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[dailysanta]

santa stress

[booklovingturtle]

Jude Teaches Cardan to Fight (pt 3)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Summary: The High King’s Senechal decides that it’s important for him to learn how to defend himself. During their first training session, things go about as well as could be expected when Jude and Cardan are in a room with pointed weapons.

AN: L O L. Okay. I lied a little. I think there will be a part four but I’m not sure yet. I like the way this one ended but there is always space for another piece. As of now, this is the end.

Cardan’s muscles burned from training. His lungs were fighting against the pounding of his heart to gulp down mouthfuls of fresh air. Sweat trickled down his back and stuck his shirt to his heated skin. Fatigue wore down his limbs and made the sword tilt downward.

Jude would have none of it. She gave him barely enough time to breathe before swinging towards him. She moved fast and strategically, placing bruises along his body with her practice sword. Sometimes she would use the hilt of her sword to hit a nerve or just annoy him. She was ruthless and cunning but beyond that, she was a genius.

Cardan’s only example of training was Balekin’s vicious abuse. Each stab of the sword was followed by a stab of his words. If Cardan faltered, it was because he was a half-wit. If he couldn’t block one of Balekin’s attacks, it was because he was weak. If he missed a blow, it was because he was too weak to inflict any real damage. There was no learning with Balekin. Only vain attempts at pleasing him.

Training with Jude was nothing like that. The first lesson had started poorly thanks to his inability to stay calm but it had ended peacefully. They went over basic skills that he’d forgotten. She even taught him a few new ones. The whole time Jude was stern but never cruel.

He hadn’t enjoyed the training session yet he hadn’t walked out of it with any physical or mental scars. His whole body had ached the next day. His muscles were crying loud enough that he tried to skip their second session. Jude came into his room and naturally refused to let that stand.

“If you’re in too much pain to hold a sword then we will go over the parts of the body to aim at. Mental instruction is just as important as physical.” She proceeded to ask a servant to bring in a desk and chairs for them. 

That day was spent with her hideously drawn diagram of the body accompanied by thorough explanations of the best ways to attack each.

“Give me back the pen,” she tried to yank it from his grasp when she saw his crude addition to her diagram. “Use your own time to practice your erotic art.”

Cardan had laughed harder than ever. Jude’s cheeks flushed as if only then having realized what she had said.

“Shut up,” she muttered.

Their third day of training was back in the weapons room. Cardan was surprised to see that he wasn’t entirely dreading it. Day three was a review of novice skills followed by a mock sword fight.

“Good,” Jude's mouth twitched. It wasn’t a smile but it was enough to make one breakout on his face. “You’re not terrible when you aren’t whining in between attacks.”

It turns out, Jude was quite right. There was an elegance to swordplay that Cardan hadn’t noticed before. As long as he focused on his own body it was easy to fall into it. Swordplay was almost intimate. His eyes stayed entirely focused on her while they trained. He was learning to read her cues, anticipate her attack, and find her weak points. It made it easier to stay focused on her that when he made a mistake, she corrected him objectively.

“Stop twisting your upper body so much. You shift too much of your weight like that and unbalance yourself. We’re supposed to be fighting, not doing the cha-cha-slide.”

“The what?” Cardan asked dumbfounded.

His confused look actually made her smile. “It’s a human dance. I learned it my old school assemblies but they do it at almost every party.”

That did intrigue him. “A dance? Could you teach it to me? Maybe we could ask the musicians at court to learn it.”

Jude had laughed so hard that her knees went out from under her.

Two months into training with her and Cardan finally stopped fearing it. Jude was so easy to train with. She never asked him to slit the throat of a human servant or called him a coward. She had kept her word. She was not asking him to become a fighter or killer. He was relieved every time she would quiz him on the best ways to disarm an opponent and not decapitate them.

“If I’m ever caught without a weapon I can always use my good looks and brilliant charm to disarm them,” Cardan joked through labored breaths.

“Maybe. That would only work if they were blind and deaf, though, so let's not count on that happening.”

He wasn’t the only one that was being changed by the training sessions. Jude tried her best to be understanding of his previous experiences. She was usually patient. After the first session, if he had ever angered her during training, she never showed it. Even their spiteful arguing had smoothed into playful bickering.

“I can’t do this,” he had spat angrily one day. She was trying to show him how to quickly switch from one weapon to another. Cardan kept dropping the sword and the dagger mid-switch.

She rolled her eyes at him. “Do you have a heartbeat?” He crossed his arms and glowered. “Do you have arms?”

“Yes.” At that moment he wished that he could use her dishonest sarcasm.

“Do you have all ten fingers?”

“Yes!”

“Then I’m not seeing why you can’t do it. I see why you aren’t doing it but not why you can’t,” she challenged his defeated attitude. You are afraid of making a mistake. I don’t need perfection. I care that you are able to execute the maneuver. I can nitpick the technique later. Just breathe and try it again.”

Madoc was a bloodcap. He reveled in war and bloodshed just as Balekin did. Yet here was his ward, a master liar, gently instructing the High King on how to properly throw daggers and dodge a punch. Jude was entirely different in the training room. He wasn’t sure when it had happened but he could see it now.

Cardan’s sword swung and collided with hers again. They had been going back and forth for ages now. Jude nodding when he did something right and giving him words of approval. He was trying to keep his head on the sharpness of her blade and not of the kindness of her words.

Somehow he had developed an appreciation for her constructive feedback. It no longer prickled him to hear her critique him. In fact, Cardan was excited to hear what she had to say. If it was good then he ignored the way heat flooded through his body. If it was bad then he worked harder to please her.

Her foot snuck out from under her while her blade had distracted him. Cardan head hit the floor painfully but he curled forward and yanked her body down with him.

Jude landed beside him, sword clattering away from her. He was reaching for his dagger but she recovered before he could. She twisted and was on top of him immediately. The cold steel of a dagger was pressed to his pulse.

“Not too bad for a lazy King, huh?” Cardan’s breathing was ragged. A smile was pasted on his face despite the blade at his neck.

Jude own chest heaved above him. Her body was like liquid fire moving over him. It was an effort not to press her to him.

“Not bad at all. You got a little over enthusiastic near the end. I’ll take that over whining.” A spark danced in her eyes.

The knife reminded him of a time long ago. The smell of fear in a dark room hidden under the castle. Jude’s pointed crossbow. Shame and desire mixing to create his own personal hell. Jude kissing him and he wanted to drown in her.

“Believe me,” Cardan’s hands found her waist, “I’m not complaining.”

Jude tensed for a moment. Her body was rigid but her eyes were on his lips. She seemed to have been thinking about the same night as him.

“I could stay in this position forever,” he teased, finding the heated skin under her shirt.

She shuttered, eyes fluttering closed. “That’s a shame, then.” Her words were uneven. 

“Oh? And why is that?”

“Because unlike you...I do not have forever.” Jude’s sentenced punched a hole through him. Her opened long enough to read the sorrow in his. Her own were full of an odd unnerved look. The reminder of her mortality was for him, not her. She could see that for a moment there, he had forgotten who she was. What she was. She stood and took all of the warmth in Elfhame with her.

“Same time tomorrow,” she spoke as if the last minute had vanished from existence. “I have meetings to attend so the Bomb will be training you in my place.”

“Wait-” Carda foolishly rose to his feet. “Rest up,” she turned away from his plea. “I don’t suggest having any court gatherings or night guests. If you thought that I was a strict trainer, the Bomb is a whole other story. You’ll need all your energy for her tomorrow.”

She was out of the room before he could fully process the way her voice faltered when she mentioned night guest. Cardan was relieved and disappointed about tomorrow. On one hand, it would give him time to forget how Jude had felt pressed against him. On the other, it would only prolong how long he would have to wait until he could see her again.

Tags: @ourbooksuniverse @notyourclassicshadowhunter @fangirlinghard-spoilerson @afexiss @cute898 @mintyvina​  @andromeddea (let me know if you would like to be added to the list and/or if I forgot to add you!)

[thecleverdame]

Control and Release - 3

Series Masterlist

TEDTalk!Sam x Reader

Summary: With the rest of the staff caught in a snowstorm, you find yourself acting as a personal assistant to the notorious Sam Winchester.

Warnings: Humiliation, embarrassment, sexual objectification, mutual masturbation, spanking, dub-con,

Words: 3800+

Beta: @ilikaicalie

Parts Four and Five are currently available on Patreon for a monthly pledge of $2.50. This includes early access to all my stories and Patreon exclusive content.  >> CLICK HERE <<

-

Life goes on, you return to Boston but the events of that night haunt you. There are times when you can’t believe it actually happened, that Sam Winchester had you in his room. And there are nights when it’s all you can think about, laying in the dark with a hand between your legs pretending he’s watching you.

But a week becomes a month and you get the sense that whatever happened was a fleeting mistake. A questionable choice that he’d prefer to forget.

You’re in the middle of typing up handwritten notes for one the of the junior partners when the phone rings. Pepper’s name pops up and you roll your eyes. She hated you from the beginning but after the conference, she’s really had it out for you. She made it clear that you did everything wrong, and she suffered Sam’s sour disposition as a result.

“Hello Pepper,” you answer, feigning a cheery disposition.

“What did you do?” She hisses, clearly trying to keep her voice down.

“I don’t know what that means.” You slouch back in your chair, defeated. None of your work is ever good enough for her.

“Well, you better figure it out. He wants you up here, now.” She grits out.

An immediate mix of dread and excitement springs to life, making your chest tight and cheeks flushed. Before even fully processing the words, you’re sweating.

“Who?” Whispering, you look around, afraid that anyone who sees you might suddenly develop telepathic powers and discover your dirty little secret.

“Who the fuck the do you think? Sam. I don’t know what you did but he wants you in his office ASAP.”

“Okay.” You swallow. “I’m on my way.”

The walk to the elevator seems as if you’re walking underwater, everything moving in slow motion. You’ve convinced yourself you’d never see him in person again, or when you did, he'd dismiss you.

What if this is just about work? No, there’s no way. You’re in charge of the most meaningless, mindless busy-work of anyone in the company. This is him flexing control, you’re sure of it. He’s ignored you for weeks and out of nowhere, you're being summoned to the executive floor.

“You okay?” Max, a junior associate, and resident hot shot asks stepping in beside you.

“Yeah.” You snap, looking at him in sudden concern. “Do I look like something’s wrong?”

“You’re all-” He points at your face, turning his finger in a circle. “Red. Are you getting sick? If you are, you better go home. The last thing anyone needs is the flu.”

“I’m fine.” You reach over and hit the button for the top floor.

“You’re headed to the attic?” He laughs, hollowing out his cheek with a whistle as if to say glad it’s not me. “You screw something up?”

“No, I mean, I don’t think so. Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

You know full well that no one of your lowly position gets called up unless they’re on the chopping block.

“I’ve been here a year and I’ve never been above the twentieth floor.” Adjusting his tie Max checks out his reflection in the mirrored wall. “Tell you what, how about I take you out for a drink later? Good or bad, you’re gonna need it.”

“Maybe.” You respond absentmindedly as the elevator dings and Max steps off.

“Good luck.” He gives you a little salute as the doors slide shut and you continue your ascent.

The moment you step off the elevator Pepper is there to give you the third degree en route to Sam’s office.

“If you did something you have to tell me now so that I get in front of it. Everything falls on me. I don’t want to pay the price for your incompetence.”

“I honestly have no idea.” You wish she’d stop talking, you can barely think at the prospect of seeing him again.

“Oh God,” glaring at you she opens the door to his office, gesturing for you enter. “Let me do the talking.”

Sam’s sitting at his desk, fixated on his computer. When he looks up he immediately hones in on you, glancing at Pepper as an afterthought.

“She’s here, finally. I can’t imagine what took so long. I called her twenty minutes ago.”  Lies. “Would you like me to stay?” Pepper asks, grinning unnaturally wide.

“No.” Sam quips. “Shut the door and let me know once everyone else is on the call. I don’t want to be disturbed.”

“Of course.” She turns, sneering silently at you before scampering out of the room.

And before you know it, you’re alone with him again. You don’t say anything, just stand in place as you stare at each other in silence.

“If you want to leave, you should do it now.” He explains calmly, sitting back in his chair. “I won’t stop you and we’ll never speak of it again. But if you stay, you’re giving me consent. Do you understand?

“Yes.” You force out, the fractured word barely audible.

“And what have you decided?” Tilting his head to the side he looks you over from head to toe.

“I’d like to stay.” You’re wet already, squeezing internal muscles and fighting the urge to let your eyes flutter shut.

“Good choice.” His face is expressionless. For being a savant at reading other people he’s just a skilled at cloaking his own emotions. “Come over here.”

Your hands shake as you slowly walk to his desk. He motions for you to come around the side so that you’re standing right next to his chair.

“Do you have a cell phone?”

“Not with me.”

“Bring it with you next time.”

“Okay.”

“Are you wearing underwear?” There’s small tug at the corner of his mouth.

“Yes.” You swallow, closing your eyes for a fleeting second.

“Take them off.” He watches you reach under your skirt and tug the fabric down your legs. Using one hand to balance yourself on the arm of his chair, carefully stepping out of them one high heel at a time. He holds out his hands and you drop them into his palm. “Don’t wear them again.”

Jesus Christ.

“I won’t.” You confirm. Every inch of skin covered in sweat.

“Sit here.” He taps the end of the desk with two fingers, his eyes never leaving yours. Perching on the edge of the desk you pray you don’t pass out. You can scarcely breathe at the anticipation. “Unbutton your blouse.”

His eyes are relentless, boring holes right through you as shaky fingers pop button after button on your creamy, silk blouse. You pull the material open, giving him a view of the bra underneath. His tongue darts out over his lower lip, his line of sight glued to your tits.

“Pull your bra down, just under your nipples.” He instructs and you comply. A pattern is forming, he has a definite preference for how you display yourself. His eyes dart up from your breasts. “Pull your skirt up and spread your legs so I can see your cunt.”

There’s a split second when you don’t think you can do this, especially not in his office in the middle of the day with a building full of people. But it’s also those facts that turn the fear into excitement, pulsing through your veins.

You stand up long enough to pull your skirt up around your waist, bare pussy on full display as you sit back on the edge of his desk and spread your thighs.

“Lean back and open your legs wider.” He commands as you settle onto your elbows, balancing one leg on the handle of his desk drawer, giving him a pornographic view of your sex. “You’re wet.”

The way he says the words makes it sound like he’s a pious priest and you’re some kind of wanton harlot.

“I like it when you look at me.” You confess, feeling like a whore laid out on his desk with your shirt open and legs spread.

“If you get my desk wet you’re going to clean it with your tongue.”

Mother Fuck. You could probably cum just like this. You wouldn't even need to touch yourself. Just listening to him say shit like that would eventually be enough.

“Mr. Winchester.” Pepper’s voice scared you half to death as she hails him on his intercom. “Everyone’s on the call, they’re waiting for you.”

Sam looks at you, grabbing his cock through his pants. “Stay just like that, don’t move, don’t touch yourself. Just stay open for me. You understand.”

“Yes.” You nod slowly.

Then he picks up the desk phone and hops on a conference call as if this is the most normal thing in the world.

At first, he’s not talking much, just replying with little verbal cues, palming his cock through his pants. He rocks back his office chair, clicking the end of a pen with his thumb and staring at your pussy like the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood. Something on the call sparks his interest because he refocuses on his computer screen, launching into an in-depth explanation about the importance of procedure and process.

Your eyes are closed as you listen to his voice, legs beginning to shake as you keep yourself in the requested position. He’s not doing anything, he hasn’t come close to touching you, at the moment he’s not even looking in your direction, but it’s somehow one of the most sexual and arousing situations you’ve ever been in.

He called you up here to take out your tits, hike up your skirt and present yourself as a piece of erotic art.

The combination of humiliation and arousal has every part of your body on fire. Your nipples are rock hard, throbbing with every beat of your heart, just the same as your clit. You want to close your legs, rub your thighs together to get a small amount of relief. Concentration slipping your legs begin to fall closed and there’s an abrupt, hard smack on the inside of your knee, his open palm slapping your skin.

“Fuck,” you wheeze, mouth falling open.

The mark stings as you stare at him, watching him rub that same hand over his thigh. There’s a red handprint springing to life on your skin, and now it’s throbbing right along with the rest of all your sensitive bits. You tense up, clenching your cunt in desperation. If he had any question about how you’d respond he must know the answer now because you’re twice as wet as before.

He places a hand over the mouthpiece of the phone, “you’re not very good at following the rules.”

“I’m trying.” You whisper. There’s a tear running down your cheek. Perhaps it’s from his hand or maybe you’re just so fucking turned on that your body is responding in unfamiliar ways. More than anything you want him to touch you again, to bring this dormant need to life.

One of your hands leaves the desk and you almost touch yourself, squirming and writhing with little whimpers before you regain control of yourself. When you look at Sam he’s fixed on you like a hawk, eyes narrowing.

“I have to hop off for a few minutes.” He says evenly and hangs up the phone without ever looking away. “You’re not doing very well.”

“I just,” you gulp, unsure of what comes next. “I’m sorry.”

“Look at how wet you are.” He observes casually.

Reaching over he pulls open one of the drawers. Inside there’s a folded shirt and two ties. He pulls out one of the ties, rolling it neatly into a ball. He stands up, looming over you, stepping forward between your legs. “Open your mouth.”

You obey, dropping your jaw open. He firmly stuffs the tie in your mouth, effectively gagging you. You can’t help the desperate moan that gurgles up from your throat.

“Now, stand up and lean over the desk.”

You lock eyes for a moment before you comply, standing on shaky legs and bending forward until your belly is pressed against his weekly calendar.

“Arms up here, hands open, palms down.”

You stretch your arms up, spreading your fingers over the desk. The skirt is still around your waist, ass on full display.

“Spread your legs wider.”

You inch your legs part as far you can. This is a true feeling of utter vulnerability.

“Keep quiet. If you make too much noise someone will hear you.”

And with that, his hand comes down on your right butt cheek with a sickening smack that sends your entire body lurching forward. You’re grateful for the gag as you let out a muffled cry, summoning every ounce of self-control to stay in place.

There are three more in rapid succession, smack smack smack that sends you careening into a whole new world. It hurts, he’s spanking you hard enough his own hand must smart. All you can do is whimper into the gag, dragging your cheek along the hardwood of his desk.

The fifth spank is a quick, nasty slap directly on your bare pussy. It’s not a hard as the ones on your backside, but enough to send a spiral of pleasure and pain twisting up your spine as you groan and lift your head.

“You're so wet,” his words come out in quick bursts, he’s trying to hold himself together. “This desperate little cunt is drooling.”

He wipes a wet palm over the stinging skin of your ass and repeats his previous set. Four on your ass and one on your pussy. And then he does it again. And one more time after that.

When it’s over you’re sweating and crying, tears of frustration, pain and all-consuming arousal. You’re right on the edge, you just need him to touch you, all it would take is the brush of his fingers and you’d cum like a freight train.

“Puhhh,” you mumble against the gag, fingers clawing the desk.

“You want me to keep going?” He shifts behind you.

“Puhhh,” You can’t get out anything other than unintelligible sounds.

He spanks your pussy again, only this time it’s a lighter touch over your clit. One, two, three little wet whacks that are enough to send you over the edge. You cum, panting with a makeshift gag stuffed in your mouth, bent over his desk, writhing like a bitch in heat.

You're gasping with a cheek pressed into his notepad when you hear the gentle click of a cell phone camera. It’s followed by several more accompanied by Sam’s satisfied grunt.

“Stand up and turn around.” He commands calmly.

Still breathless, you push yourself up with shaking arms, almost losing your balance as you turn to face him. You rest your butt on the edge of the desk and wince. You’re not going to be able to sit for a week.

Expressionless, he reaches up, pulling the tie out of your mouth with a yank and throws it back into the open drawer as you close a sore jaw.

He carefully, methodically, reaches forward, the warm tips of his fingers brushing the skin of your breasts as he puts your bra back in place. Long nimble fingers button up your shirt, one by one. Then two big hands, pull your skirt back into place. “Come here.”

He places one hand gently on your shoulder, turning you to look into the mirror on the far wall. He’s standing behind you, looming like a giant. Your entire face is beet red, cheeks pink and tear-stained, eyes puffy and swollen. The slick between your legs is wet, cold and uncomfortable but a constant reminder of what just occurred.

Your breath finds an even pace while you stare at each other in the mirror.

“If you want this to continue we’re going to have to set some ground rules. Is this something you’re interested in?” He asks, placing a hand on your shoulder, squeezing as his eyes study the reflection.

“Y-yes.” You can barely speak.

“It won’t ever be anything more than this, just transactional satisfaction. I’ll take what I want when I want it. You understand?”

“Yes.” You respond succinctly.

“Good.” He gives you one final look and steps away. “Sit down.”

He gestures toward the chair across from his desk. You gingerly take a seat, wondering if your ass is going to be black and blue. He scribbles something on a sticky note and hands it to you. It’s an address with no context.

“What is this?” You wipe at your cheeks as you clear your throat, finding composure.

“My personal physician. Be there tomorrow at 2:30. I’ll have an appointment scheduled for you.” He checks his phone, unhappy with whatever he reads and places it screen down on his desk.

“A doctor?”

“I don’t leave anything to chance.” He rests both forearms on his desk. “I don’t fuck with a condom. If you want to take this further, I have certain non-negotiables. I need to know you’re on birth control and that you’re clean.”

You thought you’d reached your capacity for shame but this is a whole new level. You almost choke, clutching both hands together in your lap.

“I-I’m on the pill.” It’s the only viable thought you can manage.

“That’s not good enough for me. You can understand why can’t you?” His fingers strum the files on his desk as he awaits your response.

You understand the logic, all you’d have to do is forget to take a pill or skip it on purpose if you wanted to. There’s the feminist part of your brain that wants to tell him to get fucked. He can’t order you around and assume you’re just going to do everything he wants. But there’s another part, a stronger part, that actually likes the idea of being controlled. It’s not like you can’t say no. You could walk out of this building and never look back. He’d let you go.

But offering your submission is your own version of control. You have to comply in order for this to work. It’s a two way street and you’re the one who gets the final say.

“I understand.” You nod, meeting his stare. “I’ll be there at 2:30.”

“You liked what I just did to you.” He cocks his head to the side. “Was it the pain or the humiliation that got you off?”

You gulp, refusing to look away. “Both.”

“You are interesting.” A smirk crossed his face. “We’re going to enjoy each other.”

“What else is there?  You said you had non-negotiables, was it just the doctor?” You want to know exactly what you’re getting yourself into.

“You can’t ever tell another living soul about what happens between us.” He gets up from his chair and saunters around the desk, sitting on the edge, directly in front of you. “If you want me to stop, you tell me. But once we stop, we won’t continue. Ever. You understand?”

“Yes,” you nod, watching his fingers curl under the edge of the desk.

“You can’t fuck anyone else.”

“Alright.” You agree. The truth is you’d agree to just about anything to have him touch you again. But there is one term of your own that you need to outline. “What about you? If you expect me to let you...”

“Cum inside you?” His finishes, a hint of amusement in his voice as you blush for the hundredth time.

“Yes.” You choke out. “Then I have to be your only partner too.”

“Agreed.” He shrugs with an easy confirmation. You’re not sure its the response you expected but it wasn’t tacit acceptance.

“Good.” You breathe.

“Good.” He mimics, his eyes dropping over your body from head to toe. He leans back and taps the call button on his desk phone. Before you have time to prepare Pepper is bustling into the room.

“Everything alright in here?” She asks coming to stand beside the chair you're sitting in. She gets a look at your face and forces a smile at Sam. You’re just thankful she can’t see your ass.

“Y/N is going to be working on a special project for me.” He disregards her question, getting up to move back behind his desk.

“Special project?” She looks from you to Sam.

“Confidential.” Sam looks at you, locking eyes and refusing to look away. There’s a now familiar tingle between your legs. “I have an inquiry that I need to keep separate from our other work for proprietary reasons. Y/N has proven her ability to remain discreet. She’ll need access to the executive elevator and an all-hours, unrestricted security pass. I’ll let you know what else as the situation evolves.”

“Of course.” Pepper nods. “Anything else?”

“No. You’re both free to go.” He waves his hands, opening his laptop.

You get up, ready to follow Pepper out of the room but stop for a moment. “Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Winchester.”

His eyes shoot up from the screen, mouth tightening. “I’m sure you’ll prove yourself.”

With one final look, you walk out of his office. This is surreal, you want to pinch yourself and slap your cheeks just to make sure you’re really awake.

“What the fuck was that?” Pepper hisses the minute the door is closed. “You look like a mess. With all the tears I thought he fired you. You’re lucky, he hates it when people cry.”

“Oh, um,” you stumble, looking for a suitable explanation. “He was...rough.”

“You have no idea.” She rolls her eyes. “What the hell happened at that conference? You said you noted everything and now he’s talking about your ability to be discreet and giving you work.”

“I can’t get into specifics. It’s sensitive.” One thing is clear, he’s never come on to her. She has no idea what’s going on behind closed doors, but that doesn’t surprise you. Sam has a reputation as a ruthless businessman but you’ve never heard so much as a peep about anything scandalous. And to be honest he’s the last person you would expect it from if it hadn’t happened to you.

“Well,” Pepper sighs, hands on hips. “I hope you’re pleased with yourself. God, you have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.  He’s a terror to work for, trust me when I tell you that you’re not at all capable of meeting his expectations. You won’t last a week reporting to him.”

“I’m capable of more than you think.” You raise your eyebrows, emboldened by this new situation. Sex notwithstanding, reporting directly to Sam gives you a sliver of power, perhaps just enough that she’ll ease up.

“Just don’t come crying to me when he loses his temper.” She laughs dryly. “I’ll have your new credentials by the end of the day.”

And just like that, your entire life is about to change.

-

Parts Four and Five are currently available on Patreon for a monthly pledge of $2.50. This includes early access to all my stories and Patreon exclusive content.  >> CLICK HERE <<

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[hookaroo]

Vocivore, Ltd. (22 of 40?)

A OUAT WINTER WHUMP FIC

Also on FFN and AO3 (ListerofTardis)

Tagging @ouatwinterwhump, @killian-whump, @sancocnutclub, @killianjonesownsmyheart1, and @courtorderedcake <3

***THE MOST WONDERFUL COVER ART BY @cocohook38 HERE!!!!!******

***Chapter 12 animation and art that will absolutely astound you!!!**********

***NEW!!!!!!! LETHAL Chapter 19 art in all of its BLOODSTAINED GLORY!!!! AAAAAAHHHH!!! THANK YOU MY WONDERFUL COCONUT FRIEND!!!!!!***

5 weeks ago, continued...

The portal sizzled closed behind Emma, leaving Killian and Rumplestiltskin alone in the clearing. According to the plan, Emma needed at least a small head start so that the blame for Hope’s disappearance could fall solely on Killian’s shoulders. But during all of their careful scheming, Killian had concealed something from her: his grudging conclusions about how he would spend the time while he waited.

Without a word, the Dark One promptly spun on his heel and headed off in the direction of his temporary lodging. Sighing reluctantly, Killian called out a commanding,

“Oi!”

Rumple stopped but didn’t turn back; Killian rolled his eyes and adopted a casual tone.

“What’s your rush, mate? Surely you could spare me a few moments more, for old times’ sake?”

“Did you require something else, pirate? I’m really rather busy at the moment and I was under the impression that our business was concluded.” Rumple waited to turn until he had finished speaking, as if to emphasize his eagerness to be gone. Killian quirked a sarcastic smile that hid sudden nerves.

“Not to worry; I won’t keep you long.” Killian drew a deep breath as Rumple waited with a peeved expression. “Bloody hell, I can’t believe I’m about to ask this, but… well, look, this whole plot hinges on believability, yes? The entirety of Storybrooke needs to accept my desperation to get my daughter back. And anyone who thinks I wouldn’t fight tooth and nail to keep her from being taken in the first place is very sorely mistaken indeed.”

The Dark One’s startled smirk set Killian’s teeth on edge. “Why, Captain. Are you asking me to give you a beating?”

“You don’t have to look so happy about it,” grumbled Killian, already regretting the request. He grimaced. “I’d much rather have Emma do it, but I couldn’t ask that of her. And I know you won’t hold back to spare me pain. Do keep in mind, though--”

Abruptly, Rumple materialized just in front of the unenthusiastic pirate, cutting him off with a swift fist to the nose. As Killian reeled back in pained surprise, Rumple followed up with a knee to the groin. And then the Dark One was pummeling him, raining magically-enhanced blows down upon a floundering Killian and taking obvious delight in the task.

Gathering his wits and relying on centuries of combat experience, Killian rallied to the point of blocking or dodging about one third of his opponent’s strikes, even landing a smattering of answering hits upon the imp’s damnable grinning face. But Rumple’s magical speed and power gave him the overwhelming advantage. Killian quickly succumbed to aching exhaustion and simply closed his eyes, waiting for it to be over.

One final uppercut to his face, and the pirate lost his footing and collapsed to the dirt. Gasping for air and spewing the blood that flowed freely into his mouth, Killian tried for any attitude but miserable defeat.

“Would you look at that?” he panted, the brash words falling short in light of his current position on the ground. “I’d heard of crocodile tears… but croc’s blood… that’s a new one.”

“I could say that I didn’t enjoy that,” Rumple began, not even breathing hard. He waved a hand over his own face and all trace of injury instantly melted away. “But we both know it would be a lie.”

“Bastard,” muttered Killian as he struggled to his knees.

“Don’t get up just yet, dearie,” warned Rumple, the slight singsong tone a taunting hint of his true Dark One nature. Killian froze. A flash of foreboding landed in the pit of his aching gut.

“Why?” he growled in suspicion.

Rumple’s voice had a shade of that high, mocking quality that Killian so despised as he answered,

“Because this is probably going to hurt.”

That blasted dagger--the bane of everyone’s existence--misted into view. Before Killian could even flinch, Rumple lunged, and the undulating blade tore into the pirate’s flesh. A wicked, searing anguish jolted through Killian’s side. The dagger slid straight through and exited out the back, then reversed as Rumple yanked it free. Releasing a shocked cry of pain, Killian hunched over and clamped his hand against the wound.

The Dark One dagger faded into smoke, off to resume its place in whatever trophy display currently housed its evil. When he had caught his breath, Killian snarled at Rumple, all trace of concord gone.

“Dammit, Crocodile; I asked you to rough me up a bit, not bloody well run me through!” He winced, every movement sending spikes of unbearable agony throughout his abdomen. He could feel hot blood pulsing out between his fingers.

“You wanted realism,” countered the Dark One, whose demeanor bordered on gloating. “Planned abductions do tend to involve a weapon or two.”

“What good is realism if I bleed to death before the scheme even kicks off?” Sweat mingled with the blood on his face, while agonized tears stung his eyes. “Take it back.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” laughed Rumple. “Take back a stab wound? How do you expect me to do that?”

“Heal it,” grunted Killian. His attempts to get to his feet were increasing the pain a hundredfold. “I’m no use to anyone like this.”

“I think… not.” Rumple looked him over once more. “You have your realism, your shock factor… not even Queen Regina herself would notice if either of you were to slip up. Your sheriff spouse will exhibit genuine surprise and fear. And then, of course, she can be the one to heal you. It’s only logical.”

Through the haze of pain, Killian could see his point. If there was one way to ensure that Emma displayed real, startled terror, having her husband appear with a serious injury would do it. And despite the steady flow of blood, Killian didn’t think he was truly in any mortal danger. Just a short trip through the portal, and Emma could use her healing magic on him. But it would be a damn excruciating journey until then.

“I hope you fall off a cliff on your way home,” Killian spat. The Dark One smirked.

“Good luck with that Vocivore, Captain. I would be mildly amused to hear that you lost your head over it.”

Using disgust as motivator, Killian finally managed to push himself to his feet. He straightened, cursing, feeling the utter wrongness of the tunnel through his flesh.

“Oh, I do enjoy the look of pain on your face,” gloated Rumple. Killian clenched his teeth, in no condition for witty retorts.

“Sod off, scaly blaggard.”

“Gladly.” Rumple raised his hand in a ‘summoning magic’ sort of motion, but then he snickered. “I may have failed to mention… though the monster is nourished by screams, some of my sources mention rumors of… other appetites. I do not envy you in the slightest.”

He waved his hand, his cloud enveloped him, and he was gone. Killian shivered, an instant of panicked shock overshadowing even his excruciating wound. But then he dismissed the statement with a glower. The Crocodile was likely just fabricating something to throw him off balance. He wouldn’t be cowed. Not by bloody Rumplestiltskin.

Moments later, Killian’s portal activated and he hobbled through, eager for the tingle of healing magic, but dreading the necessity of spinning the web of lies and deceit for his family and friends.

[room3voluntary]

In meds we trust

I was in the toilet when I heard a polite knock at my door. 'Are you in Maddie? A man’s voice floated through the door. I was only in there looking at my face. Well, the chemical caused acne breakout that used to be my face. Urgh. I opened the door. 'I just have some paperwork to fill in if that's ok?' I realised he might be a junior doctor and he was as polite and his knock. I grabbed them from his hand and it was the usual. 2 pieces of paper, each with situation statements which I had to confirm with a circle. Never, rarely, some days, several days, always. Question 3 really got me. 'Do you talk to yourself while you're alone? What type of question is that ?'I asked aloud. He asked why and I said how do you know. 'How do you know if you talk to yourself while you're alone? That's like asking if a tree falls in the wood when no one is around does anyone hear?' He started laughing. 'I see your point' he said 'I know that I talk to myself' me too. I circled 'several days'. I think everyone does. He thanked me and collected the papers. He informed me I have formulation meeting tomorrow. A formulation meeting is where everyone gets together and discusses what to do with you. It sounds so clinical. How do you  solve a problem like Maddie? I've been a puzzle quite a few times. 

 I was sat at my desk when a seriously lady walked in, carrying a briefcase and a warm smile she perched on the end of my bed. 'My name is Dr Khatri'.

 First things first we discussed the events which led me here but after a while she clocked my note pad. She asked me what I was writing so I explained. It was partly this, partly my book and partly serious subjects. 'I wish I was as creative as you' she said. We then continued trawling through my history and uttered the words I knew were coming but still filled me with dread. 'I think you will benefit from an antipsychotic'

 In 2008, after the first serious admission i had, I left hospital at went back to college. I had my second psychotic breakdown 6 months into my first year at art college. It was now September and my first day back. i was so nervous but everyone was so nice, within a few hours i got my confidence back, i was ready to begin. I stared at the canvas in front of me and nothing happened. Creativity used to flow out of my hands. My mother was told I was gifted. I never saw a blank canvas I saw one hundred visual stories to be told. I picked up the charcoal to trigger some sort of idea but nothing happened. Then it hit me, I was normal. I was functioning but i'd sacrificed my creativity for it. Id sacrificed part of myself. 

 When you're young you're told to believe in you're dreams. You can achieve anything you want but as you get older you realise this isn't true and it takes hard work and sacrifices. My goal was to be normal and for that i realised I'd sacrificed part of my soul. Through the following year, I noticed not only had I sacrificed my soul, also my identity and it was down to a little blue pill called aripiprazole. aripiprazole was an antipsychotic and two years later when I had a trial coming off it, I came back. My soul re-entered my body, whatever what repressing me left and I got my sparkle again. I didn't want to be locked away again.

 'It's an antipsychotic called olanzapine' she said covering an awkward silence in which I realised I hadn't replied. 'I understand you have tried aripiprazole and quetiapine in the past yes?' I had but they were both the same, they stole who I was but quetiapine had made me physically ill as well. bad allergic reaction.

'What are the side effects?' I asked when I finally got out of my thoughts. 'There can be weight gain as a side effect' i knew this. Not only that I knew olanzapine was the worst one for it. I felt sick. I am Maddie and I am skinny. That's part of me. Throughout my life I've had patches where I've been a bit funny about my weight and for this reason I felt like I'd been given a death sentence. Logic once more dictates that this was ridiculous, but me and logic aren't always friends. I'm crazy and ill but at least I'm skinny and exciting. I'm not pretty enough to be fat. Medication weight is entirely different to normal weight. It's all on the stomach. You see it, a big round pouch. It's all on the stomach and flat in the eyes. I got one before, not big but it was there. People can be beautiful at any weight, size and shape but it made me so worried. My choice was be mad or be unhappy with how I look. I don't know what's worse. I know I was being dramatic, I know I was being shallow and vain but maybe It's what I deserved. 'Okay' I said. I wasn't really thinking. I'd already conceded to defeat to continue to participate in the decision. She asked if I had any more questions and smiled as she left. I smiled too.

 I am not anti-medication. I am pro-medication. I'm already on some. There are so many people, mainly who suffer with depression I've found, who point blank refuse any meds. I understand, they worry for the same reason as me but no matter how good your diet is, no matter how many miles your run, sometimes you're serotonin will not play the game. There is no denying these factors help but sometimes you need a crutch, a little helping hand to get you through the day but prejudice and fear seem stronger than logic. 'You don't need pills, why would you want to put all those chemicals in your body?' Preaches the person who nearly blacks out on tequila every weekend before inhaling a gram of cocaine through to Sunday morning. 'You just need a distraction' says the person who’s never even had a cold in their life, never mind any other health problems.

 It's a chemical imbalance: would you tell someone with diabetes it's a state of mind? And the same as diabetes, yes a diet can help, but you're not going to stop that imbalance by stopping their insulin. Ignorance causes suffering.

 The reason for my reservations was my complicated past with this type of drug. After a short time of contemplating in silence I started to cry. I felt heartbroken. Everything I had tried, the struggle and determination I had fought to stay off them, I was back to where I was a few years ago. I had failed. My heart sank into my chest not only through disappointment but the knowledge she was probably right.  I was being selfish too, my behaviour was also effecting the people around me, i had to be fixed. It was the most logical answer. I also knew that medication effects individuals in different ways but even that didn't help me. What could I do? I needed to formulate a plan of my own. Ferociously scribbled into my notebook cause and effect, feelings and frenzied suggestions but i knew deep down i was wrong.

 I went to find a nurse. I wasn't good at this whole 'talking to someone' business, I can do it in my own, but I needed to say my thoughts out loud.

 The ward has been busy. It was living up to a stereotype I tried to ignore. Sharon, the walker, was no longer wandering the hallways but yelping incoherently to herself in her room. Earlier a new girl was brought in by a flock of people who promptly tried to escape and hit her dad. I watched as she screamed and wet her self. I watched her violently thrashing as she was rugby tackled like a SWAT team by the staff and sedated. As we all shuffled off to our rooms as instructed by staff, I saw her legs were all bruised and bleeding. I saw her eyes too, she wasn't there. 

 I finally found a nurse to speak to. No, talk at. Through mascara stained rambling I explained. She said nothing. Finally she said 'don't worry about the weight gain, it doesn't happen to everyone'. What a pile of shit. Yes it does, it's the one that does it that most, im not an idiot. 'Tea is ready if you want some?' She said changing the subject and leaving. I didn't want some. I wasn't hungry. Probably because I knew soon that's all i'd be. Hungry and lost. 

 As the evening drifted on, it nearly time. I made my way to the treatment room like a prisoner on the way to the executioners block. I had to get rid of this negativity. i had to try. I slouched on the chair outside the treatment room, waiting for my name to be shouted. A few of the older and worse patients were watching TV. I looked at their facing staring blankly at the set. How do they do it? All of them are on antipsychotics and they just get on with it. That's all some of them do though, just stare at the TV in their pyjamas. I can't work out if they know what's going on or braver than me, stronger than me? Probably both, more so the latter.

 I heard my name and got my meds. I saw a new little pink one, poking out of the crowd of pills in the paper cup. 'This is a new one for me. I'm excited for the sleep but not the weight gain!' I joked. She just smiled and shrugged her shoulders. I took a deep breath and knock it back. Then nothing. I don't know what I expected. The whole world to change? To die? Everything was exactly the same. An hour passed and still nothing happened. I was just sat watching TV and very much still myself. 

 I got up to go to the kitchen and that's when I noticed the change. Fuzzy. Everything was fuzzy. From the floor tiles to door frames everything was like a slow slide show, doubled and swayed. I felt like static, my brain full of white noise. I stumbled into the kitchen but it was too bright so I abandoned my cup and made my way to my room. I felt as though i was walking through water. A 5 second journey turned into a 5 mile march of white corridor. I have spent more time in a drug fuelled trip wandering round hospital corridors than I have house parties this year. 

 I finally made it into bed and turned out the lights. Everything was better now. The white noise was quieter. Calm. The world has righted itself. The last thing I remember before falling asleep was my legs feeling hot against the bed sheet.

 *****

 I've just woke up. I can't get up

  It was two hours later and I was still struggling to move. Every twitch of my leg and flex of my arm made me feel sick. I needed the toilet, I had to move. My mouth was sandpaper dry, I needed some water, I had to move. I eventually pulled myself up and felt better I thought- until I stood up. It felt like my heart was going to explode through my chest. All my extremities tingled. I edged my way to the toilet using the wall as a frame and finally reached the bowl. That was the best piss I ever had. I looked over the mirror. I looked awful. Every time I closed my eyes I could see the veins pulsing across my eyelids and in my reflection that is what I saw. Blood shot eyes, the negative of what I saw in the blink, like a fingerprint. I got up and shuffled to the door.

 The hallway was white. Too white. My heart felt like it was beating into my legs, each step a slow and heavy thump. The pressure in my chest was radiating down from my head which was locked in an invisible vice. The heaviness of my head led the way as I went to find help. 'I don't feel very well' I said when I finally reached the dining room hatch. One of the nurses took my arm 'oh dear' she said 'Coincidence has it, a doctor is here, I'll get him to take a look at you, don't worry'. I lent in her shoulder and she grabbed me gently by the arm and steadily walked me to the treatment room. 

 wilted on the bed, I blinked and there stood a figure leaning over me, face shrouded by the strip light behind, turning his features into a silhouette which was crowned by a halo. My eyes adjusted to the lights and distortion melted away. The silhouette was now replaced with a dark haired doctor. He looked early 30s. Quite cute actually. First attractive person I'd seen in ages and i was in this state. The nurse from before leaned over and pulled my top up. I then also realised I had my tits out. Great. Faces of Meth, faces of Maddie, there was very little distinction. 'Hold up your arms, put then together onto your chest and lift them up like chicken wings' he said. What. He must have seen my expression of disbelief and confusion as he showed me how. 'I'm not going to press on your elbows and you have to try and keep them up, okay?' He was very authoritative yet polite. I liked it. From there proceeded a number of resistance tests, pulling and pressing on various limbs. After a while he pulled out his stethoscope and listened to my chest before checking my blood pressure. Everything was a little bit high. 'You are experiencing some very strong side effects but you are okay but we'll mention this to the consultant. Try and get some rest' Rest. That is all anyway says but it doesn't seem to be working. The nurse helped me back up and I hauled myself back to bed.

 'Maddie can i come in?' The staff nurse shouted the door. 'You have your formulation meeting at 1 o'clock is that okay?' It was 12:30. Oh god, I had so much to say, so much to explain, so much persuading to do and I couldn't in this state. I was struggling slur through a sentence. mind fuzzy. I started to panic, the kick of adrenaline woke me up and I pulled on some clothes and lumbered to meeting room. It was time to formulate my formulation, see where my path was headed next, and I was not prepared.

 When I walked in I was greeted by four ladies all sat in perfect symmetry, two on each side. There was my mum, a staff nurse, the psychiatrist and a lady I didn't know. I looked at my mother who couldn't hide her concern at the state I'd walked in. 'I don't want to take olanzapine again, please don't make me' I pleaded before anyone could even begin. 'It is your body and I can see you are not well' I looked at Dr Khatri 'They have had an unusually adverse effect on you. In the pasts you have tried aripriprazole and quetiapine and there were not successful either. I don't think this medication is for you. I see no benefit to continuing'  she smiled at me. 'Thank you' I replied. Thank you didn't even cut it, thank you for the bottom of my heart. A wave of relief washed over me. I said previously they are not good for me but no one had really listened. I have the symptoms, they fix the symptoms but they don't suit me. Antipsychotics are anti-Maddie. 'We have decided to the observe and see how you go' she continued 'we will wait for the increase in lamotrogine to take effect and if you manage to have two nights full rest, you can go on weekend leave and if that is successful we can discuss discharge' even better! This was the plan. This is want I wanted. I struggled to hold back tears as I thanked her. The lady was finally introduced to me. She was my work liaison officer. The thing is, and the thing you may not believe is, I am full time employed. Up until a while ago I was just like you. A Starbucks drinking, Tesco raiding, selfie taking, endless consumer. I was the one who accidentally walked into you in a heaving pool of people in primark. I am the person who sat opposite you on the train. A 'mutual friend',  a 'someone you might know'.

 Mental illness believes in equality. It doesn't judge or have prejudice. It will simply strike any of us at any moment. A monster lurking in the dark.

 For a while I’d felt like my life had been stagnant and now it was the most static and stagnant it’s ever been. I needed to get out.

 For the rest of the meeting I stayed slumped in my chair, the drugs still flowing through my veins. I watched them speak, their mouths moved but blurred sounds came out from far away. Dr Khatri hand grabbed mine and shook it, our faces smiling simultaneously. The plan was complete. The formulation; I just had to sleep. Not that hard right?

 *****

 I’m trying to sleep but It’s raining. It’s raining so hard. I overheard something about a storm earlier, about the sky turning yellow? I don’t know. It’s not just me that’s gone crazy recently, it’s the whole world. I couldn’t sleep though it like the slow motion crush of a car bonnet crumpling into a wall in a crash test simulation, dummy falling and bending inside.

 Suddenly silence. I flipped open the curtain next to me, only blackness peered back in. No rain.

 From behind me I heard the pitter patter of quick footsteps down the corridor and quickly flung myself into bed and pretended to be asleep. A few seconds later I heard the shutter fold up, the flash of a light and felt the eyes of a nurse observe me for a moment before moving on. I heard the shutter slap down I rolled over. Try again.

 I lay in the darkness, it buzzing around me like bees trying to shut down. Even if I don’t sleep even if they just think I have slept I can leave. I wasn’t going to move but then I heard the tapping. It was coming from outside of my window. Tap, tap, tap. I got up and went to the bathroom and slid under the sink, curling into a ball. Tap, tap, tap. I closed my eyes and breathed.

 I wont tell them about this

[akiharashizuka]

Cardfight Vanguard G: Next turn 31 thoughts

Fragile Living Things

Not much going on in the first few minutes, but the focus slowly moves to Saori.

MC Miya described him as having a cool fighting style, however we know very well that he is bored of everything.

We get a flashback so soon. Not that I’m complaining xD

I like how casually Shiranui called Saori by his real name (I should start using it as well). Of course, he raised his guard quickly.

Also, their conversation after that was done well. They talk like they are familiar with each other, which makes sense, since both Shiranui and Dumjid are from the Dragon Empire nation. And, despite that, Dumjid still asks for payment xD

I guess we have the confirmation now that Miguel, as well as Antero, who possessed him, are dead. Unless there will be some plot twist later (if there is, they’d better execute it properly).

This is something I’ve suspected for a while, and now it’s finally confirmed. While Amaruda has admiration for humans, Shiranui and Dumjid look down on them. Ok, Shiranui’s exact thoughts remain unknown, but Dumjid is completely unimpressed by the human world. Except for the music. It makes me wonder why that of all things. 

I actually do have a possible explanation. People have created different forms of art to express themselves: music, drawing, literature, photography, sculpture and so on. Each piece of artwork is made with certain emotions attached to them, and people who come in contact with them can feel these emotions. Sure, there’s also the entertainment factor, but when you can resonate with a piece of artwork, you appreciate it more. I’m guessing that’s what made Dumjid like music. Now, I’m curious what genres he listens to because not everything can make you feel something. There are some superficial stuff out there.

Wow, it’s already happening o_O At the beginning of this week, the summaries for the upcoming 4 episodes were revealed and the one for episode 32 revealed that Shiranui defeated Am, Luna, Kumi and will be fighting Enishi. Am and Luna weren’t shown today though.

The important thing here is the reason why he challenged Shiranui.

I must say, he looks really pissed off. Makes me wonder what Shiranui said to Kumi, exactly. It most likely has to do with her "fighting for the fun of it" (as stated in the summary), and it also ties with Am and Luna’s defeat, but how horrible did it sound?

Ok, we got something to look forward to next week, but let’s focus on this fight.

Maybe I’m nitpicking, but I would have liked if Saori reacted in some way about Tokoha being a Neo Nectar user. He might not have now him personally, but he was informed that Miguel/Antero was a musketeer from Neo Nectar.

Gotta point out quick that Jaime is being more serious in this episode. Obviously, his team faces the most overpowered people in the tournament. But that’s not all. He was one of the few who noticed something wasn’t right with Noa. So, he might notice something about Diffride as well. Plus, he was acquainted with Miguel.

Here is another scene which further makes Shiranui’s real intentions a mystery. He did his research on Try3 and the teams they made (Hayao’s photo can be seen near Tokoha’s) and warned Dumjid about them. He also went and challenged every single one of them. Clearly, he wasn’t impressed with Shion and Tokoha. I’m not sure what he thought of Chrono at first. However, later it seemed that he had a better impression of him. Not only because he said so himself, but it was also pointed out by Chaos Breaker.

In last week’s episode, he expressed annoyance that humans playing Vanguard can decide the Units’ fate, yet he seems to be testing them.

Dragonic Blademaster...”Kouen”! However, this is not Saori’s avatar. And Dumjid is a Perfect Guard, not a Grade 3. Some might be disappointed because of this, but who says someone’s avatar has to be the main Grade 3 of the deck? It can be any Unit, as long as the fighter feels a connection with it.

And yes, Mamoru uses Dragonic Blademaster too, but this one is different. It’s Dragonic Blademaster “Kouen”. I really hope Tokoha realizes that and doesn’t get overconfident just because she knows Mamoru’s deck.

Hmm, they changed the depiction of the Blaze keyword. Actually, it wasn’t depicted depicted at all when Mamoru used it in episode 10.

Well, it’s only natural to look different, since it’s a new season and it’s animated by a different studio, however this Blaze looks more sinister. Kinda like the black and red energy coming from Reverse. Ok, ok, the Reverse/Void returning is still a mere speculation. It’s just the similarity that bothers me.

I liked this part and how it reminded me of what Neo Nectar symbolizes: life and vitality, being based around plants. And Tokoha showed this aspects well during her turn. 

This also reminds me of the occasional flowers blooming in cities, through concrete and the saying “Life always finds a way”.

The flashback was depressing. When I first saw Saori, I thought he was the brat of the team. Then, as more about his character, I started dropping this idea. To be honest, I’m relieved that wasn’t the case. However, not completely, since what we saw was Dumjid, not Saori himself.

I must say, him acting the way he does, saying that once you die it’s over makes perfect sense. He probably fought in many battles like this and ended up being the last one standing. I also think he is actually a very lonely person...or dragon.

For once, Dumjid isn’t showing a bored expression. He is shocked, he is shaking. Probably because he feels both fear (of a possible defeat) and excitement.

Surely, he can’t comprehend the situation and still refuses to acknowledge humans. Which is normal, considering the flashback.

A thing that has been bothering me is how a lot of people are quick to bash Tokoha’s reason for participating in the U20. And that’s because there was hinted a potential romantic development. Well, I agree that it wasn’t that well-written, considering that we’ve known Miguel for only one episode and Tokoha for like 2 days. However, that’s NOT the goddamn point! 

The nature of their relationship isn’t what matters. It’s that Tokoha has forged a bond with a person, who happened to die soon after and she wants to honor his memory. I personally think it’s a good enough reason. Probably those who didn’t experience the death of a person they cared about might not understand... Believe me, no matter how much time passes, you still think about them. And doing something in their memory it’s only natural, even it’s just a small thing, like bringing flowers to their grave (just for assurance, this is indeed from my personal experience, but it’s not anything tragic; it’s about my grandparents who died 7 years ago from old age)

Tokoha found this way to honor Miguel’s memory, but she’s also doing it for herself. She loves Vanguard, she loves a good challenge and it’s something she personally wants to excel at. Miguel just gives her extra motivation.

(I also felt extra motivated to accomplish something after my grandparents died, because they encouraged me to give my best when they were still alive)

And now, probably what most would think is that my case is different from Tokoha’s because it was about my family, while Miguel is just a random person. Yep, it’s different, but again, the exact nature of the relationship doesn’t matter, as long as it’s about a person you care for. 

Hope I shed some light on this matter...

First off, him keeping 3 Perfect Guards and using them all to block Tokoha’s attack was incredible. Also, here’s the proof that Perfect Guards are cool. especially with Dumjid’s effect. I mean, in order to complete guard, you have to discard a card from the hand. However, with Dumjid you can avoid it if the condition is meant. Sure, it’s not a complete guard anymore, but it still has a high shield number. Probably this kind of development wouldn’t happen so easily if the Diffriders didn’t have so much luck in cardfighting. 

Now, for his turn. I was confused why he gave the Critical and extra power to the Ziegenburg when it was perfect guarded, and he had Rear Guards on the front row. Then, he activated the effect and re-stood him. The extra power and the critical remain available, since his turn hasn’t ended. I don’t recall how many cards Tokoha had, but taking into account the 2 Rear Guards ready to attack, she couldn’t have enough. She was most likely overwhelmed.

Wow...I don’t recall commenting so much on the actual gameplay xD Anyways, another thing I’d like to mention is how furious he was the entire turn. 

The dragon Tokoha touched was definitely dead. I like how they showed Tokoha realizing the dragon was dead.

By showing her this, Dumjid most likely got his point across. I hope this would serve as development for Tokoha. I do sympathize with her, but she also must realize that there are some dreadful things out there and just some optimism won’t solve them. Her belief that feelings are inherited isn’t wrong, but she has to prove it in a different way to Dumjid. And to do that, she has to learn about him, about the diffriding, and about Miguel/Antero. There’s definitely more to his story, and if she doesn’t know what he stood for, she can’t truly honor his memory.

For now, it’s her loss and Team Jaime Flowers is really in danger to be eliminated. I’m glad she made the connection though and hopefully she will seek some answers.

The next episode will show Enishi vs Shiranui, which was already set up in this episode. I guess we will get more info on the Shiranui and Antero interactions.

Looks like Dumjid might approve of my playlist. Our taste in music is similar (not sure what “Electric” is supposed to be though; if it’s electronic music, then I’m not a huge fan of it...) And Amaruda reading subway schedules and bus routes xD I’m still not sure if that was a joke or she really meant it.

[luxus4me]

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“Comparison is the thief of joy.”

—Theodore Roosevelt

I grew up in an environment of perpetual creativity and inventiveness. My father Dennis built and flew experimental aircraft as a hobby. During my entire childhood, there was an airplane fuselage in the garage instead of a car. My mother Deloria was a self-taught master artisan who could quickly acquire any skills that it took to work with fabric and weaving. She could sew any garment she desired, and was able to weave intricate wall hangings just by looking at a black and white photos in magazines. My older sister Diane blossomed into a consummate fine artist who drew portraits with uncanny likeness, painted murals, and studied art and architecture. In addition, she loved good food and had a genius for cooking and baking, which converged in her creating remarkable art pieces out of cake that were incredibly delicious to boot. Yes. This was the household in which I grew up.

While there were countless positives to being surrounded by people who were compelled to create, there was also a downside to it. I incessantly compared myself to my parents and older sister and always found myself lacking.

It wasn’t a fair comparison, but tell that to a sensitive kid who wanted to fit in to her family by being creative as well. From my early years throughout my teens, I convinced myself that I would never understand how to build an airplane or at least be as proficient with tools as my father, the aeronautical engineer. Even though my sister was six years older than I was, I lamented that I would never be as good a visual artist as she was. And I marveled at my mother’s seemingly magical ability to make and tailor clothes and was certain that I would never attain her level of mastery.

This habit of comparing myself to others grew over the years, continuing to subtly and effectively undermine my sense of self. I had almost reached an uneasy truce with my comparison habit when social media happened.

As an early adopter of Twitter, I loved staying connected to people I met at tech conferences. However, as I began to realize my aspirations of being an author and a speaker, Twitter became a dreaded hall of mirrors where I only saw distorted reflections of my lack of achievement in other people’s success. Every person announcing a publishing deal caused me to drown under waves of envy over the imagined size of her or his book advance as I struggled to pay my mortgage. Every announcement I read of someone speaking at a conference led to thoughts of, “I wish I were speaking at that conference – I must not be good enough to be invited.” Twitter was fertile ground for my Inner Critic to run rampant.

One day in 2011, my comparisons to people who I didn’t even know rose to a fever pitch. I saw a series of tweets that sparked a wave of self-loathing so profound that I spent the day sobbing and despondent, as I chastised myself for being a failure. I had fallen into the deep pit of Comparison Syndrome, and to return to anything close to being productive took a day or two of painstakingly clawing my way out.

Comparison Syndrome Takes Deficiency Anxiety to Eleven

Do any of these scenarios ring true?

You frequently feel like a failure when viewing the success of others.

You feel dispirited and paralyzed in moving forward with your own work because it will never measure up to what others have done.

You discount your ideas because you fear that they aren’t as good as those of your colleagues or industry peers.

Are you making yourself miserable by thinking thoughts like these?

“I’m surrounded by people who are so good at what they do, how can I possibly measure up?”

“Compared to my partner, my musical ability is childish – and music is no longer fun.”

“Why haven’t I accomplished more by now? My peers are so much more successful than I am.”

Unenviable Envy

Many people use the terms envy and jealousy interchangeably, but they are two distinct emotions. Jealousy is the fear of losing someone to a perceived rival: a threat to an important relationship and the parts of the self that are served by that relationship. Jealousy is always about the relationship between three people. Envy is wanting what another has because of a perceived shortcoming on your part. Envy is always based on a social comparison to another.1

Envy is a reaction to the feeling of lacking something. Envy always reflects something we feel about ourselves, about how we are somehow deficient in qualities, possessions, or success.2 It’s based on a scarcity mentality: the idea that there is only so much to go around, and another person got something that should rightfully be yours.3

A syndrome is a condition characterized by a set of associated symptoms. I call it Comparison Syndrome because a perceived deficiency of some sort – in talent, accomplishments, success, skills, etc. – is what initially sparks it. While at the beginning you may merely feel inadequate, the onset of the syndrome will bring additional symptoms. Lack of self-trust and feelings of low self-worth will fuel increased thoughts of not-enoughness and blindness to your unique brilliance. If left unchecked, Deficiency Anxieties can escalate to full-blown Comparison Syndrome: a form of the Inner Critic in which we experience despair from envy and define ourselves as failures in light of another’s success.

The irony is that when we focus so much on what we lack, we can’t see what we have in abundance that the other person doesn’t have. And in doing so, we block what is our birthright: our creative expression. Envy shackles our creativity, keeps us trapped in place, and prevents forward movement. The Inner Critic in the form of Comparison Syndrome caused by envy blocks us from utilizing our gifts, seeing our path clearly, and reveling in our creative power.

In order to keep a grip on reality and not fall into the abyss of Comparison Syndrome, we’ll quell the compulsion to compare before it happens: we will free the mental bandwidth to turn our focus inward so we can start to see ourselves clearly.

Break the Compulsion to Compare

“Why compare yourself with others? No one in the entire world can do a better job of being you than you.”

— Krystal Volney, poet and author

At some point in time, many of us succumb to moments of feeling that we are lacking and comparing ourselves unfavorably to others. As social animals, much of our self-definition comes from comparison with others. This is how our personalities develop. We learn this behavior as children, and we grow up being compared to siblings, peers, and kids in the media. Because of this, the belief that somehow, someway, we aren’t good enough becomes deeply ingrained. The problem is that whenever we deem ourselves to be “less than,” our self-esteem suffers. This creates a negative feedback loop where negative thoughts produce strong emotions that result in self-defeating behaviors that beget more negative thoughts.

Couple this cycle with the messages we get from society that only “gifted” people are creative, and it’s no wonder that many of us will fall down the rabbit hole of Comparison Syndrome like I did on that fated day while reading tweets. Comparing ourselves to others is worse than a zero-sum game, it’s a negative-sum game. No one wins, our self-esteem deteriorates, and our creative spark dies out.

With effort, we can break the compulsion to compare and stop the decline into Comparison Syndrome by turning the focus of comparison inward to ourselves and appreciating who we’ve become. But first, we need to remove some of the instances that trigger our comparisons in the first place.

Arrest: Stop the Triggers

“Right discipline consists, not in external compulsion, but in the habits of mind which lead spontaneously to desirable rather than undesirable activities.”

— Bertrand Russell, philosopher

After my Twitter post meltdown, I knew had to make a change. While bolstering my sense of self was clearly a priority, I also knew that my ingrained comparison habit was too strong to resist and that I needed to instill discipline. I decided then and there to establish boundaries with social media.

First, to maintain my sanity, I took this on as my mantra: “I will not compare myself to strangers on the Internet or acquaintances on Facebook.”

If you find yourself sliding down the slippery slope of social media comparison, you can do the same: repeat this mantra to yourself to help put on the brakes.

Second, in order to reduce my triggers, I stopped reading the tweets of the people I followed. However, I continued to be active on Twitter through sharing information, responding to mentions, crowdsourcing, and direct messaging people. It worked! The only time I’d start to slip into darkness were the rare instances when I would break my rules and look at my Twitstream.

But we can do even more than calm ourselves with helpful mantras. Just like my example of modifying my use of Twitter, and more recently, of separating myself from Facebook, you can get some distance from the media that activates your comparison reflex and start creating the space for other habits that are more supportive to your being to take its place.

Creative Dose: Trigger-free and Happy

Purpose: To stop comparison triggers in their tracks

Mindfulness is a wonderful tool, but sometimes you have to get hardcore and do as much as you can to eliminate distractions so that you can first hear your own thoughts in order to know which ones you need to focus on.

Here are four steps to becoming trigger-free and happier.

Step 1: Make a List

Pay attention when you get the most triggered and hooked. Is it on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, or Snapchat? Is it YouTube, TV shows, or magazines?

Make list of your top triggers.

My primary trigger is:______________________________________ My second trigger is:______________________________________ My third trigger is:______________________________________

Now that you have your list, you need to get an idea just how often you’re getting triggered.

Step 2: Monitor

It’s easy to think that we should track our activity on the computer, but these days, it’s no longer our computer use that is the culprit: most of us access social media and news from our phones. Fortunately, there are apps that will track the usage for both.

Seeing just how much you consume media from either or both will show you how much of an accomplice the use of devices is to your comparison syndrome, and how much you need to modify your behavior accordingly.

For tracking both computer use and tablet use, this app works great:

RescueTime.com tracks app usage and sends a productivity report at the end of the week via email.

For your phone, there are many for either platform.4 Although I recommend fully researching what is available and will work for you best, here are a few recommendations:

For both platforms: Offtime, Breakfree, Checky

For Android only: Flipd, AppDetox, QualityTime, Stay On Task

For iOS only: Moment

Install your app of choice, and see what you find. How much time are you spending on sites or apps that compel you to compare?

Step 3: Just Say No

Now that you know what your triggers are and how much you’re exposing yourself to them, it’s time to say No.

Put yourself on a partial social media and/or media detox for a specified period of time; consider even going for a full media detox.5 I recommend starting with one month.

To help you to fully commit, I recommend writing this down and posting it where you can see it.

I, ___________________, commit to avoiding my comparison triggers of ___________________, ___________________, and ___________________ for the period of ___________________, starting on ___________________ and ending on ___________________ .

To help you out, I’ve created a social media detox commitment sheet for you.

Step 4: Block

When I decided to reduce my use of Twitter and Facebook to break my comparison habit, initially I tried to rely solely on self-discipline, which was only moderately successful. Then I realized that I could use the power of technology to help. Don’t think you have to rely upon sheer willpower to block, or at least limit, your exposure to known triggers. If your primary access to the items that cause you to compare yourself to others is via computers and other digitalia, use these devices to help maintain your mental equilibrium.

Here are some apps and browser extensions that you can use during your media detox to help keep yourself sane and stay away from sites that could throw you into a comparison tailspin.

These apps are installed onto your computer:

RescueTime.com works on both computer and mobile devices, and does a lot more than just prevent you from going to sites that will ruin your concentration, it will also track your apps usage and give you a productivity report at the end of the week.

Focus and SelfControl (Mac-only)

To go right to the source and prevent you from visiting sites through your browser, there are browser extensions.

Not only can you put in the list of the URLs that are your points of weakness, but you can also usually set the times of the day you need the self-control the most.

I currently use a browser extension to block me from using Facebook between 9:00am – 6:00pm. It’s been a boon for my sanity: I compare tons less. A bonus is that it’s been terrific for my productivity as well.

Which tool will you use for your media detox time? Explore them all and then settle upon the one(s) that will work the best for you. Install it and put it to work.

Despite the tool, you will still need to exercise discipline. Resist the urge to browse Instagram or Facebook while waiting for your morning train. You can do it!

Step 5: Relax

Instead of panicking from FOMO (Fear of Missing Out), take comfort from this thought: what you don’t know won’t affect you. Start embracing JOMO (Joy of Missing Out), and the process of rebuilding and maintaining your sanity.

What will you do instead of consuming the media that compels you to compare? Here are some ideas:

Read a book

Go for a walk

Have dinner with a friend

Go watch a movie

Learn how to play the harmonica

Take an improv class

Really, you could do anything. And depending on how much of your time and attention you’ve devoted to media, you could be recapturing a lot of lost moments, minutes, hours, and days.

Step 6: Reconnect

Use your recovered time and attention to focus on your life and reconnect with your true value-driven goals, higher aspirations, and activities that you’ve always wanted to do.

This article is an excerpt from the book Banish Your Inner Critic by Denise Jacobs, and has been reprinted with permission. If you’d like to read more, you can find the book on Amazon.

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