewier.  What you want may differ by soup, and by mushroom, so experiment or just shrug and guess; it's all good.  :)  Oh, and super crazy hint: There's an asian mushroom called the Drum Mushroom (at least that's how my local store translates it) that is ~excellent~ in soup; it's very firm and pleasingly chewy, takes seasoning well, and never disintegrates.  I use it like crazy (it's also cheap, whee) and add it in with (or instead of) the meat.

– STEP ONE:  put about 2tbsp of butter in the pot and turn it on med-high.  (Yes you can use oil, but there's no good reason to.  Butter tastes great, does the trick, and you're putting a spoonful of it into a WHOLE POT of soup.  It's not fattening in this context, lol.)  Wait for it to melt and then add the alliums and stir.  Cook them by themselves until they smell amazing and have gone clear/floppy.

– STEP TWO:  Add the meat (or tofu/whatever).  Season it about twice as much as you think you should (with any seasoning you happen to like / want your soup-meat to taste like), and cook it for a while with the alliums, until the meat looks mostly done.  You want to fry the meat to cook it, rather than boil it, because it'll be tastier and more tender.  The boiling is for the veggies.  :D

– STEP THREE:  Add the hard veggies (or just all of them; it doesn't terribly matter — I add soft veggies later to keep them from falling apart, but it's not like it's bad if they do).  Carrots, potatoes, radishes, bok choi, turnips, *any* veggies, seriously.  Whatever you've got or feel like buying, it's probably great.  (Hard things like turnips and yucca will mean you have to cook the soup a little longer to soften them, FYI.)  Then fill the pot with liquid to a sane level.  I use either half water and half stock, or if I have a lot of stock, all stock!  The more stock the tastier.  Even a little bit really adds depth to the flavor, though.

– bring it back up to a boil, then reduce to a simmer and let it do its thing for at least 30m, preferably longer

– about half an hour before you want to stop cooking it, add these things:  A cup or two of rice (one cup will give it a nice heft and extra healthy-carbs; two cups will make it thick, almost a congee…I like both!); the soft veggies you want to survive intact, if any (usually celery and maybe mushrooms, for me); and a good amount of salt and pepper…and cayenne if you like your winter soups to have a kick (I do).  You want it to be not bland, and it takes more salt and pepper than you probably think to bring actual taste to a whole potful of soup — but also remember that a) soup is easy to season to taste per individual bowl, and b) it'll get more seasoned-tasting when it's reheated, so don't overdo it.  If you do though, don't panic; just add more water and cook a little longer.  You can also cut it with water to reduce the seasoning/spice when you re-heat it, if needed, too; it won't care.  Like I said, this stuff is HARD to mess up.  :D

That's it!

If you don't believe me, ask anybody:  I roll a pretty continuous batch of random-ingredient stock AND soup, and my friends and roommates vacuum it up happily, as do I.  I love that I can switch ingredients all the time; it keeps it from being boring.  And I can cook this stuff while watching TV and cleaning and napping and generally barely giving a crap about it, which is *precisely* how I like my cooking to go, heh.

Happy weather-related challenge time, everyone!  Enjoy!