#those little sugar pumpkins??? those things have me in a death grip | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bungou-stray-dingus · 4 years

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Hello! Thank God I found a still active BSD imagines blog 😭 So, I have quite a specific request if it's ok um can you please do a scenario where Ranpo has a smol female s/o and she's very child-like (in appearance & personality) similarly to him but in everyone's surprise, Ranpo becomes mature when it comes to her. Like, he takes care of her, looks out for her and maybe tell her off when she's misbehaving. My advance thanks to you!~also, do you do NSFW? asking for a friend ;) hehe

A/N : I DO BELIEVE THAT I FINISHED THE SECOND ASK BEFORE I FINISHED THE FIRST ONE. WELL EITHER WAY, HERE WE GO! DOUBLE RANPO REQUESTS COMING OUT! I stan lil snack boy, he is *MWAH*

Ranpo

When he first saw her in the candy shop he had to do a double take. She seemed almost too perfect. He was salivating, and it wasn't because he was surrounded by sugar filled rock candies and pastries, no, it was her. The way her her legs looked in those knee high socks, the way they traveled up underneath her short skirt, the cute little face she made, her tongue hanging out the side of her mouth as she reached on her tiptoes for a bag of candy on the highest shelf. She was precious, she looked delectable, and she put all the other candy in the store to shame. Of course he went over to help her, even though he wasn't much taller than she was himself, but what other way was he going to make her his if he didn't make his move.

He woke up to the sound of glass shattering in the kitchen followed by the sound of your soft voice mumbling to yourself. "Shoot, shoot shoot! Darn it! Oh man." He pulled the blankets off himself and got out of bed, not wanting you to cut yourself on any of the glass that you had broken. He was always so worried about you, you were pretty clumsy and you were prone to hurting yourself often, but that just gave him more reason to hover and be close to you.

He slipped his slippers on and made his way into the kitchen, finding you crouched on the floor sweeping the shards of glass into the dustpan. You looked up and saw him standing next to the counter, staring down at the glass on the floor. "You okay, cinnamon bun?" He asked, finally bending down to finish with the smaller shards that you might miss. "Hmm? Yeah! Sorry I woke you up. I was trying to make breakfast for you and the cup got in the way." You said, your voice always so cheerful, your smile never faltered. When he finished cleaning up the glass he checked you over, looking over your hands and knees to make sure that you didn't cut yourself or get any glass embedded in your skin. After he made sure you were okay he kissed along your knuckles before pressing a small kiss to your nose. "Please be more careful." He murmured, but that wasn't a parting statement, that was an honest plead. If anything happened to you it would destroy him completely.

He sat at the table, his feet propped up on the edge as he watched you turn on the burner to the stove. His heartbeat quickened, the thought of you and fire mixed together, it didn't seem good. It's not that you didn't know how to do things for yourself, it's just that sometimes you got distracted and that could be really bad for you and the apartment with the burner on. "Do you need my help with that?" He asked as nonchalantly as he could, hoping that you would say yes. He would much rather you sit at the table and let him take over the cooking, just so he knows you wouldn't get burnt. You gave him his favorite wind chime giggle as you turned to look at him. "Of course not! I'm like, the worlds greatest breakfast chef, like, ever!" You said, and he couldn't help but smile at how adorable you looked. You were wearing one of his shirts and his favorite knee high socks with an apron tied around yourself. He was torn between watching you move around the kitchen, his eyes glued to the way your body looked in the early morning sun, or getting up and helping you anyway.

The oil popped in the pan as the eggs sizzled, every pop made him jump especially when you let out a little squeal, he feared that the oil had landed on you and that your beautiful skin had been burnt. Then you would let out a breathy chuckle, he could tell that you were embarrassed. "Turn down the burner, pumpkin." He'd say, and you would slowly inch closer to the stove, your arm stretched as far as you could stretch it to turn the knob on the stove. When the bubbling and popping subsided you would smile proudly at him, your eyes squeezed shut and give him two thumbs up. "I did it!" He would hum with approval, letting himself relax knowing that you won't get hurt, hopefully, in the next five minutes at least.

Everyone at the Agency was shocked at how mature Ranpo had become over a matter of six months. He wasn't as childlike as he had been before, but now that he had someone else to worry about and look out for, he knew he had to do some growing up of his own, especially since you were very childlike yourself. He didn't mind it, as long as you were okay, that was his main concern, you were his top priority. You had helped him find a reason to grow up, to be a better version of himself, and you weren't even aware. From the start, he had begun the maturing process. The first date he went on with you, you had tripped up a set of stairs and skinned your knee. When he saw the small tear clinging to the edge of your eye he had almost cried himself. Then when you had been on the phone with him one night and he heard you slightly whimper in pain, the pained "Ow" that you had muttered into the receiver, he almost had a heart attack. He was about to run to your apartment to make sure that you were okay, that is until you reassured him that you had just burnt your finger on a pan by accident. God, did this man worry about you. It seemed like it took forever for him to convince you to move in with him, just so he could keep an eye on you constantly, but once he did it felt like some weight had been lifted.

You had finally finished making breakfast and he could finally take a deep breath. He watched you carefully as you walked over, placing the plate on the table before sitting on his lap, swinging your legs back and forth as you wrapped your arms around his neck. "Did you make a plate for yourself, pumpkin?" He asked, trying to not think too hard about your lack of pants as you rocked back and forth on his lap. He could feel the blood flowing south, and he knew that if you felt it, the two of you would be locked in the bedroom for the next two hours. "Hmm? Oh, nope! Not hungry right now. I'll cook something when you go to work." You said, and his eyes went wide, the thought of you being home alone and cooking scared the hell out of him.

"How about I just bring you home something during my break?!" He said almost too forcefully, and you leaned back to look at him. He thought that he had hurt your feelings, and he was about to apologize until you flashed a big smile, pressing your lips to his. "I love when you visit me during your breaks! Thanks, honey bunny!" You slid off his lap, and ran to the bedroom. He heard the sound of something hitting the door frame and he leaned back in his chair to see you sitting on the floor, your hands wrapped around your ankle.

"What did you hit this time?"

"Funny bone..."

"I'll get the ice."

One thing he loves doing is taking you out on his days off. He'll take you out to eat or out to the movies or when the weather allows it, he'll take you for a stroll through the park. Anything that allows him to spend time with you and give you his undivided attention he loved doing it. He would have his arm wrapped around your waist while you held onto his coat. He thought it was precious how tight you gripped onto him, how close you pressed your body against his.

One time he taken you to CosmoWorld and you had begged him to get on the Ferris Wheel. It's not that he didn't like the Ferris Wheel, he thought it looked beautiful from a distance, especially at night when it was lit up, but the concept of you and him, especially you, being that high up with no harness or really anything to keep you from falling out, it didn't really sit well with him. He wasn't scared of heights, he was scared of you falling to your death.

"Let's just pick something else. I'll win you a prize from one of the games. Pick any prize, I'll get it for you." He had tried to coax you away from the Ferris Wheel, gently pulling you in a different direction. You yanked your hand away from his and folded your arms across your chest, pouting at him as you stomped your foot. "No. I want to ride the Ferris Wheel."

"I don't think the Ferris Wheel is a good idea, not after we've eaten." He didn't like you being mad at him, and he definitely didn't like saying no to you, but sometimes he wished that you would just take no as an answer and move on with it.

"If you won't take me on the Ferris Wheel, I'll find someone else to do it." You said, sticking your nose in the air and turning your back on him. You began walking away, but you didn't get very far before he was right behind you, grabbing your wrist and pulling you to look at him.

"Y/N, stop it." He said sternly, his hands moving to grip onto your waist, holding you tightly to make sure you didn't try to turn away again. "Now look, I said I'd get you a prize, but if you want to act like this we can just go home."

Your lip jutted out and began trembling, he tried to not let it affect him, but he hated making you sad. He closed his eyes so he didn't have to see how upset you looked, it helped him keep his composure, but once you started sniffling he broke. "Come on, don't cry."

"You didn't call me pumpkin... am I not your pumpkin?" You asked quietly and as silly as your question was, he knew that you were serious. At this point you had already forgotten about the Ferris Wheel dilemma, you were worried more about the fact that he had used your first name. It was a rarity, the only times you ever heard him say your name was in the bedroom or when he was irritated with you.

"Of course you're still my pumpkin. Don't be silly. How about we just go home, we can cuddle and watch your favorite movies." He'd quickly brush his thumbs across your cheeks, brushing away any stray tears that had managed to fall.

You were childish, and sure you worried him to death sometimes, and sure he sometimes had to be more serious than he liked to be to get you to behave, but he loved you. He loved everything about you. He fell in love with every aspect of you, and he wouldn't change you for a thing. You're perfect just the way you are, and if anyone even tried to say anything about how you acted he would gladly put them in their place. You were him pumpkin, and he was proud to be your honey bunny.

A/N : What!? Two posts in one night? TWO RANPO POSTS IN ONE NIGHT?! YOU HECKIN KNOW IT! This one is kind of short, but I hope you enjoy it. <3

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saeysooo · 4 years

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♚ yandere arcana ; main 6 headcanons {crybaby} ||

♡ tw: psychological terror, possession, manipulation, murder ♡ gender-neutral / female apprentice

♜ asra alnazar ; tag, you’re it ♜

They were your master, you their apprentice; But that relationship wasn’t enough to suffice Asra. NOT EVEN CLOSE! They wanted to be yours... Or more so they wanted you to be theirs!

They would watch you through your windows... In fact, they would follow you everywhere! You were so perfect to them, especially whenever you would get undressed after a long day of training. Your soft skin, the adoring stare in your innocent gaze... And yet you had no idea who was watching you behind open curtains.

“You’re so cute! I can just cut you up!”

“Let’s go on an adventure together... What do you say, darling? No..? It’s funny how you think you have a choice!!”

“Then how about we play tag~? If I win, you’re mine. If you win... Well, you’re still mine! You’re mine, ALL MINE!! Run darling!! RUN!”

Maniacal laughter invaded your thoughts, crawling across your skin as you ran for you fragile little life.

They pushed you to the ground, holding you in their dominating grip. At a loss for words, it was too late to scream for help, cry. And even if you did, they wouldn’t let you go!! YOU LOST THE GAME!!

They had no idea before... That YOU were their poison; the bittersweet wonder that they were always searching for on all their adventures into the unknown. There was no way they can give up such a rare flower!

Fluffy, white hair tickled your cheek, their lips dragging across your skin, leaving the mark of their adoration upon you.

“My mother used to tell me that I should pick the best lover... Oh, I love it when I hear your breathing... I know that you won’t ever leave me!”

Where were you...? CAN ANYONE HEAR?! HELP, PLEASE!! ...Ha, you’re talking to yourself!! Silly apprentice, they trapped you in their oasis~!!

♜ julian devorak ; mad hatter ♜

He’s absolutely. Fucking. INSANE.

Julian Devorak was CRAZY for you! Perhaps it was the drugs he experimented with that drove him to his insanity... Or not!

“WHERE IS MY PRESCRIPTION?!”

Maybe it was just the sole factor that you were the only person that showed so much attention to him!! He drowned himself in your touch, the mere sight of you. There wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do just to hear you call him such endearing things; things only reserved for HIM!

“Wonderland is wherever you are, pumpkin!!”

There wasn’t one dream where you weren’t in it; driving him absolutely nuts. There were so many wondrous things the two of you would do: Skinny dipping in a rabbit hole, painting roses red with his blood, getting high together off helium. Or perhaps the two of you can get drunk off a blue caterpillar and fool around?

The feeling of you being in his mere presence made him want to tear the skin off of him, he wanted so badly just to hold you!!

“IT’S ALWAYS JULIAN NO, JULIAN PLEASE JUST LISTEN! Pumpkin, you DON’T UNDERSTAND! My brain is absolutely SCATTERED whenever you are around, can’t you see!?!”

And by lord how much he loved roleplaying in the bedroom with you. He would go as far as to make costumes and everything to get the scene he wanted to play out absolutely perfect!

“How about this~ Oh I know let’s do some improv acting!! It can be a drama! You can be Alice, and I’ll be the Mad Hatter!”

No matter who you told, nobody would accept or believe that Julian was absolutely insane. He was beyond a histrionic, and it was all because of you. You did this to him. You made him fall in love so fucking hard it drove him mad. WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!

♜ nadia satrinava ; cake ♜

Everything about you was absolutely divine to the Countess. They would bend over backwards to make you happy, to have you stay in their loving gaze. Even if you wanted to leave... She wouldn’t allow it! Can’t you see?! YOU’RE ALL HERS!

Every night you would return home, Nadia felt as if a huge part of herself was missing. You were perfect to her, don’t get her wrong... But there was one ingredient to you missing that was stopping you from being absolutely divine: Her love.

You were warm to her like an oven, your kisses upon her cheek always so sweet like sugar. Your fingers were silk-like, every single time you touched her. Your skin tasted like buttercream and you smelled like vanilla! Every sense she felt around you was filled with empty calories... Calories that would never satisfy her until you were all hers.

You saw her as nothing but a friend... And oh how much she hated that. The thought of you not being more than such a berating title made her skin crawl, her jaw tightening with anger.

It was when you started dating someone else that she felt more than betrayal... Oh no she went ABSOLUTELY. FUCKING. MAD.

“I am NOT a piece of cake, flower!! How can you just discard me like I didn’t love you more than them?! HOW CAN YOU LEAVE ME WITH NOTHING BUT A FROSTED HEART THAT WAS SUPPOSE TO BE YOURS?!”

“I planned everything out perfectly when I was with you!! The dates, the outfits, the sex! ALL OF IT!!”

Nonetheless... she found a way to forgive you. That’s what a Countess does, forgive those who have made mistakes!! Oh how much you will miss your lover... But it will be okay! Soon you will have another!!

“I’m taking back what’s mine... And showing you a slice of heaven that you can have when you are mine. Not that you weren’t already mine~!”

♜ muriel of the kokhuri ; teddy bear ♜

What was once his cold, exposed heart? He couldn’t even remember anymore. Despite all his attempts to push you away, isolate himself once more... You showed him love, gave him a space in your heart that was unmeasurable. And he didn’t want to admit how much he loved it.

You could never be scared of Muriel, knowing he was just a big teddy bear! You found it absolutely endearing whenever he talked in his sleep, saying all the things he would do to you, nervous beyond belief!!

It was when you started finding knives under his pillow in the morning, crumpled photos that he had drawn of you, destroyed pieces of wood that he whittled of you... That doubt began to sprout in the midst of your naive heart. Should you be scared?

What was once a comforting and quiet energy... Became malicious and violent. His love for you seemed to only extend farther than what you could perceive “healthy.” How can love become so violent?! What happened to the sweet, gentle giant that sparked a newfound feeling in his mind?!

There was only one thing you wish you did... RUN.

It was when you disposed of the myrrh he had given you to forget him... That he went absolutely mad. How can you just try to dispose of him?! ACT LIKE YOU DIDN’T KNOW HIM? HOW COULD YOU??!

What was a normal, rainy day was filled with nothing but sheer terror. He was inside your home!! WHO WAS HE?! ... YOU’RE SCARED! But oh how you had brought this upon yourself!! SO WHAT IF YOU’RE FUCKING SCARED?!

You were unprepared when his heavy breaths radiated off of the walls, bouncing around inside your mind... He was absolutely silent... When he tried to bring a knife down upon you.

♜ portia devorak ; dollhouse ♜

There was nothing Portia wanted more than for you and her to be a perfect couple, someday a perfect family even. Pepi, you, and her... Alone in her cottage, living a domestic life. How wonderful does that sound? Absolutely HEAVENLY to her, that’s for sure!!

To the public, you and Portia were, in fact, the perfect couple! She was absolutely angelic to anyone who met her eye, and you were her darling lover, an endearing doll of hers that she kept close to her. She opened the walls of her home to you, to her heart!

But soon people started to see something... different between you two. Were you really as perfect as you looked?

She’s coming... SHE’S COMING!! Swinging the attic door open, her wide smile offered an array of madness that couldn’t begin to be assessed. Her giggles filled your ears, what was once something you loved became something you came to fear.

When was the last time you truly thought for yourself? Portia did everything for you. She coddled you, fed you, dressed you, did your makeup, told you when you can speak, when you were to sleep. There wasn’t a moment where you were anything else but her rag doll, controlled and motivated under her loving hand.

“You were absolutely wonderful today, doll!! The way people looked at us. We’re perfect together!! EVERYONE THINKS IT, DON’T YOU?”

No matter how perfect everyone thought the two of you to be, you saw what everyone else didn’t see of Portia... How terrifyingly. Fucking. Insane she was.

But this is all your fault. You tried to run, tried to ruin the perfect facade Portia built up in her head. She just had to take things into her own hands to make sure you stayed! AND NOW LOOK WHAT HAPPENED!!

♜ lucio morgasson ; milk and cookies ♜

What else is there to say?! He LOVES YOU!!

He locked the doors of the palace at night. He needed to know you were there with him, in his arms, sound asleep... But when you tried to run, Lucio lost his trust in you; Trust that you can be alone.

“YOU SHOULD THINK TWICE BEFORE YOU TRY TO FUCKING CALL FOR HELP AGAIN, LITTLE BIRD!!”

Every night became the same; Lucio spiking the milk that put you to sleep; enough poison in it where he would be able to bend you to his will. Day by day, you grew weaker, unable to think for yourself. He took his chance to hold you then, singing a lullaby to you until you were... absolutely... knocked out...

“Do you want me, little bird? Of course, I’ll hold you!! I’m here!”

When the plague hit, did Lucio care? Absolutely not!! All that mattered was that you were with him, until death did you part! But when Lucio got sick, ill-ridden with the plague... He needed a final resort... Something that would assure you both would be TOGETHER FOREVER

“I baked you cookies, darling bird. Do you like them? ...Do you want to know the secret ingredients? Well, it’s a little bit of sugar... And a LOT of poison! ...Oh look how tired you’re getting. Perhaps I should put you to bed? The plague can’t kill you if I do first~! But don’t worry!! I’ll be join you VERY soon, my beautiful bird!”

He held you close to him, the sickening look in his reddened eyes absolutely deadly, filled with lust. There was nothing more soothing than seeing the pure innocence on your face when you were asleep. He sang you a final lullaby, before he set the room aflame... Ashes, ashes... If he was going to die, you were going to go down with him!! Amongst the fire surrounding him, he found solstice in knowing you were waiting for him, beckoning him to join you in the supple whisper of death. Because even in death... You couldn’t escape him; Death couldn’t do you part!

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*Author’s Note: I re-listened to the crybaby album and heard certain lines in different songs that set off my yandere writing radar. I stayed in my seat for 4 hours writing this as well... So I really hope you enjoyed!

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beerecordings · 4 years

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Memory - Part 3

He shivers on the floor of his cell, curled in on himself, sobbing from the cold.

Frigid air burns down against him like a solstice curse, biting venomously at his bare flesh. He used to say he preferred winter to summer, preferred a nip of cold and deep breaths of clear air as you tug up your scarf and hurry off down the icy pavement to the melting, insufferable, inescapable heat of the summertime, but this?

Hellfire runs cold.

“You look a little frosty there, Oskar.”

Oh, joy. And someone to mock him, too, just to make his life a little more perfect.

“Fuck off,” he croaks, turning around to hide his face from Anti.

“You're having another one of your crybaby days, are you?”

He digs his nails into his shoulders. If he draws some blood out, maybe it will be warm. He can't feel his nose anymore.

“I'm having hypothermia,” Henrik corrects, tears washing down his frozen cheeks. “I will die if you leave me like this.”

“Wouldn't be the worst thing.”

Henrik gives a dry sob, huddling in so tight his head hits his knees, rocking his body against the floor. He needs something to think about, anything to keep his mind off this. Warm coffee the way Marvin makes it, Jameson resting his head between his shoulderblades when he's tired, Jackie's voice, zipping around town on Chase's bike in early August, a nephew and niece set on one thigh each, nice dinners with nice girls, Marvin's cats, his room, his bed, his house, his friends.

He wants to go home.

“How about a blanket?” offers Anti.

“Ha ha,” rasps Henrik, swallowing back a cough.

“I'm serious. Look. Here it is, a nice one!”

“Well, are you planning to give it to me? Huh?”

“Calm down, Franz, of course I am. It just comes at a cost, of course. I can't give you something for nothing.”

Henrik should know better than to look. But he does. And fuck, but it's a beautiful blanket.

Fleece. Storm blue. Big enough to keep a pair of Inuit warm in an icestorm.

“Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you,” he chants, covering his eyes. “You're mocking me, you're mocking me!”

Anti laughs, throwing the blanket over his shoulder. “You really don't expect anything from me anymore!”

“What? What do you want? Should I beg for you again? Do you get off on that? My other ear, would you like that? My hair, just to make sure I don't have anything at all to keep warm? Blood, you fucking vampire?”

Anti's smile is different today. His tongue flickers out over a twisted grin, one of his canines poking out to gnaw on his lip. His eyes flicker from side to side, assessing, assessing, impatient.

“Nothing so worthless as your little body today, my puppet. Don't you know I'm cold too? Just because I'm immortal doesn't mean I want to be uncomfortable. I will trade you this warmth for some of yours. Something to keep the heart cozy on lonely winter days like this one.”

Henrik's heartbeat rockets and he shoves himself farther away, scraping his back against the wall, gritting his teeth hard in his mouth.

“No,” he snarls, trembling so hard his muscles ache from it. “No, I hated that, having you take something from my head. I still don't know what I’ve up.”

“Pet, it wasn't something important. Just a couple little scenes. You picked them out yourself! And I'll let you pick this one too. Just something small, for a big, gorgeous blanket. For your life, really. I won't give you anything otherwise. And you will freeze, if you don't have it.” He beams with mismatched eyes.

“No,” whispers Henrik, turning away. Block him out. Ignore him. Think of sunlight drifting down through the window in their kitchen, making sure Jackie has enough sunscreen on his neck, his favorite sweater, the dog that lives across the street, Chase's chocolate pumpkin bread fresh out of the oven, a kiss, a hug, mittens and scarves, sleeping wrapped up in blankets on a grand Queen mattress...

“Don't ignore me, you stupid little bitch!” screams Anti, a glitch spasming through his voice and making it ring in a high-pitched whine. Henrik sobs and covers his bleeding ear, curling impossibly tighter. “I'll be back in an hour! And by then you'll be begging to hand over whole meals worth of memories for some fleece on your skin, mark my fucking words!”

Anti is gone.

Henrik is left alone with the cold, gnawing away at him like a toddler given a pig's rib to eat.

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

His hair was warm beneath his fingers.

Henrik pushed his glasses up on his nose and looked up at the picture of the model on the counter in front of him, combing through the downy curls, wetting them straight with a little spray bottle which, before that day, had only ever been used to train Marvin's cats to stop scratching at the curtains. Jameson, eyes closed, relaxed, sat straight and still on his little stool, waiting for him to finish. Henrik snipped, snipped, snipped away at his hair, shorter and shorter, neater and neater.

The door pushed open across the house and he heard Marvin and Chase hollering from the cold, bringing a draft of freezing wind with them as they scampered across the doorstep. Jackie shouted a greeting and Henrik rolled his eyes as the three of them began a yelled conversation from two different sides of the house. Jamie only tittered in reply and Henrik patted his head, trying not to smile.

The heater kicked on and poured warm air down on their heads, ruffling Jameson's new haircut as Henrik finished double-checking the last few strands. He clapped a hand on his little brother's shoulder, humming to himself, and began wiping up stray pieces of brown and teal hair from the sink, leaving Jameson to consider himself in the mirror for a moment.

When he looked back up, Henrik found him smiling.

Something warm as fresh coffee rose up in Henrik's chest. Jameson grinned at him and brushed his hands through his shortened hair, pleased.

“It is very you,” said Henrik, drawing another smile out of him. “A little old-fashioned, but you pull it off.”

“Thanks to you,” answered Jameson's hands.

Henrik grinned and set his chin on top of his head, running his fingers over the side of Jameson's hair. His little brother reached up to find his hands and squeezed the fingers fondly, and for a moment, Henrik let himself rest there with him, soaking in his warmth.

“Th-that,” stammers Henrik, his hands reaching desperately through the frigid bars of his cage, scrabbling for the blanket. “Please. Take that for the blanket. He would not mind. He would not want for me to be frozen to death. Surely. Surely.”

“Sure, yeah, he wouldn't care.” Shaking with anticipation, Anti drops the blanket and leans down to grab Henrik's chin, tilting his head up towards him. His eyes are colder than the concrete, and entering into them is like his head had been put through the ice of a frozen river, but then the moment is gone, and so too is the memory of cutting Jameson's hair, and he is alone with his blanket and his shame, wondering what it was that he surrendered.

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

Henrik is awoken two days later by cold iron slamming against the bars of his cage.

“What, what?” he cries, jolting awake and striking his head hard on the top bars. Whimpering, he sinks back in on himself, staring tearfully up at Anti as the pain rocks through his skull.

He expects him to be laughing.

He is not laughing.

Anti's eyes are those of a dog chained away from its meat for too long and his hands tremble minutely, clenching and unclenching around the carved handle of the iron knife. He swallows and glances around the cage, his eyes finally settling back on Henrik's again.

This is not the first time Anti has looked so wild Henrik does not call him human. Shrinking in on himself, Henrik closes his eyes and prays that whatever it is that Anti has devised to entertain himself tonight will not be so horrible.

No, wait – today, not tonight. There's a little light come in Henrik's window still.

“Why are you waking me up so early?” rasps Henrik, by now adjusted completely to his brother's nocturnality. “What's wrong?”

“Shut up,” snaps Anti, drawing away from the cage. “Shut up, just – just – I want more of that. That thing you gave me.”

“The... the memory? From the other day?”

“Yes, you brainless welp, what else could you possibly have to give me? I'm bored out of mind. I'm always – I'm always so bored, you don't understand, it's like nothing ever even – in my head, nothing hurts, nothing aches, nothing – I don't feel – ”

Anti trails off, snarling, tearing at his hair. He grips the knife too tight in his hand.

Henrik watches, picking at a scar on his wrist, trying to think. This is just another puzzle. He's good at puzzles. He can figure it out. Right now, his intuition is telling him the best solution is to keep quiet and let this unfold.

“Give me a memory, Klaus,” Anti entreats him, recovering himself a little, standing up with a coy smile meant to be warm, his voice dripping with sugar. “You'll be a good boy for master, won't you? You'll give your owner a memory like a good little creature.”

Henrik shivers and rubs at his shoulders, curling up in his blanket.

“C-can't give you something for nothing,” he croaks finally, pushing his shattered glasses up on his nose.

Anti lets out a sharp bark of laughter. His eyes are bright. He holds up a finger and then retreats into the hallway, his heavy footsteps stomping away, only to return moments later with his hands full.

Henrik straightens up so fast he nearly strikes his head again, his mouth falling slightly open. He stares between Anti and his reward, trying to figure out if this is a joke or not.

“Tasty, yes? Good for you! You must keep the scurvy away, pet. Yummy, sweet. Good to drink too. Mmh, lecker!”

Henrik's fingers reach out past the bars of his cage, barely skimming the scratchy string that binds together a bulk bag of blood oranges.

“Six whole pounds,” crows Anti, pressing them a little closer, letting Henrik smell the good sweet skin. “I knew you'd love it. When was the last time you had a treat like this? Or anything to eat but yams and canned corn, ha! Come on, so, darling, it's a deal?”

He licks at his lips. Henrik tries not to lick at his own.

“Throw in a couple jugs of water and some protein.” He holds his chin up. “And I'll give you what you want.”

A ripple of glitching runs through Anti's form and he drops the oranges to the ground, stalking off again and coming back with three whole liter-jugs of water and a can of – ugh, canned tuna. It'll have to do.

“Something like last time,” Anti demands, opening the cage door. “But – but – I don't know. Bitter. Everything you give me is so sweet.”

Henrik's mouth twitches grimly as he tugs the oranges towards himself, tearing into the skin with shaking hands and eyes blown wide with the strength of his hunger and craving. He wants to shove his hand inside the orange and lick the juice off like a wild thing, wants to tear the fruit out and fill his mouth until he fucking chokes, and if it kills him, then what a way to go!

No, no! Savor it, Henrik, savor it. Staring down at the little scrap of skin, he reaches slowly up, and places it into his mouth, chewing down on the almost empty, but ever-so-slightly sweet taste of the rind.

“Puppet,” growls Anti, crossing his arms over his chest. “Don't ignore me.”

“Sorry.” Henrik chews down faster on the rind, a cold smile sitting on his cracked lips. “You said something bitter?”

“Yes. Yes.”

He can give him that.

“Well, what did I give you last time?”

Anti shuffles, tilting his head side-to-side. “Well... the point is, I want something... personal. Personal. And I want – I want – ”

He shakes his head and hisses, drawing in close. His fingers curl around the bars of the cage.

“I want something with Jameson. Something personal with Jameson. Like that haircut... him smiling at you. Stroking his hair. Give that to me, but bitter.”

Henrik's blood seems to chill against his bones.

And then he is spitting out the orange rind, shoving the bag back at Anti, and his heart is pulsing to get out of his chest. Revulsion makes him choke and shame makes his vision blur, painful sobbing hiccups interrupting rapid breaths. Anti is shouting, pressing the oranges back towards him, grabbing at his hair and slamming him back against the wall of the cage, but Henrik isn't listening, not now, not anymore.

“You will never see anything of Jameson's friendship!” he shrieks, thrashing against the grip around his throat. “You will never see anything of what it is like to be loved by him! You are nothing! He abhors you! He despises you! He doesn't belong to you and you will never get your hands on him again! Not in reality, not in my head, not on your useless, horrible, god-awful pustule of an existence!”

Anti's anger is a hurricane, enough to lift cars, enough to lift houses, sweeping across whole cities, across whole lands, with a noise like the whipping of a thousand winds. “Don't you say that to me!” howls Anti, striking him, striking him, striking him until his face is one red and purple bruise, until bones poke out from his cheek and neither of his eyes can open. “Stupid fucking brat!”

“I never should have given you anything,” wheezes Henrik, clawing at his hands. “Own my body, huh? Call me your dog? Well, Antisepticeye. You can keep me in a cage all you want – ”

Anti strikes him across the head and makes him reel, but still he is speaking.

“You can beat me within an inch of my life – ”

Or perhaps farther, he almost believes, sucking in a desperate breath.

“But you will never own my mind.”

“Little monster.” The words drip from Anti's mouth like saliva from a lion's. His eyes are pools of pitch and his lips drawn back in a fang-toothed snarl. “Stupid little monster. You really think you can keep anything from me? I will suck every memory, every moment, every fucking feeling out of that little head of yours. I will take Chase, I will take Jameson, I will take Henrik himself. There is nothing – nothing – you can do to stop me. You will never be able to hold on. You will never be able to deny me. Weak, stupid, desperate, ugly little animal.”

“Go fuck yourself,” whispers Henrik, a smile on his relentless mouth. “I will never give you another memory again.”

For a second, Anti's fist draws back yet again, and Henrik braces for a hundredth blow, his mouth tightening in a grimace.

But it never falls.

Anti's voice, when he speaks, has lost most of its vitriol.

“You really are very stupid,” he says softly. “If you think that that is true.”

His weight disappears from Henrik's chest and legs and the door of the cage clicks locked again, leaving Henrik fuzzily clinging to consciousness and alone, without even an orange to comfort him.

“You'll shatter again soon enough,” Anti promises, drawing back. “Whatever happens, you always have days where I find you in so many pieces you would give anything to try and put yourself back together again. But it does not matter. I have other methods I can use, you know. Your brothers are getting sloppy hiding from me, puppet.”

Henrik drags himself back from the brink of darkness, awakened by the words.

“Wh-what?” his aching lips manage.

Anti's laugh titters through the burning light of the afternoon.

“One day, Albert. One day you will not be the only one down here in this basement.”

No. No. Anything but that. He wants to rage at Anti. To get up and swear to him that he will never lay a hand on a single one of his brothers and friends.

But he does not have the strength.

“My name,” he whispers, as the sound of footsteps drifts away. “Is Henrik.”

He faints clean away. When he dreams, it is of clocks and button-ups and soft, downy curls between his fingers.

#torture tw #blood tw #imprisonment tw #jacksepticeye #writers of jack #henrik's memory #bee writes

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frangipanidownunder · 4 years

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Objects in the Mirror: fic

This is for my anon who asked: ‘what happens when Scully sees Mulder kissing someone else during their “separation”. This is set pre-season 10.

Willowy. That’s the first word that pops into Scully’s head. The second thought is that at least the woman isn’t a brunette too. Type, much, Mulder? The third thought is that it’s none of her business what Mulder does these days. None. At all. Unless it’s a health issue, he’s an adult. He’s not her…The mental conversation doesn’t supply a word so her brain leaps to the fourth thought, which is how the fuck could he do that? She stops short of adding ‘to her’, so she pulls herself back to the third thought, repeating like a mantra as she strides out, eyes to the sidewalk, desperate to unsee what she saw.

But now there’s a burning itch in her gut, the kind that used to see her pumping more rounds out at the firing range or sending local law enforcement officers running for cover with her machine-gun observations of their sub-par work. Pity she can’t blow her anger/disappointment/betrayal/jealousy off like that anymore; she’s no longer FBI.

Pity she can’t blow off being Scully.

She takes her writhing anger/disappointment/betrayal/jealousy into the café over the road and orders a large latte and a white chocolate and raspberry muffin. She knows she’ll regret it almost immediately and spend a week denying herself any other treats but she needs the sugar hit. Mulder’s still talking to Willow-Blonde, so while Scully’s waiting, she teases ‘Louis’ the barista with a slow smile, holding the seam of her wallet against her cheek, hugging her waist with the other arm and slowly twisting her torso side to side so that her hair falls over her face, then swings back off it again.

It’s a pointless mating dance. It’s reactive. She’s aware of that, but tries not to fall further down the Mulder-profiling-her rabbit hole. The slow-combustion of what she recognises as a misguided sense of dispossession is still taking place in her veins. She hates herself for this weakness but here she is swaying for a bearded barista. Louis blinks her way, finishing the latte art on her order with a flourish. For him, this ritual is part of his training. Keep the customers happy. Especially the older, professional women. They’re the ones who’ll return to the same café time and again, spending their disposable income on cakes and romantic hopes. She’d fuck him though. He’s pretty enough. She wonders what the male equivalent of willowy is. And then tells her mind to shut the fuck up.

Outside, where people are actually living with purpose, instead of imagining petty sex-revenge scenarios, the street is busy. Through the thrum, she spots Mulder again. His outline, his figure, is imprinted indelibly in her mind’s eye. She believes she could find him anywhere, in a ballgame crowd, in the darkened corner of a jazz club behind drifting dry ice, through the misty rain at the end of the yard, arm raised against the twisted apple tree, raging at the brutal sky above him. There was a time when she so desperately wanted him to return home from her imposed exile that she saw him everywhere: in the parking lot, at the line in the bank, across the street pushing someone else’s baby in a stroller.

“Latte for Day-nah,” Louis sings, and as he hands over the cup his fingers brush hers. They’re thin, girlish, two knuckles decorated with calligraphy tattoos. She doesn’t hold his eye, just whips the coffee and cake bag from his hand and heads outside.

The woman has gone but Mulder’s still there, brown paper cup in hand, sunglasses (those ugly sports ones he got from eBay because they were called SpookMeister, what? they’re so me, Scully) across that familiar, broad nose, hair an inch past unkempt and stubble on his chin that hides that fat bottom lip just a little too much. She dips her face to her own cup and watches a moment longer before a car pulls up and he climbs in.

He calls her later. She doesn’t answer the first time, lets the cell buzz and slide over the table top while his name flashes at her. When she does pick up, she feigns breathlessness and gets the desired response.

“Did I catch you at a bad time, Scully?” There’s disappointment laced through his words.

“No, it’s fine. Just doing a workout.” She wheezes out a cough for extra measure.

“Keeping fit for all those kids, huh? You’re a good doctor, Scully. Always going above and beyond for that place. I hope they know how deep your affections lie. Is there some kind of Olympic Games for paediatricians? The Doctors Games?”

It’s hard not to bite back, but they’ve played this game for so long their dysfunction is beat-perfect. “Keeping fit for one’s own personal health and wellbeing is a key component in living a fulfilling life, Mulder.” If only she could convince herself as easily as the words flow.

There’s a shuffle, a few clicks and bumps. He’s changing channels. “I wanted to let you know that I’ve found a new therapist. One that seems to really get me, you know?”

His tone seems genuine and she softens. “That’s good, Mulder.” Despite their issues, she’s only ever wanted him to be well. “I do want to know these things. As your physician…”

“Not that I didn’t like the other one you recommended, but,” he takes in a sharp breath as if to punctuate his point, “we’d run our course.”

She sinks into the chair, letting her head flop back on the rest. One step forward, two steps back. “How often do you see him?”

“You’re letting your unconscious bias show, Scully. Her.”

The small word stings like a needle. She refrains from asking him if she has blonde hair and legs like a foal.

“Fortnightly. We’re still at the heady getting to know you stage.” There’s a small silence where she imagines he’s assessing if he’s done enough damage yet. “She’s young enough to understand Instagram but mature enough to get Prince.”

She laughs gently. The tension diffuses again and she feels a rush of emotion. She can’t help herself. He drags her down then lifts her up with a simple switch of tone. “I saw you today. In town.”

“I do go out in the wild without my Ghillie suit sometimes, Scully. Why didn’t you say hello? I don’t bite.”

Not literally, she thinks. Well, not for a long time. She crosses her legs at the unexpected surge of arousal but the image of him kissing another woman creeps behind her eyes again. “It felt…” If he were here with her, in the same room, he’d lean in to her, tilt his head, quirk his lips, draw the truth from her. But there’s a distance more than miles between them and she can’t say the words. “I was running late.”

“That’s unlike you, Dr Punctual. Is everything okay?”

The way he switches from teasing to caring leaves her off-balance. She waits for the world to right itself.

“Can you schedule me in for an appointment, Scully? There’s something I’d like to talk to you about. Not medical. Are you free on the weekend?”

Tightness in her chest makes her breathing hitch. She adjusts the phone in her grip, gives herself time to respond. She’s faced mutants and monsters, her own mortality and his death, the loss of her children. Surely, his confession shouldn’t be elevated to those ranks. Yet her hands tremble and nausea roils in her stomach. Her brain rocks. It’s stupid, dumb to feel like this. She left him. She turned her back one last time and got herself away before the darkness swallowed her whole. The guilt that followed stripped her bare like a never-ending winter but recently she’s begun to feel the warmth of the sun on her skin again.

“Sure. I’ll come over,” she asserts. That way she can simply leave again. Walk the same walk.

“No, let me take you to dinner,” he says, unexpectedly. “That Thai place you like.”

Her sigh is sharp enough to graze her throat. He can’t be that insensitive as to invite her to eat at the same place they celebrated getting the keys to the house or her news about the job at Our Lady of Sorrows.

“Or the Ethiopian restaurant. You loved their shiro wat.”

“We could order pizza and stay home.” Home. She says it without thinking.

He chuckled. “Like the old days?”

“Something like that,” she says, knowing it will be anything but.

In the end, they agreed on a lunch at the vegetarian café and she orders an omelette she knows she won’t eat. He tucks into his feta and pumpkin quiche with salad and tells her he’s trying to eat cleaner. She doesn’t ask what’s brought on the change.

“What was it you wanted to tell me, Mulder? If it’s just to prove you’re finally paying attention to your diet, you’ve demonstrated it adequately. I believe you.” Her fingers clasp around a napkin and she twists it to a sharp point.

His expression is the same one he used for the victims of the most bizarre kind of crimes. She feels panic welling in her throat and crushes the napkin into a tight ball.

“I wanted to tell you that I met someone. I figured I owed you an explanation. Not an explanation, I mean I haven’t done anything wrong…fuck, this is hard,” he rubs the back of his neck. “Jeez. I feel like a teenager. I…I just didn’t want you to find out from someone else.” He pauses and she nods her head at him, encouraging him to finish, not only because he’s clearly still got stuff to get off her chest, but also because she just wants it over. “Not that anyone else knows because I don’t have friends…so, anyway. I…” The noise he makes is a sad laugh. For her or for him? “That’s, that’s my news.”

His fingers have crept across the table and they’re drumming on the surface, disturbing the small jug containing packets of sugar so that it chinks in time with his beat. He adds a low “sorry.”

If she takes a deep breath, what signal will that send? If she speaks too quickly, would that show a callous disinterest? She tries to smile but her lips refuse to co-operate. She’s never been good at hiding negative emotions, despite her tendency to stoicism. “How did you meet her?”

“Online,” he says. “Where else does someone who spends days at a time in his den meet other humans?”

He’s blushing and it’s charming and she hates it. “Is it serious?” The words are dry on her tongue.

He looks away and she tries to interpret the clench of his jaw. A beat. It softens and his mouth changes from grimace to lop-sided grin. “What does it mean if she left a copy of Why Men Don’t Listen and Women Can’t Read Maps on the coffee table?”

“Well,” she starts, trying to hold his eye despite a rush of conflicting emotions churning through her. “I would jump in the car and take it back to her, but I’m not sure how to get to her place.”

There’s a moment of shocked silence, then his head tips back and he laughs. She sips her tea and enjoys the sound. It always pleases her so profoundly to make him laugh. Not many people could claim to draw out true joy from Fox Mulder.

When he’s collected himself, he rubs his chin. “She took me out last week for coffee, took me out to tell me it was over. At least she did that, I suppose. She…she told me I was too insular. Can you believe that, Scully?” He plays for light. “According to her expert opinion of my psyche, that, I might add, she gleaned from two coffee dates and a meal at some over-priced French place where a dessert the size of a pin cost $50, I was still stuck in the past. With you.” He lowers his eyes and she rolls her lips together to stop herself from adding ‘and your demons and truths’. His shoulders move as he chuckles. “She didn’t really leave me that book, Scully. She didn’t come to the house.”

She’s stupidly relieved to hear that.

“It seemed wrong, somehow,” he says. “And it got me thinking, after her Dear John speech, that maybe this is what we’re…I’m destined for. A kind of relationship limbo. Prevented from going forward because I’m still snagged on a Scully branch. Do you think she’s right? If you…if you met someone, Scully, do you think you could give your whole self to that person?” He blinks slowly. “Or will there always be a small part of you left here?” He pats his chest with the side of his fist.

Her own heart speeds up. She’s had a few dates, a few flings. She hadn’t told him because he wasn’t in the headspace to process her attempts at moving on. And she can see now they were just ‘attempts’. There was an emptiness to the experience. And there’s a grain of truth to his question. It’s exposed just how indelibly tied they are because of their past.

She doesn’t answer him and he plays with the lollo rosso on his plate. “I like the weight of you in here.” He looks down to his heart. “It keeps me balanced.” A waiter retrieves their plates and Mulder watches her for the entire time he’s cleaning the table.

Her chest constricts, burns with such intensity that she’s certain her face is aflame. His fingers meet hers, mid-table, and she lets him squeeze them, such tenderness, such affection, so far removed from the angry, impotent man she’d left.

“Have we fucked each other up entirely, Scully?”

“Is that how she put it, your mystery woman?”

He grins. “I told her I liked being fucked up. It’s the only life I’ve ever known. That’s when she threw in the towel.”

“I don’t blame her,” she says, rubbing his knuckles. “Imagine meeting Spooky Mulder all grown up. At least back in the day your paranoia was justified. Government conspiracies and all.”

“If Dr Dana Scully had met me now, she wouldn’t have lasted one date with Ole Spook, would she?”

She lowers her head as she giggles. “You showed me many things, Mulder. Opened my eyes to wonders and closed them to the black and white life I’d known. I’m a better person because of you. I wouldn’t change a day.”

“You told me that once before.”

“And I still mean it.”

Outside, the day is cooling, sun leaching away behind thickening cloud. They walk in amiable silence down the street. There’s a bookshop she loves and he nods as she lingers at the door. Inside, the comforting smell of words on pages wafts over her and she browses the dark-shadowed shelves.

Mulder emerges with an armful of books from Squatchin’ for Novices to Meals for One. She swallows at the sight of that one. She’s picked up a mystery thriller, and couple of romances that he side-eyes. She bats him over the arm with one. Then she spies the main prize. She picks out two copies. A his and her pair. The teller scans them through and she hands one to Mulder.

He’s still laughing as they walk to their cars. He puts the other books on the passenger seat of his car and clasps his copy of The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck to his chest.

“Shit is fucked,” she says, reading from the blurb.

“And we just have to live with it.” He drops a kiss on her head and smiles a full-wattage beam. “You’re still a good date, Scully.”

“You too,” she says. “And I’m glad you told me about…your…”

“Tiffany. That was her name.”

She can’t help the sharp burst of laughter that comes out. “I’m sorry,” she says. “That…was unexpected.”

He snugs a hand in his jeans pocket. “I know. It should have been a warning.”

“Well, unfortunate name aside, it’s good that you’re getting out there.”

“Out there. Where the truth is? I don’t think I’ll be doing it again in a hurry.”

She pulls a sympathetic face, reaches out to touch his arm. “I don’t want to be your snag, Mulder. I thought I was setting you free.”

“We’ll never be free of each other, Scully. And I don’t want to be free in that sense, not if it means never having days like this. I…miss you.” He bounces his toe off the ground and the lump in her throat wedges itself firm.

“I’d better be going,” she whispers. Turns to leave.

“Maybe we can make this a weekly thing,” he says after her. “Just two fuck-ups having lunch, you know?”

She stops, turns back around, smiling through her tears. “Maybe.” And she watches him in the rear-view mirror. Objects in the mirror may appear closer than they are, she thinks as she drives away, and sometimes, they actually are.

#txf fanfic #my fanfiction #msr pre-season ten angst #objects in the mirror

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tarithenurse · 5 years

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Cookies and Chaos - Halloween Challenge

Pairing: Loki x reader Prompt: 10 - “Okay, who’s raising the dead when I’m trying to sleep.” Contents: Quoted lyrics from James Brown’s “I feel good”, maybe some swearing, angst and panic, sweet and fluffy compensation, hints at smut. A/N: I’m not an expert on Halloween because it’s relatively new in the country I live in. Also I don’t bake because…the results are frankly disastrous. Still I hope this little treat is okay ;) Thanks to Devilbat for creating a challenge with fun prompts!

Cookies and Chaos

Bustling around in the kitchen with the earplugs delivering your favourite tunes, it’s hard to keep the pessimism up. The scents of pumpkin cookies is starting to spread through the Tower’s shared kitchen as a sweet compensation for the creepy decorations Loki full-heartedly has adopted the use of – the entire holiday is perfectly suited for the god’s esthetic. Perfect, the time of year and doubly so Asgardian. Loathe as you might be to admit it, a huge motivation for your efforts today are fueled by him and an irrational craving for his approval and…well why think of his love when it’s out of reach?

*Woah!* The next song starts with a cheer that makes your hips swing. Oh yeah, you feel good. Brushing with milk and lemon. *Like sugar and spice* Sprinkles of cinnamon sugar. The “wizard hats” are ready to go into the oven with a promise of chocolate-oozing perfection.

You gather the dirty utensils, each item plonking into the sink on time with the beat as it fills with hot water. Soap bubbles dance on the surface, and you mimic them through the room to make sure nothing’s forgotten.

*And when I hold you –* James Brown croons and you join, “- in my aaaarms, my love can’t do me no ha-arm –“ The dish brush is a perfect mic as you and Mister Brown have a private kitchen-party. “And I feeeeeel ni-ice –“ You twirl joyfully.

You twirl joyfully straight into the hard chest of Loki.

Shit! You were supposed to have kept quiet, the guy’d been called in last minute by Strange for something and you’d promised yourself to let him sleep in after getting back at 7AM. Glancing up at his face with the perfectly sharp cheekbones, you can see how annoyed he is.

Cool hands reach out and pluck the music from your ears. “I woke up to a ruckus, little mortal, and I thought to myself…’Who is raising the dead when I’m trying to sleep?’”

Partially ashamed of having been singing out loud, but mostly pissed at his belittling comment on the quality, you ignore the voice in the back of the head which tells you to be meek. God or not, don’t come and insult me on my singing. Not that it is good, but it’s one of the things that brings you joy and makes you feel normal.

“Well, I’m sorry, bud!” You poke his chest with a bubbled finger (only then realizing the man is shirtless). “But I happen to be enjoying some baking time while singing. There are no death rituals or ghouls or whatever here…just delicious treats.”

An eyebrow arches and his calculative gaze takes in you and the surroundings. Oh damn. A smirk, dangerous and tantalizing, forms to show those perfect teeth and you know you’ve gone much too far. If only you could go back, but it’s too late now.

“Is that so?” he purrs, “the sounds I heard could be the wails of the souls eternally trapped in damnation…however a real summoning ritual would be much…much…different.”

With a snap of the fingers, the light leaves the room even though it’s the middle of the day and plunges the place into an unnatural darkness only broken by an acid-green glow from Loki’s hands. What? Is he for real?? A pattern appears on the floor as he motions with a sweep for you to stay still, and you do because you’re much too nervous to step on the glowing runes. Suddenly you recall how Thor once talked about Hela, the goddess of death, being their sister. Tony’s gonna kill me.

“You mortals have always been obsessed with death. With what lies beyond life,” the god hisses into your ear, raising the hairs on your body, “You do not fathom the true power of necromancy.” Deep-purple, translucent blobs are rising from the floor. “A few have been close to harness it but we, your gods, know the secrets.” Each blob is a skull that grins at you with empty eye sockets and clicking jaws and you know Loki has lost his mind and gone back to his old ways again. “The living do not control the dead…the dead tolerates the mortals.”

Step by step, you back away from the menacing god and the skeletons reaching for you with the boney hands. Poisonous colours flicker like demonic fire meant to melt the flesh from your bones, the heat already too much. But Loki advanced. Tall. Powerful. Dangerous.

“No…” It’s just a whimper leaving your lips. “Y-you can’t…you’re not a necro-“

“Necromancer? Perhaps not,” he grins menacingly, “but do not forget who my sister is or the purpose I had when I first came to this measly, little planet.”

There’s a gleam in his eyes you’ve never seen before in real life…but now it’s clear. The footage from Stuttgard. The madness is the same and it’s a craze that cannot be reasoned with, forcing you to turn to flee…right into Loki’s open arms. Thrashing in gut-freezing panic, your heart threatens to stop as his grip tightens around you and every thought in your mind is crushed with the exception of one: I just wanted him to make him happy.

Laughter withers, overgrown by soft murmurs – your name, apologies – and the embrace is no longer aggressively possessive but rather a gentle rocking interspersed by soothing strokes. Gone is the darkness along with the unnatural fire and the skeletons that had seemed to lust for your soul or…or…

“Shhh, my dove, shhh,” Loki kisses the words against the top of your head, “I am sorry. I did not mean to frighten you so, please forgive me.” He’s cradling you, sat on the floor with you in his lap. “I beg, do not cry…I love your smile and your voice…I love your wits and companionship…please forgive me.”

The words tremble, causing your to quiet down with surprise at the realization that you’ve never heard him sound so broken before. This is not a trick. No, Loki apparently does care deeply about your wellbeing, that he can see the error in his ways, and the normally sharp-tongued god is searching for a way to say that…

“With my life I will protect you and shield you from harm…I love you.”

What? The world stops along with your heart and breathing. Too afraid to believe it’s true, you force yourself to find his gaze and be swept into the whirl of pain, fear, hope, truth. Love. Nose to nose, forehead to forehead, his sincerity permeates the air you breath and seeps into your lungs, diffuses into your body to change away every lingering grain from the living nightmare he’d conjured, leaving behind a warmth that stands in contrast to the cool chest you’re pressed against. Reaching for his jaw with a trembling hand, you act without thinking and kiss him. Slow at first and so light that lips barely meet, but then you feel the response shudder his body and the press deepens to allow Loki’s tongue taste the seem before delving past your lips. Tasting. Exploring.

Allowing himself to accept reality, the god effortlessly repositions you to straddle his legs stretched out on the floor and he allows you to set the pace, to push him into a lying position free for you to admire while your hands create ripples of goosebumps and your lips swallow the softest of sighs.

Loki’s eyes are closed when you glance away for the briefest moment. “Hold the thought.”

A quick maneuver, a few steps, and the oven’s clock beeps just as you grab the mitt to pull out the finished pastries to cool. Oh! Cool hands skirt your waist, already skimming underneath the shirt.

“Do…am I forgiven?” Loki whispers in your ear and you can’t help but roll your eyes a bit because isn’t it obvious?

Letting him wait, you finish securing the kitchen from any mishaps in case you get distracted (while trying to stay as close to Loki as possible so he can feel your body against his). When you finally do turn to face him, his eyes are dark with need, but brows pinched with insecurity.

“You still need to prove just how sorry you are, my love.”

Your words are absorbed slow enough to see the stages he passes through before he pulls you close and steels your breath away with his lips, tongue, hands, and…oh god.

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networkingdefinition · 4 years

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Cinnamon Quotes

Official Website: Cinnamon Quotes

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• A person of good intelligence and of sensitivity cannot exist in this society very long without having some anger about the inequality – and it’s not just a bleeding-heart, knee-jerk, liberal kind of a thing – it is just a normal human reaction to a nonsensical set of values where we have cinnamon flavored dental floss and there are people sleeping in the street. – George Carlin • Agent Jones switched to the big screen and a grainy video of MoMo sitting at his enormous desk, a swivel-hipped Elvis clock ticking behind his bewigged head. ‘Death to the capitalist pigs! Death to your cinnamon bun-smelling malls! Death to your power walking and automatic car windows and I’m With Stupid T-shirts! The Republic of ChaCha will never bend to your side-of-fries -drive -through-please-oh-would-you-like-ketchup-with-that corruption! MoMo B. ChaCha defies you and all you stand for, and one day, you will crumble into the sea and we will pick up the pieces and make them into sand art. – Libba Bray • Almond milk + cinnamon crunch = major key to success. – DJ Khaled • And Mocha’s berry, from Arabia pure, In small fine china cups, came in at last. Gold cups of filigree, made to secure the hand from burning, underneath them place. Cloves, cinnamon and saffron, too, were boiled Up with the coffee, which, I think, they spoiled. – Lord Byron • Anyone who gives you a cinnamon roll fresh out of the oven is a friend for life. – Daniel Handler • As a rule, I do not approve of messing around with coffee. No sugar, no milk, no chocolate, hazelnuts, cinnamon, no nothing…. Just drink it black, the way God does – Klay Thompson

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'Cinnamon', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '68', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_cinnamon').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_cinnamon img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); ); • Cinnamon bites and kisses simultaneously. – Vanna Bonta • C’mon, Amy, cinnamon rolls are calling us.” Dan put a hand to his ear. “Do you hear? ‘Amy? Dan?'” he squeaked. “‘Come and get my sugary, sticky goodness! – Judy Blundell • Cotton balls is an example of something I would buy, but not want to have as a nickname. Cinnamon buns, on the other hand, is something I would buy and want to have as a nickname. ‘Are you Cinnamon Buns?’ ‘You bet your sweet ass I am.’ – Demetri Martin • Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer. Reality is beans and tofu, and ashes at the end. – George R. R. Martin • For something warm, try adding cinnamon sticks and nutmeg to apple cider simmering on the stove. You’ll get the added benefit of making your home smell amazing. – Clinton Kelly • Have you tried the cinnamon things?” Poppet asks. “They’re rather new. What are they called, Widge?” “Fantastically delicious cinnamon things? – Erin Morgenstern • Her tiny hand gripped mine with a surprising warmth, and in a shocking wash of emotion, I felt everything I knew shift. The scent of cinnamon and baby powder hit me, and as my eyes widened, my heart melted, making room for her. – Kim Harrison • His smell—the scent of a demon, cinnamon incense, amber musk—wrapped around me, filled my lungs. I felt like I could breathe again, without every breath being tainted by the stench of dying cells. The smell of him seemed to coat my abused insides with peace, and flow down into the middle of my body to spread through my veins. I filled my lungs again. While I could, before what was undoubtedly a hallucination vanished. – Lilith Saintcrow • I actually put peanut butter on my bagel. I really like peanut butter and I like to ruin the bagel. You know what’s even crazier that I do sometimes? I do cinnamon raisin bagels with peanut butter. It is really, really out there. – Evan Peters • I always go to the lowest common denominator for that ingredient. So if I think squash, I try to think what it means to me — and if it doesn’t mean anything to me, I’m not gonna do well when I cook it. So [squash] means to me: fall, maple syrup, cinnamon, and things just come into your head so you can narrow the vortex and make it a bit smaller and you go with something because there’s no time. – Geoffrey Zakarian • I always make my favorite pancakes with milk, and I also add some fruit – like a banana or apple with some cinnamon sprinkled on top. I also sometimes put peanut butter on my pancakes! – Gabriela Isler • I can’t tell you enough about cinnamon. Cinnamon is an awesome spice to use and it goes great with something like apples in the morning or in a mixture of fruit or in your oatmeal or even in your cereal. – Emeril Lagasse • I don’t know if I’ll find the cinnamon girl. I think I already did, but I’m still singing, who knows. – Neil Young • I eat a huge breakfast every morning – it’s what I look forward to. I’ll do steel-cut oatmeal with blueberries and strawberries, an egg white scramble with mushrooms, zucchini, and onion, and a piece of cinnamon Ezekiel bread with almond butter. I could do that every single day. – Heather Mitts • I like cinnamon rolls, but I don’t always have time to make a pan. That’s why I wish they would sell cinnamon roll incense. After all I’d rather light a stick and have my roommate wake up with false hopes. – Mitch Hedberg • I love Christmas! I’m not religious, but I love the trappings of the season. I love the decorations, and the music, and Santa, and the festive food, and the cinnamon- and vanilla-infused aromas. – Jane Cleland • I love the scents of winter! For me, it’s all about the feeling you get when you smell pumpkin spice, cinnamon, nutmeg, gingerbread and spruce. – Taylor Swift • I realize that it’s like spices in the kitchen. I need that turmeric. I’m sorry, but cinnamon isn’t going to substitute . I feel that I can teach my listener about a new word they can use too. “Well, what words are part of my own community, even if I’m monolingual, that I’m not allowing myself to use in a public sphere?” – Sandra Cisneros • I really don’t think I need buns of steel. I’d be happy with buns of cinnamon. – Ellen DeGeneres • I was just taking out my trash and I had, like, 300 cans of Diet Coke. It was just like, ‘How did that happen?’ I don’t even remember buying them. I also like Cinnamon Toast Crunch. My addictions are pretty much the only things I consume. – Robert Pattinson • I wasn’t eating the right kinds of calories. I didn’t know about healthy carbs such as brown rice and lentils. Now I eat small meals throughout the day: oatmeal with cinnamon to start, fruit and yogurt as a snack, and vegetables or with chicken or tuna, and a healthy carb, like a yam, for lunch. – Alison Sweeney • I’d like to wear my old [cinnamon buns] hairstyle again – but with white hair. I think that would be funny. – Carrie Fisher • I’m getting fat … as I planned. Luckily, my gut is intentional. I’m actually preparing for a big role. Sure, it’s a cinnamon roll. – Jim Gaffigan • In football you need to have everything in your cake mix to make the cake taste right. One little bit of ingredient that Tony uses in his cake that gets talked about all the time is Rory’s throw. Call that cinnamon and he’s got a cinnamon flavoured cake. – Ian Holloway • In November, the smell of food is different. It is an orange smell. A squash and pumpkin smell. It tastes like cinnamon and can fill up a house in the morning, can pull everyone from bed in a fog. Food is better in November than any other time of the year. – Cynthia Rylant • Instead of doing cinnamon, nutmeg, and all those baking spices I’ll have one spice that’s for sweets, and that’s pumpkin pie spice. – Sandra Lee • It looked like the world was covered in a cobbler crust of brown sugar and cinnamon. – Sarah Addison Allen • I’ve been juicing lately, making different smoothies and such. It was interesting, and tough at first, but it’s been doing wonders for me. I’ve been leaning in up, shedding fat, burning fat and I’m feeling good, feeling clean. My favorite so far is some almond milk with a little cinnamon there. It’s good. I have that as a little night cap at the end of the day. – Brandon Spikes • My mother was good at reading books, making cinnamon biscuits, and coloring in a coloring book. Also she was a good eater of popcorn and knitter of sweaters with my initials right in them. She could sit really still. She knew how to believe in God and sing really loudly. When she sneezed our whole house rocked. My father was a great smoker and driver of vehicles..He could hold a full coffee cup while driving and never spill a drop, even going over bumps. He lost his temper faster than anyone. – Haven Kimmel • Oils of cinnamon and eucalyptus are as powerful against some microorganisms as conventional antibiotics, and are especially effective against flus. Sandalwood oil from Mysore, India, is not only a classic perfume oil but is also a traditional remedy for sore throats and laryngitis. Lavender oil, so often used in toilet waters and scented sachets, has a dramatic healing action on burns. – Robert Tisserand • Promises are lies wrapped in pretty ribbons -Cinnamon – Virginia C. Andrews • She serves me a piece of it a few minutes out of the oven. A little steam rises from the slits on top. Sugar and spice – cinnamon – burned into the crust. But she’s wearing these dark glasses in the kitchen at ten o’clock in the morning – everything nice – as she watches me break off a piece, bring it to my mouth, and blow on it. My daughter’s kitchen, in winter. I fork the pie in and tell myself to stay out of it. She says she loves him. No way could it be worse. – Raymond Carver • Soon to come in licorice, orange, cinnamon, and banana, but not strawberry, because I hate strawberries. – Terry Pratchett • Ten silver saxes, a bass with a bow The drummer relaxes and waits between shows For his cinnamon girl. – Neil Young • The jelly – the jam and the marmalade, And the cherry-and quince-‘preserves’ she made! And the sweet-sour pickles of peach and pear, With cinnamon in ’em, and all things rare! And the more we ate was the more to spare, Out to old Aunt Mary’s! Ah! – James Whitcomb Riley • The only fruit which even much living yields seems to be often only some trivial success,–the ability to do some slight thing better. We make conquest only of husks and shells for the most part,–at least apparently,–but sometimes these are cinnamon and spices, you know. – Henry David Thoreau • The secret of food lies in memory – of thinking and then knowing what the taste of cinnamon or steak is. – Jerry Saltz • There’s no time to be modest. Reason will not work here. Without warning, I kiss Kartik. His lips, pressed firmly against mine, are a surprise. They are warm, light as breath, firm as the give of a peach against my mouth. A scent like scorched cinnamon hangs in the air, but I’m not falling into any vision. It’s his smell in me. A smell that makes my stomach drop through my feet. A smell that pushes all thought out of my head and replaces it with an overpowering hunger for more. – Libba Bray • They take unbelievable pleasure in the hideous blast of the hunting horn and baying of the hounds. Dogs dung smells sweet as cinnamon to them. – Desiderius Erasmus • They would think she was savoring the taste (blueberries, cinnamon, cream-excellent), but she was actually savoring the whole morning, trying to catch it, pin it down, keep it safe before all those precious moments became yet another memory. – Liane Moriarty • This morning, Tegus welcomed me again with an arm clasp and cheek touch. I wasn’t startled this time, and I breathed in at his neck. How can I describe the scent of his skin? He smells something like cinnamon– brown and dry and sweet and warm. Ancestors, is it wrong for me to imagine laying my head on his chest and closing my eyes and breathing in his smell? – Shannon Hale • Tigers love pepper…they hate cinnamon. – Zach Galifianakis • Use what you have, use what the world gives you. Use the first day of fall: bright flame before winter’s deadness; harvest; orange, gold, amber; cool nights and the smell of fire. Our tree-lined streets are set ablaze, our kitchens filled with the smells of nostalgia: apples bubbling into sauce, roasting squash, cinnamon, nutmeg, cider, warmth itself. The leaves as they spark into wild color just before they die are the world’s oldest performance art, and everything we see is celebrating one last violently hued hurrah before the black and white silence of winter. – Shauna Niequist • We have fried catfish, country fried steak and cinnamon-roasted pork. We have collard greens, black-eyed peas, hush puppies, biscuits, sweet potato pie and lots of gravy. Most players love it, but we also have a baked catfish for players who are still looking to stay on the approved diet. – Mark Farner • What we feel most has no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses and birds. – Jack Gilbert • When a kid says “smell my hand,” it almost never smells like cinnamon. – Brian P. Cleary • You know, you still owe me pancakes. I think I could go for…apple cinnamon ones now. “ “Apple cinnamon? You sure are demanding.” “It’s all right. I think you’re man enough for it.” “Thetis, if I actually believed you had either apples or cinnamon in your kitchen, I’d make them for you right now.” I didn’t answer. I was pretty sure I had some year-old Apple Jacks, but that was about it. – Richelle Mead • You liked me.” I smiled. “You were smitten with me. You were speechless to behold my beauty. You had never met anyone so fascinating. You thought of me every waking minute. You dreamed about me. You couldn’t stand it. You couldn’t let such wonderfulness out of your sight. You had to follow me.” I turned to Cinnamon. He licked my nose. “Don’t give yourself so much credit. It was your rat I was after.” She laughed, and the desert sang. – Jerry Spinelli

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equitiesstocks · 4 years

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Cinnamon Quotes

Official Website: Cinnamon Quotes

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bisbis3000 · 6 years

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Chapter 2: The Darkest Part of This All

I had a difficult time waking up on Sunday. My friend, Kayla, and I drove up from LA the night before after I had worked a brunch shift at my job. It was around 7 A.M. when my feet finally met the floor and soon after Kayla and I walked a couple dozen yards over to the chicken coup where several strangers, my step sister and mother gathered around the equipment that was posed to murder forty-some-odd young hens and roosters. The whole point of this trip, which was supposed to be less that twenty-four hours, was to harvest chickens for poultry meat: slitting the arteries in their necks, slicing their tiny brains in half, dunking them in hot water, dropping them in a plucker, and eviscerating them in hopes that they would yield enough weight to be substantial poultry. My step sister, Megan, wrangled a single chicken that flapped about until she held it upside down and it became completely still with its wings slightly outstretched on either side of its body which was still warm. Megan wedged the chicken, head first, into a metal cone and demonstrated how to kill and bleed it. She cleared away the feathers on the animal's throat with the backside of a small pairing knife, then put the blade to its soft pulsing neck and made a small, soundless incision. The bird's beak opened entirely and blood began to drip onto a small portion of a hay bale that was positioned to catch the blood and retain it so that it could be used for compost. Megan inserted the blade into the open beak and cut up through the bird's brain, which is called 'pithing' and considered the most humane way to kill a bird. Whatever humanity was meant to be preserved by this act went out the window when I grabbed the chicken's ankles and attempted to minimize the amount of kicking and flapping and jerking it was doing as the bale of hay soaked up the remaining blood that was draining from its soon-to-be-lifeless body. I was not built for this first step of the chicken harvesting process, however, I saw it through by walking the chicken over to the cauldron filled with almost boiling water and dunking the freshly slaughtered bird in head first, gripping it by the ankles like Achilles in the River of Styx. After the bird was submerged three times over it was ready to be dropped into this foreign machine; a small, round basin no more than three feet wide and three feet deep. The inside of this plastic apparatus was lined with rubber nipples that appeared like sterile cilia and were designed to strip the chicken of all of its feathers once it was turned on. Activated, the floor of the machine, which was also paved with the same rubber nipples, began to spin rapidly making a whirring sound that joined the hiss of the hose that was attached to its side to aid in clearing the feathers away from the body. I am hard pressed to conjure an image less graceful than a lifeless chicken tumbling around in a mechanical plucker. The skin, which was freshly softened by the hot water, allowed the feathers to be stripped away effortlessly with each thud of the chicken's body against the unforgiving rubber fingers and within moments it was completely naked. The machine was turned off and slowly spun to a halt, anti-climactically presenting us with the pale, featherless body that was ready to be gutted. Megan did not hesitate for a moment to lob the body onto the table that was set with cutting boards and containers for the entrails and a couple more of the same small pairing knives that looked like they were fresh out of the hermetic packaging. She demonstrated how to remove the feet and tossed them into a receptacle that had been placed there for that exact purpose. Megan calmly moved on to removing the animal's head, which she tossed into a large Rubbermaid bin below the table, and then began to eviscerate through a small incision made below the chicken's breast plate. Picture a roasted chicken, the cavity where you pull all the guts out and carefully trace around it's colon and anus with a knife is the same place you stuff it with herbs and lemon coins and whatever else. I will refrain from going into any further detail, but imagine the sensation of emptying the contents of a small pumpkin that is warm from having sat in the sun for a few hours. I found myself fairly skilled at eviscerating and admitted freely that I wasn't fully prepared for the processes leading up to it so I stationed myself at a cutting board where I could repeat the same act of removing the feet and head and emptying the body cavity. After a few chickens my stomach churned, I blamed the smell, which was unforgettable, but I really just needed to excuse myself so I could get loaded while I knew the house was empty. I walked back to the house in the muck boots I was supplied with by my mother, removed them, washed my hands and forearms, cut myself a fresh piece of foil and went into the guest bathroom with my wallet which contained a small bag with a little less than half a gram of fentanyl. The door didn't lock so I sat on the floor with my back to the door in order to keep it closed. With the foil I repeated the same process I have a million times; I form it into a half pipe and run my lighter over it, priming it so that I don't inhale the initial metallic taste. Sometimes when I'm really sick I skip this step. I break off a small piece of fentanyl from the single rock that sits in the bag that is frosted with some of the powder that is consequence of transporting the tiny ziplock bag in my wallet. I balance the pebble on the foil until my lighter adheres it to the aluminum so that I can smoke it through a receipt from a liquor store I have rolled up and placed between my lips like a cigarette. Two or three hits is really all I need, my tolerance was low considering I spent seven days the week before of Suboxone I bought from some kid named KT who rides a motorcycle and whose phone is dead 98% of the time. The half gram I bought for 80 dollars three days before from Patrick is potent enough to last me five days at this time. I carefully fold the foil into a small rectangle to preserve the black and amber trail the small rock left behind and tuck it into the zippered compartment of my wallet that is stained with soot from the hundreds of other folded rectangles I've stowed away inside of it. Because my tolerance is low, my stomach doesn't feel any better, in fact, my nausea is worsened but I'm high now. Vomit is a big part of my life. When I'm using, I often go off the meds I'm prescribed because I can't keep them down, especially in the morning. It's probably close to 9 A.M. now as I walk back to our makeshift slaughter yard and continue the same task of removing entrails. In an hour we're done. The chickens that have been dunked in ice water are now being dried off by Kayla and placed into individual clear plastic bags within which they will be refrigerated and then frozen. The strangers that are now acquaintances, Kayla, Megan and my mother, Virginia, are now gathered on the porch on the shaded side of the house, eating eggs and chicken livers and toast and an abundance of giant heirloom tomatoes that we have a surplus of and are served with every meal and snack this time of year. I can't look at food. Between the smell of the dead chickens that is stuck to me and everyone else and my drug induced nausea, I pass on breakfast all together and just wait until I throw up whatever water I drink in the next hour or two. Kayla and I spent the day together. I'm not certain what I've done in this life to deserve a friend like her. We bought tubs of ice cream in town and AW cream soda to make floats, I'm fairly confident I can stomach that, most opiate users love and crave sugar. It is not uncommon for me to wake up surrounded by half eaten bags of gummy bears or sheets smeared with melted chocolate or half full bottles of blue Gatorade. I think that I, personally, indulge in massive amounts of refined sugar because my brain still feels the reward from its consumption. When I'm using, everything other than drugs and sugar sinks into this anhedonic fog in which things like masturbation, hydration, and nutrition become fruitless chores. When I'm sick, these chores infuriate me and make me face the fact that I have ruptured my body's healthy and natural functions. Nothing makes you really hone in on your digestive system like vomit and diarrhea, which is really all I can think about as Kayla and I watch Chef's Table throughout the afternoon as we await twenty or so family and friends to arrive to the cookout my mother is hosting at our home later in the day. I have a big family, granted I'm not blood related to 90% of it, but I consider my 'step-cousins' or 'step-uncles' (is that even a thing?) just cousins and uncles and for the sake of sentence fluidity I will not be making the distinction between biological and other, I can explain those intricacies another time. With that said, around 3:30 P.M. family begins to arrive. First my cousins with their kids and my uncle Russ, whose wife, my Aunt Tansy Sue, died a few weeks ago after her brain began to hemorrhage following a series of strokes she had at her home just north of Santa Barbara, close to where I grew up. Russ was really skinny, sickly looking with every vein visible through the surface of his skin. He looked almost purple and drained of life. This was consequence not only of the death of his wife, but of the turmoil his meth addicted son had caused for him and his family for years now, which has only gotten worse over time as these things do. His son, my cousin Beau, is currently in jail for robbery. Russ moved all of his things into a storage unit after he and his son got in a physical altercation in the ICU where his mother, my aunt, moved closer to death. Beau and several of his friends had apparently been stealing from the other neighboring storage units after he was supplied with the entrance code to the facility. My cousin, Jen, who moved in with Russ with her family after Tansy Sue's death, explained that Beau being in prison is the only time she's felt any relief. I sat with her after we swam in the creek with her kids and she explained to me that Beau's debauchery was the real cause of his mother's death. She couldn't bear the stress caused by her son running amok in the same county where my uncle Russ, his father, served for many years as a police officer, which offered Beau preferential treatment throughout his many run-ins with the law. His most recent run-in was in the county just above the one where his family name carried any clout, thus rendering him just another meth head who made some bad decisions and is now sitting in a jail cell. It is the nature of addiction that allowed me to do what I did next even after that conversation with Jen where she explained the direct correlation between my cousins use and the death of his mother and the draining of my uncle's life force. After I cooked the burgers and hot dogs on the grill and everyone had eaten it was time for me and Kayla to hit the road. She and I loaded our stuff into the car, which was idling just beyond our front yard, ready to drive a little over four hours back down to Los Angeles. I went into the bathroom with the door that doesn't lock, sat down on the toilet and pulled out the intoxicating contents of my wallet. Just like a million times before I placed a small amount of the white rock on the foil, right next to the trail from earlier, put the rolled up receipt between my lips and began to get high. When my eyes open I am on the floor with my mother standing over me. "What are you doing? Are you smoking this stuff? Get up. Come on let's go. Come on." I followed her out of the house in a daze and into the passenger's seat of our large white Ford truck. I guess there were still guests gathered on the porch, I'm guessing they were all bearing witness to my mother's and my unannounced departure, but I hope that maybe they were distracted by one anothers company. My mom just drove. She drove down the driveway and down the dirt road adjacent to the 395 freeway, which is only a couple dozen yards away from our front door. I don't remember much of this car ride except the profound feeling of shame. Even though it was sobering, it is still hazy. My mother just found me fallen out on the floor of the guest bathroom, most likely clutching a small piece of foil and a lighter. Maybe the rolled up receipt was still in my mouth, but I can't really remember these details. All I knew was that I was fucked, that the illusion was over, that she now knew I was using again, and that her second-to-worst nightmare had come true, her first being finding me dead, but finding me basically unconscious was worse enough and how angry yet collected she was only let me know that she was in shock for never having had mentally prepared for this situation. "Where is it? Give it to me." I forked over my wallet and she emptied all of it's contents: meaningless business cards, an expired and suspended driver's license, and several pieces of blackened foil. She put the car in park over the canal and threw the paraphernalia into the water that rushed under foot. I had nothing else and surrendered my bag to her and offered up the contents of my pockets. I don't know how long we were gone for but by the time we were back everyone, including Kayla, was gone. I was still a bit loaded, but in touch with reality. I had felt this feeling before. The truth. I hate the truth. I think most addicts hate the truth in all of it's forms. It feels impossible to fully let things come to light and I have still yet to do that, but I know I will in time and I know that it is going to hurt and it is going to shatter whatever shred of trust I had cobbled together with lies since my last stint of sobriety; since the last time I really got honest with my family and friends and told them the darkness I had been spiraling in since I first started using opiates. Shit is fucking twisted. Every time my lies become too apparent to hide anymore is different, but the deep feeling of shame is the same one I felt as a child when my mother would find the food I would binge eat after school hidden behind the books that sat on the shelf. It's the same feeling of shame I felt as a teenager when my father would discover the pot I had hidden in my iPod case in my room. It's the same feeling I felt just a few months ago when the man I loved went through my texts and saw that I had not only been using dope, but that I had been seeing other people behind his back. I don't know if I can put into words the sunken feeling that swallows you when the one's you love or the one's who hold you accountable discover just how deep your deception truly runs. It doesn't make sense that such a seasoned liar like myself cannot explain this all-to-familiar feeling, maybe everyone has felt it in some way, shape, or form and maybe I will one day be capable of conveying just how profoundly devastating it is. If the truth sets you free I sure do fucking hate freedom. I cried with my mother and begged and lied some more. I pleaded with her and my step-father, Zachary, to help me, to drug test me, to monitor my bank account, to track my phone calls, but I don't think I meant any of it. I was squirming. The only thing worse than that feeling is the following morning, which I just wanted to get over with. So, after it had been made abundantly clear that I had relapsed and that I needed help, I took half of a sleeping pill and passed out in the bed I had made for myself on the couch. I slept soundly. That may be the darkest part of this all. Now, Saturday.

#addiction #drugs #drugaddict #fentanyl #relapse #recovery #sobriety #journal #heroin #opiates #shame #pharmacology #mental health #support

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