#(the reason being work being awful and feeling like everything I fought for was. fruitless? So what now?)

[hobisexually]

I feel so, so old but also so, so young and it’s starting to freak me out

#Not to get too existential but. #32 is hitting me harder than 30 for some reason? #(the reason being work being awful and feeling like everything I fought for was. fruitless? So what now?) #and time keeps running out and I keep losing things and people #my brain keeps yelling TOO SLOW TOO LATE TOO NOTHING all the time #they took my drive away from me and broke my spirit a little bit and now I’m just. scared and sad and angry all the time #and I don’t even have the faith in myself to go apply somewhere else because I’m convinced I can’t. they really fucking broke me #and if I don’t have work. #what do I have #it was the (1) thing I thought was going well and now that isn’t so what the fuck else do I have #I can’t buy a house I’ve never had a relationship my whole body is fucked #I still didn’t write a book #I can’t keep up with my coworkers I can’t keep up with my same age/older friends I keep just. walking with blocks on my legs while everyone #else is running marathons and finishing them #not to be a stereotypical ambitious workaholic Capricorn bitch but #what the fuck else am I #you know?

[janekfan]

Hello friend!! I thought of a prompt, and if you like it, it's yours!! What if Tim was kidnapped by the circus with Jon?? They're having a bad time together; Tim is hostile. Eventually, Jon starts to get quieter, and Tim thinks he's in a mood. Jon complains of a headache, and Tim thinks he's being a baby. Until he finds out he's burning up and was just too afraid to say anything because he didn't think he could take Tim telling him he didn't care 😭 (but, begrudgingly, he DOES) 💖

oooooooh this prompt! Had me feeling things! Thank you @taylortut!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26400745

It was Tim who woke up first, unsure of where he was, still with the residual anger he’d had on his way to confront Jon about all of this nonsense still burning incandescent. Hindsight being 20/20, he probably should have taken the anonymous tip on Jon’s location with a grain of salt and a fistful of caution but he was just so angry it was filling him up like a poison, overflowing with nowhere to go, and it was so much easier to focus on his boss because it was his fault they were in this mess.

It was his fault Sasha was gone.

It was his fault they were all trapped.

“T’Tim...” Barely an exhale and if the room they were contained in hadn’t been dead quiet, he’d ignore Jon. Still might. Let him sit in the guilt and shame of having inflicted whatever this was on yet another assistant.

If he even cared.

“Where...are we?” There was some light to see by, but not nearly enough to determine the answer to that even if he’d wanted to speak to him in the first place. Based on his own headache, Tim assumed that Jon had been knocked unconscious as well and corroborated it with the hiss of pain drawn sharply between his teeth.

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking that?” Snapping callously and surprising even himself at the harsh bite in his voice, Jon flinched hard, turning with it to examine the space.

“We’re tied up.” He remarked, nonplussed, and Tim heard him pulling at his bonds. It wasn’t rope, but something softer and before he could think on it further a shaft of light fell upon Jon as a being, not quite a person, stepped through a door. “Nikola.”

“Well acquainted are you?” Tim scoffed.

“Not by choice.” And he didn’t look anywhere except straight at the thing he’d named, vitriol in his eyes, in the firm set of his jaw.

“Oh, Archivist. Don’t be like that.” Her smile was inhuman, too many teeth, not quite right. “And please do stop frowning like that.” Jon turned away from the fingers claiming his chin and Tim had once been so close to him that he knew he didn’t like to be touched unless he trusted you. Like Tim had trusted him. “I want you in pristine condition for the show.” She snapped once and several mannequins surrounded and released Jon from his bonds. They tried to drag him through the door and Jon fought like a beast possessed, wild and feral and loud and no match for their sturdy yet gentle grip as they carried him off against his will. It left Tim alone in sudden silence, a little stunned and more than a little worried and he’d take that to his grave, thank you very much.

With nothing else to focus his attention on, Tim could only think of how awful Jon looked illuminated in that cold beam with that monster leering down at him. Could only think about how hard he fought before he was hauled away in cold, plastic hands and wondered if that was the last of him.

But he was returned, quiet and haunted, still and silent when they tied him back down and resisting the water they held to his lips until they forced it on him by holding his nose, sputtering and hacking as they poured it down his throat. Calm, Tim took his ration, puzzling over his strange behavior and trying to get a closer look, but Jon just hid behind his overgrown hair, using it like a curtain to shield his face and visibly shivering.

“Given up already?” He sneered, trying to get a rise out of him.

He failed.

Time waxed and waned, strained and stretched, dilating like a pupil in the dark whenever Tim tried to keep track of it. Eventually, he gave up. It didn’t seem like there was any rhyme or reason regarding when they took Jon, but he assumed it was at least once a day. Each time he raged against them with everything he had and each time they overpowered him like he was a child and hurried him off to god knows where. Each time he was tied back down he had an odd blank look in his eye that gradually cleared until it didn’t, trembling finely and Tim used it as a way to needle him, goad him, tried to make him do something, anything. Without a response he didn’t know if he was getting through to him, but it made him feel better to take out his frustration on Jon.

Days passed. Inexorably slow with nothing to do save yell at his sole companion. Jon still tried to make his taking as difficult as he could, but he was slowing down, losing strength on a diet of bread and sips of water. Now when he returned he shook with the effort of weeping without sound, turned away as far as he could and spilling sorrow down the front of his shirt.

“Oh, little Archivist.” Nikola purred one day, lifting his face with a delicately placed fingertip. “Do you know why he hates you?” A new game they were forced to play. Because they were held captive by the Circus. And the Circus had taken Danny. And Tim screamed himself hoarse demanding answers from Jon when he'd been told.

“You’re lucky I’m tied down, Jon! I would take my answers by force if these fuckers would let me!” Jon never said anything other than apologies and it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t fair and when Jon cried it made him that much more furious because what right did he have to be upset when he was the one doing all this to them!

“We can’t have that, Tim.” She would smirk, placing her hands over his shoulders in a mock massage, tone soothing and so understanding. “We need him to be perfect.”

“Perfect.” Tim spat. Perfect. And Jon shook harder at Nikola’s cryptic words until she turned her machinations toward Tim because, after all? If he’d kept a closer eye on his precious family, would he have lost him at all?

“It’s really your fault if you think about it.” Tim tried his damndest to get closer, grappling so hard with his bonds he fell over and still tried to take a chunk out of her with his teeth. She merely laughed, ridiculing them both.

“Leave off!” Jon shouted, Tim’s chest was heaving against the floor as he twisted and bent himself into all manner of shapes in a fruitless attempt to attack her again, blind with rage and hate.

“Only because you asked so nicely.” Nikola caressed his skin and Jon bit his lip until blood ran in rivelets but she left.

“I’m so sor--”

“Save it. Don’t think this changes anything.” Uncomfortable and sore and still seething, Tim laid there until they came for Jon.

Whatever they were doing was taking a visible toll and Jon’s resistance began tapering off and he became too tired to put up a fight. He’d developed a cough that kept them both awake. It began small, chronic and dry, but no less obnoxious and only Jon could find more ways to make this captivity more difficult.

“Stop it.” Clipped and bitter.

“Sorry, sorry. Smoking, you know.” Tim didn’t answer and Jon’s attempts to stifle it were sorely lacking, bursting from his chest like a gunshot.

“You know what they want, don’t you.” Surprised, he looked up, nodding slowly, brow furrowed. “Well?”

“It’s. It’s.” Real fear raced across his face before he could stop it and he swallowed thickly.

“Lemme guess. It involves you.” Tim’s ire began to rise because of course it did.

“Yes.”

“And you won’t just give it over to save us?” Jon looked away, eyes shut tight.

“No.” He tried to take a deep breath and it lodged somewhere in between. “But it’s becau--”

“Save it. Coward. It’s enough that you won’t consider it.” Resentful, Tim again wanted to get his hands on him because of course he’d refuse. There wasn’t a more selfish man in the archives. “So this is it then? We go the way of Sasha?”

“I--”

“Because you didn’t help her either. Didn’t even notice.” It was his turn to hide because he’d be damned if Jon saw him cry. “Maybe if she’d been the Archivist, it would have been you.”

Jon didn’t, couldn’t fight this time and was more lifeless than any time before when they secured him which seemed to please Nikola and she praised him, dragging fingers through his messy hair, pulling sharply on the tangles.

“Ah, you’ve finally learned, Jon." And she tapped his cheek, sickeningly tender, before finally leaving him alone.

“Giving up so soon?” Tim scoffed; ‘so soon’ being weeks into their capture when Jon was clearly exhausted, sleeping more and more in between waking enough to hack up a lung. He could hear the wheeze on his breath from where he was across the room. “Figures.”

“Jus’… m'head hurts.” Laughing bitterly, Tim told him to keep it to himself. Dealing with Jon when he was in a mood or whining for the sake of it hadn’t made it onto his agenda. But the part that cared, that he’d tried to stamp out and fill with hate, reminded him that they were both dehydrated and hungry.

Reminded him that Jon was getting quieter and quieter, going long stretches between speaking and this time when he was carried away, he was frighteningly lax and loose, head thrown back and gasping, overbright eyes half lidded. This time, when they dragged him back and tied him up, he was crying openly, shaking fit to fly apart and eerily quiet. But the tears were there, streaming down his face and gathering on his chin before his trembling got the better of them.

“Jon?” If anything, he sobbed harder, the sound choked off as he tried so, so hard to be quiet.

“Please s’stop, Tim.” And his whisper was so broken, so small and sad, that Tim shut his mouth, because Jon was at his breaking point and he’d helped push him to it.

Now Tim couldn't stop looking at Jon and it made the other man self conscious when he was awake enough to notice, trying to keep his head turned away when he had the strength and it wasn't thrown back over the chair while he gasped like a fish out of water.

The few times Tim caught him looking his way were fraught with weariness. Jon's red rimmed eyes, bruised and ringed with shadow, held a constant question and reminded him too much of his paranoia. Truthfully, the stare was heavy and he was uncomfortable with the weight of it leveled across his shoulders.

"What're you staring at?" But it was a half-hearted attempt at inflicting hurt and Jon shrugged, blinking and a few times as if to clear his vision.

"You okay?" It sounded like he'd been swallowing gravel, rough and low and painful.

"What do you think?" And Tim couldn't stop responding in anger, swearing to himself that Jon's defeated expression meant less than nothing.

Jon wasn’t well.

He’d been unconscious for the better part of a day and Tim hadn’t been able to rouse him; shouting at him from the other side of the room wasn't enough but he tried once more out of desperation.

“Jon, buddy. Jon!”

“Mmwha'Tim?” Cracked right in the middle, it was forced through a deep wet cough that sounded bad. Really bad. The effort left his narrow chest heaving with every difficult pull for air, like he was breathing through a straw.

“Oh, thank god.” Even with the distance between them Tim could see his face twist up in confusion. “You weren't answering me.”

“Talkin t'me?” Panting and pale in the weird light, Jon’s features seemed carved from shadow and sweat.

“Yes, who else??” More than used to Tim’s frustration and annoyance, Jon just let his chin tip forward on his chest. “Jon, what's wrong.”

“Head hur's.” Slurring badly, Jon gave up words altogether in favor of letting his dark lashes flutter closed.

“You've said! What else?” Yelling and angry and helpless, the guilt rose in him like a slow and deadly tide when he saw tears slipping down his face. Tim was scared and he was mean, shouting and demanding, because of it. Because he thought he was done caring about this paranoid menace who had posed as his friend and gotten them into this mess. And he wasn't, oh he wasn't and something was seriously, seriously wrong and he was tied to a chair two meters away and couldn’t do anything about it. “Jon! Don’t, hey! Don’t go to sleep!” But it didn’t matter, he was already gone.

“Well, don’t you look tetchy.” Tim ignored Nikola’s jab the next time she and her clowns came to visit and through a surge of protectiveness he hadn’t felt in so long for anybody, he spoke on his behalf.

“Please. Jon, he. Something’s wrong.” She didn’t look impressed.

“He’s stopped his fighting.”

“Let me check on him. Whatever you need him for, he won’t be any use if he’s dead, right?” Nikola laughed, cruel smile striking fear into Tim’s heart for the first time.

“It wouldn’t matter, truly. But. Well," grabbing a fistful of hair, she forced his head back and forth to get a good look at him. "I just don’t think he’s done yet. And that would be a shame--I do so wish to look my best.” Tim was no closer to figuring out what was happening but it didn’t matter anymore. “I assure you, if you try to run.”

“I won’t.” Swiftly promised, they’d escape another time. Somehow, someway. “Untie us?”

“Us?” She chuckled and in the end, only released Tim but it would have to do, and once he was sure she was well and truly gone, he stumbled on numb legs to stand over him.

“Jon?” Gently, like he might break under the weight of his hand, Tim laid it over his forehead, brushing back through his tangled hair when the heat of it met his palm. He was a furnace, burning away to nothing and very sick. “Jon?” He tore a strip off the bottom of his shirt, wiping away the sweat because there was nothing else he could do until he finally came around. “Hey, Jon.” Jerking away with enough force that Tim had to catch the chair, he coughed with his shoulders hunched around his ears like--

Like Tim was going to strike him.

“Oh, no, no.” What a mess they’d made. “Hey, none of that.” When he went to apply the compress again, Jon flinched, shaking, muttering breathlessly:

“Don’touch, please, don’touch me any’anymore. Pl’please.” So now he was free, free to see up close the terror and fear, faced with it plainly enough to question that Jon wanted any of this at all, or if he was just as caught in it’s spiraling web. He wore himself out, body slumped uncomfortably where he was tied as he lost consciousness and Tim was at a loss as to what to do. He wasn’t able to pick apart the knots, didn’t have anything to slice through his bonds. No medicine, no water. Nothing, and so he finally relegated himself to pounding on the door, shouting, pleading for water because Jon was out of his mind with fever and wouldn't let Tim touch him. Of course it went unanswered, and instead he found himself sitting crisscross at Jon’s feet. “Don’...don’touch…”

“I won’t, I promise. Not, not until you say I can.” Wringing his hands, remembering every time they'd helped each other through a sick day at the institute. Remembering when he was free to touch and free to comfort. Jon ruined that. But it shouldn't mean he was afraid of him.

“T’tim?” The whimper of recognition made the fist around his heart squeeze. “They...they’re. My skin. Take it. G’g’gonna take it.”

“Calm down, you’re not making sense.” And shaking so hard with chills his teeth were chattering.

“It’s going to, to hurt. She, Ni-she.” Worked up, Jon was hyperventilating, barely getting any air between his coughing and rambling but he wouldn’t listen to Tim. “It’s, it’s. I, I, I don’wan’to h’hurt anymore…” Delirious, he had to be, paranoid and ill and delusional and he said as much.

“Okay, Jon? That’s not going to happen.”

“Why Tim!” Nikola’s delighted voice rose up behind him and he startled. “He didn’t tell you? This ritual requires a special ingredient, a costume! Of special power and distinction and you,” she tapped his forehead sharply, “just don’t fit the bill!”

“Costume?”

“Of course!” When she clapped her hands together it made a sharp plastic clatter. “Our Archivist here will have the most lovely skin when we’re through with him.” Tim felt sick to his stomach. Jon. He’d. He’d called him a coward. Wished awful things on him and maybe it would be impossible to be friends again but, but they’d been friends once. Been close once. And.

“Please. He, he needs water.” His voice shook. “His--” skin “It’ll be better if he’s had enough water.”

“A wonderful idea!” She turned away from where she was tracing lines over his body, “to think I wanted to kill you upon arrival, when you’ve been so useful in keeping our mutual friend in line!”

“Slow, slow Jon.” He pulled the cup away when it seemed he’d try for the whole of it at once, “you’ll make yourself sick.”

“T’Tim...need.”

“I know, be patient.” Jon’s brown eyes were piercing even glassed with fever, all his limited focus directed at Tim.

“N’no.” He paused to get enough breath to speak. “Run. You n’need to run.” Days ago, Tim would have done so in a heartbeat but the thought of abandoning him now. He couldn’t.

“I cant.”

“Tim”

“No, not without you.” His gaze was devastating and he dropped his head.

“Why?” He didn’t have an answer and thankfully didn’t need one because at that very moment a yellow door appeared where one had never been before and through it stepped a man who both was and wasn’t, face ever changing, limbs elongating in strange intervals and he had to look away.

“I’ve come to kill you, Archivist.” A distorted echo that was also not an echo filled up the room.

“Get in line, you’re not the only one who wants a piece.” The being seemed taken aback, tickled that a human would even dare, and Jon used the gap in their conversation to draw its attention.

“Michael.” The thing that was Not What It Is shifted focus, oil on water. “Tell me.” And while Jon couldn’t say anything more than that, he did and instead of killing the archivist, Helen saved him, using sharp fingers that warped and writhed to slice the bonds and send him sprawling to the ground. Or would have, if Tim hadn’t caught him. He wouldn’t respond to Tim’s shaking and shouting and when Helen offered to grant them both safe passage as a favor to her favorite Sims (her only Sims, Tim figured) he lifted him into his arms and stepped through the door.

And into his own flat.

“Do tell him I say hello, would you?”

“Uh, yeah. ‘Course.” Awkwardly, he waved with his arms still full of Jon. “Thanks.” When he was sure his flat had only the same number of doors it came with, he laid his burden down on the couch, heading to the medicine cabinet for any fever reducer he could find and filling a glass with water on the way. It took too much time to wake him and he wasn’t aware enough to parse the instructions Tim was trying to explain, that dreadful whistling almost deafening this close and the crackling in his lungs like dry leaves in autumn. So he propped him up against his shoulder, body blazing through their clothes, and slipped the pills onto his tongue one at a time so he could swallow them with small sips. Replacing himself with several pillows shoved behind him, Tim wrung out a cool flannel and smoothed it over his forehead, ignoring the sluggish, enquiring gaze until it disappeared behind heavy lids and his face relaxed into sleep.

There wasn’t anything in the fridge that survived his absence save for the bicarbonate of soda and beyond that, Tim didn’t want to take a chance opening anything. The bread was moldy, but a packet of biscuits with peanut butter helped dull the hunger and, though he would never admit it, gave him a reason to stay up to watch over Jon. Flushed and fevered, he mumbled nonsense in his sleep, and Tim recognized enough that he soon decided not to listen, the horror of it too much to bear just yet. He fell into his own bed, relaxing sore muscles and glanced at the clock blaring too bright numbers that he didn’t want to read, his last conscious decision that they’d been gone this long, what was one more night before telling everyone else they weren’t dead.

The sun, blessed sun, fell across his face and he let himself have a lie in until he remembered who was passed out on his couch and he dragged himself towards responsibility, a knot of apprehension tight in his throat, relaxing when Jon looked, well, not well, but better. Apparently sensitive to being watched, their eyes collided briefly before ricocheting away and Tim was irritated by it and the way Jon was avoiding him again.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were that sick?” Though Tim stood over him, Jon continued to look at his hands, tracing a finger over the rough scar spanning his whole palm. He took his time, thinking, so long that when Tim shouted “well?!” he jumped, eyes wide, breath catching.

“You. You said.” Coughing into his elbow, he needed a moment to recover. “Said t’to keep it to myself.”

“When you were complaining about a headache!” Jon shrugged with one shoulder, curling into himself small and fragile, somehow more so in the late morning light.

“Didn’t think--”

“No, you didn’t, you never do, Jon!”

“--you’d want to know.”

“Jon.” But would he have wanted to know? Would he have ignored it like he had his anguish? What reason had Tim given him when he’d used everything he experienced in that room and out of it as a weapon against him? Jon was looking up at him, wan and pallid, waiting for whatever Tim had to say and he knew he would take it like he’d taken it in their captivity. He sat on the low table in front of the couch. “Jon. I’m. You know I’m angry with you.” He nodded. “I’m sorry for, I took it too far. But, I’d still have wanted to know.” He pressed the next dose of medicine into his unblemished hand and made sure the water glass was within reach. “Take those.” Before he slipped into the kitchen and away from their shared mistakes, but he could still hear.

“Thank you, Tim.”

“Oh,” he popped his head back into the sitting room. “Helen says hello.” And chuckled when Jon threw an arm over his eyes with a groan.

#Tma #the magnus archives #sick jon #Jon Sims #tim stoker #Headache #Fever #non con touching #Kidnapping #Threats of bodily harm #Prompt

[captainsassmanes]

Trissshhhhh I have a dialogue prompt for you from that list, and bc you know I freaking love angst. “Take me instead” for Malex

Warnings: This one is heavy. Tw: violence, descriptions of injuries, torture, cursing, Jesse Fucking Manes.

Alex’s vision blurred and he realized, slower than he would have liked, that he could see nothing out of his left eye. He sent out a quick prayer that it was just swelling, nothing permanent. 

What that meant, either way, was that he couldn’t clearly see the blows before they came anymore. Maybe a small blessing. Maybe really shitty luck.

“Did Max Evans heal Elizabeth Ortecho from a bullet wound?”

The voice of who he’d learned was Staff Sargent Mitchell menaced in his ear. 

Alex was in agony. He’d barely eaten in what he figured was weeks, his stomach twisting in a hunger so severe it ached. He’d been beaten everyday, his injuries never having the chance to begin healing. There was a cut on his arm he was sure had become infected and it sat in the perfect spot to send shooting pains straight up his dominant arm every few seconds.

The first few days, maybe a little longer, of his captivity, he’d fought back: pulled against his restraints, spit in Mitchell’s face, laughed in his father’s. He could still remember reasons to be free again and to keep his mouth shut. 

Michael. Kyle. Isobel. Michael. Max. Liz. Michael. Arturo. Mimi. Maria. Michael.

He’d repeat their names when he was alone in his cell, pitch black with the smell of dampness and mold filling his nostrils. He’d pull up memories of them, his brain filtering through them all to feature only the best ones.

Getting high with Maria and laughing for hours. Study sessions with Liz that were more milkshakes and gossip than anything else. Sparing with Isobel, watching confidence radiate off her. Waking up next to Michael, watching the sun light up his tan skin, watching his chest rise and fall, the feel of his chest hair, wiry and thick. The little snores he let out when he slept on his back. The way Michael’s hands felt on his own skin, callused and so full of love.

He never cried from the pain, from the fear, from the threats.

But he’d cried when he thought of Michael.

Eventually, unable to deny it, the reality of the situation set in. Alex figured he’d been held for about two weeks. The meetings with his father, demented, psychological warfare, evolved to insure Alex knew no one was looking for him. No one gave a shit. No one missed him.

Kyle continued to go to work, date his precious, new co-worker. Liz and Max were rekindling their romance while Rosa, who they’d discovered almost instantly, continued to dance in the shadows. Isobel was event planning during the day and, according to sources, blowing up bigger and bigger things in the middle of the night.

And then there were Michael and Maria.

Jesse never hesitated to keep Alex well informed with that relationship. The dates they went on. The visits to see Mimi. The hand holding. The love making. The laughter and the smiles.

It had been just a couple of evenings ago, Alex lying on his back, arm on fire and bleeding from his head, when the tears finally stopped. He pictured Michael and Maria, arms wrapped around one another, eyes locked with wide smiles painted across their beautiful faces. He imagined ease and comfort and simplicity. Kindness and consideration, dedication and loyalty.

“Keep them safe...happy,” Alex whispered to no one.

From that moment on, he tucked it all away; his emotions, his pain, his reactions. He had nothing to give them and refused to yield even an inch.

His eyes met Mitchell’s and Alex made no effort to move. He didn’t shrug or smirk or blink an eye. He would give them nothing.

“What exactly can Isobel Evans do?”

Alex was unmoved. He took the next hit, breathing in through his nose, out through his mouth.

“Can Michael Guerin move objects with his mind?”

Alex felt a small wave of pride as he remained stoic at the mention of Michael’s name.

The next hit knocked him to the ground, the chair he was tied to coming right down with him. The military issues boots hurt like a son of a bitch, Alex feeling his insides bruising with each kick, until he couldn’t help but let out the vomit he’d been trying to hold back.

“Enough, Mitchell. Stand down.”

The kicking stopped as Mitchell took a few steps back and stood at attention. Jesse came to stand before him, feet still and silence filling the room.

“Pick him up.”

When they came face to face, Alex searched. He searched his father’s features for any indication that Jesse felt something, anything.

It was fruitless.

“This is all you’re gonna give us, son?”

Alex raised an eyebrow, not at the question but at the term of endearment.

With a shallow breath, ribs screaming in protest, he mumbled, “you’ve already taken everything. I’m not giving you shit. Dad.”

Jesse nodded, a familiar look of disappointment in his eyes. “Very well.”

The walk down the long hall felt surprisingly freeing. Alex knew this was it, the end of his journey. Jesse and whoever else was working for him had done what they could to get any information out of him. They must have realized he wouldn’t speak and no one cared enough to try to save him.

So it was time.

He wondered briefly if the stories his mom used to tell him as a boy were true. A great warrior may be able to rest in a peaceful, safe afterlife, or maybe reincarnate as human again to try once more, to live another noble life. Or, perhaps, his sins were too great. He’d end up falling into an abyss for eternity or come back but as a roach or something.

Truthfully, he’d never given much thought to death. Losing his leg had changed that a bit but he still did what he could to focus on the present, moment to moment. Maybe that helped him now. He still felt more curious than afraid.

Alex just hoped for peace.

As the small group turned the final corner, he was pushed back as the sound of guns cocking echoed through the space.

He craned his neck, trying to see what had happened, but couldn’t see past the mammoth solider in front of him.

“Stand down. Now. Hands up.”

“Aw, c’mon now, boys. No way to greet a visitor, is it?”

Alex stumbled a bit, head spinning and heart racing. It wasn’t possible. Not now when he was ready.

If he was being honest, there were nights, bitter, lonely, angry nights when he hated his friends, hated Michael for leaving him, abandoning him completely when he needed them most. He wasn’t the best friend but he did what they needed, helped where he could, took the blows he was dealt. And it got him what? Kidnapped. Left to be tortured and die. Alone.

But once he’d rested, once the blood stopped pulsing so loudly in his ears, he knew it was best. It was what he truly wanted. He’d never want Michael or the Evans’ to risk their safety, their secret, for him. And his other friends, they wouldn’t stand a chance against these fucking sadists.

It was best for all of this to end with him.

But now, as Michael stood in the space that was meant for Alex’s last moments, he couldn’t think.

“You’re nothing in here, Mr. Guerin.” His father’s voice was laced with condescension and excitement.

“Take me instead.”

Alex stopped breathing. Michael’s voice sounded calm and even, bordering on arrogant if that was possible with at least six guns pointed at him. Alex tried to speak but Mitchell beat him.

“If you haven’t noticed, asshole, you’re already taken.”

The sound of Michael’s laugh hit Alex’s ears and, beyond all reason, he smiled. That sound was so rare Alex couldn’t help but treasure it every time, even in the most dire of circumstances.

“Am I?” He felt the soldiers in front of him shift, a sudden change in the air. “Tell me, Master Sargent, why are you under the impression that I’m nothing?”

Alex grit his teeth and grimaced with the pain as he stretched as tall as he could. His eyes locked with Michael’s and Alex knew. There had been a plan. Thank fuck Michael had a plan.

The urge to sob and be held against Michael’s chest, wrapped in his strong arms was overwhelming.

“This place is so loaded with powder you won’t be able to shift a paper clip you fucking freak.”

Alex watched as Michael’s curls danced, moving with the nodding of his head.

“Yikes. I guess I didn’t realize. But I do have one more question.” He pointed to himself as he added, “curious by nature.”

He watched the hands of the soldier in front of him begin to shake, fingers gripping his weapon a bit too tightly. Alex smirked. Maybe they were starting to put it together.

With a voice suddenly full of anger and vitrol, Michael asked the room, “how the fuck do you think I got in here?”

In the blink of an eye, a force Alex couldn’t see pushed him against the wall, air leaving him with the strength of it. He gazed in wonderment, as if watching a movie or a perfect moment of a play, as the soldiers firearms all turned to white doves, flying confused and frightened around the space.

Each soldier died without Michael needing to move a muscle, his face unchanged, although his eyes had shifted from a stunning hazel to completely black. Alex thought he’d never looked better.

When the final man fell to the floor in a bloody pile, Michael turned that black, empty gaze to Alex. Jesse floated out of the room, chin lifted and struggling for air, and into the hall, toes barely touching the now stained linoleum.

Alex understood Michael’s silent question.

With difficulty, Alex stood, discovering his restraints had literally vanished. He met his father’s glare, searching one, last time for some semblance of shame, regret, sadness. He found nothing but disgust and hatred.

Cradling his core, Alex stood straight, the Manes man his father had always wanted him to be. He didn’t remove his eyes from his fathers and his voice didn’t waiver as he said, “lock him in and blow it up.”

Jesse’s body flew backward and into the room with his ever-obedient team. He landed on the floor, on his hands and knees, coughing and gasping for air.

Michael had moved to stand beside Alex, eyes now the stunning gold he normally wore, and took Alex’s bloody, broken hand in his.

“Don’t worry, Jesse.” Michael brought Alex’s hand up to his mouth and placed a delicate, gentle kiss to the back of it, mouth coming away scarlet with blood. “I’ll take good care of him.”

Jesse snarled and moved to stand before the door slammed shut and locked, Jesse’s screams slipping under the space of the door.

Alex stood, stunned, that it was finally over, that Michael was here, that Jesse would be gone, that he would live.

“We’ve gotta go.”

Alex nodded but didn’t move.

“Will you, Michael?”

“Will I what, Alex?”

He was too exhausted to keep the break from his voice. “Take care of me.”

Michael smiled as Alex felt his body become immeasurably lighter, moving without making any effort at all. Michael wrapped an arm around Alex and pulled him into his side.

“Forever if you’ll let me.”

Alex never imagined his happy ending would begin with an explosion.

#Roswell New Mexico #Malex #Malex fic #tw: abuse #tw: violence #tw: torture #tw: cursing #angst #angst with a hopeful ending #my fic #fic for Denver #barely edited

[vydante]

Restart | Avengers x Male! Reader | 6

Fandom: Marvel

Pairing: Avengers x Male! Reader (romantically: undecided)

Plot: Dr. Strange said there was only one possibility of winning the battle against Thanos.

But when (Name) is forced into the past and into his younger body, he’s suddenly given the chance to start over and prevent the future from happening again.

So which route are you going to take? Are you going to risk the future and take preventative measures, or live life with the Avengers for the next 4 years, knowing what will soon come?

A/N: Super long: 3506 words. I’m gonna be honest, this was mainly just to further the relationship between you and Steve. I plan on doing the same for other characters, though I’m not sure when. Also, apparently line breaks aren’t a thing anymore on this godawful website, so-

In all honesty, you didn't remember school being such a nightmare as it was.

"Ugh..."

You trudged into your room and dropped your backpack onto the ground. You just got home and headed immediately to your room. You collapsed straight into your bed and sighed, feeling all of the tension in your neck unravel as you stretch.

"Hnnng...!"

Groaning out loud, you turned on your back as you stared at your ceiling. There's faint music filling the background noise- you might've forgotten to turn off your headphones. You lied there, contemplating.

A week had passed ever since that mission. Not much had happened since then. You got reacquainted with your old friends, resumed school life, and tried to act normal as best as possible.

Of course, it was almost the end of May, which for you meant cramming for classes that you haven't taken in literal years. Exams really were coming up, and you just prayed that you'd even have enough time in your schedule to study.

Even though, theoretically, your schedule shouldn't be as tightly packed as one would think- since you're not 'Avenging' anything and your dad let you off from joining him in his work to study- it just is.

But it all boiled down because of your seemingly fruitless research.

Specifically, research into where the time stone is right now.

You remember that, when you went to time travel, there had been a point where 3 infinity stones lied in New York- 2012, to be specific. It was the mind, space, and time stone. But it was 2013, and besides, you were mainly interested in the time stone, really.

Dr. Strange, who in your timeline had held the time stone, must've gotten it from somewhere, probably relating to whatever magical temple thing he went to.

You had slaved over nearly the whole entirety of what the internet could offer you. If anything, had it not be for the programming in your computer system, you were sure you'd be put on a watchlist of some sort from the type of things you were researching.

You grunted and rolled to your side.

There had been at least one lead, and that led you straight to Nepal, strangely enough. Something about a place that helps the broken, physically and/ or mentally. But even then, the post you found barely said anything about it.

Maybe it had to do with something like therapy? Or something medical? Strange was a doctor before, so he must've at least a connection to some insider knowledge...

You shook your head. You didn't really know and didn't care much for now. Your mind and body in itself, ironically, was tired.

A nap sounds really tempting right about now...

You will admit, you may or may not have spent an ungodly amount of research and talking to doctors and the like to finally find what you were truly looking for.

You sat back and stretched, finally taking your eyes off of the screen from what was hours of hunching over and typing.

You glanced outside your window. It was dark with only the lights of the city and your computer illuminating the walls of your room.

All of your research finally led to one really good, but painful sounding lead. There was a temple named Kamar Taj. As it turns out, your original lead was right; it is located in Nepal and from what you were told, the doctor you spoke to had known a friend who went there in order to help with their mental issue and came back healthy than ever before.

But, considering that Strange came from that temple, it was probably magic and junk like that.

You closed your laptop and all of your journals that you documented all of this research in. You sighed and mulled over it quietly. 

You needed to go to China and head to the temple... But it was vague, where it even was. And besides all of that, you needed to find a reason to tell your parents that you were going to China.

Of course, you can't just walk up to them and tell them, 'Hey, I'm going to China because I need to meet someone with a green magical rock!'.

And it's not like you're an adult right now with no obligations; you're a high schooler.

You have classes to attend, homework to finish, projects to start for next year... Perhaps during the summer, yeah, but even then you're not sure that you can fit that in your schedule.

Maybe next summer?

Your eyebrows furrowed; you wanted to get your questions answered quickly, so that wasn't an option...

And even then, you couldn't guarantee that someone there, even if they had the stone, would be willing to help you. And what would you even ask? How would you even approach the subject?

All of this was making your head throb painfully.

You jumped in your chair when you heard a knock from behind your door. You swiveled around and got up, just as J.A.R.V.I.S. spoke up.

"Mr. Rogers is at your door, sir."

"Yeah, could've guessed."

You had changed your door to be a frosted glass one, so you could tell it was Steve by the broad shadow and slim waist. Your lips quirked up- you always called him Doritos man when his back was turned away from you.

"(Name)?"

You abruptly opened the door and was greeted by Steve's wide eyes. Judging by his newly cleaned clothes and wet hair, he probably just got done with training and showering.

"Oh- hey."

"Hey yourself, Steve."

You smiled and opened the door wider, stepping back to let him in. He entered as he whistled quietly, looking all around your walls. You stood near your desk as you silently eyed him.

You ran your thumb over your arm, slightly scratching at your wrist.

"You've kept yourself busy these days, huh."

He looks at a wall that was plastered with suit designs, some even having designed for your future Mark-93, which was the go-to model of your suit.

Granted, that one was technically either Mark-22 or Mark-94, depending on which timeline you were going off of...

Though you will say, there's a huge technological leap between Mark-21 and Mark-22.

But while they were all underneath the other designs, you knew Steve couldn't really tell them apart. You needed to get them all down and into your new lab, which should be finished by the end of the weekend.

He glanced down at your table, filled with journals. There was one about your research, a few for school, and the rest for your own little history book of your timeline. You recently just finished it, and now you needed to just... Get it off your desk. 

His lips quirked up a bit more as picked a few of them up. He probably thought you had a hoarding problem or something.

"Yeah, had a few ideas for some new tech, nothing new."

Steve glanced at you for a split second. Was he nervous?

"I, uh, wanted to talk to you. About the last mission."

You bit your lip as you dug your nails in your wrists, scraping away at the layer of skin as it turned an angry red.

"Oh, what about it?"

Steve sat down at the edge of your bed. You instantly thought back to when Tony had confronted you a few weeks ago. You sat down slowly, keeping your cool as he stared at you with those steely eyes.

Were they ever as unnerving as they are now?

"Back when we were in the building. And you had gotten... Ambushed."

His shoulders were hunched as if he had a lot of tension in his back. His voice was quiet.

"Even though you handled the situation, I just... I want to say that I'm sorry."

Your eyes widened. You sure weren't expecting him to say that.

"Sorry? What for?"

It was funny, in your opinion. Last time, with Tony, you were confused because you didn't know what mission he was talking about. This time, you knew exactly what the mission was. You were still confused, though.

"For letting you get ambushed. I should've known that there were going to be a lot of bad guys there, and I... I feel awful for letting you fight all of them alone. I'm sorry."

For a split second, you felt your stomach churn when he said that. You fighting them all alone...

Memories of him flooded your mind.

'What if we lost, cap? What then?'

'Well, we'll lose as a team- together.'

He always reassured you that you'd go down together as a team. That memory warmed you, only momentarily as something else rushed back at you.

The fight at Titan.

You remembered how it all lead to that. How the Avengers had been split. Those damn Sokovia Accords. You remember watching the light in Steve's and Tony's eyes changed as they looked at each other, already knowing their decisions at heart.

You remember how you told them explicitly that you didn't want your second family to break apart. How Steve himself said it won't.

You foolishly trusted him at the time- maybe it was the naive child in your heart that didn't want to face the harsh reality.

You remember the fight at the airport. How that had marked the end of what you knew as the OG Avengers.

And at Titan... How you had all fought so valiantly, but it just didn't amount to anything.

How you two were separated when you lost almost everything. Pete. Your friends at home. Humanity's faith in their heroes. Your pride and dignity. Hell, you even lost your own...

You glanced away from Steve as you rubbed your arm tenderly.

It was burning.

"It's cool, Steve. No bad blood. But thanks, for the uh, apology."

You lied, hidden shame dripping from your words.

In your timeline, and even now, you were still bitter over the fight at the airport. Bitter for finding an injured and nearly frozen Tony at the old H.Y.D.R.A. base. Bitter for being lied to, about losing as a team. Bitter because Steve had thrown away everything you had given him. Your trust, your hope, your deepest secrets... Everything.

Of course, you aren't as bitter as you were at the moment- after all, years had passed since then-, but you were still bitter nonetheless.

To the point where you made it obvious during your timeline; you wouldn't speak to him- and everyone who sided with him, even Natasha, much to your regret- unless it was business. You ignored every advance he made towards you, didn't respond to his small talk, etcetera.

Was it immature? Yes.

But did he ever apologize to you, even when he had more than literal years to do so? No.

All he did was walk back into your life as if nothing had gone down between you two. And what hurt was that it was all purely because it was business related. He didn't come back because he wanted to fix the relationship between you two.

It was because he had to.

Not because he wanted to.

Granted, one side of you understood that he was still on the run, but just... You would've even taken the smallest of hints that he at least thought about you.

At that point, you being bitter was more because he had never attempted to make amends with you rather than what he had done to your dad- at least with him, Steve had apologized, he did, but with you?

You got nothing, and you were hurt.

Your father was more forgiving of them- even inviting them in for lunch when they first approached your parents' retirement home for business. You would be lying if you didn't glare daggers at them the whole time, especially at Steve.

The air was tense. It was like both of you shouldn't be here, in the same room, together. But neither of you got up before Steve spoke up.

"You know, I- we," Steve coughed, "We were surprised, you know? There was a lot of guys in there."

You could tell the poor guy was trying to lighten the mood. Change the subject, you suppose. It was much needed, especially between the two of you. You knew this Steve didn't deserve to be around you while you were moody because of his future self.

That wasn't fair.

"Really? You think I can't handle myself?"

You teased. Steve smiled at you, the tension in the air becoming less thicker than it was before.

"Honestly speaking? Not really."

Steve chuckled as you shoved him playfully with a fake-offended 'hey'. You smiled at him, almost relieved. You rubbed your wrist as you pulled down your sleeve to cover the red marks up. 

"And I told him I was fine, but he didn't believe me and did it anyway!"

Your body shook with laughter as Steve chucked with you.

You two had been talking for a while now, and it had progressed from the mission to Steve reminiscing during his time before he was a frozen. He was telling you about how Bucky would fret over him since he used to be a sickly guy. Always getting into trouble, as well. 

Some things just never seem to change, especially in the future.

"Can't really blame the guy, can you?"

He shook his head with a reluctant smile.

You're leaned back on your chair as Steve's half sprawled across your bed, only his elbow propping him up as he rolls his eyes.

"Not really... Though I would've appreciated if he had let me do my own thing."

A comfortable silence filled the room. Your eyes wandered over Steve's relaxed position. It was rare you ever got to see the man not worked up; he was always either training or trying to keep up with the world, which objectively is hard work.

"I don't really think I ever told you this, but...," You quietly spoke up as Steve stared at you with curiosity, "I always liked hearing about, you know, your life before being frozen."

Steve perked up with a surprised smile.

"Really?"

You hummed quietly and closed your eyes. You nodded your head side to side as Steve eyed your peaceful state.

"Yeah... offer's insider knowledge of a different time without talking to a bitter old person, you feel?"

Steve was silent, but not for long.

"Well... Is there anything you wanna hear more about?"

You opened your eyes just a tiny bit and pursed your lips. You squinted at him and hummed loudly.

"Hmm..."

What was there to know more about Steve? You already knew more than you'd like, and while you wouldn't mind hearing Steve repeat the same story once again, you'd rather hear something else.

"Anyone that was special to you?" He opened his mouth, "Other than Mr. Barnes?"

You chuckled when he shut his mouth again with an eye-roll. The guy always took whatever chance he got to ramble on and on about Bucky, even though you secretly didn't really mind it.

You were trying to fish for maybe someone else other than Bucky- you already knew first hand how special he was to Steve.

Steve thought for a moment before he spoke up again. His voice was soft as he smiled and looked at his hands.

"Well, there was this one gal... Her name was Peggy. She was my best gal."

"That's... That's rough, buddy."

Steve half-smiled at you.

He told you about Peggy, who was a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent during his time. Apparently, he had fallen in love with her and promised her a dance right before he, well...

You clicked your tongue.

"Well... It's not really... Healthy, to you know, be hung up on people of the past, you know?"

You knew that first hand. The first few months after the snap, you were teetering on the edge of madness as you grieved heavily for your lost friends.

It was... A rough patch in your life. Never before had you ever gone so near to the brink of no return before your family- the ones still alive- had managed to reel you back in just on time.

While you knew that Steve was strong and that it wasn't really the same thing, it still wasn't that pleasant of a feeling to still be dependent on someone you once knew.

Though, it did just now occur to you how bad that sounded when you were just greeted with silence from the super soldier.

"Of course, not to say that you should forget her altogether, I just... I-"

You tried backtracking, but Steve shook his head with a smile.

"No, I get it. Actually, Natasha's been trying to help me with that. Moving on."

You raised an eyebrow. This was the first you've heard of this- you knew they were close, but you would've never thought that close. 

You supposed that during that long timespan that you never really saw Natasha and Steve, they could've gotten real chummy together, but... Something still bugged you.

"Wait, hold up, I thought Nat was into Bruce?"

There was a pregnant pause between the two of you. 

It was- so you thought- mildly well known between everyone on the team of the weird tension between Banner and Romanoff. Always sending each other looks under the table, the sly smiles- there was no way she wasn't into Bruce.

Hell, even in the future, there was still the tension between the two of them- even if Bruce was, like, triple the size he was before.

And green.

Steve felt conflicted. What in the world are you talking about? He was quiet for a short moment before his eyes widened wildly. He stifled a chuckle as his shoulders shook.

"(Name), no, what I meant was she was trying to get me to date other people."

Your lips were pressed in a thin line as your eyebrows shot up.

"Oh, welp-"

You couldn't help yourself as you laughed along with Steve. The previous weight in the air from the topic of Peggy was lessoning a tad bit, just like earlier.

You two calmed down just a little bit, but you still held a toothy grin as you licked your lips.

"Well, has it been working? Any fine gals that caught Mr. America's attention?"

You teased him. You wouldn't really be surprised if he said no- he doesn't really seem like the type to go prowling around for someone that interests him.

He's quiet as he glances at you. His jaw clenches as you're locked in a staring contest- granted you didn't really know why. He trails his eyes off of you as he stares at your wall absentmindedly.

"I wouldn't say that necessarily..."

He doesn't really look at you as silence settles in the room once more, though you can't really tell what the mood of the atmosphere in there was.

He glances at your clock and smiles. It's a goofy looking clock- it looks like it's made for a kid- that has a miniature version of your Apex suit. The quality was obviously rushed, and chances are you probably bought it from a Target or something. Maybe Amazon.

"Well, I should get going by now. Heaven knows the amount of work we both need to do tomorrow."

You groaned loudly when you were reminded of tomorrow. Another day of school for you- though, you didn't know what he had going for him tomorrow. Maybe a solo mission from Fury?

Either way, it was getting kind of late and you both needed some shut-eye.

You watched as he got up from your bed and rubbed his shoulder tenderly. You didn't blame him- being in the position he was in, it definitely does a number on the shoulders.

You rolled your eyes as he groaned exaggeratedly. You slid down your chair just so you could stretch your legs and kick him in his knee pit.

He didn't buckle, much to your annoyance, as he chuckled when he saw you almost falling off your chair like a child.

"Ouch!"

"Oh, you'll live, big baby."

"Oh, thanks for your words of encouragement."

He laughed as he opened your door and as he was almost out the door, he popped his head back in as he remembered something. You raised an eyebrow as he had a cocky smirk on his face.

"Oh, and for your performance back at the last mission- I'm upping your training regiment. Good job, champ."

His head dipped out of your door as you nearly fell off of your chair. The door slammed as you hopped over to your door and yell out your room. You watched as Steve's figured disappeared over a corner, his laughing echos through the empty floor.

"Wha- hey no! That's illegal! Ste- get back here! Steve!"

Masterlist

Tag: @unsolvetheheckoutofit

#avengers #avengers endgame #avengers x male reader #avengers x male! reader #male reader #male reader insert #male!reader #steve rogers x male reader #steve rogers x reader #tony stark x male reader #tony stark x male! reader #tony stark x reader #captain america #captain america x male reader #captain america x reader #ugh this wasnt my best chap but laksdjalsdk lets hope the next one is better

[theriversarebroken]

The Wolf (Impaled Palm)

Fourth square for @badthingshappenbingo​! Same as before, I finished it a while ago, I am just absolutely awful at posting.

This features characters from my original story, the Covenant that Fell! The character this story focuses on is Nami, a pit fighter on a winning streak. But that winning streak can have consequences, and they tend to end with people trying to kill you due to their massive loss of money against you. How she deals with it? Well... she’s undefeated for a reason. Des belongs to @snakesonawave​

Nami had been in fights before, that was a given. She’d been in plenty as a pit fighter, she’d been in plenty as a free woman. Most of them were for money, most of them were started by her, and with all the fights she’d been in, she was always aware they were going to happen. 

This fight wasn’t a single one of those. 

This masked individual had come at her while she was facing the bar and chatting up a rather cute bartender. Her guard, for the first time in a while, was completely down and that’s exactly why they managed to slice up the center of her back. Nami fell against the solid wood and shouted in pain. As they reared their hand back to bury the blade in her back, Nami turned. She grinned as she caught their wrist, her eyes wide with excitement.

“I was hoping to make it through the rest of the day unscathed, but what a pleasant surprise this is. I never get tired of a good fight.” Nami actually was tired, extremely so. She was in Pit Fights this morning, more than one, and, Gods, did her body ache. But if she had to fight once more, perhaps against someone who was sore that their chosen champion lost, she’d put on a free show for everyone in the bar. Maybe get some free drinks out of it.

A girl could hope.

She slammed her forehead against the bridge of their nose and heard the satisfying crunch as it shattered. When she felt their body begin to fall back, she let them go and watched the blade fall to the floor. They stumbled away and threw out their hand for something to anchor their body. They found a supporting beam and halted their fall. They didn’t halt Nami’s approach. 

They blinked a few times, tried to focus on her form, and only tried to scramble away once she was directly in front of them. They shouted and tried to turn, but Nami caught the collar of their shirt and pulled them back to her. She opened her mouth to speak, and watched their eyes grow intrigued, but instead sent her boot into their belly. They stumbled backwards, their legs hitting a table and causing them to tumble over it. Glass and drinks fell around and on them. Their palms, already slick with sweat, were now slick with blood as the shattered glass sliced their hand open. 

As they stood, they tried to back away only to find a wall. Nami couldn’t help but grin. 

She didn’t bother to walk around the table, or over it. She simply placed her foot on it and pushed it against the individual. She had her path, she wouldn’t deviate from it. They were pinned now, against the wall, and tried to the best of their ability to push the table away. Nami laughed. 

“How pathetically weak of you.” she tilted her head to the side and chuckled some more. “Here’s a lesson to learn.” she pushed the table even harder now. The individual groaned and clutched their leg as the pain grew more important than the table now. “If you’re going to kill someone, especially me,” she gave the table a shove and heard a whimper leave the person’s lips. “You should aim for the base of the skull. They can’t fight if they’re dead.” 

Nami took her foot off the table and gripped the edge. She threw it aside and stepped forward.

“Please--” “No.” She already knew their question. Nami wrapped her hand around their throat and squeezed. She squeezed so hard that her knuckles turned white. Cuts from the individual’s panicked hand decorated her unarmored hand, but it didn’t stop her. She was tired, more so than when this fight started, and wanted it over.

Actually, now that she thought about it she was exhausted. Abnormally so. Her stamina in all things was something she boasted about, it was why she was able to do so many Pit Fights today. Maybe it was because she overexerted herself earlier in the day, but using this little of energy shouldn’t have her… this tired.

Her head suddenly felt heavy and like a fog had rolled through it. Her grip began to fail and, with a little shove from the individual, she stumbled backwards and fell onto her back. They fell to all fours, coughing and wheezing and gasping as they clutched their throat. It was already covered in vibrant bruises. Nami felt heat lick her skin ashe ceiling had doubled. She saw the masked individual stumble past her, somewhere she couldn’t spot. The bartender she’d spoken to earlier was coming to her side.

“Do… don’t!!” Nami shouted. She raised her hand to stop her, and found it took everything in her just to do so. Her arms felt tied to the floor. The bartender stopped and her eyes focused on someone else as she backed away. Just as she was going to follow her gaze, a hand grabbed onto her shirt and dragged her up.

“Come now, Nami.” they spoke and held Nami’s shoulders as she stood. They steadied her, made sure she was stable before they slammed the back of a jeweled hand to her cheek. Nami stumbled and held out her hands. Though she tried to stop the movement, her ribs hit the nearby table hard. She gasped and stared down in disbelief at what was happening. Her hands blurred and doubled, as if there was water in her eyes. She blinked more than once to try and pull herself from this haze.

A fistful of her hair was grabbed and as they were about to yank her head back, Nami moved her hands to their own. She had to fight back, she wouldn’t die like this. Easily. 

Her fingers dug into their hand and once she felt them break through skin, she did her best to pull. She felt the skin come with her nails and heard a shrieking scream come from behind her. Her hair was released, so Nami let their hand go. She turned, used the table for support, and watched the masked assailant. They clutched their hand and screamed. 

“M..must hurt pretty badly.” Nami laughed, despite the sickening heaviness in her head. Being tired never made it hard to talk or laugh. It also didn’t make her vision blur like this. “Listen. You can go… I’ll forget all about this.” She was out of breath, her lungs feeling like they were filled with fire. Something was very wrong.

“Are you joking?” they suddenly couldn’t care about the pain in their hand. They cared more about Nami’s attempts at getting them to leave. “Judging by how you move, and the blood coming from your nose, you’re as good as dead.” Nami brought a finger up to her nose and found it dripping like a spigot. The next thing she knew, her vision was a bright white and her body hit the ground. Even when she blinked it stayed a blinding white. 

She felt someone straddle her back and she swung her elbow back. It was caught and her palm was slammed to the ground now.

“How pathetically weak of you.” they laughed and only then did Nami’s vision come back. A blade went through the center of the back of her hand. It buried itself in the wooden floor so deeply the hilt pinched her skin. Nami screamed, but it did not reach her ears. Any and all sound was gone, drowned out by the pain from her hand. She dropped her head down and felt tears fall from her eyes. She’d had pain before, that was a given. But this felt like every punch and stab and cut multiplied into one single wound. 

She brought her free hand to the blade and tried, with all the strength she had left, to pull it free. But she could tell from the pain and the shaking that it was a fruitless effort. Once she gave up, a fistful of her hair was grabbed once more and her head was pulled back. She winced at the pain it caused her hand, but did little to stop it. When their lips touched her ear, sound returned. Focused and final, she heard the words clearly.

“What did you say? Aim for the base of the skull?” Nami felt a sharp object poke at her skin at the area they spoke of. “Do you recognize the poison in your body?”

“That’s…” Nami gasped, her lungs feeling so small. “That’s what it is.” now she knew why she felt this way.

“The Stockman says hello.” Just as the blade was going to bury itself deep, she felt the weight on her back get pulled off. A chunk of her hair went with them, but it was of no problem to her. She hit the ground hard again and turned her head to see who was her savior.

If her little body wasn’t enough of a giveaway, the way she fought was. Quick and jittery movements. Des had saved her. She ducked and moved out of each of the masked assailants attacks so quickly, she looked like a specter. Nami watched in awe for just a moment before she saw Des get slammed to the ground and a glass slammed against her head.

“Two for the price of one!” The assailant hooted in joy. “I wonder what Stockman will give me for two heads.” Nami’s heartbeat picked up as she saw the individual kneel down next to an unconscious Des.

“Des!!!” it took forever for the words to leave her mouth but Nami got them out. Her friend didn’t answer. Nami tried again to pull the blade from her hand but found it stubborn. So… she did something very stupid. She got up onto her knees and pulled. It took forever, and the pain almost made her pass out, but she cut through her hand and got it loose. She didn’t have time to care about the repercussions.

The blade remained buried in the ground as Nami stumbled over to her enemy. Just as they were to carve into Des, Nami placed her only working hand on their shoulder. They jumped and turned, the blade finding a home in Nami’s belly. She took it with only a grunt. 

“I… am going to kill you.” Nami grabbed a fistful of their hair. She dragged them off of Des and brought their face to the beam they once steadied themselves with. “This is your grave.” they whimpered once before she slammed their face into the beam.

Again. And again. And again. Whatever tiredness or pain hit, Nami ignored it. She would collapse later, after she got Des to a healer. She didn’t know how long she went at it, but eventually their face was nothing but mush. Nami let their hair go, and heard their body land with a thunk. It wasn’t satisfying. It just gave her a sense of relief. 

She clutched her side as she walked over to Des and shook her shoulder. The woman woke slowly, but once her eyes focused on Nami she scrambled up. She held both of Nami’s shoulders and widened her eyes.

“I’m okay.” Nami had to sign with one hand and it was barely accurate. Des shook her head and wrapped a hand around Nami’s waist. She didn’t even bother to sign back. Nami tried again. “Sorry.”

Des sighed and shook her head. She brought her hand up and responded.

“Does the wolf apologize?” She asked as she dragged Nami out of the tavern. Nami laughed. 

“No she does not.”

#nami sasaki #des salazar #the covenant that fell #bad things happen bingo #original story #fantasy #fictional writing #My writing

[dndeviants]

More discovery

Linda followed after Strahd upstairs, and broke off to investigate an L-shaped piece of furniture. She looked around: To her left was a heavy oaken door, to her right were pieces of furniture that had been smashed or were rotting away. 

Books were scattered about, most of them appeared holy in nature, but strangely, they had full sun symbols on their covers, and not the half-sun that she associated with the Morninglord.

Aric followed after Linda and saw the books as well. Both of them reached for one to read...

Linda’s book was damp to the touch. She opened it and saw that the ink inside was smudged. She tried to read it, in spite of herself, and furrowed her brow at the incomplete words and passages:

...Father Sun, Auman--or, being the Ke-per of Law, S-n, and Ligh-... we are b-t serva-ts to thee...

Aric picked up a book. This one had a clear title, and it was "Aumanator, Keeper of the Sun." He opened the book to read the opening passage, some of the ink had faded in time:

Aumanator, Father Sun... being high above all other gods of T--il, are the bringe- of Law, Order...

Aumanator, He recognized the name from his extensive study of Faerunian history. He was the Sun God that helped to found the Faerunian pantheon before his death, and subsequent reincarnation as Lathander Morninglord.

He was the god of a people that came before the Chondathans, and preceded the Tethyrians, and most importantly, he was a god of a people that the Calishites had gone to war with, far back in history before the Dale Reckoning.

Odd... those people’s culture died out long ago... why would records of their god be here? Aric thought.

He decided to voice his confusion, "These books speak of a God that was worshiped by the people of Toril long ago, back to the founding of the pantheon of Faerun,” he added, “I know time flows strangely here, but I can't understand why these records are here.”

Linda raised a brow, "Who is the God?"

“Aumanator, God of the Sun,” answered Aric, “After he was reincarnated, he was known as Lathander Morninglord.”

Linda vaguely recalled from school that the reason Aumanator became Lathander was because he was not so much “Good” as he was “Law,” and that he lost several followers because of shadow magic that altered the face of Faerun... Shadow magic that ripped the Netherese Kingdom off of the face of the continent, and shadow magic that altered the Western Heartlands... 

The people who worshiped this god, she recalled, were people who were recorded as “Talfir,” by the elves. “Talfir” meaning “conquerors” in their tongue.

 "His followers were called the Talfir by the elves if I remember correctly,” Linda added, “Those people don't exist in Faerun anymore. Why is their God recorded in these books here in Barovia? Unless...."

Linda made a face in thought.

"Do you think they came from here?" Aric asked.

"Either that or the opposite,” Linda looked to the genasi, “They came from Faerun."

"I suppose either is possible,” Aric admitted, “but how does this fit into everything going on here?"

"Well...” Linda thought about what she knew about the Barovians, “It makes sense that their faith was supposed to be based on law instead of goodness. Which could be why the Abbot wasn't taken kindly to- the Barovians don’t seem to care so much about goodness.. and that may explain why the Abbot became so.... awful."

She furrowed her brow, "But why would the Abbot keep the books?"

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

Strahd let the two explore the ruined library. He paced around his old fort and noted the changes that had occurred within.

Decayed, dismal... much like the rest of Barovia. He looked at the damage to the room... A fight had happened here, long ago.

It didn’t surprise him.

When he had turned into his undead self, one of his closest companions, his faithful friend, Lady Ilona had fled here, taking up residence in this fort that he had intended for the priesthood, for his brother...

To her credit, she amassed a very decent following, and taught many the clerical and healing Art... and one of her best students was a girl, Aurica Markovia-

Saint Markovia, Strahd corrected himself with much ire. 

Lady Ilona passed on, and left the fort turned abbey to her favored pupil... but apparently, that was not the only thing that she passed on.

The knowledge of Strahd’s true nature was only known to three people: Victor Wachter, Leo Dilisnya, and Lady Ilona herself... but as Lady Ilona passed on, she gifted- or burdened, rather- Aurica with the knowledge of Strahd’s transformation, the truth...

She honed her powers, Strahd nodded to himself, made a name for herself as a miracle worker, and was referred to as a saint by the people of all Barovia. Many came to her...

Many to join her Holy Crusade. She did come for me, came right up to Castle Ravenloft... what she considered the source of all evil here-

Perhaps, in a way, she was right. Strahd admitted to himself, But it was still such a shame... I had no interest in the church, she could have lived a long life if she so chose. But no... I was naive. So long as there are the faithful here, I will never know peace.

He grimaced as he thought of their battle. Her loyal dogs fell easily, but her... He rubbed the side of his leg with remembered pain. Her, not so much.

But what is done is done, and all that remains are... her remains. Remains that he made certain would be sealed away in the crypts of Castle Ravenloft for all time... her faith had imbued her bones with holy power, and he was not allowing anyone to venerate her bones as they had with St. Andral... 

He looked back to the furniture in disarray. The priesthood here was weak without their leader. They turned on each other, all vying for power... sullying the Abbey, Ilona’s hard work... 

Killing each other. He sighed. It was long past. But in the end, the girl still had her victory. She had shaken his power for just a brief moment- and to quell the inconvenient inquiry into her disappearance, he was forced to canonize her as a legitimate saint...

He walked over to a small chest and looked through it, seeing a few magical scrolls. He parsed through them with disinterest. Nothing quite new- oh? A scroll with a Spell for Raising the Dead... Interesting. Of course, he couldn’t use it himself... but perhaps it would be a great bargaining chip in the future. He gently slid the scroll into his pack, and decided to end his stroll through memory lane.

He turned to his two companions who were having a conversation over ruined books. Curiosity overwhelmed him as we strode over to him, "Find anything interesting?"

Aric nodded, not looking up to Strahd, “These books speak of an old god from Toril, Amaunator, later known as Lathander Morninglord,” he explained, “The faith was based on law, which explains the Abbot’s odd behavior, but we don't understand why he would keep the books."

Strahd blinked, "The Abbot didn't bring anything here. These books were standard for the monastery. They are from my time as a human general... I had forgotten the name of Father Sun proper, but it would hurt me to say it... the god is from... Toril, you say?"

Linda nodded,  "He is from our world. He was an old god,” she paused, “If I remember correctly, he lost several followers because of Shadow magic that altered the face of Faerun... And he was reincarnated into Lathander."

Strahd shook his head, "The names you speak mean almost nothing to me. I fought a war here to preserve our people's religion and our nation's sovereignty from those desert-dwelling invaders, the Tergs. I spent half of my life on the battlefield in the name of that god and my father. A lot of good it did, if he ended up dying anyway..."

Strahd walked through the debris, bitterly, "And a lot of good faith did for us."

Linda shrugged,  "I still don't get how you have a god from Faerun in your history."

Strahd tilted his head, "Probably the same reason there are many countries in the Shadowfell. We were all pulled from somewhere...” he locked eyes with Linda, “Perhaps we were from your world once. Is that hard to imagine? You are speaking Balok right now."

 "Balok?” Linda shook her head, “I'm speaking Common."

Strahd raised his hand, "I didn't have to use any translation spells to understand you, like I have those from other worlds."

Linda blinked, feeling numb, "So Barovia is from our world..."

"It may be so. Or perhaps not,” Strahd shrugged in frustration, “What does it matter now? We are no longer part of any world. And escape so far has proven fruitless. In any case... it certainly did not help the Abbot that the people here have confused the faith.”

Strahd’s eyes narrowed dangerously, “Here, I am the Law, I am the Land. Gods have very little sway here."

Linda looked away from him and sighed, "Let's just look around more."

Linda stood, and walked over to the next room, Aric and Strahd following her lead. She opened the oak door...

The room had several beds... and as soon as they entered, six shadowy forms emerged from under them, hissing and clawing at the floor...

Linda leveled her gun and fired rapidly, Aric pulled out the Sunsword and it’s light evaporated the shades. It could hardly be called a fight.

Strahd and Linda groaned in unison. Strahd in pain, Linda in exasperation.

“Well, something of import must be in here for all that..." Linda muttered.

Aric noticed Strahd covering himself from the light, and quickly dismissed the Sunsword’s blade, "Sorry about that Lord Strahd, I'm going to have to be more careful about using the sword!"

Strahd shrugged his cloak away from his face, sighing,  "It's alright. It's a tool. And it is useful against such infestations like those. I'll just be mindful of you."

They explored the room. Strahd found nothing of interest to him, but Linda took a sack of silver ball bearings, good enough to use as ammunition. Aric found a pack of herbs, and stored it in his pouch for Jeeves to examine later.

They made their way over to three doors. Aric opened the first of them, and saw a plain room with a table in its center. The table was covered in blood, and there were limbs strewn about. He slowly closed the door.

Linda checked the room next to him. There were old, wrecked cribs in this room. She looked beyond and saw a nun in white and blue robes by the window. Linda blinked, and when she opened her eyes, the nun had vanished.

"Huh..." was all Linda could say.

Linda peered into the next room, finding it empty except for a raven on the windowsill. It cawed at her and flew away.

Linda turned to Aric, "Welp.... I got nothing," she grumbled, "I hate this place."

Aric folded his arms, "I found a table covered in blood and body parts. Did you find anything... less horrific?"

"I found a raven and possibly a ghost," she replied.

Linda went to check the door on the other wall, and opened it. On the other side was an open walkway that overhung the courtyard below. It seemed that someone had put up several fearsome looking scarecrows along the abbey walls. 

Linda walked out there, Strahd walked alongside her.

Aric stayed behind, as Jeeves caught up with them, and he wanted to catch up his companion.

Strahd examined the scarecrows with amused interest, "Not bad. I could do better. These would make a good prank at the Castle."

Linda rolled her eyes and ignored him. She wasn’t having a good time at the Abbey, and his nonchalant, flippant manner was starting to wear on her.

They passed by another scarecrow. Strahd commented,  "Ah another one. I've always wondered why they were deemed scarecrows... they seem to frighten humans more so than they do crows..."

Linda sighed, "And it seems they fascinate more vampires than they do humans."

Strahd tilted his head toward her,  "No. Well, perhaps... I'm just looking for things to help keep people away from my home. Less gruesome ways."

Not even pausing, she asked, "What were the gruesome ways?"

"Impaling trespassers that tried to destroy me or my consorts on the gates of Castle Ravenloft."

Linda was sarcastic, "Sounds like those ran few and far between."

"The gates are a little sparse now," Strahd admitted.

They passed another. Strahd clapped his hands together with enthusiasm, "You know what would really get them running? An animation spell on the scarecrows. Make them look like corpses... then when trespassers try to brave the gates- have them start moving and moaning...”

Strahd lowered his voice to a playful, scratchy hiss, “Turn back now, beware the Devil Strahd... things like that."

Linda looked to him and raised a brow, "Sounds like a lot of effort."

"Not at all actually. Just animate objects and a minor illusion spell- you...” He looked at her expression and quieted, “You aren't actually interested in these things, are you?"

Linda snickered at Strahd’s expression and opened the door they had reached at the end of the walkway.

Strahd huffed, and pulled out a notebook to jot something down before following her into the dark room.

The room was almost too dark for Linda to see... she heard the same violin music from before and swiveled her head to the source... A mongrelfolk with two heads and a lobster claw was chained to a desk, clutching the violin. 

"What..." She took a step toward the mongrelfolk and tripped over a stray femur. She stumbled and fell, cursing. She looked up to see a dark red chalk pattern on the floor, "What the fuck is that?"

Strahd knelt down to help her up and glanced at the chalk, "Be careful. That is a teleportation circle...” He paused and thought aloud, “I suppose we know how the Abbot was able to sneak people in..."

Linda blinked at the vampire, "What happens if I touch it?"

"You get sent to wherever this portal is connected to," Strahd replied.

Linda looked back to the chalk, "Can we find that out?"

Strahd paused, then nodded, "Let me do some reading on the circle."

Strahd helped Linda move a safe distance away from the circle as he examined the chalk on the floor. He murmured a small incantation. The chalk glowed. He turned to Linda, "I think... this is a portal to the werewolf den. I'm almost certain of it.”

He rose, calculating, “I think this is where the real invasion is going to begin... we can destroy the portal, or go through it."

Linda stood up, "What do you propose?"

Strahd listed their options, "Well, we could destroy it and throw off the invasion attempt... or we could go to them and destroy the portal on their end, and disrupt their ranks there like they intend here. Ironic victory."

Linda thought, and gave her opinion, "I think the second option will lead to a better chance at stopping the invasion."

"Perhaps...” Strahd cautioned, “but we will have to be careful going into the den of our enemies."

"Is everything alright you two?" Aric called into the room. He and Jeeves had finished on the other side, and had come to check on the vampire and the monster hunter.

Strahd folded his arms,  "Other than her almost tripping into a portal to the werewolf den. Things are great."

Linda looked to Aric and Jeeves,  "We are going to go through a portal straight into the den."

Strahd looked surprised. 

Linda looked straight into his eyes, her voice serious, "I'm going through it."

"Through the portal to a den of werewolves?” Aric felt uneasy, “That doesn't sound like a good idea."

Jeeves folded his arms, "No, it does not."

"Thank you," Strahd indicated the boys.

 "Sounds like a good one to me," Linda smirked, keeping her eyes on Strahd, she walked over to the circle, “So?”

She picked her foot up and held it above the circle.

Strahd furrowed his brow at the woman, "That's foolish."

She raised a brow, "Are you going to stop me?" she lowered her foot closer, "Or follow me?"

Strahd sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was weaker than he would like to be... tired, fatigued, his magic power almost at its limit. It would be suicide if any of them were caught, outnumbered...

But for some reason, the thought of Linda getting killed...

"It appears that I am also, in this moment, a fool..." He tiredly stepped forward.

Linda put her foot down...

The chalk flashed purple. One moment they were there, the next they were gone. Aric sighed,  "I suppose we should follow them in case they need help."

Jeeves and Aric steeled themselves before walking through...

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

A cave... running water... The group looked at their surroundings, trying to get their bearings. There was a gash in the ceiling that allowed the gray light and cold drizzle from the outdoors to seep in... torches lined the walls of the cave. Just in front of them, an underground spring seeped forth. It appeared to be forty feet across, and a five foot ledge looked over it. Perched on that ledge was a single werewolf in hybrid form that happened to be looking in the opposite direction of where they were gathered.

Wasting no time, the group clung to the shadows, approaching the lone werewolf. Linda and Aric snuck up on it, and knocked it out. It collapsed, and returned to its human form.

Another werewolf just beyond flicked its ears backward. Jeeves moved forward with his shortsword, ready to pounce. He struck the creature twice before Strahd moved forward and punched the beast square in the muzzle, knocking that one unconscious as well.

As that one fell with a clamor, the group quickly tried to hide once more...

Strahd felt his fatigue, and let go of his physical form, opting to travel as a thin mist... it would be harder to spot him this way, at least.

He crept along slowly, beside them as they passed through rocky formations. Linda peered forward and saw ten werewolves, and two of the mutant werewolf hybrids.

She whispered, “Large group. Two mutants. Ten werewolves...” She looked for a path... if they moved to the right, they could make it to the next ledge. She pointed it out to the boys, "We can make it there."

Slowly, they moved by the lycanthropes... that group seemed to be speaking about battle plans, but it would have been too risky to linger. Linda moved past them...

Two werewolves in hybrid form were speaking, both female. One of the large mutant kind, and one normal werewolf. The large one with white fur spoke in a low growl, "Ingrid. Kellen has to fight. To make the pack strong. There is no exception."

Ingrid, the other werewolf, hissed, "But he is a child! They shouldn't fight! Kiril is your mate, Bianca! Make him see reason! There are so few of us already, we can't afford to sacrifice our young- even if it is for strength!"

Linda focused on moving forward... A werewolf was cornering a small child as the females fought... She saw steps leading down to her right. She moved up, and saw that down the stairs there was a statue of a woman with a wolf’s head, surrounded by coins, a dead man and woman, and cages of children...

Timothy! Linda saw him, cramped and huddled down with five other children. But she had to wait for the opportunity to get him.

Aric’s hearing became sharp and unnaturally crisp... He heard Mehmet’s voice... He turned to face the source and saw his cousin with two other people far across the way...

 "Yes, the circle should have enough charges to get everyone in and out. I just checked it upstairs," Mehmet placed his hands inside his robes.

A huge lycanthrope unlike anything Aric had ever seen hulked by Mehmet. His skin was twisted and purplish, eyes a jaundiced yellow, dark fur missing in some areas, with intense scars punctuating his body. This must have been the leader of the pack: Kiril.

He growled, "It better. I've wasted too much time at the walls for this to fall through. Dilisnya... what of your end? Will we be able to count on your... guild?"

The man Kiril referred to as Dilisnya was plainly dressed. A young, handsome face framed by curly brown hair, and cold blue eyes spoke with a silvery voice, "You've dealt with us long enough to know that my guild always follows through with its promises,” He made a gesture, “You have gotten stronger from it, you became pack leader, and now? Krezk will fall."

Mehmet seemed skeptical, "That's only if your angel friend can learn to keep a level head."

The man seemed unworried, "It'll be fine, we can still do it with or without him. He's almost outlived his usefulness anyway."

Mehmet seemed to shudder, "About time..."

Kiril growled, "Agreed... and what of the... mongrel-folk?"

Dilisnya waved dismissively, "They are just there to stir confusion, and horror, and despair. Useless as soldiers. I've already field tested them and found them... wanting."

Meanwhile, Linda looked to the mist that was Strahd. It reached forward, uncollected, almost unaware of everything around him... Her heart sank in realization, This is why he didn’t want to come! He’s... out of it. Tired... Why did you come, you stupid man?! Was it for... me? She looked around with worry, if someone noticed the mist....

Growls and the sound of fighting rung out through the left. Aric saw a werewolf approach Kiril, "Kiril! Ingrid and Bianca are at each other's throats!"

Kiril growled, "She would come to blows with my mate?! Now of all times? Let me deal with this dissent..."

Kiril pointed to the guards next to him, "Come with me."

Dilisnya sighed in distaste as Kiril stormed off. He spoke to Mehmet, "I'm going to the Amber Temple, to clear a few things up. Just make sure he doesn't get too carried away."

Mehmet nodded, "Right. And the mage?"

"Let him keep thinking what he thinks. And guide him toward the orchards... any luck, he'll think the trees are Strahd's minions, and the orchards will be razed in seconds," Dilisnya turned and departed upstairs.

Mehmet fidgeted with his hands and muttered, "I did not come here to be a servant. We'll get past this soon enough...” He paused as if he were listening to something, “Yes, understood, Great Pasha..."

Mehmet Rein murmured and walked up the stairs slowly.

Linda seized the opportunity and bolted down the stairs to the children’s cages. The children wept and shrieked at the sound of the fighting wolves. Timothy simply covered his ears and closed his eyes.

Strahd all but stumbled out of his mist form and pinched the bridge of his nose. He collected his bearings and looked at the children. 

Linda rushed over to the cage with Timothy in it, pulling out her tools, trying to unlock it. She called to her party, "We need to get everyone out."

Strahd replied, "We need to get everyone quiet."

Linda looked to Strahd. She didn’t care if he used his vampiric powers for this task, "Get to it then. I'll do what I can."

Linda focused on her apprentice, worry in her voice, "Timothy, Timmy. You need to help me quiet everyone. I'm getting you out of here."

Timothy opened his eyes and looked to her, shocked, "Miss Linda! How did you-? Oh gods, I left the shop unlocked, I'm so sorry..." He teared up.

Linda nodded, trying to calm him, "It's alright, I locked up."

Linda unlocked the cage and opened the door. Timothy stood, but the other children cowered.

Strahd stepped forth. Linda commanded Timothy, “Timmy, close your eyes.” Timothy did as told.

Strahd walked forth to the children and made eye contact with them. His eyes flashed red as he reached his influence over them. He spoke in his most soothing voice, "It's alright. You are going to be safe soon. Just lower your voices, children. Shhhhh...."

As he shushed them, they stopped their crying, their eyes glazed over. He had them under his control.

Linda took Timothy’s arm, “Come on... I’ll explain later. Help me get everyone else...”

Aric, Jeeves, Linda, and Timothy worked to free the children as Strahd calmed them with his supernatural influence.

Linda ushered the children, "Alright. Now upstairs we go. Quickly now...”

Aric guided them to the entry he saw Mehmet pass through, pulling back a curtain of human skin. There was no time to be disgusted. Escape was all that mattered. They walked up the stairs and came to an outside opening... There was a portal just on the ground, surrounded by a pile of stones.

Mehmet was there, facing the lake that was under them. He turned around, speaking tiredly, "Kiril, did you finish with the-”

His face contorted in fear and confusion, “Children?! What are you doing out of your cages?!"

Linda pushed the children forward, “Go, through that! Quickly!”

Timothy and the other children ran through. In a flash of purple light, they were gone.

Mehmet made a gesture, summoning bright energy around him, "You will not disrupt this!"

Linda raised her crossbow, "Yes we will," she fired a shot with her crossbow, but the energy seemed to slow the bolt near him, and made it glance harmlessly off of his side.

Aric grabbed his light crossbow and fired, trying to back away from his dangerous cousin, but he tripped over.

Mehmet looked to Aric and Jeeves, anger contorting on his face, he twisted a ring on his hand, cursing, "Damn you! I will be Syl-Pasha... because I have the greatest of Pashas on my side... Pasha of Pashas, Memnon! I summon you!"

A blast of heat struck them backwards... a swirl of fire emerged from the ring, manifesting into an unusually large efreeti... His skin ashen gray, and his szulduar angular and crackling.  The efreeti, Memnon roared, only Aric could understand its cry:

Freedom.

The rock around them turned into sand, flames nipped at their feet. 

Jeeves panicked,  "How do we destroy the portal? And more importantly- do we have a way out?!"

Aric turned to Strahd, yelling over the wind and fire,  "Can we destroy the portal from the other side?!"

Strahd looked to the creature, horrified, "No. We won't have the time! The portal will take us to somewhere else in the Abbey, and it won't guarantee that thing won't come through!” Strahd raised his cloak to cover his face from a stray ember as the efreet took one large step, “I have a spell- my last spell- to get us out. To destroy the portal, just destroy the symbols."

Jeeves didn’t have to be told twice. He drew his shortsword and ran over to the portal, trying not to burn his feet as he struck at the chalk on the ground.

Nothing. The symbols remained.

Strahd stepped forward and slammed a fist onto the ground, cracking the stone beneath, and shattering the integrity of the circle. 

Mehmet and the efreeti roared in unison as the efreeti summoned more fire around them... the smoke was starting to choke...

Strahd stood, and pulled Jeeves back with Linda and Aric.

“Stay near!“ Strahd warned as his fists glowed purple...

The Abbey... Strahd willed the spell, Bring us back to the Abbey-

A swath of flame licked at his back, just as the purple light enveloped them... Strahd cried out in surprised pain, his thoughts warped, his concentration lost...

I want to go home!

Drifting. Floating... Bliss... then stillness.

Everyone looked around them. They were... not in the Abbey. They were in an open area of what appeared to be a castle. A long red carpet lined a stone floor, with marble columns reaching to the ceiling. On top of the columns, gargoyles regarded them with leery expressions. Candles of red wax lighted the gray stone from golden sconces. Skeletons assembled to perform mundane tasks, sweeping the floor, dusting paintings... 

A chill swept through the hallway as it grew slightly darker in the room...

Linda grabbed onto Strahd’s shirt, anger overcoming her caution, "What did you do?! Why are we here!?"

Strahd pinched the bridge of his nose in a haze. What had happened...? He thought of the flame against his back, the pain... He sighed, "I suppose... I may have been... slightly off target..."

Aric looked around him, "Where is ‘here’ exactly?"

"Home,” Strahd all but whispered in tiredness, “Welcome... to Castle Ravenloft."

#story update #curse of strahd #linda tacklemeyer #aric rein #dnd #writing #strahd

[levinea-yuuki]

I've been thinking recently

We don't have much foundation. Both Millennials and Gen Z are stuck with so much responsibility for our futures. We're judged for our quirks, called special snowflakes by the most entitled generations, and tossed out on our own by Baby Boomers and Gen X.

Now I definitely don't feel like a Generation Z child because of two reasons:

I'm 22 years old and that just makes me feel like a millennial based on the whole structure and my lack of a sense of timelines.

I've never gotten into fortnite or the majority of these memes or dabbing.

But honestly that is not going to stop me from enjoying watching all of these people having dance-offs or making cleverly woven jokes or saying things I'll never fully grasp, (I still don't understand "worm"), or simply feeling refreshed about the open-minded beliefs of equality and acceptance, understanding, and kindness. Pour as much of that on as your hearts can show.

Getting back to the point. Though there's not much of a generation gap between Millennials and Generation Z in my point of view, seeing as we're both dragged into the same issues that arose with having to deal with the baby boomer generation in the same manner that we're having to deal with Gen X, though maybe not to the same extent, I feel like the older Generations are trying to shove a gap between us or push the blame.

This link takes you to a website that expresses just how much there is to think about with what Baby Boomers have done to our economy... Even though they blame millennials. https://www.theguardian.com/society/2018/apr/29/millennials-struggling-is-it-fault-of-baby-boomers-intergenerational-fairness

It's not just our economy that I'm worried about in the long run.

We can repair that type of damage, what I'm really worried about how the younger ones are raised. Striking on a highly personal and sensitive note, my mother born in Gen X married young to my baby boomer father and had my brother and me, my brother being in the millennial generation. After seventeen years of supporting us, forced into not seeing us very much at all with working two jobs and still expected to cook and clean while he made no effort to get his own job, criticized her for everything she did as well as prevented her from having literally any friends in or out of work, she got out. Good for her, right? She left the abuse, lived a little, remarried, and had my siblings.

Now here's where it gets sticky.

This left us with our father (me as a sheltered albeit pampered 11 year old and my brother the inexperienced 16 year old who was also pampered) because he fought her in court and somehow won full custody of us. It came to the point where my brother was suddenly the sole money maker for the household (while also in school) in the time frame of a week after she left because dad still refused to get a job but insisted on smoking and drinking a six-pack a day anyway. At the same time his pride got in the way of accepting my mom's help because she had optional child support and when he did accept it he immediately went and spent it on his booze, so she ultimately stopped the fruitless. He cut ties between my mother and us and pretended everything was fine and dandy now that she was gone. When he died of an impending and incurable death triangle (kidney failure, liver failure, and sever diabetes) almost five years later we were left with his debts and he didn't teach us a single thing to get us started. Almost three years later, I left to live with my mother because she found us and got back in touch. My brother rejected her offer and went out on his own, swimming in the unbacked pride dad had set, and since then has been entirely incapable of holding a job for more than a few months before he's fired for one thing or another. He still refuses to speak with her.

Now on my end, everything started fine. I was expected to do some of the chores, finish highschool, and I finally had the chance to learn who my mother was the first time in my life... but once I had settled in I came to understand that she was in a constant defensive state anytime she was questioned and was afraid of moving forward. She suddenly had a late teenage daughter that didn't know a single thing about living. To this day four years later she has had a very easy-to-boil temper. It started as a self defense mechanism, she had to become this way to keep herself alive with my dad as a husband, but she became more than the overseer of the new family, she became an overbearing abrasive woman to make sure things were going her way so that there was no way she could slip back into what she had been living in.

She is now the type of person who considers pain to be a competition, a concept of reality she got from her father, my father, and her generation as a whole. Her existence is work, bills, her new spouse, and figuring out how to set me on my siblings on the best path. She has experienced more pain than I can picture, lived a longer life with many challenges, gave every ounce of effort to get back to her senses and I respect that wholeheartedly, but what I can't seem to respect or handle is her needed to feel like she's right all the time even when she's dead wrong, how deaf she is to the hurtful things she says, and how she goes about getting things done.

It's not just life she tackles harshly now, but pain is measured on her own set of scales. It is her competition in order to feel sturdier about her situations and I see this a lot in her age group, frequently and everywhere, but in the process of all of this she invalidates anybody else's difficulties if they are less than her own. In her eyes, "if I can tolerate it then you should be able to" or "if it's not bothering me then it shouldn't bother you" is the only reality. There are no extra spoons or forks, no in between, no consideration for how somebody else perceives a situation or how much somebody else can handle before they burst, and particularly with people in my age group she holds absolutely no patience. It's almost like she considers us a to be hypochondriacs because we haven't learned how to "suck it up" or "save face" when the physical aches or mental loads are too much, or the shambles they've left our economy in and voting Trump in because they think he will just fix it right up like changing a tire. It's entirely irresponsible, immature, inhumane, and unreasonable. She and most people her age, and people like my father, are incredibly blind to it. I can no longer respect them or trust them.

Now here's the kicker.

She as well as many other mothers claim that people in my age group have tunnel vision, that each day is brand new for us, that we don't know hardship or real stress, when in reality we are all facing the teeth gritting consequences for their choices. We are trying so hard to have optimism and open hearts, the patience they lack, and the wisdom to break free from their mislay of twisting roads and bare minimum guidelines.

As an example of her mindset and the challenge it presents, she believes I am entirely incapable of taking care of stressful situations when she hasn't taught me how, just like my father but and almost an exact opposite sense. My father pampered me and sheltered me, my mother drowns me only in harsh reality and expectations. It's not just her, the society these Generations have built are also malfunctioning and sending catless mixed messages. There are scores of American schools that don't teach a lick of daily knowledge like how to clean without making freaking mustard gas or how to go about sewing on a button. Cooking, paying bills, skills like changing a tire or what to do when the electricity goes out and it's not the breaker. Finances and taxes. They believe that schools only need to teach things like the states and capitals, sports, math, language (but only English and Spanish, I wanted to learn Japanese and sign language guys...), wars, a collection of science subjects, and maybe music. They've cut the budget for anything else. Screw the general public. Even my mom acts like her goal is to become middle class so that my siblings have more opportunities to learn what they need, but she's so fixated on raising her rank in society's standards thinking that it will solve everything she can't comprehend the real issues.

She believes I don't get certain responsibilities done the instant she tells me to because I'm lazy or inconsiderate, but mostly it's because my mind doesn't allow me to multitask like hers does, or I'm not sure how to go about it because I have to teach myself, and therefore it's just one more thing she has to add to the list of what I am not putting any effort into. She doesn't understand, or maybe she doesn't WANT to understand, that I have anxiety when I'm put on the spot because if I don't have a moment to think about what to do she chooses to scream at me instead of simply suggesting a solution or helping me think, and then decides to take over the responsibility with an added bonus of guilt-tripping and gaslighting. After years of this I've grown apathetic to her to the point where she has started calling me heartless and disrespectful. It is incredibly difficult to respect somebody who treats you like a tool that needs fixing but also doesn't make the effort to find out what's wrong in the first place.

I've read so many cases of this, just terrible awful parenting, it's to the extent where it's old news and that's unfortunate because it still hasn't changed. Make situations like these current news, spread them with a warning for our future, this problem has been around for so long it is almost entirely ignored by the older Generations in exchange for the opportunity to push blame. I myself have gotten so tired of asking "what is wrong with them? Why don't they see what they're doing? Don't they understand how harmful this is?" I see my mom giving sexist excuses about the behavior of men into the mind of my younger brother, I see her pushing my sister to tolerate him instead of stopping him from acting this way, and I think, "why can't they take responsibility for the damage they've done, re-evaluate themselves, or feel any regret for the stigma they choose to keep planting in young minds?" At every turn I'm invalidated, and though I'm expected to watch my siblings, I'm not allowed to stop them if they choose to play recklessly, rebel, or cock an attitude if I tell them they need to do something like brush their teeth or put a toy away. Unless there's an obvious chance of injury, I'm prevented from intervention. What kind of children are these siblings of mine going to grow into with this mindset? What are the claims that her generation are going to throw on them when there's no one else to blame? Why am I expected to relent to her demands and stretch and mold myself into her concept of what an adult should be if I can't suggest a compromise or take a stand? How am I or anyone else supposed to know what to do in shaky situations is if were not given the chance to learn, shown an example of how, or charted a better path instead of setting expectations and just demanded to reach them? I can't stand this. Each of these generations all hold individual, unique, brilliant people but the younger ones are treated like entirely different entities based on societies obsolete standards and malformed beliefs. This needs to change.

[ghostmartyr]

SnK 106 Thoughts

PATION

What a mess.

In Yu Yu Hakusho, the antagonist of one arc is a man who used to have the protagonist’s job. He’s described as a character who sees things in black and white. When he’s confronted with the grey of the world, he snaps and ends up with a lot of new voices in his head. One of the descriptions of him and his journey is that such a pure soul, once touched by corruption, is destined to turn entirely dark.

The individual describing this finds it enthralling.

Eren’s friends appear a touch more against it.

I’m really tempted to just say, “and then Eren ruined everything,” and stop typing, because every time I try to form deeper thoughts, it feels like that summary would save everyone a lot of time. Mostly me. It’s also more amusing than addressing exactly how he’s ruined everything, because yikes.

As a deep appreciator of the themes I believe this series holds most dear, I like this chapter.

As a deep appreciator of Eren pre-timeskip... ahaha tfw Armin is an audience surrogate. Geez.

This is a sad chapter. Yes, that gets its own sentence. It will possibly get its own sentence multiple times, because it is the most accurate statement I can make about what’s going on in this awful world.

I think I said once or twice (a month) that my problem with the Marley chapters is that there was no hope for the stars of it. The Warriors, even if they were to succeed, are pawns in a system that doesn’t care about anything but bleeding them dry of every use it can before it cannibalizes them. Month after month, we saw good people growing up in an evil world that would corrupt even the best of their intentions.

That is a depressing setting to spend a year in. Everything about it makes you start seeing nothing but trains in each glimmer of hope down the pit. Part of why I wanted to get back to Paradis so badly, besides cast preference, was that Paradis still has the concept of hope.

Yeah, it’s a concept that is largely built on sacrificing many, many lives, but when they think that they’re dying to leave a better world behind, where less of them are eaten alive, they’re not wrong. Their view of the world is horribly incomplete, and deliberately so until they dismantle the worst of their government, but the lies that build the foundation of their world are not self-perpetuating.

People on Paradis can move forward, and make the decision to try to blow up the brick wall they run straight into. In Marley, those brick walls have been arranged as a rat maze for Eldians to run.

Now we’re back with people trying to change the world for the better. And the odds are bleak. The first conversation Hange and Yelena has lays it out nicely: Paradis is not built for the kind of war waiting on their doorstep.

The wonder in Yelena’s eyes at these professional titan slayers is a beautiful sight to behold. No other group on the planet has fought these monsters so successfully, and other countries are still a few technology upgrades away from being able to say the same.

Human v human combat on a large scale, though? That is the one thing they’ve never really dealt with. They’ve lived in fear of it at times, when their walls started feeling like the cage they were, but it’s not a thing they’ve concentrated on.

Compare that to literally the entire rest of the world.

Paradis fights giants.

But like. Non-figurative ones.

This applies that same fundamental to a very different environment, and it’s no surprise that the enormity of that ask has led to some sad places. There’s a reason not everyone joins the Survey Corps. There’s a reason, before RAB show up, people wonder why they even need the Survey Corps.

Fighting impossible odds is a fruitless endeavor, from many perspectives. The will to keep with it is hard to harness. A lot of the people we have still fighting have been given some very rough shoves into it.

Wanting better for a world that doesn’t think it needs to change is challenging. It’s been challenging from the beginning, but with the setting expansion, we’re back to fighting giants.

What this chapter illustrates fantastically is which members of our cast are still dreamers. From the start, the Scouts have been full of crazy outcasts who shoot for the moon. Even Erwin, the guy thought to be the most rational of them, starts out as a starry-eyed kid. These people don’t just believe in eventual victory; they believe in the world that victory can create.

There’s an entire ocean out there. Volcanoes. Glaciers. Armin makes this point really, really easy.

There are trains. Zeppelins. You can fly through the air without 3DMG. Guns that fires multiple shots are commonplace. Ports. More foods than you could ever imagine.

You can see so many soldiers light up this chapter. For a year, they’ve known about the outside world. They’ve known they’re hated. They’ve known this is a serious fucking problem and oh no.

Then they hear about what else is out there, and it’s like they’re all little kids reading illegal library books. Yelena looks at Titans and the Scouts with awe. Hange is thrilled by every new word Onyankopon and Yelena share. Sasha experiences seafood. Nicolo’s first understanding of the demons of Paradis as people comes from experiencing Sasha. Armin and Mikasa can talk about the Marley soldiers they’ve come to know with a smile.

Enter the Eren of it all.

His name is Eeyore now.

In the beginning there was darkness. Eren, he of ferocity and indignation, brought a spark to everyone he met. Before Trost, he inspires an entire squad to ditch their original reasons for joining the army and follow the insane dreamers. He brings Mikasa a reason to fight. Just by being a good friend, he helps his country find its true ruler. After the serum bowl, he has no trouble believing that Armin, his best friend, is worth every bit as much and more as Erwin.

He vows to become humanity’s hope. Again and again, he confronts challenges no one’s ready for, and he removes the question of his ability in favor of always taking the next step forward. Do or do not, there is no try, and he always chooses to do.

They’re surrounded by all sides. Walls have been replaced by ocean. There are enemies out there. They aren’t ready for them. They need to be ready.

Eren’s only moment of hope this chapter is when Zeke’s plan is proposed. The plan to scare the world into leaving them alone long enough to live. Eren talks about a destructive force smashing everything underfoot, and his eyes light up.

It isn’t a seashell. It isn’t a train. It isn’t lobster tail. It’s power.

When Yelena’s boat comes in, he’s angry. They can’t do anything. They’re helpless. He wants to be able to do something before they’re all wiped out.

Zeke brings him that.

Everywhere in this damn chapter, Eren’s eventual isolation on Marley is illuminated. He’s kept marching forward, just like they all have, but unlike the rest of them, he does it without faith.

“If we don’t fight... we can’t win.”

“If we win... we live.”

Mikasa’s side comes first. Eren doesn’t bother reaching that point.

I don’t know that Eren knows what living means anymore. For Mikasa, it’s her family. For Connie, it’s his friends. Plenty of characters have things or people that light up their world, and they dream of the day when they’ll be able to enjoy that light without danger encroaching.

Eren’s powers start out as a symbol of hope. It’s appropriate, then, that he’s lost his. Fight, fight, fight, but what for?

Heck, even his decision to hide Historia’s possibly significance originally came from a human place. A day or so after watching Armin die, he can’t do anything but reject the possibility of sacrificing another friend.

A year later, Eren doesn’t even flinch when he discusses that motivation. “I will admit that it was a thoughtless decision.”

(Sidebar:

Am I seeing things, or does Eren look a lot like Frieda there? I mean yes, the hair length, but the way the framing is done, his bangs are cut off, letting it match up more closely to Frieda’s style, and their pupil/iris style has always been similar. I ask rhetorically because Eren has Frieda’s memories, and on the topic of Historia, that feels very relevant. Please be intentional and not an optical illusion.

Let Eren be Historia’s big sister 2k18. He has at least two voices in his head who adore their baby sisters, give me this.)

Historia might not be Armin-Mikasa tier of friendship, but she doesn’t need to be (and hell, she’s the one witness to him begging for death; I’d call that a bonding experience (...actually, based on where things were left on Historia’s side, Eren is her best friend, and wow is that not a good spot to be in (go find Connie, Historia; he’s down a bestie))). Eren loves his friends. That is perhaps on a top three list of important Eren traits. Trost is basically a giant introduction arc, and a primary point is Eren’s rock-solid faith in Armin, his bestie.

Eren loves his damn friends. It was not a thoughtless decision to hide the risk to Historia; it was him being at the end of his tolerance for anything coming even close to hurting one of his people. It was a bad decision, and everyone should be very annoyed with him for not letting it enter the think tank for a whole year, because hey, maybe we don’t want to turn the reigning monarch into a titan, but experimenting with blood magic might be useful just a little don’t you think kind of.

Dumb decisions do not equal baseless ones. Eren being comfortable writing off his concern is a very bloody red flag.

At one point, the threat to Historia mattered to him (which, again: Eren, they were not going to turn the reigning monarch into a fucking titan on a whim).

At one point, working together with his friends as a team mattered to him.

At one point, the ocean could bring a light to his eyes.

Now, everyone around him is on board with chasing freedom. He isn’t chasing it with them. He’s chasing the win. What comes after that, who knows, but he can’t find out until he wins. That’s what matters. His buddies can talk all they want about making friends and life being better, he’ll be busy practicing his aim.

Eren.

You and Reiner need therapy.

Seek. Help. Stop murdering children and go find Mikasa and ask for a hug, because she’s probably the only one who might go for that at the moment and you need one. Well, maybe your brother might too. You know, that guy who will spend the last year of his life receiving death threats from Levi every single day.

This is a very nicely constructed chapter, and for once it makes me happy that Armin likes playing narrator. ...Even if I think I’m supposed to care that he’s addressing his narration to someone. And I don’t. I really don’t. Please don’t ask me to.

But yeah, coming back to Armin, who gives birth to Eren’s dream, at the obvious death of it, is a great format. Eren was right during serum bowl. Armin’s never lost sight of the ocean. Armin has always dropped into moodiness fast, but he doesn’t get lost in it. He’s sensitive, but nowhere close to fragile.

He’s as lost as everyone is with this, so he does the sensible thing: he goes to someone who must have known what it’s like to bear a burden like this. Annie can’t talk back, but Armin knows her experiences well enough to go to her anyway.

When Annie’s a giant, looking down at the tiny ants of the Survey Corps, she spares his life. She kills plenty of people (funny how insignificant that feels nowadays...), but Annie, in an impossible situation, finds room to let her heart stop her from destroying everything.

Armin destroys everything. He doesn’t see a face and pause. He walks, and buildings fall, and people die.

I think Armin’s always seen something of a kindred spirit in Annie. She’s a fighter, but she’s also a thinker. Most of the things she says have an ocean of depth to them, and I think that Armin is someone who appreciates that. Now that he knows what it’s like to kill huge numbers, feeling like he has to, it’s no surprise that he’s reaching out to her.

Especially since his best friend is unrecognizable right now.

I hope it won’t stick, but... the assault on Marley was horrific, and even if the same choice would have been reached regardless, Eren’s actions guaranteed devastation. Armin’s Paradis’ most destructive weapon right now. His best friend abandoning them turns him into a mass murderer.

That is not a small thing. And part of why it hurts so much is that Armin thought he understood his best friend better than anyone. He’s known Eren for years. He’s previously been a staunch shipper of Mikasa and Eren, but he still puts his understanding of their guy over hers. Before this.

Eren’s not who he used to be. No one is, but Eren’s trials have broken him into something his friends don’t trust, and don’t know how to trust.

“I wonder if... just maybe... there could have been a different path. I keep on coming back to that.”

There’s good in this world, and it’s worth fighting for. What they’ve got to worry about is how much of that good their fight will destroy before the end.

This is a sad chapter.

#Shingeki no Kyojin #SnK 106 #Eren Yeager #shingeki no spoilers #SnK spoilers #tl;dr #chapter post

[brain-garden-blog]

Negative Emotions Are Key to Well-Being

Feeling sad, mad, critical or otherwise awful? Surprise: negative emotions are essential for mental health

A client sits before me, seeking help untangling his relationship problems. As a psychotherapist, I strive to be warm, nonjudgmental and encouraging. I am a bit unsettled, then, when in the midst of describing his painful experiences, he says, “I'm sorry for being so negative.”

A crucial goal of therapy is to learn to acknowledge and express a full range of emotions, and here was a client apologizing for doing just that. In my psychotherapy practice, many of my clients struggle with highly distressing emotions, such as extreme anger, or with suicidal thoughts. In recent years I have noticed an increase in the number of people who also feel guilty or ashamed about what they perceive to be negativity. Such reactions undoubtedly stem from our culture's overriding bias toward positive thinking. Although positive emotions are worth cultivating, problems arise when people start believing they must be upbeat all the time.

In fact, anger and sadness are an important part of life, and new research shows that experiencing and accepting such emotions are vital to our mental health. Attempting to suppress thoughts can backfire and even diminish our sense of contentment. “Acknowledging the complexity of life may be an especially fruitful path to psychological well-being,” says psychologist Jonathan M. Adler of the Franklin W. Olin College of Engineering.

Meaningful Misery

Positive thoughts and emotions can, of course, benefit mental health. Hedonic theories define well-being as the presence of positive emotion, the relative absence of negative emotion and a sense of life satisfaction. Taken to an extreme, however, that definition is not congruent with the messiness of real life. In addition, people's outlook can become so rosy that they ignore dangers or become complacent [see “Can Positive Thinking Be Negative?” by Scott O. Lilienfeld and Hal Arkowitz; Scientific American Mind, May/June 2011].

Eudaemonic approaches, on the other hand, emphasize a sense of meaning, personal growth and understanding of the self—goals that require confronting life's adversities. Unpleasant feelings are just as crucial as the enjoyable ones in helping you make sense of life's ups and downs. “Remember, one of the primary reasons we have emotions in the first place is to help us evaluate our experiences,” Adler says.

Adler and Hal E. Hershfield, a professor of marketing at New York University, investigated the link between mixed emotional experience and psychological welfare in a group of people undergoing 12 sessions of psychotherapy. Before each session, participants completed a questionnaire that assessed their psychological well-being. They also wrote narratives describing their life events and their time in therapy, which were coded for emotional content. As Adler and Hershfield reported in 2012, feeling cheerful and dejected at the same time—for example, “I feel sad at times because of everything I've been through, but I'm also happy and hopeful because I'm working through my issues”—preceded improvements in well-being over the next week or two for subjects, even if the mixed feelings were unpleasant at the time. “Taking the good and the bad together may detoxify the bad experiences, allowing you to make meaning out of them in a way that supports psychological well-being,” the researchers found.

Negative emotions also most likely aid in our survival. Bad feelings can be vital clues that a health issue, relationship or other important matter needs attention, Adler points out. The survival value of negative thoughts and emotions may help explain why suppressing them is so fruitless. In a 2009 study psychologist David J. Kavanagh of Queensland University of Technology in Australia and his colleagues asked people in treatment for alcohol abuse and addiction to complete a questionnaire that assessed their drinking-related urges and cravings, as well as any attempts to suppress thoughts related to booze over the previous 24 hours. They found that those who often fought against intrusive alcohol-related thoughts actually harbored more of them. Similar findings from a 2010 study suggested that pushing back negative emotions could spawn more emotional overeating than simply recognizing that you were, say, upset, agitated or blue.

Even if you successfully avoid contemplating a topic, your subconscious may still dwell on it. In a 2011 study psychologist Richard A. Bryant and his colleagues at the University of New South Wales in Sydney told some participants, but not others, to suppress an unwanted thought prior to sleep. Those who tried to muffle the thought reported dreaming about it more, a phenomenon called dream rebound.

Suppressing thoughts and feelings can even be harmful. In a 2012 study psychotherapist Eric L. Garland of Florida State University and his associates measured a stress response based on heart rate in 58 adults in treatment for alcohol dependence while exposing them to alcohol-related cues. Subjects also completed a measure of their tendency to suppress thoughts. The researchers found that those who restrained their thinking more often had stronger stress responses to the cues than did those who suppressed their thoughts less frequently.

Accepting the Pain Instead of backing away from negative emotions, accept them. Acknowledge how you are feeling without rushing to change your emotional state. Many people find it helpful to breathe slowly and deeply while learning to tolerate strong feelings or to imagine the feelings as floating clouds, as a reminder that they will pass. I often tell my clients that a thought is just a thought and a feeling just a feeling, nothing more.

If the emotion is overwhelming, you may want to express how you feel in a journal or to another person. The exercise may shift your perspective and bring a sense of closure. If the discomfort lingers, consider taking action. You may want to tell a friend her comment was hurtful or take steps to leave the job that makes you miserable.

You may also try doing mindfulness exercises to help you become aware of your present experience without passing judgment on it. One way to train yourself to adopt this state is to focus on your breathing while meditating and simply acknowledge any fleeting thoughts or feelings. This practice may make it easier to accept unpleasant thoughts [see “Being in the Now,” by Amishi P. Jha; Scientific American Mind, March/April 2013]. Earlier this year Garland and his colleagues found that among 125 individuals with a history of trauma who were also in treatment for substance dependence, those who were naturally more mindful both coped better with their trauma and craved their drug less. Likewise, in a 2012 study psychologist Shannon Sauer-Zavala of Boston University and her co-workers found that a therapy that included mindfulness training helped individuals overcome anxiety disorders. It worked not by minimizing the number of negative feelings but by training patients to accept those feelings.

“It is impossible to avoid negative emotions altogether because to live is to experience setbacks and conflicts,” Sauer-Zavala says. Learning how to cope with those emotions is the key, she adds. Indeed, once my client accepted his thoughts and feelings, shaking off his shame and guilt, he saw his problems with greater clarity and proceeded down the path to recovery.

#psychology #psychotherapy #mental health #emotions #emotion regulation #meditation #mindfulness