#it was rushed but ill fill the rest with delusion

[tunapesto]

cryinf over sanrio anime couple you guys will neverbbekeieve

[andreafmn]

12 Days of Ficmas ❅ Day 7

Word Count: 3.8K Paring: Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader Prompt: n/a Warnings: mentions of death and terminal illness

Summary: Grief can be a powerful thing. And that is something both (Y/N) and Wanda can attest to. The only difference in their experience? They are from two very different universes.

A/N: whoops, another very sad and angsty with a slight happy ending... can't believe this Christmas has been more gloomy than fluffy

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The mind has always been a very powerful thing. It’s easy to become trapped in the illusions and delusions the brain feeds you, especially in moments of grief. And Wanda knew grief. She knew it like the back of her hand. It had been engrained into the very fabric of her being from a young age. It was the unwanted companion she carried through her life. The kind of parasite that consumed your being until there was nothing left. 

Yet, she also knew power. 

She knew there was meant to be a balance in the universe. That certain spells and incantations could not be done without creating a shift in the paradigm. But there was no way she could go on without even trying. Not anymore.

“Momma! Momma! Wake up!” 

(Y/N) could feel her bed shake as she attempted to keep her eyes shut. The exhaustion of the past few months had caught up to her, and all she wanted was to rest. But she knew her kids would not stop until she left that bed and followed them to the Christmas tree, even if there was nothing harder than going through the holiday without her wife. 

“Momma,” Tommy groaned as he pushed her arm. “We know you’re awake.” 

“Yeah,” Billy chuckled. “Your eyelids are moving.” 

“Mmm, guys,” the woman whined. “I thought we were sleeping in this Christmas. You know momma’s tired.” 

“But we did sleep in. It’s 10 o’clock!” 

“Okay, boys,” she sighed, finally opening her eyes to see her twin boys towering over her with gleaming smiles on their faces. “Can I at least get a morning hug first?” 

The boys giggled as they jumped on their mother, wrapping their little arms around her body. And it made everything she was going through worth it. She kissed the top of their heads and held them as close as she could. They were a part of the one thing that was missing that morning, but she knew she had to remain strong, at least for them. 

“I love you boys so much,” she said into their hair. “You’re my entire world.” 

(Y/N) got up from her bed, covered her pjs with her wife’s red robe, and followed her kids down the stairs. But where the boys wanted to rush into the living room, she walked to the kitchen. “You know we have to have breakfast first,” she called out with a chuckle. “But we’ll have a quick one since it’s already so late.” 

“Pancakes!” the boys chorused in a sing-song voice. “We want pancakes!” 

“Pancakes it is,” she laughed. “Tommy, you get the plates. And, Billy, you get the whipped cream and the syrup.” 

The kids did their tasks as (Y/N) made pancake after pancake, making a small stack for the three of them to enjoy. She could feel sadness try to creep into her head, clawing its way to the forefront of her mind as she saw her sons happily setting the table for three rather than four that time. But even as tears threatened to spill down her cheeks, she knew she had to be strong. At least for one more day, she had to be strong. 

Holding a stack of pancakes in one hand and a plate of bacon in the other, (Y/N) made her way to the dining table. She set the food in the center before filling the kids' plates with their requests—two pancakes with bacon mouths and chocolate chip eyes for Billy and a stack of three pancakes doused in syrup with three slices of bacon on top for Tommy. She even attempted to make the perfect whipped cream swirl on both of their plates, but, as they always reminded her all but that one morning, it was never as good as Mommy Wanda’s. 

But before they could delve into their meal, a knock at the door startled them. They weren’t expecting anyone. Especially not that very Christmas morning. Yet, at their front door stood someone they could have never imagined would appear. 

“Who’s at the door, momma?” Billy asked curiously. “Were you expecting someone?” 

“Mm, not precisely,” she answered. “Should we go see who it is?” 

“Yes!” the boys exclaimed as they jumped from their chairs. 

They followed their mother eagerly to the door, holding onto her legs just in case it was someone they didn’t know. But their little hearts had one wish —the only thing that could make their Christmas morning perfect. As (Y/N) turned the locks and then the doorknob, they held their breaths and they wished. 

“Wanda,” (Y/N) found herself saying, but she wasn’t sure the sound had come from her throat. The cold morning air told her that she was awake and that the person standing before her was truly there. “Wanda.”

As she repeated the woman’s name under her breath, Billy and Tommy let out a gleeful yell of “Mommy!” before leaving their safe space from behind (Y/N) and running to embrace their other mother. The redhead welcomed them with open arms, kneeling on the ground to meet their heights. She wrapped them in a tight hug, breathing in their scent as though it was the very first time. She reveled in their warmth and their laugh as she committed to memory their small arms around her. 

“You’re home, Mommy,” Billy sighed. 

“Now Christmas is perfect,” Tommy added. 

And all (Y/N) could do was stare at the scene unfolding before her. She watched as tears formed in her wife’s green eyes, watched as her boys hugged her like it was the first time they had seen their mother. And, in a sense, it was. 

“(Y/N),” Wanda smiled as she finally stood after leaving their sons’ embrace. She cradled her face and kissed the woman’s lips tenderly, feeding her breaths of love and affection they had both missed for a very long time. “It’s so good to be home.” 

“It’s good to have you home,” the woman responded as though breaking out of a trance. “Come inside. Come inside. You must be freezing out there.” 

“I can’t believe you’re here, Mom,” Billy smiled. “We thought you wouldn’t be able to make it in time.” 

“But we did wish really hard for it,” Tommy added with a nod. “It was even on our Christmas list.” 

“Well, it looks like all that wishing paid off,” Wanda beamed as she cradled their faces. “I’m here now, and we’re gonna have the best Christmas ever!” 

“Yeah!” the boys unisoned before Tommy said, “We’re having breakfast right now. Do you want pancakes, mommy?” 

“Not right now, baby,” she said as she smoothed down his hair. “Mommy’s tummy is not feeling very good right now.” 

“How about you guys finish up your pancakes while I make mommy some coffee?” (Y/N) said with a smile. “The faster we finish eating, the faster we can get to open presents.” 

The boys didn’t need to be told twice as they sped back to the dining table to gobble their breakfast down. Meanwhile, Wanda followed (Y/N) into the kitchen and accepted gracefully the steaming mug of coffee she handed her. The liquid burned the woman’s throat comfortingly, filling her mouth with a taste she had missed. Maybe it was the coffee, or maybe it was the fact that she was finally surrounded by family, but it was the best cup she had ever drank. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you were discharged?” (Y/N) whispered. “I could have picked you up from the hospital.”

“Oh, well, I wanted to surprise you and the boys,” Wanda smiled softly. “With it being Christmas and all, I didn’t want to inconvenience you.” 

“Just knowing that you’re out of the hospital is enough for me, darling. You could never be an inconvenience,” she said as she took Wanda’s free hand. But she noticed something missing from it, something she would have never taken off. “Where’s your ring, babe? I could have sworn you still had it on yesterday.” 

The redhead inspected her hand, rapidly noticing the lack of jewelry. But with no real reason, she had to scramble for an answer. “Oh, I don’t know,” she worried. “I could have sworn I had it on when I left this morning. Maybe I left it at the hospital.” 

“We’ll call later then. I don’t think the kids will care much that mom lost her ring when they’re ready to open presents,” (Y/N) chuckled as she pointed to Tommy’s and Billy’s expectant faces. “We’ve made them wait long enough.” 

The couple walked hand in hand toward the living room, the boys running past them as they chuckled and sat right in front of the tree. They knew the routine already. Momma had to set up the phone while Mommy handed each of them the presents, each with a specific wrapping paper to hide which gift belonged to which kid. The women had learned a long time before that their kids had a proclivity for snooping around before Christmas day. 

But that year, Wanda didn’t know which wrapping paper belonged to whom. Instead, she took the phone from (Y/N)’s hands, mouthed an apology, and sat back down on the couch. With a slight chuckle, the other woman knelt before the Christmas tree and took a gift in each hand –green wrapping for Tommy and blue for Billy. 

In a matter of minutes, the wooden floor was filled with a mix of wrapping paper, and the air was filled with the sounds of new toys and laughter. Which lasted all but an hour before the kids started coming down from their sugar high and decided a movie was a better way to spend their lunchtime. 

The boys sat with their trays on the couch, happily eating their sandwiches as they watched Elf for the thousandth time just that week. If they ever sensed that there was anything amiss, they didn’t say a word. To them, everything was perfect. It seemed so, too. 

“Hey, don’t know if your brother got around to telling you, but he’s gonna get here the day after tomorrow,” (Y/N) said as she mixed a bowl of cookie dough. “I asked him not to bring more Nerf guns for the boys, but I’m scared he might use that as an excuse to get them another type of blaster.” 

“Pietro?” Wanda gasped quietly. “He’s coming here?” 

“Of course,” the woman chuckled. “He comes every Christmas day… well, Christmas-adjacent day like he says. But seriously, I need you to tell him no more blasters. I keep finding those darn foam darts everywhere.”  

“Yeah, I’ll tell him,” the redhead smiled. “I’ve missed him.” 

“I know, baby,” (Y/N) said as she cradled her wife’s cheek. “He wanted to stay longer during Thanksgiving, but he had some deadlines to meet at work and had to get going. But he’ll be thrilled to know you’re out of the hospital and back home.”

“It’s good to be home.” 

“Good,” she smiled. “Now, you can help me get these cookies in the oven for tonight.”

Wanda had missed the warmth of family. She had missed her boys fighting over whose turn it was to play with a toy, missed the smell of a homecooked meal. Most of all, she missed the soft touch of her wife, missed the way her name sounded coming from her lips. Wanda had missed her life. 

During dinner, she couldn’t help the smile on her face. As the boys boasted loudly about their last week of school, she could only sit and stare at their beautiful faces. Everything they said was new information, and they were the most precious words she could hear. And when (Y/N) chimed in, she was sure no orchestra could ever compare to the symphony of her family’s voices. 

“Alright, boys,” (Y/N) said as she placed the last dish into the dishwasher. “Give Mommy a kiss and head on up. Shower, teeth, and bed.” 

“But, Momma,” they whined. 

“It’s Christmas,” Tommy finished. 

“Tomorrow is a whole new day to do whatever you want, but right now, it’s time for bed,” the woman countered. “Come on, guys.” 

“It’s Christmas, darling,” Wanda whispered as she snaked her arms around (Y/N)’s waist and kissed her neck. “I think they’ve got one more movie in them.” 

“Baby…”

“Come on, darling,” she smiled. “For me?” 

“Fine,” (Y/N) relented, and the kids cheered. “One movie, and then it’s off to bed for both of you.” 

The boys raced back to the living room, pulling out blankets and pillows before settling themselves on both ends of the couch, tapping beside each other for their mothers to sit. It was the most excited (Y/N) had seen them in a long time. They knew Wanda had been sick for a long time but couldn’t quite grasp why she couldn’t be home or they couldn’t be at the hospital after a certain time. But they were hopeful that their mother would make a full recovery. And it was their faith that kept her strong —as strong as she could be in the situation. 

Wanda sat next to Billy, and (Y/N) sat next to Tommy before the kids laid their heads on their mothers’ laps and covered themselves with a warm fuzzy blanket. On the TV, Home Alone played at a low volume. (Y/N) knew the boys were tired, and as their mothers ran their hands through their hair, no matter how action-packed the movie was, they would fall asleep soon enough. 

Halfway through the movie, the kids’ soft snores mixed with the audio, making the women chuckle slightly. “I knew they wouldn’t last,” (Y/N) whispered as she kissed Tommy’s head. “They’ve been up since long before ten.” 

“I’m just glad I got to spend this time with them… with you. You have no idea how much I’ve missed this.” 

“I might have some idea.” The woman’s tone hinted at something Wanda couldn’t quite comprehend. Her brows furrowed as she found a knowing glimmer in her wife’s eyes. “I know you’re not our Wanda.” 

“W-what? What do you mean?” The redhead sputtered. Could it be? “How could I not be Wanda?” 

“I don’t really know how you’re here or even why,” (Y/N) started with a soft smile. “But my wife would have remembered that Tommy’s wrapping paper was blue and Billy’s was green because she chose those colors. She would have remembered that Pietro comes every 27th of December and calls it second Christmas because it can’t be a holiday without him. And she wouldn’t have left the hospital without turning it upside down if she didn’t have her ring because my mother gave it to her. But most importantly, my Wanda died not even twenty-four hours ago, and she died in my arms.” 

“I… oh, I’m so sorry… I…”

“It’s okay. I’m not mad or even scared,” she said as she felt warm tears fall down her cheeks. “I don’t care what reason you could’ve had to be here. I’m just grateful that the boys had another day with their mom. It’s been a couple of months since she first got admitted to the hospital, and after that, it’s just been a whirlwind. The kids kept their faith that she’d get better, but that’s because she would put on a brave face every time they visited. But she wasn’t good. 

“She had been in remission for almost four years from pancreatic cancer, but all of a sudden it came back. And it came with a vengeance,” (Y/N) cried. “By the time we even noticed any symptoms, the doctor told us it had spread to her liver and her lungs, and it would take a very aggressive approach even to try to contain it. But by October, she collapsed and had to be admitted to the hospital, where we were told that they’d do everything they could, but the prognosis wasn’t great. She was growing weaker by the day, trying to put a brave face on for me and the kids. But I knew…”

Her words died in her throat as a violent sob tried to escape her, but the last thing she wanted was to wake her kids. Telling Wanda’s story was odd when her literal doppelgänger was staring her in the face. But there was comfort in finally telling someone the truth. And as that Wanda squeezed her hand in comfort, all she could do was finish the story. 

“I knew she was going to die,” (Y/N) continued. “She was in so much pain and discomfort, but she was holding on for us. For months, as selfish as it was, I begged her not to die. I begged her to keep fighting, and she did. She fought like the warrior she was. 

But it was hurting her. Fighting to stay was killing her spirit.” The pain in (Y/N)’s voice shattered Wanda. Sitting before her was the love of her life crumbling after the passing of her own partner, and all she had been thinking about was how happy she was to have her back —to have her family back. “I told her a few weeks ago, when it was only us, that if she felt it was her time, that she should let go. She had fought long and hard; now, it was time to rest. At around one in the morning today, she finally did. I was lying beside her, her body so thin and frail in my arms, and she took her last breath. It was so late by the time I got home that I simply got into bed and decided to tell the kids tomorrow about their mom. I wanted them to at least have one last Christmas thinking that she was still alive. 

“And then you walked through the doors and, where I should have been terrified, I felt a wave of relief wash over me. For a second, I thought someone out there had granted me a Christmas wish and had brought her back. Or maybe that her passing had only been a horrible nightmare. But it didn’t take long before I knew.” 

“Oh, (Y/N), I had no idea you had gone through all of this. And everything is still so fresh,” Wanda said through tears. “I promise I didn’t mean to cause any distress by showing up. The truth is, I’ve gone through a similar grief as you have, and that’s what brought me all the way here. But if I had known that my presence would have caused more harm than good, I…”

“No. Seriously, Wanda. You bring here has honestly been a breath of fresh air,” the woman assured, taking the redhead’s hands into hers. “I don’t know how long you plan to be here or if this even meant much to you. But even if it was just for today, you gave my boys their mom back. And you gave me my beautiful wife back for another day. And for that, I will eternally be grateful. All I ask is that, if you are going, that you let the boys say goodbye. I want them to have some kind of closure, at least.” 

Wanda knew she shouldn’t have promised anything. She had promised herself that she’d only watch them from afar at first. Then, as she saw her family through the window, she had to be with them for the holiday, at least. But she literally had them in her arms now, and there was no way she could let them go. No matter the price. 

“What if I wanted to stay forever?” the witch tested the waters. “If there was a way for me to stay here, would it be okay if I did? Even if it’s just on a probationary period, I would love to be a part of a family again –this family.” 

“I-is that possible? Could you really stay here?” 

“Yes. There is a way for me to stay. But only if you want that.” 

“I just… I don’t know how to have you here without completely undermining the life I had with my Wanda,” (Y/N) confessed. “I mean, you look exactly like her –from the color of your hair to your eyes. You laugh just like her. You practically are her. The only difference? We had a life with her, not you. I don’t want you to just replace the boys’ mom like that. I couldn’t…” 

“Of course, and I’d never want to do anything like that. I know how hard it is to lose someone that you love so much. I know the pain and the overwhelming grief. I also know the anger and the craziness that takes over.”  

“Who did you lose? If you don’t mind me asking.” 

“I lost everyone,” she answered with a sad smile. “First, I lost my parents. Then, I lost Pietro after spending my whole life by his side. After that, I found my you in that world, and everything seemed worth it. But you died by sacrificing yourself to save the Earth, and I was alone. Truly and completely alone. Then, after some kind of almost unbelievable things, I had you back and I had Tommy and Billy. My life was perfect for a time until that was taken from me again. So, I came here.” 

“Oh, Wanda. I… I’m so sorry you had to go through all that.” 

“I searched millions of universes before I found this one. I thought you had no me here, but it didn’t cross my mind that you had lost her. And so recently, too,” Wanda said, squeezing (Y/)’s hand comfortingly. “So, I understand if your answer is no. I’m just glad I got to see you and the boys one more time and that you embraced me so fully for today. But, just say the word, and I’m gone, zhizn moya.” 

At the sound of that name, (Y/N)’s breath hitched in her throat. Tears streamed from her eyes faster than she could stop them, and her heart hammered against her chest. “That name,” she whimpered. “That’s what she would call me. My life. How did you…?” 

“That’s what I called you in my world,” the redhead smiled. “And you would call me…” 

“Dusha moya. The only phrase I ever learned in Russian, much to her dismay,” (Y/N) grinned. “I guess our lives are not as different as I may have thought… A trial period, you said?” 

“Yes, however long it takes to ease into life here.” 

“But, what about my Wanda? There is still a version of you that died today.” 

“If you can trust me, I could handle all of that.” 

“A trial period then,” the woman smiled before kissing Wanda’s knuckles. “I think we could try.” 

And that was all Wanda needed to hear. She would collapse every universe that existed if she could preserve the life she could have in that one. And it all started with America Chavez’s power. Even if it took the lives of everyone in her way, she would make sure she was able to stay on that Earth. After all, it had been her sons’ Christmas wish. 

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[zablife]

Because I love your writing i am going to jump at your headcanons being open (they are all Jack). Might I request. 01. Jealous/possessive (non dark) (can include NSFW) with Jack. 02. Jack with an unwell o/c (health conditions, in hospital). 03. Teasing Jack. 04. essentially I guess all the previous come under dating/being married to Jack. 05. Jack dealing with your jealousy/ you feel you can't trust him. 06. Jack with daughter who is shy and feels unloved. Have a lovely evening xxx

Hello, lovely anon! Tysm for the requests. Love the material for Jack btw!! I am working on them now. I will answer the first two here under the cut and post the others soon.

Jealous/Possesive Jack (Warning: 18+, smut)

*Jack Nelson was a man who liked to own your heart and every bit of affection you gave. He couldn’t stand the idea of you paying attention to anyone else when he was around. It hurt his ego badly.

*You were the most perfect person he’d ever met and he wanted to be the same for you. Trying desperately with his financial and political endeavors to make you proud of him.

*Jack rarely left your side at parties, knowing men would inevitably approach you under some delusion that you would talk to them once and take them to your bed. He knew how foolish it sounded, but still wanted to quash the possibility.

*He preferred for you to stay on his arm all evening even if the politics bored you. He liked to know that you were safe by his side. He had an overwhelming need to protect what was his.

*You loved him, but often felt stifled by his need to control your every movement. You needed to feel that Jack trusted you.

*One night at a ball, you danced with another man. It was a harmless interaction, but the fact that another man had dared to touch you enraged Jack.

*He took you home immediately to make love to you. He needed to hear you scream his name as proof that you loved only him.

*After you’d come several times he rolled over to his side of the bed, satisfied with his performance. “Could any of those bastards there tonight fuck you like that, doll?”

*You were in a stupor from all the pleasure, but managed to reply, “No, Jack. No one makes me feel like you.” And that was all he needed to rest peacefully by your side.

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

Jack x Terminally ill wife reader (Warning: death)

*You tried to hide how unwell you were for a long time before seeking proper care. Your husband and children needed you and you wanted to know how to improve your health as quickly as possible feeling as though you were letting the side down.

*To your dismay, the doctor confirmed a serious diagnosis and you left feeling as though your time was very precious.

*You kept your illness a secret from Jack unsure how to tell him the truth. One day you fainted while cooking dinner and he rushed to your side, realizing something was very wrong. 

*You revealed your secret to him that night and watched your stoic husband cry for the first time in many years. He didn’t know how he would ever live without you and he vowed to find a cure.

*He hired extra help so you wouldn’t have to exert yourself and set about finding the best surgeons for you. 

*When you had to go in hospital, he stayed by your side night and day, rarely eating or sleeping. He had faith in your treament, however, and believed he would have you back the way you were. 

*When he learned that was impossible, he held you to him. He wanted to breath in your scent and hear your voice as much as possible before you left him forever. 

*The day you died, the priest was called and Jack watched him say a prayer over you. He stumbled outside into the bright sunlight, wondering how he would tell your children. He felt so lost in that moment without you. 

*He knew you would want him to be strong for your children and he ventured home determined to be the best father he possibly could, knowing he had two roles to fill now.

*As he held his son and daughter in his arms, he explained that Mommy loved them very much but was needed in Heaven. He promised them they would keep your memory alive and they did.

*Every year on your birthday they visited your gravesite and brought your favorite flowers. As your children grew they understood the importance to their father. Although he had remarried long ago, he had never stopped loving you, too enamored with your memory to give his heart to anyone else.

[abovethesmokestacks]

Hidden Love

Title: Hidden Love

Pairing: Bucky x reader

Word count: 2.2k

Rating: All audiences

Warnings: None. Or me, probably butchering the Victorian era. Also, you know, slight angst, because I can’t help myself

This story sparked from a moodboard I made a while back, of Victorian King!Bucky and maid!reader, and it kinda got away from me, as everything tends to do these days. And listen... I know. The term Victorian really only relates to the history of the United Kingdom during Queen Victoria’s reign, but please bear with me on this and suspend belief and step into a world where during this era, Bucky is king, and enjoy the stay.

The sounds of crystal clinking together should be like silver bells carrying over the din of hushed conversation, but to his ears, it's like nails on a chalkboard. The food before him is rich and each bite seems to swell in his mouth, forced down in thick swallows and gulps of wine. His cheeks hurt from smiling, and his feet itch to leave, to stand up and walk out. He could.

"More wine, your highness?"

He could, he is king.

The server's voice is low, bowed down appropriately to only be heard by him. He shouldn't have another glass, for the sake of his mental faculties. He should, to keep up appearances. He can already sense his mother's eyes on him, the calculating gaze he has known his entire life. The dowager queen, a mother only as it serves her image in the kingdom than anything else.

"Everything all right, James?" she asks, and oh, that tone is deceptive. Kind on the surface, but weighed just so with the barest hint of concern to draw the attention of the other guests.

He wants to grimace, his name sounding contrived and wrong in his ears, granted with the weight of legacy, set aside for a few blessed years of childhood and then thrust back upon him when illness took his father and forced him back into a mold he would much rather escape. The coronation had his stomach in knots, a chill persisting in his bones and a simmering dread as he was crowned - anointed by God, what god would place their faith in someone so flawed as man? - His Majesty James, by the Grace of God, King of the Nation, Defender of the Faith.

"Nothing, mother. Pondering my choice of drink."

He tries for amicable, jovial. It is the annual Christmas feast, why shouldn't he be happy? His mother quirks an eyebrow, holding his gaze just long enough for the hairs on the back of his head to stand on end before her eyes glide from him to take up the conversation she left.

Some defender of the faith he is, he doesn't even have faith in himself.

An eternity seems to pass as dishes pass before him, plate after plate until he feels nauseous. Around him, the atmosphere has relaxed, emboldened by wine and spirits, and even his mother is no longer sparing him a glance to keep track of him. Somehow, he would have thought being king would have meant finally being free of her shadow, but she is still there. No longer a shadow, but a presence right behind him, a metaphorical foot on his robe to remind him of his place, and hers. He wonders if anyone has noticed that his glass of wine has not been refilled in a long time, that he has been nursing it steadily and that his boisterous laughs have all been hollow.

He could leave, but not without drawing attention. Just a little while longer. He glances at the opulent grandfather clock, feels its ticking like a heartbeat. Not yet. Not yet. Not yet.

Each tick of the clock is an endless journey. Through rigid traditions, glasses of brandy, sweet sugarplums and fragrant pines, all he can feel is the passing of time, one second after another without an end in sight. Gifts are exchanged, crackers pulled with cloying glee and he feels more like a fool than a king when one of the footmen is coaxed into slipping the thin paper crown on his head. His mother bows out with effortless grace, sparking hope that maybe, just maybe, he can make his escape.

"Let me accompany you, mother," he asks, begs, voice low as he stands up to offer his arm for her.

Take it. Please, for the love of all things good and holy, take it.

Her smile is not exactly smug, but it hides a kind of joy that he thinks must be sour.

"Nonsense, my dear. Don't leave on my account, stay, be merry."

It's loud enough to be heard, for plenty of people to hear her deny him his exit under the guise of a mother not wanting to spoil her son's fun. He tries not to let his gaze harden or his forced smile to weaken, instead kissing his mother's hand and bidding her good night. Propriety will keep him here another hour at least. The clock ticks, chipping away at the span of time before he can have his freedom.

He thinks he might finally be going out of his mind when the clock strikes midnight. His other guests are either half-asleep, lulled by brandy and the late hour, or eagerly playing cards for the trinkets they received in their crackers. Enough. He takes his leave, wanting to roll his eyes at the hasty displays of respect and deference. No matter. He is free. A quick trip to fill up a plate from the abandoned dinner table, something for the road, as he jests with his escort. The palace is quiet when they traverse the corridors to his private chambers, their footsteps echoing ominously with nothing but a candelabra to light their way.

"I think I'll manage myself tonight," he tells his escort when they're outside his door. "Go sleep, I won't tell on you."

They put up the token protest, but still leave, hastening down the dark hallway while he lets himself in. The world feels more manageable inside. It's still a constant reminder of his privilege, of the opulence of his station, but it's his. No one can enter without his permission, no one can disturb him without just cause. Sometimes he wishes this was his entire kingdom.

Setting down the plate on his bed, he loosens the ascot, glad to be rid of the strangle-like hold around his neck. Off with the tailcoat, unbutton the waistcoat. Breathe.

Thunk.

He whips around, gaze falling on the large armoire in the corner. The silence that follows is deafening, but he knows what he heard. With a smile curling his lips, he swipes a treat off the plate, hiding it behind his back while he closes the distance, pulling the doors open in a rush, only for his ears to ring with a piercing shriek.

"Hush! Good god, you'll wake the entire wing, calm down! It's just me!"

The girl cowering into the corner of the armoire claps her hands over her mouth, eyes that had only moments ago been wide with fear now glaring at him as she breathes  through her nose to calm down. It’s strange, how his heart beats quicker, how the heaviness of his mind lightens under her fierce gaze. Years ago, they met by accident, he was still prince, young and cocksure, and she was, as she is now, a maid in the vast household that served his father the king. It wasn’t prudent, but he enjoyed giving her his attention, little flirtatious exchanges that somehow grew into a tender love with stolen kisses in hidden nooks. She has never asked for anything, much as he has offered to help her. She has declined promotions, slapped him for trying to sneak a small pouch of coins into her apron, made him promise not to do anything that would change her status in or outside the court.

He extends his hand to her, helping her up and out, twirling her around the room, making the skirt of her black dress flare around her, and his soul soars at the way her face settles into a sweet smile. With an exaggerated bow, he holds out his hand with the hidden treat, a sugar plum. She plucks it from her hand, delight colouring her features as she takes a small bite. 

“I thought you were…” she begins, swallowing before dropping her gaze, slipping the rest of the sugarplum into her apron pocket. “I wasn’t sure you were alone. I wasn’t… I wasn’t sure if you would come.”

They come to a halt by the window of his room, and instinctively, he positions his back to the window, protecting her presence with the frame of his body. This may be his private quarters, but the palace has eager eyes and ears.

“My mother.” 

It’s answer enough. Their love lives in the shadows, in the small kingdom of his room, in the hidden passages of the palace and with notes tucked into cracks only they know about. His heart aches, because she deserves so much more, wishes the world knew about this generous soul that holds his heart in her palms, whose smile lights up his presence even during his darkest days, who will take nothing but the reassurances of his affections and the kisses he bestows freely.

“I came as quickly as I could,” he adds, bringing up her hands to kiss her knuckles. They’re cold, worn from hard work, but he loves them as dearly as the rest of her.

“She knows.”

It’s simple. A statement, not a question, and her hands slide from his grip as she takes a step back.

“We don’t know that. She enjoys tormenting me, we’ve known that for quite some time. And even if she knows…” He closes the space between them again, wraps her up in his embrace, and nudges her chin to make her look at him. “Even if she knows, she won’t do anything overt. She can’t.”

“She’s the-” his love starts, eyebrows knit together, mouth set in a way that he knows she won’t let this go.

“She thinks she owns me. She thinks she controls me. In her eyes, I am as much a servant to her as anyone on staff. And I’m happy to let her keep her delusion, if it means I get to be with you, if it gives me time to…”

“To what?” she asks, tilting her head. “If it gives you time to do what, Bucky?”

To fight for that, he wants to say. His nickname, falling sweet from her lips and making him feel like a person. It’s a treasure from those happy childhood years, when he’d only hear it from his string of governesses and teachers, a concession to play pretend at a normal life. It felt like stepping out of a pleasant dream when he had to leave it behind, had to step into the heavy legacy of James, into the title of king. He looks at her, the only one to call him Bucky these days, and feels courage rise with the beating of his heart.

“To figure out a way for us to be together,” he tells her resolutely, continuing on his next breath. “We���ll go away, I’ll make sure we’ll have means to live until we can settle down. We’ll go far away, we’ll cross the sea if we have to.”

He twirls them around in a dance, away from the window, away from vulnerability of unseen eyes. Away. Gone. Together.

“Bucky…”

“We’ll live in a cottage, you and I. I’ll… I’ll learn a trade. I can tend horses. I can hunt. We’ll have a life that’s… that’s ours.”

“Buc- Your highness!”

The title cuts him down, poleaxes him and pulls him out of the dreams like someone has poured a vat of cold water on him. She’s no longer in his arms, once again removed, three solid paces between them, and she looks so small, so despairing, hands folded in front of her. This time, she finds her voice before he can find his.

“I can’t ask you to do that. You’re king. You… You have responsibilities. You have a realm that depends on you for guidance and rule. You can’t just… I’m no one. I’m not important. I’m- You are king, and kings marry queens and live happily ever after. I don’t fit into that story, your highness.”

He takes a step forward, she takes another step backwards. Even so, it hurts more to hear the way she talks about herself, makes herself small while he grows to something fabled and grand, when truth be told, he feels like all this time, he’s been walking on stilts and wearing a costume to hide the person he really is.

“Neither do I,” he starts, winces inwardly at how trite it sounds. “I didn’t want this. To be king, I mean. It’s not for me. I don’t care for politics and mind games, I don’t care for frivolousness and rigid customs. This is a prison to me. It’s beautiful, and grand, but it’s a gilded cage nonetheless. Outside this room, away from you, I am not myself. I am weak. I am a pawn in a game. My desires don't matter. You…” He takes a careful step forward, hope springing when she stays where she stands, “are everything I want. Everything I need.” Another step. “And I will do anything to be with you, anything to make this my story. I’ll bide my time, I’ll weigh my options, I’ll make every preparation, but one day…”

Another step. He’s back in front of her, and though she avoids his eyes, she’s not running, not putting distance back between them.

"Your highness…"

“My love,” he interrupts, offering her the depth and width of his affection, his voice low and ardent as he kneels before her, prostrating before the only person worthy of him. “My sweet, my… my everything. One day, I’ll find a way for us to be together.”

[messiisgodibeliveinhim]

Taeyong

I just wanted to rant about everything that happened. So here I am.

So initially I didn't want to watch the concert because of the obvious lack of Taeyong. But i did watch it (ill*gally) on Twitter Live Stream, to see who would cover for Taeyong and how.

Okay, first of all, is it just me or was there an actual lack of preparation and production for the concert??? Like, compare it to SuperM's Beyond Live. The VCRs, the camera direction, the stage, the AR effects... Everything looked so good and exciting. But for this one, they didn't even try. The production was lacking severely and the AR effects were barely used. Everything looked rushed as if they didnt actually plan it set by set. The VCRs were just all the footages from other videos clamped together. There was nothing new or cool about this Beyond Live, even with the increased price. Overall, it looked cheap. I think, the only saving grace of this online concert were the boys themselves.

Secondly, the boys who covered for Taeyong did a good job. Obviously, no one can come close to even performing and delivering like Taeyong but the boys did fine, considering that they had to practice his parts for only 2-3 weeks. And it's a daunting task to fill such huge shoes. The pressure that the boys felt, especially the newbies Shotaro and Sungchan, to try to fill that gap, must have been immense.

But of course, NShittyzens took this as an opportunity to sh*t on Taeyong, saying stupid things like 'XYZ ate Taeyong up', 'ABC made Taeyong's song his own', 'MNO killed Taeyong's part and I think he should've been part of the original line-up instead of Taeyong', 'I hope my bias gets to shine now', 'My faves really took this "opportunity" and showed the world' etc.... Like??? Are you really that dense or just spewing bs like this cuz y'all want attention??? The same thing happened when Taeyong missed the KBS mid-year festival and the other boys covered for him for Kick It.

If y'all truly believe that you're bias only shines when Taeyong is absent, then it shows how insecure you are about you're faves talents and abilities. If you truly think Taeyong's injury is an "opportunity" for your fave, then there is clearly something wrong with you. If you think you're fave ate Taeyong up in any manner, then it shows that you just hate Taeyong. If you think Taeyong is replaceable, then you're doing piss poor job of convincing yourself. Taeyong doesn't need NCT, but NCT needs Taeyong.

He is not just the leader, but also the main dancer, main rapper, sub vocalist, the center of the group and the face of the group. He has also contributed to the group with over 30 songs and has choreographed for some of NCT songs. He is NCT's idea bank, with the numerous times he has come up with something new and interesting for their concepts or choreography (For Example: The Jungle Gym for Neo City tour, the epic finger move and Mark stepping on Taeyong for the Kick It choreography, the chandelier scene in MAW, etc) . Many professionals have constantly praised Taeyong for his creativity and excellent inputs.

Taeyong was there from the very beginning of NCT and has carried the group on his back for 4 years now. And he has always remained kind and humble, even with all the misdirected hate that he faced for years. He always puts himself down and praises all the members, no matter what. He has juggled between groups, 5 comebacks and numerous concerts, this year alone. His schedule list looks like the Bank Statement of one whole year. The way the man has worked for the past 2 years is insane. And upon that, the burden of being the leader of a group with 23 members??? Can y'all even imagine the amount of weight on Taeyong's shoulders???

And yes, the injuries he has constantly sustained for over 4 years now. We have seen various footages of him having neck braces, holding his waist and limping. He has also talked about the continuous back pain or how he was sick for 3 days after shooting a MV. SM had known exactly the extent of his injuries and still overworked him to the bone. Now his waist disc injury has relapsed and we still dont have a statement on his health or time of recovery on ANY of the SM Official Accounts. Not one word. We had to find out through a platform that's barely used and most non-twitteratti NCTzens didn't know about this whole ordeal until after the concert began.

What boils my blood is that SM knew about the relapsed injury way before, gave the boys enough time to practice Taeyong's part, but announced the concert by advertising Taeyong all over it, last Monday. And they literally only made the announcement after the concert ticket cancelation period was over. F*cking money whores! F*ck SM!!!!

The worst part of it all are the NShittyzens. Most of you didn't care about the fact that SM not only neglected the leader's health but also scammed Taeyong's fans. When TyongFs began to get refunds for the concert, some of you accused them and started dictating what they should do with their own money, pulling sh*t like- 'Taeyong as a leader, wants his group to do well. Now he would be sad knowing that fans dont care about the group cuz y'all are getting your refunds'. Really? Cuz most y'all who said this watched the concert illegally, makes it even more funny to me. And its none of you're business, how anyone else spends their money. And if you think Taeyong cares about SM losing money, then you're just stupid. If it's anyone in the whole group who'd say 'F*ck Capitalism!', it's Taeyong. So STFU!

Also, when TyongFs started demanding an official statement from SM about Taeyong, some of y'all went- "You're just a fan. Y'all dont have any right to cross the boundaries of Idol-Fan relationship and ask for personal stuff. Other artist fans didn't get any official statement, so why should you?'. We didnt ask for his f*cking medical records. We just want a statement from SM's official accounts about his health and his time of recovery. That's it. SM has refused to acknowledge the injuries of other artists before, doesn't mean that this pattern has to continue. And as fans, we are entitled to know about the artist, cuz WE CARE...! Cuz a waist disc injury relapsing aint a small thing. The amount of pain that Taeyong is probably enduring right now.... We dont even know the extent of it. We dont know how long he needs to recover or even how long SM will give him to rest. We don't know anything and we are scared. So just wanting a statement about it, isnt 'crossing the boundaries' as you put it. So again, STFU!

Y'all don't care about Taeyong, fine. The least you can do is respect him and not discredit his hardwork. After everything he has done and continues to do for NCT, y'all keep going with the 'Taeyong is the villain' narrative. He isn't stealing your faves lines or screentime. He isn't pushing them back to 'shine more'. He isnt the bad person you think he is. Y'all rejoicing now that he is injured, happy that your faves got to take up Taeyong's part or just hateful saying your fave was better than Taeyong.... It just ain't it.

No other group leader gets the kinda hate Taeyong does, even though he does 5 times the work for the group than any other leader. Yes, Taeyong has multiple positions the group, all deserved. Yes, he is a very charismatic and an amazing performer on the stage, that lures new fans in. Not his fault that he grabs everyone's attention. Yes, he is very talented in so many aspects. But that doesn't mean you get tobblame you're faves mistreatment on him, cuz he himself is being mistreated by SM. So don't come at me with you're 'SM's golden boy' bs! I will taze your ass and watch supernanny as you crawl under the carpet!

Maybe you're right about how you're faves dont get to shine enough when they're on the same stage as Taeyong, cuz his charisma and aura is very magnetic, you can't help but watch him and him only. I thought only TyongFs have this kinda tunnel vision but apparently, all of you have it as well....

Here's the thing. You don't like it when Taeyong gets praised all the time, whether its his dance or rap or anything at all. Cuz you don't like Taeyong. So why are you even focused on him and TyongFs. If I don't like anything, i simply ignore it. So instead of focusing on Taeyong, focus on hyping up your fave (again, by not dragging Taeyong, not even subtly). It ain't hard, trust me.

At least have the human decency to not rejoice over the fact that he is injured. The sh*t i see online everyday, some of y'all have totally lost it.

And lastly, no one can eat up Taeyong. No one can do his part better than him. Hell, no one can even come close to doing what he does. So get that delusion outta your heads. Its embarrassing.

[pocket-clown]

Physical & personality traits Arthur & Joker would like in a partner;

// original request: What are the ideal personality and physical traits Joker/Arthur would look for in a partner?

thank you, anon!

I tried to keep these somewhat vague; I didn’t want to list specific traits because I do not want anyone to feel excluded.

Arthur;

Personality;

Kindness, without a doubt, is the biggest thing. Arthur, down to his very core, is a softhearted man, and his life has had such a lacking of that sort of thing that he needs a partner who could give him what he’s been missing. He wouldn’t be able to be with anyone cruel.

Someone who’s gentle, both physically and behaviorally. It’s sort of like kindness; his life has been so burdened with the harsh roughness that is Gotham and trauma, so having a partner that contrasts that - a solace, if you will - and is able to shush his overwhelming thoughts just ever so slightly enough that they aren’t absolutely suffocating is a must-have for Arthur. He loves affection from you. 

Patience, understanding, and open-mindedness. With the stigma that surrounds mental illness and his struggles regarding his disorder, he feels even more isolated than he may have if he wasn’t mentally ill. Knowing that he has you, someone who’s there for him, who’ll listen to him, who won’t judge, or rush, or yell at him just for being Arthur means more to him than he’d ever be able to express.

Humor!! This is an obvious one. You don’t need to be a complete goofball 24/7 or anything, but a partner who’s able find humor in things is a big deal to Arthur. If his partner was someone who never laughed, or was someone he couldn’t make laugh, then he’d feel that he was, in a way, not doing his job. 

Someone who can empathize (or at least sympathize) with others. Like kindness, sympathy and empathy are scarce in Gotham, so it would be one of the first things that would draw him to someone. Seeing you actually care about someone other than yourself would make his heart throb with love as it was such a rare occurrence in Gotham - especially if it was directed at him.

Physical;

I’ll say this - at the end of the day, looks are inconsequential to Arthur. He loves you for you; so pure in essence are you that it makes your physical appearance beautiful to him - and the beauty of the heart trumps the beauty of the face, to Arthur. Looks matter very little to him, at the end of the day, so I’ll give you this;

Soft, warm skin. Something tangible that he could touch whenever he needed to ground himself; something to prove that yes, you really were there with him, and that no, you weren’t a delusion. Something warm and soft to combat the cold, grittiness that’s made up the majority of his life.

A bright smile. The way your smile lights up your face whenever you see him after a long day could kill him with how beautiful it was, and knowing that he was the cause of it never failed to make his day. He’s got a soft spot for dimples, so if you’ve got those, it’s a bonus!

Kind eyes. Harsh glares of nothing but judgement and disdain are what’s dished out regularly in Gotham, so having someone truly look at him with eyes full of nothing but warmth makes him feel that maybe, just maybe, he’s worthy of a little more kindness than what he’s been given in life.

Gentle hands to hold his, to comb through his hair, to rub his back during his fits. No one, aside from his mother, has ever touched him, unless you consider the countless beatings he’s taken, and he’s touch starved beyond belief. Once he’s warmed up to the relationship, he’ll never be able to get his fill of your touch - even if it’s just your hand brushing against his shoulder for half a second as you pass by. 

Joker;

Personality;

Someone who’s kind and empathetic. It was made loud and clear in his tirade on the Murray show; Gotham is awful. No one ever puts themselves in the shoes of the other guy - no one ever thinks what it’s like to be the person they’re beating down on. Kindness is rare, and empathy even rarer, so those are major things for Joker when it comes to finding a partner.

Gentle. Gotham is rough. Life is rough. Arthur Fleck knew no gentleness, and neither will Joker, now; unless his s/o is just that. It’s one of the only consolations for him; to be able to return to your gentle, loving arms at the end of the day, and it’s one he wouldn’t give it up for anything.

Humor - but preferably a dark sense of it. Humor and laughter are things that remain important to him - but his humor is much drier, much darker, now, so having a s/o who could appreciate his oddball sense of humor is ideal.

Someone who isn’t afraid to take risks. Joker would never do anything that put your life in danger - he places the value of your safety and comfort above everything else - but having a partner who’d be able to just say fuck it and let loose every now and then would be magnificent. 

Someone who isn’t afraid to speak their mind. Though he gets it; when he was Arthur, he kept his thoughts, his opinions, his wants and his needs to himself for the most part as to not burden others, but to him, for you to be able to open up and share your thoughts with him, to tell him what you needed, what you wanted, what you desired - to him, it meant that you trusted him. He'll encourage you so gently to open up; not wanting to rush you, but also wanting you to know that it's okay for you to be honest with him. 

 Physical;

Soft, warm skin. He’s much less shy about touching you now, and he loves seeing what his touch alone does to you. Unless you’re uncomfortable with it and/or ask him not to, he’ll almost always have his hands on you in someway; resting on your thigh as you’re seated on his lap, underneath the hem of your shirt as his fingers gently brush along the skin of your hip, rubbing your back as you two cuddle at night; he just loves to feel you and know that you’re safe.

Soft lips. Unsurprisingly, Joker would love to kiss his s/o. His absolute favorite way of greeting you is going right up to you, cupping your face in his hands so he can press his lips to yours until you're practically melting against him, your hands clenching the lapel of his suit jacket as your legs trembled.

A gaze that sees him for him. Now that he’s Joker and no longer just Arthur, a large amount of Gotham’s citizens view him as a symbol; they see him as the leader of their rebellion, a symbol against Gotham’s rich - and those that don’t, view him as a villain - but regardless of which of the two someone views him as, they never truly see him. He can tell when someone’s looking right through him and seeing only what they want to see, so if someone were to look at him with eyes that saw him as he truly was - someone in pain, someone who never wanted things to turn out how they had - it would actually stun him. He wants to be seen. 

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taglist;

@tahliamalfoydepp @tsukiakarinobara @smol-nari @ajokeformur-ray @lavenderheartz @lady-carnivals-stuff @darknessisafriend @emissarydecksetter @soulsdontbreaktheybeeend​

(let me know if you'd like to be added!)

[ladylilibet]

Tainted Love|Chapter 2.

I/II/III/IV/V

Tainted Love – How can you tell a lady no? The White Wolf claimed he needed no one, but his collection of misfits started with Lady Helena of Oxenfurt… and ended with her, too.

                                  Chapter II: 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖂𝖎𝖙𝖈𝖍𝖊𝖗'𝖘 𝕻𝖊𝖙

Geralt sat on his knees, lips pursed and eyes closed. The glow of the firelight illuminated the scars that etched his face. His white brow twitched with every crack and pop of the fire. He looked serene -- beautiful.

"Quit staring at me."

Aah, there he is.

Helena sat up with an exhalation, "I can't sleep."

Geralt's eyes fluttered half-open, "You're safe. I'm not going to let anything happen to you. Rest."

She dismissed his comment with a wave and a chuckle, "I'm not comfortable. I don't think I've ever slept on the ground before. I regret these clothes, and unlike you, I didn't get a bath." He opened his mouth to speak, but sly interrupted him, "I know, I know. I signed up for this and can't bemoan."

"Actually, I was going to say that if you had wanted a bath, then you could have joined me." My eye-roll at his comment was received with a smirk, "At the next town, I promise you'll get a bed and a bath. Change of clothes, too."

"Geralt,"

"Lena?"

"I'm surprised you're not taunting me... For living pampered."

"We cannot help the lives in which we are born. You, a lady. I, a Witcher." He closed his eyes once more, "Daybreak is in a few hours. Try to sleep until then."

She awoke to the chill of the morning, the fire having been stomped out. Geralt was already awake and tending to Roach, the camp already packed up. She brushed her hair with her fingers before putting it in a braid. She stood and did some stretches before going to walk away from the camp.

"Where are you going?" Geralt called after her, making the girl stop and turn around.

"I'd like to freshen up in the lake."

"Wouldn't do that if I were you." Geralt tightened Roach's saddle before looking to me.

"And why's that?"

"Hate for you to be a kikimore's breakfast."

She scrunched up my nose and shuddered before walking back to Geralt, "Mm, no thank you."

The Witcher placed his hands on her hips. Before she was able to protest, he lifted me off the ground and placed her into the mare's saddle.

"Stay, take care of Roach." He reached into the saddle's bag and procured vials of potions, "Duties call."

"I'm not a little girl, Geralt." She protested, "I can handle myself."

Geralt hummed and walked off without answering.

Roach bucked and whinnied from underneath her, startled by something. Helena tried to calm her by stroking her mane but to no avail. After a few moments of nothing, a sharp whistle pierced the deafening silence. A summoning for Roach caused her to start trotting at full speed, launching her forward. Helena gripped the horse's neck for stability as she rushed to the source of the whistle.

They arrived at the bogs to find Geralt, soaked and panting, his trophy dead beside him. Geralt pressed his forehead to Roach's.

"Was she a good girl?"

Helena peered down at him, noticing how filthy he looked, "Yeah, she was fine. A little nervous, I guess."

He pulled away from the horse with a laugh, "I wasn't talking to you, I was talking to Roach."

Geralt took a fresh cloak from his saddlebag and wore it. She looked to him inquisitively to find black pools staring back. Already inhuman eyes have morphed into that of a demon's. She gulped involuntarily and moved her gaze ahead.

Geralt grunted and climbed onto the horse's back behind her. He grabbed her reigns and rested his hands on her upper thighs. She trembled under his touch, but he didn't relent. He motioned for Roach to move forward, and her gait with him pressed up against her back caused her to blush. The stench of the kikimora behind him killed any unladylike thought she possessed.

"Do I frighten you, Helena?" He gently asked, breath hot against her ear.

"Don't tease me, Geralt."

They rode in silence during the ride to Blaviken before reaching an Inn. He dismounted and extended a hand to me, which she declined. She shifted and swung her right leg over and hopped off.

"Do you forget that I'm a Lady? The daughter of a Duke?" She asked with a grin.

"Your snores last night have me convinced otherwise." He replied as he pulled a piece of paper from his cloak. She swatted his arm as she followed him into the Inn.

The commotion of the bar came to a standstill as all eyes landed on Geralt. If the people muttering about his mutations bothered him, he didn't let it show as he stepped up to the bar maiden.

He placed the piece of paper on the counter, "Point me to the Alderman."

"It's down the alley, to the left--" She began to direct him, but was quickly interrupted by a bald man.

"Isadora!" He chastised her, making her runoff. He turned to Geralt with a glare, eyes briefly flickering over to Helena as well, "We don't want your kind around here, Witcher . Take your whore and be on your way."

She scoffed and stepped forward, an insult at the ready, but Geralt put a hand out, stopping her.

"The Alderman. Tell me where he is, and we'll be on our way."

"You don't give the orders 'round here, you mutant son of a bitch." A drunkard spat out behind them. She could feel her face heat up in anger, yet Geralt showed no emotion.

"Hear that?" The barkeep spoke once more, "Go. On your own, or on the end of a rope. Your choice."

Geralt pursed his lips and shrugged, "Not a hard choice." He replied as he sized the men that were beginning to gang up on him.

"Fuck that. Kill 'em with your bare hands if you have to."

"Men and their egos," Helena hissed, wishing she had a dagger hidden underneath my skirt. She took a step back and crossed her arms with a sigh

"Come on. Yer not scurred of us, are ya, Witcher?" The instigator's heavy accent questioned, "Show us what'cha made of."

"Can you not leave it alone for a moment?" A woman exasperatedly asked. Finally, some sense.

"Witchers cannot be trusted ."

"I'm not speaking to you," She replied, voice unfaltering. "I apologize for my man's interference in your day. Hopefully , he can improve his behavior by tomorrow's market."

The small man backed down, "Sorry, Renfri. Come on, lads."

Renfri turned back to the bar, "Beer for my friend here and his wife, and one for me."

Helena raised a brow and looked to Geralt, mouthing the word 'wife.' She received a half-smile in response as he took off his hood, white locks on display. She sat on a stool, but the barkeep didn't ease up. He remained stone-faced, arms crossed.

"I am speaking to you now, good sir." Renfri's voice was stern and commanding, and Helena could feel herself grow envious of her. Helena was raised to be submissive, to bite her tongue, yet this woman is fighting for the honor of a stranger.

The barkeep slammed two mugs of ale in front of them and stomped off.

"Want some breakfast?" The brunette asked as she ate a bite of potato.

"No thanks," Geralt answered, "We're full. Venison." Helena quirked a brow as he smirked at an inside joke she wasn't apart of.

She took a swig of her ally sputtering and choking on the ill taste. Suddenly , she missed the drinks they'd serve at the villa. Her theatrics were met with a golden-eyed glare. It was interrupted by Renfri chugging her drink and slamming the mug down.

She sheepishly looked at both of their amusement, "My mother, God rest her, would be mortified ."

"Our secret, then." Geralt's flirty tone sent pangs through her stomach. Pangs and delusions that sly tried to drown with beer.

"So what brings you to Blaviken, White Hair? You came for a monster?"

"We were traveling by the swamp."

"That would be your wife and your mistake, then."

"I'm not his wife," Helena spoke for Geralt and took another drink, "Consider him an escort -- a bodyguard." She could see the tension in the Witcher's shoulders practically evaporate, happy for the correction . Their tones switched to more playful and flirty, and she was suddenly feeling more like a third wheel.

"Aah, you two don't seem to be a match," Renfri replied, which felt more like a dig if anything. She turned her sights back to Geralt, "Why wouldn't you travel by main roads?"

"It's hard to make a living on main roads."

"And you desperately need money for new clothes." She noted her and Geralt's empty mugs as Helena still nursed mine before asking for two more beers. The foul taste coated the lady's mouth, but at least it was something to fill her stomach. The barkeep, sick of her patronizing, left her the whole pitcher.

"More and more," She began as she topped my drink off and poured Geralt a fresh mug, "I find monsters wherever I go." The sexual tension between the two was thick but was cut short by a child popping up between us.

"Where is your mother?" I questioned the young girl with a furrowed brow.

She huffed and ignored me, turning her focus to Geralt, "How much coin for your kikimora, then?" Geralt followed the child out of the inn, peering over her like a giant.

She turned to Renfri with a small curtsy and thanked her for the drinks.

"Word of the wise, Lady...?"

"Helena."

"Lady Helena, you might want to change out of those clothes if you're to be traveling with a Witcher. Your clothes scream wealth, your doe eyes say you're still a virgin. Not a pleasant combination with the men around here."

"Uhm, thanks. I guess." She waved goodbye and caught up with the pair, just in time to hear about the little girl killing a rat with her fork.

"My mother nearly fainted, but what was I supposed to do? It had been shitting in our pantry for days." She explained as Geralt led us to Roach.

"Your language is abhorrent." The elder girl scolded and the child stuck her tongue out in response. Frustrated, Helena stuck her tongue out too.

Ignoring their antics, Geralt advanced back to the subject on hand, "You mentioned coin."

The little girl ran ahead to be closer to him, "Yes. Isadora said you were looking for my father. She's a gossip, you see."

The kikimora claw was exposed as it sat slouched over the horse saddle, dripping blood. The girl went immediately to investigate the monster. Helena opted to greet Roach with a scratch behind the ear, zoning out the conversation.

"Fine, take me to him." Geralt grabbed Helena's arm to get her attention. He handed her a satchel of coins, "Get us clothes and necessities. Nothing lavish. Meet me back here in a few hours."

After they departed, Helena walked through the market. Despite it being full of people, and she felt a sense of loneliness.

'Have I ever been by myself? No maids by my side, no escorts in the shadows. Just me.' She thought. A smile formed on her lips -- she felt free.

She looked over the purchases that occupied her satchel. Garlic, flaxseed, valerian root, lavender, rosemary, and mint. With Geralt being mutant and able to take potions, her nursing and herbalism weren't bound to be super useful to Geralt . Despite this, she wanted to show her worth. Besides, it didn't hurt to have on hand.

'I should get some needle and thread too.' She thought, remembering the Witcher's scars and walked off to the tailor's shop.

"Afternoon, ma'am." An older woman greeted from her stool as she walked in, "How might I help ya?"

"I need a new dress."

She squinted and stood up to inspect the lady's current threads, "Why this dress itself looks brand new!"

"Aah, that's because it is," Helena confessed, embarrassed, " Just needs a wash. I need clothes for travel."

She still looked confused but shook it off and clucked her tongue, going around the girl in a circle. "I can give you a pretty coin for the dress." The tailor took her to the back and instructed her to undress. She did as she requested, standing now in only her shift. The seamstress reached out, rubbing the material.

"Satin," She told her, "But I'd like to keep this."

"Suit yourself," She shrugged, gathering the dress at Helena's feet and taking it to the side for washing.

She brought only a few garments back. Helena settled for the first outfit she tried on. A white tunic that exposed my shoulders and had beautiful bell-sleeves. The top tucked into a long, wine-colored skirt and paired with a leather under breast corset. She was showing more skin and at this moment, she knew her mother would be cross.

She felt lighter and did a slight twirl, making the skirt lift. She sighed content and thanked the tailor. She opted to buy a heavy cloak -- it felt itchy on her skin, but it was cheaper than fur-- and a pair of walking boots. The older woman gave change and they parted ways.

Helena still had time before she needed to meet Geralt. She still had some coins left, so she continued to walk around, breaking her shoes in.

And that's when it caught her eye: a wooden, Elven longbow. With no hesitation, she walked to the shopkeep, slammed the coins on the counter, and took the bow. A sword was too heavy, and she rather an enemy not get close enough to use a dagger. She wasn't great at archery, but she knew how to shoot, and that made her a step better than a damsel in distress.

Geralt was already outside the inn with Roach when she arrived. Helena's face hurt from smiling so much. She gave him what coins she had left. He briefly looked her up and down before picking her up and placing her in the saddle.

"Wait," She protested with a pout, "I thought we were staying in the inn tonight."

He hopped onto Roach behind her and said nothing as he led them out of town.

"You promised a bath and bed," She whined and looked behind her.

"Stop talking." He sharply commanded.

She bit her lip and focused on the path. They stayed quiet during the ride. A few minutes in, she felt Geralt pull the top of her sleeve up, covering the exposed skin.

She sighed and stayed quiet.

They continued to stay silent as they set up our camp in the woods. Geralt tended to Roach as Helena stoaked the fire, getting it ready to make dinner.

"Want to hear about my first monster?" The Witcher finally turned to her and spoke.

She exhaled deeply and threw her fire poker down. She had thought he was different than her mother and father. Yet here he was, mood swings and silent treatments. Though still curious. she gave him a meek nod, waiting to listen to his story.

"Wasn't fifty miles outside of Kaer Morhen. He was huge. Stinking. Baldhead. Rotten teeth. He pulled that girl from the cart, tore her dress off in front of her father and said, 'It's time you met a real man.' I told him it was time he met one too. It took two strikes to kill him. They weren't clean. But they were spectacular. I turned to that girl afterward. She was drenched in the man's blood. She took one look at me, screamed, vomited, and passed out."

He sat down on the log beside her and took over the dinner preparations, "I thought the world needed me."

"It does." Helena murmured, opting to look at the fire and not him, "You're a hero."

"Funny. They don't think I am."

"I do." She turned to look at him this time, "Do you believe in destiny?"

He chuckled as he continued to muddle his herbs, "No."

"Then what do you believe in?"

"You mean who do I believe in."

She shrugged and fixed her sleeves. "Oxenfurt is home to many intelligent minds. But none intelligent enough to slay The Oxenfurt Drunk. But not you. With payment, a meal at the Duke and Duchess's home. You could have refused. But you went."

Geralt looked to her with a small smile, "Lady Helena, I told you. I didn't do it for you, I did it for coin."

"I know," She laughed, "But yet we still met. Destiny or not, being with you has been freeing. I was meant to meet you."

He says nothing as his eyes scan her face. After a moment of agonizing anticipation waiting for him to take the lead. A rush of bravery flows through her and she leaned in and kiss him. The first kiss was sweet, gentle for her first. But as he deepened the kiss, it felt full of want and desire. He pulled her into his lap and began flowering kisses along my neck and collarbone. Sometimes leaving behind small bites. As he's kissed the peaks of her breast, he grabbed her hips and rubbed up against her.

She took a shaky breath as panic sets in and she bit her lip. Geralt can sense this and immediately stops.

He pulls back and looks at her with concern in his eyes, "Lena, what's wrong?"

"I'm just tired," She lied.

He nods and pulls her into a hug. The small, chaste intimacy causes a wave of relief to flood over me. He scoops her up and lays her on his sleeping mat before laying down beside her. He undoes her braid and plays with her hair.

As Helena fell asleep, she prayed that he one day believes in destiny too.

Chamomile and bergamot.

Such an intense scent that flooded Geralt's nostrils. A smell that was calming and intoxicating all at once. New yet familiar. Something he remembered long before his training at Kaer Morhen.

Geralt could feel the rise and fall of Helena's breathing as she slept soundly . It's been a while since he had the privilege to lay beside a woman. A decent brothel was few and far between. It's been even longer since he laid by a woman he didn't need to pay.

The Witcher hadn't slept well. Bad dreams haunted him all night. Nightmares he was sure would manifest soon. Yet Geralt knew if he continued to lie here, Helena would lull him to sleep.

He opened tired eyes to gaze at her sleeping form. She was young -- he was willing to wager that she was barely a day over eighteen. Freckles dotted milky white skin like constellations in the night sky. With her brown hair and matching eyes, she reminded him of a deer. Demure and naive, the fawn wandered into the White Wolf's den.

Helena had an air to her that put Geralt at a crossroads. She had an innocence he wanted to protect but also wanted to claim for himself. To take the innocence of a duke's daughter, an engaged one at that, made him feel dirty and excited all at once. To watch her clutch the sheets as he entered her for the first time, her walls feeling sinfully tight as he pushed past her barrier . Her rose petal lips crying out, moaning his name --

"Geralt,"

Geralt froze, worried she had felt him grow hard against her. He cursed the parts that still made him human. A whore's embrace couldn't come sooner.

"Geralt," Helena repeated, this time rolling over to face him. "What's for breakfast?"

The question made him laugh and grounded him. There were other matters to attend to. First and foremost , Renfri and his premonition.

Helena's quiver hung uncomfortably at her side, strapped to her hip by its leather belt, wooden bow in her left hand . Geralt had told her if she were to use a bow and arrow, she'd need to get used to holding it. When he asked if she ever used a bow before, she laughed it off and assured him she did.

What she failed to mention was that she always came last in her archery course, never quite able to make the mark. But what did it matter? It was only for a sense of security. She'd leave the monster hunting to the Witcher.

"She knew you'd come." The instigator from the inn spoke out from across the market.

"Where's Renfri?" Geralt asked, suddenly making it clear to Helena he had lied. They didn't come back for breakfast. They came for Renfri. She adjusted the bow in her hand, now afraid she'd need to use it.

"She's at the tower with your little friend, Marilka."

Helena scowled. Surely Renfri wouldn't subject a child to this, even one of the likes of Marilka.

"She gave us a message to pass on to you," Another henchman spoke, "You have to choose the lesser evil."

"It's an ultimatum," A third stated as he grabbed his sword, the steel gleaming, "Get it?"

Geralt stood in front of Helena, acting as a wall between her and the men.

"Fuck," He uttered as he retrieved his sword in time to deflect an arrow shot from a crossbow.

The following events happened in such a whirlwind that it made Helena feel light-headed . She had heard men swap war stories, most of which she had assumed were fabricated or at the very least embellished . But she had never witnessed death itself, let alone a massacre.

As Geralt began killing his opponents in such a fluid motion, one after the other, it made the girl retch. The distraction made her an easy target as one of the men came up behind her, a dagger passed firmly to her back.

"I ain't gonna hurt ya," He promised using his free hand to push back her hair, exposing her neck. "Could get me a pretty coin for the Witcher's whore."

Helena could feel the adrenaline rush through her, her heartbeat thudding loudly in her ear . She spun around and tried to gain the upper hand. A bow would do no good at this moment -- too close, too slow. She went to punch him in the face, but a large hand clamped over her delicate fist. In her peripheral, she could see him ready to stab her. She swiftly deflected him with her forearm, feeling the blade cut through her skin.

Helena let out a yell and kneed him as hard as she could in the groin, causing him to push her down. As she lay on her back, the man reared the dagger back, aiming to stab her. Using her leather boots, she began pedal-kicking her attacker until finally, she was able to kick the blade out of his hand .

With the weapon out of reach, the man swore and threw himself on top of her, and pressed his forearm against her neck. She tried to call for Geralt but no sound could escape as he crushed her windpipe. Panic began to consume her, but as she struggled for air, she was ready to give in. She had wanted adventure and this was the cost.

No, no, no.

She wasn't ready. She had more that needed to be done . With what fight she had left, she took an arrow from her a quiver and shoved the steel tip through his right eye, deep until the wooden shaft broke . He let go of his hold of her and doubled over while trembling and seizing.

Helena scrambled to her feet and grabbed her bow. She quickly ran to where Geralt was fighting, just in time to witness him decapitate a man with his sword. She wanted to scream, cry, anything, but the pain and fear prevented her.

She stood helpless, her body shaking and her knees weak. Marilka sobbed and called out of Geralt as Renfri held a sword to the little one's neck. Renfri's eyes scanned the area to see dead bodies of her men littered the marketplace.

"You chose."

"Let the girl go." Geralt told her, placing his sword to his side to negotiate with her as he took a step towards them.

Renfri pressed her blade closer to Marilka's neck, "I will kill her," She threatened, tears forming in her eyes," I will kill everyone here until Stregobor comes down ."

Geralt produced the Axii symbol, "Leave Blaviken."

"Magic doesn't work on me... Silver does, though."

"Silver is for monsters," Geralt spat back. Renfri tossed Marlika to the side and drew her sword to the opening position.

The little girl ran to Helena who checked her over for injuries. When she had seen that she had none, the older girl wrapped her in an embrace.

"If we cross swords..." Geralt began, but Renfri finished for him."

"I won't be able to stop."

As the pair began to duel, Helena tried to block the girl from witnessing it. She tried to get her to run home, but Marilka refused and stood firm as tears ran down her face.

Helena hugged her, but when the clashing of metal came to an end, the young girl fought out of her arms and ran once her master called .

Helena followed close behind her and saw Renfri dead on the ground, and Geralt holding up to Stregobor's neck .

"If you touch a single hair on her head, yours will be on the ground next." The white-haired man hissed.

"Have you gone mad?" The mage questioned, "Her mutation, it influences people. That's how she got these men to follow her. We need to take it." After seeing he couldn't reason with the other man, he asked, "She got to you too, didn't she?"

"Do. Not. Touch. Her." The white wolf demanded, fangs bared.

"Witcher," Stregobor began aloud rallying in the town, "You butchered bodies in the streets of Blaviken ."

"You're a beast!"

"You endangered these girls!" Another shouted.

The crowd became agitated and the mage continued to egg them on, "You took the law into your own hands."

The shouts of the townspeople grew more vehement as stones were cast at Geralt. He kneeled down as the rocks pelted him. Helena crouched beside him and put a tender hand on his shoulder. At that moment, she made her choice too.

"Get out of Blaviken, Geralt," Marilka commanded. "Don't ever come back."

Geralt and Helena sat back to back in the bathhouse's tub. She had finally gotten her hot bath he had promised. She was relieved to be able to wash off her travels and to soak her aching muscles in the warm water. Her marking on her arm was superficial. The dagger had barely grazed her, but she could still see the guilt the scratch brought Geralt.

The pair had been silent since leaving Blaviken. What was there to be said ? They had stopped at the bathhouse a few towns over where the news had not yet spread. She had followed silent instructions to undress and get in the water as the man had given her privacy before doing the same . Any other time, she might blush at the fact that she was sitting nude beside him, but she didn't care. She was too exhausted, too drained.

"What are you thinking about?" Helena finally broke the silence, voice still hoarse, still trembling.

Geralt tensed against her and sighed before speaking, "We're only two days from Oxenfurt . We'll leave the first thing at daybreak."

She didn't feel like begging or pleading, but she knew she wasn't going to go back. Not now, not after that.

"No." She replied curtly .

"I wasn't asking --"

"Neither was I." She stepped out of the tub and grabbed her towel, wrapping it around her. "You're not who they say you are, Geralt of Rivia."

Before Geralt could open his mouth to speak, she interrupted him once more, "I'm not going anywhere so you might as well get used to me ."

[amydancepants-peralta]

we won’t run (ch 3)

and I’m bleeding right before the lord

(ao3)

From her position above her prey, Rosa snarls - baring her teeth in a perfect white line before bearing down with her fist, rendering the man below unconscious with one swift punch.  Smiling in triumph as his body falls limp, she raises herself up, reaching for her favourite weapon and swinging high.  The sharp blade catches onto its target, slicing easily through the rope that anchored a tapestry to the palace wall and she watches as the drapery falls, covering several of the fighters in a heavy blanket of dust and fabric. 

The peaceful melody of string music quickly disappears, musicians running for cover as the sound of clashing metal begins filling the great hall.  Dresses spin as women push through the crowd - the once calm evening of restraint now diverting into a swirl of chaos as war begins to rage.  The people of Brooklyne were here to reclaim what was rightfully theirs, and they weren’t going to back down without a fight. 

One hour earlier ... 

“Sir Charles.”

A long held habit kicks in and Charles drops his head towards the stone floor, bending at the waist before returning his sights back to the man in front of him.  “King Holt.”

“I apologise for my over the top reaction.  It’s safe to say that I am surprised to see you here.  Stunned even.  Absolutely flummoxed.”

Charles nods politely, fighting back a smile.  The total lack of visual reaction (save for a brief smile) from his king was exactly how he remembered things being.  He raises his dagger, pointing it towards the chain holding Holt down, and raises his eyebrows in silent offering.  Seeing the curt nod in response, he quickly drops to his knees.  

“I need you to tell me everything.  Start from the beginning, and leave no detail unturned.”

His head pulls back slightly at the unexpected request.  Shrugging, he begins.  “Well, I was born out in a field that my great-aunt Susan had been growing herbs in -”  Holt raises his hand, breaking the conversation.

“No.  Not since your beginning.  Pembroke.  Tell me everything that has happened since my departure.”

He can feel his skin heating up as the embarrassment rushes through him, and Charles nods again, hands busy with working on unlocking the padlock that kept his ruler captive.  Swiftly, he ran through the story as he knew it - the duplicity of Pembroke’s rule; the story about Holt’s death that he had so easily crafted; the reports of his greed coming in from various provinces …. Resting for a moment, he tells Holt of Jake’s disagreement with Pembroke, and how it had resulted in his best friend walking away from the only thing in his life he had worked hard for.  After that, Charles explained, all he had known was the inside of his own cell.  

Holt is quiet for a moment as Charles goes back to work on the chain, his eyes taking on a faraway look.  “I’m not surprised that Peralta did that,” he said quietly.  “There were many times that his cavalier attitude towards situations left me in a great state of frustration.  But there is a sense of honour to Jacob, a belief in a life where all is fair and equal, that led me to believe that despite his weaknesses he would turn into a truly admirable member of the Royal Guard.  If Pembroke had made him follow a law that he didn’t believe in, I can absolutely see him walking away from it all.”

Charles nods eagerly, letting out a sigh of relief as the padlock on Holt’s chain releases, hitting the stone floor with a heavy thunk.  “Jakey is the best, he really is.”

Rubbing the skin that had finally been freed from rusty metal, Holt turns to Charles with a serious nod.  “Good work, Sir Charles.  Now, tell me about this passageway you came through.”

“Honestly, Sir, I’m not sure where it’s going to lead us.  Just before I’d gotten to you, I had reached a juncture.  And there was a small torch lit about halfway along the walkway that brought me to your cell.  I began searching the stones, just like I had before, and then … there you were.”

He nods slowly, pursing his lips as his eyes roam over the cell that had been his home for far too long.  “I believe, Sir Charles, that the benefits of exploring these mysterious caverns outweigh the costs of staying stagnant.  I say we continue on.  Do you concur?”

“I do, your majesty.”

“I am not your King anymore, Sir Charles.”

“With all due respect sir, I disagree.”  Boyle’s heart quickens a little in fear as Holt stares back at him.  “As far as I’m concerned, you never stopped being my King.  And now that we can prove that Pembroke stole the throne, I am certain that the people of Brooklyne will agree.”

The older man nods, the faint whisper of a smile lifting the corners of his mouth.  “One can only hope.”

*

It had been several months since Jake had stepped foot within the castle’s walls, and as they move through the forecourt and into the keep his eyes scour the room, taking in all the changes King Pembroke had made. 

Holt’s palace had held banners of all five precincts on proud display in every hall.  It had been a home for art of various creators within the villages, regardless of whether the piece had been widely lauded or quietly discussed.  Representation had been important to him, and the people had loved him for it.  Pembroke’s palace had mirrors at every corner, dotted by painted murals of great battles he claimed to be a part of.  His crest, which looked remarkably similar to that of an earlier King’s, was emblazoned onto thick hand sewn banners, manipulating every room with its ostentatious colour scheme.  

He shifts uncomfortably, tugging on the lapel of his jacket to bring it slightly closer to his chest.  It should be warmer, now that the brick walls sheltered them from the nighttime chill.  But it was bitterly cold.  There was a distinct lack of joy in the air, similar smiles of ignorance and obligation stretching across each guest’s face as they made their way through.  In the corner, a quartet of musicians strummed their lutes and citterns to an uplifting melody, forced merriment falling on deaf ears, fading forgotten into the night.  

As he shuffles along Jake shifts his gaze towards Amy, having recently been pulled away from him by Gina.  They were huddled together, whispering about something, and as he stood watching Amy raised her head, eyes locking immediately on his with an unreadable expression crossing her face.

The memory of yesterday’s confession was still clear in his mind.  Truth be told, when the day had started out there hadn’t been any intention for him to let his heart bleed out like he had.  But standing in the field with her, discussing their plans for the night, his mind had begun to consider all the things that could go wrong, and how there was the very real possibility that it could end without him ever being able to tell Amy how he really felt.  And the pain of that was greater than anything else he could imagine, and so he’d put it all on the line.

To see the shake of her head at his words had hurt more than he was willing to describe, but oddly he found that he still didn’t regret saying them.  She was, after all, the greatest thing to come into his life in the longest time, and if the only way to ensure that he could still be around her was to be her friend, then so be it.  

The fact that his heart had become fully invested in her was something that he would just have to learn to live with.    

An obnoxious voice roars over the quartet from a room to their left, demanding their presence within The Great Hall - a room within the keep that he’d only seen once before.  Jake clenches his jaw as he runs through a mental checklist of the night’s plan, reaching instinctively for Amy as the role of Johnny and Dora come into play.   

He glances at her briefly as she grips onto his offered arm, turning away before he finds himself getting lost in her gaze again (while he may not be able to help how he felt, he certainly wasn’t going to make Amy feel bad about it).  His mouth feels dry, and he takes a heavy swallow to try and encourage the chance to speak once more.  

If there was anything that was certain about tonight, it was that The Great Hall was definitely living up to it’s name.  A rich red tapestry covered the floor, gold damask smothering the fibres.  Tall brass urns burned a healthy fire from their holders high above the guest’s heads, and the ceiling held home to numerous chandeliers, all lit with robust candles.  

A larger orchestra stands in the corner, their thin and ill-rehearsed repertoire fighting with the acoustics of the hall.  Their faces turn nervously towards the King’s throne with every pluck of the strings, obviously fearful of the ramifications of displeasing their master.

To the right of them sat a banquet, covered in an array of food far more extravagant than necessary.  Brass goblets, encrusted with gemstones and other delusions of grandeur were scattered around the surface, accompanied by bottles of wine both white and red.  In the middle of it all sat a mural of the King himself, depicted through the contrasting colours of seasonal fruits.  From the safety of his mask, Jake rolls his eyes at the display.  It was ridiculous, the lengths that Pembroke’s narcissism went to.

At the front of the room, four steps higher than the crowd, stood an ornate throne emblazoned with The Vulture’s name.  A cushion, covered in red velvet and embroidered with his initials, sat waiting for the royal caboose.  A step below, and on either side of the throne, sat a long line of bench seats that began filling with his stolen women, each face looking sadder than the last as they enter and take their place.  Hidden in the shadows underneath the bench ran a long and heavy looking chain - shackles open and waiting for their victims.

Jake feels Amy stiffen beside him as a woman in a green dress covered in peacock feathers makes her way to the edge of the seats, and he turns his head just enough to whisper - “Kylie?”  She nods, chewing on her bottom lip, and he finds himself resting his spare hand against hers.  Seeing her safe and sound was probably no consolation to knowing that her friend was still under Pembroke’s control, and it is all Jake can do to not throw caution to the wind, pull out a dagger and declare war right there and then.  His mind represses the mental image of Charles, hidden somewhere under lock and key, and runs through the plan once again.

A quiet rumble runs through the room as more guests appear, various aristocrats reaching out gloved hands in well-practiced greetings that held no real warmth.  Threads of silver and gold, red, violet and all the shades in-between fill the floor as everyone’s costumes fight for dominance amongst the sea of egos.  He turns back to Amy, noting the wonder in her gaze as she takes in the palace’s opulence for the first time.  Not for the first time, he grows wistful that they’d hadn’t met before the recent few month’s activities.  He was certain that King Holt would have been very fond of her.

A blush grows across her cheeks as she catches him staring, and she glances around her before leaning in closely.  “I knew that the inside of the palace would be amazing, I mean … it’s a palace.  I guess I was just expecting …”

“Less arrogance, more elegance?”

She nods, mouth twisting into a wry grin.  The gold filigree that surrounded her mask glinted against the candlelight, but still held no competition against the sparkle in her eye.  “This place has changed a lot since Holt,” he explained, shrugging one shoulder up in defeat.

“You know, I never thought I would say this, but there is such a thing as too much.” Gina whispered as her and Rosa sidled up next to them.  

Amy nodded in agreement, throwing a well-rehearsed smile at another couple as the four of them walked through the crowd.  Her dress flowed out gracefully behind her as they progressed, and she moved with an elegance that some who had been born to privilege would never be able to match.   Even under the circumstances, Jake was endlessly proud to have her on his arm.  

The loud screech of a score of horns at the front of the Great Hall pulls Jake from his thoughts, and quickly the crowd swivel toward the sound, knowing that such uproar undoubtedly signalled the impending arrival of The King.

Pembroke’s smirk reeks of arrogance as he shuffles along the velvet carpet that led to his throne, head remaining high as he ignores those that kneel before him.  He winks at a few of the women that were now chained to their positions, passive to their smiles turning into sneers as he passes.  The room remains quiet as he ascends, and he turns to face the crowd from the top, scouring the room disinterestedly before dropping into his ‘rightful’ place.    

He raises one hand high, gesturing for the music to begin.  Like scenes from a well-rehearsed play, each of the guests turn and reach for their partners, falling into line on the dance floor as the drawn-out notes of the vielle begin to ring out.  Reaching out to Gina without hesitation, Rosa pulls her into the fray, the two of them quickly becoming indistinguishable (save for the plumage surrounding Gina’s mask) amongst the crowd.

An awkward silence stretches over the remaining two, the lingering memory of “I’m falling in love with you, day by day … and I don’t want to stop” ringing in both of their ears.  Jake can feel her gaze from the corner of her mask, and instinct kicks in.

“Okay look, there’s something that I need to ask you.”  Jake begins, turning to Amy with a serious look falling over his face.

She gazes back at him, mouth falling open slightly as she visibly struggles to find the right words.  Before she can try, he raises his hand, pointing towards a tall woman dressed in white, standing out from the crowd by her oversized headpiece.  “I gotta know,” he continued – “Is that supposed to be a swan?  Because honestly, all I see is a stork.”

Amy’s shoulders drop as the tension leaves her body, drawing her hand to her mouth to conceal the giggles that threaten to escape.  It really did look like a stork, munching on the feathered ‘grass’ that surrounded the woman’s voluminous creation.  Money truly didn’t buy taste. 

 He can feel himself relax in turn as her laughter escapes, despite her best efforts at suppression.  These kind of moments, where they turned silence into laughter, were his favourite.  And only served to remind him of what they were fighting for – a greater future for Brooklyne, yes; but also, a future where they can stay together, even as friends.  

There’s a brief pause, and then the melody of the music changes, a slower tempo falling over the room.  Clearing his throat nervously, Jake offers a hand to Amy.  “Shall we?”

Her hands shake a little, he notices, and he gives her fingers a gentle squeeze as they join his.  He pulls her closer as they move towards the centre of the dance floor, giving her an encouraging smile as his free hand rests gently against her waist.  Tentatively, they begin moving to the beat, both doing their best to ignore the awkward space that was building between them.

Jake glances towards the front of the room and notices The Vulture sitting on his throne, one knee bent up with his foot against an armrest.  In his right hand he holds a chalice, and he stares at the vessel, already distracted by his reflection as the crowd move below him.  Turning back to Amy with a tiny shake of his head in the ruler’s direction, she looks over and huffs at his lack of interest.  “All of this work, and everything that had been stolen for this night, and he doesn’t even care enough to pretend that he’s enjoying it.”

He nods in agreement, squeezing her hand quickly again as they turn across the floor.  “There’s nothing in this hall that could ever surpass his interest in his own reflection.  That is Pembroke, right down to his soul.”

She laughs softly at that, blushing slightly when he smiles back at her, and for a moment they dance together in silence.

Finally, she speaks.  “Jake, there’s something that I have to tell you.”

He winces as the pointed tip of her shoe hits the edge of his toes for the fourth time.  “Is it that you’re a terrible dancer?  I mean, no offence Ames, but this is not your strongest skill.”

Her face turns a bright red and she shakes her head, gold chain shifting slightly against her chest as she lets out a huff.  “We didn’t do a lot of dancing in Fumera, and it’s all really confusing.”

Slowing down the pace, Jake throws her an apologetic smile and tightens his grip on her waist, locking his frame so their outstretched hands act as a support.  “Here.  Follow my lead.”  He takes slower, more deliberate steps, increasing the pace in small increments as confidence begins to creep onto her face.  Together, they move carefully around the floor, smiling at the other guests as they let the music was over them.  He could definitely get used to this.  

Just as friends, Peralta.   

Too long for Tumblr .... find the rest on AO3!

[cygnuswheel]

what happens when you bring back the dead? it’s a question that people have been asking since the beginning of time. the way to find the answer is simple-- ask someone who’s gone through it.

an exploration of resurrection from that scene in volume 6, episode 3.

it’s dark.

the cold is something that he’s grown used to over time, slowly but surely, because it seemed to be one of the things that one had to live and die with and continue existing with even after everything is said and done. he wonders if it would have been different if he had fallen in battle, or of old age. sickness never suited him well, but with the graininess of his head and the constantly pull and plow of his insides that had been going on for what seems to be an eternity, ozma supposes that he’ll just have to deal with it.

the afterlife should have had more accurate propaganda back in the waking world, whatnot with their drab decor of nothing with a side of void. there’s absolutely nothing noteworthy of it to report, unless people found comfort in knowing that when they died there was just an emptiness that would never leave. it’s a space to think, and only think, because he doesn’t even have a body to move around in. he just was. is. continues to be. ( it’s all the stranger to consider, seeing how he can feel the specific sources of his malignities back when he was alive, but can also distinctly feel the lack of everything along with it. )

so, not only does he have to continue the rest of his life as a ghost ( ??? is he one? or is this all a dream? if he acknowledges that this is just how spirits are, he’ll also have to note his disappointment at how boring it is, compared to his previous conceptions of it. ), he has to deal with the fact that when there’s a nothing, one’s intrinsic senses as a human being has to fill that nothing with something. 

at least, that’s what he thinks. why else would these glowing red eyes be staring back at him like this?

they appeared all of a sudden some day-- or maybe they’ve been there all along. ozma doesn’t have the best grasp of time or memory or anything, seeing how he has nothing to grasp with in the first place. if the soul had a hand, his would have been split into pieces of fingers and palm already, the carpals and muscle separated neatly and spread across all of remnant. such is the fate of everyone that dies, isn’t it? it just sounds a lot more poetic once you get a bard to say it. he gave up that career choice once he found out that he could wield magic in the way he could-- fighting had been natural, and probably the best use of his talents that he could manage. puppets, villains, and grimm had been no match to him-- perhaps that was why he was considered to be so “great”. it would have been nice that intelligence came with his strength.

grimm don’t have souls. yet, somehow, they’re here, before him, masks a stark white against the inken black of nothing, carved with intricate symbols that had, after a time, grown to be associated with fear and bloodshed. he hears a sharp growling, a few more anticipating shrieks. the vacuum is thick with a tension that he had not experienced before, not in his space of reminiscing and regret. ( he misses her. he misses her. he misses her. he’s so sorry. ) pain. anger. smite. sadness. agony and longing. it soaks into the atmosphere like water hitting a dry sponge, and suddenly he is drowning.

could he scream? no. could he fight back, defend himself? no. could he run away? no. the hatred rips through him like he’s wet tissue paper, muscles and carpals rushing past his being and being sliced anew. was there a color darker than black? he didn’t think so before, but there definitely had to be. what else could he be looking at while it cut and clawed and pulled and tore and bit and sliced and shot and hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt--

could he feel pain?

yes.

it seems to be looking for something that’s already been found, moving and rearranging as ozma feels the worst agony that he has in his entire existence. he could have died a thousand times over before this and still find this to be the worst hell that he had ever experienced. what was happening? does evil never sleep? does it come for you even after you’re gone? he thought that everything was over. he thought that he had nothing left to give after he gave his life. 

( she cried so much, he remembers that well. and after some point, he couldn’t bring himself to smile to reassure her anymore. even the gentle squeeze of his hand couldn’t bring forth anything but pain for the both of them. he hated it so much. what a useless hero he was. ) 

no one cares what he thinks, here. his reputation had left him after illness took it. he hadn’t saved people in so long. maybe the grimm had heard the small sadness in his heart when he was still on hid deathbed, waiting for it to take him away. he didn’t expect to end that way, but maybe someone else did. maybe that’s why as the shreds of something that used to be called ozma drifted in the waters of his own loathing and regret, someone had reached down and picked him up out of the water. it smells of iron and flowers. 

“ there you are. “

so delicate, so soft. the touch is as gentle as a mother’s hand caressing her newborn child, but still, in these moments, ozma cannot bring himself to feel anything but fear. it’s all been put back together. he clenches his fists and stares back at red irises within black sclera as she stares back at him so kindly, so lovingly. the man’s breath catches in his throat and his muscles turn stiff as stone.

he knows that face.

she looks the same as she’s ever been, but changed entirely. never mind the bleached white skin, hair that’s so much paler than he last saw. nails are black like tar and matches with and abyssal hue that he feels should belong to a monster. but it doesn’t. it doesn’t. it never had been, because it was her and she was here and what happened did she die too did he do this to her was she okay what had he done he had already felt like the world ended when he had to acknowledge that he had to leave her behind--

she places her finger to his lips. he can only stare as she gives a smile back to his awful face. 

“ shh. it’s alright. “

it’s okay. it’s okay. it’s okay. the phrase repeats in his mind and wraps around him just as her arms do to him in a tender embrace. she’s crying again, tears soaking into his tunic and reducing her to desperate shaking, the mere sight of his breaking his newly reformed heart to pieces. what could he do, here? the only option in his mind is to fall back into routine, to run his hand over her head and hug her back with his own free arm, his nose buried into the crown of her head as he tries to come to term with that’s happening. 

this isn’t death. this is more than a memory. this is beyond anything of his comprehension. he’s seen the entire world, or, at least he thought he did. now he doesn’t know anything. nothing of death and nothing of life, and nothing of resurrection or love or how to comfort the one person in your life that meant everything to you and more. she smells of the flowers that he used to bring her back when he was healthy and able. there’s something else, too. something that he was familiar with. something like iron. 

how could you leave me?

despite the lack of vocalization, ozma can hear the phrase ringing in his ears, startling his head into silence. she doesn’t need to say it. he already knew from the time she had forced him into their bed after a prolonged coughing fit. their love had always been the thing that had kept him going. if only things like that could fight off silly little problems like germs and sickness. something did, though. something brought him back.

there’s a pain in his chest that wasn’t there before. it’s not the snarling, merciless brutality that he experienced what feels to be not even a moment ago. it’s deeper here-- like a seedling, deeply rooting itself into his ribs and beginning to sprout anew. but this is nothing kind like nature, nothing pure like freshly picked flowers. it’s tainted. it’s black. it’s brooding and it’s hell. and it’s growing all over them. he feels a wetness beginning to bloom from the center of his torso. the smell of iron has become so much stronger. the delusion of being able to be in love after death is so much clearer. she’s still crying. he wants to see her face. ozma pulls away, arms moving to gently hold either side of his beloved face, giving a soft hush. everything hurts. but he has to see her. he has to. he needs to see if she’s okay.

i can’t lose you again.

but the roots have taken a hold of her, spreading and growing in its corrupted black and unforgiveness, it stains from her heart and moves outward. suddenly, her hair is up, pulled into a bun that reminds ozma of a conqueror that he had encountered long ago, the accessories of kingdoms littered among her locks. her nails are claws now, dragging down his back and creating scars that no monsters could compare to. she’s holding on too tightly. he wants to scream, but all he can do is widen his eyes, part his mouth in a quiet “o” of shock. she holds his scepter with a smile, looking down at him with a kind face that he can’t recognize. red didn’t suit her. 

as she plunges the symbol of heroism through his chest, blood drips from the corners of her eyes onto his face, and the wind rushes past them as they both fall into the unknown. 

dark power crackles around him as he hits the floor, and he can feel the absolute smug satisfaction radiating from somewhere that was greater than him, greater than anything he had ever done with his life. this pain is different. the haze of the void is gone, and is instead replaced with the vague sight of a worried face looming above his. 

blue eyes. blonde hair. soft lips and gently calloused hands. it’s the love of his life right before him, the world of the air around them and everything returned. it’s what he’s wanted to see for all this time. he wouldn’t have agreed to be brought back by anyone else, for anyone else. he thought so, at least.

because all of a sudden, all he can see is black nails, black eyes, and a black heart. her hands are squeezing at his soul and carving her mark into his back. she can’t lose him again. she can’t. not again. he’s the only thing that was good in this godsforsaken world. they couldn’t again. she’d destroy anything that got in the way of her wish, no matter what. even if it was ozma himself, the object of her affection and obsession. it hurts so much. the faces switch back and forth, until it all blends together. 

as his heart beats out of tune, he gasps. one day, there would be no love behind her eyes anymore. one day.

he feels a chain that held the world together snap. 

“ where am i? “ he says, not knowing that this would be his last look at this beautiful, messed up world. her arms are around him, but all he can think of is how one day, in a different time with them as different people, those very same hands would be around his neck.

“ what is this? “ 

[tothewaterhq]

ACCEPTED // TELLE FISCHER

capitol (born district 3) → gamemaker → hannah john-kamen fc

positive traits: tactical, brilliant, dedicated  negative traits: antisocial, offbeat, cynical

tw: neglect, suicide, prostitution, mental illness

biography:

Magnette Fischer was known as many things – offbeat, unstable, erratic, insane – and a good mother was certainly not something associated with her. She’d been thirteen years old when her twin brother Flux was killed in the Hunger Games, and all you’re ever told is that his death was particularly gruesome. People say that your mother was a different person before Flux’s untimely demise, that she was kind and warm and brave and adventurous. You’ve never been one to believe anything without proof, though, and to you, Magnette Fischer was none of the above.

After the death of her brother, she became locked in a permanent state of mourning. There are whispers of madness about the Fischer girl, and she never set out to prove them wrong. She never finished school, she never held down a job, and she became a shell of what she once was. As she grew older, she tried to fill the void left by losing her twin; with men, with drugs, with alcohol. That’s how she meets your father, when she’s only nineteen, Magnette Fischer meets Titus Ryker, a peacekeeper, during a Victory tour, and their affair is over as quickly as it began. Titus is twice her age, married, with a family, but Magnette is just delusional enough to believe that maybe it’s the real thing. She claims to love him, and he tells her the same thing because she gives him what she wants.

He leaves without even a goodbye, though Magnette is left with a permanent reminder of his influence over her.

You.

You’re born into a world of chaos, your mother’s mind so addled by grief and by morphling that she forgets to name you until she tries to leave the hospital with you. Telle,she calls you, with a T for Titus. You learn to raise yourself fairly quickly, your mother never seemed concerned with doing it herself. You’re soon acclimatised to the never ending stream of men that parade through your house, trudging up to your mother’s bedroom with the same look of wild lust, barely sparing you a second glance.

It’s not until later that you learn these men are what fund your food, your home, your life. Your mother earns herself a reputation, but every time they leave her eyes are hollow, and the mascara stains on her cheeks become permanent. Every time, she hopes that they’ll find something more than just sex, that maybe, maybe she’ll be able to recapture what she thought she had with your father. That she’ll find love, something worth living for. Every time, she’s proven wrong.

Despite your upbringing, you’re exceedingly smart, even by District Three standards. You’ve always had trouble communicating, but you work well with your hands, the languages of math and science coming to you easily. Your teachers even suggest that you’re gifted, though your mother has no intention of doing anything about it. You seek out as much enrichment as you can at school, staying back to work on projects long after the final bell has rung. It brings you comfort, to have control over something, even if they are numbers and machines, and your home life is far too miserable to be rushing back to. You find you fit in at school, even if some of the other students find you odd and off-putting, even if your mother’s reputation casts a shadow over you, whispers of the whore’s daughter clouding your achievements.

You’re fifteen when your mother kills herself. You’re the one that finds the body, but not soon enough to do anything. You don’t know how to react, what to say, what to do. All you can manage is panic, silent tears tracking down your cheeks as they cover her with a sheet. You fumble your way through a speech at the funeral, though you’re speaking to a room of strangers, nobody there really knew your mother, she had nobody left. Except you. The mix of emotions that follow her death seem wrong – you mourn and you cry but you can’t reconcile the way she treated you. She wasn’t a mother figure, not really, but that’s what you have to pretend now that she’s six feet under.

You haven’t got any other relatives in Three. It’s only five days after you find the body that you’re on a train to District Two, to your father, to the custody of a man you’ve never even met. He’s married, with three children, the youngest of whom is still five years older than you are. They didn’t know you existed, and you can tell immediately that they resent your very existence. If possible, his wife hates you more. Titus – not dad, never dad – is ashamed of you. You hear him tell his colleagues that you’re his niece, but you doubt they believe him. You can tell your mother was far from his only transgression.

You focus on school to distract from the worthlessness you feel. You drove your mother to suicide, and now you’re tearing apart your father’s family. It’s all too complicated, you don’t understand where you’ve gone wrong – only that you have, and so you focus on numbers and you focus on machines. Machines, you decide, make far more sense than people ever could. The parts fit together in a way you don’t seem to, and any mistakes can be recoded, they can be fixed, they don’t need to fester away for fifteen, sixteen, seventeen years, infecting the lives of everybody around you. Though the schools in District Two are pitiful compared to Three, the students more focused on brute power rather than that of the mind, you make it work. You have to.

You’re surrounded by Academy kids, hopped up on delusions of grandeur and control. They know they can win, but you watch them die, every year. They don’t have control, none of you do. They don’t dictate the Games, that’s up to the Captiol, it’s up to the people pushing the buttons behind the scenes. Maybe that’s what draws you towards becoming a Gamemaker, the power, the control that your life has always so desperately lacked. You don’t understand people, but you understand machines, and that’s what the Gamemakers work with. That’s what you will work with.

Titus is more than happy to ship you off to one of the fancy universities in the Capitol when you tell him of your plan. More than happy to rid himself of the filthy little mistake, once and for all. The rest of the family – that word, it leaves a bitter taste in your mouth – don’t even bid you a goodbye as you board the train to the Capitol, your meagre possessions fitting into just one bag. You study hard, you work furiously, and eventually it pays off, with you being granted a position as Gamemaker by the time you hit twenty two.

You work with the machines, the grunt work, and you enjoy getting your hands dirty, but you soon discover your mind is a much darker place than you thought. You have ideas for the Games, they’re brutal, they’re bloody, but they’re brilliant, and people start to catch on. You still work on the mechanical aspects of the arena, but maybe, just maybe, you have what it takes to move through the ranks. After all, that’s where the power’s really at.

PLAYED BY // JENNA

[fuckin-circles]

Control p.t 5

A soft one. Chase’s time at the hospital with Jack.. and what’s that? I lost control of Chase and the nurse from PART ONE and now they are flirting?? CHASE IS HAPPY!?... not if I can help it => --__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__--__--

    Chase had rushed out as fast as he could after Henrik told him that Jack was in a coma. Henrik had been too rattled on the phone to give Chase details on what happened, but that didn't matter. He just knew he just had to get there. It wasn't until he was on the road that the situation really sank in. White knuckles gripping the steering wheel, Chase tried to keep his body from shaking. He tried to focus on the road through the tears forming in his eyes as his mind played a game of guilt tripping with him.

He had been too tied up in his new life as a divorced father to reach out to either of his oldest friends in months. Time just flew by faster than he realized. He was kept thoroughly distracted between working a "regular" job on the weekdays to make up for the lack of revenue from his channel, spending the weekends with his kids, and continuing to follow his passions by to make videos in his spare time. But, now that Jack was in trouble, Chase felt the weight of his selfishness.

    It was almost dawn when Chase pulled into a parking spot outside the hospital. He opened his car door and fumbled to take his phone out of his pocket to text Henrik that he had arrived. Locking his car behind him, Chase starting quickly walking to the front entrance of the hospital. As he got closer he could see Henrik coming out to meet him, and Chase began sprinting towards him. The doctor was in his blue scrubs and white coat, looking just as stressed as he did on the phone.

"Doc," Chase called out as he got in arms reach of Henrik, throwing his arms around his friend's shoulders in a tight hug. Henrik was hesitant to embrace him back, but Chase could feel Henrik trembling when he slowly wrapped his arms around his waist. A lump started to grow in Chase's throat as he realized just how hopeless and shaken up Henrik must have been feeling. Pulling back from their embrace, Chase tried to comfort his friend by rubbing Henrik's shoulder. "What happened? Is he ok?"

" Y-yes, Jack is stable now. But-" Henrik paused with a painful look as he thought back to what happened. "It- He came to me some time ago talking about feeling ill. Then showed here up a few days ago. He just kept getting worse and worse. Everything I did just made things worse!" His thick German accent was made worse by the stress.

Henrik stopped and looked into Chase's eyes with a level of distress that worried Chase. His eyes were red and puffy, and Chase knew Henrik had been torn up inside from everything. "But he wasn't himself!" Chase felt himself shift away a bit as Henrik's tone changed. His brows frowned as he didn't understand what Henrik meant by that.

"What-What are you talking about?"

"It was Anti!" The conviction in Henrik's voice startled Chase. He didn't have a clue what his friend was talking about, and his expression only grew more concerned as Henrik went on. "He-He must have messed with our systems, making me give Jack treatments to make him worse. He tried to get me to kill Jack for him!... And- And I almost did. Dear God, I almost killed him..." Henrik crossed one of his arms over his chest and covered his mouth with the other, the tears in the corners of his eyes started to roll down his cheek.

  The fear in Henrik's eyes was so real that Chase could feel it too, but he was scared for a different reason. Obviously, whatever happened effected Henrik more than Chase understood. He didn't believe the story about 'Anti', and he had a good idea about what happened. Misdiagnoses happen all the time.

"Doc, It's ok. Mistakes...they happen."

"It wasn't a mistake!" Henrik snapped at Chase, looking back at him with crazed desperation to be understood. "He came back to try and get me to kill him! He must have thought it 'funny' if I killed him this time... There was nothing else I could do. I had to stop him from hurting Jack again. I had to stop him, but I don't know how to get him out!"

"Wait," Chase shook his head as tried to understand what Henrik was saying. His stomach twisted at the thought of Henrik doing something to hurt Jack. "So.. you put him in a coma?" Chase stressed his words carefully, looking at Henrik with a hope that he just misunderstood what the doctor had said.

"What else was I supposed to do? Anti, he was-"

"'Anti' isn't real!" Chase shouted trying to talk some sense into him, but his blood was starting to churn at the thought of Henrik almost killing their friend over some crazy delusion. "You misdiagnosed him, Henrik! That shit happens all the fucking time. Now, go wake him up!" Henrik's eyes focused in on Chase slowly. He stood up taller ready to defend himself, calmer than he had just been.

"He is real, but you wouldn't know, would you? You've been off living your new life, trying to win back that cheating bitch. You haven't even tried calling in months." His cold words stung Chase's heart. Chase took a slow breath to calm himself, but there was even a sly smirk on Herik's lips like knew what he has said hurt Chase. Taking a step towards the hospital doors, Chase's glare deepened into Henrik. He knew the doctor was upset over what had happened, but it didn't excuse trying to hurt a friend.

"At least I didn't try to kill him." He made sure in intent to hurt Henrik back was clear before he sharply turned and entered the hospital, leaving Henrik alone outside.

    A few days later, the board of directors forced Henrik into a mandatory vacation, after word of his delusions spread. A mental holiday to clear his head after nearly killing a close friend seemed to break his mind. Jack's new doctors tried their best to wake him up, and Chase spent every day by Jack's side. He had called into work to explain what had happened, and they were understanding. Nothing really seemed to get better with Jack though. For reasons that the doctors didn't understand, Jack wasn't waking up.

Through it all, Chase did feel lucky enough to make good conversation with some of the staff over the time he was there, but felt blessed when the sweet nurse that once watched over him stopped by. He had learned her name, Kassidy, and she even helped him feel less awkward for not remembering it from before. She wasn't ever scheduled as Jack's nurse, yet she always made the effort to stop in to check how they both were doing. While she would check on Jack, they would talk about how things had been going since Chase had left the hospital. She even offered to buy him lunch down in the cafe every now-and-then when Chase forgot to go eat. She genuinely cared and Chase could sense it.

"You know, if you give me your number I can call you when he wakes up?" Kassidy had said with a shy smile during one of their 'lunch dates'.  Chase felt the blood lightly flushing his cheeks. It had been almost a week since he started staying at the hospital, and talking during her breaks were some of the best moments. She was just trying to be nice though.

"Isn't that, like...against the rules or something?"

"Are you going to snitch on me?" Her smile was warm and flirtatious as she leaned in from across the table, slipping her phone over to him. Chase's heart fluttered as he realized she was being more than just nice, and suddenly their 'lunch dates' felt more like date dates. No one had really shown an interest in him since the divorce, but he also hadn't felt interested in anyone since then either.

    Chase was flustered at the feelings rushing through him, but he played it off ...well? With a short laugh he grabbed the phone and smile he said the first thing that came to mind.

"Snitches get stitches?" It was silent for a moment and he instantly cringed at himself. Kassidy tried to hold it in but found herself busting with laughter. Chase looked up at her with an embarrassed smile as she pressed her palm to her face.

"Chase." She cooed, playfully distraught. Her kind laughter had him chuckling too. When she looked up at him, Chase could see how flushed her cheeks were and it made him smile wider. His heart was beating in his chest as he put his contact information in and handed the phone back.

    With her elbows on the table, she bit her tongue and messed with her phone for a minute. When she was finished she set it down and smiled at him, tapping her finger as she waited.

"What did you do?" She thinned her lips with an innocent shrug and smile.  Chase was only half surprised when his phone went off. Pulling it out he could see he had received a picture file from a number without a name, obviously her. Opening it he immediately started laughing again as the image of Kassidy with her middle finger up in fame loaded in.

"Oh, I love it!" Chase said turning his screen off and setting his phone down again to watch her. Even with a messy bun, Kassidy was a very attractive woman. He loved the way her hazel green eyes sparkled when she smiled, but most of all he was falling for her heart. She loved listening to his stories about his kids, and he could tell she meant it when she said noting having any hurt her.

"You can send me a good contact picture later if you want." Kassidy looked so proud of herself as she started to pick up her stuff. "I gotta get back to work though." Chase nodded and wished her a good shift.

    As she left he flipped his phone back over, filled with a warm heart as he saved her contact and photo. Picking at the rest of his fries, Chase figured he'd take her advice and head out after saying bye to Jack. He could always stop by again to check on him later. Chase wanted to stay close by though, and he knew Jack's house needed to be taken care of too. Part of him knew Jack wouldn't mind if he stayed to watch over his place for a little while, and the spare key should still be hidden by the front door.

Tags @watermelonsinmyattic

[rebaobsessivelywrites]

The Profiler in the Therapist (ch 2)

You can find this entire fic here on AO3.

Fandom: Bones (TV) and Criminal Minds (TV)

Entire Fic Description:

Dr. Lance Sweets is no longer the innocent eager psychologist he was a little over a year and a half ago. His time as a prodigy profiler at the BAU was a blessing. His time in a serial killer's basement was not.

Now, scarred but healed, Sweets is 'retired' to calmer job in the FBI as a therapist. As he helps others, he helps himself. But... is it enough? What will he do when one of his most fascinating (unwilling) patients asks for help on a case? How will his new team take his past as his secrets slowly start to come out?

Entire Fic Warnings: cannon-typical violence, past torture, panic attacks, PTSD, serial killers

Chapter word count:  2,408

Chapter warnings: panic attack, discussion of serial killers

Summary: How will Sweets take profiling his first serial killer since the BAU and his fateful experience?

Please read the fic! First chapter, next chapter, master list. And let me know if you want to be tagged.

It was quiet. Not quite silent, but as quiet as it got in DC. Outside his office windows, Sweets could see the eerie pale cast of the streetlights suffusing the night air like a mist. Below, on the road, the constant rush of wind from passing cars was the only sound.

He was alone. Normally he would welcome the quiet, but being left with his thoughts was not doing him any favors at the moment.

Lance was firmly ensconced behind his desk, a collection of files scattered across the surface in disarray. In his hands, the young profiler held a single photo. He hadn’t moved in quite some time. He simply sat there and stared… Stared at the stretched, prone-looking form of the silver skeleton.

Gormogon.

After weeks of nothing, this was the second case Agent Booth asked for help with…and it was one of the most notorious serial killers ever: a ritualistic cannibal connected to a supposedly extinct secret society.

Just think about that for a second. A secret society, conspiracies, delusions, rituals, cannibalism. Lots of cannibalism. It sounded like some crappy old horror film.

Swallowing hard, Sweets forced himself to set the picture aside and pick up another. This one was of the vault; the extensive vault filled to the brim with expensive and rare artifacts. What did that say about the history of this so called society?

The next picture Lance picked up gave him pause. It was of two bloody kneecaps resting on a stained and elaborately decorated piece of fabric. The blood wasn’t anything the profiler hadn’t become used to, but…

What the hell was he doing?

Solving a crime of passion between two teenage boys that happened 20 years ago was very different than studying a prolific and very active serial killer.

They had bones from seven different victims, a vault full of old artifacts indicating a much longer history than they could guess, and a killer bold enough to send pieces of his latest victim to the expert working his case.

It wasn’t like anything Sweets had encountered at the BAU.

Well, he had some frame of reference. For example, there was Foyet. He was bold and confident, unafraid of law enforcement, and took great pleasure in tormenting his investigative team; just look at Hotch. He was controlled and self-aware, capable of ceasing all violent acts for over a decade.

And then there was Frank—a mobile, tireless, sadistic serial killer who killed a staggering total of 177 individuals over a span of thirty years without anyone connecting the victims. He was a textbook sexual sadist who dismembered his victims alive, forcing them to watch. He thrived on fear.

Then there were cannibals, like Floyd Ferell. Cannibals ate flesh for power— primarily spiritual power. They were generally not sexual sadists, although it was possible for them to express sadistic behaviors. Often displaying some form of mental illness, they were driven by an all-consuming hunger.

So, Sweets had experience, but he had only been involved in Ferell’s case, and was not officially supposed to know about Foyet. But this experience didn’t help as much as it should have.

Gormogon was just as confident as Foyet. He did not, however, display the same pathology. And, like Frank, Gormogon was likely prolific, based on the history of the vault, and was just as good at staying away from law enforcement. However, Gormogon was not a sadist. And finally, although definitely a cannibal, something about Gormogon just didn’t quite fit with the average flesh-eater. He was controlled, meticulous, patient… careful. And, most importantly, he shared…and the kid he had shared with was not a classic submissive personality.

Everything seemed to be pointing to someone who was not driven by sadism or mental illness, someone intelligent with a political agenda, and severe delusions that they wanted spread. Just one kid at a time.

Like a teacher and student.

How far back did cannibalism go amongst the people who used that vault? Would they find bones from more victims? Or was Gormogon the original master-mind? Had he found the silver skeleton and gone ‘oh! I should replace each of these bones with a piece of someone I eat’? It was doubtful… This had the hallmark of tradition. For example, this whole widow’s son thing could not be a coincidence….

Lance’s mind swirled with questions and theories, blurring like a particularly fast rollercoaster ride. But, no… no. Stop. His mind ground to a painful halt, one of the more messy pictures filling his field of view. It was effective in stopping is work-flow.

Dumbfounded, Sweets stared at the pages of notes in his own hasty scrawl scattered amongst the crime scene photos and detailed evidence logs.

This wasn’t what he had intended.

He forced himself to drop his pen and scrambled away from his desk and the piles of evidence and connections and suppositions. A little wildly, Sweets stumbled over to his couch and collapsed, head in hand. Distantly, he noticed he felt rather nauseous. And dizzy. He felt like he had climbed a mountain.

Panic attack, his mind supplied helpfully.

Well, great.

He hadn’t had a panic attack since he had finished his psych evaluation and transferred to the DC office. It had been months. But…but least he wasn’t having a flashback too. Those were more common but not as difficult to control. Which was a little strange. But, well, that was the human mind: strange.

PTSD manifested in many different ways and was caused by all sorts of things; war, death, injury, emotional trauma, physical trauma…. Triggers were just as varied. But, some people didn’t display many symptoms—amazingly. Hell, Sweets had worked with several of them. It was part of the reason he had felt so guilty about leaving the BAU even though everyone had understood and encouraged him.

Sweets huffed a sigh… then froze. Lifting his head from his hands, he smiled. The panic attack was gone. He could breathe again.

Hesitantly, he looked back over his shoulder at the pile of files and notes. Maybe… maybe he could do this. He knew he really did want to help Agent Booth and Dr. Brennan, even if they weren’t super welcoming. And he really did enjoy profiling—even, perhaps especially, serial killers. Sweets had been fascinated to see Gormogon’s vault, to hear the team work. He wanted more of that.

It was true that he was terrified. After all, Gormogon was taunting Dr. Brennan and it was likely that she or one of her colleagues could be seriously harmed. Sweets was seeing Foyet torture his old team at the BAU, and he didn’t want the same for the team at the Jeffersonian. He didn’t want to watch another team struggle so much....

But he could help them. It could be painful, potentially even traumatic, but he might—just might—be able to help stop another killer.

How could he possibly turn away from that chance?

Reenergized with determination and resolve, the profiler returned to his desk, set on organizing his notes into some form of coherency. He would do his best—his absolute best—for this new team.

--

Sweets had managed to keep it together for the entire day.

His help the previous day had been better received than expected, even though Dr. Brennan was still quite resistant. Many of his theories had been proven true in the space of time between Booth giving him the file and him delivering the profile, which helped his credibility. Most notably, Dr. Hodgins and Agent Booth had recovered a completed skeleton done by Gormogon and the previous Gormogon.

Sweets was not exactly pleased that he had been proven correct.

Then, this morning, he had found out that Dr. Addy had discovered a network of mirrors that allowed Gormogon to observe everything that went on in his vault and that Dr. Brennan and Agent Booth had devised a plan to divulge false information while inside the vault and set a trap for the killer. Lance was mildly terrified at that news. While a good plan, there were so many ways it could go wrong.

Later that afternoon, his fears were confirmed when he learned about the bomb Gormogon had dropped, nearly killing the agent-anthropologist pair.

Thankfully, having learned about it via email in his office, Sweets was able to have his quiet panic attack before heading to the Jeffersonian. Ostensibly it was to expound more on his profile with this added information (Gormogon meant to kill them; it was a symbolic bite. He’s developed a deep personal hatred for the team. He likely won’t stop…); in reality, Lance was almost desperate to reassure himself that they were both alive and relatively unharmed.

Save for a few nasty bruises and cuts, they were.

Shaken but relieved, Sweets had returned to his office and finished off his remaining appointments. Helping the various FBI agents and consultants helped calm him even further.

That was, of course, until he got home.

Now he sat on his couch, staring at the far wall, his mind running through all the possibilities. All the different ways it could have gone, and all the ways Gormogon could still destroy the Jeffersonian team. Lance had done the same thing when he had learned about Hotch being attacked in his own apartment, before being left at a nearby hospital by Foyet himself.

It was too much, having two horrible obsessive serial killers targeting people he loved or was coming to care deeply about. It was just his luck and entirely unfair.

Sweets was crying. Why, exactly, he didn’t know. And honestly he didn’t care. He was just very, very grateful it wasn’t another panic attack.

He sat there for some time, lost in dark thoughts, before the familiar ring of his cell phone shook him out of his trance-like state.

He hurriedly wiped off his face and cleared his voice before answering, “Dr. Sweets.”

“Hi,” the voice greeted on the other end, the owner clearly smiling, “Lance.”

Despite his previous mindset, a smile spread across his own face, “Hey, JJ.”

“How’s the youngest profiler I know?” she asked when he said nothing more.

He quickly deflected, “Oh, I’m alright. How are you? And the team? Did you wrap up that case in Albuquerque?”

“Yeah, yeah we did,” she sighed, “It was a big one, but everyone got out completely unscathed. We even saved a couple kids and a new mom.”

“Good,” he said, relieved, “good.”

“Are you sure you’re ok?” JJ prodded, “You sound drawn out. Bad day?”

Despite himself, Sweets gave a dry laugh, “You could say that.”

“What happened?”

“Dr. Brennan and Agent Booth—do you remember them?”

“Yeah. You’ve been having sessions with them, and Agent Booth asked for your help on a case a few weeks ago. Is Dr. Brennan still being difficult?”

“She is, but that’s not…” he sighed, “Well, two days ago Booth asked for my help again. Today… they nearly got blown up.”

“What?” JJ asked, shock coloring her tone.

“Yeah. Um…” Sweets paused, a little unsure about what his old team member would think about the case he’d become involved in, “Have you heard about Gormogon?”

“Not… officially, but word gets around.” She paused. “Are you telling me you’re consulting on a cannibalistic serial killer case and said serial killer nearly blew up the lead investigators?”

“Yes?” he answered hesitantly.

“Were you there? Are you ok?”

Lance sighed, “I’m just consulting; I was nowhere near the bomb.”

“That’s a relief.” A moment later she asked, “Are they ok?”

“Yeah. A little torn up, but no serious damage.”

“And… how are you taking it?”

“About as well as can be expected, I suppose.” JJ said nothing; Sweets could practically see her raise her eyebrows expectantly. He admitted reluctantly, “But… I’ve had two panic attacks in the past three days. One was after I heard the news.”

“When was the first?” the media liaison was sounding more and more concerned.

He grimaced; he didn’t want to admit it, but… “Just after I had compiled a preliminary profile.”

“Sweets…” JJ started hesitantly.

“I know,” he cut her off, certain he knew what she was going to say since he’d been telling himself for days, “But I could help, and—”

“That’s not what I mean. You know how hypocritical that would be for any one of us to say. We… we’re just worried about you, Sweets.” She heaved a big sigh, “We were all so relieved that you were taking time to recover. Then we were all relieved you were taking a safer job…”

“JJ…” his voice was thick with emotion.

“We’re guilty, Lance,” she cut him off, “We’re guilty that we didn’t get to you sooner, and we’re afraid that something similar could happen to you again. It’s not rational— we all have the same job—but it’s true. I was the same way after Hankel had Reid.”

“I know.” Damn it. He was going to start crying again…

“It’s just the idea that something could’ve happened to you…” she sighed, “I don’t want to stop you; I think it’s wonderful you’re profiling again. We all know how much you love it.”

“Yeah…” he choked out.

“But you need to take it slow, ok?” Now it sounded like she was going to cry. “For me? Don’t push yourself. If you have problems with… with panic attacks, or nightmares, or flashbacks… just promise me you’ll stop and take a break. ”

For a moment Lance merely struggled to blink away his tears and to form coherent sound. He loved JJ like the older sister he’d never had. He loved that entire team; they were his family. They supported him through everything from the moment he joined the BAU. They supported him when his parents died, and they supported him when cases got to be too much. They taught him how to profile, and they taught him how to laugh again. They were the best of the best in every way. In fact, they found him, when no one else could, and then they supported him even more.

“I… I promise.” He swallowed hard, “For you, JJ… and the others; I’ll be careful.”

JJ sniffled a little, “We’re here for you, Sweets, all of us. As far as we’re concerned, you’re still a part of this team. And you always will be.”

Yes, he thought, smiling through his tears, After all… family is forever.

[caiotlyn]

A Restless Mind

Title: A Restless Mind

Pairing: None (general fiction)

Words: 1228

Warnings: ANGST (but a sorta happy ending??), talk of mental illness (unspecified psychosis), mention of familial death, mention of divorce, mention of night terrors (is that a warning?)

A/N: (I wish I could’ve come up with a better title, but anywaaaayy...) This was written for @sdavid09‘s What If Challenge. My prompt was “What if everything that has happened has all been in Dean’s head, and he is actually a patient in a psych ward?“ This is so, so late due to so many different factors (I lost the fic while posting it due to computer issues, school started so I didn’t have time to rewrite it, etc, etc.), so thank you, Shanna, for being so understanding. :)

Anyway, happy reading!

Feel free to check out the rest of my masterlist!!

~~~

"Hey, Jenna, I think I found us a case,” Dean said, flipping through the pages of the newspaper he held in his hands.

"Really?" She took a seat beside him on the bed. "What is it?"

He pointed to an advertisement for a used pickup truck among the other nonsensical ads and self promotions. "It's gotta be werewolves. There've been a few people in the Missouri area who’ve gone missing then showed up dead with their hearts gone."

"Yeah, seems about right to me. I'll go look into it a bit more before we pack up and leave." Jenna moved to stand up, but Dean gently wrapped his hand around her arm.

"Have you seen Sam? He hasn't been by in a few days...."

Her face fell at the sound of his brother's name. "Sam will be here soon. You just have to be patient." She smiled at him and raised the small paper cup she held in her hands. "Dean, it's time to take your medicine."

He simply looked at the cup in her hands and nodded, downing the pills with the bottle of water on his nightstand. Jenna took back the paper cup and smiled at him once more before leaving his room.

When she got out into the hall, she pressed her back against the closed door and sank down a few inches. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply for a few moments, trying to collect her thoughts.

"Another ‘case’, I’m guessing?" Jenna's friend and fellow coworker, Marcy, asked her, motioning to Dean's room.

Jenna nodded in response, her eyes still closed. "I honestly don't think he's ever going to get better. His delusions just keep getting worse and worse. All of his thoughts get scrambled, and his memory span just keeps decreasing. No medication seems to be working enough for him." She sighed, finally opening her eyes. "I can't help but feel bad for him."

"We all feel bad for him, for everyone here. But you gotta have a little faith that things'll get better," Marcy reassured, placing a hand on Jenna’s shoulder.

Jenna opened her mouth to respond, but a scream cut her off.

"JENNA!" Dean cried from behind the closed door.

Both women rushed to his bedroom, finding Dean sobbing on his bed, completely hysterical.

He raised his head at the sound of the door opening. When he caught sight of Jenna, he rushed over to her and wrapped his arms around her in a tight hug. He continued to sob into her shoulder as she rubbed his back to calm him down.

“You-you’re okay. You’re okay,” Dean muttered repeatedly into her shoulder.

"Dean, what happened?" Jenna asked, her voice laced with concern.

"H-he... Sam. S-Sam, he... he died, didn't he? That's why he's not here."

Jenna released the breath she didn’t realize she was holding in. "Yes, Dean. Do you remember how?" she questioned hesitantly, desperately trying to hold back her own tears.

"A-a pack of vamps got him, right?" He moved his head back so he could see Jenna's face. "Wait, no, that's not right. Was it a wendigo? No... shapeshifter. N-no, it was... it was...." Dean knit his eyebrows together, trying to piece together the fragments in his mind.

Jenna subtly shook her head and cupped Dean's face with her hands. "Think again, Dean."

A look of realization flashed in Dean's eyes as they began to water again. He blinked rapidly to get rid of the tears, his body freezing as he suddenly remembered everything.

"Sam died in a fire when I was four," Dean stated numbly. "So did my parents. I-I was the only one to make it out of the house."

"And where are you, Dean?"

"Novak Clinical Center.” His voice was quiet and monotone as he spoke.

Jenna nodded as a single tear escaped from her eyes. "That's right. Why don't we go sit down?"

Jenna led Dean to his bed, and the two of them sat down on the thin mattress.

Dean's expression remained blank as his confused and overwhelmed brain tried to make sense of everything.

Jenna took Dean's hand in hers. She turned her body to face his, waiting for him to say something. They sat for a few minutes as Marcy watched from the doorway to ensure her friend's safety.

"I'm never gonna get better, am I?" Dean asked suddenly, finally getting a grasp of reality.

Jenna's eyes met his, and she shrugged. "I don't know," she answered simply.

"C'mon, you gotta know something. You're a nurse. Can't you go look through my charts and figure something out?" Dean asked desperately.

"That's all I am, though. A nurse. Only your doctor can prescribe you proper treatment. I'm just here to take care of your basic needs."

“You're a really good friend, you know that, Jenn? You’re always helping me out, and I don’t think I appreciate you enough,” Dean said, his mood changing abruptly.

Jenna smiled through the tears pooling in her eyes, her mind thinking back to the conversation she had with Marcy in the hallway. “Thank you, Dean. I'm glad you're my friend, too.”

"Hey, maybe you, me, and Sam can go out to that diner across the street. Y'know, the one with the really good bacon cheeseburgers and those milkshakes you really like?" Dean asked happily, completely forgetting the conversation they were having moments before.

Jenna remembered telling Dean about the time her dad took her to Randy's Diner when he was in town. It was the first time he visited after her parents' divorce. She and her dad celebrated her eleventh birthday by having dinner at Randy's, finishing off the night with giant chocolate milkshakes with piles of whipped cream and sprinkles.

Jenna sniffled as she gripped Dean’s hand just a little tighter. "Sure. We can go do that later, but I think you need some rest first. That hunt last night really drained you," she replied, easily slipping back into her pretend role.

Dean grinned at her and squeezed her hand. "Awesome. I think Sammy'll like it. They have those fancy salads he likes so much, right?"

Jenna nodded. She didn't say another word as she stood from her spot on the bed, kissing Dean lightly on the hand and gently shutting the door as she exited.

As soon as the door was closed, she collapsed in a heap of sobs in Marcy's arms. Her friend just embraced her tightly in an attempt to calm her. Another nurse walked by and asked if everything was alright, and Marcy quickly dismissed him.

Marcy left a few hours later, leaving Jenna to work her assigned night shift.

She constantly worried about Dean all night.

As she took care of her other patients and helped deliver supplies to various areas of the hospital, her mind kept wandering to Dean, who hadn’t made a single noise. She checked on him periodically throughout the night, each time finding him curled up in his bed with his back facing the door.

Usually, Dean’s nights would be filled with cries and calls for his younger brother, similar to other patients in the hospital, but not a sound came from his room that night.

When the sun finally rose the following morning, it calmed Jenna to know that Dean was safe in his room. He had slept peacefully for the first time in years.

[fuckyeah-esmeralda-seay-reynolds]

One Model’s Road to Recovering from an Eating Disorder

"DIETING" SINCE CHILDHOOD, HER EATING HABITS SPUN OUT OF CONTROL UNTIL SHE GOT HELP AND FACED HER ISSUES HEAD-ON. By Esmeralda Seay-Reynolds [ http://www.toneandstyle.com/one-models-road-to-recovering-from-an-eating-disorder/ ] I began modeling when I was sixteen years old. I was tall and blonde with pale skin, big eyes, and even bigger ambitions. I was going to become a supermodel and drink tea with Grace Coddington, paint watercolors with Karl Lagerfeld, and rub shoulders with Sofia Coppola. It was a big plan for a young girl from rural Pennsylvania, but I was smart, hardworking, and loved the industry. In the end, I didn’t land so far from my dream. I was a rising model, traveling the world and making serious connections, but inside, I was falling apart. Almost a year ago I entered Evergreen Eating Recovery Center in Denver, Colorado, considered by many as the premier facility for eating disorders in the United States. It was a locked facility of grey and green walls, and much of my time there I was filled with resentment. But never in my anger, did I blame fashion for what I’d done to my own body. Modeling wasn’t what made me sick; conversely, it’s what saved me. My whole life, I was raised to believe perfection was not an idea, but an achievable goal. My mother—a strong willed woman whom I love dearly, but who had exacting standards when it came to my appearance—had my hair dyed starting in second grade and chose what I wore every day. She also, with my father’s support, put me on “diets” starting at seven. Given this, it’s not much of a surprise I developed an eating disorder, but what is surprising is how long it took people to notice. I was 15 when my problems truly began. I was already fairly thin, and it’s hard to say exactly what triggered it, aside from the obvious desire for recognition from my otherwise oblivious parents. It started with salads and what I perceived to be a normal amount of calorie restriction for a girl who wanted to lose a few pounds, but within a month, I was eating nothing for days and purging what little I did eat. I recall once crying over eating a mushroom, then running upstairs, blasting my bathroom radio, and climbing into the shower with my clothes on so I could vomit without being heard. My diet had stopped being a diet. I kept cutting out foods and purging because I got a rush from it. With every new bone that appeared in the mirror, I got a kind of euphoric high—a feeling of pride and accomplishment that even being a straight A student didn’t give me. I began leaving classes to look for ribs and bones in the bathroom mirror, and when I was in class, I would find myself stroking my collarbones and wrapping my hand around my upper arms (always my least favorite part of my body). If my index finger and thumb couldn’t meet, I’d fly into a panicked fury. It was an addiction, not just to“thinness,” but to the feeling of control it gave me, the sense of power and achievement that came with knowing I could control the way my body looked, when everything else was in chaos. The problem was, I wasn’t in control at all. My sickness was. A year later, my eating disorder had become a way of life, and it could easily have continued that way, but then something big happened: I got signed. It was Monday, June 10th of 2013, when I walked into a modeling agency’s open call and was offered a contract. I was 16, and by that September I was traveling the world, deemed a “top newcomer” and “one to watch.” I was working with the best in the business, with more money at my fingertips than I knew what to do with, and it seemed as if all my fashion dreams were coming true. But all the glamorous parts of my job that I should have been enjoying, I couldn’t. I remember being in Paris, staring out my bedroom window at the bright lights of the Eiffel tower and the dark mysterious winding streets lined by ornate houses and cottages, too tired and too cold to dare to wander outside. I remember photographers stopping me in the streets after fashion shows and the little girls clamoring in wonder at “the model” before them, but being too distracted by my own disordered thoughts to even remember to smile. I was hungry, exhausted, and my brain clicked so slow it was hard to even talk at a normal pace. Everything around me seemed to fade into a grey of depression and anxiety. Then, just after I turned 17 and had been modeling for a little over a year, my bookers told me they were “concerned.” About what? I thought to myself, though deep down I knew exactly what they’d meant. They told me that clients (designers, casting directors, etc.) had called asking if I needed help. I was, apparently, way too thin. I remember feeling embarrassed, humiliated, and completely furious. I couldn’t see what everyone else saw when they looked at me. Where they saw illness, I saw control and self-discipline. A few days later, after my agents had sat me down, I had a seizure. I was in a doctor’s office because I’d cut my finger, and then, suddenly, everything went black. All I could think was that I was going to die without ever having been kissed. When I woke up I was on the floor, a disarray of knocked over papers and bins all around me, my body pinned down by my doctor, his eyes filled with a mix of concern and terror. My organs were going into failure. My parents yelled at me to eat, offering options of food, under the delusion that I’d “accidentally” gotten so thin. My mother screamed at me and told me how “ugly” and “disgusting” I looked. Never once did she or my father ask if I was ok. They couldn’t fathom that I’d done this to myself on purpose, or that their little girl had something “wrong” with her. Only my bookers understood the complexity of my situation. They told me what I needed to hear: that they cared about me and that they just wanted me to be healthy. They were kind and supportive, but most importantly they got me exactly what I needed, or more precisely “who” I needed. Her name was Heather Marr. Heather may be one of the top trainers in the U.S., but to me, she’s the woman who saved my life. Heather listened to me and didn’t make me feel ashamed or embarrassed for my messed up eating habits or thoughts. She taught me how to eat and exercise, that protein wasn’t going to make me fat and that I didn’t need to exercise for hours to stay lean. She changed my body, but she also changed the way I viewed it. Instead of bones I started looking for abs, and instead of trying to encircle my arms, I felt for their strength. My body was strong and capable, and my brain was speeding faster than a Ferrari. It made me feel powerful, important, and beautiful. My organs completely recovered within a month and I went on to have the best runway season of my career. In the Fall/ Winter 2015 shows, I walked for Marc Jacobs, Giles, Fendi, Saint Laurent, Dolce and Gabbana, Gucci, Vionnet, and various others whom I was also offered campaigns with. Every day I made the choice to get up and eat, despite the voice in my head telling me not to. My ED (eating disorder) would say don’t eat, you can be in control, just put down the plate, you don’t deserve to eat today, you don’t matter anyway, nobody really sees you anyway, why not disappear? but this time, I knew not to listen to them. I knew that I had people around me who were watching out for me, whom I could depend on, whom I did matter to, and who did see me. It was hard, some days so hard I’d break down and scream into a pillow, but I did eat, everyday. I stayed strong throughout the rest of my modeling career, and after I switched out of the field last year to my agency’s acting and artist boards, I went—with their support—to Evergreen to finally tackle some of the deeper issues related to my eating disorder. In the insanity of being in a locked building for four months where you have supervised pee times and daily vitals taken, I had the hardest and best experience of my life, because not only was it recovery, it was discovery. I discovered the truth about my disorder and about myself. And that was this: My disease had become a part of me, but it wasn’t as the friend I thought it was. It was a safety blanket. Unlike jobs, unlike affection, I could rely on my not eating to make me thin. It always came through for me. But my anorexia was an addiction, and the safety blanket it provided was killing me. So what kind of safety was that? Now, almost a year later, I have an apartment in the West Village, a new kitten and a pint of Chocolate Mint gelato in my freezer. I’ve been out of treatment for nearly eight months, and being healthy is still difficult at times, but I refuse to relapse. I eat three meals and snacks a day, meet with a nutritionist and a therapist once a week, take long walks by the Hudson, and occasionally grab a cupcake from Magnolia’s Bakery while I stroll through Bloomingdales and giggle at the ad campaigns of my model friends. I no longer see my body as an art project, but rather the portfolio holding the art. Now when I put on my sneakers or put down a fork it’s because my body is telling me to, not a voice in my head. As for my appearance, I try not to look in mirrors too often, or even photos of myself (which as a former model, can be rather hard to avoid), but when I do, I remind myself that my body is something that needs to be taken care of so I can achieve the things I really want in life, not the thing to be achieved. And also, that the way my body is, is beautiful, because it’s the way it was meant to be, and that’s all that matters. I am 19 years old, and am currently working on getting two books published. One is a novel with artwork and the other is an art and poetry book; both were written during my stay in treatment. I’m pursuing acting with a fire-like passion and working on a script for a movie. I’m aiming for the stars, for the whole freaking universe, and maybe that’s a lot, but I’ve fought for this life, and I’m going to sure as hell going to make the most of it. (Author’s note: If you’re out there reading this, and you recognize yourself in this story, even a small part, know you’re not alone, you are not insane, and just because people may not see you, or the pain you’re in, that does not mean you are not worth seeing or the pain you are in is not real. You matter and you can get better.)

[robertbassweb]

Manifestation How to Manifest Anything Your Heart Desires

https://ift.tt/30DF7B8

Manifestation how to

Manifestation How to Manifest Anything

This topic, manifestation how to manifest anything your heart desires, is one of the most relevant topcs in the Law of Attraction world.

In this article I´m going to try to go deeper into the best steps to manifest what you desire.

Let me start with an interesting quote I have found:

The ignorant man asks for material possessions, the intelligent man asks for enlightenment, but the sage loves everything and receives everything.

We all have desires. In fact, ideas of what you want and what you don’t want regularly pop up and out of your head. But how often do you stop and ask yourself what you really want – and even then, how long are you really sure?

What you focus on grows . It is a manifestation technique which will be discussed later. So it is very important to make sure that your desires match the goals of your life.

Otherwise, you may end up with a lot of unnecessary things or uncomfortable situations.

So we are going to leave on the Universe hands the manifestation how to issue.

  An example of desire

There is this story of the man who had everything materially and who one day decided that he needed to find God. His friends told him that he would not find God in the United States, he would have to go to India. So he took the plane to Delhi, got off the plane and told a taxi driver that he was there to find God. The taxi driver said God was not in Delhi but would take him to Rishikesh, that’s where the Beatles went.

When the man arrived in Rishikesh, he jumped out of the taxi and rushed towards the first holy-looking person he saw. “I am here to find God,” he said.

“You will have to go up into the mountains,” said the person with the holy gaze. “This is where God is; follow this trail. ” 

So the man went off following the path that went up into the mountains. As he climbed the trail narrowed, the sun was setting and night was getting darker. Man was struggling in the darkness, he had to find God. Then suddenly he stumbled, slipped, and began to descend the mountain into the black abyss.

Fortunately, his coat caught on a branch and he was hanging there in the dark. “Help, help,” he cried.

“Forget it,” came a loud voice from the darkness.

” Who is here? The man asked timidly.

“It’s God, let go,” the voice answered.

The man thought for a moment and then shouted, “Is there anyone else over there?” “

    Do you have free will?

If you ask people if they have the will power to choose the life they want, most of them will say yes. However, how free are you really? How many of your desires are just repetitions of past memories or something from your social conditioning?

Most people’s lives are ruled by actions and memories of the past. Call it the software of the soul, the program that runs your life. You do an action, which creates a memory, which leads to a desire, and then a future action to satisfy that desire.

Even if you think you have free will, most of the time you follow these same patterns over and over again. You are like the hamster on its wheel running faster and faster, thinking you are going somewhere, as it turns in circles.

These are limited possibilities. The desires that you have and therefore the life you create for yourself have been limited in the past.

  Meditation sets you free

Meditation is the tool that allows you to escape this prison of the past that you yourself have created. All memories are being reflected. Meditation allows you to transcend or go beyond thoughts.

It gives you access to a field of endless possibilities. With regular meditation practice, you can begin to step outside your limits so that you can desire and get the life you truly deserve.

  What is your soul profile?

Knowing that you can desire anything is very liberating, but it can also be confusing. Now you are spoiled for choice.

How do you know what is right for you? I suggest finding a quiet place and answering the following questions. To create a simple profile of your deep self, you can call this your Soul Profile.

Some answers may change over time, so review the questions periodically.

What makes me happy?

What is my purpose for being here?

How would I like to contribute to the world?

Who are my models?

What kind of relationships feed me?

What can I offer others in relationships?

What are my unique talents?

What qualities do I admire in others?

How did I feel at the best times of my life?

What kind of world do I want to live in?

What can I do to serve humanity?

  Of course, it’s always okay to have desires for material goods, relationships, etc., but the answers to these questions will guide you on your spiritual journey.

You will also find that as you move forward with your spiritual goals, your other desires will automatically begin to support your journey. Your whole life begins to reflect your spiritual journey.

However, before looking at the steps to manifesting your desires, the Vedas warn you not to be too greedy, which he says leads to instability, chaos, confusion, delusion, mental weakness, addictions and illness (mental and physical).

  8 Steps on How to manifest your desires

Try the following steps to manifest your desires.

  1.Ask for advice

The heart is more refined and closer to your source than your mind, which easily becomes confused and filled with doubts.

This does not mean that you have to let go of your common sense and rational mind, but always remember that the first impulse of your heart is your Higher Self speaking.

Sit quietly, close your eyes, and bring your awareness into your heart center, in the middle of your chest.

Ask, “What do I really, really want? What does my soul desire? And then listen. Try not to judge or evaluate, just listen to the message from your heart.

You can also seek advice from friends and experts, but be careful to ask only those who can help you achieve your goals.

  2. Focus your attention

Now turn your attention to where you want to change or where you want the desire to manifest. By drawing your attention to something, you are focusing your energy in that area.

  3. Define an intention

Here it is important to make sure that you want what you want and not what you don’t want. Remember: what you put your attention on grows .

For example, rather than wanting the pain in your knee to go away and thus focus on the pain, focus on the desire to be able to run, jump and dance freely.

With your attention set, express your desire in a single sentence or phrase. This gives direction to the energy and activates the energy to begin manifesting your desire.

  4. Release your desire

The next step is to release your desire into the Universe. It is best to do this at the beginning or the end of your meditation practice, or just before going to bed at night. This is when you are closest to your source.

With your attention set, silently repeat the desire and let it rest in silence. It is like planting the seed of desire in the silent field of Infinite Organizing Power.

Let the Universe work on the manifestation how to process.

  5. Detachment from the result

Now let the Universe take care of the details. If you stay attached to the outcome of a desire, you limit the possibilities to one outcome. Detaching is like saying,

“That’s what I think I want, but if there is something better, send it to me. The Vedas say, “Desiring the fruit of action implies a lack of faith in the will of the Divine to give all.” ”

  6.Patience in practice

In today’s world, it’s easy to want instant gratification, but remember that in your essence you are Eternal.

Nature moves in rhythms and cycles, all in season. By rushing things, we often end up with something of lesser value. Trust and allow the Universe to unfold its perfection.

From the Vedas: “When we use our power righteously, all good things flow to us. ”

  7. Learn acceptance

The timing is always perfect. Sometimes you have to accept that the Universe knows better than anyone else and recognize that sometimes it has bigger plans for you.

Accepting the present moment allows you to see the opportunities and create your perfect future.

  8. Find fulfillment

Take advantage of the generosity that manifests itself every day. Your ultimate goal is to be able to spontaneously fulfill all your desires. This can only happen when you step into higher states of consciousness.

Here you are in total harmony with all the laws of nature. There is no longer a need for desire because everything you can desire is presented to you at exactly the right time and in the right place.

Going back to the statement at the beginning of this article, when your life and motivation are completely centered on love, all that is wonderful will flow spontaneously to you.

This are the steps I personally use for manifestation how to bring into my life what I want.

    Frequently Asked Questions

  How do you materialize your heart’s wishes?

What Does It Mean to Manifest Your Heart’s Needs?

Switch Your Emphasis onto What You Desire.

Make a list of what you do want in your life. …

Elevate Your Vibration By Doing Something That Makes You Feel Good. …

Make Peace With Current, Challenging Situations. …

Be Grateful Wherefore You Currently Have. …

Modification Your Beliefs.

  Can we really materialize anything?

Yes, you can materialize love.

“As soon as you begin calling in your manifestation procedure, there’s no limit to what– or how often or much– you materialize,” Lombardo explains. “This consists of brand-new friendships and also romantic connections.” That said, it is important to only manifest people that will certainly assist you satisfy your objectives.

  How do you boost your vibration to materialize desires?

Below are 5 means to elevate your vibration so you can draw in even more of what you desire.

Draw up Your Suitable Day. …

Produce Equipping Affirmations That Support Your Perfect Vision. …

Make a Vision Board. …

Practice Gratitude. …

Laugh and also Have A Good Time.

  Exactly how can I raise my vibration to bring in money?

Right here are my top 5 strategies to elevate your vibration and attract even more money and also success.

Reprogram Your Subconscious Mind. …

Raise Your Serotonin As Well As Dopamine Levels. …

Nourish yourself. …

Meditate. …

Visualise.

  Resources:

Doenload our free manifestation guide.

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Manifestation How to Manifest Anything

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Matt Hancock admits he is ‘worried’ about Covid-19’s ‘debilitating’ effects

Health Secretary Matt Hancock today admitted he is ‘worried’ about the long term health impacts plaguing coronavirus survivors.

Thousands of Covid-19 ‘long-haulers’ have suffered chronic tiredness, breathlessness and heart problems for months after beating the disease. 

Doctors have identified more serious symptoms in a smaller proportion of people, including delusions, strokes, insomnia, kidney disease and mobility issues.

Mr Hancock told Sky News today that the growing number of patients who have yet to completely recover after shaking the viral disease worried him.

He said: ‘I am concerned there’s increasing evidence a minority of people — but a significant minority — have long-term impacts and it can be quite debilitating.

‘It is something that I’m worried about, we’ve taken action on, both through the NHS and through the research activities.’

Most coronavirus patients will recover within a fortnight, suffering a fever, cough and losing their sense of smell or taste for several days.

However, evidence is beginning to show that the tell-tale symptoms of the virus can persist for weeks on end in ‘long haulers’ — the term for patients plagued by lasting complications.

British scientists have already launched an investigation into the long-term impacts of Covid-19, which the Government has pumped almost £10million into. 

Health Secretary Matt Hancock has admitted he is ‘worried’ about the long term health impacts plaguing coronavirus survivors

Talya Varga, 27, said the shortness of breath she has experienced since having Covid-19 in April feels like a ‘concrete slab on her chest’  

Mr Hancock added: ‘It’s one of the consequences of this being a novel virus. We’re constantly learning about the impact of it.

‘It does appear that for some people there’s a pretty debilitating long-term impact, quite similar to a post-viral fatigue syndrome that you do get with many viruses.

‘It’s really important we support people who are in that situation and, also, that we do the research to find out what we can do about it.’

ARE THERE LONG-TERM SYMPTOMS OF COVID-19? 

Covid-19 is described as a short-term illness caused by infection with the novel SARS-CoV-2 coronavirus. Public health officials tend to say people will recover within two weeks or so. 

However it’s become increasingly clear that this is not the case for everyone, and that the two-week period is only the ‘acute illness’ phase.

Data from the COVID Symptom Study app, by King’s College London and health company Zoe, suggests one in ten people may still have symptoms after three weeks, and some may suffer for months.

For those with more severe disease, Italian researchers who tracked 143 people who had been hospitalised with the disease found almost 90 per cent still had symptoms including fatigue two months after first falling unwell.

The most common complaints were fatigue, a shortness of breath and joint pain – all of which were reported during their battle with the illness. 

Another study in Italy showed one in ten people who lose their sense of taste and smell with the coronavirus – now recognised as a key sign of the infection – may not get it back within a month.

The study, published in the journal JAMA Otolaryngology – Head and Neck Surgery, involved 187 Italians who had the virus but who were not ill enough to be admitted to hospital.

The UK’s Chief Medical Officer Professor Chris Whitty has said the longer term impacts of Covid-19 on health ‘may be significant’.

Support groups such as Long Covid have popped up online for those who ‘have suspected Covid-19 and your experience doesn’t follow the textbook symptoms or recovery time’.

Data from a Covid Symptom Study app, by King’s College London and health company Zoe which has been used by more than 4million Brits, suggests one in ten people may still have symptoms after three weeks, and some may suffer for months. 

For those with more severe disease, almost 90 per cent still had symptoms including fatigue two months after first falling unwell, according to an Italian study.

The most common complaints were fatigue, a shortness of breath and joint pain — all of which were reported during their battle with the illness.

Another study in Italy showed one in ten people who lose their sense of taste and smell with the coronavirus — now recognised as a key sign of the infection — may not get it back within a month.

The study, published in the journal JAMA Otolaryngology – Head and Neck Surgery, involved 187 Italians who had the virus but who were not ill enough to be admitted to hospital.

England’s Chief Medical Officer Professor Chris Whitty has said the longer term impacts of Covid-19 on health ‘may be significant’.

Support groups such as Long Covid have popped up online for those who ‘have suspected Covid-19 and your experience doesn’t follow the textbook symptoms or recovery time’.

Mr Hancock said the hardest part about responding to the global pandemic had been knowing so little about the virus. 

He said: ‘The decisions have been extraordinary and very large, the issues that you balance are very, very significant on both sides.

‘The hardest part has been, without doubt, the fact that, as we’ve learnt more, so we’ve had to change policy and then you have to come on and explain why your policy is different today to yesterday. The truth is, because we’re constantly learning.’

He pointed to how scientists had previously thought asymptomatic patients could not spread the disease, which turned out to be false.

‘Before this coronavirus there were six previous coronaviruses and none of them had asymptomatic transmission,’ Mr Hancock said.

‘So, understandably, the advice at the start was this one won’t either.

‘But it does, and it’s one of the hardest things to deal with because it’s hard enough stopping a virus when people with symptoms have got it – but when people without symptoms are passing it on it makes it just so much harder.

‘The whole world is struggling with this problem.’

How Covid-19 causes lasting damage: Three survivors in their 20s reveal they STILL suffer fatigue, racing hearts and breathlessness MONTHS after they were first sick

By Vanessa Chalmers, Health Reporter 

Three coronavirus survivors in their twenties have revealed how they all still suffer from persistent fatigue, breathlessness and heart problems — even though it has been months since they were first diagnosed with the vicious disease.

In eye-opening accounts that prove Covid-19 is not just an illness that goes quietly and causes lasting damage, one 27-year-old woman who fought off the disease told how it constantly feels like there is a ‘slab of concrete on my chest’.

Another 21-year-old victim admitted she feels ‘like a fraud’ because her GP is baffled by her persistent shortness of breath, which occurs even when she sits still. 

And the third survivor — who believes he was struck down in January — is frustrated because there is not much he can do to tackle his heart rate, which has mysteriously sped up since his battle with suspected coronavirus. 

All of the victims now say the public must move away from the incorrect notion that ‘if you are not dead you are fine’, revealing their lives have been turned upside down by the virus, despite being fit and healthy.

Affected patients have told how they struggle to complete everyday tasks, such as emptying the dishwasher, without feeling extremely tired and being left with a racing heart.

Talya Varga, 27 – ‘It feels like there is a slab of concrete on my chest’

Talya Varga was a fit and healthy dancer who exercised regularly and cycled to work before she was struck with the coronavirus on April 1. 

‘In March I went on a trip to Australia and New Zealand, and 13 days after (Wednesday April 1), my symptoms started,’ she told MailOnline.

‘I had a sore throat and fever and quickly progressed into becoming short of breath. Even when resting it felt like I’d just done a 10km run. It was really hard to fill my lungs.’

The 27-year-old spent the next five weeks on bed rest and was sent an ambulance on two occasions because her breathing deteriorated so quickly.

The second time Ms Varga, from south west London, was rushed to hospital, doctors suspected she had pneumonia and a pulmonary embolism — a potentially life-threatening blood clot in her lungs. 

She said: ‘I was referred to a post-coronavirus clinic where a CT scan showed a lump in my right breast and a nodule near my heart. 

Ms Varga said: ‘I was in the low risk category and should have “bounced” back by now’

During her illness, Ms Varga spent the next five weeks on bed rest and was sent an ambulance on two occasions because her breathing deteriorated so quickly

‘Fortunately these don’t look to be anything sinister and could just be scar tissue from the virus.’

Three months on and Ms Varga is still suffering symptoms, such as difficulty breathing which feels like ‘there is a slab of concrete’ on her chest.

She said: ‘This morning I woke up with pain in my ribs, chest and back and I am still having issues with my breathing. It like there is a slab of concrete on my chest.

‘I was in the low risk category and should have “bounced” back by now. The unknown is terrifying. 

‘The current treatment is painkillers, rest and vitamins. If you’re really lucky you are given an inhaler.

‘Some days I am in so much pain that I can feel every bone, muscle and organ in my body.

‘Many patients who are suffering with longer term effects of Covid-19 have no validation that their experience is a recognised condition. We have to move away from the notion that if you are not dead you are fine.’ 

Ms Varga was never given a coronavirus swab test at the height of her illness, and an antibody test came back negative.

However, there is a uncertainty around how long antibodies remain in the blood for. And not all people who have had Covid-19 develop antibodies, scientists say, using another line of the immune system’s defense first. 

Jessica, 21 – ‘I feel like a fraud because my GP doesn’t recognise my symptoms’ 

Jessica first came down with the coronavirus symptoms after spending time with her friend, who also later developed the tell-tale signs.

MORE THAN HALF OF COVID-19 PATIENTS HAVE HEART ABNORMALITIES 

Coronavirus patients can suffer irreversible heart damage as a result of their battle with the disease, a study of hospital patients has found.

More than half of infected patients who had heart scans while in hospital with Covid-19 showed abnormal changes to their organ.

One in eight had signs of ‘severe dysfunction’ in their heart and doctors couldn’t find any other explanation except the coronavirus.

In the UK around one in four people admitted to hospital with Covid-19 die of it but even survivors may be left with long-term illness, this research suggests.

The study, done by the British Heart Foundation, adds to concerns that coronavirus can cause widespread damage to the vital organs and leaves some ‘long-haulers’ with health problems that will last for months and even years after the infection.

The 21-year-old, who didn’t want to reveal her full name, self-isolated at her parents’ home in Bath for two weeks with a temperature — which she says she still has.

Jessica, who is set to graduate from university this summer, told MailOnline: ‘My cough went away the same day it began, and didn’t return.  

‘After about a week of feeling unwell I started to develop chest pain and periods of severe shortness of breath, and after about three weeks I was sent to the hospital briefly because of an unusually high heart rate.

‘It was suggested at that point that I had had coronavirus, and that it had inflamed my heart and that I had pericarditis post-infection.’

Pericarditis – inflammation of the outer layers of the heart – causes chest pain and a high temperature. Pericarditis can be attributed to several factors, including viral infections.

Jessica, who studies in London, said: ‘After multiple check-ins with my doctor, I got some more blood tests last week which revealed that I am negative for antibodies, and that I have had glandular fever in the past.

‘It has been suggested I was already suffering with post viral fatigue from glandular fever, and that I then came down with coronavirus and that it has dragged on because of that, but that’s the frustrating thing – we have no idea.’

‘It does feel like “another day another symptom”. I have had a temperature throughout but also shortness of breath (even while sitting still, but always after any amount of exercise), chest pain, stomach pain, muscle aches, shivers, sweats, headaches, and slight trouble with taste and smell.

‘Generally at the moment though the featured symptom is extreme fatigue – all the time, with any amount of effort or energy.

‘If I do anything – empty the dishwasher, go on a dog walk, talk to a friend over Zoom, even watch a film – my temperature goes up and I need to sit down quietly without doing anything.’

Jessica admitted she feels ‘like a fraud’ because all of her symptoms are met with bewilderment by her GP. 

Jack Lawrence, 21 – ‘I can just about do my university work’ 

Jack Lawrence was first struck down by suspected coronavirus January 20 – weeks before the virus was first detected with testing in the UK.

Mr Lawrence said: ‘The best way I’d describe coronavirus is it’s like a normal virus but the symptoms and pain keeps doubling or tripling’

UK LAUNCHES STUDY OF COVID-19’S LONG-TERM EFFECTS 

Scientists in the UK will investigate the long-term effects of Covid-19 in a scientific study which launches this month.

The Department of Health has announced that up to 10,000 people will be involved in a study to look at how people who catch the coronavirus fare long-term.

Growing evidence suggests that even people who only get mildly sick may suffer long-lasting health effects including lung damage. 

The UK’s Scientific Advisory Group for Emergencies (SAGE) has warned that Covid-19 patients could be left with ‘extreme tiredness and shortness of breath for several months’. 

The study, led by researchers and doctors in Leicester, will look at how people’s mental health is affected by illness and whether factors like sex or ethnicity affect how well someone recovers from Covid-19.

Patients in the study, which will receive £8.4million in funding, will have medical scans, blood tests and lung samples so experts can look at how they are affected.

It comes as the NHS has announced it’s launched a long-term recovery service called ‘Your Covid Recovery’, which will offer online advice to the public and more specialised physio and mental health support to some patients from this summer. 

Chief Medical Officer, Professor Chris Whitty, said: ‘As well as the immediate health impacts of the virus it is also important to look at the longer-term impacts on health, which may be significant.

‘We have rightly focused on mortality, and what the UK can do straight away to protect lives, but we should also look at how Covid-19 impacts on the health of people after they have recovered from the immediate disease.’

The 21-year-old said: ‘I thought it was a normal virus at first but it soon became the worst. It started with the tiniest cough. But I developed aches, pains, was flat out, had a sore throat that was agony and temperatures as high as 39C (102.2F).

‘It peaked after four days and then I thought I had recovered within a week.’

But on February 9, while at his home of Watford, the film student at Northampton University was rushed to A&E by his mother after he became breathless. 

He hadn’t experienced shortness of breath in the first week of his symptoms, which doctors believe only develops later.

Mr Lawrence had previously suffered a collapsed lung in 2017 as a result of a sudden and rare separate condition.

He had surgery to fix it and hasn’t had problems since. But because of his medical history, he was quickly seen by doctors for tests on his lungs.

He said: ‘They were looking for signs it had returned but found nothing. They said I had the back end of the virus.

‘I think at the time it was a fair assumption considering to their knowledge they didn’t know anything. I was pleased with that and that the X-ray was clear.’

Mr Lawrence was told he would recover but has not, despite it being four months since he was first struck down by the life-threatening disease. 

He is still being seen regularly at the Harefield Hospital in Hillingdon, which specialises in respiratory and heart conditions.

And Mr Lawrence is set to have an echocardiogram — a scan to look at the heart and nearby blood vessels for any abnormalities.  

According to research by the British Heart Foundation, coronavirus patients can suffer irreversible heart damage as a result of their battle with the disease.

A a study of hospital patients found more than half of infected patients who had heart scans showed abnormal changes to their organ, and one in eight had signs of ‘severe dysfunction’. 

Doctors say they couldn’t find any other explanation except the coronavirus.

Similarly, Mr Lawrence says tests so far have come back inconclusive for any other cause of his high heart rate and other symptoms.  

He said: ‘Each day I’m consistently very breathless and my heart rate is very fast, however the level of symptoms changes daily.’

Mr Lawrence added: ‘The best way I’d describe coronavirus is it’s like a normal virus but the symptoms and pain keeps doubling or tripling.

‘I can just about do my university work. I remember an assessment day at uni on February 24. I was so ill, I can’t describe. It was beyond the point of tiredness.

‘I’ve been given a steroid inhaler. It doesn’t really do anything. I take multi vitamins and cut out processed food to counteract any inflammation. But there is not much I can do.’

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