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unholyplumpprincess · 3 years ago

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Take Care of You

Fic for @fyeahnix ! Thank you so much for your patience during this!!! This also is a sequel for her other fic, ‘Don’t wanna forget a thing’, but can be read as a stand alone!

Ao3 link here

Summary: Wraith and her no good, awful, terrible day. Nothing is going right, stress is piling up, plans aren't going right, and to top it all off she can't sleep. She's gonna have to finally suck up her pride and ask her girlfriend to come over and help her sleep. But, Anita has better plans than just sleeping to help ease her girlfriend.Or! In which Anita takes care of Wraith in more ways than just helping her de-stress.

!!!Minors and ageless blogs dni or you will be blocked!!!

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Fandom: Apex Legends

Relationship: Bangalore/Wraith

Warnings: R18+/NSFT, fluffy moments, mentions of Wraith’s depression, Anita tops with a dragon dildo and it’s gr8, rimming + anal play

Words: 9.5k

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Life could be cruel.

A statement that Wraith had made herself familiar with for quite some time. Though, she supposes, that this could not be the cruelest it could be. No, this was nothing like when she found out of her past- or... one of her pasts. It could get confused on who and which ‘she’ she was thinking of. Or even if they were a ‘she’ at all. Or what path, which life, which people, which--

Sigh.

Exhausting. It's all too exhausting to consider. Every path, every outcome, every recent nightmare plaguing her mind and making her even more irritable. Nightmares that she didn’t know if they were of watching a life of hers get hurt, another path. Or if it was simple fears that every person had.

Everything just seemed to be going wrong for her. It started off small enough, her nightmares had been triggered back into place. Insomnia making her dark under eyes look more like bruises nowadays and not helped by the way she rubs her eyes in exhaustion.

Natalie, bless whatever planet she came from, would always chide her and gently move her hands from her face once she noted Wraith’s nails starting to sink into flesh. Wraith was forever grateful to her, but she wasn’t about to let Natalie believe she had to take care of her in any form of the manner.

Natalie wasn’t her keeper, not her mother. But whenever Wraith would gently try to tell Natalie that she had this, she’d get a look from her best friend. One that was so gentle with a soft reminder from her glossy pink lips.

“You do not have to do everything alone either.”

!Rest under the cut here!

A statement Wraith was familiar with. She’d been doing things on her own since she could remember. It just seemed hard to break that habit. To feel like she needed to do it on her own, to try and succeed when she knew it would be better to have even one shoulder to lean on.

Relationships and friendships required balance, equality. She had to allow herself to get just as much as she gave.

Harder than it sounded.

On day three of her awful week, she looks at her phone for a moment in the night. Her thumb resting over the call button of the name ‘Handsome’ with a heart and ring emoji beside it. Cheesy, she’s aware. But for a moment, she thinks of calling Anita or even texting her.

Just asking for her to be there.

She would be. Wraith knew she would drop whatever she was doing to come take care of her, make sure she was okay. Wraith could practically taste Anita’s grape lip balm on her lips, the taste of mint on her tongue. The hint of gun smoke that always clung to Anita’s frame. The deepness of her cologne.

Anita’s presence was like the first drink of water in the morning. The first warm bliss of sunshine after being in the biting cold. The first taste of warm food when you’d had a shitty day. Her presence was like that of comfort.

Her home.

In the end, she puts her phone face down. Welcoming another sleepless night with too many people talking. Too much tossing and turning. Too much yearning in her heart, but too much of a stubborn fool to do anything about it.

The season is about midway through. Wraith had a strong start, topping the charts with her ferocity. Spurred on by Anita on an opposite squad and making her feel a bit more hectic in her need to hunt her girlfriend down. To pin her by her neck, dig her knees into Anita’s hand and murmur, “Surprise.” in her ear to watch those pretty freckled cheeks flush and a snarl uplifting one side of Anita’s lips before she stabbed her kunai into her throat.

Flirting with your girlfriend just got more vicious when you were a part of a blood sport.

Halfway through the season, they paired her with new people who were hoping to get in to call themselves Legends. Most wanted the glory all to themselves, going off as a solo only to get foolishly killed. Of course they did. This was a team sport, after all. But that left Wraith open and on her own. Just another body bag to take off the battlefield.

Day five, she looks at her phone again. Thumb hovering over the text box that led to her and Anita’s conversation.

It would be so easy.

She would come if we just asked.

Don’t you miss her?

We miss her.

Text her-

Call her-

Just press the button, you dumb girl-

The girls, as Wraith has been recently referring to the voices after Anita lovingly calling them ‘Her Ladies’- as they are just people as well. They always have an opinion when it involves Anita. Wraith has always wondered if in all her other lives if they were with her as well, or if all of them had the same attraction. If they even all knew her from various lives.

That sometimes made her smile. A childish desire to believe soulmates were real.

Whatever the answer, they all had an opinion about the sunshine in Wraith’s life. Normally trying to get her to do like she’s considering now: Getting Anita into her quarters.

Wraith huffs. Placing the phone face down on the nightstand and resting in bed with an arm over her eyes as an uproar of voices start trying to convince her to change her mind or to do something saucy to get Anita’s attention.

Plans with Natalie fall through at the end of the week. She’s had a breakthrough on a project, meaning she needed to focus all her attention there to possibly prevent a meltdown. She apologizes profusely, but Wraith is quick to tell her she understands and to not worry, they can try for another day. Wraith promises to check in on her in a few hours to make sure she’s not forgetting to eat either, as she knows how Natalie can be when on the brink of something this big.

So that falls to plan B of Elliott having told Wraith that he and Pathfinder were going to be having a night at the bar and she was free to join. But when Wraith calls him for that, he explains apologetically that Ramya wasn’t feeling too hot today so he was staying in to make sure she was doing okay. Siting something about not leaving family behind.

It’s sweet, and understandable. Wraith once again explains that she understands, but when the call ends, she feels so horribly exhausted and at her wits end. A sigh on her lips, rubbing at her face and feeling on the very last leg of her thread.

When she lies on her bed for the seventh day of the week, she stares at the ceiling with a blank expression. In desperate need of something. Anything.

A sigh escapes her, her brows furrowing and coming to the realization all at once.

She has to swallow her pride and call her girlfriend.

It’s not that she doesn’t want to- oh she’s wanted to all week. But it’s...hard to admit to someone that you aren’t okay. That you just need someone there. Not to mention she feels a tinge of guilt. Whenever she had a bad time, her comfort was her girlfriend. To be wrapped in her arms and hear her soothing voice calming her. To smell her cologne and know her worries were put at ease with an easy kiss to the forehead and a tuck of her hair behind her pierced ear.

Not like Anita hadn’t noticed Wraith doing well- attentive as she was. Wraith just kept saying she had it, that she was fine. Her poor defense mechanism kicking in and pushing away even the woman she loved.

It’s hard enough for her to even sit up and grab the phone, once again hesitating before forcing herself to just send a simple ‘Hey’ text to her. Telling herself that if Anita said she was busy or even if she wasn’t going to respond because she was already asleep- that Wraith would drop it immediately. That she’d find something else-

Ting, ting!

Her phone lights up, casting a blue glow in the dim room and making Wraith’s heart pound at the quick reply. She feels like a teenager as her fingers wrap around her phone and flipping it to look at the text. Her heart does a flutter, feeling relief already in her body and tears pricking her eyes when she sees the text given back to her.

‘hey boo whats goin on?’

A small, tired but fond laugh crosses Wraith’s lips. Rubbing at her eyes to steady herself and feeling a bit ridiculous for having worked herself up to the brink. But exhaustion still wears out her bones. Wraith sinks down onto the ground, pressing her back to her bed and sitting cross legged as she begins typing.

She erases what she’s writing a few times, starting to become frustrated. Nothing sounds right- or it sounds too needy. Too whiny. Too wanting. But she finally settles on one.

Honesty.

‘I just miss you.’

That’s what she types at first, letting it sink in before swallowing her pride once more and beginning to type again.

‘And I...’

A moment of hesitation to continue when she hits enter the first time.

‘I feel like shit. Been having a rough week. Was wondering if you could come over tonight so I could get a few hours of sleep?’

When she hits send again, she debates deleting it. But when the read icon pops up in two seconds flat, she knows she’s got Anita’s full attention.

Something about that makes her feel terribly wanted .

‘of course pumpkin’

Wraith hates that it makes her smile, tired and soft. Pressing her hand to her cheek and feeling a bit ridiculous just how a confirmation and a nickname could make her heart flutter.

‘be over in twenty’

Wraith clicks her phone screen closed. Moving to stand to go take a shower so she at the very least looked half presentable for Anita. Even if her body screams at her to just lie down already.

Ting ting!

Another text? Wraith would have assumed Anita was going to finish her nightly work out and then head over. She flips the device in her palm, opening up their conversation.

‘and don’t even think about showering yet. I’ll take care of you tonight.’

‘bath? I’ll bring the snacks’

Wraith’s eyes linger on those words with an air of feeling like she was going to melt into a puddle. ‘I’ll take care of you tonight’ Anita said. And she could hear it in her voice too. Low in Wraith’s ear, her full lips caressing the shell of her ear and her voice dropping to a husk with a squeeze to her waist. Where Anita’s hands liked to linger, moving towards her softer abdomen that she oh so loved on her.

‘I’d love that. Sorry if my hair is a mess :/'

Wraith finds herself texting back in a more playful manner. Emoticons weren’t normally her thing. But, after texting between Elliott and Natalie who were both plentiful in emojis, Wraith finds herself trying to express her words better by adding some sort of emotion to them. Not so clinical.

‘you look sexy when your hairs a mess’

And once again Wraith hates that it’s the small things that make her pale cheeks flush red. Huffing an amused noise under her breath and knowing Anita is probably laughing in return as Wraith shuts off her phone.

Her room is a bit of a mess. She hadn’t had the energy to really take care of it much. So, she works on picking up dirty clothing and putting it into the hamper. Finding water bottles to toss out and taking glasses left around her quarters to go wash later.

It wasn’t horrible, no, just some things where she just felt like she couldn’t do it. Where if she touched one more thing, she would have exploded.

It looks presentable in a few minutes. Tasks put off that could have been easily done in two minutes that instead took a week to complete. It would have frustrated Wraith on any other day, but today she feels accomplished for even getting that much done. The small wins, as Anita would have put it.

It makes Wraith feel proud for even rolling out of bed today.

She also changes into some clean clothes. Nothing fancy, just simple. A spaghetti strap black camisole that her chest near spilled out of- a favorite sleeping shirt and a favorite of Anita’s to see. And some gray sweatpants that were most definitely stolen from Anita with how Wraith has to roll up the bottoms of them to not trip over them. Her hair is tied into a messy ponytail, some black waves curling around her cheeks and making her blow them out of the way with a gust of air.

She figured she looked presentable enough. Anita tended to like when Wraith was dressed casually, even when Wraith knew how her eyes wandered whenever she dressed up.

A reminder of their trip just a few months ago for their anniversary crosses through her mind. A small smile playing on her lips when she remembers how Anita couldn’t take her eyes off her in her tight dress.

The time they spent in Psamathe would always be treasured. Every moment. And every photo tucked away for safe keeping for Wraith’s eyes only. The ones that were more...appropriate had another spot. Namely in her bedroom, on her desk with a photo of the both of them. With Anita’s arm around Wraith’s waist and leaning her cheek atop her head while Wraith smiled with her eyes closed.

It was one of her favorites.

She’s outside.

Wraith makes her way to the living room just as she hears the telltale ‘beep beep’ of the door being unlocked. Able to see the sliding door open to show Anita. Dressed in her casual clothes with her workout bag and a plastic bag slung over her shoulder. Her curls are a bit wet looking, clearly fresh from a shower. A tight white crew neck t-shirt clings to her frame, tucked into camouflage cargo pants and a black leather jacket with silver studs on the shoulders.

Wraith feels her clit throb. Feeling a bit too wound up already.

Before Anita can even get a word out, Wraith pounces her. The door sliding shut behind her and bracing Anita’s back to prevent her from falling. Wraith hears a vague ‘woah’ from her and the thump of the two bags over her shoulder hitting the ground.

Wraith can’t help herself as her strong legs slide around Anita’s hips to secure herself. Feeling calloused palms grab her ass to hold her up and in place just as Wraith’s hands move. One grabbing the nape of Anita’s neck, the other cupping her cheek and dragging her into a hot and heavy kiss.

Wraith feels all her worries melt away the second their lips make contact. Tasting Anita’s grape lip balm, the taste of mint on her tongue, inhaling the smoky scent off her clothes and the deep scent of leather. The subtleness of the musk and citrus of her cologne.

She moans freely into her mouth, delighted when Anita hums back, her hands gripping Wraith’s plump ass tight and appreciative.

Anita is the first to break the kiss, but that doesn’t even make Wraith pause. Kissing down her jawline, down her neck where her teeth start to nip the sensitive flesh right above the silver chains on her dog tags.

“Fuck-” Anita hisses through her teeth, only spurring Wraith on to seal her lips on a spot on her neck and beginning to suck. Stopping herself from smiling when she hears Anita's breath hitch.

There's a tighter grip on her ass as Anita walks them back into Wraith’s bedroom. Wraith’s back turned towards her bed and-

Move.

When Anita goes to throw her onto the bed, Wraith moves fast to let herself hit the bed. Rolling out from under her just as Anita goes to pounce and promptly hooking her legs around Anita’s waist. Rolling them over so Wraith comes out on top on her lap, delighting in how Anita blinks a few times to get her bearings before her eyes settle on Wraith victoriously atop her.

“You little -” Anita starts, but is promptly cut off by how hungry Wraith’s lips press to hers.

Wraith can taste the frustration melting from Anita, feeling how her hands go from pressing at Wraith’s sides to shove her off potentially. To now moving slowly down the curves of her sides, sliding over her plump ass and encouraging Wraith’s little humping movements against her.

Their lips part occasionally to mingle their breath. Both their half lidded gazes meeting and Anita’s full lips tugging into a small smile when Wraith sighs at the sight of her. But that’s cut off when Wraith leans in again, meeting her tongue first in a kiss that draws a low, deep moan from Anita’s lips.

Anita’s hands are all over her as Wraith’s hips slowly grind into her. Anita’s hands slide up along her sides, up into her hair to tug it free from its ponytail. Silky black locks fall free, and Anita parts from the kiss just as Wraith sits up a little. Her calloused fingers sliding up and over Wraith’s collarbones, up her neck and just holding loosely for a brief moment around her throat.

Wraith’s heart flutters, her lashes fluttering just the same and arching her back. A low moan leaving her lips when Anita croons low and raspy in her throat, “Love when you look a mess for me.”

Wraith shudders under the attention, worries already starting to get put on the back shelf for Future Wraith to deal with. Content to lean back in for another kiss, taking her time licking into Anita’s mouth. Her hands starting to slide under Anita’s shirt, nails scratching along the way across taut muscle-

Watch it.

Wraith doesn’t have time to question it. Not when she’s so intoxicated by Anita’s taste and scent. Fingers wrap in her hair at the root, pulling and forcing Wraith’s back to arch and forcing her to sit up. She moans for the pain of it, her hips rolling helplessly into Anita’s lap with a hiss and a flutter of her lashes.

A low, breathless chuckle falls from Anita’s lips, and Wraith knows the sight of her is making her just as much of a mess as Wraith is. “Woah, Kitty. Relax. I missed you too, but let's focus on you for now, yeah?”

“I like my way better.” Wraith speaks, a smirk in her voice that is quickly extinguished when her hair is held tighter and forcing her to bare her throat. Keeping her in place like a scruffed kitten as Anita sits up to kiss the expanse of her neck down to the strap of her tanktop on her shoulder.

“Betcha do. Always been good at distracting yourself from your feelings, hm? Let’s get you cleaned up, princess.”

Pent up but willing to follow, Wraith only groans low in her throat. Letting Anita slip out from under her and peeking up at her when Anita looks down at her. Wordlessly, Wraith lifts her arms up like a pouting child, enjoying the way Anita’s eyes roll despite her soft smile and she lifts her up. Allowing Wraith to hook her legs around her and arms around her neck to be carried into her bathroom without much of a fight.

The bathrooms for their quarters were nice. Some had walk in showers, some had clawfoot tubs. In Wraith’s case, she’d gotten a tub. At first that had been a struggle, but if she wanted a shower she could just go to Anita’s or the gym’s locker rooms. Especially on nights where no one else was awake.

Small risks were had on those nights. With a hand over Anita’s mouth and the other sinking fingers into her and making the soldier beg.

Anita sets Wraith atop the sink so she can begin drawing the bath. Going under her sink and finding the self-care items that Anita and Natalie had equally purchased for her.

Bottles full of expensive hair care items that Anita had gotten for her, siting her expertise on hair care. Things like bubbles and soaps purchased by Natalie, who for some reason knew what scents were too much for Wraith and managed to avoid them miraculously.

“Let’s get you undressed, baby.” Anita’s voice gets Wraith out of her trance. Feeling the weight settling back on her of the last two weeks. Suddenly tired, worn out. Too tired to take off her own clothes and grateful when she feels Anita gently working her out of them. Her warm touch sliding over her bare flesh and it makes Wraith sigh softly, her shoulders slumping.

When she finally can refocus on the world, it’s when Anita is gently leading her to the tub. Letting Wraith sink into the warm water, the scent of lavender and vanilla quiet in the room. Anita only leaves briefly to return with a few candles, setting them around and turning off the lights to leave a quiet, low glow.

Wraith watches her quietly. Watching as Anita begins to strip and sighing to herself at the sight of her working out of her clothes. Her eyes sliding over the muscle freshly wound up from Anita’s work out, the scars on her body telling stories not even Wraith knew all the answers to.

She was picture perfect- even if Anita didn’t think so some days. No one would think the headstrong soldier could have her shy moments, but Wraith knew the truth. When the clothes came off and her dark eyes looked at Wraith as if waiting for her to comment something other than how handsome she thought she was.

When Anita comes close, Wraith makes room for Anita to slide in behind her. Sliding her legs on either side of Wraith and sloshing the water a bit. Wraith leans back into her when Anita’s arms slide around her slowly, encouraging her to lean back until Anita can rest her chin atop her head.

They sit in silence, and Wraith knows that Anita is waiting on her to open up. To work through her feelings and talk about it.

It’d always been...difficult. Where the words wanted to come out, but Wraith’s throat closed. Where her frustrations became something more than just something as simple as a shitty week of back-to-back frustrations.

Where her memories cannot separate past from present.

“I don’t know where to start.” Wraith murmurs finally, feeling Anita’s fingers tracing circles into the softness of her abdomen and soothing her immediately. She tips her head back against Anita, closing her eyes when lips press to her forehead gently.

“Don’t have to say a word ’till you’re ready, Shorty.” Anita murmurs in return, making Wraith at least crack a small smile at the familiar pet name.

“And if I’m never ready?”

Wraith can physically feel the smile Anita pulls on her forehead, another press of a kiss there before she grabs Wraith’s chin. She tips it all the way back, straining Wraith’s neck so she has to look up at her. “I have a good way of making stubborn kittens like you talk.”

Wraith’s face flushes, her heart pounding in her ears and pulling herself from Anita’s hold of her chin to face forward. Anita’s body rumbles behind her with laughter, her nose nuzzling at the top of Wraith’s head and her arms squeezing her back to her strong chest.

It’s...easy. The thoughts come easy when it’s Anita. Where the words once clog her throat and anxiety eats at her lungs- she can finally find the words.

And Wraith spills. Talking of her hard week, feeling a weight lifted the second she mentions just how tired and exhausted she is. That she’s tired of being leader, that she just wants to get taken care of and for things to go right. How all her plans have been falling through.

All while Anita is attentive to her. Humming and going ‘Mhm’ or nodding her head in understanding. Starting to work on washing Wraith’s hair for her, massaging into her scalp and briefly making Wraith’s woes disintegrate with each loving swirl of her fingers and scratch of her nails. The soft scent of lavender and figs filling the room as Anita tips Wraith’s head back to pour water through her hair and pecking a kiss on her forehead.

Familiar movements come with the conditioner. Where Anita twirls her hair through each strand as if to encourage her natural wavy pattern. Anita was the type to be very particular about her hair, teaching Wraith the care behind it when she expressed interest in doing her hair for her.

As Wraith’s words start to dwindle down and tears stop pricking her eyes, Anita starts to wash her body so lovingly. A washcloth with vanilla scented soap working all across her body. Her head being practically cradled back into Anita and Wraith’s back arching so she can let her wash her thoroughly. Arching back into her and sighing when Anita moves the washcloth down her body, down over her abdomen. As if pushing all worries down, down, down, into the water below to be later swirled down the drain.

Wraith can’t really help herself when her breath hitches as bare fingers skim down over her happy trail, down over her mound and then back up. It’s a purposeful tease, one that makes her sigh shakily when she hears Anita’s fond hum behind her in her ear. A small nip to her pierced ear and Anita’s deep tone crooning, “Be patient. Thought you said bath time was a sacred place?”

“Starting to regret past me.” Wraith huffs, her head straining back in an arch against Anita’s shoulder when her hand starts to come up. Squeezing one of Wraith’s full breasts and skimming over a pierced nipple in a way that catches her breath. It only quickens when Anita’s hand comes up, loosely wrapping around her exposed throat and a low moan leaving Anita’s lips in a way that makes Wraith’s clit throb .

“Don’t look so temptin'. Might eat you alive.”

She could make us forget.

She better watch her mouth before we shut it for h-

Imagine her tongue-

Her hands-

What she could do to us-

Watch it.

Wraith’s eyes open just in time to see a bubbly hand come up and a finger to gently tap to her nose. Bubbles linger, popping and tickling and making her nose scrunch.

Laughter falls from Anita, only to spike up when Wraith squirms from her, grabbing a handful of bubbles to shove into her face. The water sloshes with Anita’s jerk and the sharp gasp from her that’s intended to sound more dramatic and offended than she is. But when she wipes the bubbles aside to look at Wraith’s smug expression, she narrows her own dark eyes. “Oh, it is war.”

Laughter ensues when Anita lunges forward with a new handful of bubbles. The water sloshing around them and onto the ground as they both try to smash bubbles into each other.

There's giggling, yells of ‘no fair’ and ‘brat’ being exchanged until finally Wraith goes to splash her and ends up with both her wrists being snatched and held to Anita’s chest to keep her still.

They’re both panting. Anita’s curls have bubbles popping in them, her skin wet and glistening with the soapy water. Bubbly water swirls down the drain beneath the tub built into the tiles, the floor wet and an even more dangerous battlefield.

“Truce?” Wraith speaks, looking at how Anita’s eyes narrow with her smile. It’s one that tells her she’s debating throwing another metaphorical punch in.

“Truce.” Anita finally decides, jerking Wraith’s trapped wrists forward so she can press a kiss to her nose.

They finally make it out of the bath, but when Wraith goes for her clothes- she's quickly shooed away from them and told to just go lie on the bed after she dries off.

“Whatever you say, Boss.” Wraith teasingly quips back, quickly getting her ass pinched and making her yelp with laughter as she heads for the bed. Feeling a bit less exhausted then when they had started.

Lying on the bed dutifully in the dark, Wraith lies on her stomach with her arms crossed under her head and a pillow tucked under her chest and stomach for comfort. It feels a bit exposing to be lying there naked, the sheets feeling cool against her warm flesh. But, Wraith finds comfort in closing her eyes and easing her body’s tension. Knowing Anita wouldn’t do anything to harm her or surprise her.

When Anita does enter the bedroom again, Wraith can hear the soft swish of clothing on her body. Only mildly disappointing, Wraith’s almost tempted to crack an eye open and grumble for her to get undressed again.

But words die in her throat when the bed shifts with Anita’s weight, her strong legs straddling Wraith’s thighs and the pop of a cap heard.

The scent of some sort of oil fills Wraith’s senses first, hearing Anita rubbing her hands together before they start sliding the oil across Wraith’s shoulders and back. Working the taut muscles there first and making a sigh leave her lips as talented fingers slide up the back of her neck and then back down along her spine.

Anita is god sent with her motions. Even more so when she leans down towards Wraith’s ear, murmuring with her chest pressed to her back and making Wraith feel each rumble of her low voice. “There you go, kitten. Nice and easy, yeah? Relax for me.”

Wraith hums low in her throat in reply, a sigh following when Anita sits back up and her fingers work down her back and over her sides. Feeling her shift down her body to work more across Wraith’s body and all her taut muscles. Kisses press down her spine, down towards her lower back and kissing each dimple there before the weight shifts again.

Hands slide over her ass and Wraith tenses up but soon eases. A low moan leaving her when the massaging touches get rougher. Soon pressing to her thighs and pressing them apart until Anita can move her body between them this time.

If it were anyone else, Wraith would feel exposed. Too exposed for comfort. But...with Anita? She’s never been more willing to rip herself apart, expose all her bad- all her good that came with it. To bust her ribcage open and hold her beating pulse if it meant seeing Anita’s soft, sweet smile that was always crooked and how her dark brown eyes looked at Wraith like she was the most beautiful thing on this planet.

Wraith’s breath catches, her fingers curling into the sheets when teeth nip at her hip. Soft, pale skin easy to bruise there and making her sigh again when a tongue dips out to taste the bite.

“Bleh -” Anita huffs, clearly getting a mouthful of oil as she sits up and the moment breaks momentarily. It makes Wraith laugh, shifting to peek over her shoulder to see the way her girlfriend’s nose scrunches and she’s wiping her mouth off on the bottom of her tanktop. Lifting the fabric towards her mouth and showing off her abs in a way that Wraith can’t help but admire.

“Not your smartest move, baby.” Wraith quips, seeing how Anita’s eyes shift up to her face and narrow in reply.

“Hey, don’t condescend me.” Anita huffs back at her, reaching and smacking Wraith’s ass just hard enough to make Wraith jump with a flutter of her lashes. “I’m trynna make you feel good. I don’t need you acting like a brat.”

“Mhh. My apologies, Ma’am. Won’t happen again. I’ll be good.” Wraith smiles through her words, knowing they sound a bit too sarcastic for Anita’s liking with the look she gets.

Her laughter is smothered in her arms when Anita swats her ass again in a quiet way of telling her to shut up.

When the tension dies down again, Anita gets back to work of her massage. Working on Wraith’s lower back and easing her once more, working back down to her ass where her hands slide over the plump frame of it. Nails catch Wraith, scratching down the backs of her thighs and making a whine catch in her throat. Another kiss is pressed on her lower back, and that’s all the warning she gets when hands grab her ass and spread her apart.

Wraith’s face flushes bright red, burying herself deeper into her arms at how exposed she feels. She knows she’s wet too, feeling the warmth seeping there and shuddering when Anita adjusts her grip to make sure she can spread her pussy apart too with the action.

Wraith can’t help but tip her hips upwards, arching her back and shuddering when Anita moans low in her throat with a, “Good girl.” It sends Wraith into a spiral as her hips jerk into the air without even being touched.

It was rare Wraith wasn’t in control. She liked having it over Anita- who she believed needed a break from being in control all the time. And just...Wraith struggled with feeling submissive. But in times like this, it didn’t feel so much as submission as it felt like they were equals. Where Anita’s touches were experimental and quiet, always room for Wraith to disagree or politely tell her otherwise.

It also helps that Anita’s talented hands just made her into putty. Relaxed for the first time in weeks. Her mind thankfully empty except for the thoughts running rampant about being touched.

Still exposed, Wraith can feel how her cunt drools with slick. She can hear how Anita moans low, her breath close to her skin before her tongue slides up. Licking Wraith from her clit, all the way up her cunt, up further to lick across her ass and along her hole.

Wraith feels dizzy from how turned on she is. Whimpers falling from her throat unwillingly when Anita’s tongue focuses on her ass. Swiping over her hole, licking and pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses. The pleasure isn’t new, Wraith has been touched like this before, but it doesn’t change how electrifying it feels.

“God, ‘Nita-” Wraith breathes out, her lashes fluttering when she lifts her head to breathe. Tipping her head back and moaning outwardly when she hears Anita hum against her, her tongue pressing into her experimentally.

Anita’s rough fingers slide up Wraith’s thigh, slipping briefly along her pussy and collecting the wetness seeping there before her mouth leaves her. Fingers toying now with her ass, brushing wet knuckles across until Wraith feels like she’s going to snap from how tight she’s wound.

“’Nita- ” Wraith whines this time, her name like a prayer on her tongue as one finger sinks into her ass. Anita’s mouth doesn’t stop though, moving to kiss across her ass instead and sinking her teeth into a soft cheek. Undoubtedly getting more oil in her mouth, but being more subtle about the mistake by dragging her tongue across Wraith’s hip.

Wraith is practically humping the bed to brush her clit across the sheets. A second finger is introduced to her hole, and her entire body trembles.

“That’s a good girl. Gotcha purrin’ like a little kitty, hm?” Anita’s voice is rough, sending tremors through Wraith’s body and a mewl following to make her point even more clear. Anita’s fingers pump inside of her, fucking her at a nice pace and sending another jolt through Wraith’s body with a cry. “What a good kitten you are.”

It’s an experimental phrase. Not that Anita hasn’t teasingly referred to her as a cat before. But in bed? This was new. A new word that only proves to make Wraith clutch at the sheets, mewling and twisting her body as her lower half fills with fire of desire.

“A-Anita-” Wraith gets out, her breath stuttering and ragged. A third finger is introduced, and she buries her face into the pillow beneath her to muffle her raw cry. Tears fill her eyes at the pleasure, caught between trying to fuck herself back onto Anita’s skilled fingers, or hump downwards against the bed.

“Use your words, baby.” Anita’s voice is like silk, her fingers rocking slow and hard into Wraith. Dragging them slowly back and pressing back inside, curling downwards into her and making Wraith feel oh so full.

“Hhh-” Is all Wraith can get out at first, definitely drooling on herself by now as her eyes go unfocused. But she manages at the very least. “Fuck me- just fuck me already, ‘Nita, G-God you’re so good- ah!”

Hard to talk when your girlfriend can’t get enough of you, it seems. Because Anita only hums at first, still fucking her fingers into Wraith without a sign of stopping. Her tongue returning to lick around her fingers.

But finally, blissfully, she departs. A small pat to Wraith’s ass and a murmur to wait there and get on all fours being said.

Sluggishly, Wraith picks herself back up on shaky arms. Moving so she can sit herself up on all fours, hugging a pillow to her chest and arching her back to put her ass nice and high in the air with spread legs. Even going so far as to slowly sway her hips, living up to that cat persona Anita is so fond of calling her.

She’s watching.

Wraith can hear fabrics shifting and the loud zzpppt sound of a harness being tugged tight around Anita’s body. She only knows she’s looking because she can hear the mutter of a swear under her breath. It makes Wraith smile to herself, knowing she had such an effect on her.

The bed creaks and shifts with Anita's weight. She settles behind Wraith, a hand coming underneath her to brush her whole palm against her cunt until Wraith presses down into it in a hump.

A chuckle is heard behind her before two fingers brush past her enlarged clit, sneaking down until they can slip into her cunt and curling forward. Wraith doesn’t hide her cry, or her eagerness when she shoves her hips back into Anita’s fingers with a moan.

Wraith knows Anita won’t finger her long- not out of not caring, no. But because Wraith liked the pain of the stretch. It was something Anita had worried about at first the first few times she was allowed to top. Always asking if Wraith was okay, if she was hurt. But nowadays, Anita knew that the rougher she was, the wetter Wraith got.

“Mmh, hey, Rey?” Anita’s voice is gentle despite her fingers curling into Wraith. It’s hard to hear her at first, but Wraith catches it, humming in her throat quizzically. “Remember when we had our anniversary?”

It’s not a question. It’s a set up to something bigger. But it’s hard to really be suspicious when your girlfriend is curling her fingers inside of you juuuuust right and her dumb, stupid, gorgeous smoky voice is doing a number on you already.

So, you can’t really blame Wraith when she practically whimpers out a, “Y-yeah-” without any hint she’s actually listening or curious to what else Anita has to say.

Thankfully, Anita doesn’t seem to press. Just humming in reply. “Yeah. Was nice.” In a manner that would normally make Wraith suspicious at first, if she wasn’t feeling Anita’s fingers leaving and hearing the shuffle behind her as she comes closer.

Questions for later.

Now Wraith can feel the dildo behind her. Anita’s chosen cock of the night was one she was familiar with by now. She can see it in her mind clear as day. A dark, obsidian base to a dragon-like imagery. Thick and girthy, with ribs and bubbles that stimulated harshly. It wasn’t very long, just about maybe six inches, but it was incredibly thick. Fading to a deep shade of red at the tapered head with gold flecks hinting into the silicone.

Wraith sighs, practically melting so her front rests on the bed and her ass sticks high in the air, thighs splayed wide and ready. She can’t help but move her hips back across Anita’s cock, slipping her cunt across it and letting her breath catch.

Anita’s laugh behind her is soft and low, her hands grabbing Wraith’s plump ass and holding her nice and steady. “Nice an’ easy, kitty cat. Look like you’re about to purr. That happy to get fucked?”

Wraith won’t entertain her with a retort. But she does entertain her with a huff, tipping her head so she can look behind her shoulder out of the corner of her eye. Catching Anita’s look, how her head tilts and her curls remain immaculate, her lopsided smile and the glow of the lamp behind her makes her look heavenly.

Sunshine incarnate.

And Wraith, the moon, helplessly attracted to her and aching to be within her orbit.

She’s beautiful.

She wants us.

Look at how hungry she is.

We could have her-

If she just let us-

-uld take her, wipe that grin right off her mouth.

For a brief moment, Anita’s face crosses with worry. Undoubtedly from the milky white of Wraith’s eyes. But with a small smile sent her way to quietly tell her it’s alright, her worry vanishes back to that cocky look and a squeeze of Wraith’s ass.

“My Ladies distracting you?” Anita says with that same cocky look, that same lopsided grin and gentleness in her dark eyes that makes Wraith’s heart race from more than just arousal now.

Yes.

“No.”

Wraith’s quick reply is met with a laugh. And Wraith hides her smile and playful lie by turning her head back into her arms.

It doesn’t take long to get back into it. Where Anita lines herself up and gently presses the head in. She’s always so careful at first, always so gentle with her grip on Wraith’s hips. It could be sickening sometimes how gentle this soldier could treat her sometimes. Like glass.

Like Wraith was something precious to her.

Wraith groans, shoving her hips back and moaning when she feels the sharp bite of pain from taking the entire cock in at once. She’s greeted with the hiss from Anita, a sharp slap to her ass and a harsh grip that only serves to make Wraith groan.

“Hey- you’re not in charge here.” Anita grunts, her voice low and blunt nails digging into the soft flesh of Wraith’s ass. Wraith can’t even pretend she’s sorry, not with her moan and how she rolls her hips back into Anita’s for her to just get on with it. “Keep acting bratty and maybe I’ll just have to tie you up.”

Now THAT gets Wraith’s attention. A weak mewl leaving her at the idea of Anita having to hold her down by the back of her throat, another on the rope binding her wrists behind her back, just using her however she pleased. Taking what she wanted.

Now that was a thought.

“Promises, promises.” Wraith manages to choke out through another moan when Anita pulls her hips back nice and slow. Feeling each bump, each rib stimulating inside of her. Apparently, her retort isn’t desired when she feels a slap hit her ass, making Wraith’s body jerk, only to be yanked back roughly by her hips onto Anita’s cock.

It’s a repetitive motion, one that Wraith tries to keep up with. Trying to fuck herself back onto Anita’s cock or trying to even push herself up onto her forearms to get a better angle. But Anita lets her have none of that, a hand twisting in Wraith’s hair and pressing her cheek back down to the bed, her other hand gripping her hip and holding her still to fuck into her.

Wraith is a mess under her, clawing at the sheets and trembling under her. Anita’s voice caresses her ear, thick and low and murmuring, “Yeah? You like being treated like this, baby? Like being mine?” And Wraith is so helpless, unable to argue or come up with snarky in time. Only able to whimper in turn.

When Anita sits up behind her, Wraith can hear the wet sound of maybe fingers in her own mouth before two fingers brush by her ass again. It’s all the warning she gets before they plunge into her, curling and pressing downwards to make Wraith feel fuller and fuller from both holes.

It’s so overstimulating. It’s so much- she's so close-

And then Anita stops.

And Wraith practically screams in frustration, trying to twist herself but still held down by the hand in her hair and only able to exhale sharply in irritation. Trying to fuck herself back onto Anita’s hips and fingers, but unable to with how she’s scooted forward to press flush into Wraith.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” Anita’s voice is teasing, dripping with faux sympathy. Her fingers aren’t stilling either, pumping into Wraith and making her feel her own slick drool down to the bed undoubtedly in strings. “Ya wanna cum?”

“Yes- ” Wraith practically hisses, her nails digging into the sheets and feeling just a second closer to ripping open a rift just so she could get the upper hand.

“Then be a good kitty for me and make some noise. Meow for me.”

Wraith’s face turns three shades of red, her heart still pounding in her chest from being on the precipice of cumming. There's a feeling almost like humiliation in her and yet she...

She kind of liked it.

“Make me.” Wraith finds herself saying, almost immediately regretting it from the way Anita’s fingers still and pull out of her. The feeling of her strong hands holding her hips and sliding them up and over her waist.

“Suit yourself.”

It’s with that that Anita pulls out, and at first Wraith goes to maybe turn herself over, but a hand on her lower back keeps her in place now. Feeling how the head of Anita’s cock slips further up, brushing across her ass and making Wraith’s breath catch. There’s no warning when Anita grabs her hips, sinking her blunt nails in and the head popping into Wraith.

It almost hurts. Almost. But there’s something about that bite that makes Wraith’s eyes roll into the back of her head with each inch fed into her until Anita’s hips press flush to her ass.

Oh, what Wraith wouldn’t give just to see what Anita looked like right now.

Wraith is a mess, squirming and on the same hand trying so hard to hold still. Especially when one of Anita’s hands slides off her hip, reaching under her to capture her clit between her index finger and middle finger’s knuckles to jerk her engorged clit casually.

Anita knew just how to work her. Just how to drive Wraith to the brink and bring her back down. Until Wraith was squirming back on her cock, choking on a sob over how full she feels and how Anita’s hand slaps lightly across her cunt and makes Wraith’s body jump. Pushing her back further onto Anita’s cock and making a moan choke from her again.

Anita was going to kill her. And what a beautiful death it would be.

“You know what I want.” Anita gruffly murmurs by Wraith’s ear. “Gonna make me force it out of you? I can do this all day, baby.”

That finally seems to do it. A mewl parting from Wraith’s lips, followed by Anita’s murmur of ‘Good girl’ that only makes Wraith do it again for good measure. A shatter of Wraith’s need for control.

Anita’s fingers hook around her hips again, pounding her hips into Wraith’s ass and fucking her harder now. Each loud slap of skin on skin bringing Wraith closer until she’s stuttering on her next pronounced mewl as she’s cumming. Cumming harder than she think she’s ever done in her life with harsh tremors of her body and sobs of Anita’s name.

That doesn’t even stop Anita, only making her a bit rougher as she reaches under Wraith to grab at her breasts, thumbing at her pierced nipples. Sob after sob leaves Wraith, squirming as her clit throbs and squirt dribbles down her inner thighs from the intensity of her orgasm. Her eyes roll into the back of her head, helpless but to take whatever Anita gives her.

And take she does.

It’s when Anita slows her hips down does Wraith finally begin to catch her breath. She’s drooling for sure on her arms, blinking blearily and making a soft noise in her throat of curiosity at why the pace has slowed.

“Said you remembered our anniversary, right?” Anita asks in that way that really means it’s not a question, so Wraith doesn’t respond. Not until her hair is pulled and forces her head up with a cry, bowing her back beautifully for Anita. It’s then that she gets why Anita is asking.

In front of her, on the pillow, is a laptop. One that Wraith didn’t even realize was put there. And on the screen is that video she’d taken. Seeing herself crawl up onto the bed to work Anita into a strap on, her own voice in the video ringing out, “Wasn’t really asking you, Princess.”

Wraith’s breath catches in real time, the fingers twisted in her hair keeping her nice and still as Anita’s hips start to pound into her. “Keep watching.” Anita murmurs, lips brushing by her ear and sending a shiver through Wraith’s frame.

She’s made to watch as she guides Anita’s head in the video to her cunt, how she’s covered in Wraith’s lipstick from the night, how she slips her panties past her lips, how Anita looks so adoringly at her.

Like she is now.

Lips press to the side of Wraith’s neck, just under her ear and kissing down her neck, down her shoulder. Each thrust sends her body bouncing, jerked right back onto Anita’s cock and hearing just how Anita moans nice and low. The harness must be pressing right against her clit, sending dull vibrations through.

Wraith’s mouth waters at the idea of being able to lick her raw.

Anita’s low groan and her hips stuttering capture Wraith’s attention. Feeling her hair released so her hips can be grabbed, her wide hips being held still so Anita can fuck herself into her, humping her ass and once more making Wraith’s eyes roll back. The sounds of her girlfriend cumming making her match as she begins to cum with a cry, equally matched by how Anita slaps her ass and grips the plump cheek with a groan.

As they both come down from their highs, Wraith can’t support her own weight anymore. Not when Anita slips from her and releases her, making Wraith practically melt onto the bed in a splat. Legs apart, one lightly pulled up, her body shaking and trembling and lying in her own little wet spot with lubricant leaking out of her ass.

Surprise.

Click!

“Anita!”

The click of a camera following flash and one of the Ladies speaking makes Wraith groan in embarrassment. Hearing Anita chuckle and lightly patting her ass lovingly. “What? Thought you’d like a reminder for later, baby.”

“Mnnnhph-” Wraith groans in turn, reaching back to swat blindly at Anita who laughs as she slips off the bed.

From there, Wraith is gently pulled into Anita’s lap- who has set her harness to the side and slid her shorts back on. Gently, Wraith is cradled in her lap, a hand on the back of her head and pressing her face into Anita’s neck where she inhales her scent and the hint of sweat. Anita’s other hand rubs Wraith’s thigh softly, soothingly, giving her a fond and comforting squeeze to her frame.

A kiss presses to Wraith’s ear, and just the gentle move makes her blush, squeezing her arms around Anita tighter and making a positive noise.

“How do you feel?” Anita murmurs, pressing a firm kiss to Wraith’s shoulder adoringly.

“Better.” Wraith confirms in a small voice, her throat aching and her mouth dry. “Little thirsty.”

“Mmh, I’ll bet.”

“Anita.”

Anita laughs at the stern, scolding tone. She murmurs an ‘Alright, alright’ as she gently shifts Wraith off her lap and onto the bed- out of the wet spot on the bed. She’s only gone for a moment before a cold water bottle is given to her, following a sugary pack of gummy prowlers that makes Wraith break out into a beam.

Easy to please, she’s well aware. But she’s also aware of the way Anita looks at her oh so fondly with a little half smile as Wraith snatches the candy delightedly.

Once more Anita leaves after double checking Wraith didn’t need anything more physically. When she returns, it’s with an armful of fresh sheets, but at first Wraith doesn’t pay any mind to her being there.

She’s watching us.

Peeking up and through her lashes, Wraith tries to hold back a blush at seeing Anita with an armful of new sheets and blankets. The little smile back on her face and the lightest flex of her biceps in her tanktop making Wraith feel how she did the first time she’d ever seen Anita look at her like that.

Thankfully the silent staring is broken when Anita walks in and shoos Wraith from the bed to take the soiled sheets and change them. From there, she goes and gets a wet washcloth to help clean off Wraith without the need for another bath, also getting her a new pair of panties and one of her big hoodies she took comfort in.

Anita gestures for Wraith’s arms to go up as she holds the hoodie and Wraith obeys. Only for Anita to pull it down over her head, stopping when she’s at her shoulders while Wraith is blind so she can push her back onto the clean bed. Sending Wraith gasping, only to fall into a giggling fit when Anita’s hands grab her hips to hold her in place. Anita presses kisses up her tummy, pressing a raspberry there while Wraith is helpless and squirming, still caught in the hoodie.

The torture ends soon when Anita tugs the bottom of the hoodie down to rescue Wraith. Wraith can feel her cheeks flushing as she looks up at Anita, seeing her half-lidded eyes and her fond half smirk down at her. She’s straddling Wraith now, arms on either side of her head and looking all the more charming per minute.

Wraith can’t stop her racing heartbeat when Anita leans in, fondly pressing their foreheads together.

“Hey.” Anita softly murmurs.

“Hey.” Wraith murmurs back just as soft, closing her eyes and turning her head to rub their noses softly together.

They move back into the bed together. With Wraith tucked into Anita’s arms, her ass pressing back against her and her cold fingers holding onto Anita’s arms around her body. Anita’s chin tucks against the top of Wraith’s head, occasionally moving to press a kiss.

“How are you feeling, by the way?” Anita starts, resting her cheek against the top of Wraith’s head. When Wraith hums back quizzically, Anita clarifies. “You were upset earlier. Ya know just makin’ sure my baby’s okay. I mean, I know you’re satisfied physically-”

That earns her a laugh from Wraith and an elbow in the ribs, sending Anita laughing in turn. It’s good she’s got her back to Anita, or she’d see just how much her absentminded ‘my baby’ affected Wraith.

“I’m better,” Wraith murmurs, pulling Anita’s hand up to her face to kiss her palm tenderly. “Thanks...for coming over, I mean. And just...being with me. I should have told you earlier but I-I was...”

Wraith trails off, pulling Anita’s hand to cup her cheek and sighing when Anita’s thumb caresses her cheekbone. A quiet and patient understanding as she waits for Wraith to continue.

“I don’t know- I was stubborn, I guess.” Wraith finishes after a moment. Rolling over to look at Anita and letting her arms drape over her waist. At first not meeting Anita’s gaze, not until fingers gingerly grab her chin, guiding her gaze up to Anita.

“Hey, I get it. It’s hard asking for help. But you know I’m here for you, okay?” Anita’s voice is gentle, a low rumble and making Wraith’s heart burst into a frenzy again. Especially when Anita leans in, pressing a warm, soft kiss to her forehead. “I love you. For better or for worse.”

“Your ‘hopeless romantic’ is showing again.” Wraith playfully mumbles, smiling when she feels Anita smile against her forehead in turn.

Soon they settle back down. Only the soft glow of the fairy lights Wraith has overhead making the room glow. Anita cradles Wraith to her chest, stroking through her hair and down her neck, occasionally drawing or writing mindless things with her fingers.

One day, Wraith’s mind reminds her.

One day they could forget the games. Start a life on their own together.

For better or for worse.

#Bangawraith #Voidstrike #bangalore x wraith #apex legends #apex lemons #apex legends nsft #nsft #lemon #commissions #princess writing

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astrolocherry · 5 years ago

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Mars in Aries or the 1st

♂︎Greek Ares: Commanding, confident, and captivating self-expression that can be intimidating to others, vital and action-oriented with intense difficulty settling, crisis waits around the next corner, intuitive functions spark through impulse and adrenaline, ‘don’t know their own strength’

♂︎Roman Mars: The conquest to find the life path that converges talent, passion, the spontaneous self-expression, and self-awareness, in the sense of ‘this is what I was made to do’, shines when radiating this cosmic flame of what expresses most naturally, lives in honour of a birth right

Mars in Taurus or the 2nd

♂︎Greek Ares: Physical energy requires a productive and timely outlet, desires are demanding and often require immediate and impulsive satiation, lacks patience to finish long term tasks, habits can be harmful to physical body, pleasure is a reward system

♂︎Roman Mars:Shines in the trance of the natural creative rhythm, glowing when they are putting their whole body, mind, and soul into the work, making money inspires confidence, a battle against low self-worth and strong self-judgement, the finished product is a reflection of the identity, ability to enjoy themselves in the moment is influenced by feelings of self-value

Mars in Gemini or the 3rd

♂︎Greek Ares: Energised through conversation, impassioned learner, good physical/dexterous skills, learns through physical activity, curiosity requires immediate satiation, will defend beliefs and opinions and debate until the opposition loses energy, can be verbally impulsive to detriment

♂︎Roman Mars:Shines in the interactive realm, delivers knowledge with passion and purpose, inspiring teacher that makes learning exciting, identifies with the response they get from others and the universe such as if a person is angry at them, they become angry at themselves-or when they are uplifted, they feel that the whole world accepts them

Mars in Cancer or the 4th

♂︎Greek Ares: The blood bank of home and family, the one who keeps everybody together during good times and bad , emotional needs demand immediate satiation, extremely protective of family and loved ones despite possible long-term disputes, can have a very energetic, high strung, wild personality at home that people wouldn’t expect

♂︎Roman Mars: The lifelong fight for “what is mine”, shines in the sanctum behind closed doors, the blood bank of home and family, energised from visiting the inner world of imagination, identifies strongly with the family heritage and culture, will also take on the feeling of being tarnished by any errors of their ancestors, still feels like a child, a good support network at home provides the confidence to put themselves out there in the world

Mars in Leo or the 5th

♂︎Greek Ares: Plays to win, strong romantic impulses, romance sparks action and adrenaline, may enjoy domination, being dominated, or role-play strong, energised by the love and support of the crowd or audience

♂︎Roman Mars: Shines while participating, enacting, or performing what they love, passion brings natural delight and limitless supplies of energetic inspiration, creativity is self-regenerative and a stamp of the identity, dignified adversary, strong desire for recognition, desire to find the talent or practice that represents who they are as a person

Mars in Virgo or the 6th

♂︎Greek Ares: Razor-sharp mental and physical focus on the working product, competitive with the limitations of their own abilities, inherent struggle with authority, strong need to be of service to others like their own life depends on it but can expect far too much from themselves in every realm of life from what they can do for others to how much exercise they can do

♂︎Roman Mars:Shines when practicing or performing their position or working role with competency, wants to love what they do and inspire everybody else along the way, radiant and agile intellect that learns quickly and finds efficient methods that make it easier for others, degrading self-value, identifies with failings, imperfections, and inadequacies, takes mistakes or criticism at work very personally

Mars in Libra or the 7th

♂︎Greek Ares: Love is a conquest and the energy is supplied for shared experiences and magnetising other people, relationships have a purpose for existing, may be approached as an object of desire or apple of many eye’s, strong desire to collaborate with others, feels a sense of pride and protection, will fight and hold onto the relationship, can struggle between over or under compromising and sometimes both at the same time,

♂︎Roman Mars:Shines in the presence of the lover, may project a sense of inadequacy and inequality onto the partner and feel they are being dominated as a result, strong subconscious attraction to dominating or assertive types that provide the individual with an idea of their limitations, strongly identifies with the responses they get from others

Mars in Scorpio or the 8th

♂︎Greek Ares: Longing to surrender to sexual union but will simultaneously fight it and resist the exposure and potential damage, strong desire to let go and move on from certain things but they meet an equally strong attachment and have to fight themselves more in the end, intense feelings of anger that demand retribution or vindication

♂︎Roman Mars:Shines in the presence of the one they are emotionally and spiritually intimate with, intimate desire lights a fire and boundaries shatter, a sexual magic that casts spells of closeness and soul reunions, strong need to move on from certain events but there is often difficulty when they find they’ve been identifying with this part of their lives and feeling that person’s betrayal to be part of who they are

Mars in Sagittarius or the 9th

♂︎Greek Ares: The mind is action oriented and feverish for answers, pushes the universe to prove or validate the belief, strong dose of wanderlust that sets challenges like seeing and experiencing as much of the world as possible

♂︎Roman Mars:The higher mind shines through these eyes that catch spiritual stimulus before it disappears, the fire of the Godhead burning inside, the conquest is a pilgrimage, radiates in the faith or belief that provides answers and meaning, shines in the educational or teaching realm can apply their own philosophies and make complex subjects attractive and exciting

Mars in Capricorn or in the 10th

♂︎Greek Ares: The natural instinct to take charge of their own life, ambitions are grand personal challenges the natural instinct to take charge, ambitions are grand personal challenges and failure is not an option, a natural role-model whose love and passion for what they do inspires people to follow their ambition, energised by dreaming the possibilities of their life, struggles with stopping in that moment and relishing in their success

♂︎Roman Mars: Fighting for the life that belongs to them, achieving goals, attaining expertise, and finally a sense of acceptance in who they are, shines in the sphere of leadership that others look up to lead, success and recognition provides the confidence to take on further pursuits, makes a lot of comparisons against their own success and other people’s

Mars in Aquarius or the 11th

♂︎Greek Ares: Natural leader who takes charge in the group setting, enjoys friendships with a competitive edge such as from a team, there may be tense and impassioned conflicts with these friends but also a way of getting the best out of them

♂︎Roman Mars:Shines in the wider group, community, and friendship setting, energised by the contact of people coming together for a cause, to cheer for the team and celebrate the win with everyone, friends are their army against the darkness of life, very strong reaction to criticism as it points at possible rejection

Mars in Pisces and the 12th

♂︎Greek Ares: Sleep is the combat zone, they take unexpressed emotions, rage, and assertion to bed with them at night and stage a fight that interrupts, weakens, or denies sleep so that waking sense of tiredness remains again the next day

♂︎Roman Mars:Shines in the darkest times when weaker spirits would have fallen away, holds a secret candle that keeps burning through the darkest times, when it feels like they have nothing left, that tiny fire gives them the Heroine’s strength, and they probably won’t feel a thing – testament to how much they needed, identifies with being a victim, the persecuted, or permanently damaged

Cherry

#mars signs #mars in the 1st house #mars in the 2nd house #mars in the 3rd house #mars in the 4th house #mars in the 5th house #mars in the 6th house #mars in the 7th house #mars in the 8th house #mars in the 9th house #mars in the 10th house #mars in the 11th house #mars in the 12th house #mars #mars in aries #mars in taurus #mara in gemini

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red-hood-vigilante · 4 years ago

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more hbo spn rambles, thoughts, drabbles etc. long long post.

part 1 here

there’s some things i’ve omitted here bc others have already posted about those things, certain headcanons and characterizations and stuff. those posts are in my likes somewhere (and i’ll reblog them someday), and there’s some posts i’ve read but not liked, which i now can only vaguely remember, which is why some ideas/thoughts are similar

ALSO most of these follow the model i talked about in part one: how s1-5 will stay more or less how they are but s6-10 is changed (some things are cut out entirely, some things are tweaked and some characters + arcs are more fleshed out. more focus on sam’s trauma and post-cage adaptation to the real world as well as dean letting his rage and control issues consume him and how he’d recover and redeem himself)

as i typed these paragraphs, i realized i really have 10 seasons mapped out and ready to go. hbo hire me!!

alright go:

sam and dean get wearier as the show progresses (second half), and eventually they stop putting so much care and thought in the people they save. like...hm how do i say this, like as long as a victim/victims are saved, they don’t care about how that happens or how those people suffer potential consequences, like if the victims lose a limb or have their homes burned down because of the monster, then sam and dean don’t really care. they saved your life, now they’ll leave you with your life in potential shambles and not care because all that matters is that they saved your life, not how it is afterwards. they still care about saving that one person, but eventually it pales a little in comparison to a war between heaven and hell, being the vessels etc. ---> saving people becomes less about making sure they’re actually alright and healing from horrific events and more about just making sure they have a pulse before they move on

when angels lose their wings they are either burned off in the actual fall or ripped off of them in their vessels, which leaves pretty nasty scars on the vessel

ed and harry are so young and bright eyed about the whole hunting thing; sam and dean as kids, idolizing it, finding it exciting and intriguing when they shouldn’t. sam and dean try to get them out of the business before they too are too traumatized and desensitized to do anything but hunt. neither sam or dean will say it but they are jealous of ed and harry and their freedom to leave, and hate them for choosing this voluntarily instead of being dragged into it by tragedy

hbo spn is a slow burn. there’s a lot more shots of sam and dean in silence just sitting together after a hunt, exhausted and too tired to move yet. they’re covered in blood and guts on the side of the road after killing or covered with dirt in a graveyard after burning bones, sitting next to the fire, just watching it. the times they park the car and watch the stars? we get to see it.

dean wears rings and the amulet all the time in the beginning, for the first five seasons. the rings vary; first they’re some of john’s old ones and stuff he finds in thrift stores. then later on he begins wearing rings from people they’ve saved/haven’t saved as a keepsakes etc. when he begins his descent to the holy murderer in s6-10 he wears less and less rings. they don’t matter anymore -> symbolically shedding who he was and what mattered to him

the only accessories sam has is a rosary/cross around his neck. he has jess’ engagement ring in his pocket/wallet. after the cage he vaguely remembers why the ring was there and who jessica was (more on this further down)

the four horsemen are manifestations of different aspects of human nature at its most grotesque and strongest, can’t be killed as long as humans live. war is conflict, famine is desire, pestilence is physical and mental illnesses.

(the seven sins are like the horsemen, tulpas of human nature instead of demons)

death isn’t a concentration of an existing aspect of humans as much as it is the end of life, the antithesis of life. death the oldest of the horsemen and has existed since the beginning of any life, organism, cell and atom. the opposite of life and light, the other half of god (as i’m typing this i’m confused as to why amara was the opposite of god instead of death). death isn’t evil or good, remains 100% objective. doesn’t care for sam or dean at all, but has a begrudging respect for their stubbornness and entertainment they provide due to their flat out refusal to do as they’re told by celestial bodies when anyone else would crumble

by including death i feel like it very naturally begs questions of who decides when someone dies, when someone lives, why would death follow these guides instead of reaping whomever whenever, what happens if a life isn’t reaped at the right time etc. the reader in me adore the idea of death having a library with books and records of everyone who has ever lived and died and how they died - but then, who writes these books and why? do they decide, and if in that case, how? these questions are above my paygrade but you know what i mean? like there has to be some sort of system right, god created everything, death executes to maintain order, some third party deity writes the laws and the books. the three branches of government. ok but it’s hbo so again, i think we shouldn’t dive this deep into things, like as much as these topics intrigue me i don’t want to stray too much from the dirt road trip aesthetic

shapeshifters are extremely rare because they don’t require any kind of human blood or organs/sacrifice to live

i want more exploration of how magic is like science, like it just needs the right ingredients and right conditions. sam thinks of magic as an obscure branch of science; it just requires research and knowledge and clear intentions because science can be controlled and do a lot of good when used responsibly. dean doesn’t like it. he doesn’t trust the unpredictable elements and he’s seen enough to know it never goes well. magic is a force that can’t be controlled by anyone.

sam and dean have full on fist fights regularly. to practice and keeping each other sharp, but also because they’re siblings. they’re feral, insane and unhinged with each other and they get on each other’s nerves A LOT. it’s petty and childish and sometimes it can get a lil ugly but it becomes their way of family therapy. after a fight the next scene cuts to sam and dean with ruffled clothes, nosebleeds and swollen lips at a diner eating silently after beating each other up. either they sit in silence because they’re tired or both are harping on the other’s openings and weaknesses

sometimes they’ll fight a little dirty but they do so in different ways; dean will pull the old ‘look!’ and point to something and then tackle sam when he turns to look while sam will just cry out in fake pain which makes dean stop dead in his tracks before sam headbutts him or kicks him in the groin

we, the audience get used to these fights, they’re sometimes funny and for comic relief, sometimes for narrative purposes (like tricking a monster they’re fighting each other when they’re really not) BUT. then comes the times when sam and dean are actually fighting without holding back and we see how much they are capable of hurting each other or how heartbreaking and difficult it can be to watch when of them are incapable of fighting back/doesn’t defend himself -> swan song when dean doesn’t fight back against possessed sam, or when dean beats soulless sam unconscious

sam and dean also just verbally bully each other constantly but they do have their odd ways of expressing affection and care. they get the other person their fave snack whenever they go grocery shopping without being asked to and are the only other one they truly trust to have their back in hunts. have a cup of coffee ready before the other asks for one. brothers and each other’s best friend. nightmare duo but in a sweet way. the cooperation of ‘the usual suspects’ when they’re in different interrogation rooms but still has the cover story down to a t. code words and code names and cover stories, they know it all

when sam and dean fight together against a common enemy they’re a damn nightmare - because they know each others weaknesses and habits, they cover each other perfectly and in complete silence. they’ve been at it together since they were kids and read each other’s nonverbal cues like a picture book

to build off of what i said in part 1; the winchesters are pretty hated in the hunter’s community. even the people sam and dean frequently work with (bobby, ellen, jo, ash, rufus, bela, kevin, charlie, castiel etc) roasts them all the time and don’t hesitate with calling them out on their self-pitying crap when it get’s too much (spn was just objectively better when characters weren’t afraid of dragging sam and dean through the mud for being selfish and stupid) and this WILL persist in hbo spn. the only reason people continue working with sam and dean is because they know deep down a lot of the things that happens aren’t sam and dean’s fault - but they still blame them for it. doesn’t make it easier how sam or dean sometimes start crap on purpose to save the other

the winchesters are terrifying and people for sure tell stories about them, but not like ‘they’re heroes’, more like ‘they’re insane and dangerous. stay the fuck away from them’. some stories are true, like how they’ve worked with demons, but some are just game of telephone. (dean has apparently a ghost he is frequently possessed by while sam is actually a mutant vampire). hunters hate and are scared of the winchesters. sam and dean are never invited to hunter stuff (burials, memorials etc) but crash them nonetheless even though the hunters do NOT want them there.

you know what drives me insane when i think about it? how some characters in spn already are their hbo spn counterparts; john. mary. adam. maybe kevin?

other things that already are their hbo spn counterparts: dean throwing away the amulet right in front of sam. eyes burning when angels are seen. how ghosts are just tragedies, stuck in a loop they can’t leave. how a lot of the monsters they meet are just victims or their circumstances or the first victim of a curse. the impala being sam and dean’s home. dean not knowing how to comfort sam when he’s upset other than trying to do things for sam that usually brings dean comfort (driving the impala, listening to rock music etc). the roadhouse. heaven being an eternal version of the memories that made you the happiest even though it’s not real. sam wanting independence and freedom but never fully having it. dean fearing being alone more than anything else and that’s where he always ends up. sam has an eating disorder after the demon blood and dean has an alcohol problem he refuses to see as a problem. dean saying “i’d do it again” without an ounce of regret and pouring himself a drink when sam tells him it was fucked up to lie to him about gadreel

the demon/angel hybrid: THIS could be sooo interesting to explore. an angel and demon hybrid are you kidding me?? not to toot my own horn too much but i’m so clever. i should write this story myself. SO. does this creature have parents who fucked in their vessels or was this an experiment by god (yes i love the ‘mad scientist’ idea, that really should’ve been played up way more) or did a pre-existing creature (human or otherwise) drink demon blood and angel grace at the same time so that it created itself? so much potential for some really intriguing storytelling and character exploration - not only the creature itself and what they would be like, but also for the people around; sam, dean, castiel, jack etc. how would they react to this thing that is the very definition of defying heaven and hell and all the natural laws? does it exist before the show starts or will we see its birth?

the powers of the demon/angel hybrid would be tricky; a mix of holy and defiant, grotesque and beautiful. unconsciously forces people to tell the truth when talking to them. poisons whatever they touch. eyes of a demon, wings of an angel. can smite but skin will burn when touching iron. can do deals but will require a sacrifice in return, not a soul, usually a body part taken then and there (the hybrid eats it. it favours eyeballs and the liver - angels like raw meat). lights always flicker. makes things explode when angry (esp people and cars). can manipulate feelings, thoughts and memories. can travel to both heaven and hell, not welcome in either places. + standard stuff like telekinesis, teleportation, mind reading, super strength etc.

sam and dean’s wardrobe are pretty much the same; whatever’s cheap and not covered in blood. however, they do have stylistic differences. sam thinks graphic tees are funny, dean uses whatever’s black combined with john’s leather jacket. their wardrobe melds as they stop thinking of themselves as individuals and more of “me and my brother,”. their clothes are tattered and torn to shreds all the time. hand me downs, hand me ups. when they stray off their “path” and do things that are the crux of a storyline/character arc, this would reflect in their clothes. when sam is with ruby and becomes more and more “evil” he wears more and more red, a colour he has stated in the past he doesn’t really like. when dean is dead, sam starts to wear his rings and john’s and dean’s leather jacket. when dean decides he’s going to say yes to michael he dresses in white, when sam is dead dean takes off every piece of jewelry except the amulet. he holds it clenched in his fists when he’s whispering what comes close to a prayer

logically the amulet should have a backstory but you know what? i love that it’s hinted to be just a piece of cheap jewelry sam found in a thrift store he decided to give to dean. but narratively it should be explained so... idk. what could be logical solution as to why it would react to GOD himself? maybe god wore it once cuz he thought it was neat but he sold it for three dollars because he wanted coffee and then sam found it a week later

i would prefer it if god didn’t show up at all (absent father number one) but if he DID he’s not all powerful just a true neutral (like death, 100% objective) who created a thing that just took a life of its own, much like a parent and a child - the parent helps the child but can’t control it. the times he did intervene or tried to do something it didn’t really have any real long lasting effect so he gave up on trying a while ago.

@spneveryseason talked about this, how the storyline of sam being possessed by gadreel would be horrifying if we saw everything from sam’s perspective instead of dean’s (her fic is wonderful). in the ‘dean slowly descends into a righteous murderer to become holy’ idea i have this tracks so damn well because again, if dean believes something is right, it is right, no questions about it. everyone around him is like “that’s really fucked up and you should make amends” but dean doesn’t see any reasons for why - sam is alive isn’t he? and seeing it from sam’s pov would really underline how horrifying, dehumanizing and belittling that experience was

john and mary are adam and eve. sam and dean are cain and abel are michael and lucifer. time is a flat circle. history never stops repeating itself.

sam is the villain of s4. he is manipulated and key information is withheld from him but in the end... would it made a difference? it crossed his mind, that he could be tricked because ruby is a demon after all, but maybe he likes the power, the feeling of freedom, that he wasn’t just the baby, the one who always needs permission to do things. if he has to drain possessed people to get that power... so be it. and it’s for a good purpose, until it isn’t. he’s hungry for more, to be feared and respected. he’s enticed by lucifer’s sweet words, the potential of all that power and the idea of ruling two out of three realms. dean manages to pull him back from the brink because sam decides he doesn’t want to be what john thought he was and fail dean and himself like that.

dean is the villain in s9. he is controlling, the mark of cain without the mark. what he says goes - it’s not a democracy, it’s a dictatorship. he doesn’t see how much pain, doubt and fear he causes the people around him. if some victims or civilians die on his watch that doesn’t matter - just some collateral damage. sam can’t make dean listen to him because dean is the older one, the one who’s always called the shots. dean is the angelic one, heaven’s chosen warrior, he is untouchable and unkillable. he’s is an excellent killer, filling the void with blood and rage which is better than the crippling fear of loneliness carved into his bones. 'i butcher for love, to protect,’ he tells himself. ‘why shouldn’t i exterminate, regardless of the cost? i’ve followed the rules, i’ve always sacrificed. now i call the shots. it’s my right.’

sam’s hell trauma is never magically removed. he’s stuck with the memories and the nightmares and the occasional hallucinations. castiel can’t do anything but offers to wipe his memory completely, but sam says no, he is still doing penance.

after dean comes back from hell he starts calling himself old man and jokes a lot about he’s 40 years older now (after he’s more comfortable about speaking about hell)

when sam comes back he feels ancient (he’s over 900 years old at least but he lost count), weary, tired and so so so out of place in this world. he’s forgotten how to put gas in a car, how to drive, how to use a credit card, all the song lyrics he and dean used to yell together, the faces of people he knew before he fell, the softness of a bed, the schools he went to, most of the hunts he and dean, how john died, who mary is, the initials carved into the impala, the taste of food that isn’t raw meat. it’s so much he’s forgotten that he has to relearn. he prefers figuring things out with castiel instead of dean because castiel doesn’t silently resent him for everything he’s forgotten

sam doesn’t laugh anymore. despite dean’s many and castiel’s few awkward attempts, it’s more like quick smile and a quiet “hmm”. on some days he recoils when he sees blood and guts, on other days he’s so apathetic it’s unnerving

sam sympathizes with the brought back mary and castiel more than ever. dean tries to get sam to remember things he’s forgotten from his childhood but sam can’t connect with it anymore. he stopped being that sam a long time ago. dean doesn’t know what else to do than try to force this connection to be revitalized and he fails. sam isn’t that person anymore and this wedge in their relationship becomes a central factor in dean’s s6-10 desperation and isolation. sam is here and safe but it’s not really sam, not the sam dean grew up with

while sam has forgotten how to make coffee, he now knows everything about angels, effective torture tricks, a bunch of lore + biblical history, how to navigate hell, the most powerful and influential demons, rare and powerful spells as well as perfect enochian (he will speak enochian without realizing and it feels more natural than english). lucifer and michael were surprisingly talkative (raging about the unfairness) when taking their anger and hatred out on sam and adam and each other. sam had access to all of lucifer’s memories and knowledge for the time he was the one in control. walking library and encyclopedia of biblical lore.

he still has some muscle memory from hunting and sparring, but sam is ghostly thin and very rusty. even though he’s an expert on lore, he’s not fit to go on hunts anymore and he knows it.

sam remembers adam and swears he’ll try to get him out, but he can’t. just thinking about the cage makes him vomit. he can’t talk about it, much less go near it. after a while sam thinks it might be better to let adam stay down there than let him come back up and feel this crushing emptiness and loss of direction

sam’s trials take place in s9 instead of 8; coinciding with dean’s villain arc. for sam the trials are a chance to redeem himself again, this time for good by closing hellgates forever. they’re scrubbing him clean of the demon blood and his sins and they give him a sense of purpose again now that he can’t join hunts anymore. it doesn’t matter if he dies because of it. it would be nice with a permanent and peaceful death that did something good. dean is taken aback by sam’s devotion to repent for something that happened years ago and for something sam has already paid for a thousand times over. dean realizes how messed up he himself has become and how he’s helped put sam here, on the cusp of self sacrifice again because of sickening guilt and self hatred. dean begs sam to not complete the trials at the cost of his own life and swears he’ll better himself, be a friend and a brother, not a jailer, dictator or a murderer. ‘if you won’t give yourself or life another chance, please give me one.’ ---> s10 pacifist dean learning to let go of the control, the violent tendencies and the rage

oh wait what if gadreel still possessed sam after the trials to heal him but sam is the one who invites the angel in? he’ll keep his promise to dean about staying alive, as well as heal from the inside and have breaks from the world when he doesn’t want to be present, like he and gadreel will alternate being the one in control. he keeps it a secret from dean and helps gadreel imitate him so dean won’t notice. it’s not so bad, being possessed by this angel - sam can say no anytime and gadreel is a nice guy. since they alternate on who’s present they can access each other’s memories, which is terrifying and embarrassing at first, but since gadreel and sam have been tricked and used by lucifer and been punished for it for far too long, they understand each other. now another creature knows their trauma and terrors without the need for verbal explanation. also having an angel residing in his body makes sam feel like he can hunt properly again because gadreel can heal him and take over in situations sam’s overpowered. this could show how messed up sam has come to view himself and his body.

dean is conflicted when he finds out; sam lied but gadreel does help sam heal, sam’s traumatized and his self-worth is fucked up and dean has contributed to that. dean convinces sam to push gadreel out, that sam is still valuable, loved and a good person who shouldn’t be in a place where he views his body and mind like a property to be occupied. sam’s faith begins to come back bit by bit, not in god, but in himself, his brother, in the good things in life. they build their little family; sam, dean, castiel, the hybrids, whomever of their allies that are alive at this point.

castiel can heal sam and dean’s wounds but they are never completely gone; they leave scars and phantom pains. the brothers have SO many scars over the years. dean flaunts them to impress people because he likes the questions and the fearful admiration, the attention and the nods of approval. sam hides them.

when dean is in a bad mood or needs to get his mind off of things, sam just drops something like ‘i don’t get the deal with led zeppelin. one of the most overrated bands of all time’ and dean will go OFF every single time about the entire led zeppelin history, their discography and how they’ve shaped rock music. this will go on for hours and sam will zone out after 1 minute. but dean rants nonsensically the entire drive and it does get him to think about something else for a little bit. they stop at a motel and dean is STILL ranting while brushing his teeth. stops when going to sleep but without fail picks up where he left off the morning after and is so into it he doesn’t notice sam not paying attention at all. we could see this once in s1 when they’re searching for john, another in s3 when dean is anxious about his deal coming to an end and then again in a later season, when sam doesn’t remember to ask/doesn’t have the patience or mental capability, so they’ll sit there in tense silence, showing how much they’ve changed.

---> i can see this SO clearly in my head, how they’ll get in the car and we, the audience, will recognize the camera angle, the same lines and dean’s grumpy mood, and we’ll anticipate what comes next. but sam isn’t that kid anymore and he’s not peeking at dean to gauge what his mood is and how much of a shit eating grin he should wear when being an annoying little brother to cheer dean up. now he’s looking out the window, leaned back, they’re not looking at each other. this shot is a minute or two long, uninterrupted. dean turns on music but neither are singing along or doing anything to lighten the mood.

s1-5: sam gets hooked on demon blood, dean has an alcohol problem. when sam goes through withdrawals, dean decides to quit drinking and joins him because he wants to be supportive, and he realizes that when he drinks two beers for breakfast there’s a problem

s6-10: sam takes painkillers, anti depressants and anti psyhosis meds to numb himself from the phantom pains and reduce post-cage effects. dean started drinking again after sam jumped and still does, but started smoking in addition because he still drives a lot and doesn’t want to die in something as pathetic as a car crash.

there a scene in an episode in the first half of s8, when sam has decided to stay with dean instead of amelia, and dean has rejected benny in favor of sam, and then the brothers sit in a couch watching tv while drinking beer and neither of them look particularly happy about it - that’s how their relationship is a lot of the time. they know they’re fucked up and neither of them will ever be truly happy when the other’s around, but they owe each other so much and they don’t have to explain themselves to each other the way they do to others. they know each other so well, each other’s traumas and the things they’ve done, it feels fake and exhausting to try to be something other than the veteran hunters they are. misery loves company; they are miserable together but would be far more miserable apart and living a normal life. they do love each other, but neither of them are particularly happy as the show progresses. family is hell and so is the lack of it.

OK OK i mentioned it in part one, how i had my own very specific idea about how jack should come to be and here it is. long winded but (might just write a damn fic):

after lucifer was cast back into the cage, he is stronger than he has been in a long time (being in his true vessel helped him stretched muscles he forgot he had. and fresh air.) sam is pulled out of the cage and it leaves a rift in the magic and chains - the binding is weaker and lucifer must act fast to get out before it heals. the cage is still strong enough to hold two archangels, so lucifer has to become weaker somehow to slip out through the cracks. he can’t get out of the cage, but souls can come in. demons bring themselves and human souls as tools for lucifer to use. there’s not much he can do here - consuming them, eating them, touching them, dissecting them doesn’t give him what he wants

eventually lucifer realizes he must do like azazel and create something new of two halves, like when he created demons. he begins melding his archangel grace with a human soul. he tries with demons, but his archangel grace automatically purifies them and leaves them too weak. he must try with a human soul who is good. he finds the soul of kelly kline, who sold her soul to save a loved one. with her, the merging, works.

he has another self, a twin, a son, who’s half human and half archangel. half lucifer. the old lucifer will die but that’s ok, his desires, presence and self will live on in his new creation. the new lucifer barely makes it out of the cage, only able to due to its human side. on earth it creates a body for itself and takes shape, no longer a form of pure power and energy akin to the sun itself but now a person, reminiscent of kelly kline on earth and lucifer in heaven. they name themselves jack. jack searches for familiarity and finds it in sam, their old self’s perfect tool and another hybrid. jack finds a mentor in castiel, a younger brother and fellow angel with human elements. they do not find anything in dean, the key to his former self’s doom.

jack’s powers: their powers are like and unlike the angels because he is half archangel. jack has wings but sometimes they don’t work, or they’ll end up somewhere else entirely. their body is their own, not a vessel, so jack can’t possess people. doesn’t talk but people “know” what they’re saying or want because jack emits their emotions and thoughts to people they’re talking to like a radio tower. jack can also have this empathic connection and communication with animals. his mood affects the weather. immortal. reads minds. can remove a soul from a body and send it to heaven/hell by touching it, with practice they don’t need to touch a body.

other stuff about jack: the human/archangel nature means jack only need sleep and food once a week or so. eats only nougat and raw meat. because jack is a kid they nap a lot. levitates when sleeping. never blinks, stares intensely at everything. their eye colour changes based on their mood. eyes glow in the dark. normal humans who look at jack for too long experience memory loss, fainting spells or migraines and eye contact for more than 10 seconds give vivid hallucinations of their worst nightmares. always barefoot, often floats like 10 cm off the ground because they find it more enjoyable than walking. wears the wildest clothes they can find, nothing matches and nothing is weather appropriate

i have a very specific image of jack in my mind; they look like delirium from the sandman comics with the hair that looks like it’s underwater and the fishes floating around their head, here and here are examples. in live action this would look not good or maybe even ridiculous for sure but in animation... endless potential for angels and monsters to have super interesting designs sigh

castiel’s arc should end with him going from blind soldier, to the unwilling ruler of heaven, finding a place on earth with sam and dean, becoming closer with humanity and eventually a father of three (the hybrids).

#hbo spn #sam winchester #dean winchester #supernatural #iben spoke #ok i'm tired of looking at this now #i just needed to get these thoughts out of my head to get some peace and quiet #more character centric than part 1 #and it turned into such a long post.... jesus #i should make a separate post for post cage sam headcanons #ana if you see this i'm so sorry to drag you into this mess but i wanted to give credit where credit is due

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aty-altiria · 4 years ago

Text

Bolt

No 29. I THINK I NEED A DOCTOR Intubation | Emergency Room | Reluctant Bedrest

Word count: 1651

Universe: Harry Potter, Naruto

Pairings: Fem!Harry/Hatake Kakashi

Themes: Reluctant Bedrest, Hospital escapee, exhausted medical staff, pre-relationship

Summary: Hatake Kakashi slips from the hospital thinking he’s gotten away with it. He doesn’t know every nurse on the floor had watched him flee, and they already have someone set up to ensure he gets the rest his body is in desperate need for. For Holly, well it’s the sixteenth time she’s been sent to Kakashi’s apartment to ensure he doesn’t bleed out and die all because he can’t handle hospitals.

@whumptober2020

Second One >:D (No this is not a continuation for the other Kakashi fic, mostly because Minato lives in this one. But if you forget that fact then it totally could be...)

---

Holly saw him stumble from the corner of her eye, though she didn't bring attention to it. She kept her eyes down; Holly pretended she hadn't spotted Hatake Kakashi climbing from his bed to the window, open it and hop out. As he vanished out of the window, Holly casually put down her chart and sighed.

"Are you going to handle that?"

Holly glanced to the side at the senior nurse who hadn't looked up either. She was focused on her paperwork, never even looking to where Hatake had vanished or to see when Holly had looked up. Yet she still knew all the nurses did. It was a gift cultivated quickly in Konoha's hospital, mostly because every single one of their patients did a runner at some point. It was a habit for them and explained by the excess of chakra within their bodies, among other things.

Holly could make quite the list of reasons why shinobi bolted from the hospital the moment they could feasibly move. An excess in chakra made any shinobi hard-pressed to stay still for long periods - unless you were a Nara. While sleeping anywhere but 'home' for a shinobi was just taboo in general. For some reason, that Iryo-nin could possess neutral chakra for healing purposes also freaked most regular shinobi out.

Either way, no shinobi remained in the hospital for long, and Kakashi, well, he was a particular case. He avoided the hospital like it had the plague, or as if he'd accidentally killed his best friend who'd worked there. The only time he was caught dead in the place was if his unconscious form was brought there. If it had, he was typically gone by the time he regained consciousness, set to bleed out in his apartment typically.

"I suppose so," Holly tossed her coat to the side and made her way across the room, "though it's a touch unfair, this is the third time this week."

"That's because Hatake actually likes you," drawled one of Holly's co-workers, "he doesn't slam the door in your face when you show up."

"He even deactivates the traps," sighed another who still had the scar from her first trip.

"It's like he's attempting to train you, like a cat."

"I thought he's a dog person."

Holly walked away as her co-workers argued their, rather pointless, point. She vanished into the hallway and turned on her heel; no one was surprised or even flinched when a crack of sound went off in the hallway. The hospital people were long used to her apparating; they considered it a version of the fourth's hirashin. Though it helped that Minato happily played into the rumour in thanks for Holly saving his life.

She landed outside Hatake's apartment where she'd been several times already and found Hatake had already made it there. Which was rather impressive considering the state his body had been in when he arrived at the hospital. Holly hadn't been working at the time, but she had heard he'd flat-lined four times before they got him back. By that point, the Hokage himself had dropped into her apartment to pull her into the surgery. A byproduct of Holly's 'Jutsu,' Minato was well aware of Holly's magic since a year before his son's birth and knew exactly what she was capable of and what she wasn't.

As a result of her nightly call, Holly knew Hatake really shouldn't be walking around. But she also knew he'd not get the rest he needed in the hospital. Not if he couldn't calm down.

"Potter," Hatake greeted as he staggered and braced against his door, "you cheated." It was said with an eye smile that Holly wasn't impressed with.

"Two choices Hatake," she said in return. He winced, from the pain or perhaps due to the blood leaking into the floor, or because he knew she was quite serious.

"Option two," Kakashi answered as calmly as he dared. Because the first choice led to him being escorted firmly back to the hospital, it involved the threat of Minato and Kushina. It involved him being spelled into the bed so he couldn't escape and getting to rest anyway. The second… well, Holly and Kakashi both preferred that.

"Come on then," Holly stepped forward and waved a hand at his front door. It opened with a click, the traps deactivating under her magic. Kakashi didn't so much as blink at this; he'd seen it all before. "In."

Kakashi forced another smile as Holy ushered him inside his apartment. As she nudged him toward where she knew his bedroom was, then right up to the bed. "Trying to get me into bed?" Kakashi teased, trying to delay the inheritable.

"Yes," Holly deadpanned. She was no longer a blushing maiden fit to burst at one innuendo, that no longer worked on her as it once had.

"Ooh, naughty- urk!" Kakashi tripped and fell into the bed; he gave a full-body wince as Holly forced him down. A noise escaped him that would have sounded quite a bit like a yelp of pain if it had been louder. Instead, it was just a sharp gasp. "Holly-" he choked out as she gentled her touch further. She really hadn't pushed him that hard, but apparently his pain-killers were wearing off.

"Kakashi, you need to rest."

"Can't-" he blinked his one eye at her. There was an expression she knew well, and it made her realize that perhaps his latest mission had a bit worse than she'd initially assumed. "I… can't… I was trapped in that dream… Holly-"

"Kakashi," she reached for and cupped his face, "why didn't you tell me." It occasionally happened for him, sometimes when he was hospitalized and forced into a healing coma, Kakashi dreamt. When he did… it was like a genjutsu, an endlessly repeating night-terror.

Kakashi didn't answer; he glanced away from her, stared at the nearby wall. Holly, to that, sighed. "Let me grab a potion."

"Don't think it'll help," he answered sullen and unwilling to accept much help, "the pain isn't the problem."

"Well, I'll grab a pain-relief potion as well, but that wasn't the one I was referring to." Holly fished a hand in her pocket. Kakashi didn't know it, no one really did, but she had been working with Inoichi to find a way to grow some magical plants in Konoha. The idea was to regain some ingredients that some of her potions required. Potions that Holly had been unable to brew since shifting words due to the mission parts.

One such potion had only recently been finished. Inoichi and Holly had made it a priority, especially for the shinobi forces and those forces' general mental health.

The potion in question was a dark purple, and Holly found it within her pockets relatively quickly. When she had it, Holly held it out to Kakashi, who gave it a confused stare.

It was a great measure of trust that Kakashi reached out and accepted it in his loosened fingertips. "What does this one do?" he took it in two fingers and peered into the vial as if it would tell him.

"That is a potion of dreamless sleep-" his fingers flexed, and the vial, had it been unspelled, it may have shattered from the sudden flex. "It's still on a trial basis, but I've had success the last few nights with it." She'd been testing the potion while he'd been on his near month-long mission.

The reluctance in Kakashi evaporated as he tugged the vial close to his chest as if she was going to take it back. "Instructions?"

"One sip a night, though if you drink it constantly, you'll lose your ability to dream at night." Some people preferred that Holly had considering her nightmares, so she wouldn't judge Kakashi for doing the same. "It takes effect within minutes of ingestion, and it will knock you out." That was a side-effect she and Inoichi were trying to take out. It was sufficient for a civilian, but no shinobi wanted to be in such a deep sleep to not awaken if an active threat appeared.

It was part of the reason she hesitated to give to Kakashi, he needed the rest, yes, but he didn't actually live with anyone that could watch over him while he slept. Beyond the dogs, she supposed.

Kakashi hesitated, but the desire for rest and a dreamless sleep eventually won out. "You'll stay?" he asked, trusting Holly in the same way he did Minato. Similarly, Minato trusted her after he learned she could take over someone's mind, steal all their secrets, or erase any memory she wanted to. Just like the way, Kushina and Minato let her babysit Naruto when they were on missions or busy. Or in the way, Kakashi let her into his apartment when he was that badly wounded.

"I will," Holly swore.

Kakashi needed no further prompting. He pulled the cork, tipped the bottle toward his mouth, took a sip, corked it, and set it to the side. "Also, I think I pulled my stitches… thanks, Holly."

"I hate you sometimes," Holly answered, now aware of why Madam Pomfrey had nearly pulled her hair out when Holly had been a girl.

"No, you don't." Kakashi's eyes fluttered shut, and Holly heaved a sigh.

"No. I don't."

#Whumptober 2020 #Harry Potter #Naruto #No.29 #Reluctant Bedrest #Hatake Kakashi #Hp fanfic #Naruto Fanfic #whumptober2020

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hollenka99 · 4 years ago

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Khenir and Minarv

Summary: When the gods choose to target you, life will never be the same.

Warnings: implied gore, blood, mentions of death

I'm sure you've heard the tale of Khenir and Minarv. I find it is a popular story that you enjoy passing on to the generations succeeding yours. You humans always did take a liking to tragedies with silver linings. If it is one of love and godly intervention, you consume it all the more enthusiastically. Let us clarify something first. There has always been one detail you seem to insist on getting wrong. Birds have existed as long as there have been nuts, berries and the like to sustain them. Khenir never created birds and other winged creatures. In fact, he often admired the birds that visited outside his home. Took a fancy to capturing their likeness of paper too. The only avian species which owe their existence to him are loons and horned owls. Being the god of birds does not necessarily imply you are the creator of all birds. With that irk of mine expressed, I believe I should begin. These were the days before the human population was to reach a million. We gods were acknowledged with a fierce intensity. You feared us. More than that, you feared what we could do to you or your loved ones when displeased. Don't worry. I should assure you it took effort to anger me back then. To this day, I continue to see no use in introducing you to my brother sooner than is required. It was also the time of great animosity between Keajic and Scyta. The skies and sea respectively. You got a lot more storms out at sea back then. Once, she sent a great tidal wave to devastate a town Keajic had deep admiration for. To spite her back, he had directed a gale to steer a fleet lead by one of her sons into rocks. That was the least of it. Suffice to say, anything could set them off. And the results would be disastrous for all those involved. Which is where Khenir and Minarv come in. As you may know, whenever one of you is born, it is my job to determine how long it is before you meet Tain. I have no real say in when you will die, you understand. All I do is find the likeliest timeline of your life and note it in my records. You don't call me the Chronicler for nothing, after all. But you see, if there is one thing I've always admired about humanity, it's the flexibility of your lives. All it takes is one occasion to cause your life's course to completely diverge. Khenir was going to be a farmer like his ancestors before him and potential descendants after him. He'd likely find a woman to marry and raise children with. A rather insignificant and mundane life spanning 72 years. As for Minarv, he'd be raised to be a fisherman by his father and the rest of the community. There was no conventional settling down in his most probable future. Waves stretching past the horizon would be a common backdrop of his adult life until he had the misfortune of being the victim of a poorly treated wound at the age of 38. Oh, stop pitying him. What is it with you humans and your belief the only type of life that will bring happiness and satisfaction is one ending in old age? He would have been perfectly happy doing what he loved for a living. Honestly, you come across as obsessed with watching loved ones slowly decay before you while they still breathe. You call that desirable? Either way, those were the most likely outcomes of their life. With how easily paths can branch off, nothing is guaranteed. The easiest way for your life's course to be altered is divine intervention. Should I detect a child has the chance to be someone whose life future generations will regale the story of, I pay them a visit. To tell you the truth, your reactions to my presence have always intrigued me. Some parents are ecstatic to know their child may have notoriety one day. It isn't uncommon for parents to weep or becoming protective as the gravity of their child's potential future dawns on them. Were I mortal, I would likely be amongst the horrified too. You, of course, ruined it slightly by transforming it into a tradition. You pick any elderly male neighbour and have him be part of the child's 1st birthday celebrations. No man can ever truly replicate my visitations. Your efforts are but a cheap imitation. What is all this about having them blessed over a sundial or clock? Believe me, if I wanted to bestow anything upon your child, I would do so in person. Nevertheless, I appeared in the countryside and spoke to Khenir's mother under the alias of a travelling merchant. Still an infant, Khenir was nonplussed by my being there. I doubt his mother realised the truth of my identity when I gently touched her son's head. The young Minarv I met, on the other hand, was a charming little boy when I made my way to the coast. With great excitement, he gestured to his father's ship which had been approaching the docks. Said father was none too pleased to have me be the disguised god blessing his firstborn. Apparently, he had hoped it would be Scyta, if any of us at all. Oh, if only he'd known. The years passed and the boys grew to be young men. They learned the respective trades of their families while also developing hobbies involving the flute and sketching. Their individual paths carried on leading them towards a life unaware of the other. The thing with Scyta is that she enjoys acquainting herself with mortal men. Fishermen and sailors in particular. If I had to name her favourite type of mortal, it was one who frequented her domain and respected her authority over it. You can probably see where this is going. Yes, she is the one who instigated this whole mess. Although, I doubt she was expecting the result it got. Even I can't accurately anticipate the whims of my kin all the time. Not for lack of effort, I assure you. Scyta subtly pursuing Minarv? That I could have foreseen without trying. Predicting her spouse's reaction took no effort either. Schea had always been jealous of their wife. It's understandable when your significant other has a habit of using the very thing you control to entice mortals. What better to prevent a relationship than ensure the target of the affections was unavailable. The main flaw in Schea's plan was that they naturally appear as the most attractive person in the eyes of whomever sees them. Therefore, the two men would be enamoured by the stranger attempting to unite them. The result is always achieved regardless. All Schea needs to do is ensure the pair meet eyes while they maintain physical contact with both members of the couple. A hand on each back, one look and that was that. By the docks, with a crisp ocean breeze blowing, Khenir and Minarv met. As the months progressed, they spent as much of Minarv's time on land together as they were able. The fisherman would play music while the farmer would sketch him. They were in love and deeply so. No amount of conversation with the mysterious woman supposedly living near the shore could reverse that. Naturally, Scyta refused to admit defeat and move on to her next target. More so than that, events were beginning to unfold. Minarv frequently prayed to her for the sake of safe trips. Being intrigued by birds and their ability to fly is what attracted Keajic's attention towards Khenir. Each had a mortal on their 'side'. And these mortals were lovers? No, that wouldn't do. Whether the two gods had been looking to trigger a fight between themselves or not, they'd still found a suitable reason to. Things were about to get problematic. Minarv became caught in the crossfire when his ship sunk, causing him to be the only survivor. The crops in Khenir's region failed after Sugan was to persuaded to become momentarily involved. Their livelihoods were being threatened purely because Minarv refused to concede. I recall Schea was pleased with themself, thrilled to see a match they'd created cause such conflict. Casquej had inevitably grown fond of them, given his specialty is the creative arts. I was witnessing paths be rapidly redirected as the two men's lives were thrown into turmoil. Even Tain became agitated by this mess. More humans had died than was necessary and the increasing work on his part to stay up to date with it all was enough to get him to join our cause. I know, I know, I never imagined involving myself in ridiculous spats either. Regardless, enough was enough. My brother and I were mostly ambivalent about their fate. Casquej, however, wished for there to be a happy ending to the whole ordeal. Whatever worked. We promised to co-operate in an effort to stop the madness before all our kin were dragged into it. The plan, as you may recall, was to offer them a secret paradise. A world detached from time as they had known it. Somewhere they could be safe from their torment. Khenir could admire the wildlife to his heart's content while there were enough bodies of water to satisfy Minarv. More importantly, there was no threat of death or misery. I appeared to them as a child. Claiming to be one of my own half-mortal offspring, I convinced the lovers to follow me to a mountain pass. Once we arrived, I showed them how to activate the entrance. A set of instructions later and I left them to it. I made it explicitly clear, they were not to spend longer than a month over there in one go. Those instructions were simple enough. If I were mortal, I would have disappeared for a month, returned to the regular world for two or three months then come back to the haven I knew had been made for me. Humans will be humans, I suppose. These types of stories usually have at least one moment that could have been easily avoided if the protagonist had thought things through in the moment. A month there was approximately a week outside of it. I made it so in an attempt to aid them. They followed my precautions in the beginning. A month became 6 weeks sometimes or they'd return slightly sooner than they should have. Gradually, they strayed further from my warnings. With all this deviation, it was inevitable really. Scyta and Keajic discovered why their pawns were absent. I admit it did not help that they revelled in their paradise for three months straight by regular standards. To make it worse, they had the intelligent idea to go their separate ways by the shore. Which was where the gods were waiting for them. We gods have a habit of being ridiculously petty. I have no need to tell you that which you are already aware. If a mortal stands in the way of what we hope to achieve, and we are bitter enough, we will discard of a life. What is one or two amongst thousands, millions or even billions? Both Keajic and Scyta were more than bitter enough. Even Tain showed up to witness it, albeit from a notable distance. There are very few mortals who have been personally reaped by him. Being in the company of four gods must be overwhelming enough for mortals. Even more so when Death and Time act as onlookers to your demise. Perhaps that is why they gripped each other's hands as if it would prevent their permanent separation. Being favoured by me will only buy you seconds on your deathbed. I'll make those seconds seem longer than they are, providing a chance to say your goodbyes if desired, but they are still only seconds. That amount of time sounds short to you? Imagine how trivial that duration is to me, a being who has lived for millennia and knows infinity. Keajic denied Minarv the very air he took for granted. In retaliation, Scyta commanded the ocean to make its home in Khenir's lungs. As they both asphyxiated, their fingers defiantly remained intertwined. Why it took me until this point to put my foot down, I am not sure. Possibly because I believed it was not my place to directly intervene. What was more important was that I was inserting myself in the midst of the conflict. Time stopped. I berated Keajic and Scyta for using the men for their games. Minarv had respected Scyta. The same could be said about Khenir and Keajic. Now however? It would be a miracle if either of them respected us at all. They were not made to be tormented relentlessly. Leave your opponent's favoured be and continue your squabbling somewhere more mortals wouldn't be endangered nor risk having the courses of their lives skewed. Could we agree to end this now? The rulers of sky and sea exchanged a glare. As much as they were enemies, they seemed to share the same unspoken idea in that moment. At the time, I was under the impression they were silently agreeing my pleas were rational. I had expected to continue time once more, them to walk away and the human lovers to carry on living until their appointments with Tain were scheduled. My mistake was trusting them to not slight me. I will spare you the goriest details. No doubt you've already come across versions of this story that don't shy away from it. As wings forced their way out from underneath Khenir's shoulder blades, his muscles formation shifted too in an attempt to accommodate them. Everything Minarv wouldn't need any longer became lost to him. His lungs ceased to be just in time for Scyta to drag him under the waves. You may have found the red traces mixing with the ocean in the aftermath of his legs fusing disturbing but I've seen worse. In most depictions of them, I'm sure you'll find Minarv with a black tail littered with white spots or Khenir with wings of yellow, red and a particularly light blue. That's all linked to the whole creation of loons and flagfin shiners ordeal. A bird which dives into the water to feed and a fish to keep it fed. I suppose you may find it sweet with your notions of romance. Know that they change forms as often as the rest of us gods so these visual depictions are not always accurate. All immortality has given them is more time to spend with each other. Neither is capable of human speech any longer but they seem to have developed their own method of communication. With all the chirping, whistling and whatever else they have at their disposal, I can vaguely understand them. Minarv is responsible for your stories of sirens as well. Despite having their anatomy transformed in an effort to permanently separate them, the pair still resisted their limitations. As such, they had to determine if the other happened to be nearby. Once a singer, always a singer. Humans would hear Minarv attempting to attract his beloved's attention and created tales of a creature that lured you into the water. You know, I never enquired what either of them thought about those myths. Perhaps I should, the next chance I get. Ah, speaking of which... Look at that. There is only one great horned owl whom I know would stray so far from its native homeland. Hello Khenir! Just returning from a visit, I presume? I dare say I should see him myself. Care to share with me how it went? After all, I have all the time in the world.

#my writing #jacksepticeye #jacksepticeye egos #writersofjack #tw blood mention #tw implied gore #tw death mention #khenir and minarv

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necrmnce · 4 years ago

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𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐥𝐲𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐞 / task001

basics .

name : brooklyn andrea forde . nicknames : brook , b . birth date : august 11th , 1999 . gender : cis female . pronouns : she / her . ethnicity : white . nationality : american . hometown : norfolk , virginia , usa . demigod abilities : necromany , mist manipulation , spell casting . cabin number & godly parent : cabin 20 , hecate . how did their godly parent meet their mortal parent? : this story starts with a new chef , mitchell forde , full of hope and ideas for his very first restaurant . he’s always believed in witchcraft , his mom used to use crystals around the house , a practice he brought into his restaurant . he was closing one night , burning sage in the doorway when he saw a woman walking her dog along the waterfront . the closer she got the more entranced he found himself with the woman with dark hair who radiated a terrifying beauty . mitchell surprised himself when he called out to her , a sole ‘ hello ! ’ echoing off the walls of the surrounding buildings . for a moment he had been convinced she was going to carry on , but she stopped right in front of him , curiosity beaming as she picked up the crystals sitting in the corners of the patio railing . he’ll never forget the first thing she ever said to him was asking what he was doing , or how he wasn’t afraid to tell her he was smudging and blessing his place . the light of the full moon reflected off everything around them and he says it made her eyes shine . he invited her in for any food or drink of her liking , mixing her a chocolate milkshake and serving her the last slice of cake . the two sat outside on the patio , talking for hours about anything and everything , and the rest wrote itself , bringing brooklyn into existence . before she left , she tried to encourage him to fulfill his dream and expand his store to the pier by virginia beach , but he couldn’t bring himself to stray from the place they met .

muse appearance .

faceclaim : danielle rose russell . height : 5′2 1/2″ hair colour : brown / auburn . eye colour : green . dominant hand : right handed . distinguishing features : hair that always seems to be perfectly done with no help from aphrodite kids , a small tattoo on the inside of her elbow with the moon sinking into the sea , a wrap around snake ring given to her by her mom . dress style : think high - waisted jeans ( sometimes mom jeans ) with tucked in half unbuttoned oversized shirts , if they’re long then the sleeves are definitely cuffed . shirts vary into plain t - shirts or sweaters . shoes typically consist of some type of heeled ankle boot or doc martens .

camp - related .

go - to weapon : if she’s not using magic , then she’ll use a sword , it’s her second best weapon . ambrosia : chocolate cake from her dad’s restaurant . favourite camp location : fireworks beach . their opinion of their godly parent : she admires her mom in a way . her dad never spoke ill of her , telling her stories about when the two of them were still together and never seriously committed to anyone else , saying�� that her mom had given him everything he needed . she was a little upset that she waited so long to claim her , but once she spoke with her dad , he shed light on her situation which in the end made sense . she wishes she could learn more from her mom , but she’ll take what she can get . age they were claimed : sixteen . how they were claimed : one of the quests she had gone on only a year before went horribly south . this shaped her as a person , erasing a lot of the happy - go - lucky camper she had once been . chiron had called her into the big house one day , under the guise of her starting camp tours for new campers , but ended up trying to get her to talk about what had happened . was it wrong for her to yell at and storm away from an immortal centaur ? probably , but she did it . when he followed her out and called after her , brooklyn was just off the steps . all it took was him calling her name just once , for her to turn around hands out begging him to stop . her intention was just to tell him to leave her alone , but in the moment , she was so overwhelmed with emotion and grief , she splintered one of the beams and blowing one of the doors off it’s hinges . seconds after she stood there , chiron’s disappointed eyes unlocked from hers to look up , brooklyn redirecting her gaze to find two crossed torches hovering nicely above her head . stance on the new cabins : neutral . reason for their stance : she’s neither here nor there on the new cabin’s . she enjoys having her own space , but is only the tiniest bit salty that now gods are required to claim their kids , which means no one unnecessarily goes to the hermes cabin , which was basically a rite of passage at camp . their opinion on lyssa pentelute : well to put it simply , brooklyn thinks she’s a bitch . she understands the whole nemesis thing which means it’s literally in her blood , but she also thinks what percy did was good , because wouldn’t you want to leave a place better than you found it ? like she sees both sides of it , she was stuck in the hermes cabin until three months ago . but saying that minor god’s kids don’t belong at chb is just wrong , because then you’re putting so many more lives in danger . quests : yes . she doesn’t talk about them , like ever .

personality .

positive traits : confident , perceptive , loyal . negative traits : blunt , catty , stubborn , short tempered . mbti : istj-t . logistician . alignment : neutral good . hogwarts house : gryffindor . kinsey scale : two . archetype : self: hero - strong and perseverant with boundless ambition ; persona: innocent child - naive but a breath of new life and fresh ideas . what candle scent are they : mango mai tai . goals & desires : honestly she probably considering going on to be a paralegal , but truthfully might just help her dad expand their restaurants and make it an even bigger family owned business . fears : losing her dad . hobbies : working at her dad’s restaurant , practicing magic , stargazing , watching the sunrise . habits : she absolutely hates socks , she’ll wear them when she needs to , but she hates them otherwise .

#ambrosia:task001 #ambrosia:intro #( 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐥𝐲𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐞 ) / * tasks .#a REAL intro will come later !!!#i'm gonna hop in the shower

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howsyouredge · 4 years ago

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So... during lockdown I got some writing done.. here’s some of what I’ve got so far :D

Prologue

Darkness swallowed her as she sat in the corner of the cell, her knees drawn up to her chest, taking slow and measured breaths to steady her nerves. The events that lead her to this raced through her mind. Now was not the time to fall apart, there would be a time and a place for that later. This situation was not ideal but they had planned for it, not the outcome they had hoped for but one could not argue with what the fates desired. Footsteps echoed down the hallway and River jumped smoothly to her feet. Feeling her way around the edge of the dark cell she positioned herself by the door. An earlier visit from her gaoler had proved the door opened inwards (a poor design choice by the architect) it allowed some cover when the door was opened. Grasping the hidden dagger she kept on her at all times River waited. The time to dance was drawing near and she was not going to ask her partner politely…

One: A Quick History Lesson

It’s easy to go unnoticed when you are small and slight and plain. You fade into the surroundings and nobody pays you any attention. The wealthy and privileged don't concern themselves with what or who lurks in the shadows. They should, if they did they would notice that their fat coin purses were no longer attached to their shiny belts or that the timepiece daddy bought for them was no longer on their wrist. The heirloom necklace would still be clasped safely on their fat neck and not fetching a pretty penny on the black markets. On the other side of the coin, without their blatant complacency the ghosts of the world would not be able to eat or feed their families. Sometimes the stupidity of the wealthy worked in the favour of the forgotten. Still, it required some level of skill to blend so seamlessly with the shadows. River flowed through the crowds like her namesake, always there but overlooked, unnoticed, forgotten, invisible. Castleton was a bustling market city. The capital of Gallo, stuck on the wrong side of the Thorn Wall (if there even was another side). River was too young to remember a world where the wall didn't exist.

The legend had been twisted and re-written over the years, there were no books left to confirm or deny the rumours. Some thought it was a punishment, erected by the Mages and Sorcerers of old to trap the greedy and power hungry inside. Others thought Gallo was the safe haven and the wall was keeping out the terrors of the world. River didn’t bother herself worrying about the wall. An orphan abandoned on the streets of Castleton, the seedy dark underground was all she had never known. Plucked out of the gutter by the Sisterhood of Shadows when she was just a babe, she trained and excelled as a thief, pickpocket and assassin. The band she built was her family, the Sisterhood itself offered a place to lay their heads and a way to put food in their bellies. Yes they trained them all but that was about all they offered. The Sisterhood of Shadows. Sounds ominous, on the outside it is an orphanage for girls run by nuns. Not that scary, sounds pretty innocent right? Wrong. Sometime after the wall was erected magic died within Gallo and along with it went any kind of structure. The legends say that the first few years after the Thorn Wall appeared were filled with in-fighting and civil wars. To survive you had to be ruthless and the Nuns of the Sisterhood went from innocent god-fearing women to savages. Doing all they could to survive, they became the lords of the underground. Factions spread across Gallo, the biggest being in Castleton as the capital with smaller units in the few towns and cities that survived. No one messed with the Shadows, not if you wanted to live anyway. The Council of Elders came later and managed to restore some order and laws.

They built a wall (yes another one) around Castleton and created The City Guard to police its streets. They tried to take down the Sisterhood but it didn’t work, they were too well established by this point and the good people of Gallo turned a blind eye to their less savoury dealings. They took in the orphan girls and gave them a home, just sweet old lady nuns doing good work for the community (no assasins here, no thieving or pick-pocketing or whoring). Anyway, while this brief history lesson was fun, the past is not why we are here today. River. Not her real name, she has no clue what her parents named her or who her parents are, the nuns named her that because that's where they found her, by the river. Raised in the sisterhood she was deadly by age twelve. Now age twenty-one messing with her was your own peril. The girl had daggers hidden all over her body, not to mention the ones visible on her belt. A master assassin and a master thief she didn’t care much for people. The only ones who mattered were her Band (it's a sisterhood thing) usually made up of four girls of the same age Rivers band was a bit of an oddity. His name is Lynx, but more about that later.

Small, slight and plain. River summed up in three words. Short in height, slight (starved) with no exceptional features. Pretty but not beautiful, not one to stand out from the crowd. Her face was forgettable which for her was perfect. Big brown eyes, mousy brown hair and her nose and lips were in proportion to the rest of her face. Men were not throwing themselves at her which was fine, Lynx was the only male she could tolerate. Calcifer was OK too she supposed (again, more about that later) but the Band didn't need him as often anymore. They were the best and that is exactly why River was currently making her way to see the head of the Sisterhood in Castleton to take on a job. Summoned by the Mother Superior with the promise of an extremely lucrative job, the band could retire; not that they would, they all loved what they did. River stood outside the grand doors before her and allowed herself a moment to be nervous. The woman inside was terrifying, her reputation was cruel and vicious and she was the closest thing River had ever had to a mother. Taking a deep breath she stepped forward and knocked. “Enter”.

River slowly pushed the door open and walked into the large room. The high ceilings were vaulted and the walls were shining bright marble, matching the floors. There was hardly any furniture in the room, just the large mahogany desk and two chairs in front. Behind the desk sat Mother Superior, her aged face surrounded by her blood red habit which flowed seamlessly from the top of her head to her feet leaving only her face and hands uncovered. The image she gave was imposing and intimidating, for someone who was called ‘Mother’ motherly was not the aura she presented. “Mother Superior, you summoned me?” “Yes child, please have a seat. This conversation could be a long one.” She gestured to one the chairs before her and River stepped forward, throwing herself into the chair. “I find myself needing to call upon yourself and your band for a job of utmost importance to the Sisterhood, and I would imagine yourself as all of your band are strong Remnants.” Rivers interest was immediately peaked. The more Mother explained the more tense River became. This job was important and close to her heart. The last sentence from her mouth was the one to seal the deal though. “My child, I hate to be the one to deliver this news, but Lynx is missing. No one has seen him in a number of days, I know he was on a scouting mission for yourself but he missed his last check in.”

It’s a work in progress but if people are interested I can post more chapters :D

#writing #story #fantasy #reading #young adult #fun #cool

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radiqueer · 5 years ago

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I'm sorry if this is an intrusive question, but in your knowledge, how does ednos manifest? Both for you and people you might know. I know for a fact that my relationship with food is not fucking normal, but I don't exactly know what to make of it and...wth...

ednos stands for “eating disorder not otherwise specified” which means it reps ALL eating disorders not covered under other diagnostic criteria. most, something like 70% of eating disorders fall in this category.

MY ednos looks something like this: i have an avoidant and distressed response to food and being told to eat. i tend to delay eating for as long as possible. i’m underweight and too thin for my age+weight, but i don’t have body image issues other than a generalized gender dysphoria that can’t be solved by transition. often, i delay eating for as long as possible. often this results in headaches and chronic exhaustion, shaking hands, nausea, loss of ability to focus (compounded by adhd). for example, right now I’ve eaten food equal to one slice of toast and one cup of tea since i woke up at 9am - it’s 2:20pm as i write this.

it’s hard for me to push myself to eat because i have adhd; executive dysfunction makes completing the steps of acquiring food difficult. i have autism and texture issues due to that which make eating a lot of food difficult. the food that i can stand, i often still need to be pushed into eating. i hate when people tell me i need to eat or gain weight and sometimes refuse to do the latter out of misery and spite. depression adds a layer of weight on top of all of this.

fundamentally, my eating disorder is about my desire to avoid eating because i feel like it’s unnecessary, distressing, and repetitive. there’s no solution for this that i can envision.

a friend was kind enough to share their experience with me also:

my eating has definitely been disordered at times and I’ve only just now, in my thirties, gotten a handle on it

so, I grew up in a house where my mother (whom I love) was always insecure about her weight and always dieting. so the language she always used - and still uses - about food is very morality-based. some foods are ‘bad’, others are ‘good’. if you have a bad food, you’re being wicked, and even if she says it with a sort of humorous thrill, as a kid you still internalise the guilt

it was also a house where, for various reasons, we never really had any chips or chocolate or candy or snacks like that around, only basic ice cream sometimes and never soda

so the combination of this meant that, when I did encounter junk food, I’d go buckwild and compulsively stuff my face, because if it was my only opportunity to eat it, then I had to eat AS MUCH AS POSSIBLE

the added result was that, if I ended up with a surplus of junk food, like from easter or christmas, I had to eat it all IMMEDIATELY, because if I ate it all at once (in my mind) then I was only being bad once, and that was therefore better than eating a little each day and being bad each day

plus, I couldn’t control myself

which was one thing when I lived at home and didn’t control the shopping, but as an adult I’d never learned self-control or how to stop eating junk when

I was full, because I’d developed a compulsion around itthe fact that I can now have a tub of ice cream in the house and not eat three bowls the day I buy it, or have chocolate and not eat it all at once, or anything like that, is a development that’s really only been true for like… a year? if that?

like, I was making progress towards this state of affairs for a while, but the fact that there are uneaten lindt balls in my cupboard right now would’ve been impossible a year and a bit ago

plus the whole 'food is my only comfort while pregnant’ thing probably set me back a bit

but I’ve really worked at being mentally calm around it and reminding myself the food will still be there tomorrow and that’s okay, that looking forward to it for tomorrow is nicer than stuffing myself now when I’m already full

so that’s another way it can manifest. and here’s yet another:

I grew up in a household that is, uh, increasingly fucked up about food - - it's worse now than when I lived there - - but I dealt with most of it (along with the rest of the emotionally shitty aspects of living there) by just... mentally withdrawing from anything that wasn't safe. We ate meals together when I was little, so maybe food tied into that, idk.

I'm also autistic and not super in touch with my body at the best of times. So... it was pretty easy to just... forget to eat.

I found some risk criteria for developing an eating disorder sometime in high school, and accurately recognized myself in the parts that were focusing on "perfectionist" and "very focused on self control," so I made a very deliberate effort to Not Diet pretty early on. I was the only non athletic family member (still am--everyone else will run marathons or 5ks together on family gatherings) in part because I couldn't breathe when I ran, and I'm also the fattest person in my immediate family.

I tend to stop eating and think of food as actively unsafe and hostile when I get stressed out, and my willingness to eat tends to be one of the first things to deteriorate when my mental health does. I tend to eat high sugar things when that happens, trying to get calories into me, and that sometimes crashes my blood sugar and makes everything worse.

As an adult, I've also been broke for most of my adult life and very conscious of my finances. If I haven't planned ahead and brought food with me, I often find it hard to convince myself that it's worth it to spend the money on a snack or meal for myself - - which means I skip a lot of meals and then wind up wondering why I'm in a brain fog.

I avoid diet talk very rigidly, in part because I am really worried about what might happen if I picked it up. It's really tempting sometimes to just not eat anything at all, maybe have a Real Problem someone might care about, get that positive validation about my body even though said body doesn't work so great in terms of breathing no matter what.

if any of these experiences, or aspects of these experiences resonate, consider that you may have an eating disorder.

here is one description of what a healthy relationship to food looks like. because we live in a diet culture, it’s often really hard to tell what’s normalized dysfunction, what’s a diagnosable eating disorder, and what is healthy and normal - and sometimes, healthy and normal aren’t the same thing. people with healthy relationships to food will

eat when they want to

eat as much as they feel like eating

eat what they feel like eating

not hold their habits and needs against themselves

give their body as much energy as required to sustain AND thrive

have compassion with themselves for shifting needs - more food on one day is as valid as less food on another.

do not weight- or body-shame themselves or others

respect their bodies capacities, limits, and needs

(one thing you hear when looking for recovery tips for eating disorders is to “respect and honour your hunger” and “to make peace with food” but if your ED is anything like mine, you can see how difficult this is. my problem isn’t a lack of peace with food, it’s that eating is inherently distressing for me and everything else just keeps making it harder and worse.

but you know what would help my ED? eating foods one-course meals (which I do already) and eating things which don’t require assembly or complexity. foods like pasta, pizza, sandwiches, curd-rice, are all easier for me to eat than anything else. i try to snack on chocolate and chips and fruit, because they’re easily accessed and provide energy. my goals for myself are small: eat, as much as you are able to, do not unduly distress yourself.)

don’t punish yourself for having to figure out your access needs around food from scratch. don’t hurt yourself for what you need to eat and what you find easy.you can have an ednos at any weight. remember that more weight is better than less weight - more IS healthier. take care of yourself

recovering from an ednos looks different for everyone because ednos ARE different for everyone. it’s up to you to figure out your balance, but of course there is help and resources available. check out blogs like @heavyweightheart. try to cultivate a body positive and disability positive environment around yourself, because that helps no matter what you have going on. best of luck!

#eating disorder not otherwise specified #ednos #ed cw #Anonymous

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bravebones-archived · 5 years ago

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TASK 003.

BASIC INFORMATION

Full Name: Amelia Susan Bones.

Nickname(s): Am, Amy, Mel, Lia.

Age: 20.

Date of Birth: 12 April 1958.

Hometown: London, England.

Current Location: London, England.

Gender: Female.

Blood Status: Half-Blood.

Pronouns: She/Her.

Orientation: Bisexual.

Religion: Agnostic.

Affiliation(s): Order of the Phoenix.

Occupation: Auror Trainee, Ministry of Magic.

Living Arrangements: Shares a two-story with other aurors-to-be, as is required of all trainees. Once her training is completed, she’ll be moving back in with Edgar until she settles into a flat of her own (although he is currently unaware of these plans).

Language(s) Spoken: English, French (semi-fluent).

Accent: British/Cockney.

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE

Face Claim: Zoey Deutch.

Hair Colour: Brunette, with auburn highlights.

Eye Colour: Hazel.

Height: 5′4″.

Weight: 49 kg.

Build: Petite, with slight muscular tone in her arms and legs.

Tattoos: A butterfly on her right wrist, and a bumblebee on her left one. She also has a tattoo that reads ‘Veritas Aequitas’ (Truth and Justice), which spreads across her lower ribcage.

Piercings: None. She’s just never been particular inclined to piercings, particularly now that she’s about to be an Auror.

Clothing Style: Amelia has always preferred comfort over couture. The contents of her wardrobe consist of oversized shirts, an abundance of jeans and pant suits, for the rare occasion that more formal attire is required.

Usual Expression: Having always believed that a day without laughter is a day wasted, Amelia is found with a beaming smile on her face, more often than not. Animated and authentic in her expressions, her facial features are reflective of whatever emotions are brewing just beneath the surface.

Distinguishing Characteristics: While there is much about Amelia that distinguishes herself from others of her likeness, the most common is the colour of her hair. The latter is something that she changes with considerable regularity, whereas there is little than can be done to change the former, apart from wearing high heels (and she’d sooner be caught dead than wear those).

HEALTH

Physical Ailments: N/A.

Neurological Conditions: N/A.

Allergies: Dust, pollen, and anything that comes with the changing of the seasons. She also is allergic to dairy, although it only really bothers her if she consumes products where it is highly concentrated.

Sleeping Habits: It is all or nothing, when it comes to Amelia’s sleep patterns. She will go for days sleeping for maybe 5 hours a night, and then crashes for an upwards of 12 hours (usually on the weekends or after a night of pub-crawling with Edgar). She is also known to fall asleep just about anywhere, and does so quite frequently.

Eating Habits: Having to maintain some degree of mindfulness about her diet because of her job, she tries to fuel her body the way it needs to be. She’s also got a massive sweet tooth and a killer metabolism, both of which don’t particularly lend themselves to making the most nutritious of choices.

Exercise Habits: Since she was a small child, Amelia has never been able to stay in the same place for very long. It is rare and entirely uncommon for Amelia to go a day without exercising, whether that is through her training drills with Alastor or early-morning races with Edgar. Part of her consistent fitness routine is due to professional obligation, but a bigger part of it has to do with the fact that she truly enjoys being active.

Emotional Stability: 8/10. While not without her struggles in this area (particularly in light of the challenges of adulthood and the growing war), Amelia has always been adaptable and well-adjusted, and her emotional well-being is reflective of that.

Sociability: Coming from a relatively big family and an equally large social circle, Amelia can count on her right hand the number she has actually been alone, and she much prefers it that way. The very definition,

Body Temperature: Cold, cold, cold. Definitely sleeps with three comforters in the middle of August.

Addictions: Caffeine. She has also started to develop a slight dependency on calming draughts, although her need is far cry from an addiction.

Drug Use: Pot, and nothing more. Her usage is strictly recreational, and the instances where she does light up are few and far between.

Alcohol Use: Amelia drinks with some regularly (about 2-3 nights a week), although her indulging is mostly a social matter. She has acquired a taste for hard liquor since her training started and has a relatively generous stock of whiskey and bourbon at the flat.

PERSONALITY

Label: The Audacious, The Recruit, The Truth-Seeker

Positive Traits: Audacious | Strong-Willed | Virtuous

Negative Traits: Competitive | Impatient | Stubborn

Goals/Desires: A free-spirit to her core, she is too preoccupied with what is in front of her to consider what will be in front of her one, two or five years down the road. But if she had to name one, it would be to play a part in helping win the war, and to secure a future worth living for her friends and family.

Fears: Being alone, dark and confined spaces, spiders and thunderstorms.

Hobbies: Quidditch, Exploding Snap, weekly visits to the pub and spending time doors (especially running, swimming and playing football).

Habits: Cursing, hitting people when she gets excited, tapping her right foot and smoothing her hair, in the odd event its not in some form of an updo.

FAVOURITES

Season: Summer.

Colour: Purple.

Music: Queen, or ABBA when she and Edgar go out for karaoke.

Movies: The Aristocats. Edgar and Amelia still bond over this film regularly.

Quidditch Team: Puddlemere United, despite Edgar’s constant attempts to persuade her that the Chudley Cannons are the far superior team.

Beverage: A woman of varied tastes, it all depends on her mood. Sometimes she fancies a shot of Dragon Barrel Brandy, whereas others she prefers a glass of elderflower wine.

Food: Literally anything from Mum’s kitchen. On any given day, the leftovers from her weekly visits home comprise about 90% of the contents of her fridge.

Person: Edgar Bones.

FAMILY

Father: Jacob Bones, 60. The apple of his eye, There is just something about the relationship between a father and his daughter, particularly when she is the only one of his children who is female.

Mother: Amira Bones (nee Proudmore), 59. While they are the spitting image of one another, there isn’t much else they have in common. Their relationship was a bit tumultuous during Amelia’s teenage years, but their dynamic has since

Sibling(s):

Nicholas Bones, 24. They have never gotten on - not as kids, and definitely not now. Out of all the Bones siblings, their relationship is the most contemptuous, and she can’t stand the sight of him.

Jeremiah Bones, 23. Their relationship is indifferent at best. She doesn’t dislike him, but she’s not going out of her way to spend time with him, either. For whatever reason, they just never seemed to click.

Edgar Bones, 22. Best friend, closest confidante and favourite sibling, all rolled into one. Amelia could never contemplate the idea of an existence without Edgar, and their relationship is the most important one in her life.

Children: None.

Pet(s):

Othello, an Eagle Owl. A gift from her father when she turned 11.

Toulouse, a Munchkin cat. Warm and affectionate, he really lives up to the name of his breed.

Family’s Financial Status: Her family is more financially set than most, but Amelia has always been conservatively modest when it comes to the matter of money. She could rely on their financial support with no issue, but instead chooses to support herself on her own income/resources.

EXTRA

Zodiac Sign: Brave | Independent | Impulsive

MBTI: ENTP (The Debater).

Enneagram: The Opportunist (7, W8).

Temperament: Sanguine.

Camp Half-blood: Themis Cabin (34).

Moral Alignment: Chaotic Good.

Primary Vice: Pride.

Primary Virtue: Diligence.

Element: Fire.

#about #praedontask #only took me five days but here it is!!!!!

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yeschaoticsheepstarlightposts · 5 years ago

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16 Healthy Habits to Improve Your Life

Habits rule our lives and shape our days. Whether you're conscious of it or not everything from your emotional response to worry about how you dress within the morning may be a habit. We all have good ones and that we all have bad ones. Some are more known to us than others and that we all have a desire to develop new healthy habits from time to time.

It all starts with a goal. A goal to enhance a particular aspect of your life. Maybe you would like to reduce, eat healthier, make new friends, get more fresh air. Having a goal of wellbeing is usually the primary step we take before creating new healthy habits. Try these 7 Tips to assist you to achieve your goals.

For example, if you've got a goal to lose 10 lbs then you better believe you’re getting to need to create some healthy daily habits to assist you to get thereto goal. Of course, it's not all work, work, work. Creating healthy habits are often fun. Healthy habits can improve our lives and make us happier people.

If you've got been trying to find some new healthy habits to include in your life then this post is for you. Creating healthy habits may be a wonderful thanks to improving your health, your happiness, and your whole life. Carving a touch time for yourself out of your busy calendar to include a healthy habit is that the ultimate in self-care.

So what are you waiting for? Are you able to make the foremost of some time and incorporate some new healthy habits into your life? Let’s do this!

Healthy habits have the facility to dramatically improve our quality of life and our overall happiness. Try these 16 healthy habits and begin loving your life.

Drink a Glass of Water very first thing within the Morning This was a habit that I managed to ingrained into my daily routine this year and that I am so happy that I did. Often we feel hungry or crave caffeine very first thing within the morning, but actually, we are just dehydrated. beverage takes care of that issue and after my body gets its dose of H2O I can have my coffee and breakfast and sometimes don't desire a second cup of caffeine.

My digestion has improved, my dependence on caffeine has decreased and that I am ready to drink more water during the day. It’s a triple win.

Eat Breakfast It seems so odd that eating breakfast every morning can assist you to be healthier, but it's true. By eating a healthy breakfast your body has more energy all day long helping you burn more calories. to not mention it sets the tone for the day ahead. Prepare yourself an easy breakfast meal, like cereal or a smoothie and after a couple of weeks see the changes that begin to require place.

Connect with Nature Ahh, the good outdoors. Did you recognize that being in nature helps normalize our sleep patterns, increases vitamin D in our bodies and helps lower our stress hormones? Just to call a couple of. Being in nature for just 10 minutes each day can drastically improve our overall health. I get it, not everyone lives within the country or has quick access to nature. However creating healthy habits like gardening, or a weekly enter the park with friends could also be just what the doctor ordered.

Start a Gratitude Practice Write down a couple of belongings you are grateful for every day and watch as your inner talk and perspectives on the planet change to be more gracious and positive. Incorporating a gratitude practice into my life has changed my attitude toward the higher. Helping me to ascertain the great in a day which is usually harder to try to then you'll realize. The negativity of stories and social media can take its toll. But don’t forget there are tons of excellent in your life and therefore the world too.

Start the 30-day Gratitude Challenge to assist you to begin your habit off right. Or download the simplest You- Simple Living and Wellness Diary to assist you to embrace healthy self-reflection.

Stand up Regularly This is one of those healthy habits that I even have been trying to include in my life lately. If you're someone who sits for the bulk of your day then taking regular standing breaks, a minimum of once an hour can dramatically improve your health. Taking standing breaks helps decrease your chance of weight gain, decreases back pain, can lower your chance at bottom decease and even improve your mood.

Being a healthy well rounded and happy human is all about balance. So attempt to make a habit of standing during your dominantly sitting day.

Go to Bed at an equivalent Time Each Night Going to bed at an equivalent time each night no matter the day of the week may be a wonderful thanks to ensuring regular sleep habits. What you'll start to note is it takes you less time to nod off in the dark, you get a more solid sleep and other habits during your waking life are easier to develop also.

Take Regular Phone Breaks Many folks are within the terrible habit of checking our phones all the time. We check them within the middle of conversations, while bent dinner, or once we are close to attending sleep. For no reason aside from seeing them. Giving yourself designated times to see your phone may be a good way to interrupt this bad habit. But it's also an exquisite thanks to getting into the habit of living within the moment without your phone.

Incorporate Seeds into your Diet This is such an easy healthy habit that you simply can begin to include in your diet directly. Healthy seeds like flax, chia, and hemp seeds are very easy to include in the meals you already eat. Throw some in your morning yogurt, your smoothies or salads. These seeds help reduce blood glucose, are a superb source of protein and should even be ready to reduce your risk of cancer.

Cook Meals Regularly This has become one of my favorite healthy habits and has numerous health benefits for us. a number of those being portion control, controlling diet and helping you economize . an excellent habit to urge into is cooking a couple of staple meals for yourself during the week. At the very least attempt to cook the bulk of your meals reception to make sure a healthy diet.

Coming up with healthy meals reception is often difficult which is why I often order meals from Hello Fresh. they supply 3 easy to organize meals to your door hebdomadally. I highly recommend trying them out if you're trying to urge into the habit of cooking reception but feel overwhelmed by checking out recipes to undertake each night.

Get $40.00 Off your First Hello Fresh Box with my Discount Code. Read Daily Doctors and scientists agree that learning new things and keeping your mind sharp is vital to healthier brains in adulthood. the advantages of reading are numerous, and if you would like to stretch your brain muscles and learn something new making a habit of this easy hobby may be a good way to try to do just that. Set a goal for every day or year and see if you'll reach it. With the utilization of Goodreads, you'll track what your reading and stay motivated by setting yearly goals.

Reading also can be an exquisite thanks to assisting you to reach other goals in your life, by helping you learn the talents you would like to urge there.

Take Your Vitamins I know there's tons of conflicting information about vitamins out there but this is often a habit that I follow myself. confine mind I'm no doctor. However, I will be able to say this, taking vitamins may be a good way to stop a drag before it starts. Wouldn’t you rather look out of your body instead of trying to repair it once it's ill? Vitamins aren't the sole answer but taking a multivitamin daily no matter your age may be a wonderful thanks to optimizing your health.

Do your research or chat together with your doctor or nutritionist to ascertain if taking vitamins are some things that might work well for you.

Take Micro Vacations Planning large adventurous trips are some things I like to try to to. However, I can often only afford to try to do this once every 2 or 3 years. the matter thereupon is you would like breaks more often than that. that's where micro vacations are available. Taking an extended weekend regularly can drastically improve your overall mood, your relationships with others and your health. numerous people struggle to form time for self-care, family and themselves so making micro vacations one among your regular healthy habits may be a wonderful thanks to releasing a number of your valuable time.

Make Self Care a Priority It is often easy to urge into the bad habit of putting yourself last. once you don’t make yourself a priority you become drained, stressed and altogether empty. This makes being there for those you're keen on difficult. Starting some self-care habits may be a wonderful thanks to feeling relaxed, unwind and be the simplest version of you.

Something as simple a taking a category you're keen on, getting to the spa or getting a soothing bath may be a wonderful thanks to showing yourself the self-care you deserve. The reward may be a radiant, vibrant and happier you! What more could you want?

Practice Simplifying in how Minimalism and straightforward living are taking the interwebs by storm lately. It looks like numerous people are looking for a less materialistic lifestyle and are craving alternatives to clutter and materialism. this is often truly amazing and therefore the benefits of owning less impact on our surroundings and our lives in numerous positive ways.

To begin a more minimal lifestyle start with small habits, like buying less clothing, or using recyclable bags when getting groceries. But don’t stop there, still, push your boundaries until minimizing is more of a healthy habit than materialism currently is.

Check out my new ebook The Year of straightforward Living for all types of straightforward living tips and challenges.

Exercise an equivalent Time a day People who compute an equivalent time a day are much more likely to stay to the habit of understanding. it's going to be difficult to create that habit within the beginning, however, if you stick with it, understanding an equivalent time a day or week will eventually become a habit. Find what time works best for you and check out to optimize that.

10 Minutes of Meditation per Day I have been raving about the advantages of meditation ever since I started meditating myself 3 years ago. this easy healthy habit and practice have transformed everything about my life within the most amazing ways. I'm more mindful, content, aware, calm and have less anxiety than premeditation me. If there's one habit that you simply should incorporate into your daily routine it's meditation.

A common myth is that you simply got to meditate for hours to ascertain results, but that's simply not true. Consistent short periods of meditation will show you wonderful leads to building your mindfulness and improving your wellbeing.

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su8arandspite · 5 years ago

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For Old Time’s Sake

Summary: It’s 1995 in Hawkins. When Heather Johnson returns home for the Hawkins High School reunion, she comes face to face with an old lover. Or, alternatively, the one where Steve falls in love with Heather all over again.

Steve Harrington x oc

Warnings: 18+, mature content, smut

Tags: @casaharrington

The town of Hawkins kept its secrets well. From the outside, and to every kid who made a run for it after high school, not much about the town changed. Small town stillness washed over the buildings and suburban homes that Heather Johnson passed on the drive home to her parents’ place. If not for the empty lot where the Dairy Queen had been and the newly painted houses, Hawkins could have been a time machine to 1985.

She parked curbside outside of her childhood home. Through the trees, just past the Harrington home, she could vaguely make out the ruins of what was once Hawkins Lab. Even abandoned, it brought bile to her throat. When Heather left Hawkins, danger eschewed the rosy lens of childhood she knew it under. Time blurred and muddied her memories, but fleeting images of a boy with a baseball bat comforted her; whatever it was, they defeated it together.

Heather yanked the keys from the ignition. She didn’t come back to dig up old nightmares. Steadying her breath, she hauled her suitcase from the hatch of her car into her old home. Whatever she saw ten years ago in that shadowy building couldn’t hurt her now.

She retired to her bedroom that night with a head swimming in unsaid words and forgotten dreams she bottled up and left here in Hawkins. Traveling through the hallways of her parents’ house brewed an unwelcome, lonely sense of dejavú that could swallow Heather whole.

The door closed softly behind her. Heather looked to the window next door, partially out of habit, partially wrapped up in foolish hope, but instead found the curtains drawn. She longed for the secret notes passed through window panes on late nights and the stolen kisses as he stumbled into her bedroom. That was- they were- long gone now.

Now, standing alone in her girlish lilac bedroom, she felt like a stranger in her own life. The knick-knacks, trophies, polaroids, and photo booth strips belonged to someone else entirely. She thumbed over the picture frame sitting proudly on her nightstand, swiping the dust away from the picture-perfect memory of two smitten teens. Her mother must have retrieved it from the floor and replaced it sometime after she left. The crack down the center obscured her face, but she cared more about the way Steve looked at her. Just as she let herself want, her finger caught on the crack and blood sullied the cheap frame. Cursing, she cushioned the wound between her lips to dull the bleeding.

Heather Johnson blossomed into her own person through the past decade; she had a place to call her own, a job she felt passionately for, everything she once doubted she could earn without her Daddy’s help. Something about Hawkins, though, made that woman shrink slowly back into the scared girl who ran away from it.

High school for Heather looked picture perfect. In some ways, it had been, yet a part of her always felt sandwiched into the tiny pond that Hawkins was and desperate to swim upstream into the outside world. For someone with as many friends and as surrounded by people as Heather the Cheerleader had been, she never felt more lonely. Her friends’ parents worked boring desk jobs that required no traveling and most of them had one boyfriend or another to waste their time with. She kissed as many boys as she could just trying to make up for the loneliness she felt in her parents’ absence; it always found its way back. Until Steve.

Steve Harrington lived next door. He talked too much, slept around quite a bit, and had a poor taste in friends. Heather might nod along and listen as Laurie or Becky rambled off reasons why he could not be trusted, but she never cared to listen. She liked to think she knew Steve perfectly well.

The first time Heather met Steve, she might have agreed with what her friends thought of him. They knew each other only through summer block parties and whatever other events their parents dragged them to until 1982. That summer leading up to sophomore year changed a lot for Heather; her body filled out and her Dad started leaving home more. She took up a job lifeguarding at the community pool and returned to school in August sunkissed, slightly curvy, and in need of a little trouble. Steve, who received a shiny new BMW for his sixteenth birthday, looked exactly like the kind of trouble she wanted.

She had him completely, utterly wrapped around her finger by the end of September. Heather and Steve soiled every inch of that car as summer came to autumn. She only meant to distract herself, but her desire for fire and trouble died down into an ache for the boy next door. Heather let herself love him wholly. Steve became her future; he tamed her rebellious spirit into a lovestruck girl who wanted only for him to stay with her forever.

Forever, for Heather and Steve, instead became the beginning of junior year. He stomped on her heart and spit it right back at her. As Heather pulled back to lick her wounds, Steve zeroed in on his next prey. Nancy Wheeler stood for everything Heather could never be. Girls like Nancy didn’t just offer up their virginities to the first boy who called them pretty or invent their own hangover cures out of necessity. Heather hated the thought of Steve with someone like that, because she could never be half as good. Good girls like Nancy shone like blank canvases void of any tarnish and squeaky-clean enough to bring home to Mom; Heather the Whore and her Father-sized baggage could never compete with a girl like that.

Even now, the sight of that swimming pool nauseated her. Mr. Harrington had it drained years ago, but she only saw the very end of Barbara Holland’s life, the thing that took her, and the boy she still loved already falling for Nancy Wheeler, all right outside her bedroom window. Heather yanked her curtains shut. The demogorgon might be unreachable now, but nothing so far healed her battered little heart.

---

“Joey, you little shit! Let go of your sister’s hair”

Heather clung to the kitchen island, watching as the red-headed toddlers tornadoed across the living room. Carol stormed out of the bedroom sporting only one shoe and looking more grown up than Heather ever imagined she would be. Tommy and Carol’s wedding unsurprisingly predated the prompt birth of their first child by mere months. Between the two nightmares currently messing up their house and the heavily pregnant bump in her purple gown, Carol looked about one temper tantrum away from a spectacular breakdown of her own.

However exhausted parenthood and married life looked to someone like Heather, that new sheen in Carol’s eyes and the bizarrely adult change in Tommy’s demeanor suggested otherwise. The life of a Hawkins housewife, with all its cliquey glory and PTA snobs, suited Carol’s catty nature and, to everyone’s surprise, fatherhood had calmed Tommy’s recklessness. Heather took one look at their messy, chaotic, love-filled life, and her confidence crumbled. Her life in New York outpaced anything Hawkins could offer her, but she couldn’t pretend that she had once not wanted anymore more than this life with Steve.

“For fuck’s sake Tommy, would you hurry up?”

Carol herded her husband towards the door, cursing under her breath at his inability to correctly tie a necktie. If not for the wedding rings and Carol’s baby bump, Heather might have mistaken the scene for a recreation of their senior prom night.

Heather piled into the backseat of Carol’s mini-van. Tommy stuck his head out of the driver’s seat as they sped off to Hawkins High, screaming:

“Class of ‘85, motherfuckers!”

Carol yanked him back into the car by the collar. She added a swift smack to the head for good measure. Heather smiled to herself; at least some things never did change.

As the burgundy minivan pulled into the spot once reserved for Heather’s Jeep, she saw her life from the outside. Without the safety of her green and white cheerleading outfit, Hawkins High School looked a whole lot less impressive than back in the day.

Tommy and Carol dispersed into the crowd not long after their arrival, while Heather gravitated towards the open bar. She greeted passersby who recognized her and watched the crowd swell. She stirred her drink absently and watched the night unfold around her.

Old cheer squad members earned careers in fashion or television or teaching. Her third grade best friend married her ninth grade lab partner. Old Hawkins friends gathered like nothing ever changed, but Heather felt acutely aware that everything had.

Meanwhile, Steve tore himself away from a conversation with a few classmates he only vaguely remembered. He stopped a few feet away from her, as if unsure whether or not to proceed.

Time dealt Steve Harrington the short hand. He stayed in Hawkins, he told himself, not out of fear but just to keep an eye on things for a while. Jim Hopper promised to call if any more monsters popped up. No need, he said. I think I’ll stick around a while longer. First, Nancy and Jonathan Byers, even Billy Hargrove, graduated and took the fast track out of town. By the time Dustin and Lucas and Mike and the rest of the rugrats set off to college, Steve was fresh out of excuses.

Hopper took a quick visit down to the record store where Steve took up a job to pay his bills. He leaned down over the counter Steve worked behind and lowered his voice:

“What the hell are you still doing here, kid? We both know you don’t belong in this shithole.”

“Yeah,” he deadpanned. “You’re probably right”

Hopper, more a father to Steve than his own ever was, refused to let him give up like this. Where Steve saw in himself the self-righteous asshole who vandalized the town movie theater, Hopper saw the young man who readily put his own life on the line to save those kids.

“Look, I don’t really care what you do,” he lied. “Just quit feeling sorry for yourself and do something with your life.”

The next morning, Hopper arrived at the station to find Steve Harrington sitting with his tail between his legs in the chair facing his desk. By that time the next year, he was the latest member of the Hawkins PD. And a damn good one at that, he might add.

For the first time in his life, Steve had everything he could want. Everything, that is, except someone to share it with.

His heart skittered as he worked up the courage to get Heather alone. He’d heard that she came alone and wanted little more than to catch her attention. Things ended so badly between them- his fault, really- that he hardly imagined she wanted to see him again. So, with the same sense of humility as that fateful morning in Chief Hopper’s office, he tapped her shoulder:

“Save me a dance? For old time’s sake.”

Gooseflesh rippled her bare arms; she would recognize that voice anywhere. Heather set her cocktail glass on the bar, turning her head towards him. He looked the spitting image of the nervous boy who first asked to take her out to the movies. Hands scrunched in his suit pockets, and sporting the very same crooked smile she remembered, Steve Harrington stood before her.

Heather’s powder blue dress blended well with her skin tone in the dim gym lighting and her dark hair popped against the fabric. His heart swelled at the sight of her standing in the very same gym they shared their first kiss in. Steve wondered how he ever let a girl like that slip through his fingers.

“Okay,” she said. “For old time’s sake”

He led her by the hand to the makeshift dance floor, feeling for the first time in ages the sweaty anticipation of a lovestruck school boy. Her rosy cheeks swelled with a smile in tandem with her shaky hands as they locked between the ducktail of hair at the nape of his neck. His hands resting easily on her hips, they danced.

“Y’know,” he chuckled. “I really didn’t expect to see you again. I’m glad I did”

The way he looked at her, even after all these years, sent Heather to the verge of tears; no one had looked at her like since she was a teenager. Since she and Steve were in love.

“Yeah,” her voice came out soft and small. “Me, too.”

They’d come full circle. Although life led them in different directions, and took Heather and Steve to the wrong people in their journey to find the love they first had in each other, it seemed their story looped back to that dingy old gym. Steve knew the second he saw her that tonight would be a whole lot more than reminiscing with a lost lover. Even if Heather didn’t know that, yet, Steve didn’t mind waiting.

Steve would wait forever for her if it only meant that he could see that smile one last time. The way her brown eyes sparkled in the dim lighting, the way her hips filled out the fabric of her gown, the way her delicate touch ghosted over him as they danced; Heather was filled with reminders of the way he once loved her. The way Steve still loved her.

Heather cupped his cheek, stroking it with her thumb and watching after him with a melancholy smile.

“I am so proud of you,” she whispered.

Heather clung to her once-lover long past the end of slow songs, the two swaying to synthetic pop tunes. It seemed that each of them darted around fears that, should they let go of each other, they might never get the chance to do so again. Whether she admitted it to herself or not, Heather let herself believe that, maybe, she was always meant to find her way back to him. She felt not like an adult but once again like a teenage girl nervously dancing with the prom date of her dreams.

He nuzzled his nose forward against her cheek. His hot breath fanned out against her skin and pulled her in even more. The sweet, mesmerizing scent of Steve’s rosewood cologne, the ghost of spearmint chewing gum, and a hint of musk hypnotized Heather. As he finally kissed her, Heather folded into his touch. The kiss was a decade in the making, the kind featured on movie screens and cheesy discount novels. Every word they were too afraid to speak into existence and all their repressed emotions poured into the kiss.

Reluctantly, he broke off the kiss. Only as the final song of the night faded into its closing note did Heather pull herself away from his warmth. Steve stole a quick kiss to her cheek. They walked slowly towards the edge of the dance floor.

“Here,” he said. Steve draped his sports coat over Heather’s shoulders.

Hair bouncing along with his lopsided grin, Steve couldn’t take his eyes off of Heather and that captivating laugh of hers. Even as she led him away from the dance floor, Steve found himself absorbed in her. Her neatly styled hair fell rebelliously out of place, the heat on her cheeks and perspiration from nerves and the dancing all adding just the right amount of lived-in smudge to her make-up. Heather looked radiant. The words fell out of his loose lips like thoughts so strong that his mouth couldn’t contain them:

“You’re beautiful.”

She slumped into a seat, letting out a breathy laugh. He slid into the empty chair beside her. Although his mind seemed acutely aware that they were running on borrowed time, Steve swore that the night would last forever. Time was edging on despite his best efforts to run backwards against the current; he would never be fifteen again, and their relationship would never be from a clean slate again.

She thanked him quietly. Another stolen kiss followed. The night grew thin around them, their classmates retiring to whatever lives they put on pause for the night's trip down memory lane, but neither could be bothered to tear themselves away. Heather was quiet for some time afterwards, trying to make sense of her emotions. Steve turned to her, forehead pulled in thought:

“We made quite the mess, didn’t we?”

Heather paused, tearing herself away from the fears of yesterday. Her eyes flickered to him. She smiled sadly. All Steve has to do was stay. When it was Heather’s turn to choose Steve, she decided to run instead. It seemed neither of them had the courage to face the very real feelings between them that even time and betrayal couldn’t seem to erase.

“Yeah,” she said eventually. “We sure did.”

He chuckled dryly, rubbing his palms together in thought. The universe seemed to laugh at them, to revel in the tragedy of their bad timing; love itself just wasn’t enough to make them work. His eyes begged Heather to ease his nerves. Steve needed Heather to give him some sign that this was more than just in his head.

“Why is this so hard for us?”

The worry in his tired face looked all too familiar to Heather. A sinking feeling returned to her stomach.

It wasn’t until the summer after graduation that Heather let herself start to forgive Steve for breaking her heart. With the drama and confines of high school now behind them, Heather and Steve vowed to make that summer theirs. A last hurrah of bad decisions with minimal consequences. What they intended to be a string of crashed house parties and getting drunk by the quarry instead was a summer filled with late-night conversations on the hood of Steve’s car. With Heather often teetering between sunburnt and sun-kissed after a shift at the community pool and Steve sticky and burnt out from serving ice cream at Starcourt Mall, they lacked much time or energy to live out the summer they outlined.

Neither of them really minded the extra time to themselves. In fact, Steve soon found himself excited for his shift to end and comforted by the knowledge that Heather was waiting for him in the parking lot, food in hand. By late June, Heather had his order memorized and Billy Hargrove had stopped trying to get her to hang around with him past closing time. That was how they found themselves devouring take out from Dairy Queen, still in their work uniforms, and sitting closer than necessary on the BMW.

She wiped the grease from her fingers with a napkin, laughing. Heather caught a glimpse of Steve in her peripheral vision- dripping with happiness, a shine to his eyes, his Scoops Ahoy sailor hat sagging lowly on his head.

Having Heather back in his life, even if only for brief, stolen moments on the hood of his BMW and late summer nights thick with their past, the future; it patched up the broken parts of his battered heart. She felt like home. It might only be for the summer, but Steve fully intended to hold onto every second with Heather that he could.

“Hey, Steve?”

He looked so eager, so happy to see her. Steve wouldn’t even know what hit him. That summer, he slowly tore down the walls their break-up built against her and she knew from the start that she couldn’t take him with her. The thing about running away from her problems, it seemed, was that Heather had to abandon every good thing in her life right along with the bad. Unfortunately, that included Steve.

She knew she should have told him from the beginning, that she never should have let herself get that close to him again so soon before leaving town. Heather should have told him, and yet she couldn't bring herself to break it to him. Not that Heather hadn’t tried to; she had, many times. It just hurt too much.

His laughter tapered off into an inquisitive hum.

“Do you ever think about leaving Hawkins?”

Maybe it had treated him less than kindly the past year or so, but it was still the only home Steve had ever known. The thought of skipping town never crossed his mind. He decided a long time ago that he would stand his ground and fight until his dying breath if he had to- Steve was braver, more stubborn than Heather that way. Another reason she would tell herself they didn’t work out; Steve Harrington was a fighter but Heather Johnson was a survivor. And sometimes that meant putting herself first.

“No, I can’t say that I have. Why?”

She shrugged, uncharacteristically shy:

“I don’t know,” she balled the napkin up into a makeshift stress ball. “I-I just think maybe I need to get out of this town, Steve. Parts of me can’t seem to shake what I saw, what I did-“

She let Barbara Holland die. Heather watched from her bedroom and did nothing as the thing ate her whole. And when she saw the damn thing again, she hadn’t been strong enough to kill it. She couldn’t save its future victims.

“Hey,” Steve pulled her under his arm. “Don’t say that, okay? You did what you could… We all did. It’s not your fault.”

Tilting her chin upwards with his fingertips, Steve pressed a meaningful kiss to her lips. She leaned into him. His embrace quieted her thoughts enough to mute her worries away. It wasn’t the first kiss they shared that summer, but something hid behind it that made Heather unable to shake him- so much so that she lost her nerve to break the news to him. She left Hawkins the next morning, while Steve dreamt of seeing her again.

The guilt ate at her from the inside out until the town she once loved only suffocated her with living nightmares and her own inadequacies. Deep down, Heather knew that running away from her problems would not solve anything. Still, she craved a change of scenery, an escape from the reminders of what Hawkins truly was under its all-American suburban facade. Hawkins was, quite simply, home to the gates of Hell and Heather didn’t want to stick around and wait for them to crack their way open again.

They had, eventually, done just that; only, Heather wasn’t by Steve’s side that July Fourth when he needed her the most.

Steve stood abruptly, offering her his hand:

“You want to get a drink?”

Nodding, she smiled. The last thing she wanted was to leave Steve’s side. Heather took his hand and followed him through the parking lot. They walked in a comfortable silence. She squeezed his hand in hers.

“Steve?”

The pair paused beside his car. Heather glanced up at him with the guilt of a child caught breaking their parents’ valuables while playing inside the house.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you I was leaving,” she paused. “I should have.”

Steve’s eyes softened. He brushed loose hair from her face, smiling sadly.

“I know you are,” he said. “It’s okay, Heather. That was a long time ago.”

Forgiven or not, Heather still juggled her feelings of guilt and lingering feelings for Steve between stolen glances on the drive home. He may have absolved her, but Heather still needed

to forgive herself first.

“Come on,” Steve opened the passenger door. “How ‘bout that drink?”

---

The pair of them stumbled into Steve’s old bedroom between stolen kisses and wandering hands. Retracing steps from a lifetime ago, they fumbled blindly in the dim lighting, too utterly consumed in each other to care much for the world outside those walls. There was only the electric rush of pure, raw sexual chemistry and unresolved feelings.

Steve pulled back momentarily, lips dripping in unspoken words. Heather shook her head, stroking his cheek sensually with her thumb:

“Not now, Steve,” she shushed him, her waiting kiss soaking up his silent fears.

He pulled her hips flush against his torso, working blindly on her dress zipper. Steve’s rough palms explored every inch of her flesh that he could reach. He pinched purple hickies into the crook of her neck, chasing after her as her head flopped in pleasure. Heather hadn’t let anyone mark her skin that way in years. Steve made her feel young again, like his touch was the Fountain of Youth and she was Ponce de Leon, drinking him in deeply.

Her dress pooled on the floor around her feet as Steve pushed the thin straps from her shoulders. She looked even more mesmerizing than he remembered. Heather grew into her curves; time transformed her from a bewitching teenage beauty to the woman of Steve’s dreams. And he wanted to feel, to taste, every inch of her.

Spreading her legs apart ever so slightly, Steve dropped to his knees before her. He thumbed at her through the meager fabric of her lace panties. Another hickey on her smooth upper thigh. He groaned at the smell of her arousal. His expert mouth latched hungrily onto her core through the fabric.

Heather wriggled in pure, hot pleasure against his magical lips. Her fingers dug into his scalp, pulling on his hair just the way she knew drove him crazy. Steve pushed aside her panties, buried his nose, his lips into her most sensitive nerves. She tasted like heaven to him, the mere sight of her writhing above him an ethereal vision. Her taste dizzied him and Steve coddled her closer to his lips.

Steve loved the chase almost as much as the kill itself. He knew what he was doing, and knew he was damn good at it, too. If Steve had been a wolf in the bedroom as a teenager, then the only thing to stop him now was a silver bullet. And Heather was his full moon.

Her first orgasm hit hard and unexpectedly early, received by Steve’s eager tongue. He pulled her in by the neck for another kiss. The salty taste of her own arousal clinging to his breath intrigued Heather; touching Steve turned all her other experiences into blurry non-memories. Touching Steve felt like coming home after a long day.

The sight of Steve in all his naked glory sent Heather into a tizzy. She licked teasingly along his length, easing her way into giving him the head of his life. As she worked, Heather focused in on the bliss reflected in his face.

“Jesus,” he whined. “I forgot how good you were at that.”

Eager to be inside her, Steve reluctantly pulled her back up to her feet. He backed her up against the bed. Heather melted back against his pillows, a siren waiting for him to fall right into her trap. He kneeled over her figure. Steve kissed her sweetly. One hand thumbed at her clit. In one fluid motion, he pushed inside her.

Steve loved the way she clung to her. Her touch only egged him on. Steve rutted into her deeply. He made love to her with a veracity and dedication that put every other man she’d been with to shame. It was only Steve.

With one final grunt sandwiched by her name, Steve came deep inside of her.

She fell back against his sheets, spent in a fucked-out bliss. Heather felt her life in the city slipping further from her mind the more Steve Harrington and his magnificent cock drew her to a future here.

“Do you remember what you said to me the night Nancy and I broke up?”

Heather hummed in her sleepy daze, nodding:

“Sure, I do.”

“Did you mean it?”

She rolled over on the pillow to face him, fully awake now. Heather blinked through the darkness. Grasping in the dark, she clamped their hands together. From behind his messy hair, Steve looked like a shivering puppy left out in the rain. A soft smile graced her lips. She thought of the last time she saw that look.

“She never loved me.”

Nancy might have been the good girl toying around with Hawkins’ playboy, but instead she tore Steve to shreds and ran for the hills. Now, he wanted someone to sympathize with him. Heather, though, had no room in her life to be anyone’s second choice.

Heather tossed the hat to her candy striper costume on the duvet, sighing. She pawed at the vomit stain on her skirt with a damp towel. Perhaps the only person in town who had missed Steve and Nancy’s fallout, Heather left Tina’s party early to lull a dangerously intoxicated Brittany Matthews home before she ruined anyone else’s costume.

“What? Why are you even here, Steve?”

“I don’t know,” he shrunk down. “This is the first place I thought of.”

Oblivious to his pity party, Heather fussed about. She tried to clean the night’s memory of her drunken, sophomore team mate nearly passed out on Tina’s front porch right off her dress right along with the stain.

“What the fuck are you talking about, Steve?”

“Nancy,” he suddenly fell sheepish. “She never loved me.”

Heather watched after him, incredulous. Her hands gripped at the soiled towel as she bit her tongue. Steve, craving some sort of reaction from her, pressed on:

“I should have known,” he sulked. “I mean…God, when did I become such a fuck-up? This is bullshit. Of course it was. I should have known no one could love me-”

“Oh, fuck you! I did! I loved you so much, Steve. You had to have known that.

“What? Heather-”

“You broke my fucking heart, Steve. I’m not about to pretend that I didn’t see this coming and I’m sure as hell not your shoulder to cry on”

She tossed the soiled washcloth right at his chest. If Steve hadn’t been crying before, he sure was now. Still no movement.

“But-“

“I think you should leave.”

When he made no moves to do so, some part of her snapped right along with the last string of her heart that still reached out for Steve. She plucked the picture frame from her nightstand, their picture, and chucked it towards him, only narrowly missing his head. It landed on the floor under her dresser, as cracked and broken as their relationship, where it stayed until well after Heather graduated and left home.

“Get the fuck out, Steve.”

He faltered a moment, her words hitting him full-force with the one thing he must have known and feared but chose to ignore for the past year. Thick layers of tears caked his cheeks. Steve moved slowly and fluidly back towards the window he snuck in through, hoping all the while that he might uncover some magic words to undo the damage he slung onto her poor heart. He found only silence, and by the time his feet hit the ground, Steve knew he’d really done it this time.

He wanted only to be the carefree fifteen-year-old who got to kiss her in secret moments shared in the backseat of his BMW and late at night in her bedroom, when her parents were asleep. Steve wanted Heather back, but this was too little, too late. She locked the window behind him.

Looking at him now, her heart ached. The stubborn parts of her hadn’t forgiven him for breaking her heart all those years ago. Yet, she mostly just wanted him.

“Yes.”

Steve pressed his lips lightly to her knuckles.

“For what it’s worth, I loved you too.”

Steve leaned over the extra pillows to face her.

When Steve awoke the next morning, he found himself surprised to see her messy hair splayed out across the pillow beside him, and utterly bewitched by the sight of Heather curling into the sheets as she slept soundly in his bed. He thought, though not for the first time in his life, that he might like to wake each day to the sight.

Later, as he walked her to her car, the idea still bounced around his mind. He grabbed at her hips, using every last drop of cheekiness to woo her away from that car. Steve let Heather go once before and he spent the next ten years regretting it.

“Stay.”

“You know I can’t.”

“What’s keeping you?

She exhaled with a soft laugh. Her home, her friends, her career, all waited for her back in the city. The only thing Hawkins, Indiana had that New York City didn’t was Steve Harrington.

“I’m sorry,” she kissed his lips sweetly. “Goodbye, Steve.”

He stood at the curb, hands balled into his shorts pockets, and watched her drive off until the Honda turned out of sight. Steve smiled after her, sporting the same smile he’d flashed the first time he told her his name, only this time a bitterness hid behind it.

Like Lot’s wife fleeing Sodom, Heather knew better than to turn around, knew his puppy dog eyes would trap her here forever, melt her down into a pillar of salt. And, like Lot’s wife, she did anyways.

She knew she’d see him again, if only in her dreams.

-----

Heather nervously twirled the phone cord around her finger. She stared at the slip of paper and dialed his phone number, her mind stuck over the words. The last time she felt this afraid, Heather lodged an axe into the neck of an interdimensional monster. This time, though, she knew that wouldn’t solve her problems.

“Steve? I need to see you.”

The trek to Indiana did little to calm her nerves. She drove silently, the radio turned down to silence. No matter how many times Heather practiced the speech in her head, it didn’t get any easier.

She stood at his doorstep. Fiddling with her hands, she contemplating blowing him off. Heather felt out of place at his apartment. To her, Steve would always be the boy next door. No matter what happened tonight. She thought of him always as he was then- handsome, full of life, brimming with dreams. Full of love for her.

When he opened the door to let her in, Steve couldn’t dull his smile. He looked almost the same as the boy in her memories. The love hadn’t quite left his eyes yet. It was with the comfort of this thought that she stepped inside.

Steve’s apartment was neat, small, homely. She could see him settling down before the TV with a beer or fussing over his hair in the mirror by the door. The thought made her smile.

He sat down with her on the couch, hands clasping with hers. His bright eyes watched her closely, waiting and ready to accept her back into his life.

“Is everything okay? You sounded upset on the phone.”

“I just- I wanted to talk.”

“Talk?”

He blinked. Steve knew this song and dance and he was tired of trying to keep her here. Tired of letting her toy with his heart.

“I haven’t seen or heard from you in months and you came all this way just to talk?”

Steve told himself he would hear her out, but his emotions got the best of him. He raised his voice in frustration. The abrupt shift in tone caught her off guard. She hadn’t meant to upset him. Heather deflated in her seat, the speech she’d had prepared now stuck in her throat.

“Forget it,” she rose. “I don’t even know why I came here.”

He followed her out onto the sidewalk. Heather walked out of his life too many times for him to let her go again.

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know! Home, I guess.”

“Don’t you dare walk away from me again!”

The brunette stopped in her tracks, whirled around to face him. Angry, frustrated tears welled in her eyes. He stood just close enough for her to touch. Close enough for her to feel his heart breaking.

“And why not? We both already know how this ends.”

“I love you so much that it hurts. Why can’t you just admit that you want this, too?”

“That’s not why I came back, Steve.”

“Well, then, what? Is this some kind of a game to you-“

“I’m pregnant.”

His expression blanked. Steve didn’t know the first thing about fatherhood. His own gave him next to nothing to start from; the last thing he wanted was to find himself repeating his father’s shitty parenting style. He liked to think that he had finally shed the damage his absentee parents did to him, and that he had found a way to fill the gap their cold demeanor created where affection should have been in his childhood, but that didn’t stop his fears of repeating the vicious cycle.

Heather looked just as afraid.

“Do you really think we’re ready to be parents?”

“No,” he held her hand tighter in his. “But I know that I’m not my father and we can learn from our parents’ mistakes. You’re my future, Heather”

“Do you mean that?”

“Of course, I do.”

They sat together on his front porch steps. Silence engulfed them for a moment as her earth shattering news settled in. Fear crept back up on Heather the longer he stayed quiet. Did Steve want to raise this child with her? Did he want her? Her questions and insecurities were overwhelming.

She broke into tears. “I’m scared, Steve.”

“Me, too.”

He held her close to his chest as she cried. A few tears slipped from his own eyes. Steve combed his fingers through her hair and whispered comforts into her ear. Suddenly, he saw a future for himself. A modest, comfortable cottage with a nice yard for the kids to play in, maybe a dog too, and Heather standing beside him with all the love in the world in her eyes. It was comforting, warm. He wanted that future, with her.

“Stay here, with me. I love you, Heather, and I want to raise this baby with you, if you’ll have me.”

Sniffling, she turned her chin upwards to face him.

“Okay,” she said. “Yes, I will. I love you, too, Steve.”

As he pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, Steve knew that everything would turn out okay. He loved Heather Johnson and that was enough for him.

#steve harrington #stranger things #hawkins #school reunion #angst #smut #steve harrington smut #lost love #fanfic #steve harrington x oc #female oc #new #send feedback

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foxespsu · 5 years ago

Photo

01 / BASICS

Full Name: Grayson Elias Sharpe Jr.

Nicknames: Gray

Birthday: July 11th

Gender: Cis Male (he/him)

Orientation: Ambiguously Not Straight And In Love With Jen Anyway So Who Cares

Astrological Sign: Cancer sun; Libra moon

Spoken Languages: English

Birthplace: Dubois, Wyoming

Relationship Status: In a relationship with Jen Brookhart

tw death/murder

02 / PHYSICAL TRAITS

Hair Color/Style: Dark curly hair. It’s longer on top than on the sides.

Eye Color: Light brown

Face Claim: Fady Elsayed

Height: 6′2″; he slouches terribly most of the day though, meaning he doesn’t seem nearly as tall as he is. His posture is much better on the court.

Tattoos: N/A

Piercings: N/A

Unique Attributes: Occasional freckles, particularly in the summer after spending most days outside at the ranch. His hands are usually calloused and rough, either from outdoor labor or holding a racket. He also often has at least a five o’clock shadow.

03 / PERSONALITY TRAITS/TYPES

Positive Traits: Loyal, emotional, intense, hardworking, intelligent.

Negative Traits: Insecure, angry, uncertain, moody, private.

Hobbies/Interests: Animal husbandry, woodworking, Exy, and most recently, gardening.

Major/Minor: Agriculture Studies major. No minor.

Insecurities: Grayson has a list of insecurities a mile long, unfortunately, although he’s slowly but surely working on it. The most salient ones are related to his home life—Grayson has a complicated relationship with his father, and there have always been times where he truly worries that his father hates him. Grayson’s also afraid of his own capacity for destruction, fearing that his mother’s murder broke something within him, and because of that he spent the latter half of last year working to relearn Exy without his usual red cards and unnecessary fights.

Quirks/Eccentricities: Half the reason he took up smoking was for something to do with his hands. The other half was because he grew up surrounded by smokers anyway. Now, it would feel strange to quit, no matter how terrible a habit it is for an athlete.

MBTI Type: ISTJ; “the Logistician”. They are direct, strong-willed, and dutiful. They want to be part of a system that works and do not desire the spotlight. They are stubborn, insensitive, and unreasonably quick to blame themselves.

Enneagram Type: Type 6; the Loyalist. At their best, type 6′s are loyal, self-affirming, independent but interwoven, positive, courageous, and make great leaders. At their worst, they are fearful, desperate for security, defenseless, and slow to make important decisions

Moral Alignment: True neutral.

Temperament: Melancholic.

04 / FAMILY & HOME

Immediate Family: His father, Grayson Sharpe Sr, is alive in Dubois. His mother, Mariam Sharpe, is deceased.

Other Family: Most of Grayson’s extended family lived in Dubois too, but they slowly left town as the rumors grew. As his family dwindled, it was only natural that most of Grayson’s focus would be on somehow changing his relationship (or lack thereof) with his father. He’s one of the few next generation Sharpes anyway, with the family name on the verge of dying out.

How do they feel about their family?: Blood is thicker than water, and for a long, long time Grayson lived by that—no matter how much blood had been shed. Grayson’s dad was the most important person in his life growing up, even with their complicated history. He defended him in Dubois, in Palmetto, in his own thoughts, even if it was hard when his dad wouldn’t even talk to him in return. More recently though, Grayson worries that it’s something much worse behind his dad’s silence. Maybe his father’s unwillingness to look Grayson in the eyes is as much as Grayson Sharpe Sr. as it is about his son. After all, it isn’t just the bored, listless, gossip loving townsfolk of Dubois who doubt his father now. It’s First Degree and their listeners. It’s Jen. Deep down, it’s Grayson himself.

How does their family feel about them?: Fuck, Grayson wishes he knew.

Pets: In Palmetto? None. Back home though, the ranch has a variety of animals, including horses and chickens. Grayson is particularly close with the horses, especially since there are some that have been in the family since their birth.

Where do they live?: Like most of the Foxes, he lives in the dorms during the year. Unlike many of them, he goes home to his family over breaks/summers.

Description of their home: In Palmetto, it’s simply a dorm room. Grayson never moves fully in, living out of bags half the time. Back home, they’ve got the ranch, and all the space that requires. Dubois is gorgeous, and the views from their house are no exception, particularly since they live on the outskirts of town.

Description of their bedroom: Grayson’s bedroom back home is a bit chaotic, and very clearly lived in, even if he spends much of his time outside with the animals. He’s got years worth of things accumulated, from old posters to old clothes that no longer fit him. He usually cleans it before he leaves for Palmetto, but that often simply means throwing things in the closet or under the bed. His dad never goes into his room anyway, so what does it matter if it’s still messy? He takes most of his things for granted, with a few salient exceptions. Grayson stole his dad’s old photo albums when he was younger, including the ones with pictures of his mom, and he keeps those buried in the back of his closet. Since his dad refuses to speak of the past, and more specifically about his mother, these sometimes feel like his only connection to her.

05 / THIS OR THAT

Introvert or extrovert? Introvert.

Optimist or pessimist? Pessimist.

Leader or Follower? Follower.

Confident or Self-Conscious? Self-conscious.

Cautious or Careless? Cautious.

Passionate or Apathetic? Passionate.

Book Smarts or Street Smarts? Street Smarts.

Compliments or Insults? Compliments.

06 / FAVORITES

Favorite Color: Blue

Favorite Clothing Style/Outfit: Grayson wears a lot of flannel and denim. He’s also a fan of plain dark tee shirts paired with jeans. He tends towards practical clothing, particularly things he’d wear around the ranch, such as boots and worn old jeans. Overall, his clothing is focused on comfort rather than style.

Favorite Bands/Songs/Type of Music: Grayson listens to a lot of folk, indie, and country. He also enjoys older songs. He’s not caught up on current pop culture at all, and often forgets the names of specific songs or musicians.

Favorite Movies: Grayson’s seen Big Eden about 12 times at least.

Favorite TV Shows: They don’t have cable back at the ranch, nor did he have much free time with everything that needed doing. As a result, Grayson didn’t grow up watching much TV, and to this day he doesn’t follow any specific shows.

Favorite Books: He read a lot of classic fantasy growing up—Chronicles of Narnia, The Hobbit, The Once and Future King. These days, Grayson mostly reads nonfiction for class.

Favorite Foods/Drinks: Grayson is a vegetarian, much to his father’s displeasure. Other than that, he’s not picky, although in his natural habitat he tends towards plain food and drink—with the major exception being that he’s picked up a habit for sugary drinks from Jen.

Favorite Sports/Sports Teams: He follows the other Class I Exy teams, although he’ll never be as fervent as some of his teammates. He also grew up watching the rodeo back home.

Favorite Time of Day: Morning

Favorite Weather/Season: Fall

Favorite Animal: Horses

#new! and! improved!#inspo: grayson #death /#murder /#about: grayson

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arcticdementor · 5 years ago

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When I saw him, he was outside Payne Whitney. Nothing about the tall, gray façade suggests it is the university gym, unless there is a new trend of contractors housing athletics departments in Gothic cathedrals. You wouldn’t guess by looking at the frosted glass panes and arches that the third floor hosts the world’s largest suspended indoor swimming pool. It is a work of art, like the rest of Yale’s buildings.

Marcus was smoking by a bench, his face jaundiced from three packs that day. This is atypical for Yale students—most abstain from smoking. There was no reason for him to smoke so much, just as there was no reason for me to ride around campus on a blue Razor scooter. But Yale students tend to have such quirks. His suit-jacket was dusty and smelled of sweat—he didn’t mind lifting weights in a dress shirt and trousers if that meant more time to read Nietzsche alone at the bar.

When I hugged him, he felt skeletal. I asked if he had eaten today. He assured me that his earthly requirements were limited—no need for anything other than alcohol and cigarettes. “I can buy you a sandwich.” He refused. I insisted. A nice one. Bacon and egg. Or steak and cheese. I was testy now. “GHeav is right there. I’ll be back in six minutes.”

He turned his face towards me, warm with friendliness—and with one sentence, he changed our relationship forever.

“You know I’m rich, right?”

“What?”

“You know I have a trust fund, right? I can buy my own sandwich if I wanted it.”

This is the moment when after three years of friendship, Marcus sat down and told me his life story. His cottages in Norway. Sneaking into the family study. Learning about the cost of hardwoods and hearing his boorish, critical father sulk in 5-star hotel rooms.

Marcus did not act this way out of anxiety, grief, stress, or because he had nobody to tell him his habits will kill him. He lived as a starving writer not out of necessity, but for the aesthetic. Out of some desire to imitate the Bohemian 19th century writers. Out of artistry. Style. Intentional choice.

…

This is a story about an institution and an elite that have lost themselves.

…

Over the past decade, elite colleges have been staging grounds for what Matthew Yglesias has termed the Great Awokening. Dozens of scandals have illustrated a stifling new ideological orthodoxy that is trickling down into the rest of society through HR departments, corporations, churches, foundations, and activist organizations. The nation is becoming polarized and its parts disconnected. The right is evil, and the left is stupid. Or is it the other way around?

The campus “free speech” debate is just a side-effect. So are debates about “diversity” and “inclusion.” The real problems run much deeper. The real problems start with Marcus and me, and the masks we wear for each other.

…

Based on statistics from the class of 2013, approximately 2% of students hailed from the lowest income quintile, while 69% came from the top 20%. How did those poor students fare after graduation? Around 2% of students at Yale move from the bottom to the top quintile. In other words, nearly all of them. You show up poor, and you leave rich. Going to an Ivy League school may be the fastest way to join the upper class.

But this low number of 2% surprised me because when I was at Yale, everybody kept talking about how broke they were.

…

Poor people—actually poor people—don’t talk this way. They tend to stay under the radar because they don’t know the rules of the game. But I bought it—at least when I was a freshman. If they were constantly announcing how broke they were, my assumption was that they must have even less money than I do.

This turned out to be wrong. The reality was that they were invariably from the upper-middle and upper classes. I know this because they eventually told me, like Marcus did. But there were tells. These students didn’t act the way my friends and I did growing up. They didn’t know how much pens or flights or cars were supposed to cost. They couldn’t tell when a restaurant was a good deal.

Pretending to be poor is a lot easier than pretending to be rich—just because there are so many different ways to be poor. But there are still small quirks you have to get right. Social class doesn’t just influence how you walk and talk; it influences how you interact with others. The stereotype is that poor people are improper—but sometimes it is the opposite. They try to do things as they think they are meant to be done. Spending a hundred hours building bat wings for a Halloween costume. Renting a limo for their child’s prom.

But lying about anything is tricky—you risk being found out—so what were these people trying to accomplish by acting broke? And this raises the broader question: why pretend to be of a social class you are not?

…

What about the regular rich? Not the children of billionaires, but the children of millionaires. The common impulse is to emulate the people one or two levels above you—so they might also act poorer than they are. But whereas the super-rich learned purposeful discretion from their parents at weekly dinner table meetings, the regular rich did not. They learned it through mimicry—and with varying degrees of success. The less sophisticated copycats end up brazenly proclaiming that they are “broke” and “upper-middle class.”

For some people, this isn’t an act; they actually believe this. After all, they do seem poor when compared to the hyper-rich. They can’t afford spontaneous Spring Break trips to private Bali islands. They see their prep-school classmates’ Facebook photos and realize that they are one, or maybe two, pegs down from that, and so they use the term “upper-middle class” without really knowing what this term refers to. They have no idea how the actual upper-middle class, the middle class, or the poor really live. Those students never went to their prep school, so for all intents and purposes, they do not exist. Like Krasnoyarsk, Siberia—we know it exists. We can find it on a map. But we don’t need to concern ourselves with it. Often, this is what the real poor are to rich people—they are a theoretical construct that exist somewhere else.

…

In another instance, I was privately discussing with a professor the pros and cons of a Food Stamp reform proposal. After some analysis, I commented on my own experience with the program. His response was complete shock. “You don’t really mean you were on welfare. You just mean you were supported by your parents, right?”

In a world of masks and façades, it is hard to convey the truth.

And this is how I ended up offering a sandwich to a man with hundreds of millions in a foreign bank account.

…

On the surface, there is nothing wrong with haphazard and sometimes warped class signaling. But if you put on a façade for long enough, you end up forgetting that it is a façade. The rich and powerful actually start believing that they are neither of those things. They actually start believing that there is not much difference in status and resources between themselves and the upper-middle class, the middle class—and eventually, between themselves and the actual poor. They forget that they have certain privileges and duties that others do not. They forget that the inside joke was just a joke all along.

…

When these kids grow up, they end up at conferences where everybody lifts their champagne glasses to speeches about how we all need to “tear down the Man!” How we need to usurp conventional power structures.

You hear about these events. They sound good. It’s important to think about how to improve the world. But when you look around at the men and women in their suits and dresses, with their happy, hopeful expressions, you notice that these are the exact same people with the power—they are the Man supposedly causing all those problems that they are giving feel-good speeches about. They are the kids from Harvard-Westlake who never realized they were themselves the elite. They are the people with power who fail to comprehend the meaning of that power. They are abdicating responsibility, and they don’t even know it.

…

There is another reason why people might pretend to be poor. This reason is much more serious than fitting in or avoiding hitmen. The rich and powerful are expected to take responsibility for things, and blamed when they go wrong.

“Check your privilege.” Just about every college student has heard this phrase since 2013. What it means is evasive. But like most memes that strike a chord with people—there is some point to it. The rich have privileges. They therefore also have responsibilities. The responsibilities are not always so fun.

…

Would you want to be the strongest man in the village right at the moment when you failed to use that strength properly and the village is dying and rivals are out for blood? Or would you rather be the average person, eating the normal amount of food, without being hated?

But that was just a thought experiment. Those are people in crises—in a hunter-gatherer village at war. We live in America. Certainly things are different during a stable, prosperous period, in a technologically advanced society. Would you want to be exceptional then?

Not necessarily. The elite are faced with certain hard burdens.

The elite are expected—by everyone else, and by each other—to use their power to make sure society works properly. That is, they are expected to rule benevolently. The reason they are expected to do this is that if they don’t, nobody else can or will. The middle class and the poor do not have the powers and privileges that the rich and elite do, and cannot afford the necessary personal risks. But without active correction towards health and order, society fails.

…

In times of political uncertainty, when things are not going well, elites face more scrutiny, and more internal pressure to find people to blame—whether rightly, or as scapegoats. It becomes a bigger liability to be openly elite.

Further, such times are themselves caused by political dysfunction among the elite, when elite institutions forget how to listen to reason (or have decided not to) and forget how to coordinate towards benevolent rule.

At elite conferences, they wonder how to regain trust, or otherwise deal with the rising atmosphere of populist discontent. They acknowledge that something is deeply wrong. But they dare not lay the blame at their own feet, caused by their own overreaches and dysfunction. Anyone who did would immediately be under suspicion. No longer one of us, but one of them. So, those who might otherwise lead the difficult but necessary elite self-critique instead keep their mouths shut, or they say the wrong thing without ideological, psychological, and social preparation for the consequences and get cast out. Only the true believers incapable of self-critique, the incompetent, and the cynics, remain as voices in the public forum. They talk in circles, never quite able to correct course and come to any new conclusions, except the need to double down on current ideological practices.

…

They say that the recent scandals at Yale had to do with racial and social justice. I don’t think that’s what it was really about. When looking at one or two scandals, it’s easy to buy the story that it is just students organizing and using their rights of free speech and assembly to protest what they see as injustices perpetrated by the university. But when looking at all of the scandals together, another narrative starts to emerge.

And that narrative is much closer to this: members of the ruling class are not sure what to do with themselves—and they are not even sure they want to rule.

…

When people think of universities, they think of their local state school, or else Harvard, Princeton, and Yale. And when they think about Yale, it is often when they are reading about a president, a Supreme Court justice, or the editor of The New Yorker. That’s because Yale graduates play no small part in running the world. It is the school the elite want to send their kids to. It is the school the lower classes assume their kids will never go to.

…

What happens when a school with this position is embarrassed about its role as an international trendsetter? What if instead of doing the hard work to set the tone for responsible rule, it abdicates that responsibility?

…

But the appearance of bottom-up protest politics is always a bit of a false narrative. It would be one thing if the students were polled and a majority said they wanted the name changed, or some other process was used. At least the university could say that it was making decisions based on some objective democratic process, and wasn’t just being pushed around. But this is not what happened. No polls were taken. There was no authoritative process. The school said no for a few months, then caved. If the school were actually confident in its position to resist, it could have easily pushed back on the protests. Instead, it folded on demands from a small number of students willing to make noise. Either the university administrators are spectacularly spineless, or the protests just provided a convenient impetus and excuse to do something they already wanted. We can look at several more incidents and notice a similar trend.

…

What do all of these events have in common? Some had student support. Some did not. Some started as public outrage taken to the street. Some were completely internal. What they had in common was an administration and student body coordinated around an ideology that continually mutated to ensure moral entrepreneurship and a continued supply of purges, as new forms of human behavior or commonplace descriptors became off-limits. Some of this energy was genuine, some cynical.

These were not kids protesting the Vietnam war, or graduate students mobilizing for better pay and medical care. Nobody would have had a gun shoved into their arms and sent across the world if Yale had not fired the professors. Nobody would have lost money if they did not change “Master.” In fact—Yale lost money on these changes in the form of alumni donations and administrative time. Meetings, committees, redone paperwork, and brand new “head of college” plaques. These changes were neither meant to save lives, nor to save money.

But what was the point of it all?

…

Thousands of hours of human effort and labor. And for what? What was it for?

If you ask supporters, they will tell you the cost does not matter so much, because this is about creating an ideal world. Of course the professor should be fired—how dare she stand against the minority student organizations? Of course it’s okay that the Yelp reviews were published—she should never have written them. Of course names should be changed if they hint at or honor the wrong ideology. What does preserving history matter if history is racist? The university is handling things according to its proper ideals of empathy and inclusion.

In short, their point was that this was all to help poor people. Immigrants. People whose parents are from distant, impoverished lands. People of color. Changing “Master,” firing the dean, and firing professors was all for this.

Except this did so little to actually help any of these people that this could not possibly have been the main motivation.

None of this was actually to their benefit, except for the few activists willing to invest time and energy into the game. It is not easy to stay up-to-date with the new, ever-more complex rules about what you are allowed to say to qualify as the bare minimum of sociable and sane. It is cognitively and socially demanding. I had to not just study psychology and computer science, but I had to stay up-to-date with the latest PhD-level critical theory just to have conversations.

…

If words like “Master” are deemed offensive based on questionable linguistic or historical standards, then this means other words and phrases can become offensive at a moment’s notice. Under these rules, only people in the upper ranks who receive constant updates can learn what is acceptable. Everybody else will be left behind.

The people best positioned for this are professors at elite universities. They are ingrained in the culture that makes up these social rules. They get weekly or even daily updates, but even they cannot keep up.

…

A cynical observer might conclude that this is all just revolution as usual; a small clique of agitators seizing more and more power, and purging their enemies by virtue of their superior internal solidarity, a bold and demanding ideology, lukewarm popular moral support, and no real organized opposition. In some ways, that is what’s going on. They have the bold ideology, the ambient support, and no real opposition.

But importantly, they don’t have internal coordination by any means other than adherence to the ideology itself. Even members of the clique are never really safe. Anyone who contradicts the latest consensus version of the constantly mutating ideology, even if they have worked to its benefit or are otherwise obviously on side, gets purged. If you don’t keep up, you get purged.

It doesn’t matter that the ideology is abusive to its own constituents and allies, or that it doesn’t really even serve its formal beneficiaries. All that matters is this: for everyone who gets purged for a slight infraction, there are dozens who learn from this example never to stand up to the ideology, dozens who learn that they can attack with impunity if they use the ideology to do it, and dozens who are vaguely convinced by its rhetoric to be supportive of the next purge. So, on it goes.

This is the nature of coordination via ideology. If you’re organizing out of some common interest, you can have lively debates about what to do, how things work, who’s right and wrong, and even core aspects of your intellectual paradigm. But if your only standard for membership in your power coalition is detailed adherence to your ideology, as is increasingly true for membership in elite circles, then it becomes very hard to correct mistakes, or switch to a different paradigm.

And this helps explain much of the quagmire American elites are stuck in: being unable to speak outside of the current ideology, the only choice is to double down on a failing paradigm. These failures lead to lower elite morale, resulting in the class identity crisis which afflicts so many at Yale. Ironically, the result is an expression of that ideology which is increasingly rigid on ever more minute points of belief and conduct.

…

What is the point of this new ideology? This ideology is filled with inconsistencies and contradictions, because it is not really about ideological rigor. Among other things, it is an elaborate containment system for the theoretical and practical discontent generated by the failures of the system, an absolution from guilt, and a new form of class signaling. Before, to signal you were in the fashionable and powerful crowd, you would show off your country club membership, refined manners, or Gucci handbags. Now, you show how woke you are. To reinforce their new form of structural power, people dismiss the idea that they even have the older, more legible forms of status. They find any reverse-privilege points they can, and if they are cis-white-men, they pose as allies. On an institutional level, the old ways of legitimizing power are gone, and the new motto is this: diversity is legitimacy.

There is a deep comedy to this sort of signaling. Only around 2% of the student body was in the bottom 20% of American society, and yet extremely wealthy Singaporean students who had spent just a few years in America marched in the street and referred to themselves as “people of color.” People’s experiences were ignored when they volunteered information that countered the main narrative, because the surface-level debate wasn’t the point. The point was to signal that you were with the program. Only a select and secret group of student “leaders”—who were already savvy enough to engage comfortably with hierarchy—were invited in to chat with administrators.

Shouting from the rooftops that “They aren’t doing enough!” is much easier than following any traditional system of elite social norms and duties, let alone carefully re-engineering that system to reestablish order in a time of growing crisis.

…

But there is more to selling out that nobody talks about. These jobs are the dream jobs of the middle class. They’re not supposed to be jobs for the sons and daughters of millionaires and billionaires—these kids don’t actually need the money. They want independence from their parents and proof that they can make it on their own—and prestigious work experience—but they have wealth acquired through generations that they can always fall back on. These people are generally as harmless as the middle class—which is to say completely harmless. They keep to themselves. They quietly grow their bank accounts and their 401ks. And just like the real middle class, they don’t want to risk their next promotion through being too outspoken. They have virtually no political power. This mindset is best encapsulated by: “I’ll go with the program. Please leave me alone to be comfortable and quietly make money.”

They effectively become middle class, because there is no longer any socially esteemed notion of upper class. They have a base of power, of f-you money, that they could use to become something greater than just another office worker or businessperson. But there is no script for that, no institutional or ideological support. What would it even mean to be an esteemed, blue-blooded aristocrat in 2019? So they take the easy and safe way.

How else do Yale students give up their responsibility?

They go in the other direction. These are the people who call themselves idealists and say they want to save the world. They feel the weight of responsibility from their social status—but they don’t know how to process and integrate this responsibility into their lives properly. Traditionally, structurally well-organized elite institutions would absorb and direct this benevolent impulse to useful purpose. But our traditional institutions have decayed and lost their credibility, so these idealists start looking for alternatives, and start signalling dissociation from those now-disreputable class markers.

…

Who is winning? This question is an important one. Yale administrators had lofty goals. In an attempt to placate their own biases, the administrators and faculty forgot that they are the ones who are supposed to be teaching. Instead of expelling or suspending the small number of people actively undermining the student body and university as a whole, the university does nothing, or actively accelerates the process. The professors are the ones who leave. The radical clique feels emboldened.

Now we can begin to understand the real problem at Yale. It is not free speech—and it is not non-inclusivity. The standards of reality, and the standards of morality not based solely on being woke, are ousted. That’s because the conventional standards of elite morality, based on responsible use of power—actually responsible, not just a convenient feeling of doing good—are much harder, and based on the very self-consciousness that everyone is trying to avoid.

…

The result is an institution increasingly unable to carry out its own mission, as tuition rises to pay for more administrators, and ideological drama makes it harder and harder to actually teach. And now we are back at the original question. What was the point of Yale? What was the point of going to Yale? What is the point of elite institutions?

Is the point of Yale to promote the humanities and knowledge of the West that is hard to learn anywhere else? This is not the full mission. Donald Kagan and Lee Bass’s year-long history of the West program was cut, due to faculty protesting that it was not multicultural enough, despite having large interest and $20 million in funding.

Is Yale’s vision a futuristic, technocratic university? Is the university divesting from the liberal arts for the purpose of committing to the technology of the future? This isn’t the case, either. Computer science enrollment has increased significantly in the past decade. But Yale’s computer science department is lagging behind other schools. The university has taken steps towards improving the department, but in general shows no signs of a visionary commitment to expanding tech or significantly expanding professorships.

…

Maybe the university has lost every purpose other than giving students a social environment in which to party. If the students aren’t educated or visionary, at least they’re networking and hedonically satisfied.

Except they’re not. It would be one thing if they were happy—but even this is not true. They don’t know what is expected of them, or what they should aspire to be. The lack of expectations creates nihilistic tendencies and existential crises. In 2018, around one quarter of Yale undergraduates said they sought mental health counseling. One quarter of Yale students took the “Happiness and the Good Life” course in 2018 in an attempt to find answers. Students are demanding more mental health resources. A new wellness space was created with bean-bag chairs and colored walls. But the real sources of unhappiness are more systemic. They are rooted in uncertainty about the future.

If Yale students are uncertain about the future and their role in it, what does that say about the rest of society?

…

So what if Yale, and Yale students, are abdicating responsibility? We can all just send our kids to Harvard, or MIT, or move to California and go to a state school. I heard UC Berkeley is pretty good.

But the problems present at Yale are present at every other university, and schools outside of the United States look to elite American universities as role models. If things are broken at elite universities, things are broken, period.

…

Yale is supposed to be using its power and reputation to set standards for excellence, but instead it is abandoning its responsibilities and getting embroiled in controversy after controversy. Yale is not special in this regard—other colleges are also often embroiled in controversies. But the controversies of top colleges matter most because they determine what is acceptable for everybody else.

And what’s happening at Yale reflects a crisis in America’s broader governing class. Unable to effectively respond to the challenges facing them, they instead try to bail out of their own class. The result is an ideology which acts as an escape raft, allowing some of the most privileged young people in the country to present themselves as devoid of power. Institutions like Yale, once meant to direct people in how to use their position for the greater good, are systematically undermined—a vicious cycle which ultimately erodes the country as a whole.

Segments of this class engage in risk-averse managerialism, while others take advantage of the glut to disrupt things and expand personal power. The broader population becomes caught up in these conflicts as these actors attempt to build power bases and mobilize against each other. And like Yale, it seems a safe bet that things will continue and even accelerate until some new vision and stable, non-ideological set of coordination mechanisms are able to establish hegemony and become a new ground for real cooperation.

#natalia dashan #palladium mag #yale #read the whole thing #class #noblesse oblige #doesn't exist without actual nobles

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justalosersdiaryofmisery-blog · 6 years ago

Text

A Necessarily Sober Night’s Ramblings

I’m sitting here in my bed, writing on a shitty, hundred dollar netbook that rests on a book thicker than my fist to prevent overheating. The floor of my room is covered in a disgusting salad of dirty laundry, trash, and books, all sprinkled with a frustrating amount of cat litter from the box a few feet to my right. A space heater with more personal space than anything else in the place keeps me warm in the mornings and nights, and the fan that’s blowing my hair at the moment keeps me cool during the afternoon and whenever else I’ve been drinking.

I’ve got Altered Carbon playing beside my word processor; just started watching it. It’s impossible for me to focus on any one thing, so its there just to keep the excess ‘brain energy’ or what have you busy while I try and write this all out. All this nonsense. The lamp resting on my nightstand, which is currently sitting in the midst of the chaotic disaster that is my floor rather than being pressed up against a wall, is annoying but helps keep the anxiety down a bit.

The anxiety is still drumming my heart and shaking my hands, but it would be worse in the dark. I enjoy knowing what’s surrounding me. If I turn off the light, I can only assume what rests in the darkness. I don’t think there’s any monsters hiding beneath my bed amidst the beer cans and paper plates, I’m not a child. But there’s knowing, and then there’s knowing. When the light is gone, the whole world becomes Schrodinger's fun house.

Plus, if I turn out the lights, the odds I step on a sharp piece of aluminum on my way to the bathroom magnify ten fold. Foot lacerations are the fucking worst. Slicing your palm isn’t that bad because you don’t always have to have your dick in your hand. Plus, for the most part, your always aware of the palms of your hands. You forget the bottoms of your feet, and the trail of blood you leave behind is a bitch and a half to clean up.

Not that I’d clean it from my own carpeted floor, but there’s certain expectations for the world outside the stained and battered walls of my bedroom. Smiles required, pleasantries demanded; it’s a whole other ball game out there. That’s not some dramatic piece of speculation either. When I was a child my parents threatened to beat the frowns from my face and decried my silent coming and goings as disrespectful disobedience. Now that I am a man in age and burden if not status however, I am free to move more freely. The habits have already taken root though.

Despite my already volcanic anxieties simmering and sizzling beneath my flesh, I’m having another energy drink, my third of the day. I went to the store earlier for something fizzy and calorie free to drink, and despite knowing I must be wary of caffeine, I was swayed by a little sticker promising ‘3 for $5!’. It’s a rare moment that I’m without thirst, but unless I have sweat through my clothes in exhaustion (an even rarer moment) or am exceptionally hung over, drinking water gives me heartburn.

It’s a touch allegorical, really. Water, that most basic material of life, burns the ever living shit out of my throat.

People don’t take caffeine seriously enough. It’s just like any other drug, if a bit milder. At first it puts a bounce in my step, then in a few minutes my mind will be racing with dark thoughts and fears, and if I go without it for too long my head feels like someone is taking an ice pick to the top of my skull. Sometimes the initial jauntiness is worth it though. That ‘sometimes’ keeps me coming back.

There it is. Reading this back, you won’t remember the pauses between sentences, the distraction filled minutes as Altered Carbon takes priority over writing between paragraphs. I say that so it won’t feel quite so jarring when I say that anxiety is carving a butcher’s knife through my gut and up my sternum after just mentioning the jauntiness caffeine can bring.

Anxiety and just a hint of anger are filling me. Thinking on it now, and exploring this idea for the first time (though I’ve brushed against it like a virgin schoolboy ‘accidentally’ bumping into a pretty girl before), I’m realizing there’s always anger somewhere in this stack of flesh. Anger I was bred into, that was taught to me, beat into me. It’s always there. Just, I keep it buried away and hidden. Once, I did that so that I wouldn’t get in trouble, so that I would be safe. Now I do it so that the people around me will be happier.

The only people I’ve ever intentionally physically hurt are my male family members. My younger brother, in adolescent rage reminiscent of my father’s, has been strangled, punched, thrown, and kicked. It was never unprovoked, but always unearned given the severity. I never bruised or truly damaged him, but still. Trauma is trauma. The words I spewed at him were instinctively and specifically chosen to hurt him, to damage him. It’s left me with a quandary similar to that of the chicken and the egg. Did his little man complex come from my infrequent but scarring abuse, or were the assaults unleashed by his constant needling and provocations?

Then there’s my father. Him I tried to kill once. He was drunk, and violent. He was roaring and screeching with anger at my mother, worse than normal. I went to figure out what the fuck was going on, he put his hands on me, and I snapped. I threw him to the ground, and amidst his punches and slaps and scratches I began to choke him. Tears and spit pouring from my face I bared my fangs and produced more animalistic sounds than actual speech.

My mother was futilely trying to pull me off, begging me to stop. I didn’t care. I was beyond reason at that point, my id was in full control. Like a flare in a moonless night however, a thought brought me to a stop. I had my second day of work at a new job the next day, and couldn’t afford to spend at least the night and next day in jail for murder. That lone, paragonal thought amidst a sea of frothing rage was all that saved my father’s life.

Other than those two examples however, I’ve never allowed myself to be a violent person. Or rather, I’ve never had the courage for it. I get the fight or flight shakes just from passing a slow moving vehicle, let alone a face to face confrontation. I wonder if that’s who I am, or who I was made to be.

My first girlfriend, who could technically be called my ex-fiancee if you don’t dismiss a six month, hormone-fueled, teenage puppy love engagement, was victim to some verbal abuse throughout the two or so years we spent together. She was a piece of work herself though, and although I cringe to think back on my words and feelings back then, I don’t think less of the man I am today for them. I see it as character growth. She cheated on me, lied to me, and was certifiably crazy herself. She and I have both come a long way since then though, and I’ve learned to be a better man based on the awful example I set for myself.

I say we’ve both come a long way, but in reality, she’s got a college degree and is dating a successful musician while working for a governor. I’ve got a GED, am entirely alone, and as of the end of March jobless. There was a brief spike in my life a little over a year ago. I only weighed one-hundred and sixty pounds, I was on the second rung of the company I worked for’s ladder, I had a girlfriend, I was happy. That’s all long gone now though.

See, even though I hunt for zero calorie sodas and energy drinks, I still eat too much food. I drink too much alcohol. I lay around in bed like a fucking pile of ooze. I was going to call myself a slug, but even those invertebrates get more exercise than I do. I probably weigh Two-ten by now. Two-fifteen maybe. I’m sure if I were sitting on a scale right now it’d read in the two-twenties, between my clothes, belly full of spaghetti sauce-drenched pizza, and general fat ass.

As of today I’m twenty-two years old, five-eight in the morning and in shoes, with short brunette hair and just the one tattoo, a coyote on my left arm. My upper right arm and my left ‘tit’ are covered in scars. I have a handful spread over the rest of my skin; faded ones all across my legs, one across my stomach, one on my right ‘tit’, three partially faded bands on my right forearm. All self-inflicted, obviously. I have a small patch of fur all across my chin that struggles to reach the center of my lower lip, stubble spreading back from it towards my throat, and a curled moustache above my mouth.

I fucking hate when television shows have non-English parts. It prevents me from being able to just spend the extra ‘brain energy’ on them, and instead I have to divert more of my direct attention to follow along.

Sometimes I want to carve out my own eye. Even though my left eye is (diagnosedly so) the weaker of the two, whenever I envision it, it’s always the right one I slice out like an avocado pit. The cut would start close to the center of my forehead and run all the way down to my jaw, stopping just a hair over the line and onto my throat.

I don’t think that comes from any weird sort of mutilationist fetish, or one of those weird (Ha, who am I to judge?) mental illnesses where a part of your body feels alien. I think its just a desire for attention? If that’s the right way to phrase it. I want to be special, look special. All those bad-ass pirates and fantasy characters have facial scars, typically over their eyes, and I want to be like them. I want to be special.

I want to be special. I want to be important. I want to feel like I actually matter. No amount of self reaffirmation has ever been enough for me. I’ve always needed ‘affirmation’ from others, and I’ve rarely ever received it. And it can’t be just anyone who gives it to me, it has to be someone special, someone whom I respect. The words of those I subconsciously deem as ‘below’ me mean absolutely nothing, no matter how reverential or supporting.

As for who I respect, which isn’t the right word at all, I’m not really sure. Beautiful women. Impressive men. Members of authority. People with experience in fields that I respect (this time it is the right word). I’ve had coworkers who practically begged me to hang out, less than attractive women who nearly molested me in their flirtations. All it ever did was annoy and nearly disgust me.

It’s a strange dichotomy, my ego and self-loathing. On one hand, I’m disgusted by myself. I look in the mirror and see a hideous, fat, disgusting, waste of human existence who could die tomorrow without the world so much as blinking. On the other hand, I recognize my intellect, sense of humor, virtues, and what few skills I have as being exceptional.

I hate myself, but somehow still place myself above others.

It’s funny how little self control I have compared to what little drive I have. I crave love, yet haven’t been able to muster the willpower to eat healthy and exercise. I crave fortune, yet haven’t been able to finish writing (Really writing, with editing and everything) a book. I crave attention, yet stay hidden away in my room and when out in public avoid standing out at all. When I crave a McChicken, I’ll drive to the McDonalds across town at 3 AM for it.

I guess I’m just short sighted. Back when I still played chess, I could never think more than a single move ahead. When a problem has a single-step solution, I can find it near instantly, no matter how obscure or obfuscated it is. Throw in just one more step, however, and suddenly I’m lost as an orphan looking for his mother in a department store.

That applies to long term goals too, even when the answer is spelled out for me step by fucking step. Step one, cut the calories down to less than two-thousand. Step two, take the dog(s) for a walk everyday. Step three, repeat steps one and two for the next six months. Just like that, I go from fat lard-face to looking like a young Leonardo DiCaprio.

But I just don’t do it. The one time I succeeded with a diet, it was based on routine. Every morning on my way to work, I’d get two McDonalds burritos with mild sauce and a large diet coke, no ice. Every night after work, same thing. Right now, jobless and hopeless, there is no routine in my life. That’s just an excuse though, I know that. Doesn’t mean I fucking do anything about it.

It also helped that back then I spent every night with a woman I was in love with. Kira. Black haired, thin as a skeleton, cheek bones like daggers. Her nails were more like claws, and she’s never without her eyeliner that stretch out like wings from her beautiful brown eyes.

When we met, she hated me, so of course I sought her approval. She hated me just because I sat in her spot one time. She, never to my face, called me an inbred hobbit. After several random encounters at work (which is where I met her), we also bumped into each other at the vape store. A casual, friendly conversation lead to her messaging me at work the next day, and a friendship quickly formed.

After that, it didn’t take long for love to form. One sided love. I asked her out, she rejected me. My love diminished but quickly re-blossomed. I confessed full-blown honest to god love to her. Again, she rejected me, with a full (and requested) letter explaining why. That letter tore me to pieces. Not because it destroyed my hopes for ever having her, but because every reason she listed was (to my eyes) nonsense.

She said I wasn’t artistic, I consider myself to be a great story crafter and a half-decent writer. She said she thought I’d be controlling and possessive, when I am nothing of the sort. She said I wasn’t ‘edgy’ enough, in so many words, even as I carved my flesh into ribbons. Even to this day, when she describes her perfect partner’s personality, she describes me to a T, or at least to a lower-case t.

I treat our bond as though we are siblings, and I believe that’s how she sees me, though I feel a much stronger love than that for her whilst single, and she feels nothing for me. She treats me like garbage. One time I begged her for company, knowing that if left alone I’d make an attempt on my life, and she said no. No one else came either, but I thought she of all people would understand and care. But she didn’t. And despite the handle of vodka, bottle of nyquil, assortment of pills, and sheer amount of blood loss I endured that night, I lived to suffer the pain of her betrayal.

With her it’s always apologies and broken promises. She’s sorry she abandoned me for the millionth time to be with her new abusive boyfriend, she promises it won’t happen again. She’s sorry she disappeared without a word of warning, and promises she’ll warn me in the future. She’s sorry that she broke her promises, she promises it won’t happen again.

And yet I love her. I’ve given her thousands of dollars. I’ve bought her over a hundred meals. I take care of her when everyone else abandoned her. I helped her get her shit together when agoraphobia had grabbed hold of her. I’ve given her everything I could possibly give, sacrificed everything she’s ever asked for or needed that I had.

But its never enough for her. It never will be. She will never care about me and my needs. I don’t need her romantic love, as much as I would enjoy it. But never once has she sacrificed for me. Never once has she gone out of her way to make me happy. She gave me a stack of ‘coupons’, to be redeemed for things such as ‘a guaranteed hang out session’ or ‘You can pick the music all day’. The one time I tried to redeem one, the first one I mentioned, she blew me off.

But of course, she moved to a whole other state for her drug addicted, physically and verbally abusive boyfriend. Then when she came back I took her back following a promise that she was completely done with him. I’m sure she will, or already has, broken that promise.

Despite all that, she is the most important person in my life. The thought of her killing herself makes me genuinely want to die too. Without her, there’d be absolutely no one in my life that I truly love. She is a fire amidst a barren tundra without which I’d freeze to death, even if she flickers in and out of existence that I’ve wished to die in her absence.

My only other friend is Whitney. The strangest person I’ve ever known, and one of the most genuinely wholesome and good people you could ever have the pleasure of meeting. She’s sweet, kind, caring, generous, intelligent, and fun. She’s also asexual, so there’s no hope for romance there either. She lives a busy life, between college and work, so it’s rare I ever get to see her.

Everyone else in my life is temporary, fleeting. They either abandon me purposely or drift away like clouds.

My last girlfriend, the only other serious one I’ve had besides my ‘ex-fiancee’, abandoned me out of the blue. One moment, she was saying that she loved me and that I was her perfect man. The next, she provided a list of issues she had with me and said that they were irreconcilable. She left me with trust issues that have plagued every attempt at romance I’ve had since. I lost my virginity to that girl.

And when we broke up, you know what happened? Her shit head best friend went and spread all of my personal information to our mutual friends, in a horrific way that painted me to be a violent and hurtful man who was ruining her life. And they believed him. Even though he was known to be an over-dramatic, hyper-aggressive piece of shit, they believed him. In spite of all the good things I’d done for them and absolutely no personal experience with me to back his words up, they took it as gospel. I had non-romantic commitment issues before then, but damned if they weren’t magnified ten fold after that.

Every other romantic trist I had after her has had its issues. One time, whilst I was seeing a shrink and given pills that amplified my anxieties to levels beyond my control, I went full blown crazy with a girl. Demanded to know where she was, why she was ignoring me, sent over thirty texts in as many minutes. I quit that medicine the moment I ‘came down’.

Another I ‘broke up’ with after we agreed that she couldn’t handle just hanging out in my car, and I can’t handle going to clubs. Another couple ghosted me. Another was even flakier than Kira, and far more blatant about it. Another just wasn’t that into me, even if he (an FtM transgender person) wouldn’t admit it.

Right now, the biggest source of my anxiety is the fact that Kira has yet again disappeared. I’m used to that, but this time she explicitly said she would text me ‘soon’ when we hung out three days ago. The girl is a fucking suicidal drug addict, and doesn’t care about the pain it causes me when she disappears like this. The fears and anxieties that fill me hurt so bad you wouldn’t believe it. I’ve told her this countless times. She just, doesn’t, care.

I want to punch something, tear my room apart. Its a disgusting mess now, but the mess is settled at least. A path to the door amidst the refuse, big piles pushed against the walls. It could be much, much worse. I feel like I’m about to explode, all these feelings bursting out of my fucking rib cage. But she doesn’t care about that. All she cares about is herself.

There’s only two people in the entire world I’ve truly cared for, like really, wholly, undeniably loved and felt empathy for. My ‘ex-fiancee’, and Kira. But even for those I didn’t feel that way for, Whitney or my ex-girlfriend, I treat them right. Better than right. I buy them gifts, I look after them, I tell them I love them, I do my best to be the best friend or boyfriend I can be.

I’m a heartless monster, but at least I have the manners to act better than that.

You know something, I legitimately can’t remember the last time I cried. Probably when Kira and I first started becoming friends, she demanded I open up and tell her everything if I wanted her to do the same. So I did, and I broke down. Since then, not a drop. I just don’t have it in me. I’m tired. I’m tired of being alive, but outside of drunken and seemingly random spikes of suicidal ideations, I’m too scared of death to try and kill myself tonight.

The thought of death, of everything just disappearing, terrifies me. It has since I was a little kid, we’re talking four or five years old. I don’t want to die, I never want to die. I want to live forever, or at least to know that there is reincarnation or an afterlife. I fear the ocean too, specifically being in the middle of the water with no land in sight and seeing a silhouette approaching me. But that’s not what my fear of death is. That’s a shock, a jump in my seat when I watch a video on youtube.

My fear of death is primal, unadulterated terror. It keeps me up at night, it forces me to keep a light on when I want to sleep, it gave me a love for twilight hours as they brought an end to the darkness when I was a child. It brought me peace.

Kira finally texted me back, simply saying ‘’I love you’. It could be her last words, it could be an apology for going back to her shit head ex, it’s definitely a lie to either herself or to me. It brought some measure of peace, though left a trail of underlying fears in its wake.

I just wish I could be happy, but for that I need at least one of the three B’s. Booze, blood, or betrothal. The last B is hyperbolic, I don’t need that much of a commitment, just some sort of romantic connection with someone. Gotta keep the pattern going though. When I’m drunk, my troubles fade away. When I’m cutting, the pain distracts me. When I have a girlfriend, I feel accepted.

Right now I have none of those things. I might cut my arm here in a bit, but I doubt I’ll be getting a girlfriend sometime tonight; and its too risky to be drinking on a night like this. So, I’ve just got to wallow in my own misery.

I meant to write chapter two of a new book I’m working on tonight. It’s a dark, nautical comedy set in a fantasy-ish world about a dull yet narcissistic pirate captain and his misadventure to regain his fortune. I started writing it to keep myself busy while I wait to distance myself from the first book I wrote, a more serious piece. That one’s about a man and his new apprentice facing a rebellion of monsters who are supposed to coexist with humans, but are sick of their treatment as second class citizens.

I need to distance myself from it because every time I look at it I want to delete the whole thing. It all feels too fresh, too personal. I can remember every keystroke that I put down, and since I was the one who typed it all, it must be trash. That’s how my mind sees it. I need to forget.

I’ve just started episode five of Altered Carbon, haven’t paused it once, haven’t stopped writing except when they speak in another language or I don’t know what to wrtie next or when Kira texted me. I’m starving. By starving I mean I’m hungry, just enough that my stomach hurts. I’ll probably go grab more food like the fat ass, no-self-control shitstain that I am.

I hate when people tell me I’m not fat, or when people say it shouldn’t matter. I am fat, and it matters to me. I don’t find fat people attractive. Never have, never will. I remember once, back when I was dieting and nearly at one-sixty, a (fat) girl said to me “Why are you still dieting? You look great.” I responded by lifting my shirt up (I didn’t have the scar on my stomach at the time) and jiggling it, which immediately elicited an ‘Ew!’ from her. I said, “That’s why.”

It’s not a crime to be fat, nor do I treat fat people any worse than their skinny counterparts. I just think its extremely unattractive, just like me. I don’t want to be fat. I just don’t have the willpower to put a stop to it. And I hate myself for it. Maybe if/when I get a new job I’ll be able to get back into my routine. It’d be a lot easier if I lived on my own, and could choose the pantry and fridge’s contents myself.

But for now I’m stuck living in my parents’ house. I thought once I bought a new car, I’d be able to save up and move out. Then I met Kira, and spent thousands on her. Then I allowed myself to be talked into going to therapy, a waste of time that I put a stop to after being told that I’d never be happy and to keep on cutting, that put me in debt to pay for. Then my car broke down, and I’ve had to open a new credit card for over nine-hundred dollars and spent another four-hundred up front, and her check engine light is already back on.

Oh, and I don’t have a job anymore after getting fired for spending too much time helping coworkers, so its not like I can get a place with the two-hundred and twelve dollars I get a week with unemployment. I’ve dreamed about living on my own since before I was even a teenager. I’ve always hated my parents. Every time I think everything’s about to turn around fiscally, life comes around and shits down my fucking throat and cuts a hole through my trachea so it can fuck my feces-stained esophagus. Every, single, fucking, time.

God that therapy was fucking worthless. I did what the guy said in regards to cutting. I tried rubber band snapping, icing, writing out my feelings. None of it had the same sense of distraction and gravitas. So, he told me if it helps and I’m being safe, keep doing it. So I have. I wanted to stop though, not for my own sake, but because the people who say they care about me (in other words, Whit) don’t like it and I can understand why. Again though, no will power.

When it came to my moods, I told him about as much as I’ve told anyone in my life about myself. At first it felt good, he looked at me like some sort of specimen. By our last session though, it felt more like I was a chore to him, a frustrating waste of time. Although I didn’t bother to remember the words verbatim, he more or less told me that sometimes there just isn’t anything you can do to stop being miserable, and you’re just stuck that way. So, since that was the case, I stopped going.

There was another professional I saw there, a woman who was there to actually prescribe medicines. After the first one ruined a budding and potentially great relationship, I was hesitant to try another. Given the fact that it was also expensive as fuck and I was constantly broke, with or without hesitation I couldn’t try another kind. She refused to prescribe me medicine for my ADD either, even though she did diagnose it. Said we needed to get the depression under control first. Maybe I’d be less fucking miserable if I could concentrate on one thing at a time instead of constantly having my attention diverted between two to three things every waking moment of my life.

It’s funny, when I finished my first book, I thought I’d be happy. Filled with a sense of pride and accomplishment that would spur me forward in life. So I rushed it. The last couple chapters were far below my typical word count. Whitney pointed out that fact, and the fact that a lot of the earlier chapters were subpar comparatively, so I went back and finished it ‘for real’. I rewrote most of the earlier chapters, filled in the later chapters, got a real, proper first draft done. And still nothing.

Now I’m telling myself that once I can edit it properly instead of just grimacing through the prologue I’ll feel it, but I don’t believe it. Maybe if an agent wants it, I’ll feel it, but I don’t believe that. If it were miraculously published, then, then I might feel a hint of genuine joy, but I don’t believe that. I keep pushing the goal posts of finding happiness further and further back to excuse my failure to do so.

Fuck, I don’t even know why I wrote all this. I don’t feel any better. I feel like an overdramatic, self-important, delusional cunt. Same old same old I suppose.

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huntertales · 6 years ago

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Part Two: Heart to Heart. (Let it Bleed S0621)

Episode Summary: Sam and Dean Winchester’s worst nightmares come true when the reader is taken hostage by Crowley after her demon side is freed. But things only grow worse when Lisa and Ben Braden are kidnapped as well, forcing the brothers to work with an unlikely alley to save the people they love. Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader Warning: Demon!Reader, mentions of violence and pregnancy and very brief mentions of intimacy. Word Count: 7,253. (Buckle up kids, this part is gonna be a ride!)

Previous Part | Supernatural Rewrite Masterlist

If there was one thing Dean knew, it was all the ways to make a demon spill their guts. Figuratively and literally. He utilized the skills he learned from hell and the knowledge required for a hunter to know about what could slow down the enemy. Demons had a few weaknesses that could hurt them. Holy water, salt and iron. Along with something no other hunter had. A special knife that actually inflicted pain on them, or, in the case of the two other demons lying on the ground, kill them for good. Mix that together with a man’s rage and he was the storm none of these sorry sons of bitches excepted coming from what they did.

Dean had went through at least two useless meat suits alone this morning that only gave him bits of incoherent sentences that ended with them coughing up blood or pleading for their lives when they admitted they didn’t know anything. The man gave into their desire for death when he knew they had no clue what their king was up to. He ruthlessly stabbed them with the knife, sending them back to the fiery pit where they belonged. When the second to last demon was gone, Dean stood in the middle of the garage area he converted to his torture chamber, a thin layer of sweat covered his body as he caught his breath from the rigorous activities.

The older Winchester examined the bloody knife for a moment. If this was any other day, maybe he would feel an ounce of remorse for what he was doing, resorting back to old habits that he long swore off. Long as he kept moving, he wouldn’t have to think about anything, except finding answers. While there was only one more left on the chopping block, he knew there was plenty more from where he found them. All he had to do was put out his neck and they were lining up to try and get a piece of him. Only if those sorry sacks knew what they were up against.

The last demon was shown the exact same treatment like the rest of his friends; he was thrown into the devil's trap painted on the floor and shoved into a chair so he couldn't do anything stupid. Dean began circling around the demon, and not even a second into the conversation, the demon was claiming his innocence. "Look, I don't know anything."

"Yeah, we'll see." Dean muttered underneath his breath. It was too early to tell if what the demon claimed was the truth or not. He wasn’t going to fall for the same excuse he heard two times already from his friends. He would wait until the demon was begging for mercy to consider.

Dean walked over to the station he set up for himself filled with all sorts of tools he used on a few other demons to try and get them to talk, only to no avail. But he was giving up hope yet. He reached for the half drunk bottle of whiskey he’d been nursing all night and took another sip. Dean decided to take a small break while he contemplated new punishments for the scum. He heard one of the wooden doors quietly creak open when his brother stepped inside after wrapping up a phone call with Bobby to see how things were on his end. While the older hunter was having a bit more luck chasing down this Lovecraft lead, the boys weren't finding squat.

Sam couldn't help but notice his older brother was the same way when he left him. Dangerously focused and full of rage that hadn't faded since he got the disturbing phone call with Crowley. It was clear that Dean would stop at nothing until he got answers. No matter the cost on his health or the body that started to pile around him. And in this case as he took yet another sip of the whiskey, his liver’s future wasn’t looking so good.

"Dean." Sam spoke his brother's name in a quiet voice. Dean calmly acknowledged the man's presence as he grabbed a rag to clean still wet blood off the knife. The younger Winchester could see the man was getting himself too wrapped up in this with no signs of stopping. He slowly approached the workbench Dean set up for himself, attempting to try and talk some sense into the man of taking a break. “Look, man. You’re running on, what, coffee and whiskey and whatever else you’re taking.”

“And?” Dean asked, not seeming to notice what the problem was.

“And we’re grasping at straws here, man.” Sam said. He knew the truth was a hard pill to swallow, but his brother wasn’t going to acknowledge the fact that maybe not everything was it seemed. Perhaps Crowley had kept all of his plans for a select few. And maybe the one person who they were thinking was the enemy might be clueless as the both of them. But he knew Dean would rather continue slaughtering through demon's than pray to Cas for some extra help.

“If I kill enough of these demons, eventually one of them’s gonna tell me where Crowley is.” Dean said. Sam let out a sigh as he looked at his brother from his way of thinking. It worked once before when it came to figuring out what Cas was doing, it might be good enough to work again. When he got nothing back that sounded like a protest, Dean figured their conversation was over. “So we good?”

"Look, you've been at it for a while. Why don't you at least let me take over. You deserve a break." Sam said. Dean shot down the offer as he started to walk back over to the demon that was impatiently waiting for him. The younger Winchester reached out a hand to stop the man in attempt to get him to back off the ledge before he could burn himself out. "Dean—"

“Sam, back off.” Dean cut off his little brother, stopping whatever sort of lecture the man wanted to say in order to make him feel better. The younger Winchester gave his brother a look, reminding him that he wasn't alone in this situation here. But Dean, like always, felt he was the one who needed to carry the heavy burden on his shoulders. "Lisa and Ben, wherever they are, that is a hundred percent on me. The reason why Y/N ran off in the first place is because I lied to her. And I promised her I wouldn't. If they're hurt…”

"This isn't just your battle to fight, either." Sam reminded his brother. "Y/N's my best friend, too. I want to find them much as you do."

Dean knew in the back of his mind that his brother was right. Sam had a lot to lose if something were to happen to you. He would be losing a friend that had seen him through thick and thin, who always stuck by his side even in the worst of it when he didn’t deserve anyone’s love. But Dean couldn’t drag his brother into this mess. Not in this way of torturing demons and seeing a monster who he tried so hard to shed. “I’ll yell if I need you.”

Sam wanted nothing more than to stand his ground and try to convince his brother to at least think about taking a break and eating something. But he knew from his own experience there was no talking down a Winchester from what they wanted. Sam let out a defeated sigh and let his brother get back to what he wanted. He had a plan in mind that he knew Dean wasn’t going to like, and it might not even work, but he had to at least try. Sam slipped out the same way that he came in, leaving his brother to torture the demon so he could send a prayer to an angel he still wanted to consider his friend. Because, much as Sam sometimes hated about himself, the man still tried to look for the good in people even when they had betrayed him,

"Castiel, it's Sam. Uh..." Sam began making his way back to Bobby's house. Along the way he decided to talk to an old friend, hoping he might be listening in. "I don't know if you're in on this while Y/N/Lisa thing. But if you have any heart, whatsoever, you know Y/N's your friend. She would do anything for you. Don't do her wrong like this...Just bring them back to us, man. Come on. Please. I'm begging you." He wasn't sure if his prayers were getting anywhere, but he was pouring out his heart and soul here. Sam looked around at the junkyard, hoping that he could find the angel in the distance, but all there was out here was just him. "I am begging you. Bring back Y/N. Do you understand?"

Sam took one more look around the junkyard to find a trace of anyone else here with him, but he was alone. He felt his heart sink at the harsh reality that he was having to come to conclusion with. The young man wasn’t losing just a good friend, but a lifelong one too. Sam let out a heavy sigh and headed back to the house like he intended, not realizing he passed by the angel, who had heard every word he said. Cas was unsure of what happened over the past few days while he was banished somewhere across the way. All he knew was that him and Crowley were going to have a serious talk about how to handle a situation.

Dean slipped himself back into the habit of interrogating a demon who might have been more talkative than the last two he got. Maybe it was because they laid not too far from where he sat, dead, posing as a reminder not to piss off this Winchester. Dean started off with a few punches when the demon thought he could mock him in true fashion of how most of these thing started before cleaning off the blood on the demon's face with some holy water. When Dean got serious that's when the demon started to realize this wasn't going to be the same cut and dry routine like he was used to. The demon said the same line his friends had said: “I don’t know anything.” That wasn’t what he wanted to hear. So, Dean decided to get more...creative.

The older Winchester turned his back for only a few moments so he could grab a syringe from his work bench and fill it up with a nasty concoction of holy water and salt. If he really wanted this son of a bitch to start singing, there was nothing like liquid fire coursing through their veins to get them to realize Dean wasn't playing around. "I promise you, pal. You start talking...Or I swear," Dean threatened the demon as he lightly pressed down on the syringe, watching as a gush of the water squirt out, making sure it was working properly. He turned around so he could face the demon again as he finished his promise. “I will rip your skin off.”

"I always loved it when you talk dirty."

Dean found himself stopping dead in his tracks at what he heard. The first thing he noticed when he turned around was the demon he was interrogating for answers didn't seem useful anymore. He was hunched over in his chair, blood drooling out of his mouth and into his lap from what was done to him while the hunter's back was turned. Dean slowly tore his gaze away from the dead demon to see where the voice was coming from. Across the devil’s trap stood a nightmare that he hoped he would never have to personally see. But she was here. Alive and in the flesh with a devilish smirk on her lips.

She looked a lot like you—hell, for a second Dean thought that it was you. The woman that he was desperately trying so hard to save. For a moment he put his guard down and let himself believe the woman he was staring at was really you. However reality came crashing down on him when he found himself staring into the dark, empty eyes of the demon that had taunted him for years. She leaned herself against the wall with her arms crossed over her chest, her chin titled high as she stared at the hunter with a smile. It wasn't warm or kind like he expected out of you. All he could feel from her was sheer arrogance, and a coldness that he never felt from you before. Because this wasn’t you. It was everything you had spent your entire life trying to fight.

"Hi, honey. I'm home!" You greeted the man in a one of those high-pitched housewife voices from the sitcoms dating back to the fifties. You pushed yourself up from the metal shelf you had been leaning against that was cluttered with all sorts of mechanical parts. Your eyes went back to normal as you traced the devil's trap line with a careful step, knowing it wouldn’t be good for the demon trapped inside the body. Dean wondered to himself if that was the original body. You noticed his wandering gaze, and to satisfy his curiosity, you broke out into a smile as you did a little twirl for him. "You like it? It's new. Thought I'd pop in and see if I could fool you into thinking it was the real thing. It’s not. Unfortunately.”

Dean slowly began to back away from you when he noticed you were starting to approach him. And from the smirk settling at the end of your lips, you weren't here to have a civil conversation. The demon knife was right behind him. "You got a lot of nerve showing up here like this." Dean said between clenched teeth. You raised your brow slightly in curiosity as to why that might be, but you knew than to tell him why. You wanted to hear him beg for the whereabouts of his three favorite people. "Where the hell are they, you black eyed bitch?"

"Who?" You wondered, pretending to play dumb as you crossed your arms over your chest. "I'm juggling a lot of people here, Dee. You gotta be more specific."

"How about Crowley, for starters. You know, the one who trapped you in your own meat suit for his own purposes. Don't you want to help us take that son of a bitch down?" Dean thought he could distract you with the opportunity to joining the winning side long enough to get to the work bench. You pretended to think about the opportunity before you shook your head. "Wow. You are not who I thought you were. I always pegged you as the demon who would want hell all for yourself. All or nothing. Guess I underestimated you, sweetheart. You really like it when the big boys tell you what to do, h—"

Dean couldn't finish his insult when he felt himself flying backwards and roughly landing against one of the shelves behind him. He had only a few seconds to recover from the blow before he felt a dangerously rough grip around his throat. Your nails sank into his skin as you forced him to stare at you with the inky black eyes he had seen on a handful of different occasions. Each time he had seen them you, the woman he knew, was still in there. She always managed to pull back on the reigns before the bitch she fought with went too far. Only the person staring back at him was in full possession of her own body. No voice was going to stop her.

"No. I just learned to be smarter of who I do my business with. Once you get past that God awful arrogant accent you realize Crowley's not that bad of a guy. He knows I could easily destroy him from the inside out. As that saying goes, keep your friends close and your enemies closer." You said. You tighten your grip around the man’s neck as you leaned forward to him until he could feel your warm breath roll off onto his cheek. You kept quiet for a moment as you stared at him, making Dean grow uncomfortable from what you were thinking. "Do you realize how long I spent just imagine all the different ways I could torture you? How much I just wanted to take control and rip your throat out with my bare hands. But I couldn’t...Not until now. Now I’m gonna make you suffer in ways your pretty little head can’t imagine.”

Dean could feel your grip around his throat loosen just enough for him to inhale small pants of breaths. He guessed this was because you wanted to hear him beg. The older Winchester's gaze moved away from you for a split second when he saw something out from the corner of his eye. Dean continued to play it cool as his brother—that sneaky bastard—crept up from behind with an iron crowbar. One thing that all demons had in common was pride. They all thought they could get the jump on the Winchesters and make them do what they wanted. You were about to have a hard lesson when you felt a sudden pain in the back of your head, taking you by surprise. You released your grip around Dean as you stumbled forward to the ground.

"Sure thing, sweetheart." Dean said. Sam lunged forward when you snarled at them in anger at what the younger Winchester had done and got ready to attack again. But before you could, Sam swung the crowbar, knocking you unconscious. "Right after we're done with you."

+ + +

Sam disposed of the dead body lying in the chair and tossed it with the others while Dean picked up other demon that was the doppelganger to the woman who had sent them down this long and harrowing path to find her again. The real you. The boys made sure the demon was nice and tied up and stepped back, waiting while you slowly came back around into consciousness. Maybe Sam was right about this one. Perhaps it was better if the both of them got in on this. Dean stood behind the devil's trap, watching as your head slowly nodded slightly before you finally began to wake up. A slight groan of pain escaped your lips as you came back around with a pounding headache. You looked up to see the sight of the Winchester brothers surrounding you. The devil’s trap that was a demon’s enemy kept you under lock down.

A look of displeasure crossed your face as you attempted to break the leather straps that kept you in the chair. However you weren't the one to complain about your accommodations. It was only more material you could work with to amuse yourself with. You leaned back in your seat and eyed both of the boys with a slightly growing smirk. "Well, if it wasn't my lucky day. I get not one—but two Winchester men. I'm digging the leather, by the way. Nice change of things." You said, turning your gaze over to the older brother to toss him a wink. Dean showed no signs of being amused as he stared at you with a threatening glare that would have made any other demon start to squirm in their seat. You found it cute how tough he thought he was. "What can I do for you, boys?"

"How about you tell us where your boss is." Sam said. You found the title Crowley was being addressed by strike a nerve in you. You narrowed your eyes on the younger man as he stared at you with a smile of amusement from your reaction. Out of anything to make you tick, it was being thought lower than the demon you became awfully good friends with quickly. "Or, if you want to make it out alive, tell us where you're keeping everyone."

"Why ruin the fun so quickly, Sammy? The party’s just getting started. For me, for you...for your little friend." You said. You watched as the boys' expressions faltered slightly. They knew it was a hint something sinister was unfolding while they were gone. “Honestly, I really didn't come here to kill you. Not yet, at least. I wanted to deliver you a present. It’s in my pocket. Why don’t you grab it?”

Dean watched as you lifted your shoulder best as you could from the way you were strapped in the chair so you could show the boys that there was something in did stuffed in the pocket on your shirt. He noticed that you were also leaning far enough so your shirt scooped down low enough to reveal a perfect view of your body he had seen a thousand times before. And while it never ceased to amaze him of how much he loved every since inch of your body, this wasn't the one he remembered touching, it was one of pure evil. Just the sight of it made his blood boil as you batted your lashes at him, continuing to pretend all of this was casual talk. "Come on. It's not gonna bite. I promise."

The boys exchanged a look as they silently communicated back and forth of what they should do. It could be a million different things. Their first instinct was to think it was some kind of trap. But they would only find out if they were to look. Dean did what he was told. You watched as he stepped inside the devil's trap and walked over to you. He slowly reached out and put a hand inside the fabric pocket of your shirt, digging below to feel something like silk touch his fingers. He grabbed it and pulled it out. Dean hesitantly noticed it wasn't very big, the ball of fabric was about the size of his palm. When you reassured him yet again it was nothing to be afraid of, he didn't know why he listened to you. He inhaled a deep breath and pulled on the knot, letting the fabric unravel in his hand, revealing something he would have never suspected.

"Son of a bitc—Damn it! Damn it!"

Dean's natural instinct was to flinch and drop the thing when he discovered what it was, letting it fall to the ground where it collected dust and debris on the concrete. Sam stepped forward to see what sort of thing that would be making his brother so angry. But when he discovered the bloody severed finger, he stopped dead before he could take another step. He could feel his mouth parting open as he felt himself becoming slightly nauseous. It wasn’t the body part that was making him feel sick, it was thinking about who it belonged to and the pain they were forced to go through in order for Crowley to make a bold statement.

You let out a throaty laugh at the reaction from the boys that was too priceless, it was better than you could imagine. You watched as Sam decided to be the brave soldier who reached down to grab the dismembered finger with the fabric it was wrapped in. "I’m gonna...I'm—" Sam tried to tell his brother that he was going to clean off the blood and bits of dirt that formed in the wound before putting it in the fridge. The younger Winchester remembered reading somewhere that a severed finger could survive up to twelve hours. And four days if chilled.Dean nodded his head to the door, doing what felt needed to be done.

When the door shut behind Sam, and the sound of his footsteps distanced away closer to the house, Dean didn't hesitate anymore in acting on his aggression that had been building closer to the edge. He lunged forward at you with the knife in his hand in a stabbing motion, appearing like he was about to strike. You knew better than to flinch and make him have the satisfaction that you were the tiniest bit nervous. The hunter ignored his feelings when he looked at you, the woman he called the love of his life, because all he could see right now was a monster. He grabbed a fistful of your hair and yanked your head back, forcing you to stare at him as he exposed the hollow of your neck to rest the knife against the skin.

The slightest movement made the jagged edges of the blade pierce your skin. You stared at him with a smirk at how he was acting as he drew in deep breaths like a wild man hellbent on letting all of his frustrations out. You knew he wanted to do it, but deep down, he couldn't do it.

"What the hell did you do, bitch?" Dean snarled the question at you with an aggressive voice. The older Winchester stared at you with a hostile expression as you felt the hand holding the knife against your neck began to shake ever so slightly. You knew it wasn't out of anger. You could see right through his facade. Dean was right where you wanted him. He was shook to his very core at this situation he couldn’t fix. He was powerless at what the right thing to do was.

Dean’s natural instinct was to kill you like the rest of the demons that crossed his way. He didn’t hesitate when he took down Ruby and Azazel. And he knew he wouldn’t bat an eye if Crowley showed his punk ass up here. But he found himself holding back on hurting you. It was like the time his own father told him to kill his own brother if Sam ever went dark side. Dean kept pushing down the possibility for long as he could until the reality came true.

He knew it would have saved the world a lot of trouble if he did take his father's word of caution to heart and put a bullet in Sam’s head when he discovered he was one of Azazel’s special children. Or when Sam gave the biggest warning of all when he began putting all of his trust into Ruby over his own family, who got him addicted to demon blood. Even when he was being worn by Lucifer Dean still wouldn’t back down from trying to save the man. Because all he could see was his little brother, his family. And if there was one lesson he learned the most important from his childhood was that family was something to always fight for and protect.

Dean always knew there was something wrong with you when he learned the truth about how you really came into this world from a crossroads demon after he sold his soul for the first time. He kept the knowledge in the back of his mind, but like his brother, he didn’t look at you any differently. Because all of you had a darkness inside of you that you tried to fight. For Dean it was torturing souls in hell and his crippling pain, Sam it was the demon blood and his purpose to be Satan’s vessel, and for you it was being born with a dark side of a monster you hunted. Even when he saw you with black eyes, Dean always knew that the real you was buried deep down, and you always fought it off.

But what happens when the monster was stripped away from the person he loved and what he was staring at him right in the face? What laid beneath him wasn’t you, it was the thing that you had spent your entire life fighting. Dean knew the right thing to do was to kill you once and for all. The demon that had been haunting the woman he loved. The real question was, could he separate the woman from the monster? And the answer was no. He couldn’t do it, even with three lives on the line. You had him right where you wanted him. And he could tell from the pleased look on your face. It reminded him of the times when you—the real, human you—would get when you won an argument on him. That face he couldn’t stay mad at…

"Guess who's finger it is, Dean. Come on." Your voice broke him out of his troubled thoughts, reminding him that you weren't the woman he loved. The real Y/N was in some abandoned building, surrounded by demons. You raised your brow slightly as he ignored your question. "I'll give you a hint. It's not Ben's. He's too young. Do you think it's Lisa's? Maybe. I thought about it. She seems like a real fun chick. But not the kind of stuff I have in mind. She’d get boring real quick. I like someone with prior experience. Someone I knew through and through. All the right buttons I can push.”

You could tell he got his answer when he let go of the grip around your hair as he dropped the knife away, too. The anger was slowly to fade away as the fear settled in when you continued on. "It's her ring finger, by the way. Figured I'd start with the most useless one. Not like you two are gonna get married. I mean, the thought did cross her mind every once in a while. However the wheels really started going off in her head when we went to that alternative universe. She slipped on a ring on that little finger and thought about it. Y/N Winchester does have a nice sound to it, doesn't it? Too bad it’s never gonna happen.”

"You have five seconds to tell me where they are." Dean tried to ignore what he was hearing as he pointed the blade in your direction, as if that was supposed to scare you into telling him what he wanted to know. You stared at him with a blank expression. "Or I swear—"

“You two never talked about getting married. But she had a feeling you wanted to. She wanted to be that couple. To be better than anyone else. She wanted to get married cause you two had something real. Something your parents never had. She thought that the both of you could survive whatever life threw at you. Look at where it ended the both of you.” You said. Your cynicism about how the situation was playing out was the truth. “I guess you really only need the finger...you know, what the hell? Let’s have some fun. Pop a ring on that sucker and let’s have ourselves a shotgun wedding!”

Dean heard of that term before. It happened when a girl had an unwanted surprise with a man after sharing a moment of intimacy without protection. His expression dropped, along with his heart in his stomach as he thought about the possibilities. He looked over at the demon and ignored his shock as he threatened the demon. “I’m gonna kill you, bitch.”

“Do it.” You said, pushing him closer to the edge of snapping and falling into the trap you set. Dean didn’t move. He continued to stare at you as the grip around the knife tightened until his knuckles turned a ghostly white. He wanted to. But you knew he couldn’t. “You know what will happen if you do. Y/N will be good as dead. And you know that’s not a good thing. Two for the price of one. But...do you really think it would be a bad idea? It’s not like you wanted a kid, anyway. mean, like you said, you’re not father material.”

“Shut up.” Dean grunted. “You don’t know me.”

“I know enough that you couldn’t even stay with Lisa and that brat of hers without screwing it all to hell. All you’re good at is slicing throats and watching the people you love die bloody.” You said, taunting him with his own confession he unwilling gave to a goddess of truth. That was also when the real woman he loved confessed how her feelings for him never changed. “Kind of fitting the mother of your child is gonna go the same way.”

Dean forced himself to step away from the demon before he could do something he would regret. All at once he was on the verge of...he didn’t know what. Sheer panic, rage...maybe even the slightest bit of happiness? Only for it all to be washed away with a fearful denial. Demons liked to mess with people’s heads. They used their own desires and pinned it against their prey. He did it to you—the real you—in hell when Alistair offered him the chance to torture souls.

Everything about a person was all laid out there for the taking. Dean was taught the best way to break someone was to take everyone they loved and turn those happy memories into nightmares that make their worst fears seem like a walk in the park. That demon bitch, she knew everything about you. All of your thoughts running through your head were her own. She must have known about your secret desire to have children. It might have been a topic of discussion between you and him, but you probably dwelled on the past the first year while you were back from the dead. Along with Dean's supposed desire to have a family.

Dean knew better than to trust a demon and the threats they make, along with what is the truth and some attempt at getting under his skin. He labored his breathing as he stared at the bitch who looked exactly like the woman he loved. She returned his glare with a simple stare. "You're lying."

"Now, why would I do such a thing? This is a miracle. A little piece of you is gonna be in this world. The Winchester tragedy can move onto the next generation. And they don't even have to be born for that to happen.” You said, your tone of voice was too cheerful. Dean looked away from you when his eyes began wandering around the place. He wanted nothing more than to cut the bitch up, make the demon confess where the real you was. But he couldn't help himself dwell in the possibility that what the demon was say might be true. The both of you were so careful, making sure to use the right safety precautions..."Except last month. Remember? The both of you went on that 'supply' run out of town. Only it ended with you taking her over the Impala. And man, wasn’t that good. Been awhile since the both of you had a second alone. While it was good, you were so worried about getting in her, you forgot one thing..."

Dean had to walk away from the demon so he could gather his senses together. Before he could do something he would regret. He wandered over to his work station littered with all sorts of tools that could make the demon scream in pain. But all he wanted right now was the bottle of whiskey. His threatening glare fell as he stared at the wall, his eyes glazing over as he felt his stomach tighten at the mere thought. There was no way it was possible. Dean reached for the bottle and took a long, and much needed drink. But no amount of alcohol would calm his nerves from what was happening.

"You know, come to think of it...I wonder who would be the father. I mean, let's not forget—Y/N had you and your brother. Talk about keeping it in the family. Not that I blame her. The both of you could make her scream. I bet Crowley's goons are getting the same reaction from her. But not the fun, sexy kind. More like the begging for mercy, 'Please God make it stop' kind of screaming.” You said. Dean could feel himself becoming overwhelmed with too many emotions to process at what he was hearing. He shut his eyes as he exhaled a breath. What he wouldn’t do just for the nightmare to end. When you spoke up again, you used a baby like voice to mock him. “She sure put up a fight when I cut off her widdle finger."

You wiggled your index finger up from the armrest when Dean turned around to face you again with a grin on your lips at how defeated he looked. You decided to be the slightest bit nice and throw him a bone. "Fine. Maybe I'm being mean here. I'll make a deal with you, hun. You are all about saving people, right? Okay. Pick a family to save and we’ll call it even.”

Dean heard every word you said, but he stared at you like you were talking gibberish. "What?"

"Pick. A. Family." You repeated your words, this time, much slower for him to understand. "Come on. You know how this goes. Y/N did it when she picked you over Sammy. So...who gets left on the cutting room floor? Lisa or Y/N? I know, it's a big decision. Choosing either your side chick slut or the dumb bitch who keeps crawling back to you time after time. Even after all the things you did to her in hell. Which, by the way, thanks for that. Really helped boost my ego.”

"You're getting off on this, aren't you?" Dean asked you as he narrowed his eyes slightly on you.

“And you aren’t I mean, look at yourself...this is second nature to you. You learned from the very best and this is what you do? Torturing low level demons you know damn well who have no clue where Crowley is. This is compared to what you really can do. So why not unleash the beast on someone who can handle it? I know you really want to.” You tried to persuade the hunter, but he kept staring at you with those green eyes filled with fear of hurting you. You rolled your eyes and decided to take another route. "Should I get into character? Make this feel more...natural? Like old times?"

Dean watched as you inhaled a deep breath as you adjusted your body best that you could from how you were positioned in the chair. You shut your eyes for a brief moment and composed yourself, gathering the memories of the time from what felt to be life ago. Dean felt himself taken back to that very moment when he saw you finally open your eyes. The arrogance and anger was replaced with...fear. Pure fear of terror as you stared at him like he was the monster.

"Dean," You choked out his name as your bottom lip began to tremble as tears began to form in your wide eyes. Dean stared at you with uncertainty, suddenly wondering what was going on. He gave you a worried expression as he wondered for a moment if it was really you. He found himself being pulled back into the devil’s trap as he inched closer to you. Only when you spoke again, he suddenly realized what you was trying to do. "Please. Don’t hurt me again. Alistair is lying to you. You gotta believe me. I didn't mean to get you killed by Lilith. I didn't, I swear! Please…I can’t take it much longer.”

The older Winchester found himself staring at you with complete disgust at what you were doing. You were trying to recreate a memory from the time in hell while he tortured souls. And yours was the very first one. He took a step back, not realizing that his boot accidentally scraped away part of the devil's trap, releasing you from the hold it had on you. You didn't make your move just yet. You waited until he was standing over you, with those eyes filled with what seemed like guilt at what you were subjecting him to while he strolled down memory lane of a time that he tried so desperately to hide. Only it was the perfect distraction.

“Now, ask yourself. Who’s the real monster here, Dean?” You asked him. “Because remember, you helped make me this way. And I never properly thanked you for that, did I?”

Dean would realize his mistake when he watched your eyes flicker black, giving him a hint that things were about to turn something. Before he could use the knife that was still in his hand,, you didn’t even need to lift a finger as he went flying back to the van that was just across the garage. His body hit the vehicle with enough force to shatter the windows. While he was trying to recover from the blow he took, you worked on getting yourself free.

You easily snapped off the bonds that held you and pushed yourself back up to your feet before you were back over at the man’s side. Before he could try and make a move, you shoved him back, pinning him against the van by grabbing ahold of his neck and squeezing the flesh until you felt him take his last breath. You stared at him with snarling lips at the possibilities of what you could do to the Winchesters. Cas had told Crowley the Winchesters were off limits, but nothing to you. And you were about to have a field day with them,

"You know what my favorite kind of torture is? Physical is fun, but wounds can heal. What really damages a person...is the mental games you can play on simple folk like you." You whispered to him, squeezing his neck even harder, wanting to feel his bones break in your grip. But before he passed out from the lack of oxygen, you decided to give him a piece of mind on the scare you gave him earlier about a responsibility he would never be good for. "Relax, bucko. You're not gonna be a daddy...not to whatever fetus that doomed to grow in Y/N disease ridden womb or that little brat, Ben. Because you’re not father material. You're not good for anything. And you know that.”

You had all the intentions of taking your sweet time of killing Dean before moving onto the other brother, who remained clueless of what was going on between the both of you. You watched in sickening pleasure as Dean's eyelids began to flutter at his surroundings began to appear hazy. The man could feel himself slowly slipping out of consciousness from the grip around his throat. However before his vision could go completely black, something of a miracle happened.

Dean blinked, and just like that, he felt the grip around his throat be released after what felt like an eternity. He quickly inhaled a deep breath of air his lungs were demanding over the past grueling minute and came back to his senses. Dean looked around the garage to see that you had vanished from his sight, and replaced with someone else that he had been hard to ignore. A friend turned enemy...Cas stood across from the man, appearing with an expression that seemed like the angel wanting to talk.

[Next Part]

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