#or everyone is going to be ridiculously aware of my lack of sanity

[lostzombiewandering]

There’s nothing appealing about recovery

I’ve been sick for most of my life and honestly can’t really recall a time I didn’t feel this way even as a small child; but since I never had any particularly traumatic experience I always felt ungrateful for these feelings and buried them next to all my hopes and dreams.

Of course it doesn’t help that I’ve been told my entire life that showing symptoms of mental illness is a privilege and if you are desperate you have to put your big boy pants and put your emotions aside and do what you have to do.

So I did what I had to do; I hide all the sick away. Nobody has ever known about the extent of my SH or that I even have an ED or then 7 attempts. I’ve always done this alone bc I know they don’t want to see it; this isn’t just speculation I know I don’t have anyone I can confide in bc nobody wants to see the sick. Ppl support mental illness up until the moment it can’t be romanticized anymore; up until it’s blood and vomit.

Having said that I’ve always been aware how insane what I do to myself is and the statistics. I’ve always been aware of all of this even when I started doing these things to myself.

The thought of recovering has obviously crossed my mind more than once bc In the few moments of sanity and clarity Ive had I wanted to escape this hell once and for all.

But GOD it’s impossible to relate to anyone that has recovered or is even in the process of it.

SH

They way we are talked about is almost infantilizing to the point of nausea and I can’t stand any talk about it anymore. I keep hearing therapist explain to me what I’m doing to myself instead of listening to ppl that SH and their reasons. The way we are talked over is just terrible. Also the way only cutting is ever even mentioned as SH when so many methods far more dangerous with long term consequences exists and yet cutting is portrayed almost as a crime. “Harm reduction” but forget that anything in the hands of someone that SH is a weapon PLUS a permanent scar is a far less severe consequences that fucked up kidneys but hey let’s ignore all other forms of SH and demonize the one with the least possible long term consequences.

ED

This is just funny bc they way they only focus ON ONE is just insulting. There are several EDs and not all of them look remotely the same plus the lack of understanding that it’s genuinely not about the food but about control in restrictive EDs is ridiculous. Ppl only care about EDs when you look on death door and even then it goes only one way. If you eat “normally” everyone just takes it as a win bc nobody cares about EDs as long as you don’t look like you are dying. Nobody wants to tell you that you’ll never fully be cured from your ED but that you’ll have to learn to live with the thoughts and fight them every single day for the rest of your life. Nobody says how ppl will see you DYING, show symptoms of your ED and make it about themselves but sure you should reach out. The way ortho is just glorified and so is bed lately. Nobody really has a healthy relationship with food but claim constant indulgence.

Depression

I’ve heard one too many therapists basically reduce overcoming depression to becoming productive and “doing” shit. Not everybody with depression mops around all day doing nothing lamenting the world is a shithole. The problem is that as long as a lot of external problems are not fixed you can’t expect ppl to feel truly better about anything. Sure you don’t need a reason to be depressed but looking at the world around us everything looks bleak; but we are expected to not feel like we are being consuming by a growing void? The world does not give a fuck if I live or die, the stars and the sun don’t give a flying fuck. Sure a couple of ppl will be a little bit sad but the world will keep on going even when all of humanity ends; that is not my depression talking, that is a fact. I can’t parrot the idea that life has any intrinsic value bc I don’t believe in that; our flesh mechas are weak and dwindle under the most of the climates that are natural in the world we live in. It’s so easy for us to just die of a variety of reasons and nothing really happens when we die; it’s just game over. Value to our lives is something we assigned ourselves but it’s not intrinsic.

The big S bc I doubt tumbler will let me write the world

I’ve heard way too many therapists talk about S as a guilt trip to others; that has made me never in my life consider therapy bc god let’s make your suffering about someone else WOW. I’ve seen it also seen be referred too as a threat and I have no words. We are not talking about ppl that use it as a threat to manipulate others into doing what they want but ppl that successes and no longer live. But of course they turn around and guilt YOU about all the ppl that you are going to leave behind all sad as if they wouldn’t eventually get over your death. Sure I’m going to remain alive and miserable so just that ya’ll don’t deal with grief for half the time I’ve felt this way!!! I’m going to be very honest with you but once I die I won’t have the ability to care about ppl being sad BC ILL BE DEAD. “S is not the solution 🥺🥺🥺🥺” I mean, it is??? Once I die I’m dead forever and there’s nothing else???? We all die eventually so what’s so wrong about me wanting to rush it a little bit? That you’ll be sad? Doesn’t sound like my problem to be fair. What if I just don’t see the point in living past a certain point? I never found life entertaining and sure doesn’t get any better later in life, plus it is my life and I am free to do what ever I want with it. Sure there are fun activities to do in life but can’t say I find life itself even remotely interesting. The only comfort I’ve found in my life was the fact that eventually one day I would die and I wouldn’t have to exist anymore. One day it would all fade to black and just be over; that is the only thing that has kept me from trying more fool proof method for my early demise.

I’m not anti recovery bc why the hell would I want ppl to feel the way that I do? I just want it to be less insulting and infantalizing in general. I don’t want the patronizing ideas telling me that I am wrong and here is the correct way bc the moment I poke holes into the logic I’m too sick to know better.

Just bc I’m sick doesn’t mean I don’t have any logic left in me; yes my ED rules can be illogical and not based on science but welcome to: knowing that you are sick doesn’t mean you can stop.

I want ppl to really support mental illness even when it shows it’s ugly side.

I want to be heard and not be told “what you actually mean/feel”

I want transparency and when it comes to recovery few ppl talk about how arduous and never ending it will be, how it will never really end and just become a battle you deal with everyday.

If I’m being honest I just want to die and be done with this already; but this is the rambling is a tired man that likes fancy words bc they are nice to write.

There isn’t right or wrong it’s just an experience and opinion

#depression #selfharm #recovery #suicide #tumble do not smite me pls #sad #sadness #the world is going to shit #Ed #eating disorder #anorexia #ortho #bulimia #bed #binging

[kirstinmaldonado]

CHAPTER TWELVE 2.0

I started the last two chapters, happy to have something of substance to talk about, me being at home, improvements I was seeing, maybe even some rightful disappointment at some people’s lack of care in their actions…but like clockwork the beginning of the week brought in new developments and my mind drifted focus. My fingers lost the spark to write about feel-good situations when the chaos in the world seemed to extinguish the flame.

I was in Texas just two weeks ago but it honestly feels like forever, as if time is confused on what pace its on. The USA seems to be confused as well.

Theme parks across the nation are opening up. Some flights are back to full capacity. The world seems caught on a pendulum of thought: “Are we good enough to pretend and pass like we can go back to normal?”

Meanwhile, people are still getting sick. People are still dying. Protests are still happening, although it apparently doesn’t serve the media to still be airing that. Justice has still not been served for those we’ve lost: Breonna Taylor, Vanessa Guillen, Elijah McClain, and so many more. The media and internet is ablaze with people ridiculing, attacking, or making fun of each other, on top of everything going on.

I wonder if I’m a part of that sometimes. While I still think protesting for “bar lives” is unfathomable and tone deaf, while it was so easy to ridicule because it was so insanely insensitive to compare to the BLM movement, did I help to further a narrative full of spite? Did I egg on anger and divisiveness, did I unintentionally help create arguments online? Did I give a platform that I don’t agree with more attention by calling attention to it?

I’m all for the hard but important conversations. I love them, to be honest. My family and I had many thought-provoking conversations when I was home, about what they’ve experienced with racism, about our opinions on all sides. It was wonderful to expand our ways of thinking using past and present! I think we all walked away with more rounded backing to our opinions, me included, and I’m thankful to have a family that can be so open and willing to discuss.

Yet, those conversations can’t be condensed into however many characters can fit in to a tweet. The art of negotiating is not all about winning, it’s also about empathizing. It’s about explaining and getting the opponent to understand your side and school of thinking; if you just tear them apart for their lack of understanding or different opinion, how can they ever fully understand or want to, especially if you are the one trying to teach them something not in their wheelhouse?

Racism, of course, is non-negotiable.

Everything else, and it’s a lot, that we have encountered in the last few weeks (mainly dealing with COVID) feels like it’s cumulatively driven us to a breaking point, to a point where I don’t really feel like I live in the “United” States of America. I feel like we are now all pitted against each other, immediate to defend our point, and jumping to 10 because honestly we are tired of the bullshit.

I get it. I do. But in the last few days while I’ve watched coronavirus cases develop, “Karens” making a fool of themselves in public places and endangering people’s lives with their sense of entitlement, while watching Hamilton for the first time and seeing good and bad critiques, Kanye running for president, while I’ve cried over Vanessa and what happened to her only to have someone try to belittle my reaction compared to others we’ve lost, I realized something.

Chaos. All chaos.

How can we make real change when we are all just screaming? How can we move mountains when we are pushing from two opposing sides? And while we have made progress, will we have the sensibility to keep with it or will our boiling frustrations overrule and distract us from our end goal, lasting and transformative change for the betterment of BIPOCs and everyone?

I’m not hating on our progress. And I’m not vilifying people’s reactions to things not in your school of thought, albeit insanely frustrating things. I’ve been there and am there. The amount of Facebook posts I’ve written novels for, the shock I feel on a daily basis for some people, is all still there. Yet, my sadness for this world and how to heal it has crept in and bated me.

What can “I” do to make a difference?

Hating and bashing things is our new normal, our humor has become intertwined with it so much that we ridicule and make jokes out of everything. Click-bait headlines only stoke the flames. Coronavirus is still surging every day, and you know what, some people can’t pretend to go back to “normal” amongst it all.

The entertainment business, for example, won’t be back up and running for… who knows? I wouldn’t be surprised if Broadway was closed for longer than a year. We rescheduled our tour in hopes that we would be able to go, but with the way things are looking I can’t help but feel distressed about the outlook for the entertainment industry/shows all around. So many people’s “normal” won’t come back at all until we get a headway on this virus, and it’s gonna take us all coming together for that to work as well. We have to truly be THE UNITED states of america.

As a side-note, Pentatonix has never been this stationary since we started…and that’s bittersweet too. Never take anything for granted, guys.

So while I dissolved into a puddle over Vanessa and how I don’t even know how to help mediate the world anymore, with people at each others throats literally and figuratively all the time, with good people and bad people on every side, I returned to a very old school of thought for myself. 

Be kind. 

What can “I” do every day? 

Yes, use my platform as a strong voice of advocacy, try to filter through everything to make sure I’m posting facts and not scare-mongering or leading anyone astray from what they should be seeing.

I’ve protested. Signed petitions. Written emails. I tried to raise awareness and bring everyone along with me on my journey as I learned, which I thought was helpful.

But I forgot about the most important thing, the thing that’s been ingrained in my head since I was a child for better for worse, the one thing that even though practiced vehemently, never always comes back guaranteed.

Be kind.

I lost that somewhere along the way, a bit. I could feel my soul hardening at how cruel some people can be, I felt how easy it was to smite and bash people’s names who have done far worse. I felt my eyes cloud with hate.

For a long time I thought the battle was human vs earth and I was always so sad to see how easily we destroyed such a precious gift. 

Now I know at its core that the real problem is human vs human: how to one up each other, how to be more successful, how to win, how to be MORE all the time. That feeling has been slowly poisoning us and our empathy and compassion towards others. That feeling is not about bettering oneself, it’s about greed and it spreads like cancer. 

For a long time, I didn’t want to “be kind” like a Disney princess anymore. I was tired of trying to use kindness as a shield as if people’s actions did not hurt me. I was mad at my kindness for blinding me and letting me get hurt. I thought the phrase “kill them with kindness” was stupid, because I was the one that kept getting hurt.

But my kindness did not do that to me. I did not do that to me.

People did. Hurt people. Confused people. People that had problems within themselves that were in no way a reflection of me. People with opposing views. Those people are not my fault. Those people don’t get to have their anger bleed in to my life, they don’t get to poison my disposition with their greed and animosity.

What can I do?

Every day, I can make a point to not be divisive. To not so easily make fun of things, belittle, call names, etc.

I can tone down my “complaining” online. I can not get so upset and rush to attack people that would be hard to get my point across to anyway online, so I don’t work myself up for hours about one internet troll when I could be doing other more important things. Why lose sanity over someone only wanting to argue? Why revert to the name bashing, why invite more stress and anger in to my life, even though there’s enough anyway with what’s going on in the world?

As I uncovered more history, had more awakenings and understandings, and dealt with my own personal stresses, I felt my strength oscillating and now I know why. I was so hardened with hate and disbelief, I felt like a fool living in a world that said it was something else. And...I left my best ally behind in my own rush for MORE.

Kindness. 

Empathy. Understanding. Patience.

So for July, I’ve decided to take care of myself a little more. Take care of others. Make sure that I am not contributing to anyone’s pain, and only being an ally to amplify voices that need to be heard. 

There’s a kinder way to say everything. There’s a kinder way to live. Amongst all this chaos, maybe if we were all a bit kinder, we could ease the waves of tension and calm the storm. Maybe if we could see past ourselves, we could make a lasting change for us all.

I changed my bio the other day. We must be like the sunflowers, pulling toxicity from the ground and air. Nature’s helper. I said I would be like that.

They don’t contribute anything negative, they just stand tall and strong, a mediating force in a world that needs purifying. 

So, I will armor myself with my strength, knowledge, and kindness. 

And see about tomorrow. 

#blog 2.0

[doorsclosingslowly]

Your death is a number but I cannot count that high (10/16)

In which Obi-Wan’s day gets worse. And worse.

Zombie Savage AU | 3k | warnings for body horror, mention of sexual assault

Obi-Wan’s troopers are staying mostly out of sight, aside from the few of them doing key maintenance or still manning the helm to enable quick escape if necessary. He knows they disapprove of the fact that he’s leading Savage Opress, renegade Sith apprentice and apparent undead creature and slayer of uncounted of their brothers and two Jedi, onto their small reconnaissance spaceship. He can’t see them, but he can still feel the worrying glares.

He also knows it’s necessary.

Identifying Darth Sidious is of utmost priority.

For the war effort. For the Republic. For the Jedi Order. For Obi-Wan himself, who’s lost so much to the machinations of this Sith, from Qui-Gon a decade ago to friends and soldiers daily right now.

He doesn’t quite know what breaching into the zabrak’s head will entail, but Obi-Wan will be likely out of commission for some time, which should be much safer on the ship. Plus, they are going to leave Entralla anyway. Once they know who Sidious is, they’ll make for his location posthaste—with an optional detour to Coruscant, should he decide he needs reinforcement. If everyone’s already on board, it will speed up the process. And the zabrak isn’t currently hostile.

He’s following Obi-Wan onto the ship without another word, head slightly bowed and apparently incurious.

He follows him into a small unused cabin.

He stands there, unmoving except for the metal insectoids in his cheek.

“How do you want to do this?” Obi-Wan has always been a courteous host. Even facing the undead creature that watched Satine die, it’s hard to shake the instinct.

Opress glances around the room. Only the wriggling of his cables betrays his nerves—if that is what it means.

“You suggested this. I know the Jedi ways of entering a mind—” in theory, and it was never Obi-Wan’s focus of study, though as unexpectedly easy as interaction with the grunting and brutal Sith is turning out to be, he mustn’t expose any lack of surety without reason— “but I assume you know your own techniques for mindmelding. Your familiarity might make this easier.”

“The cot.” Opress pulls at it until it’s dead center in the small room, then strips off the bedding and tosses it into a corner. “This ship is not earthen, but at least it is currently touching the soil, even if it’s not the soil of… It should be darker here. Can you locate braziers?”

“No.” Open fire? Inside a spaceship cabin? It would take a skilled engineer an hour to even shut off the smoke alarms because they are so elementary for safety.

“Then the electric light will serve in its place,” Opress rumbles. It’s hard to work out whether he’s disappointed. “I will strip—” he touches his shoulder pad, the one that was a clone’s helmet an hour ago, and shies away as if burned— “I will lie down now. You will stand behind my head.”

Obi-Wan follows his direction. The earth, the fire, the dark, and their arrangement—it seems deeply ritualistic, and although the Sith tend towards the dramatic he’s never thought them this primitive. In a less dire situation, this would be interesting.

“You will raise your hands. I will close my eyes.”

From the vantage point right above the supine zabrak, Opress looks even more wretched than he appeared on the battlefield. Occasionally, Obi-Wan can see straight through one of the holes in his chest before thick wriggling cables block his view. The other’s filled with an emitter guard—with Opress’ saber’s emitter guard. His torso is well-covered with junkyard debris, and where skin peeks through armor or trash it only seems slightly discolored. The arms are a different matter: the left forearm is prosthetic, of course, dull and lifeless compared to the rest of him, and the upper arms are sore-ridden and blistering and shiny with blaster burns. There is a deep gash all the way lengthwise down his right forearm, stuffed with crap, and the skin at the edges is swollen and purpling black. Flecks of trash move across the gash restlessly like misshapen ants. Despite Savage Opress’ size, somehow, he looks small.

“And then?”

Ridiculously, Opress looks offended. He rumbles, “You do magic.”

“Magic?”

A deep sigh heaves Opress’ metal-studded chest. His brows bunch. He bites his lip. Then, he rumbles, almost monotonously, “I gave myself up for my brother. Brothers. I am here now, and I will not resist. Picture it. I gave myself up. I will not resist. I paid the price for his life. I offer myself for my brother. I am here, Mother, Your Weapon, and whatever Your magic—"

Obi-Wan almost chokes on his vomit. The acid settles, uncomfortably, in his esophagus. Hunts have been lean recently, and there’s not much more to bring up. What hunts—The acid resists being swallowed because he’s lying down. He’s flat on his back and it’s dark outside his closed eyelids and he is terrified. He can feel the musty air on his bare chest, and he wishes he had something to cover himself. Anything. Only this isn’t what he’s been brought here for, he knows, he will soon be bred and—he’s lucky he still has his skirt. It won’t be long now. Maybe She will accept his lack of experience, and despite the tales She will be gentle. Only some Sisters enjoy causing pain.

It won’t be long, he thinks, trying to swallow back bitter spittle, trying to even out his breaths, it won’t be long, and the green that flashes behind his eyelids and seeps deep into his bones is no more vivid than the stone under his back. It won’t be long. It won’t last. It won’t be long.

He sinks.

He—there was a purpose here. He had a purpose. He is… He is Jedi. He’s Obi-Wan.

He’s Obi-Wan, and he just entered this mind.

This isn’t real, or rather—

It isn’t now.

He needs to find out a way to navigate these memories. Find Sidious. Find the Sith’s face. The fate of the Republic depends upon it. He can’t dwell on these… revelations about Opress, disturbing though they are, for all their sake.

Sidious, Obi-Wan tries thinking. Darth Sidious.

He’s still on the slab.

Savage might not care enough about the other Sith, he decides. This seems like a traumatic memory. Maybe it’s easier to access these, and what did Savage say…? The monster slaughtered him. Killed his brother. Maul’s death.

Maul’s death, he thinks. Maul is dead. Maul gets dismembered. Maul—

The crib is the only thing upright in this room. All other scarce furnishings have been torn asunder, searched and searched and searched and turned over as if something could possibly hide under a thin strip of linen.

The crib is an altar, and he kneels before it. He’s been kneeling for days.

The crib is empty.

He failed.

The baby is gone.

No, that’s not what Obi-Wan needs. Maul is dead. Maul is—

Maul is everywhere here, suffusing the air, a green tether—

Maul is dead. Maul is dead.

“What have they done to you, brother?” Obi-Wan can feel his mouth form the syllables, mournful and hard. “How could anybody do this? Hurt you, brother?”

They left the cave the day before yesterday, and finally, finally the brother in the cargo hold gave in to exhaustion and fell asleep. Finally, finally he can inspect him, from the safety of the door’s window, in bright shiplight.

Maul is on the floor curled into a quarter circle, though it’s obvious he would have taken a fetal position if his body allowed it. His metal arachnid abdomen sticks straight down, awkwardly.

His horns are far overgrown and rough, making him look friendless and undignified, but that’s the least pressing issue.

He’s emaciated.

He only got a few tossed pouches of reconstituted spiced meat because eating too much after starving makes you sick, and he wolfed them down. He emptied the hydrosacks much more carefully, sticking his tongue into the opening after so as not to waste a single drop. Water must have been scarcer than food on Lotho Minor.

Food and drink, that’s all he could give Maul. It’s not all his brother needs: companionship, perhaps, solace and sanity, and above all healing and care. Whoever fitted his grotesque prosthetic held no love at all for Maul, for they did nothing to protect his flesh. Maul’s stomach skin is inflamed all over, in places even gangrenous or with open sores smearing pus and blood all over the floor. It’s a miracle he still lives. But he does.

Someone cut him in half and he lived and someone screwed a spider’s ass into him and he lived and someone cut him and he lived and someone screwed it in and he lived and some monster cut Savage’s little brother in half and—

Maul’s dead, Obi-Wan thinks. Maul’s dead. Maul’s dead.

He’s tiny and feverish, and Savage got him just a fortnight ago and it’s already going wrong, he’ll fail his baby brother and—

I didn’t know, Obi-Wan thinks. I didn’t. But I still need to find—

The crib is empty.

It swings, slightly, in the storms.

The body he wears is sobbing.

Maul’s dead.

Maul is worrying his lip thinking of his brother right this moment in the bright green air—this doesn’t feel like—he’s kneeling in his room, but even knowing he might be able to feel the force connection will not allow him to settle into meditation. Savage is in the grasp of Sidious. Savage has been in his grasp for weeks while Maul idled—this isn’t the Maul of these memories—and any liberation might come too late. If they succeed, which they won’t. But still, his brother—this is real. It’s not a memory. Maul’s alive—his brother survived and Maul tried so hard to keep him and—what did Maul do?!—

Focus. Sidious. Sidious’ face. Maul’s... injury?

He never thought there was anyone more powerful than his brother in the galaxy, and he was wrong. Simple hero worship, he was dimly aware, and gratitude and adoration, and he hadn’t followed Maul for his strength anyway, but still, sometimes, he’d glanced sideways and thought, You could wipe the floor with Master Dooku. If he wanted to electrocute me now, you’d kill him, because I’m with you now. I’m your apprentice. He hadn’t thought, you could take on the Mother. But he also hadn’t not thought it.

The twin disasters against Kenobi hadn’t changed his mind. Kenobi might have had the upper hand those times, but he still was a gnat. Hey what…

He’d thought that there was no-one more powerful than Maul, and he’d been happy. Maul would live. Maul’s alive. Obi-Wan just felt his presence but—

He’d thought that there was none more powerful than his brother.

And then, the monster came.

The monster who stole the toddler Savage should have raised and tortured him instead, who is just as supercilious and cruel and ugly as Savage suspected. He wears a heinous purple hood robe—he’s hiding his face but Obi-Wan needs to see it—and he just kills Miks and Jema. Maul, immediately and obviously terrified, tries to placate him with lies of servitude. Getting smashed against the wall hurts less than hearing Maul call the creep Master.

Distantly, Obi-Wan catalogues the fighting stances used by the body he’s inside and the two others, though focusing mostly on trying to get a clear view of Sidious’ face. That chin seems oddly familiar. Too familiar. Who is… The body—Savage—has other priorities, glancing back and again at Maul. Maul, who has to live. Maul’s unconscious now, and Savage won’t win, but maybe in his struggle and death he will buy enough time for his baby brother to get away—a blurred view of the face but it’s clear enough and—Maul has to get away—Palpatine—the monster whirls around—the Chancellor?!—and pain, pain—the Chancellor—pain—the Chancellor, Obi-Wan left Anakin so often alone with him and the Chancellor is the Sith Lord—pain—the—

Floor, far away, for a minute. Not long left. Only time for—a hand, grasping his, and Maul. Oh, Maul. Oh, brother.

“I am an unworthy apprentice,” ground out with the last of bis breaths. An apology. A goodbye, because he’s leaving Maul here with his old nightmare and if Savage were better, if he were just a little bit better, he could have protected… “I never—”

Maul doesn’t accept. His hand is hot against Savage’s mouth. Savage bites down on reflex and the green light rises—Obi-Wan’s seen too much of this light, what does it mean—the green light rises and Maul forces it deep into his brother, with his own body and his mind unheeding the brutality or material reality, while the vortex of magic swirls and swirls around them. Debris sticks like static to his skin—Obi-Wan can feel it and he can feel Maul giving in to anything that may grant power, and oh, Savage outside these memories is crafted and reinforced with trash and does that mean—the light pulls shrapnel and detritus left on the battlefield inside and forms—and Darth Maul forms an undead behemoth out of the almost-corpse of his brother.

Darth Maul did this.

A technobeast.

That’s what they are called, amalgamations of organic and machine matter.

Obi-Wan read of mechu-deru, and mechu-deru vitae, after the reappearance of dismembered Darth Maul when a sai tok should have ended him. A prosthetic lower body is within the remits of the eccentric darkside art of mechu-deru, but Savage the undead machinistic creature extends far beyond that and into sheer barbarism. Mechu-deru allows its practitioner to understand and influence inanimate and robotic constructs. On the lowest end…

The technobeast.

Metal and flesh intermixed to create a weaponized cyborg. A willing slave.

Darth Maul was willing to lobotomize his own brother.

He made a weapon of his brother.

That Maul could sink so…

And still, pervasively, poor Opress loves him.

Obi-Wan’s seen enough.

He’s seen the face of Darth Sidious—seen Palpatine—and he now knows the true depths of Maul’s depravity. He only has to wake up and inform the Jedi Council now. He must wake up.

He must wake—

A finger touches his forehead. It feels strange, as if his body had never before been touched. He opens his eyes in the dark musty Temple, and soon his eyes land on the Sister who won him. Who will breed him. He wraps his hand around Her neck, and distantly he is surprised both that he is angry—that he dares resist—and that his hand dwarfs her neck, but still he chokes Her and She begs, “Let me go,” but he won’t because he hates Her and then the Mother says, “Calmly, Sister,” and She repeats, “Let me go,” and he stops.

He stops.

Stops.

He stands up.

“Now, for the final test,” She who is Power says.

And They carry in a brother he thinks he should know and She who is Power orders him to kill the brother and, wrapping his hand around another neck and feeling like he should remember every single meal and every hunt and every night and every tear and every word and every laugh they ever shared, he does.

He kills the brother.

It’s Feral.

He killed Feral—

Obi-Wan sicks up his lunch. And his breakfast, for good measure.

“Did you find Sidious?” Opress rumbles from his cot.

He appears completely impassive, as if Obi-Wan hadn’t just seen him mourn the baby he lost and choke another of his brothers to death and skewered through the hearts by Darth Sidious—by Chancellor Palpatine, and they are doomed, doomed, how could this just slip by, how could Obi-Wan entrust his padawan to a monster for hours upon hours, how could the Republic just fall to his sway and if he commands Dooku then what does this mean for the war that has been destroying all of them for years—seen Opress killed by Sidious and then turned into a machine slave by Darth Maul, who’s meant to be Opress’ brother and Obi-Wan always assumed that he felt at least a modicum of comradeship for his kind, but if he’s ready to plumb these moral depths… Maul, who apparently, is also still alive.

It’s a bit much.

Obi-Wan feels faint. He pulls a chair out with the force and sits.

Opress, meanwhile, sits up on his cot. The cables on his chest wave and wrap tightly around him—a sickening testament to Darth Maul’s malice. They jitter. “You—recognized him?” Opress asks.

“I did,” Obi-Wan replies tonelessly. “It’s Supreme Chancellor Palpatine.”

“Good. Where does this Chancellor live?”

“Where does—” Obi-Wan doesn’t have the energy for this. “He lives on Coruscant.”

“Then let us go and kill him.”

“We can’t just kill the Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Republic—” Something dawns upon Obi-Wan. He laughs hysterically. “You have no idea who that is, do you?”

“I don’t.” Savage Opress doesn’t appear any less buoyed by his gross ignorance. Maybe that is a result of the brain damage caused by Darth Maul’s ritual. “It doesn’t matter. I am the last weapon of the Mother. She resurrected me, and I shall avenge Her, and then I’ll die.”

Obi-Wan should probably tell him that Darth Maul used mechu-deru to enslave him and that’s why he’s an undead machine-contaminated monster now. He will. He will, soon, but his first duty is to the galaxy and the Jedi and the Republic, and Sidious is the most dire threat by far. He can’t afford the time to explain what he just found out to this hapless creature, and technobeasts according to the book were renowned for their power. Perhaps Opress will be instrumental in taking down the Sith Lord.

It’s not even deception. A lot of deception, anyway. Opress wants to kill Darth Sidious. That’s why he accosted Obi-Wan. The man killed him, after all. There’ll be time for truth later and—

The comm system whirrs alive. “General, we’re being boarded!”

It turns off, like there’s not even time for another missive.

Kriff.

Who could it be but Sidious?

Obi-Wan hasn’t even commed the Jedi Order.

And if he already found out then…

Obi-Wan sprints towards the door. Opress pushes himself off the cot. The air grows thicker, and thicker, and both keel over.

#savage opress #savage oppress #zombie savage au #dimtraces makes things

[juuls]

Pharmacist/Me = 1 🏆 Doctor/Nursing Staff = 0

Thank you in advance for reading this rant. I’ve been really frustrated and just needed to get this off my chest, and today at least I had a wonderful knight in a white lab coat. 🩺❤️‍🩹🥽🥼💪🏻

Content warnings and squicky squicks: (further down there is) an image of a medical vial with a clipped image of a more benign part of a syringe, health conditions (endometriosis, fibromyalgia), menstrual cycles and associated terms such as bleeding and other things, lack of empathy in my specific healthcare system, hysterectomies, pain, swearing and losing patience. Most important warning: self-administered syringes and injection discussions of legal medications (Depo-Provera) approved of by professionals and properly researched. P.S. this may sound rather Karen-like but I would never do this to someone’s face. Online ranting and acknowledging where I could do better is not the same as screaming in public for bossy requests or comps, etc. Ew.

Another ‘warning’… pharmacists being kick-ass allies and giving a damn about their patients.

I’m really annoyed because (and I know healthcare and scheduling is a clusterfuck right now, but…) for over a month now I’ve been trying to get an appointment in person to get this injectable medication that is, yes, birth control, but is also used for endometriosis in my case. And I have severe endometriosis (exacerbated severely by fibromyalgia, siiiiigh) to the point I bleed enough and lose so much I have to go to the hospital when my care is not properly preventative… like in this case, and the pain is unbelievably severe also to the point I’ve spent time in the hospital, including my 11th Christmas Eve and Day. I started this injectable medication at 13 because it was the only thing that came close to helping reduce my endometrial tissue. Even a hysterectomy wouldn’t help as much, unless they decided to go the super invasive route and remove all the organs (or parts of them) that had become ‘infected’ by the tissue. Again, tissue where it’s not supposed to be, and it causes extreme pain as the tissue tries to flush out of my body each period, even if it’s attached to, like, my pancreas. Just no. That does not work at all. No. That is not fun.

SO. I’m 31, nearing 32, and the doctor’s office knows this. I’ve had the same doctor since I was 10. Been on this medication nearly non-stop for just shy of two decades (with appropriate precautions such as bone density tests) because of the absolute severity of the pain and my inability to function when it hits… which can be months at a time of non-stop bleeding and morning sickness-level nausea and vomiting, migraines and the occasional complete inability to move—in other words, it’s debilitating.

My doctor (even the nurses, as it’s in large print at the top of my file in the system) knows all about this. They’re supposed to call me if I’m overdue by a certain margin (I get they’re busy but months and months???). But my doc’s also a bit of an airhead (albeit a smart one when he focuses) and takes forever to reply to anything on time, even when it’s a severe issue, but not severe enough to go to the hospital. But it’s gotten to the point where the nurses say to go to the ER and then the ER nurses and doctors there get SUPER pissed off (AT ME AND SOMEHOW NOT AT MY DOCTOR/NURSES AND THEIR ORDERS) at the ‘waste of time’, and it’s just a clusterfuck.

Oh yeah, and that ER visit while I was overdue for my injection? Internal intestinal bleeding along with a lovely, even if small, perforation in my fucking uterus from the growth of endometrial tissue. I MEAN COME ON — WHAT IN THE HELL. Totally preventable if they fit me in when I called literally over a month ago.

But I will not change my doctor (the other docs at the practice know what is going on and have offered to take me on, but they don’t have the experience with myself and my conditions or the history, but they can do little else because of professional conduct—it’s between myself and my doc) because he is the only one who treats me with humanity and understands fibromyalgia, endometriosis, pre-MS and pre-RhA/PsA, endo-related IBS, (ulcerative) colitis, and other neurological conditions with any degree of empathy. (See, I told you I’m a mess!) There is no way I’m switching offices in the perpetual shortage of doctors in Canada moving elsewhere for m o n e y (plus Covid-19 being a teen hooligan and constantly coming back to wreck more goddamn shit, including everyone’s sanity, then setting things on fire like the real hooligans in my village have been doing this summer — I mean… what in the hell!?!?), so with all that in mind I actually thank my lucky stars. So I put up with a lot of this shit because he treats me, besides him being an airhead, like an actual human being deserving of compassion and care and quality of life despite my severe disabilities and pain. So.

I’m usually treated really well (even if they often think I’m a nuisance for daring to be severely chronically ill/in pain all the time) so I try to be patient and good and understanding when I can.

But his STAFF (I know they’re busy and I’ve been patient but they’ve been so awful honestly to the point I cried hard enough my dad noticed my red eyes and frustration-tear fracks on my face)! And the doc himself’s inability to reply to notes on time even when urgent and when he knows the circumstances (I admit I am a bit of a hard patient so I can understand if he just kinda ignores me sometimes, honestly). But in this case I was THREE DAMN MONTHS LATE for my injection and they’ve always called in the past when I was coming due if it looked like I hadn’t scheduled an injection, so that I was all on time and squared away and didn’t risk severe pain and damage to my already-fucked hormonal system (learning I couldn’t have kids was absolutely heartbreaking, let me tell you, but even a hysterectomy in that case would solve nothing — this is by far the easiest option, especially considering how my fibromyalgia would fuck with my post-surgery recovery and leave me with lasting pain for years if not decades; sigh).

Anyway. So. After some ridiculous levels of back and forth and some truly remarkable levels of lack of compassion (she kept giving me the exact same, word for word response in a bored tone UGH) considering the severe pain I was in (I was told, in front of OTHER PATIENTS AND STAFF, that I could just wait until I talk to the doctor myself at my next phone appointment and then schedule my injection for my next MONTHLY followup — 4.5 months overdue at that point, it would’ve been — because, and I quote, ‘am used to dealing with pain because of my fibromyalgia and years of dealing with it and other conditions’ which they named in front of others!!!!!!!! what. the. fuck. But I kept my cool because I know all these people, my mom taught their kids music, they’re a fixture of the community, etc. and I refuse to be a Karen…. At least externally.

But here comes the nice part that makes me love our new (okay, he’s been here like 5 years but still, in a small town that’s pretty new lmao) pharmacist that much more. Rasik was aware of my frustration with the doctor and nurses and was even the one who brought to my attention that, at the time, I was 2 months late for my injection and he was a bit concerned since he’s privy to how much pain I exist in without throwing in one or more knives directly into my womb, ovaries, tummy, hips, and other areas my endometrial tissue has taken root. He’s such a sweetheart and he really does care for his patients— the work he does with my father’s diabetes (the tricky one where you’re not obese) management is above and beyond the call of a pharmacist and I will forever be grateful for that alone, never mind how he cares for me.

So I went in today to pick up another medication, after yet another frustrating stop-over at the nurses’ desks, and he suggested I ask for my injectable medication (it’s Depo-Provera, by the way) and the syringe plus the two tips necessary — I’m actually familiar with this since I had to learn epinephrine injections from an early age (not Epipen) and how to give testosterone daily to my ex-husband (sorry not sorry, dude, but congrats on your first kid *grouchy thumbs up*). But yeah! Legally he’s not allowed to suggest I give it to myself, but he was getting super fed up with the nurses and doctors dragging their feet and ‘being assholes with little empathy’ in his own words, so I took the hint and requested my vial plus syringe, as well as the drawing and injection gauge needles…. which he gleefully filled for me, and I reiterated that it was ‘fully my idea, not yours, Rasik, because everyone knows I’m dumb and would never think it’s you if something happened’ (I’m not dumb and I’ve given injections to others many times looool).

Long story short: HERE’S TO PHARMACISTS AROUND THE WORLD, BEING AMAZING AND CARING FOR THEIR PATIENTS AND ‘BENDING BUT NOT REALLY BENDING’ THE RULES TO MAKE SURE THEIR CLIENTS ARE CARED FOR PROPERLY. They are amazing and deserve every last bit of your courtesy, especially when they pull double duty every. single. day. because of Covid and their subsequent boosters. (i.e. boosters in the form of humans who are fucking stupid if they have no medical reason not to get the vaccine… I mean JFC.)

Rasik? You are amazing and I am 100% going to find you some Indian-Canadian (or North Indian; I believe that’s where he’s from originally) treats or desserts or make some myself after slyly asking his assistant what he leans toward liking.

Be kind to one another, yeah, but… my goodness: be kind to those who can truly make a difference in your health, sanity, and even life or death.

Pharmacists, volunteers, and frontline health workers: the true heroes of these times.

Thank you so much. So very much.

💜💙🇨🇦👨🏽‍⚕️❤️‍🩹🙏🏻

P.S. … now I just gotta stab myself intramuscularly after making sure there’s no air bubbles and etc., and swap out to the proper gauge needle (different, smaller, to draw from the vial, larger to inject so that it goes in more quickly and, oddly enough, hurts less haha). I don’t think air bubbles are as much of an issue as when injecting intravenously (ummm I have a doctor uncle and grandma nurse and nurse friends, so shush 😆). But I’ve done this for others and animals so I should be good! :)

I’m a smart enough cookie even if I’ve lost a few nibble-size pieces around the edges. 😉😘 buahaha

Cheers to my pharmacist!!!! You are amazing and I can’t wait for the pain and months and months of bleeding to settle down.

Remind me again why humans are the only mammals (animals?) with monthly fluxes? UGH wtf ever. 🙃

#pharmacist #pharmacy #doctors #nurses #birth control #sorta #endometriosis #pain #chronic pain #menstrual pain #x100 #preventative care #depo-provera #canada #canadian healthcare #socialized medicine #it has its issues but covid certainly isn’t helping #will still x3000 take it over the United States because come on #and yes i lived there for years so I can pass that judgment #thank you so much rasik #pharmacists are true allies #tw: needles #tw: syringes #tw: drugs #i guess? #tw: dumb healthcare #lol

[jimlingss]

Jungle Park [17]

Chapter 16 - Chapter 17 - Chapter 18

➜ Words: 6k

➜ Genres: Fluff, Angst, Light Humour (?), Slice of Life, Workplace Romance!AU

➜ Summary: The equation is simple. Hoseok needs to hire someone. You need a job. Except like any actual equation, it’s not fucking simple at all! Not when you have to add the fact that he was forced to hire someone he doesn’t want in his office, he has little respect for your job in general, and oh yeah...once upon a time you might have—*CENSORED*.

➜ Warnings: depiction of a car accident, sad boi hours.

Your hands grasp the steering wheel and you take a long glimpse out the front windshield. It’s an empty street, reminiscent of an apocalypse especially when it’s pitch black outside and the horizon isn’t visible to the eye, but there’s a lack of zombies and pandemonium that would otherwise bring panic to you.   You’re waiting for the red light to flicker green, even when the intersection is void of any vehicles. It’s better to be safe than sorry since the last thing you want is to run the light and be ticketed. So as your fingers tap against the wheel, you hum and glance into the rear-view mirror.   “You must be really excited to see your family again.”   “Yes, I am.” The older man doesn’t bother concealing his ginormous smile. He looks out the window even when he really can’t see anything. “I don’t know why but a lot of my friends can’t wait to get away from their wives and their kids, but I miss them so much.”   Your heart melts from his genuine proclamation and a soft smile appears on your features. A rare feeling sneaks up your throat, one called envy. “That’s really sweet. Your wife is lucky.”   “More like I’m the lucky one.” He chuckles, the wrinkles around his eyes creasing. “I feel bad for always leaving on these business trips and making her stay with the kids. But my wife is literally superwoman. I don’t know how she does it, but she does.” He shakes his head in awe.   You look ahead again, still waiting for the light to flicker. It takes an unusual amount of time and you wonder if it’s broken. “Those flowers are for her, right?”   “Yeah.” He holds up the bouquet, the plastic cover crinkling. “It’s probably not enough, but I tried.”   Your smile only widens and a soft sigh leaves the seam of your lips. Glancing at the clock on the dashboard, you find it’s three in the morning. In the quiet city, it feels like only you and this passenger are the sole ones awake. But right as you muse such a thought, you’re proven wrong.   Suddenly, there’s the sound of tires screeching on pavement from afar.   Headlights pierce your rear-view mirror, reflecting into your pupils and making you frown. Vision blinded and unable to see, you twist your waist around fully to get a better view of what’s going on behind you.   Your passenger shifts as well. “What is that?”   There’s another car coming in the same direction, swerving from the left lane to the right lane, out of control as if the driver is merely twisting their steering wheel in every direction for their own rush of adrenaline. The yellow headlights blind your vision and before you can even shout, “Oh my go—”, your car is being slammed into.   The entire vehicle is shoved forward into the middle of the intersection, the crash defending to your ears. Your spine straightens, neck whipping back before it accelerates forward with your torso and your head hits against the rear-view mirror. The airbag deploys at once, saving your skull from being smashed into the steering wheel.   The shock hits you in waves.   You knock unconscious for a complete ten seconds before your eyes are blinking back into focus. Your ears are fuzzy, vision hazy. And you’re utterly shocked. Confused. Reeling. Your lungs gasp for breath and you realize you’re okay….you’re alive. Your hands quiver as your fingers move to pull off your seat belt and open the car door. Against your will, your entire body shakes uncontrollably, but you forcibly lug yourself out the vehicle, nearly stumbling onto the pavement.   You’re bathed in the yellow headlights of the other car, unable to feel the tips of your fingers or your nose, but you pound against the glass window of the backseat before pulling the door open. “A-Are you okay?”   “I’m fine. I’m fine,” the man reassures with a groan. Luckily, his cheek only hit the front of the plush headrest. His face is a bit numb, but unlike you, he doesn’t sustain any real injuries.   “I’m so, so sorry.” You’re frantically hyperventilating while he gets out of the car, at a loss of what to do, how to fix this situation. “I’ll call another taxi for you.”   “It’s oka—”   The door of the car that hit you opens. The intoxicated male driver leans against his vehicle, eyes barely open. “Hey! Why din’t...y-you go, b-bitch?!”   “It was a red light!” Your passenger is screaming. “You were the one who hit us!”   “ino, I didn't liar! I didn't hiit any- anyone!” He’s barely coherent, slurring all his words together and you’re thankful no one got hurt more than they did. He could’ve killed you and stepped out unscathed to deny it. The very thought is haunting.   “I’m calling the police. This is ridiculous. He’s obviously drunk.”   The older man turns around, dialing his phone without missing a beat. A few seconds pass before it sinks in what he’s about to do and you begin to panic, even when it’s entirely illogical. Sheer hysteria takes its grip on your bones. This wasn’t supposed to happen. “Wait—”   “Hello? Yes, I’d like to report a collision. I’m a passenger of a taxi and a car just rear-ended us. I’m pretty sure he’s drunk right now. He can barely stand up and he’s screaming at us.” There’s a slight pause. “Yes. We’re at the intersection between Imlings Avenue and Seventh Street. Yes...okay…”   The guy who hit you is still howling, “di'nddt do it!”   The situation is getting out of control. Again.   The car insurance wouldn’t raise your rates since it wasn’t your fault, even if the taxi is for lease. You won’t have to pay for any of the damages, and the male who rear-ended you can deny all he wants, but your passenger is your witness. Everything will work out…..but in this moment, you forget.   You forget that you’re protected by contracts, insurances, witnesses, health insurance provided by your good day job. In the midst of panic and fear, you forget everything that’s important and would otherwise protect your sanity. Instead, the concern that presses on your mind first and foremost is that you can’t afford to be hurt.   Physically. Emotionally.   You can’t handle any more than what you already have.   “Oh my god.” The older man points to your head, stopping his conversation. “You’re bleeding.”   Your right hand lifts to your temple and you can feel the rough ridges of your skin, glass stuck in it. Through the bright headlights, you find the tips of your fingertips red with blood and you’re unable to move your left arm. You still can’t feel anything, but you’re petrified.   When you snap back into it, there are police cars, a fire truck and an ambulance surrounding the intersection. The blue and red lights flash and burn to the back of your eyeballs. You’re sitting upright on an orange stretcher, strangers surrounded you while the guy who hit you is being escorted to the back of a police car in handcuffs and your passenger is speaking to an officer.   Panic rises in your chest again.   Your head is stuck in one position, unable to be moved when your neck is a brace, and your eyes widened in horror. “No….No! I don’t want to go to the hospital!”   “Ma’am, you need to go,” the female paramedic insists, shaking her head and trying to keep you calm. You were too disoriented to answer her questions properly and now you were being wheeled away.   “No. I-I can’t. I have work in a few hours.”   “Well, you probably won’t be able to work for the next few days,” the male paramedic says in a more lighthearted tone, but it doesn’t help the situation and you envision yourself jumping off the stretcher and booking it — the rational part that’s left of your brain prevents you from doing so.   “You’re in shock, ma’am.” The stretcher rolls towards the ambulance. “But everything’s going to be okay. We just need to get you to the hospital and check out your dislocated shoulder, alright? We also gotta check if you have a concussion.”   You might be crying, but you’re not so sure. You still can’t perceive or sense anything. The pain has yet to set in with the adrenaline pumping through your veins and maybe that’s a blessing in surprise. All you’re aware of is the franticness inside you. It’s hard to breathe. Hard to focus.   The stretcher is lifted into the ambulance. The doors shut. You watch as the paramedics work, checking your heart rate, if everything is in good condition. As they work, they continue to keep you calm and awake. “Is there someone you’d like to call, sweetheart?”   “I—...I don’t know.”   The female smiles, squeezing your hand. “Who’s your emergency contact?”   You nearly scream when you realize who you’ve always listed your emergency contact as. “Don’t call my mom! Please! Don’t call her. She’s old. She won’t know what’s going on. Or how to get here. She doesn’t even know I drive a taxi as a part time job.”   “Okay, okay, we won’t,” she reassures in a soothing voice. “Is there someone else?”   It’s the first name that comes to mind. The first person you think of. And his number tumbles from your mouth faster than your mind can register— “Hoseok. He’s a friend. Please call him.”   //   He comes running faster than his brain can register, feet stumbling, body lurching forward.   He pulls through the front entrance before it can even properly open and he dashes past clusters of people, scanning everyone’s faces and giving quick glances in every corner, anxiousness eating him alive, feeling like tiny bugs biting beneath his skin that he itches to get rid of. He sweats, every inhale and exhale slowed down, chest tight and uncomfortable.   He prays and hopes that you’re not one of the people being wheeled past him with doctors surrounding the bed, shouting commands and others on top continuing chest compressions.   He’s scared. Hoseok is out of his mind.   He makes it to the desk, the nurse lifting her head with wide eyes. The lawyer swallows hard, scraping together his dwindling composure. “I’m looking for L/N Y/N?”   Before the female has time to blink, someone else has stopped and interrupted behind him. “Are you Jung Hoseok?” He turns to face a male stranger and one glimpse of his expression has the stranger showing him. “She’s over there.”   Hoseok follows the older man and they both walk with quick steps. “I was the passenger in her taxi. I’m okay and I already talked to the police to file the report. It’s just that I’m not sure if she’s okay.”   They approach and Hoseok immediately pulls back the curtain. The doctor looks up. “And you are…?”   “I’m her lawyer.” Hoseok looks at you, breathless. You’re laying down flat on the bed with bandages wrapped around your head and gauze on the right side, bruise by your eye that’s darkening in a purple. You’re in a neck brace, left shoulder is in a sling, arm completely wrapped in the black material.   Hoseok feels a muscle in his cheek twitch. His jaw ticks. His teeth clench.   “Lawyer?”   “He’s a friend,” you clarify and when he takes another few steps, your eyes finally land on him. A tiny smile graces your lips, a bit guilty and sad, like a puppy that just got kicked. “Hi.”   Hoseok is wholly unimpressed. “Hi?”   “Oops?” Nervous laughter bubbles from your throat, feeling a lot calmer than earlier, especially now that he’s finally here.   You don’t feel so afraid anymore.   “Well,” The doctor clears his throat, putting down his clipboard. “It looks like you’ll be okay.” He looks off at Hoseok in case you’re still loopy. “We gave her some painkillers. She has a neck strain, so we put on a neck brace that she can take off after two to three days. It’ll heal on its own and can take a week to three months. Her left shoulder was dislocated, but we popped that back into place. She did a very good job handling that, by the way. She can stop wearing the sling after a few days and resume normal activities after two weeks. But it takes twelve to sixteen weeks to fully recover and be able to lift heavy things again. Until then, she should take it easy.”   He glances down and smiles. “We ran a CT scan and everything looks okay, but we recommend staying overnight in case something happens. Other than that, your injuries are only flesh wounds and should heal in a week’s time. And if all’s good, you should be discharged in the morning. Do you have any questions?”   “No,” you groan out. “Thank you, doctor. I’m good.”   He looks at Hoseok and he nods, to which the doctor dips his head slightly in acknowledgment and walks off with the nurse to attend to other patients. Hoseok stays completely silent and takes a seat beside your bed. You push a button, bed being reclined upwards until you’re in a sitting position.   “Oh. You should go home, Minseok.”   “Are you sure?” Your passenger was kind enough to check up and stay with you for so long. You feel lucky to have run into someone so lovely and an asshole who would’ve blamed you and ran off before helping with the police report.   “Yes, I have him now.” You hitch your right thumb towards the lawyer who’s brooding silently. It feels like you’re about to get into trouble with the way he’s glaring at you, but you laugh it off anyways. “Thank you for staying. I’m really sorry.”   “It’s not your fault. Honestly, I feel partly responsible too for not being able to help you anymore.”   “Please, you’ve helped me a lot.” You smile, glad to have made a friend in this whole experience. “Tell your wife and kids I said hi.”   “Will do.” He bids goodbye to you and Hoseok who mumbles a farewell too. The older man tells you his contact information is on the police report in case and you thank him one more time.   The curtain is pulled again for privacy and Hoseok stays quiet. He sits on the small stool while you’re upright in the bed. You can’t really move or shift yourself to look at him properly and if you could, you’d find his head downcasted, hair hanging over his eyes, his bottom lip quivering.   Suddenly the noise and chaos from before has completely dialed down into nothing but silence.   The crash, the wailing sirens, the shouts of paramedics and officers, of the blaring ambulance zipping past, the hasty actions of doctors, flashing fluorescent lights above you and wheels of the stretcher rolling against the floor, heart rate monitors flaring — it becomes absent.   All you hear now is your thundering heartbeat, the sound of his breathing. All you feel is the way he’s holding your hand, not sure when he took it, but so sure that he’s gripping you tightly.   “The guy who hit me…” You’re the first to shatter the silence. “...he’s saying he didn’t do it.”   Hoseok swallows hard, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. “I can handle it.”   “The medical bill….”   “I’ll take care of that too.” His voice is smooth and soft when he’s whispering, soothing to listen to. It tickles the hairs on the back of your arms.   “Thank you.” It goes quiet again. “It’s really not that bad…”   Hoseok lifts his chin and scoots closer until you can see him and he can lock his eyes with yours. You’re not sure if it’s any better. His gaze is too intense. “You don’t get to say that when your head is bandaged and you’re wearing a fucking neck brace and you have your arm in a sling.”   You wince at his sharp tone. “Sorry.”   An extended sigh comes tumbling from his mouth. “Why didn’t you tell me you drove a taxi?”   Rarely is Jung Hoseok angry and you can’t say you’ve seen him like this more than three times. Bubbly, bright, warmhearted — yes. Strict, disciplined, hardworking — even more so.   But seldom does he let his emotions get the better of him. He is not easy to upset or made enraged. Hoseok is not temperamental. He is composed, but every word he speaks to you at this moment has a pointed punch to it and rather than making you feel guilty or bad, it reminds you of when your mom scolded you after you had a particularly bad fall as a child or when your dad used to chide your mom when she accidentally nicked herself in the kitchen making dinner.   You know he speaks from good intention, from sheer worry and concern, and that makes it all the harder.   “It-...I never felt the need to,” you murmur. “It’s just a side thing. To help me find more cash.”   “So you drive at night and work at the office during the day? How do you even find the time to sleep?”   “I...take a nap when I get home. And my shift really isn’t that long, so I sleep before work.”   He swallows hard again, trying to get past the thick lump in his throat. Hoseok’s eyes bore into yours and you’re unable to scramble back or distance yourself. “Are you having financial difficulties?”   “S-Sometimes….not...so much anymore.” You can feel the waves of his fury emanating off his skin. He isn’t pouting childishly or showing any affection, purely fuming in his spot. But even when the air is tense and he’s staring at you like this, you somehow don’t doubt your impulsive choice. If given the chance, you would pick Hoseok to be here, again and again. You’d pick him to be called. Out of everyone, you’d pick him to come to you. “Are you mad?”   “Yes.” He squeezes your hand, but never hard enough for it to hurt, just enough to show that he doesn’t want to let go. “I’m fucking pissed. What would’ve happened if the accident was more serious? What would happen if you ended up like me?! In the hospital for an entire year and having to go under therapy?!”   “That wouldn’t be so bad,” you mutter, barely coherent. “Maybe I can be the one to forget you this time.” There’s a pause drawn out, making their atmosphere more suffocating. “That was a tasteless joke. Sorry.”   “What were you going to do if something happened to you?!” He’s made more upset by your comment, that you could even consider that desire for a mere moment. While he’s been trying to rack his brain for memories, for what’s been stolen from him, you have the audacity to want — you want what he’s been grieving over most. “What about me?!” Hoseok is heaving, staggering inhales and shallow exhales pulling through his withering lungs. “I can’t go on without—”   “Sir.” The curtain is torn back, an annoyed nurse wearing an indignant expression on the other side. “You can’t shout or argue here.”   “Sorry.”   “It’s nothing. We weren’t arguing,” you rush to his defense. “We’re sorry.”   “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “It won’t happen again.”   “We’ll lower our voices,” you promise.   The thin curtain is tugged back and he sighs once again in exhaustion. It occurs to you that Hoseok’s still wearing his pajamas. He only threw on a grey sweatshirt, but you can still see the blue collar of his pajama set and his spaceship-printed pants that match. His hair is messy, freshly washed, and it flops when he lowers his head. Hoseok holds your held hands up by his temple as if in deep thought.   “I’m sorry,” you murmur.   “Don’t apologize. You have nothing to be sorry about,” he explains, still finding a hard time to find the right words. “Just get better for me.”   “Okay.”   //   He tells you that he’ll bring you to his house for a week to recover but you refuse. You don’t have anyone at your apartment to help, but Hoseok will be at work during the day anyways and it’ll end up being the same thing as being alone. So, you end up deciding to go to your mom’s, even if she barrages you with a thousand questions and concerns. But as long as you can walk and you’re not laying in a hospital bed, you won’t worry her to death.   Hoseok also tells you to quit driving the taxi around and he’ll talk to Jimin and increase your pay until you’re no longer struggling to make ends meet. Though you skirt around the issue. You don’t drive just for the money, it’s because you also enjoy meeting others — but it’s an idea he is unable to understand, growing increasingly frustrated as you stand your ground. Hoseok decides to delay the discussion for a later time before it spirals into another fight.   And while you catch up on some rest, the lawyer doesn’t catch a wink of slumber. He can’t even shut his eyes for more than thirty seconds without his head going into overdrive. And his inability to sleep is the reason why he ends up eating a stale sandwich at the cafeteria right when it opens. He eats it all before picking up his belongings and walking to the familiar west wing, taking the elevator to the fourth floor.   It’s ironic really — to have set an appointment a week ago and for things to line up in a way where he was already here. He wonders if he would’ve run into you anyways if you never called him. Then again, the hospital was massive, and he probably would've missed you and it would be yet another issue of bad timing.   The thought makes his chest feel uncomfortable.   “Why isn’t it Jung Hoseok?” The familiar doctor turns away from his desk, smiling at him. “To what do I owe the pleasure to?”   The lawyer releases a deep exhale, not knowing where to begin. And he closes the door.   //   The endless hallways fade behind him. His steps shuffle against the floor, body on autopilot. The intercom above him flares to life, squeak of wheelchairs heard echoing with the clacking of keyboards. The overwhelming scent of disinfect singe off his nose hairs, air tinged with burnt coffee from machines and bland hospital food.   “Retrograde amnesia,” he says it like it’s his second name.   “Yes.”   “You said I recovered from it.”   “You did.” The man in the white coat nods and recalls the event years ago. “Luckily, it was only temporary. Took only a few days before you remembered everything again. Sometimes it’s like that for traumatic head injuries.”   “See, that’s the problem.” Hoseok braces himself. “I didn’t recover.”   He turns the left corner, walking towards the nurse’s bench and preparing for your discharge. He fills the form with ease, sign his name and is briefed by the nurse on how your recovery will look like, what to do to help, and that if anything should happen, you would return to the hospital just in case.   “There’s this person that was in my life.” He inhales a breath. “I don’t remember them at all.”   Hoseok pulls back the curtain, shedding light into the space. And you’re there, smiling at him, sitting on the edge of the bed. Your right hand is still mobile and he takes it, palms clamped together, knitting his fingers through yours before helping you stand and walking off.   “And apparently we spent years together. She was really important to me, enough that I was thinking of marrying her.”   The doctor only hums, listening to his grief. Hoseok doesn’t know what else to say but— “Why?”   Once you’ve made it to the car, he helps you get in before sliding into the driver’s seat. He reaches over, pulling the seat belt over you with gentle care and you thank him. He doesn’t say anything, putting the keys into the ignition, letting the engine roar to life and then driving away.   “Why can’t I remember her?”   Hoseok’s brows are furrowed deep, wrinkles permanently creasing into his skin. His temples thump at a constant beat, but he remains concentrated on the road ahead. You don’t speak a single word, letting the quietness settle in and around you.   “I’m honestly not sure. Maybe this person is linked to your trauma somehow. Maybe your subconscious doesn’t want to remember. Maybe the brain injury destroyed the neurons that were linked to her. There’s a lot of reasons for selective amnesia and it’s hard to be certain of the reason.”   Once he’s stopped in front of your apartment, he helps you unbuckle your seat belt and holds your hand again, helping you get off. Hoseok still doesn’t let go, even when you’re inside the elevator, only when he takes your keys and opens the front door.   You both walk inside your small home and he’s left staring at the knick-knacks and photo frames on your shelf. He peeks into the kitchen, imagining you cooking and eating there, envisioning you sitting on the couch in front of your television, watching by yourself and curled up in that blue blanket.   Slowly, Hoseok makes his way into your bedroom.   “Then how can I remember her again?”   You’re running around, grabbing your necessities, clothes and toothbrush and all your little items. He helps you open your luggage and pack things into it since you can’t move your left arm at all or your neck for that matter.   “You can’t force these things, Hoseok. There is no definite cure. You can try looking at old photos, talking about it, spending time with this person, try to go to therapy or even unconventional methods like hypnosis. But there is no guarantee that you will recover these lost memories.”   You close the suitcase, satisfied with what you’ve packed. As you walk out, you turn off the lights and gently shut the bedroom door.   “I want to remember again.” Hoseok has never been more earnest and it’s not a statement he speaks towards the doctor. He is making a begging request. “I—”   His feet stop. You almost bump into his backside. He puts down the luggage in the living room and turns around to face him. You blink a few times, feeling a bit silly with your arm in a sling and your neck with a brace on, but you know he doesn’t care about how you look, so you’re not bothered by it much. It aches, but never hurts too much that it’s unbearable. You’re beginning to think that it’s the placebo effect caused by Hoseok’s sheer presence.   You’re an idiot for falling into his trap. For feeling this way. Again.   “I know.”   “Know what?” You frown, confused at his simple remark. And maybe you are aware that what’s about to stumble from his lips, but your fixation on denial doesn’t allow you to see or believe.   “That we dated for four years.”   Your ears fail you. “What?”   “Y/N, we dated for four years. You and I. We were together.”   He repeats it, but it’s not enough to lessen the shock, the shock that should be nonexistent. Part of you wonders if you should deny it — laugh and tell him that it’s ridiculous, that he’s mistaken, that he’s wrong. But you’re not sure if you can handle lying or holding back the truth anymore.   “Oh. Who told you?”   “Doesn’t matter.”   There it is.   It’s finally out in the open. There’s no more running away...and you don’t think you could even try with a neck brace and your arm in a sling. You wouldn’t get far either in tip-top condition. Jung Hoseok would be able to catch up to you within seconds. You can’t jump out the window without him holding onto you or catching you — you can’t lie without him detecting it in an instant — you can’t hide, escape, instead forced to face the terrible music meant for a tragedy.   “We were engaged.”   “Only because of the pregnancy scare.” Your next coping mechanism is to make light of it, to embrace it in hilarity like it’s a joke. It’s not a big deal if you don’t make it a big deal. But your lighthearted laughter bleeds with too much nervousness. “So, it means nothing really. You just felt like you needed to propose.”   “A pregnancy scare?!”   More and more bombs keep dropping on his shoulders and he’s appalled.   “Look, just let it go, Hoseok,” you tell him and at the same time, you’re telling yourself. “You told me the past is in the past. It was years ago. Eight to be exact. But I’m not counting. We should just leave it there.”   “I can’t just leave it there!” His arms are in the air, upset and shocked that you could say these things so lightly, as if it means nothing to you. “You think I can?! I can’t! You lied to me!”   You stand your ground. “I didn’t!”   “First you told me we were acquaintances.”   “Which we were,” you defend. “At some point, we were acquaintances.”   Jung Hoseok ignores you. “Then there’s the entire story about how we were in the same class and we worked on a group project and you bailed.”   “It’s true.” You follow him when he walks off his anger, turning to face the window. It’s ironic — how you’re the one who’s injured on the outside and you’re beginning to find out how he is too, but on the inside. “That’s how we met.”   “Then you told me how we went on two dates and I never called back.”   “That’s true too!” Your voice strains and it burns, but you disregard it. “So I called you. I never lied.”   “But you never told me the entire truth,” he spits out bitterly. “You lied to me. You pretended like we were nothing. You pretended that you were never important to me.”   “And I wasn’t!” You scream out, not noticing that you’re crying, that tears are flooding down your face unwarranted. “You want to know why I never talked about it?! I don’t want to remember! I don’t want to remember you. I want to have nothing to do with you.”   Hoseok shifts and his eyes lock with yours. He is still lost. Confused. Disoriented. Doubting everything he’s ever known. And he questions himself, pummeling his past self in curses and insults, wondering how much he actually hurt you, what he exactly did to gain this response.   A staggering inhale is stolen from your lips. “Did you think I could just sit you down and tell you that I loved you?! That we lived together and we were supposed to get married?! That you were my best friend?!”   You face him, forcing him to look into your eyes, even when you’re pathetically crying and breaking through the spaces of his fingers, like sand he could never hold. You keep yourself together, feet rooted in the floor, mustering the strength to confront your greatest fear. “Didn’t you think it was painful for me?! I had to see you every. single. goddamn day. You have no idea what we were. You have absolutely no clue whatsoever.”   “You still could’ve told me.”   “For what?! For what reason?!”   “Because I deserve the right to know!” He shouts, pushed to the brink. “I deserve not to be left in the fucking dark! I deserve not to be lost and confused! I deserve not to find out from some god stupid reunion! Those are my memories too! They’re not just yours!”   “Fine. You want to know?” You poke him in the chest, hard enough where it hurts your own finger. “I was ready to move across the country with you when you got accepted at your law school. I would’ve followed you to the ends of this Earth. Why? Because I cared about us.”   “I loved you, Jung Hoseok.” You’re sobbing and you hate it. It’s ugly. It’s hideous. You can’t see where up or down is, you don’t have any grasp of control on your own emotions, of how tears run down your face, of how you’re slobbering over your own words, spitting them out.   This is what you’ve been running from and to be forced to face the music, you realize how ugly the melody is, how ugly you are, how ugly your precious love was. “And I was supposed to marry you and spend the rest of my life with you!”   “Then why? Why did we break up?”   “I-...I don’t know.” You step back, distancing yourself from the man you can’t bear to stand in front of. “Y-You dumped me. During your second year of law school. You broke off our engagement and dumped me. Probably because I wasn’t good enough.”   There’s a long pause and you blink, forcing the tears to stop clinging onto your lashes. Your timbre is broken when you speak again. “There. Happy? Now you know.”   It’s silent. The warm light from the hallway and kitchen casts his shadow on the wall. It illuminates half of your visage, making your teardrops twinkle as they fall. “....did I….did I cheat on you?” He tries to find reasons why he would’ve left, why he would’ve left you.   Nothing makes sense.   “No,” you respond confidently, bringing the back of your hand up to wipe your face. Your nose is red, eyes swollen red and the lump in his throat thickens enough for him to realize that he’s crying too. “I asked you and you said you didn’t. And I know for a fact that you didn’t.”   “How can you be so sure?”   “Because you’re Jung Hoseok,” you whisper, as if it could explain everything, as if could show how much he actually cared for you, how surprised and broken you became when he severed your ties, when he called off the marriage, when he broke off the future you were so prepared for.   Hoseok still can’t remember. No recollection. No memories. Part of him doesn’t know if he can even believe it.   While you….you remember everything. The first time you sat beside him. The first exchange of conversation. The first time you lifted your head and saw him sitting across the table at the library and a shy smile graced your features. The first time you shook hands and you heard the sound of his laugh. The first time he held your hands, cautiously and gently, like he was afraid to scare you away. The first time he asked you out on a date. The first time you shared a warm meal with him. The first time he called your name softly and he leaned in to kiss you.   The first of everything. You remember it, as clear as day.   “I think you should go.”   Hoseok stays standing motionlessly in the middle of your living room. “Y/N...”   You don’t want to look at him anymore. “I don’t want you here. I can manage by myself. So...get out. Please.”   For ten full seconds, he stays in his spot. Then with ten more strides, the noise of the door closing echoes throughout your small home. And all at once, all your grief spills into your hands.   You cry, sorrowfully and heart wrenchingly. Wails pull from your aching throat and you sob, not knowing what else to do, not knowing who to call.   On the outside, Hoseok presses his backside on the surface of the front door. He hears you, loud enough that he stays and cries silently. His chest hurts, put under torment, wanting to know what he’s forgotten.   Wanting to know more about the girl he was about to spend the rest of his life with.   “I want to remember again.” Hoseok has never been more earnest and it’s not a statement he speaks towards the doctor. He is making a begging request. “I love her.”

#bts fanfic #bts scenario #hoseok angst #hoseok fanfic #hoseok fluff

[universal-shenanigans]

Confessions (5)

(Warning: long as hell.))

     Vincent waited at the carriage with another jacket and dress shirt in hand. The seamstress had given him a nice blue one and a white shirt for the gala. She had some time so she did play dress-up with him for a bit. When Alexa arrived she saw him in a blue jacket with a tail and he accessorized in silver bands, rings, and chains. “Oh she must have loved you. She really gave the whole regal look.”

     He turned to her and scoffed. “Nevermind me. What’s with the cape?” She wore something that looked as if she stole it from a prince’s closet. She pouted, “What? You don’t like it? I think it fits. Gets the message across.”

     “And what message is that?”

     “That I walk with pride and purpose. And that I look good in capes~. Now come on.” He rolled his eyes and hoisted himself in the carriage after her.

~

     An hour and a half passed when they had finally arrived to the castle that the meeting was being held. A woman stood by the carriage with a smile. “Welcome your highness. If you will allow me, I can take your things to your residence for the night. I have been told there is a place that you frequent when visiting here?”

     “Oh yes! I actually stay at a lovely inn a couple buildings down the road. Take this as well. The inn-keeper will know.” Alexa handed her a bag of coins, along with a bag that she had brought along with to hold her and Vincent’s clothes for the rest of the day. She smiled, “Thank you so much. And please, take my carriage if you’d like.”

     “Oh! Well, thank you, your majesty.” The woman climbed into the carriage and it rode off. Vincent couldn’t help but chuckle. She raised a brow, “What’s so funny?”

     “Nothing. Your generosity and kindness just tends to tickle me because of how selfless you are. It astounds me sometimes, but in a good way.” She smiled and opened the door for him. “Thanks. I try.” He raised a brow as they walked inside, “Now I do have one question.”

     “And I will have one answer.” She chuckled.

     He scoffed, “Anyway, why did you book an inn? It only took us about an hour, maybe an hour and a half to get here.”

     “I like to make sure that the carriage man has enough sleep before I leave. Plus the gala tends to last past 10 and I’m always tired after them.” Vincent smirked, “So it wasn’t for any other purpose~?” At first she was confused as to what he was eluding to. It took her a minute to finally realize what he meant and she instantly punched his arm.

~

     Vincent followed Alexa down the halls of the castle. It seemed as if they were walking for quite a while. Soon they arrived at two large doors. Upon opening them they were greeted by a large table filled with food and several people sitting around it. By the looks of the many other empty seats, they had arrived earlier than Alexa expected. An older man walked up to them and greeted her with a smile and handshake. “Queen Alexa, welcome. I’m glad you can join us.” He turned to Vincent and noticed how tall he was. And the lack of legs. But mostly because of how tall he was. He gave him his hand and smiled. “Usually she brings her bodyguard to our meetings. And you are sir?”

     “Vincent. A friend of Alexa.” He shook his hand.

     “It’s very nice to meet you sir, I am King Adamere. Of course you two can help yourself to the food until the others arrive.” He straightened his coat and walked out of the room. Vincent raised a brow as he followed Alexa to their seats. “King Adamere? I don’t believe I have heard of him.”

     “I don’t think it really matters if you have or haven’t. He is the king of one, if not the, highest populated kingdoms in the land. He usually tries to call these meetings every few months. Very sweet and kind. Although he hasn’t been that way for forever.”

     “What was he like before?” He asked as he sat down next to her. He noticed that they were seated pretty far up the table. Very close to the head of the table. 

     “A bigot if you want the short version. Very small-minded, and extremely racist. But, he changed his ways, and became more open-minded. Some still ridicule him for his past, but things like that happen when your actions are the result of your own thoughts. At least he realized that he was wrong. Some people that will arrive in today, not so much.” Although curious, Vincent was a bit worried about these people. He assumed because it was a meeting, anyone could and will speak their piece. He heard the doors open once more and looked to see a young woman and a man walk in. Alexa noticed as well, but as soon as she saw the two her eyes grew brighter. The woman glared back at her as she sat down in a seat further down the table.

~

     “Alright, settle down. Welcome everyone to the Meeting of the Royals. I appreciate you all being here today, and I do hope you all are able to attend the gala that is being held here tonight. Now with that being said, let us begin.”

     The meeting was very slow, and each subject of the meeting slowly grew more important. Very slowly. Alexa only spoke a few times throughout the few hours that the meeting was held. Vincent gripped the bottom of the table cloth. He regretted his decision on coming along, and Alexa couldn’t help but grin at his agony. She was used to the meetings droning on for hours, so seeing someone besides Andric, who was also used to it, witness it was a funny sight to see. King Adamere flipped through a few papers, scribbled on one, and sighed. “Alright. Our last point is to address the Mythics.” Vincent perked up. Something that he could actually listen to with interest.

     Adamere continued, “The population is increasing rapidly, with Mythics mating with each other, branching to humans and creating half breeds, or other species to create hybrids. There is also the problem that some have been unfortunately kicking out Mythics because of the laws you have in place.” Vincent was obviously outraged by this statement, however he stayed silent. Adamere turned the woman that Alexa had a staring contest with before the meeting, “Princess Penelope Chandra, being the next in line to your throne, you have taken some steps into an...interesting rule. And you have unfortunately gained a more negative reputation for your kingdom because of the laws against Mythics. So forgive me when I say that I was a bit appalled by the accusations that were thrown at two Mythics who supposedly committed a robbery in your kingdom, and they are facing a severe punishment for it.”

     Penelope nodded, “Yes and there is no “supposedly”. These two stole from a jewelry shop. They admitted to the crime, and they said that they came from her kingdom.” She pointed at Alexa. All eyes landed on the young Queen. Her eyes were a bright blue now, but she knew how to keep her composure. Vincent was about to say something, but she raised her had to him. Her ears flicked with irritation, “Even if that were true, Penelope, why would I send them? Sending them to your kingdom would be a death sentence, and you know just as much as everyone else here that I would never do that. Not even for a crime as petty as theft.”

     “Then why would they say that they came from Kingdom Vandus hmm?”

     “Maybe because they’ve lived under the rule of your family for far too long, know that my family scares you because of our acceptance of Mythics, and is trying to start a movement.”

     Penelope scoffed. Alexa straightened her posture and fixed her gloves. “Now, let’s say that they were from my kingdom. I am well aware that they should abide the laws of the jurisdiction they end up in. However, your kingdom is known to be...to put it bluntly, over-the-top racist. I want to know the punishment they are facing.” She waited for a response from the princess. Vincent was just as curious. This Penelope, from what he gathered just from her talking, was one that wanted his race wiped out. Just because they existed. The princess didn’t answer, but the man next to her stood up and spoke. “I don’t think that is any of your concern, heathen.”

     “Frankly, King Isaac, I do not give a damn what you think. As her father, if you are going to teach this girl how to rule your kingdom, she should be able to speak for herself. Besides, she claims the Mythics in question are from my kingdom, so I am going along with the hypothetical. If my citizens were to say, die, as their punishment, I want to know about it. Their families or anyone close to them need to know about it. What, is, their, punishment...?”

     Silence fell over the table. Princess Penelope fixed her posture and huffed. “...they are to have their hands cut off, and are to be hung for their crimes.” Alexa’s eyes grew wide and brighter. But before she could speak against this injustice, someone jumped in before her. “Over stolen jewelry?!”

     She, along with the rest of the members turned to see Vincent out of his chair. Alexa took particular notice to the color of his eyes. They were a light gray. At that point she knew that she had said enough. Penelope grew red at the sight of him. The young princess had to admit that he was very attractive. Even taking into account his horns, spines, and obvious tail. She regained her sanity and scoffed. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think you’re allowed to speak about matters such as these. I will not-”

     “Penelope he is a stand-in for my bodyguard, who speaks on these matters all the time, a good friend of mine, and I would like to think he is a very big representative of the Mythics that reside in this land. Now I suggest you hold that Gods forsaken tongue, know your place, and show some damn respect...”

     Penelope jumped back and fell silent. Alexa turned to Adamere, “I apologize in advance for my behavior. Although you should’ve seen this coming, I do apologize.” The King nodded and motioned for Vincent to continue. He glared daggers at the princess, “How dare you give them such a sentence for a minor inconvenience? I do not condone stealing, but the punishment these two Mythics are receiving is overkill. This is one of the many annoying and unjustified problems my kind faces now. Just because you are in power, and for some reason hate Mythics, it does not give you the right to try and eradicate us without conssequence. My kind only fight back when threatened. If you go through with this outrageous punishment, trust me when I sssay this, my people are going to take it as a threat, and they are going to fight back.” He growled. Alexa couldn’t help but smirk at the fear on the young princess’ face. She placed a hand on his arm and gave him a nod. He huffed as he sat back down in his seat and folded his arms. There was more silence amongst the leaders. Adamere decided to break it, “What do you suggest she do, Alexa?”

     “Simple: turn them over to me. If they are apart of my kingdom, I want to be the one to give them a proper trial and punishment if they are willing to confess.” She explained as she stared down the princess and her father. “As for the other point before we discussed all of this, I have expanded land to allow a lot more Mythics to reside in my kingdom. Take into account how many you all have and let me know the ones who want to leave your kingdoms.” The other rulers murmured amongst themselves, and Penelope spoke quietly to her father. After a few minutes of conversation, the other rulers agreed to the offer. Alexa hadn’t broken her stare with Isaac and his daughter. They were still talking about her offer. It looked more like quiet arguing to the others at the table. Vincent had been watching and grew impatient. “It’s as easy as one, two, three. You either agree to the terms or you don’t.”

     They turned towards the Queen and huffed. “...fine. You will receive custody.” Adamere sighed with relief, “Oh thank goodness. Now that that’s settled we can end the meeting. I hope you all have a wonderful rest of your day, and hope to see you tonight.” Everyone made their way out of the room. Alexa and Vincent left and she grinned at him. He noticed and rolled his eyes. “Don’t say it.”

     “Say what? I have no idea what you’re talking about dear~.”

     “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Is that Penelope always like that?”

     “Oh yes. She tries to pick a fight with me practically every meeting. She’s why I told you that you were gonna want to speak~.” She smirked as they walked down the steps of the castle. “I told you not to say it.” He groaned. She laughed and opened the carriage door for him. He climbed inside, she climbed in after him, and the carriage took off.

#Ask-the-rebel-the-nerd-and-friends #Alexa Vandus #mythologyvincent

[acedamisfit]

Reflecting On Confusion, Trust, & Overwhelming Emotions This Past Week

My energy this past week has been ridiculously off.. I’ve been overthinking to the max, I have felt extremely hurt, feeling like the world is against me, and that I’ve been manipulated to the point I’ve questioned some of the people closest to me of their loyalty, not knowing who’s really in my corner. Not knowing what’s real or what’s fake. An intense lonely and painful feeling. I’m not one to pop off on anyone, I’m quite calm naturally and don’t like to jump to conclusions off of emotions. I reacted off of these feelings and felt I needed too because I can’t ignore my soul when it’s bothered.. It’s not a comfortable thing to do. Having these conversations wouldn’t make anyone feel good with their integrity being in question based off of personal feelings, or reasons that aren’t solid or have room for interpretation. You see what you see and you hear what you hear, decide if things sits right with you or not at the end of the day and you move accordingly. In all reality it can be hard to trust others. Many people have trust issues. I’ve never dealt with that until recently. Ones lack of loyalty speaks to their quality of character, their state of mind, lack of discipline, lack of self control, lack of empathy, or they’re just hurt.

I refuse to neglect my mental sanity anymore or what can possibly be red flags. It’s natural to want to protect your heart. I’ve been reflecting on this past week and how things came about. These strong feelings did come from somewhere, I’ve been dealing with a lot mentally this past year within relationships, toxic energies, and realizing people aren’t always who they seem to be so that has it’s own role to play in how my minds been affected. Clearly things have escalated for me this week and caused me to react in ways I usually wouldn’t and realizing there’s a TON of chaos going on in the world right now, as an empath I can feel the collectives anxieties, fears, negativity, & traumas. This resulting in my emotions being amplified lately. It’s an overwhelming feeling. It’s been hard to recognize what emotions are even mine during this time leading to more confusion with what’s going on in my life. Although this blog I’m writing tells me I’m not as confused as I think I am. I’m very aware of who I am as a spiritual being. I am a healer. My intuition is strong. I’m aware of energies surrounding me and how they affect my spirit. Stepping away from and removing toxicity out of your life has to be done to begin healing.

You cannot heal if you’re unwilling to give up what made you sick. I’m respecting myself more by creating space to process these thoughts, emotions, and make decisions that are in my best interest. Learning to let go. My intentions have always been genuine. Love is my natural state & I have no hate in my heart. I’m working on myself for my peace of mind. I’m also extremely misunderstood having this awareness of my individuality. I could care less for people’s opinions of me because no one really knows me and yet they form their opinions/biases about you based off of this or that. You should take the time to try to understand people if you care.. and I have to quote a real one because PB(Princess Bubblegum) said it best "People get built different. We don't have to figure it out. We just need to respect it ." I whole heartedly agree with that statement. You may not be able to understand someone but that is okay and nobody’s perfect! When I’m not in a good space mentally I do my best to not be around others so I don’t project bad feelings onto them so with that being said I will be taking more time for mental maintenance and self care. I’m still healing and I pray for you to heal. Don’t pretend you’re not hurt.. Love to everyone and hold it down fam! 🖤

P.S

I believe everything happens for a reason and you may feel like you can’t trust anyone fully but always trust the universe and that it will guide you. It will keep people in your life for a reason and it will also remove people from your life for a reason. Watch for the signs and listen to your gut!

#spiritualbeing #spiritualguidance #spiritualgrowth #spiritualjourney #spiritualawakening #empaths

[mastrechef]

I was getting frustrated with my lack of progress on my other writing projects and was apparently in a Naruto mood. I’m still working on it and just posting a small bit here. This was purely for fun and, while vague on the details, does not hold to the canon, because frankly it’s ridiculous and confusing. Just looking at all the uncertainties, discrepancies, and retcons in the timeline gave me a headache, so I opted to ignore a lot of it. Plus the whole premise behind this was to deviate from canon anyway.

Written in achronological snippets. The italicized phrases are song lyrics, so not mine.

Show no mercy, let the world see we're invincible

Show them nothing is beyond our control

Humans were selfish creatures. They took and took until there was nothing left. And they felt entitled to it. To take what they wanted and damn the consequences. Like that vile sense of absolute superiority made it alright for them to treat the world like their personal playground and all other non-human entities as fuel for their ravenous greed. Like humans were the be-all end-all of intelligent life and therefore allowed to dictate the rules. Even among their own kind the pattern was apparent. The strong were in the right and given free reign while the weak were nothing but fodder. They waged war carelessly and scrabbled for every scrap of power they could get their grubby hands on, perpetuating an endless cycle of hatred, pain, and death.

Of course, there were rare exceptions. Exceedingly rare exceptions, to the point of almost complete non-existence. And it just so happened that Uzumaki Naruto was one of them.

Kurama bared his fangs in a ferocious grin promising extreme prejudice to any who stood in his way. The humans had forgotten that there was always a bigger fish in the sea, a more terrifying predator hunting in the shadows. Graciously, Kurama volunteered to teach them a lesson and remind them of their folly. His feet pounded the ground with earth shattering force while his nine tails lashed the air. Anyone who dared to try laying a finger on Naruto would be crushed mercilessly.

...

And all that I regret

I have before, I will again

Kakashi jolted into awareness, though he didn’t outwardly show it, his body relaxed and his breathing slow and measured. Immediately, he was on his guard. Something was wrong. More than a few somethings even. The first thing he registered was the lack of the usual chakra drain from his sharingan. And yet, he could still feel it there, waiting to be activated. How was that possible? He’d never been able to control the activation of his single sharingan. What was going on? What had he been doing and where was he now? He couldn’t remember. His memories were a scrambled mess, another impossibility given the sharingan’s perfect recall. 

He mentally shoved the confusion to the side. Right now, determining his current situation was the most important. Sorting his head out would have to come later. Kakashi turned his focus outward to glean any clues. He tensed minutely as he finally took notice of three others in the vicinity, berating himself for his carelessness. He was really off his game. By the sounds of their breathing, two were awake while the third kept watch. His breath caught when he got a whiff of a familiar scent.

Minato-sensei.

...

It takes an inner dark to rekindle the fire burning in you

Ignite the fire within you

Sunlight filtered through the thick canopy of leaves, flickering with the wind and dappling the ground in little starbursts of light. It was this that woke Naruto. He groaned as all the aches in his body made themselves known. It felt like he’d been trampled by a herd of bijū and had the collective memories of hundreds of clones slam into his brain simultaneously. Trying to sit up was apparently a bad idea, only causing the pain to flare up stronger. He allowed himself to flop gingerly back to the ground.

“It’s fine, I didn’t want to get up anyway,'' he grumbled to himself. He was absolutely beat and would be quite content to sleep for the next fourteen hours straight. Racking his brain for a reason as to why he was in such a state, he came up blank. Whatever it was, it must have packed a wallop to put him of all people on his ass like this. Speaking of which, his friend was being suspiciously quiet. Normally, he’d be chewing Naruto out for his recklessness right about now. Or making fun of him, depending on the situation.

As though summoned by his thoughts, the fox’s voice rumbled through his head. “Go to sleep, brat. You’re still recovering.”

“Kurama?” Naruto pried weary eyes open to look for his friend. Something about the bijū’s voice was off. He wanted to find out what, but he was just so tired, and his body wouldn’t cooperate with him, and his eyelids felt like they were weighed down with lead.

“Get some rest. I’ll handle things for now.”

Okay. No problem. Naruto trusted Kurama unconditionally, so he would listen. Maybe once he’d slept this off, then Kurama would fill him in. He sighed in contentment as he gave in to sweet oblivion.

...

I'll take you away from your nightmare!

If only you would come with me!

I want to show you a better way, so you and I will finally be free!

The Fourth Shinobi War ended, and yet true peace was still a distant dream. The calamitous destruction brought about by the Jūbi only reinforced the fear of the bijū and their jinchūriki. Fear and desperation made people stupid or dangerous. Oftentimes both.

Kakashi raced towards the rampaging Kyūbi, worry gnawing at him. This couldn’t have gone more wrong. Everything was falling apart. They had already lost so many good shinobi, good comrades, and now if Kurama’s reaction was anything to go by, Naruto was in critical condition. The Rokudaime Hokage pushed himself to go faster.

The sunshine boy filled with false bravado had grown and matured, but he looked so tiny crumpled on the ground, blood spilling out around him. Kakashi used his chakra to hastily trace out a seal, one firmly ingrained in his memory even without the sharingan. Sealing was truly an invaluable skill and he was grateful for all the time he and Naruto had spent together working on it, because right now it was his best hope for getting Naruto out of here alive.

All that mattered was getting him away. Someplace safe.

Light blazed as the seal took shape. Catching wind of what he was up to, Kurama threw his chakra into the mix to speed them on their way. The three were whisked away in a clap of thunder.

Destiny unfurled in a new direction.

...

I never wanted this

I never asked for it

But this is what you gave me

Dread pooled in his stomach. His thoughts were already beginning to spiral and took all his concentration to pay attention to Kurama’s explanation.

“Naruto was not meant to exist in this time. The only way to prevent him from disappearing entirely was to merge with him. He had no body to inhabit, so I created this form from chakra alone.”

“So is he…” Kakashi could hardly complete the thought. The idea that Naruto might be permanently damaged from their little jaunt through time was beyond terrifying. Naruto was a precious light that washed away the darkness of Kakashi’s younger years. Not only that, but he was Kakashi’s last anchor to sanity, to life. Without him...

“He is safe. He simply needs time to adjust. Our consciousnesses remain separate, so while he sleeps I am in control.”

As much of a relief as it was to know that Naruto would be alright, his former sensei couldn’t help but blame himself. It was his seal that got them into this mess.

Kurama whacked him, surprisingly gently, in the back of the head, scowling. “Seeing as Naruto isn’t awake to knock some sense into you, I shall do so in his place. This is not your fault. If anything, it was my chakra that threw everything off.”

Well. Kakashi must look truly pathetic for the perpetually cantankerous fox to jump in to comfort him. He couldn’t help it though. As many regrets as he had, and as tempting as it was to have a chance to fix them handed to him on a silver platter, nothing was worth Naruto’s life. He would make use of this opportunity only so long as Naruto’s wellbeing wasn’t at stake.

...

Death would be an ample compensation

Even if it's my demise

But heaven doesn't want me

Blood splattered in a hot spray of red death, the sound of a thousand chirping birds fading back into grim silence. Nothing else stirred in the dead of the night. Anbu Hound pulled back his hand, covered in the already cooling lifeblood of his target. Another layer of blood that he would never be able to wash off. Another stain on his soul.

He left the lifeless corpse behind to regroup with his team, who had been taking care of the guards while he carried out the assassination. He wasn’t overly worried about them, but it wouldn’t do to get sloppy. One slip-up could be fatal. Kakashi would prevent that no matter what. The only thing he lived for now was to ensure the return of all of his comrades, even at the expense of himself. His borderline suicidal tendencies drove his team nuts, particularly Genma, mother hen that he was. But Kakashi was good at it. There was a reason that his team took the most dangerous missions. There was a reason he had the respect of every single member of the Anbu black ops. All the same, he kept everyone at arm's length. While he hadn’t managed to get himself killed yet, all bets were off for everyone else. One way or another, anyone he let close wound up dead.

Kakashi wouldn’t be able to handle it if it happened again. For all his strength as a shinobi, he felt as fragile as glass, teetering on the brink of falling and shattering into a million broken pieces.

#naruto #ficlet #naruto uzumaki #kakashi hatake #kurama #time travel #this started as random rambling and somehow evolved into a naruto fanfic? #don't ask me to explain how my brain works

[nicoletteduclare]

These fireside meetings were always a bore, and Maxwell tried not to close his eyes for the brief respite that it would provide if only for the fact he did not need an earful right now. Someone giving him grief for not paying attention would require him to actually reply, and to reply, well, he'd have to cough up the whole reason for this meeting quite literally. That would be a whole new conversation and involve more questions and annoyance then Max was particularly interested in dealing with.

Besides, there was a headache blooming behind his temples, most likely thanks to the flowers in his throat. There were very few people he'd humor with listening to right now. They're all complaining about managing their own (admittedly, rather fragile for most of them) sanity more often. The surprising fact is that he is too. Unlike the lot of them, though, Maxwell is acutely aware of the source.

It would be lovely if they could just finish up already, he can make out some idea of moving camp, seeing as they can't seem to find the source, and he closes his eyes to ignore the shadow out of the corner of his eye, desperately wanting to cough.

This batch seems like it'll be painful. The dark petals are amazingly useful, or, well, they would be if he could actually use the codex more often, but having them come up randomly is quite damaging, even to his own mental resilience. Not to mention his physical state, which is far more delicate. There's been quite a lot of blood lately. Feels like his mouth always tastes of copper.

Even as a child who was far too eager to believe in magic and fae, even then, Maxwell had considered this a myth. Coughing up petals because the heart yearns for someone? Absolutely ridiculous, a complete fairy tale. Not to mention that he'd completely been too afraid to tell Charlie for at least a good few months, and he'd never coughed up petals then.

And he absolutely loved her, loved her so much... and then he'd managed to screw the whole bloody thing up and fail to protect her and ruin the both of them. If he'd just... if he'd only...

It left his stomach sour, and Maxwell valiantly tried to shake the thoughts of the past from his mind. That, honestly, is probably the biggest reason for these blasted flower petals, though there are quite a few.

Why get close to someone else again, when all he's ever brought to anyone is misery? Why fail someone again? He's ruined every single good thing in his life through a wonderful mix of no forethought and too much pride. Everything good crumbles in his hands, and who's to say, even if his affections where returned, that it wouldn't blow up in his face, that he wouldn't fail and ruin them the same way he'd ruined Charlie. What if they ended up worse off then Charlie?

What was the point of even considering that it was possible?

He'd rather let himself choke to death on flowers before letting that happen to someone that he cares about again.

There's a nudge from his side, and his eyes flutter open. "I'm really starting to wonder if you ever pay any attention to anything we talk about." Wilson was looking at him, a scowled frown on his face.

He either has to reveal the petals by coughing them up or just swallow them down, and as painful at it is, Maxwell chose the later, looking away from Wilson to speak. "I pay plenty of attention, Higgsbury." Even though his throat ached, probably scratched raw, he managed a dry, even tone, though it was a little strained.

Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose, an annoyed sigh escaping and Maxwell noticed the wilted flower crown perched quite nicely on his head. "Whatever you say. We're going to start moving camp tomorrow, maybe see if there's something new we've missed that's driving everyone insane. It's been getting pretty bad... though I doubt it even bothers you."

He just nodded along, pretending that whatever it was absolutely did not bother him, and watched Wilson sigh again and get up. A few moments in front of the fire before turning to go off to the tents, and Maxwell is glad they're all scattering, he can feel the urge to cough start to rise.

If only Wilson knew the half of it.

Though, if he even knew... Maxwell bit his tongue to keep from coughing just yet and moved to go find a private area to remove this mess from his throat. It wouldn't make much difference anyway.

- Death was becoming far too frequent, though it wasn't like any of them really noticed, or at least if they did, none of them pressed it. The most reaction he'd picked up on was Willow muttering something about being irresponsible, and he almost scoffed at her. He couldn't remember exactly what of this lovely floral disaster was the crux of all of his dying, the usual fog of revival masked it.

Since he couldn't remember, and he didn't want to exactly risk being found out, Maxwell fell into the habit of being alone for his own sake, and in some ways, everyone else's as well.

The idea of this... affliction, being found out, was mortifying. Besides the agonizing questions, this did destroy some of the facade he'd worked hard to put up; that none of them meant anything to him. And considering that, the idea that his affections would even be remotely reciprocated was downright laughable and utterly hilarious in the worst possible way.

So, Maxwell had accepted the thorny stems, sharp edged rust red and ink black petals, and the pain that came with it as his penance for even daring to let his heart consider another love after the first one had been utterly demolished by his own hubris. The headaches, the shadows out of the corners of his eyes, the world slowly becoming a gray husk shot with streaks of red? That was an added bonus. Even as he managed to keep himself from teetering at the edge of his sanity, the world was never quite as vibrant as it should have been.

The time between deaths was getting shorter, and the Maxwell couldn't help but wonder if there was a point where the time between his deaths would be only hours. That, or he'd finally succumb to the terrorbeaks.

Maybe this is what he deserved. It was about time, considering how many years it's been since Charlie pulled Wilson from the throne and threw the two of them together. Besides, the guilt surrounding this mad little game he'd thrown together certainly wasn't enough.

Just as well to have a bloody punishment to fit the crime.

The last death was only a week ago, or was it five days? One of the two, and no matter, even though he couldn't remember the circumstance surrounding the last handful of deaths, something told him this was near the end. He was on his hands and knees at the base of a pine tree.

He'd actually been trying to make himself useful for once, what a joke, honestly. There was a tiny notch in the tree from an axe, but it didn't matter. What mattered was the not-so-tiny pile of blood soaked petals underneath him, more blood dripping from his mouth as he stared at them, eyes trying to focus under the strain.

His arms were shaking to hold up his body weight, and yet, as he heard a voice, Maxwell tried to force himself to stand. A mix of pride and self-preservation, he couldn't let this be seen. Especially not by...

"Stars and atoms, Maxwell, what the hell are yo-..." The question was left unfinished as Max's strength left him, collapsing back down as he choked up more petals, an awful gagging noise before silence. Wilson was already next to him as there was a pathetic gasp for air, a warm arm trying to help him up or Heimlich, one of the two, winding underneath, but it was far too late this time.

-

The next thing Maxwell could remember was the cold marble flooring that meant camp, and that frankly, was absolutely terrifying. He hadn't had the materials, or really the strength to recreate a meat effigy since the first death by his affliction; touchstones were his main means of revival while he worked to at least manage the coughing fits somewhat.

Instead of the wood and broken stone around a touchstone, dead pig heads staring at him, Wilson was looking at him in the twilight, a small fire going, his own pack tossed nearby.

The place seemed... empty, for camp. Usually there was a lot more fuss if someone was revived, and while there was a little bit of relief towards that, it was... unnerving until he saw the lack of any of their usual structures, things were broken down to be reused. It was their old, recently abandoned camp, seeing as the fire-pit was still in good condition.

He hadn't gotten up yet, eyes just tracing so he could figure out what to do, but before he could get farther into figuring out the situation, Maxwell was joined by Wilson kneeling next to him.

"Why didn't you tell anyone, you absolute idiot!" He hissed between his teeth as he dug for something. While it was obvious he'd died, the reality of the situation didn't quite set in as he gave Wilson a confused look before pushing himself away in shock, sitting up.

Wilson must have seen him die. Logically, then, Wilson had seen the petals. Not that he could remember the man's reaction, which was probably a good thing, but it was the only conclusion to his words.

Wilson knew.

That was quite frankly terrifying; and while he was trying to process this horribly unlucky turn of events, Maxwell couldn't react before there was a godawful needle jabbed into his arm, the sleeve having been pushed up before he was fully awake.

"How long?" Wilson asked, eyes alert and narrowed as he practically glared at Maxwell, before turning back to the bag, fishing something else out with a mutter of "Frankly, if it wasn't for my mother's stories about her younger sister's death due to this, I wouldn't believe it." Maxwell used the mild distraction of rustling for something to stand up, his own pack was near enough to scoop up, ignoring the wobble in his legs.

"It's none of your business, Higgsbury." Lies are so easy, still, and but this one is quiet, Maxwell's shoulders tensed as he backed up, ignoring the gold chain in Wilson's hand.

It's dropped back into the bag as Wilson stood up, glaring at Maxwell, arms crossed. "None of my business? Really, Maxwell?" Looking away is so much easier then confronting this. Heavens, everything truly does go wrong, doesn't it. "You think that it's 'none of my business' when this is probably what's been affecting the rest of us? I saw the kind of petals you're dealing with, I'm not stupid. Not to mention that you're wasting resources then. I thought you might have just gotten into a few scrapes, but no, you were hiding this from us. You think that it isn't my business? Really?" It's certainly venomous, and while it looks like Wilson might have more to say, he isn't in the mood for this, teeth clenched to keep himself from coughing up more of the blasted petals right then, before he turned on his heel, not a word, and walked away.

It was always a lost cause, he knew that from the get-go, but this proved it far past a shadow of a doubt, and Max knew that he was going to be saddled with this for a long, long time, as he closed his eyes and headed to the woods.

-

Maxwell sorted through the pack, making sure his things had been undisturbed by any other survivor or monster that might have stumbled upon his bones from the last death. The codex was there, despite how useless it was in his condition. Every little bit of sanity counted, but on the off-chance he was surprised by a giant or something, a fighter might buy him some time to get away. He already had enough deaths to handle. Then there was his winter gear, traps and tools, some medical supplies; bandages and salves, plenty of torches and fire wood, and finally, thankfully untouched, was his stash of food. Nothing extremely wonderful, Maxwell wasn't stupid enough to risk his health more, but rabbits and mole-worms were easy enough pickings to supply him with meat, along with berries and carrots and the occasional gobbler.

He'd retrieved a few choice materials in the middle of the night, when Wilson revived him, but frankly, he'd already had most of his own supplies. Thankfully, his tent and chest were at the outskirts of camp by choice, and he was quiet enough to head off without anyone noticing. He hadn't actually taken much more then the winter gear and his copy of their maps, the essentials considering that it'd turned to winter only a week after he'd left.

He had a walking death sentence. Carrying more then the basics seemed stupid.

Still, sometimes it was a bit obnoxious, he wouldn't mind having a fur roll to wrap around himself right about now. Instead, he shivered as he slid the vest off the skeleton and retrieved his stupid warm hat. He managed both of them on before pulling out a frozen thermal stone out of the interior pocket of the vest, another shiver wracking his body.

He slid it into his pack to reheat soon, pulling out the map of the underground caves instead. He'd have to mark it off once he got a fire started, but he mentally noted where he'd been in the caves when he'd woken up. Another touchstone down.

It was obvious that he was going to run out of them soon, but he didn't want to, he couldn't, face any of the other survivors right now. Knowing Wilson's inability to keep his mouth shut (far more charming when it was about science, less so when it dealt with... well, this, and he probably had, as he said, it affected everyone,) he had to hope none of them had believed it. He wouldn't have, certainly. Even with the reality of honest to god magic, Maxwell would have scoffed at the idea of this fairy tale being real. It was a story, told to children and young adults to warn them away from being foolish with their hearts. To keep people from pinning for those they couldn't be with.

Well, he'd never been good at listening to warnings, had he? His chest ached all the time, these days, probably due to the floral infestation. He'd probably suffocate on them once again, and waste yet another touchstone.

Maxwell started to cough as he put away the map and stood up, a few petals falling out of his mouth and laying against the white snow. He couldn't help but remember the first morning this had happened as he walked away from the bones.

The night before, the pair of them had been forced into watch after stumbling back into camp late, and they took the time to patch themselves up. Hound mounds were always trouble, but cactus flowers were too useful to not gather in the summer. However, Wilson had forgotten the territory range, and ventured just a few inches too close for the hound's comfort.

A few shadow clones and a spear were perfectly fine for getting rid of the nuisance, but neither of them came out of it unscathed.

At least it hadn't been the dragonfly, but still. Wilson had pulled a hound off of his back, the last one, thankfully, but it'd torn open the flesh under his shoulder blade.

Normally, he'd have insisted he could take care of it himself, but between the exhaustion and pain, he accepted Wilson's offer of help, besides, it was hard to bandage his back. The normal banter, a few light jabs of 'how do you honestly survive out here, you're paper,' from Wilson, as well as a mutter of being glad it was superficial, hands gentle on the bare skin next to the wound as Wilson looked it over.

It'd been surprisingly... nice, but over all too soon. Wilson had shifted over so they could sit next to one another as Maxwell had looked at the damage to his clothing, already planning repairs before he looked over at his companion. Wilson looked... exhausted. The permanent bags under his eyes looked darker then normal, and he was well aware of how badly Wilson (and most of the others,) handled the night. It would be worse on an already tired mind.

Before he could really think about it, Maxwell offered to take over fully, a smart comment of "I don't need you falling into insanity on me," dying on his lips when Wilson smiled.

A tired thank you, and between the smile and the slightly wilted flower crown perched on Wilson's head to try and make the night easier had completely derailed any thought besides the soft, fluttery feeling in his chest as Wilson left. He'd tried very hard not to think about it for the rest of his watch as he repaired his shirt and suit jacket, until Wickerbottom arrived from her nightly reading nook to relieve him. He'd gone to bed halfway through the night with a frankly terrifying realization, and woken up to the start of a nightmare.

Obviously, hindsight is 20/20, unlike his own eyesight. That wasn't the catalyst of his affectionate feelings towards the scientist, but it was moment it finally, really, dawned on him. He'd tried to keep his distance from the other survivors once he was thrown into the mix, but Wilson was apparently a special case, and that was terrifying. Caring deeply about him scared Maxwell down to the very core of his being, and the realization of his feelings came with that terror.

It may have been that feeling, the fear that had buried in his stomach as he repaired his clothing, that brought these suffocating flowers along. Choking on his own fear.

But the fear was warranted. He ruined things so easily... especially Charlie, the last person he'd felt anything like this towards, he'd ruined her life and it was a thing he could never repair. Maxwell was fairly certain that even on the slim chance that these feelings were returned, he'd destroy it, without meaning to, as well. And with their last conversation, words that still sometimes came up in his thoughts, and another reason for avoiding the whole lot of them... well, at least he couldn't break something that was never going to happen in the first place.

A cold piece of comfort, and he shivered as the wind managed through the layers. Time to find a place to light a fire and warm up for the rest of the short day.

[a-leonhart]

The final chaos

What happened to you? That´s what little Eren from a few years ago would ask the current Eren looking at his eyes, the fact that this boy is the protagonist of the serie makes me think that a lot of people blear this view of the real vision of Eren about the world and how much he has changed throug time because his justified reasons and actions overrated for wanting the "peace" for Erdia. This will be long but i need to clarify my perspective about Eren and  to take initiative of his current situation, he is one of my favorite characters, I´ve felt a big empathy with him from the beginning, I appreciate him but now I'm intrigued and uncertain about what could be going through his mind after the chaos he has generated not only in the life of those he loves and wants to protect but also in his own life, yesterday I was watching the new videos of Shane Dawson called " The Dark Side Of Jake Paul" it is completely recomendable to watch in order to understand what this guy wants to talk to us about, it´s more than just to show us nonsense from someone like Jake Paul, it makes you realize how big and small the world might be at the same time, of the fear that humans can give even more than monsters and that trying to know what other people think is fucking complicated, it's incredible that with just one look you may realize that someone hates you, it's crazy or is it just not to be honest with you, when the people do not notice this because they´re mentally manipulated by their vision directed to a single angle, specific to a sociopathic person who uses a mask that tries to hide and intends to achieve his checkmate, get the attention and acomplish his own desires without caring for the good of others or exposing the danger to other people around him, where do I want to go with all of this? To the emphasis that I think of giving Eren right now, he is broken, takes control of his feelings and emotions and fades away in the deepest place of his heart, try to rescue everybody and protect them but the only thing that he gets is that hundreths of soldiers died because of his own safety, he has determination, he´s strong even  though he has to hold a lot of pain and suffering since he was a child, but he has never known how to face death directly

He keeps surrounded by death and blood, being aware of how valuable his life is to reach the splendor in the walls he is predestined to die, but the death of Eren is equally valuable and for this reason they walk hand by hand with the fact that he has survived by having his titan power shield, he is only 13 years old, death has roamed near where they were before he inherited the power of the founding titan, it was always predestined to lead a life of suffering and we could confirm that in the Lost Girls' Ova, neither Mikasa or Armin could save Eren from the beginning and as a result of any action of Eren, death will always be involved, any intent to try to keep him alive will be in vain, however, that adorable boy has on many occasions carried a big weight on his back by trying to win a battle against the world, losses and wins, the balance is the same and he is overshadowing his personality. 

Eren is more mature now, Eren thinks with a cold mind now, Eren is creating an agressive roughness keeping a terrifying, calm and patient this above his actions, submitting any emotion or inconvenience, such as fear frustration only seen in an occasion like Hange or the surprise at the mercy of his reason, is someone who has earned the respect and contempt of many people now, does not get to take away by the manipulation of others and walks for his own objective of finding Zeke, leaving aside everything and everyone.

That leaves me thinking in Shane's words, he could considered Jake Paul a sociopathic just for the simple fact of not having feelings of guiltness about his desitions or actions, be a violent person and cause hurt to others without any regrets, that transforms him in a  dangerous person and if we analyze Eren's look, it doesn´t have any kind of emotion, his eyes are empty, not showing any sign of sadness about catastrophe given in Mare, can we relacionate them? Absolutely, both seem like normal people, even smart and charming sometimes, with the potencial of hiding things and liying, but that means that Eren is actually a sociopathic? I don´t think so, is he hidding things and lying? Probably, to protect Zeke, get to the extreme to use Historia as a piece in his chessboard and use his titan power as a weapon of war, without a doubt, but the real question is: Is Eren a villain? No, because heroes don´t exist in SNK, there is no good side, no good people, they´re all sinners who have killed in cold blood, for their own safety or for others, as Eren did at an early age like Mikasa had to do to get out alive and scape from hunters, depending on the perspective of the viewer each person chooses who is the hero and who the villain, what is right or wrong, what is justice or what is not, it happens the same between the characters, I can personally say that really nobody knows it so they all chose their own side without any apparent reason, an example will be Levi, many people would be on their side just to have a pretty face without looking at their past, seriously people today would support an island that can cause the end of the world? If we talk of reality it would be ridiculous, it's just emphaty that we feel about these characters, because in another situation the 80% of the people in this world would support Mare being the "Heroes" that are trying to save us and by how things are happening actually in manga, it leaves me analyzing three possible endings for SNK:

1. Eren will follow his road as the founder titan being guided by the influences of Eren Krueguer, of his father and Ymir Fritz, destroying the demon of  the earth, that is the principal creature that practices all kind of powers and it's the only enemy of the world, waking up all the titans of the walls, destroying all the walls in it's path and giving an end to the curse of the titans.

2. Open ending, nothing concrete, Erdia needs more than 50 years to be on par with the rest of the world, nothing can be deduced from that, only war.

3. Even though the Fritz has seemed affected by the memories of the past users when they inherited the power of the titan founder and they become in some kind of god, they got complely crazy as Frieda did in manga and unlike Eren, still has the sanity even though current is showing signs of sociopathy because his internal conflict of emotions, presenting his desesperation, hurried actions and the lack of guilt in front of the death of a lot of people. Despite these facts, a desesperate way to end up with the conflits between Erdia and world is the option that Eren devours all the changing titans, inherited his powers and locking in a crystal just like Annie´s because of that nobody has any touch with him and makes a pause in the curse.

4. I´ve the hunch that Eren will activate the coordinates by mistake together with Zeke, regreting and starting a battle between the titans. If that happens, all the protagonists will die as a heroes at cost to protect the humanity.

5. Then after winning peace, the peace with the rest of the world and saving everybody, Eren dies and leaves his power to the next user. When he accomplishes his objectives he dreams with his parents and wakes up of the nightmare that he had in the first episode, sitting in the tree but without Mikasa next to him.

In conclusion, we can say that the friendship created from the beginning doesn´t matter after that the war starts while working together for the good of humanity not to be any betray to be realistic I don´t think that this will happen twice, probably there will be a change of opinion, everyone is conscious of it and as long as Eren is clear about his ideals and doesn´t go crazy, he can protect his friends and the legion of recognition of death. To be honest, I must say that I like this new Eren, clearly he is not well, he is mental and emotional health is complicated, he is becoming someone that he didn´t plan to be in the course of his life, nothing was for his own will even though he has enough determination to take away any obstacle and as Shane has mentioned, no one can say at what point they will make their move and Eren pulls his ace up his sleeve, but he is not the only one unstable, they all have a kind of trauma and that is how different disorders are formed , Zeke is an example of that, being his life a lie, he was surrounded by people that influenced him in one thing and his parents told him other, he must be mentally exhausted even if he is a prodigy capable of thinking in anything to opt to find a solution, but on the other hand his only movement and anchor so that everything he sacrificed was worth, it is Eren that carries within himself the soul, mentality or memories of Eren Krueguer, for that reason I consider that from the first encounter between Eren and Zeke in Shinganshina , he could appreciate the nostalgia and hope in his eyes when asked if it was "Eren Jaeger".

I seriously think that if Eren Krueger and Eren Jaeger are connected in some way by the invisible paths that are linked to him, he could have contact with his past and future, sending a message to the nine-year-old Eren while he sleeps under the tree, ensuring the security of Mikasa and Armin, changing their actions of the future to save them and keep them alive as he did twice, is the only hope, a single hope to free themselves from a future in which everyone dies.

#shingeki no kyojin #snk #snkspoilers #eren jaeger #mangaspoilers #aot #theory

[decklandsseeds]

Hypochondria

Hi. My name is Dixie and I'm a hypochondriac.

Things haven't always been that bad with hypochondria, but it's gotten so much worse in the past year. I convinced myself I was pregnant, because the birth control I use tricks the body into thinking so. I've had several pregnancy tests that all came up negative, but between the constant worry and other mental disorders, it caused me to develop anorexia. Now that I'm no longer fixated on being pregnant, I'm convinced I have diabetes. However, I have been tested for that, too and it also came out negative. Yes, I've checked my thyroid, white blood cell count, STD'S (STI's? You get the gist), and a multitude of other things. Everything has come out normal (good job body!). Even though I've been tested, my bad eating habits and lack of sanity has triggered anxiety attacks during puking episodes after drinking very little alcohol. It's caused me to pretty much cut sugar out of my diet and eat an unbalanced diet out of fear and denial. I use the word denial for lack of a better one. I'm aware I have hypochondria, so I have to try to convince my subconscious/over active mind that I DON'T have diabetes while it's telling me I DO. Because of this unfortunate game of chasing my own tail, the sensation of denial over having such a serious condition, has technically made me more susceptible.

If you don't know anything about type two diabetes:

Your pancreas naturally produces insulin to process sugars (glucose to be specific). If there is a major inconsistency in your sugar intake on a day to day basis over a long period of time, your body confuses or overwhelms itself to the point of no longer producing the proper amount. A common misconception of diabetes is that it only happens to people who are overweight. This is not true. Anyone who has bad eating habits, an inconsistency of sugar in take, or even a history of type two diabetes in the family (my aunt and grandmother on my mother's side and my grandfather on my father's) is at risk. However, even if you're a hypochondriac like me, you don't have any need to worry (hopefully- please go to the doctor if you feel like you might have it, it's better to be safe than sorry no matter how paranoid you are). It's actually really hard to get type two, because of how resilient the body is to changing conditions. We weren't always well fed American's with the highest obesity rates in the world and our bodies are very much aware of that.

This also brings me to another struggle of being a hypochondriac. I love the medical field and even considered becoming a doctor or EMT for quite some time. I know a lot about how the body works and I also know a lot about diseases, disorders, illnesses, etc. Meaning I can dig myself as deep of a hole as I could possibly make out of pure knowledge. People who are able to go about their lives without worrying they're dying, or could go into diabetic shock if they drink too much soda (ridiculous, right?) are usually also joyfully unaware of statistics and probabilities. Yes, there might only have been a total of 4 people in the United States who contacted Ebola during the most recent out break, but that's still 4 people. Instead of being okay with the fact that there are millions of people who live in the same country, I'm fixated on there being a number higher than 1 out of 350 million and therefore worry about becoming number 5.

So why am I making this long post out of something that only effects about 200,000 Americans a year? Because I'm one of 200,000 and I know there are others on here going through the same thing. If I'm able to make a post about something that makes my every day life harder and have someone relate and know they're not alone, it makes me feel better about what I'm going through. Anyone reading this also needs to remember that this is my journey and everyone experiences things differently. I suggest going to the doctor about once every 3-6 months, or when whatever it is you're fixated on causes an actual health concern. On top of going to the doctor, going to a therapist could in fact be very beneficial. I have chosen the route of self help, though It's soooooooo much harder than talking to a professional, but it has made me a lot more aware of myself mentally and physically than it has before. My hypochodria has been part of my life for a long time and choosing not to go to a professional about it has caused the healing process to go through major ups and downs.

If you made it this far, thank you, it means a lot to me. If you have any questions, please do not hesitate to ask. If you are going through any sort of mental health concern, I'm always a shoulder to vent to or cry on. However, I will always suggest going to a professional. I've been to them in the past and it wasn't right for me, but that's a story for another time.

Have a wonderful day

#trigger #warning #anorexia #eating disorders #diabetes #hypochondria #medical #self help #psa #my #journey #mental health #mental disorder #physical health #physical #disorder

[itispossibleihaveissues]

This Night - Chapter 4

TITLE: This Night AUTHOR: Mikimoo RECIPIENT: tristen84 PAIRING: JayDick RATING: Mature

WARNINGS: Off screen Non-Con, murder of innocent young people, 

THIS CHAPTERS WARNINGS: Reference to non-con, a racial slur, violence and nastiness. The usual.

SUMMARY: The Red Hood and Officer Grayson are on the same case. A small misstep has far reaching consequences for them both.

Chapter 1, 2 3

Ruiz was waiting for him, crouched just off the path, gazing out at the dappled light of dawn. How many days had they been in this goddamn jungle? Jason had lost count.

“I can hear them coming,” she said as he approached. Her knuckles were white where she gripped her gun, but her hand was steady. Probably steadier than Jason's, who could really feel fatigue setting in. He was used to running on empty, used to over extending himself – but the high doses of drugs he had been shot up with just days before were playing havoc with his body as they were flushed out of his system. He could only imagine how unpleasant Dick's come-down was.

“Lets run,” he told Ruiz, pulling her to her feet. “Got to leave a clear trail for them to follow – then when we're far enough away, we can head into the jungle and try to loose them.”

Ruiz nodded and they took off at a reasonable pace. It was jarring and Jason's whole body ached and throbbed. “What kind of dog is it?” he asked between breaths, sudden curiosity helping to take his mind off the pain.

“What?” Ruiz panted beside him, shooting him an angry glance from under the wild tangle of her hair.

“The dog you're going to feed Dick to.”

She gave him another incredulous look, and Jason wondered if he also caused all those eye rolls and twitches that seemed so prevalent with people who suffered exposure to Dick Grayson and his special brand of bat-shitery.

“A Pomeranian,” she said at last, almost defensively.

Jason snorted despite his lack of breath. “One of those dumb fluffy things? Hardly a corpse devouring fiend.”

“Have you ever met a Pomeranian? They are tiny rat-bastards.”

“I'll take your word for it,” Jason huffed, amused despite himself. “I always fancied getting a dog, but don't really have the lifestyle for it,” he mused. By his calculations they had run a quarter of a mile; time to turn off the path and start making there way though the undergrowth.

“I enjoy dogs,” Ruiz said, her voice harsh with the effort of keeping pace with Jason's longer legs. “These little asshole ones especially – they're tiny savages.”

Jason motioned for her to stop and they both took a moment to catch their breath. “What's it called, your tiny, viscous fluff-ball?”

“Napoleon,” Ruiz said, straight faced.

Jason laughed loud enough even the dense jungle couldn't quite swallow the sound.

 Half an hour later and they were running again, this time fighting through the tangled, rough terrain of the forest. The good news was their ruse seemed to have worked and the gang was following them, rather than hunting for Dick. The bad news was the men tracking them were fit, well rested and well fed. And they had gained an alarming amount of ground.

It was only a matter of time until the soldiers caught up, and Jason was pretty sure they were still far enough out from the rendezvous point that when they did it would be a very uneven fight. But there was not much more they could do but run and pray to whatever gods might be listening.

In the end they got further than Jason thought they would. But it still wasn't far enough.

Bullets shot past them as they ran, and Jason tugged Ruiz behind a tree. She was flushed and panting, great gulps of air that looked painful. Jason's own lungs felt tight with exertion and sweat was running into his eyes. He wiped his face with his sleeve as he tried to think of a way out of this, but he was coming up blank - there was fuck all he could do to save them.

On one hand he was glad Dick wasn't here for this final stand, maybe he would have a chance to survive, maybe the mercenary would find him and rescue him, maybe he would be able to contact someone on the tablet. Or, on the other hand, Dick might be facing a long, slow death of fever, dehydration and sickness, alone in the forest. Either that, or he might end up back in their hands; tortured and abused. Jason shuddered, fought down the impotent rage that welled up in his chest. He couldn't let himself dwell on that. Dick would find a way to survive. He had the tablet and he was smart. If he managed to stay conscious he would figure out a way. Jason decided to stick to that thought, to keep faith in Dick's ridiculous ability to beat the odds.

“We know you're there, officers,” a voice called out from the bushes behind them. “You give up, and we let you live. I can even guarantee you will not be harmed. But you run, or fight back and you will be made to regret it before you die. This is your last chance.”

Jason had three bullets left. Ruiz had none. They were fucked.

Ruiz watched him check his ammo, her mouth set in a grim line. “I have no intention to go quietly,” she told him, “I won't make that choice for you, but I will ask that you save one of those bullets for me, if they capture me.”

Jason nodded numbly. For the first time he let himself wonder what had happened to her during her three days of captivity, whether she had endured the same kind of torture Dick had, if she had also been assaulted. He had assumed, because they hadn't drugged her, that they were keeping her unharmed for a reason. But perhaps it was just that Dick had been so much harder to handle.

Not a question he was going to ask, and not a choice he was going to contest, even if he wanted to. He handed her the gun. “That's your decision, Ruiz, but pick your moment carefully and use the other two on them. I'm going to see if I can take a few out before I go down.”

“How?”

He shrugged. “Bullshit, mostly.” He checked his hidden weapons carefully and took a few steadying breaths. He was going to have to be convincing, if he had a chance in hell of getting in close enough to get a couple of them with his blade. He raised his voice, “I'm not one of the cops you want. That means you've got no reason not to shoot me, so I'm not seeing an incentive for giving up without a fight.”

“That's true, but we might go easy on you.”

“Yeah, right. I was you, I wouldn't go easy on a guy who killed my buddies. So I figure I got to give you a reason, right?”

“Right,” the guy said, unimpressed.

“How about fifty thousand reasons?”

“I'm listening,” the guy replied, his voice picking up a bit. Greed was a wonderful motivator.

“You know who the American cop is, don't you?”

“Wayne's gypsy brat,” the guy said, his tone contemptuous. “Worth more than his weight in gold, or he was. Not sure Wayne will want him back now, never thought sloppy seconds was the kind of thing a guy like that would go for.”

Jason took a moment to wrestle down the red haze of rage that suddenly colored his vision. The only thing that kept him clinging to his sanity was he would get to kill more of them if he waited until the time was right. Beside him Ruiz sucked in a sharp breath, and Jason could feel the fury radiating off her. She probably hadn't been aware of what had happened to Dick when they were separated. Her anger helped steady him, tighten his resolve.

This guy was going to be first to die.

Once he had his voice level he spoke up again. “Wayne will pay a ransom for me, too.”

The man snorted in disbelief, “I don't think so, a fucking cape like you?”

“Everyone knows Wayne finances the Batman and his crew,” Jason said, warming to his story. “You ever wonder why?”

“No,” the guy was starting to sound bored.

Jason did spare a thought for the shit-show that this bunch of crap could bring down on Bruce, but apart from the one big lie, he wasn't saying much that wasn't already known or rumored. He was actually quite proud of the thread of almost plausible shit he had just managed to cobble together on the fly.

“I'm his illegitimate son,” Jason said. The words sounded absurd when they came out his mouth, but they skirted close enough to the truth that they were almost convincing. And they were backed up by the gossip that had been circulating for years - that Bruce had fathered numerous kids and kept them and their mothers quiet with cash. There was even speculation Tim was his biological son, and the adoption was mealy a way to legitimize his chosen heir. Something that people felt was backed up by the fact he had not adopted Dick until he was an adult – the gossip sites liked to speculate that only happened to try to distract from the rumors that his interest in Dick had been sexual in nature.

Fuck knows what they thought of Damian, but Bruce did try to keep the boy out of the public eye. Partly because that kind of life was stressful for a child, and partly to avoid a lawsuit, when an incensed Damian verbally eviscerated a reporter or two. Or literally, with that kid, literal disembowelment was also on the cards.

“Right,” the guy said, unimpressed.

Time to sell it. “Grayson knows me, that should be obvious – he rescued me, I rescued him. We're brothers, after a fashion. Not to mention the fact that if you ask Wayne and he denies it, I know I'm going to die a lot more painful than a bullet to the head.” Jason was aware of Ruiz watching him carefully, assessing. Jason hoped there was enough truth in there to persuade the bad guys, and enough lies to convince her he was bullshitting to save his skin. “You've got nothing to lose, and everything to gain. You either get cash, or the chance to kill me.”

The guy was quiet for a moment, thinking. “I hear a lot of you talking, and not much from Grayson backing you up. You got anything to say, or you just let the real men talk?” he said, presumably to Dick.

Jason bit his lip until it bled, forcing calm before answering. “I'm afraid you've lost your chance with Grayson. He's long gone.”

“How'd you mean, long gone?” Now the guy sounded angry, the thought of that ransom slipping through his fingers.

“We separated a while back, he went his own way, figured we were more likely to survive that way. So, you have very little chance of catching him up, I'm afraid. Which means, you want your ransom, you got to go with me.”

There was a moment of angry silence while the guy thought it over. No doubt weighing his need to hurt something for the embarrassment of losing Dick, verses his greed. Greed won out, it usually did. “Throw down your weapon and step out. Let me look at you.”

Jason tossed out his empty gun. “The guy that's speaking, is mine,” he whispered to Ruiz, “use your bullets carefully, and run like hell. You might get away while I distract them – don't argue – if there is a chance one of us can live to get help for Dick and to bring these guys down, we have to take it.”

She didn't look happy about it, but she nodded.

Jason stepped out into the clearing, his whole body braced for the bullets that didn't come. It looked like they had taken the bait, at least for now. He could feel the comforting weight of the long knife strapped to his back, and the firm tug of his wrist sheath as he calculated the odds. He had to get closer. In his left sleeve there were three tiny shuriken that could be released and flung with devastating results at this range, but he wanted to gut this fucker.

He took a step forward.

The man looked him over carefully. Jason thought about what he would look like gurgling his last breaths, blood pulsing over the blade of Jason's knife. He tried to keep the bloodlust off his face, but might not have suceeded, as two of the men took a step back.

The lead guy could only see money though. “Fifty thousand is not much for a man like Wayne. Not much for a son.”

“I didn't say he liked me, just that he's my father. However, he is very fond of my mother, so you let me speak to her first and she'll push the price up. Sky's the limit.”

The guy nodded, already seeing all of Bruce's money at his disposal. Jason wondered if he was actually supposed to be doing this or whether he was planning to act independently and keep the cash. Made sense, as they had not appeared to have made the connection between Dick and Bruce back in the house above the river.

“Okay, lets take him,” the guy said.

Jason tensed, feeling adrenalin flood his system. The shuriken fell into his hand when he released them and nestled between his fingers. The smaller knife slid free too, ready to stab that piece of shit in the throat.

He stepped forward again, as a thug with some cuffs moved doubtfully towards him.

Then everything changed.

He saw the sudden glint of a sword slicing down toward the leaders undefended neck and time seemed to stand still for a beat, then the guys neck and part of his jaw exploded outwards with the impact of the blade. Jason threw himself forward, not a second too soon as some of the guards fired there weapons in surprise, aimed right at the spot his head had been moments before.

He hit the ground hard, but rolled with his forward momentum and saved himself from being perforated by the dumb assholes squeezing the trigger at random. His instinctual lunge had saved him from death but a bullet still clipped his ankle sending white hot pain shooting up his leg.

One of the shuriken had sliced his fingers as he rolled but the other flew out and in to the eye of an armed guard, who screamed and dropped his weapon. Jason dove for it. Most of the men were now firing haphazardly into the jungle trying to hit whoever was picking them off with a big-ass sword. Big mistake. Jason sprayed them with bullets not caring who or where he hit. Ruiz sensibly remained behind the tree, thus missing being splattered in the uncoordinated spray of bullets from both sides.

Then there was an eerie silence, men lay dead around the clearing, and Jason was almost giddily shocked he wasn't among them. He blinked stupidly at the gun in his hand and his bleeding fingers. Then his ankle remembered it had been shot, pulsing with sudden agony and Jason sat down on his ass, hard.

He hoped it was just a brush of a bullet and nothing more serious, but he couldn't tell with the throbbing and the banging feeling in his head. He was suddenly aware he was incredibly thirsty, almost gasping, and his body felt shaky and weak.

He was also very aware this was not over yet.

“Jason, are you OK?” Ruiz called from behind the tree. Her eyes were wild but she was still gripping her gun with a steady hand. Jason added one hundred points to his already very high opinion of her as she remained hidden in the relative safety of her spot until she knew if their mysterious rescuer was friend or foe.

“I'm fine,” he was amazed at how even his voice was. “You may as well show yourself,” he called to the person waiting in the line of trees.

The man that stepped into the clearing was instantly recognizable despite his dark, nondescript fatigues and black balaclava. The sword was only part of it, the way he moved made the hair on Jason's arms stand on end.

Fuckity fuck. This was one of the three people he didn’t want to have picked up their contract.

They stared at each other for a moment, Jason still sitting in the dirt clutching an empty gun. Wonderful, not at all awkward.

From behind him, he could hear Ruiz's ragged breaths – she might not know who this was, but she sure as shit could sense the dangerous menace radiating off him.

“Oh, for fucks-sake,” Jason burst out eventually. “Tell me you're taking the contract and I don't have to fight you?” he tried to keep the plaintive note out of his voice, but he suspected he hadn't quite managed it.

Slade Wilson pulled his balaclava up, revealing one blue eye and an amused smirk. “You're not the brat I was expecting,” he said, “and you seem to be one light. My contract was for three.”

Jason nodded, unbelievably relieved, but not ready to let his guard down – he and Wilson did not have the best working relationship. “How much did you hear?” he asked, forcing his body to move he struggled to his feet. His ankle ached and throbbed but he was glad to find it took his weight.

“Some,” Wilson said, after a pause.

Cagey fucker. Well, Jason would deal with that issue later, for the time being they needed to get Ruiz to safety and head back to where they left Dick. The sense of urgency was nagging at him, every second they wasted was courting disaster. “Dick was injured, we left him a way back, we didn't know who would pick up the job, but we figured getting to them was our only hope.”

“Hmm,” Wilson said, turning his single eye towards the tree Ruiz was still crouched behind. “You didn't just abandon Grayson when he became too much of a burden?”

“We did no such thing!” Ruiz shouted angrily, “and the longer we spend here the more likely he will be found – we must go back!”

Wilson looked amused. Jason wasn't sure what to make of that. “Do you have transport?” he asked, hopefully. “And tracking equipment? We have a signal we can follow back to where we left him.”

Wilson nodded. “I came by Night Jet. Lets return there and see if we can pick up this signal. My contract was for three, and three I will bring back, dead or alive.”

That sounded so encouraging.

Ruiz finally emerged from hiding, still clutching her gun. She eyed Wilson suspiciously. “You know this man?” she asked Jason, quietly, although probably not quietly enough to escape his notice.

“Yeah, Slade Wilson. He's a... private contractor we paid to help us escape. We have some history.”

“You trust him?”

“Not an inch. But he is good at what he does, as long as we pay him, he'll help us.”

Ruiz nodded and bent to retrieve the gun of a fallen guard. She looked exhausted and at the end of her reserves, but she still examined the weapon carefully and tucked it into her belt as she picked up another. Jason followed her example and restocked his own ammo supply, and then moved after Wilson back into the jungle.

 The Night Jet was a small military grade stealth plane. Ruiz sank into the seat Wilson pointed her too with open relief. Jason perched on the edge of his, reluctant to sit properly in case he couldn't get up again.

“So,” Wilson begun, “what should I call you, Red?”

“Jason,” Jason replied, wearily. He appreciated Wilson's efforts not to blow his cover, but he was fairly sure Ruiz was going to have some serious questions for Dick when this was all over. He hoped they could come up with something convincing.

Wilson raised an eyebrow, but gave no further indication of his opinion. “Track Grayson's signal and I'll find him.” He passed over a hand held devise.

Jason quickly utilized it to find Dick's signal – it was still strong. Although that didn't mean there was any guarantee he was still in one piece, it was still a relief to know they could track him. “I'm going with you,” he told Wilson, handing the devise back over.

“You don't look like you are in any fit state, Jason.” He practically purred the name and it made a uncomfortable shudder work its way up Jason's spine.

“No compromise.”

“Okay, it’s your money, and your skin.” Wilson smiled like a shark. “Or is it Wayne's?”

Jason grit his teeth. “Doesn't matter as long as you get paid, right?”

“I'll come too,” Ruiz said, struggling upright from where she had been sinking into the comfortable seat.

“No,” Jason said, “not because you would be a hindrance, you wouldn't, but if shit goes wrong, I want there to be someone who gets out and brings the hurt down on these fucks.”

“We will come back,” Wilson put in mildly, “at least I will.”

“Well, then you can get her out of here and then take the extra cash to return and help clear these bastards out,” Jason snapped. “Can we stop wasting time and just go?”

Wilson shrugged his huge shoulders and stood with the fluid grace of a man who was completely at ease with himself. Jason had to concentrate all his energy and stubbornness just to regain his feet and even then he couldn't keep the wince off his face.

Wilson looked at him critically. “I'm willing to humor you to some extent, kid, but not at my own expense. You want to come with me, you let me patch you up.”

The thought of Deathstroke that far in his personal space, putting hands on him, made Jason shudder again. But they really didn't have time to argue, and Wilson was holding all the cards. Jason nodded stiffly and sat back in the chair.

Wilson raised an eyebrow at his easy compliance but didn't mock him for it, for which Jason was grateful. “Apart from the ankle, any other major injuries?” he asked kneeling in front of Jason and taking hold of his boot in a strong grip.

“Bruises mostly. Bit stiff from being shot through body armor and pumped full of weird drugs.”

“When was that?” Wilson started to untie the laces on his boot, each tug made Jason's jaw clench in pain.

“Few days ago,” he said, attempting to control his voice. “Dick shot me out a window.”

Wilson snorted and the edge of a smile tugged at his lip under the short beard. “Did he now?”

His fingers against the swollen, sore flesh of Jason's foot were not gentle, but they weren't overly harsh either - brisk and firm; professional. Jason wished it were painful instead. The sensation was making his skin crawl.

Wilson declared his foot unbroken, but the bone might have chipped a little from the impact, it was obvious from his expression that he thought Jason was going to fuck it up even more if he traipsed back tough the jungle on it. But instead of giving the lecture he expected, Wilson just wrapped it tightly in bandages and handed over a couple of light painkillers.

The walk back into the forest was unpleasant, but Jason had come back from the fucking dead, he wasn't going to let a little exhaustion and pain get the better of him. Also he had already fallen on his ass in front of Wilson once today, he wasn't going to do it again.

The jungle itself felt more oppressive now, although he felt a lot safer with Wilson's big frame in front of him. Wilson would take down any attackers, he had no doubt, but Jason was sill hyper aware that he himself was a walking liability. It was a nerve-wreaking trip.

It felt like hours, but was probably closer to forty-five minutes. Apparently in their frantic run he and Ruiz had taken something of a convoluted route. They finally made it back to the path and Jason felt another bolt of adrenaline hit him. Was Dick okay? Had he been discovered? Had he succumbed to his injuries and they were walking towards a corpse? Jason's heart was hammering so hard in his chest he felt queasy, and there was a cold pit of anxiety bubbling in his stomach.

The other nagging concern was if he was making a huge mistake trusting Wilson – he wasn't sure what he and Dick's relationship was at the moment. Over the years it seemed to have run the gauntlet of wry, antagonistic affection, all the way to outright hatred and back again. Jason couldn't shake the worry that he was leading Deathstroke towards a critically injured Dick who would be unable to defend himself if Wilson was currently holding a grudge – or someone else's contract.

But there was fuck all choice at the moment – if things went to shit, he would just have to deal as it happened. If Wilson had any indication of the direction of Jason's thoughts, he gave no indication and instead tugged aside the undergrowth to reveal Dick, awake, but glassy eyed and sweating. He was also holding Jason's gun in shaking hands, pointed right between Wilson's eyes.

Relief flooded though Jason, the feeling so intense it almost knocked him off his feet. “Stand down, Dickie,” he said.

Dick blinked up at him, the gun stayed pointing at Wilson's face though. Wilson, for his part remained still and calm – a wise move Jason suspected.

“Jay,” Dick slurred, “Ruiz OK?”

“Yeah, how you holding up?”

“M' fine,” Dick said, unconvincingly. He swung his gaze back to Wilson – recognition in his face this time. “He our help?” he asked.

“For our sins, Yeah.”

Dick didn't look overly alarmed, and lowered his gun, which went a way towards convincing Jason that Wilson might not just kill them out of hand.

“You look a mess, kid,” Wilson said.

Dick grimaced at him and held out an arm to Jason, like he wanted to be pulled up.

Jason stepped towards him, but Wilson held out an arm to stop him. “You don't look like you could withstand a healthy sneeze in your direction, Red. I doubt trying to help the kid up is going to do more than land the pair of you back in the dirt. And I don't think we have the time to take the luxury of sorting you out again.”

Jason didn't like it, but it was true. He was wobbling on his bad ankle and Dick didn't look too steady either and he was still sitting down. Wilson didn't give him time to think it through though, and reached to haul Dick to his feet, holding him upright with one big hand.

Dick clearly wasn't expecting it and lashed out wildly, toppling backwards in an uncoordinated flail of limbs. Wilson looked comically surprised. None of the frantic blows hand even landed, which was a testament to Dick's physical condition, but it was the action it’s self that indicated his emotional state and it felt wrong. And not just to Jason, judging by the way Wilson was watching Dick as he lay panting in the undergrowth.

“Sorry,” Dick said into the awkward silence, as both Jason and Wilson stared at him. “You took me by surprise. I'm not with it,” his speech slurred slightly at the end of the sentence, and he wet his lips, peering up at them.

Wilson nodded and held out a hand again, this time Dick accepted the help and Wilson pulled him upright. Once on his feet he wobbled for a moment, looking pale and sick. There was no way he was going to make it back though the jungle on his own two feet, and Jason wasn't going to be the one to carry him. From the look on Dick's face he knew it too, and didn't like it.

“Kid,” Wilson began, but Dick waved him off.

“I know, just give me a moment. Got water?”

Wilson handed him a canteen and Dick drank greedily, his eyes almost closed. Then he nodded his consent. He avoided looking at Jason, as Wilson scooped him up in his arms like he didn't weigh a thing. Wilson remained impassive, but Dick looked explosively tense for a moment, before relaxing into the hold and laying his cheek against Wilson's shoulder. It made Jason uncomfortable, but he couldn't quite say way.

“Red, you need to take point,” Wilson growled at him.

Jason forced his body into motion again. An hour to safety. 

Just an hour.

#jaydick #jason todd #dick grayson #mik trys to write stuff #My writing #My fic #this night

[dwestfieldblog]

THE BEAUTIFUL AND THE WEIRD

But which is witch? It gets so hard to tell...but Love does not switch off, it turns on. So, drown this world in astral fire and cling to the wreckage floating...Welcome again to How I Cheated Death for 2000 Years... 'Perhaps we should kiss and break the tension.' as Homer Simpson said...to Plato. Or Pluto in Hades tomorrow. (Most of this was completed on Friday 20th October, under the influence of night air and music on headphones.)

But all dimensions rejoice, my 3 cds are done...'These songs make me glad I am deaf, I only wish that I were blind also' said Beethoven yesterday, via the astral plane... But another critic writes; 'These songs are better looking than a multi-dimensional parallelogram woman'; said Picasso, three days before a sideways yesterday. Of course I have already done five songs for the next cd, still alive and I need to play and sing before my left eye shades over and my liver explodes. The devil does indeed make work for idol hands. Yes, that's a bad pun. Catch 23. There is no such thing as failure, there is only giving up. I do not give up. WILL not.

Some strange times recently like a time shift around me and a slip into a slightly different dimension which is running parallel to where I was. A disorientated balance which quickly re-adjusted itself (into an accepting understanding) but left the feeling of being on or in another channel. A curving parallel synchronicity like two dolphins in the ocean, tango dancers, eternal twists of D.N.A...or just bloody Laurel and Hardy. Time might kiss and tell...or just rape the flesh of its youth.

God is always watching (too scared to join in) and is said to move in mysterious ways...me too after half a bottle of whisky but that's no excuse for bad behaviour. Jehovah'sVoyeurs...The devil is always listening, so be interesting at least...'The gods and angels of magic are described by the science of the mind as archetypes, while demons have been converted into neuroses.' Or 'Symbols reveal by concealing and conceal by revealing'.  G.Gurvitch

Two weeks ago, I gave some of my students the homework 'Describe Beauty'...that which elevates you, connects your highest self and overthrows your lowest. They all mentioned Nature, babies. Imagine Love.And all it means and how it feels. How you perceive it to be. How it transforms you. Where it takes you. EVOLVES you. Try this at home on a daily basis, stay calm, don't be alarmed. Smiley face time.

Meanwhile once again, far, far away from love...Sock puppets on-line writing inflammatory comments dictated by master manipulators with vested interests in power and money, being read by the gullible looking for others to blame for their own lack of energy (transferring guilt) and projecting themselves onto leaders they believe speak for them. Thus wept Zarathrustra. And around and around we go in an increasingly vicious circle with an ever decreasingspiral of possibilities until something disintegrates beneath the pressure.The normal world, '2017'.

Zuckerberg claiming that Facebook had no Russian propaganda connections during the U.S election...now proved to be absolute bullshit lies. And this guy has designs on a future White House? Wonderful news for the world if we ever get there. President Z should have been Zappa. And Trump, dear Donald, still trying to 'drain the swamp', one tweet at at time...and wondering why he is up to his arse in alligators...

Twitter for twats has expanded the amount of possible characters from140 to a stunning 280. Let the bells (which toll for thee) resound in a deadly, mean, meaningless celebration. More poison freely available across the ethernet. Duck Fart has an extra...errr, (wait a moment for my cognitive processes to do the mathematics)...140 extra letters to use for utter stinking excrement with which to fertilize his realm of truly lost souls. Live like scum, die like scum you disgusting moronic reptile. Cursed for three generations. I woke up in a good mood this morning, yes I did.

Various elections and 'power' shifts taking place, but...'In Capitalism, man exploits man, in Socialism, its exactly the opposite'. Ben Tucker. HA.

I can remember the night before I turned ten years old, writing in a little book, 'For the rest of my life I will have two numbers' and feeling miserable about it, (poor little thing) now I look forward to having 3. Death/wisdom or both simultaneously. They can take my life but they'll never take my freedom. Etc. Drawing down the moon straight into the heart...and...away we go...you were born Ready.

All religion, magick and spiritual disciplines are attempts to bring together, (in Latin -religare -to bind) reconnect, re-establish a link, a bridge between hemispheres of the brain, man within the woman, the female enfolding the male, to become whole, the marriage of the opposites, god and the devil within, Yoga, from the Sanskrit root 'yuj'...meaning to join,  a Harmonic resonance causing phase transition if you will. Will, Go deeper... Self-remembering leads to self reprogramming, erasing learned imprints and replacing them with a new circuitry. 'All forms of purposive activity invoke a higher 'I'. That 'I' will take 'you' over when allowed...and there is the legendary guardian angel, another part of yourself.

EVOLUTION IS INEVITABLE..

Altogether now...Left brain...Active Yang for language and reason. ON. Aware of the passing of time. Right brain...Passive Yin for feeling and intuition. OFF. No sense of time. Anima is the female element in the male unconsciousness. Animus is the male in the female. Every ancient story and creation myth (like Plato's legend of the Gods cutting man in two) is an attempt to explain the polarisation of energies. Every mystic religion is a form of discipline to reconnect the one with the other and then combine with the whole. (Or so I choose to believe and I am just crazy enough to believe my own discoveries.) The horizon comes to you because it is already within. How to make new friends and influence yourself.

(Aha, just read today '....awareness that society is everywhere in conspiracy against intelligence'. Schroedinger's Cat, (R.A.W.) Always wonderful to find that someone vastly more clever and better humoured than I, agrees with me. Makes it all almost worth the while.) I think a lot, (way too much) and it is a pity that I am fairly stoopid because my thoughts could actually be useful occasionally. What serves better, is instinct. (When in doubt, blow the thinking OUT.) Logic is ridiculous in the face of eternity. That's why people on various drugs laugh so much

'Every great discovery had been the breaking of a taboo'.

'When you're ugly and somebody loves you, you know they love you for who you are. Beautiful people never know who to trust.'

The following sentence was in last month's blog, but it came from a useful dream of mine and I like it, whether or not it makes 'sense'...so here it is  again....Creation was caused by focused thought form radiations of ahigher oscillating force upon binary possibility waves...This is more or less, (or much more than) what magick seems to be. A discipline of focus, cause and effect...and everyone can do this in their own forms and fashion, every chord, stroke of the brush, every recipe, secret invention, improvisation on the spur of the moment, every executed plan. Every thought form directed, every cosmic joke, every intuition realised, every kiss which dissolves Ego, every spiked lightning and shiver of orgasm, every channelled catharsis creating reality around you, drawing circumstances towards you. But be Very aware of the power of the subconscious, it works both ways.

As someone evolved might have said; 'When you need to shit, shit.' Anal retentives have a hard time ascending their internal heaps. Process and release, do a finger painting in your own blood if you have to. When dealing with yourself , honesty is always the best policy. White people seem to have it quite bad and English folk all the worse. Once again, everyone has an Ego problem because they have an Ego. (Or something.) And remove the insecure mask of self delusional vanities, some folk were born mediocre but the 'average' can always become more...although that takes focus and the majority are always lazy. They have been trained to be.

Acquiring knowledge is also a matter of losing useless parts of your thinking in tandem with ingesting fascinating teachings. The teacher comes when ready. (HA.) And many, many times, the teacher becomes yourself. You, on another level, reorientating yourself, a helping hand further on. Much depends on trust and most humans learned to be natural manipulators as babies, adults merely refine the negatives. Lessons are everywhere and take thousands of forms, too much to know but One to Be.

I remember reading many years ago of someone asking Buddha if he was a saviour, to which he replied 'I am not'. 'Are you an angel?' No. 'What are you?' The realised man replied; 'I am awake'. And there it was and here it is. At the same time. Almost all of us including myself, are deeply asleep. Somnambulists on a treadmill of daily routine...too busy busy busy with basic survival (and being kept so by the powers that seem to be) to evolve and clamber amoeba like out of the ocean onto land) (F......g terrible mixed metaphor but you get the idea) and as that temporarily French programme from the Matrix said; 'If we do not make time, then 'ow can we take the time?'

Still love the part where he says how much he enjoys the French language because it is the best to curse in; 'It's like wiping your arse with silk'. Wonderful writing. HUMOUR. Ahhh, Sing Swan Song by Can....Melt. She is the mother of Everything and you are her egg...afterglowing...

Shelter, embrace, eat you, drink you consume you, renew you, over and over, higher and higher and OUT. A glorious and total sanity to the very sweetest end.

And as for the 'Here and Now'...This quote from The Tibetan Book of the Dead, could not be much clearer... 'This Truth is that there is no reality behind any of the phenomena of the Bardo plane, save the illusions stored up in one's own mind as accretions from sangsaric experiences. Recognition of this automatically gives Liberation'.

Saw some graffiti yesterday in large letters on the side of a block of grim flats in Prague, translates as; 'YOU CANNOT LIVE WITHOUT UTOPIA'. The definition of Utopia is? Drugs in concrete boxes? A fake temporary connection with an illusory higher self? All addictions weaken. He says, now slurping whisky, eating a chocolate biscuit and smoking a cigarette. (See, how a man can multi task with total focus, arf)  Never said I was perfect. Not even my mother would claim that.

The age of reason was the death of love. The Aeon of Chaos will see its rebirth. Where does all this nonsense come from? I just watch my fingers moving. Don't think. Switch off by choice and dive into the flowing rivers of trance and Blah. Very rarely I am I arrogant enough to believe that any of this waffle is being channelled. Only sometimes.

Harm none and do what you Will. HAPPY HALLOWEEN, jump on a broomstick and Know YourSelf, with Love, D.