#GIVE ME BONE BROTH

[soup-soup-soup-soup-soup]

pain, suffering, hell on earth, i am LITCHERALLY dying over here, i am ill and going to be taken over by the Disease soon (soup deficiency)

[littleplantfreak]

thinking about umemiya’s special pork soup….

[furrama]

.

[potatoes-are-magic]

Bone Broth

Tis the season for soups and stews! So time to learn how to make another vital ingredient: Broth. Stock? I'm still not entirely sure what the difference between the two is, but most people use the two words interchangeably.

Most importantly, what you need for this recipe is bones.

That's the other reason this is a great time of year to make this recipe. You've probably got a turkey carcass lying around after the holidays.

Now, you can either use the bones from only one animal to make this and have either turkey broth or chicken broth, etc. But I tend to collect various bones throughout the year and freeze them until I've got a bag full. Bones I have used in the past include: chicken, turkey, duck, quail, beef, bison, pork, rabbit, and lamb. Mixing the different bones will help give your broth a more rich and complex flavor, so use what you've got. It's all fair game!

The Basic Tools and Ingredients:

A large stockpot

Bones! (enough to fill the pot)

Onion

Carrots, 2-3

Celery, 2-4 ribs and the leaves

Salt

Black peppercorns

1-3 Bay leaves

splash of Apple Cider Vinegar (ACV)

Water

Any other seasonings you want*

*Seasonings used can be anything and everything you want, and you're free to switch out anything I've got listed above. I've used juniper berries, ginger, fennel ribs... Basically any herb you wanna throw in is fair game.

Steps:

Take your vegetables and cut them into large chunks. When it comes to the carrots and onions, I like to leave the skins on for a stronger flavor.

Dump your bones, vegetables and seasonings in the pot and cover with water.

Add your splash of ACV. The acid in the vinegar will help break down the bones and pull out more collagen. This is the good stuff.

Bring to a boil and then lower to a simmer. This step will take hours to do, so get comfy. If you've got a big enough slow cooker, you can throw everything in there. The goal here is to leach as much flavor, collagen and nutrients out of your ingredients as possible.

Cook everything down until the broth is as dark as you want it. The longer it cooks, the more concentrated it'll get.

Remove/strain out all the solid ingredients. Put the liquids in a jar and put it in the fridge once it's cooled to room temperature.

And now you have a delicious base for any soups, stews or gravies you may want to make. Or drink it as is. If it's stewed long enough, it's also full of yummy collagen, so don't freak out if it gets solid and jello-like in the fridge. That's normal. As soon as you heat it up, it'll melt back into a liquid.

Enjoy!

[cordeliawhohung]

In Limbo [Chapter 8]

mafia!141 masterlist | In Limbo masterlist | general masterlist | taglist | playlist mafia!Simon Riley x fem!Reader

warm soup and bile

cw: illness, vomiting, a dash of angst, talk of death, period talk, emotional whiplash

wc: 4.3k

You’re still terribly febrile when you wake up. 

Stiff muscles and joints scream as your eyes flutter open, bleary eyes hardly able to make sense of your surroundings. Faux darkness smothers the room, thick curtains forbidding sunlight from raiding your vision with its unforgiving rays. Sediment builds between your bones where they crack and crumble into dust as you sit up, head protesting the movement with several throbs. A bottle jostles next to you on the mattress. A gift, you’re sure. You try to swallow the cotton-like dryness in your mouth before you greedily uncap it and take a rapacious swig. 

It’s dreadful. Salty, falsely sweet; your lips pucker as your tongue shrivels at the nasty flavor. Sea water would have been more appetizing and refreshing, yet your mouth is so dry you drink until half the bottle is gone. When you’re finished, you cough and it’s wet. Mucus and snot plague your throat, too far back for you to do anything but swallow it — thick, like cough syrup. 

Up your body urges. You’ve been stagnant too long, thick blood pooling in your limbs, weighing them down like lead as you drag yourself out of the bedroom, blanket thrown over your shoulders like a hermit crab. You’re a walking mess — a zombie with half a brain.

Lovely aromatics waft through the house as you descend the stairs, and the kitchen is sweltering when you wander in. A heavy wall of heat emanates from the stove as John works away at a cutting board, sleeves of his plain shirt rolled up his forearms. Carrots, onions, and celery dust the board as a pot of broth boils behind him on the stove. The knife glints in the light, and you will your stomach to settle. He greets you with a polite smile as you approach the kitchen island, hands fumbling with the barstool as you make room for yourself. 

“Mornin’ Chip,” he greets before glancing at his wristwatch. “Or, afternoon.” 

Sniffing, you attempt a smile back at him, but your face feels too swollen for it to come across correctly. “You’re making me feel like a bum.” 

“Well, considering the circumstances, you deserve to have a few days off,” he chuckles warmly. 

John turns, cutting board in hand, dumping the contents into the broth where it quells for a short moment before boiling once again. The sink turns on where smooth water runs over dirty dishes as he works on cleaning up his mess. There’s a slight urge to get up and help, to give something back to the people who housed you for the night, but the very thought alone is enough to make your muscles scream. 

Perhaps, just this one time, you will allow someone to take care of you.

“Riley bought enough chicken broth to feed a damn army, but I figured I’d spruce it up with some veggies. Give it some meat. Unless you fancy plain watered down bone juice,” he teases as he dries his hands. 

“You didn’t have to do all that,” you say, voice cracking. 

“Of course I did. This is you we’re talkin’ about.” 

Quiet feet tap against the beautiful, dark stained floor as Row enters the kitchen swaddled in a bathrobe and freshly showered. Her eyes light up when she catches sight of you curled over the counter, but there’s still that lingering glint of concern as she approaches with outstretched arms. Before you can protest, she envelops you in her arms, fresh rosewater washing over your stuffed senses in the process. 

“How’re you feeling?” she asks, holding your head tight against her chest. She’s warm, probably thanks to her shower, and you can’t help but melt into her despite your sickness.

“You’re gonna get sick,” you whine. 

“Well enough to talk back, it seems,” she teases before releasing you. 

Just as John turns the stove off, Row slides onto the stool next to you, elbow playfully bumping against your arm in the process. You bump her back and almost laugh — instead, you cough. 

“Have you taken any medicine?” she questions.

“Row, I just woke up,” you respond with a huff. 

“John?” 

“On it,” he chuckles. 

While the soup cools, John vanishes to retrieve whatever sort of medicine Row is going to force down your throat and you fight the urge to roll your eyes as you look at her. She rests her head in her hand with a cheeky smile. She’s glowing, dewy skin illuminated by the bright kitchen light as she assesses you with careful eyes. 

“You seem… happy,” you say in an attempt to get the attention off of you and your ailment. 

Row hums as her feet flutter with girlish glee. “Yeah, guess so. Maybe more excited than anything else.”

“What about?” 

“John surprised me this morning with an early Christmas present. He’s got us tickets for a trip to The Maldives over the holiday,” she says, keeping her voice low as if it’s a secret. 

It’s impossible to hide the way your eyes widen at her words. Sometimes, you forget exactly how… well off John and Row are. Even as a child, Row lived a privileged life due to the status of her father as the Chief of Police. The man was virtually a pseudo politician, and with his dangerous job he had a very generous life insurance policy that was paid out when he died almost twelve years ago. Couple that with John’s establishment in the city, you doubt either of them have known a moment of discomfort since they had gotten married. 

There is no envy in your realization. You’ve known from the very beginning that their type of life isn’t for you — not with your hands dried from sanitizer and body weak because you don’t know how to scream no loud enough.

“Sounds fancy,” you smile. 

“Sounds warm,” Row corrects with a chuckle. “I’m tired of the cold. You should come with us. I’m sure I’ve got room in my bag. Think we can fold you up tight enough?” 

“Thanks, but I’m not a fan of flying,” you giggle through a cough. “Dad took mum and I on a trip to Italy once and I got sick and threw up on the way there. I probably would’ve thrown up on the way back if it wasn’t for me crying the entire time over it.” 

Row’s attempt to stifle her laugh fails miserably as she shakes her head. “I’ll bring you a souvenir then.” 

“Good idea.” 

John returns shortly with cough syrup in hand and he slides it across the island to you like a bartender. It goes down surprisingly easy; too smooth, albeit a tad bitter, you take it like a shot to quickly drown out the menthol burning the back of your nose. Somehow, it seems to clear your mind a little. Or, perhaps you have a proper night's rest to thank for that. 

“Do you have any plans for Christmas this year? And please, don’t say work.” The sweet melody of fresh soup pouring into a bowl accompanies Row’s question as John divides the meal before sliding it in front of you. You give him a quick, appreciative smile before she continues. “I swear, if you say work I’m going to actually force you on this trip.” 

“I’m not working,” you huff, swirling your spoon around your bowl. Thin wisps of steam tickle your chin and nose, melting the stuffiness that resides deep in your sinuses. “Bruce always takes off the days surrounding Christmas. Still gives us holiday pay, too.” 

“Good,” Row hums, though she has yet to be satiated. “Well, since John and I will be gone, maybe you can spend the holiday with Riley instead.” 

As your eyes close in disbelief, you’re able to recall part of your conversation from last night. How you called Row out for her using Simon to keep an eye on you. Ever since that dinner party back in October, she’s been trying to hook you up with the guy, and she has been less than tactful about it. 

Simon isn’t… a bad person. Despite the tattoos, and how he broke Andrei’s nose like he was punching through warm butter, he’s someone you feel surprisingly comfortable around. You’re not sure why. It’s like there’s a lullaby written into his DNA — something to counteract the sheer size and nature of him. Maybe it’s because of the way he took care of you that night; hiding you away in the VIP room when you panicked and blacked out. You woke up not feeling violated or scared, just confused. Or maybe it’s because you’ve felt his heart. How it beats in his chest, steady and strong.

You swallow your embarrassment down with a spoonful of soup. 

“I’m sure he’s got a family of his own. Taking a break from babysitting me would probably be lovely,” you say with unforgiving emphasis. 

For a moment, Row turns her attention to John, who’s already halfway finished with his soup. “Does Riley have any family?” 

John pauses. “In Manchester, yeah.” 

“See?” you point out. “He’ll leave London far behind, and I’ll most likely watch The Grinch on repeat.” 

A pout forms on Row’s lips, but it’s not the playful childishness you’re used to. Legitimate annoyance crosses her features, and you feel something wash over you in a cold mist. You get the feeling this conversation isn’t going the way she wanted it to. 

“I just… don’t like the idea of you being alone this time of year,” Row finally concedes. 

You try not to huff. There’s only true concern for you behind her tone, but that doesn’t make it any less smothering. Buying yourself time, you lift the bowl up to your lips with careful hands and drink from the broth as you think of a response that doesn’t make you sound like a child. Or worse: ungrateful. You are appreciative of every kind action that anyone has ever shown you — but the sour taste it leaves on your tongue knowing that you don’t deserve it has become nearly unbearable. 

“I’ll be fine,” you attempt to assure. “I’m a grown woman. It’s not like I’m a kid who’s going to be let down because there’s no tree or presents.” 

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” 

Despite the fresh soup in your stomach and the fever ravaging your nerves, everything goes cold. The chill even reaches John, whose attention flickers back and forth between you and his wife, cold eyes attempting to decode the oncoming mess. There’s a twitch in his lip that rustles the facial hair on his lip — he wants to speak, but stays silent as his eyes return to his bowl, completely emptied. His spoon still scrapes the bottom anyway. 

“Row-” you start. 

“You promised me on Halloween you’d be kinder to yourself,” she interrupts. “But look at you. Sick, still trying to work yourself to death… Would you have even asked for help if I hadn’t called last night? You promised me you’d stop punishing yourself but the closer we get to the anniversary of his death, the worse you get.” 

“Hey now,” John attempts to intervene. But this isn’t his fight. 

“I know it’s not easy to- to talk about stuff like that, and I’m not saying you have to talk to me about it. I… I know why you don’t want to talk to me about it. I just wish you’d share this burden with someone. Chip, none of that was your fault, you were just a kid.” 

Metal clinks against pristine china as you drop your spoon in your bowl, head shaking. The antithesis to her statement screeches in your head like nails on chalkboard louder than the ringing in your ears. 

He’d still be alive if it wasn’t for you.

She always says you were just a kid. A child. As if that absolves you from the hot sin that burns your skin. You might have been a child then, but it’s been twelve years and you haven’t repented. Perhaps that’s why your ears still ring, and every flash of light seems like it’s reflected off the blade of a knife and-

“Please,” Row begs, “let me help you. Let someone help you. You don’t have to do this alone.” 

Your feet hit the ground as you slide off the barstool and your vision begins to tunnel. Spots swirl in front of you, a dizzying dance, and you shake your head as you turn away from Row. 

“I can’t,” you breathe. Your heart leaps into your throat, choking you, but you can’t swallow it. It pounds and writhes inside of you, twisting in ways that it shouldn’t as you stumble along the kitchen island. Despite your vision, you take note of the way John mirrors your movements as he follows you from the other side of the counter. He says something, but it doesn’t reach your ears. “I can’t.” 

John’s arm wraps around your front just before your knees collide with the ground. Plastic drags across the wood floor with an aching scratch as he lowers you, and you find your hands gripping the side of the trash just in time for your stomach to lurch. All of John’s hard work goes into the bin, and it burns on the way back up as it mixes with cough syrup and salt. Row slides onto the floor next to you, robe pulled taut as she rubs your back with an anxious hand. 

“Oh my god, Chip. Chip, I-I’m so sorry.” 

“Easy now,” John whispers. 

At first, you think he’s saying it to you. Some form of comfort as you spit the remaining vomit in your mouth into the bin, trying to rid yourself of its rancid taste. When you finally catch your breath and your stomach ceases its unnecessary convulsions, you realize he’s saying it to Row. Hot tears mix with her trembling lip as she stares at you with wide, reddened eyes. Overcome with compunction, she mutters apologies between shaky breaths, hands pawing at your back. 

Once more, your stomach lurches, but you’re able to bite back the bile. You hate seeing her cry. You’d do anything to make her stop. 

But you’ve never been good at comforting anyone. Especially yourself. 

Nothing feels real after that. Not the way John and Row help you back into the guest room to get some more rest. Not the way Row’s stifled sobs echo in the hallway as they leave. It tears you apart in a way nothing else has. You don’t know why you’re like this; so broken that you hurt others on the pieces of you in the process. If you could just talk — share that darkness inside of you — do something… but you can’t. The only thing you’ve ever been good for is running away and escaping by the skin of your teeth. 

Row takes you home later that night after the dust settles, but neither of you talk about the elephant in the room. Its weight sits so heavily on your chest you can hardly breathe. Neither of you mention her father, long since dead and rotted in the ground in a cemetery you can’t bring yourself to visit. She doesn’t ask why you keep everything under tight lock, seemingly throwing away the key. Despite your efforts at hiding, you’re always afraid that you’ll be found out eventually. Someone will come along and sniff out your secrets like a scavenger with carrion. 

For now, you let that flesh rot inside of you and pray that Row can’t smell it as she embraces you in the car. If it weren’t for the center console, you’re certain she would pull you into her lap; cradle you against her chest as if you were a child again. She doesn’t whisper anything more than a farewell to you, but you can feel the apology exuding from her body. You think that’s why, after all these years, you and Row are still as close as you are. Both of you are sorry for something, and neither of you know how to say it. 

Over the next few days, your symptoms improve. You spend most of your days sleeping and resting in bed where you sip on cold medicine like its sugar water. It feels strange doing nothing, and you’re certain your paycheck will feel the effects too, but for once you can’t bring yourself to care. 

Eventually you can breathe unobstructed and you no longer choke every time you try to speak. Your mind clears, but lingering aches still ravage your muscles with vigorous hunger and they only worsen throughout the week. Radiating further than just your legs and stomach, you don’t realize until it’s too late that your period is the one to blame. 

Out of the pan and into the fire, it hits you while you’re at work. You’ve nearly bled through your pants by the time you’re able to make it to the bathroom, and without any proper sanitary items, you’re stuck using cheap toilet paper for the rest of your shift. Clumped up paper, it feels disgusting shoved between your legs, but you were unprepared. Still, nothing rivals the discomfort of the cramps that shred your muscles apart, insides twisting and writhing as it expels unwanted blood and tissue — it hurts more than usual.

Another unintended side effect from Marco’s lovely cold. Your body hardly had time to recover from being sick, and now it’s expending even more energy. Your only saving grace is that you find a handful of pads when you get home. No more tampons. This month your flow is heavier than usual, and you’re bleeding through them too quickly — you’ll run out by tomorrow. It’s a frustrating realization having just gotten home and knowing you’ll have to force yourself back out. 

Tomorrow. You’ll brave the world with blood and endometrium tissue tomorrow, but for now you’re content in bed, curled around a heated rice pack. Its warmth seeps into you but only skin deep. Angry muscles still convulse inside of you, unthwarted by your attempts at satiating its anger. Huffing, you attempt to distract yourself, mindlessly scrolling through your phone, watching videos, anything to forget the pain. 

A message buzzes on your phone, vibration tingling your fingers, and you don’t have to look at the ID to know that it’s Simon. Both of you have the worst sleep schedules due to the hours you work, and with it nearing one in the morning you know it can’t be anyone else. Or, maybe you’ve just grown to know him so well.

How are you feeling? 

Of course he’s checking in. It’s his job, isn’t it? 

better thank you! been living off of the soups and drinks you bought.

It’s a slight lie. The soups are great. That perfect canned stuff that harbors just the right amount of brine, but you can’t stand those electrolyte drinks. Maybe you would be feeling better right now had you just toughed it out and drank them, but you quickly swapped them for regular water instead. They’re currently rotting in the back of your fridge. 

Glad to hear. 

You stare at the message so long you feel your eyes cross and vision blur. Fatigue and pain is finally getting the better of you, and you can feel sleep calling for you, weighing your body down until you feel glued to the bed. It nearly takes you, forces you into the depths of dreams, but you’re jostled awake by another message from Simon:

Going Christmas shopping tomorrow. Wanna join? 

It’s fairly easy to sniff out the fact that this is Row’s doing. You’re certain the guilt is still eating her alive from last week, and neither of you have really messaged one another beyond a hope you’re feeling better. She loves deeply and strangely; you’re not even sure she understands it herself, and still…

sure! i need to do some shopping anyway.

Simon hums when your message pops up on his screen, happy with your answer. It’s frigid in the garage, so much so that he can see his breath. Usually he’s inside by this time, watching a show to put himself to sleep or making a late dinner, but not even that can satiate his insomnia. Instead, he finds himself cleaning his bike, which has grown thick with dust over the last month of him having kept it shoved out of the elements. Somehow, a dirty bike is a bigger eyesore than a dirty car, but he won’t complain too much. At least it gives him something to do while wicked insomnia racks his body. 

I’ll pick you up tomorrow afternoon. 

As he shoves his phone back in his pocket, he thinks of you curled up in bed again. How warm you were against his hand, yet how you couldn’t seem to stop shivering. It was a painful reminder about how you were the day he found you in that alley, hardly able to stand on your own, overcome with terror. He hates that he can’t get that vision of you out of his head, but he hopes you’re telling the truth when you say you’re better than before.

Grunting, he gets back to work on his bike while his mind wanders. He still hasn’t forgotten about Andrei or the work Johnny has been putting in to figure out who the bastard really is. The most headway they’ve been able to gain has been thanks to Kyle, who saw him at some sort of political gala the other week. Shady enough to be found lurking in an alleyway but important enough to be hanging with London’s top 1% is never a good sign. 

Doesn’t matter. There’s not a skull in the world Simon Riley doesn’t know how to crack open. He doesn’t think he can rest until he knows you're safe from whatever monsters are lurking in your shadow. 

When his phone buzzes again, he thinks it’s a text back from you until it doesn’t cease. He quickly wipes his hands until they’re free of cleaner before retrieving his phone once more. The screen flashes brightly, alerting him that his mother is calling. 

“Hello?” he answers. There’s slight worry in his tone as he wanders away from his bike, almost as if he’s getting ready to run on foot all the way to Manchester if his mother so requested it. 

“Ah, I knew you’d be awake. Still working late shifts, I take it?” she asks as if they’re talking over tea. 

“There’s no mornin’ shifts at the club, mum,” he cheekily reminds her. “More concerned ‘bout you bein’ up this late.” 

She chuckles, and it sounds different from when he was a kid. There’s gravel in her voice, vocal chords changing with age, but it still fills him with the same warmth that it always has. 

“Don’t worry about me, love. Got too carried away with the garden documentaries again,” she assures. 

“France again?” Simon asks. 

“Italy this time. Their gardens are beautiful. Much more natural,” she explains. 

Simon hums. “I’ll take you to see ‘em one day.” 

Mrs. Riley laughs at her son, a silly cackle that has a smile pulling at his lips. “Oh, my sweet boy, I’d be plenty happy with just a simple visit. Speaking of, you’re still coming home for the holiday, yes? Little Joey’s excited to see his Uncle Simon again.” 

It’s impossible for Simon not to smile at the thought of his nephew. Sweet tyke is about four years old and he can still envision his toothy grin perfectly. His idiot brother was able to do some sort of good in the world after all. 

“Course I am. We’re going Christmas shoppin’ tomorrow. Probably be headed down Christmas Eve, if that works?” he explains. 

“We?” she repeats, the lilt of her words giving away her grin. 

Simon blinks, Freudian slip having gotten the better of him. “A friend, yeah.” 

“What kind of friend?” she prods. 

“Just a friend.” 

There’s no stopping the storm of words brewing up in his mother’s mouth. Even from over the phone he can feel them swell with the curve of her lips and tilt of her head. 

“Well, there is plenty of space in the guest room if this friend of yours wants to join us for the holiday. Just recently moved a queen sized mattress in there, too. I know how hard it was for you to fit on the twin sized bed…”

“Mum,” Simon sighs, cutting his mother off before she can continue. “It’ll just be me.” 

“Oh, alright. Can’t blame a crone for trying,” she chuckles. “But Christmas Eve, perfect. I’ll make sure to have everything set up.” 

The conversation dwindles into small talk before Mrs. Riley eventually gets too tired to continue. Her documentary on European gardens can only entertain her for so long before the night gets the better of her. They wish one another goodnight, with promises of seeing each other soon, before the line goes dead. Though the silence is benign, he can’t help but be grateful that he doesn’t have to explain to his mother — yet again — why he never brings any girls home for the holiday.

Pulling the phone away from his ear, Simon checks the time only to get distracted by a glowing notification. You had responded to his text while he was on the phone with his mother: 

sounds good! see you tomorrow si (: 

He stares at the message longer than he should. It’s… cute. The shortened use of his name coupled with the smiley face. Usually he’s not a fan of nicknames. His last name, Riley, isn’t something he’s proud to carry, but no one at work seems to want to call him anything else, and he hasn’t been referred to as Ghost in ages. Still, he imagines your voice as he rereads your message, and he has to shake his head before his thoughts devolve into a mess he can’t afford to entertain. 

See you tomorrow, sweetheart.

[colebabey888]

Things I did that helped me become "That Girl" and could help you too! | IT GIRL DIARIES

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

Physical Health + Skincare

- cleared my gut ( very crucial )

- worked my lazy ass off ( walking, cycling skipping just for 15 min everyday does more than you can imagine )

- became besties with green juices and smoothies ( it doesn't have to be nasty, just healthy )

- included leafy greens in every meal

- LEMON WATER ( hot water with lemon in every morning on an empty stomach and you can add honey if you don't enjoy sour things, trust me on this one !!! )

- limit processed artificial sugar ( honey and sugar in fruits are natural aka glucose and actually a good energy source )

- stopped eating junk food ( occasionally is fine but constantly, will cause your body to have issues digesting = bad gut health )

- lost 25 kg ( it's not necessary to lose weight because we're all perfect as we are, but I was at an unhealthy weight for my age + height which affected me physically and mentally )

- ate more protein and fats over carbs ( this works for me but may not for many. ps. fats = healthy fats meaning avocado, nuts, egg yolks ect. )

- BONE BROTH !!!! ( it's packed with all the minerals your body needs and has mega benefits for your skin, it helped clear my acne so well )

- prioritized zinc supplements in my everyday life for hairgrowth and to promote healthy skin ( it has tons of other benefits too, these were just my main focus points )

- remained consistent with my skincare routine ( advice : less = more )

- started doing coconut oil pulling ( 5 min is all you need )

Mental Health + Lifestyle

- began journaling negative thoughts that lingered in my mind ( leave it on paper instead of projecting it into your reality )

- i drew up a vision board and lived my life according to it ( this is very beneficial if you're a procrastinator like me and can't find direction. it's similar to having a to do list )

- very important! cut off toxic friends ( you don't need an indepth of what toxic is, you'll know! )

- i began to read more often ( choose your favorite genre but I chose spirituality as it helped me gain mental stability )

- be selfish ( don't actually be rude for no reason ) be selfish with your time, your space, your energy. reciprocation is key, if you are not receiving what you're giving, you're wasting yourself.

xoxo, colebabey8.88

www.thedigitaldollar/gumroad.com

[warmblanketwhump]

after

cw: brief description of illness-related weight loss and a near-death illness experience

“Where’s B?” A hangs their coat on the hook and kicks off their work boots, moving closer to stand by the stove.

“In bed. Wanted to rest before dinner.” C’s bent over the table, a spread of papers and documents covering the surface.

“Let me guess. They tried to do too much today and wore themselves out.”

“What do you think?” C looks up from the desk, glasses perched on their nose. “I found them dead on their feet in the kitchen, blanket wrapped around their shoulders, trying to do the dishes. Had to practically carry them upstairs.”

It’s not a suprise, but it still makes A’s heart squeeze a bit. A few weeks ago, B had caught a bad cold which turned to pneumonia. For two weeks it had been touch and go, and though B had made it through the worst of the illness had passed, it had still left B weak, gaunt, and pale.

They weren’t bedridden any more, but they tired easily. The dark bruises still painted the skin under their eyes, and they were frequently chilled by the drafty winter air. A could tell they were so much thinner than they used to be, and they shuffled around like it hurt to move.

Yet still, B pushed themselves to do things, and A hated it.

“I’ll go up and check on them, see how they are.”

“Be gentle. You know they don’t like it when you tell them what they ought not to be doing,” C warned.

“Then they ought not to do it,” A called over their shoulders as they headed upstairs.

—————

B’s just waking up when they see A gazing at them from the door, a haunted look on their face.

“Don’t look at me like that.” B shrinks into the covers like a turtle retreating to its shell as A enters the bedroom.

“Like what?” A crosses the room to stir the fire in the stove.

“Like I’ll vanish if the breeze blows too hard.”

“B, you’re hardly more than skin and bones—I think I get to be concerned.”

B reflexively wraps their arms around their midsection, trying not to wince at being able to feel each rib. For weeks, they’d been so nauseous and delirious that all they could manage was a few sips of broth at a time. They were already lean to begin with—now, they could count bones they didn’t realize they had. Everything about them felt frail, shaky, insubstantial—so incredibly weak. They could hardly stand to catch glimpses of themselves in the mirror.

B stiffens as a shiver wracks their body—they can’t seem to stop shivering these days, a side effect of having no insulation and the persistent, low-grade fever the doctor said could remain for months afterward.

“Cold?”

B tugs the blanket tighter, willing it to warm their chilled body. “I’ll manage.”

A slowly closes in on B’s bed and takes a seat on the edge, putting a hand on B’s shoulder. B hates the feeling of someone so solid, warm, vital against their own frail body—a reminder of what they’re not. “I know the doctor said not to worry.”

“I’m getting better,” B insists.

“Yes, you are. But the keyword is getting better. And it’s going to take so much longer if you don’t pace yourself.”

B flinches at the words as if A hit them. “I know what I need.”

“I don’t know if you do—“

“See, I knew this would happen.” B’s voice cracks on the words. “You can’t just let me be. You have to tell me what I’m doing wrong, when you don’t know the first thing about what it means to lose your ability to do anything.”

“Because you won’t stop.” A’s voice is tight. “You push yourself and act like nothing happened, like you didn’t almost die—“

“You think I don’t know that?” B’s voice elevates. “You think I don’t feel the effects of what it did to me?”

“You know, but you won’t give yourself the chance to—“

“To hell with what you think you know. It didn’t happen to you—it happened to me!” B jackknifes to a sitting position, unable to hold themselves back.

“And I had to watch it happen!” A’s voice raises a degree, and they shoot off the bed, pacing before whirling back to face B. “You have no idea what it was like to see you half-mad with fever, thrashing about while we held you down and tried to cool you down while you screamed, or to hold you in my arms while you shook and you sobbed because you were so cold, or to hear you fight for every breath and beg the heavens for you to take just one more, all while being terrified you wouldn’t.”

The words hit B square in the chest. They thought you would die. A’s eyes are glassy, and B doesn’t know what to say, how to respond to something like that, and they take a deep breath to center themselves—

—only to be cut off as a coughing fit wracks their frame. They cough so long they see stars, but then they feel it—the warm, solid hand they hate so much on their back, rubbing soothing circles.

They couldn’t shake off the hand if they tried.

After it ends, B slumps back into the nest of pillows, breathing hard, chest aching from the exertion. “I hate this.”

“I know.” A’s whisper is soft. And it should make B mad, A thinking they know anything, but it doesn’t.

They sit in silence for several minutes, the anger fizzling out of both of them.

“Were you really that scared?” B says, when their breath stabilizes enough to speak.

“Yes.” A’s voice is quieter still, and B can catch the glint of the unshed tears in their eyes.

They’re quiet for much longer, and A speaks again.

“I just….I see you, and I just want to make everything okay for you and I can’t,” A says, voice cracking, a tear slipping out that’s quickly wiped away with a sleeve.

“That’s not your job, A. I’m not how I used to be, and I don’t know how to go back or if I even can,” B says, staring at the ceiling. “I can barely catch my breath, I’m always freezing, I look like a skeleton, and I can’t do anything without being exhausted. And it doesn’t make it better when you’re hovering over me, telling me I can’t do things when I already know.”

“I know.” A heaves a sigh. “And I’m sorry. I made it about me and my stuff instead of caring about you and I….I haven’t handled this well. None of it.”

“No, you haven’t.” B can’t stop the snarky retort that sneaks off their lips, and A’s mouth twitches with the faintest of smiles.

“Just…please. Know that we don’t expect you to be up and at it all of a sudden. Or ever. You don’t have to push yourself for our sakes.”

B sighs. “I know. And I’m sorry, scaring you like that.”

A takes in a shaky breath, and for the first time in the dim evening light, B can see that A’s a little rougher around the edges too—sleepless shadows under their eyes, hair that’s mussed and out of place, and a thousand -yard stare that wasn’t there before B got sick.

“Are you okay, A?”

A pauses for a moment. “Sleeping has been…hard. We were up most nights with you, C and I, for a long time, and even when you started getting better…” A shakes their head, as if to clear the cobwebs. “It’s like my body’s always trying to stay alert, in case you…in case something happens.”

B can’t even make a joke about that.

“Sometimes I’ll just…sit at your door and make sure you’re still breathing.”

“Okay, that’s weird.” B chucks a pillow at A, trying to shatter the heaviness around what A just confessed. To their credit, A yelps, and when B laughs, A smiles.

“But also sweet. And a little unhinged. Maybe both.” B says, propping themselves up on their elbows. “So what do you say if we both just give ourselves some time?”

A nods. “Some time.”

“Good.” B slumps down. “Now, that conversation took all the energy reserves I was saving for dinner, so I need another nap. You planning to take one with me, or are you going to watch me in my sleep again?”

“I think I can handle a nap,” A says, allowing themselves to tip over onto the covers.

When dinner time comes, it’s C who finds the pair fast asleep and curled into one another, A’s hand on B’s chest as they breathe the deep, even breaths of sleep.

[deviantly-inspired]

Ok so I've seen the idea of food 'made with love' being what Dream enjoys most but I really think we, as a collective fandom, need to lean in more to the idea of it, actually.

We KNOW from the comics that Dream eats food; that he was starving after his freedom. But even though he's hungry, even in the waking world, he won't eat because there's been nothing but bad intentions and malice directed to him for over a hundred years. He's wary. Like a spooked horsed.

But Hob Gadling has always been so unashamedly fond of Dream, that it's... tempting. to indulge.

(it's more than tempting. He's already starving: for dreams for nightmares for softness for sharpness. Hob is the only person Dream knows that he would take any of it from. If Hob were to offer him poison then Dream would take it gladly, if only to have something to fill the void within him. How miraculous it is, then, that Hob would only every offer succor)

So maybe Dream stares at some home-made food that's being eaten on some picnic while they're about. And Hob needles him just a bit, trying to get some information. What all goes into being Dream of the Endless? And Dream enjoys their wordplay and games so he dances around answering but his gaze keeps going back to that soft little picnic, not too far. Hob steers the conversation towards intent, and Dream admits that, yes, he can sense the intent things are made with, before directing the conversation to something a little safer then the art of consuming.

(Dream would take and take and take and take anything that Hob would give him. Even poison. And would thank him for the malaise of it. It is safer, then, to not let even the hint of hunger touch his waking form.)

But Hob didn't get to over 600 by being a slouch on his academics. He's smart. perceptive. He knows people, and Dream is certainly a 'people' even if he's not quite a person. So he makes something simple, that night. A stew maybe, and thinks of his mother's care and simple wishes whispered to the cast iron. love and kitchen magic. Spells for healthy children and a meal that will fill for longer than it should. Hob wonders, to this day, if maybe she was some sort of real witch and not just the magic that all good mothers are. But he can't ask her so he whispers wishes into his potatoes and encourages the bone to seep fully- he's going to be all bones like you if you don't fill him up- and thanks the meat for it's part and imagines it sticking to the inside of whatever Dream calls ribs to keep him going for a bit longer than he might have otherwise.

(there's all sorts of magic in the world. most of it regular folks will never get to touch. but there is a type of magic, the oldest kind, that's alive and well even in the most scientifically inclined people.)

Hob presents this stew casually. There's no fooling Dream though. It's simple appearance does nothing to hide all that was poured into it. The way the vegetables sing of harbors and the meat dreams of comfort. How the broth simmers with comfort and fullness and broken bread over centuries. love thickens the whole of it into something that will last. Something that will stick and keep him full long past when he should be hungry. To fill the most ravenous parts of him. He wants to consume. He cannot.

I shouldn't, Dream says.

It's yours, Hob replies. I made too much anyway. Wouldn't want this to go to waste.

The idea of it wasting, left to rot, a gift returned, is abhorrent. Dream never claimed to abide by the mortal concept of good. He eats the stew, and then the second bowl and then the third. And hob is only too happy to give him more and more and more, until the pot is empty and, still, Dream starves.

I shouldn't, Dream says with his eyes locked on Hob's lips.

I'm yours, Hob replies. I've always been yours. There's enough of me to pour into you, however much you want for however long you want.

I will want you endlessly, Dream warns with what little strength he has. There is nothing in me that does not hunger. I was born of Night most of all and this means that I know what it is to be a black hole, i know what it is to consume everything, even light, and still never be full.

Hob smiles and leans forward and pours himself into Dream's mouth, all of himself, all that he can spare and then more and more and more. He tastes like lightening and warm broth and bread broken under starry skies. It tastes like every daydream Hob has had for 600 years. It tastes like the knowledge that this will last, sticking to the inside of his ribs warming from within bolstering against that which would sap the meat from your bones. It tastes like something that will last.

(the oldest magic across every universe is love, of course. but you knew that already.

All stories return to their original form, after all.)

[shebreathedherlast]

Daughter of the Sea

Part III

Masterlist

Quest

Luke Castellan x f!reader

Summary: You wake up in the infirmary with a horrifying surprise.

Work Count: 1.6k

TW: Brief memory loss, weapons, mean Luke, broken bones

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When your eyes fluttered open, you were unable to see. Everything around you seemed to be screaming. You pushed your weight onto your elbows as you desperately gaged your surroundings. With your vision blurred you sought for any semblance of familiarity.

Your head was pounding and your arm ached terribly. What in the gods happened? You sifted through your memories, raising your hand to cradle your head when the pain became nearly unbearable.

Footsteps scuffled towards you and your heart rate accelerated. “She’s awake!” A voice called.

You turned your head to the origin of the voice, but with your blurred vision, everything only fused together.

You made out a tuft of blonde curls and you instantly knew you would be safe. The figure made its way to you, placing a delicate blanket across your shoulders. They carried what you assumed was a tray of food.

They called your name and your head tilted up to meet their words. “Will?”

“gods, how are you feeling? Is there anywhere else that hurts?” He asked

You shook your head in confusion, “Will, what are you talking about?”

The Apollo kid furrowed his brows. An expression you couldn’t quite place fell over his features. “You’ve been in the infirmary for an entire night.” He told you.

“What?” You question, as you burrow your fists in the linen sheets to ground you.

“Do you not remember what happened yesterday?”

Your vision cleared as the events from yesterday seemed to piece themselves together.

A single infuriated word flitted from your lips, “Castellan” you growled.

Will gave you a quizzical look, “Oh so you do remember.”

Anger radiated off you. Yesterday Luke Castellan had practically robbed you of your much-deserved glory. He had humiliated and belittled you and in order to spare some semblance of dignity you were forced to break your arm. Yes, you remembered everything.

“Where is that thieving son of Hermes?” You demanded.

Will shook his head in disapproval. He turned back to the tray and returned with a bowl of steaming hot chicken noodle soup. “Is that what happened? Another one of your qualms with Luke? Seriously?”

You shruggled in response, too preoccupied to give Will an answer. You were busy thinking up all the ways you could make Luke suffer.

“You two really need to get over your whole sworn enemies thing and act like grown-ups. It gives me secondhand embarrassment watching you two fight like entitled toddlers.”

You gawked at him, “Will, I’m only seventeen, I’m not a grown-up.”

And at your comment, both of you laughed. Will was one of those guys that everyone was able to get along with. He had this easy going persona complimented by his humor that had him making friends wherever he went.

“You’re legitimately the biggest idiot I know.” He said.

And who were you to deny the truth?

“I wouldn’t exactly disagree,” You replied, an amused smile painted against your lips.

Will didn’t further the conversation, opting instead to spoon-feed you the warm broth. He gave you another drink of ambrosia before deeming that you would live.

“Thank you, Will…I really appreciate all you’re doing for me.”

Will waved his hand, dismissing your gratitude. “You won’t be saying that when I send you the bill.”

You chuckled shaking your head as you made your way out of the infirmary bed, dressing behind a curtain. Will was walking away and you had just finished pulling on your shorts as loud footsteps rang down the hall.

“You still there?” Will’s voice came from behind the curtain barrier. You pulled the fabric to the side as you stepped into the hall. “Uh…yeah”

He audibly sighed. “Good, because apparently, you're going on a quest in three hours.”

“WHAT?” You gasped.

Will cringed at your response, “Yeah, sorry that you had to find out this way but Clarisse got word of a quest from Ares and she chose the two best half-blood warriors to go with her. I’m sure you can guess what I mean by that.”

A million thoughts came crashing down on you. First, you were going to set out on your very first quest. Second, Clarisse saw you as a powerful ally and that could be useful in the future and third, the only other person besides you and Clarisse who would be addressed as “one of the best half-blood warriors” was none other than…Luke Castellan.

You huffed in anger, your fists balling at your sides. It was just your luck, Castellan, the one who had got you into this whole infirmary situation was going to ruin your first-ever quest.

Tyche must have really hated you.

. .・゜゜・・゜゜・．. ･ﾟﾟ･｡. .・゜゜・・゜゜・．. ･ﾟﾟ･｡. .・゜゜・.

Less than an hour and a half later you were packed and ready to go. Though you were forced to endure the torturous presence of Castellan, you were determined to not allow him to get to you. This time the stakes were too high and the mission too important.

Well, that was your resolution until you saw his face.

You practically saw red as you lunged forward ready to strangle the Hermes boy. Clarisse had to step in and physically restrain you from tearing Luke limb from limb.

“I’m gonna kill you, Castellan!” You shout, “You’re dead! Do you hear me? You're dead!”

Clarisse set you down fifteen feet from Luke (what she deemed a safe distance to talk some sense into you without you going on a blood-lust rampage for the Hermes boy).

“In the name of Olympus, what in the world is wrong with you?”

You scoffed, “What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with me? I think you should be asking that question to that thieving piece of-” It was at that moment that you heard Chiron clear his throat, and you shrank back, swallowing your insult.

Luke approached you with an amused grin, hands raised in the air. He was mocking you. Of course he was, you wouldn’t expect anything less from him.

“As soon as I get my hands on you, I’m gonna claw your eyes out, Castellan.” You seeth.

He tsked, tilting his head slightly, “And a good morning to you too, Chaos.”

Your jaw clenched as every fibre in your body told you to beat the boy before you into a pulp.

“Clarisse,” you whine, “please let me separate his stupid face from this hideous body.”

Clarisse shakes her head to tell you “no.”

You sigh, defeated.

Luke curls an arm around your shoulder, “Oh come on, Chaos, don’t you want another chance to win back your glory?”

You hated the boy before you. You hated him and you don’t think you’d mind it one bit if he so happened to fall off a cliff to his impending death. In fact, you think that you might even enjoy the show.

Clarisse rolled her eyes at the both of you, “Enough! You two need to stop this insufferable fighting and start focusing on the quest, because if you two don’t suck it up and start at least tolerating each other, I have absolutely no problem choosing two other skilled half-bloods to replace you.”

At this you and Luke instantly shut your mouths and glanced at each other.

Then it hit you, he wanted this as much as you did.

“Good.” Clarisse said, “Now I want both of you to hug it out and shake hands, promising that you’ll be on your best behaviour for my quest.”

You furrowed your brows, mouth agape. “Hug it out? Clarisse are you serious?”

“Absolutely.” She replied, pointedly.

Luke cocked his head, “You’ve got to be joking. It’s not like we’re five.”

The Ares kid raised her eyebrows in a taunting expression, “Are you sure about that?”

Luke rolled his eyes.

“K, let’s go now, stop tryna be the mediator Clarisse. Chaos and I are not “hugging it out” like pre-schoolers.” He spoke, a hint of annoyance coating his tone.

“Um sorry to break it to you buddy, but if you two wanna come on this quest with me then you better start doing as I say.”

Clarisse was defiantly being manipulative. She was the one who picked the two of you and now she was placing all these conditions on your shoulders.

After a minute of silence, Luke consented, rolling his eyes again. “Come here my sweet little, Chaos.” He said in an exaggerated voice like he was talking to a baby.

You glared at Clarisse, before trudging over to Luke, who wrapped his arms securely behind your neck, burying you into his chest. When you didn’t reciprocate he brought his lips to hover over your ear, “Chaos, you gotta at least pretend to like me, or else big scary Clarisse here is gonna send you back, and I know you don’t want that, do you?” His whispers sent shivers down your shoulders and eventually, (after a harsh glare from Clarisse) you conseeded and wrapped your arms around Luke’s waist.

His head practically nuzzled your hair and you could’ve sworn you heard him sigh in contentment.

To emphasize how much you two would get along Luke slowly began rocking side to side while continuing to keep his hold on you.

Clarisse smiled in approval.

You stood on your tippy toes and even then you barely reached his ear, “Luke,” you whispered.

“Yes, Chaos?” He asked gently.

“I still hate you.” And with that, you pushed him back. He stumbled a little before quickly regaining his footing.

“I wouldn’t expect any less.” He mumbled under his breath.

As you ran to catch up with Clarisse, Luke stood still, because whatever happened he knew that this quest was going to challenge him beyond belief.

----

A/n This is more of a filler chapter so hang in there for the next update <3

Tag list: @motorsp0rt @astronomical-admonition @edenssworld @sillychloe @viennasaysstuff @esposadomd @bogbutteronmycroissant @moonykai @sflame15-blog @hoesindifferentshows @gloryekaterina @dakotali @notjustsomeblonde @silkenthusiasts @kanej-and-wesper-supremacy @ren-isdone @ashisabitgay @tsukiko26 @niktwazny303 @idgxitciycouv

[sideshow-cellophane-blog]

Flirting With Pranks

Because I wanted these two to laugh and be happy together

"Gale!" 

"Astarion!"

The pale elf doubled over in his bout of hysterical laughter. He dropped his book on the ground in favor of holding his abdomen, which was tingling as his nerves were toyed with. He tried to fight the bubbling laughter before giving in to the urge - it was too strong. The tingling was turning into invisible yet solid touches, pinching up his hips and sides. 

Astarion collapsed to his knees. "Whahat the FUCK Gahahale?! It tihihickles!"

"It does? Good! It's supposed to."

Astarion slapped a hand over his ear as some invisible soft instrument flicked over it. "Whyhyhy?!"

"I wanted to hear you laugh, darling. And I wanted it to be fun for you." He put his hands on his hips with a satisfied grin. He had never seen Astarion so out of control - the elf had flopped face-first to the ground and was writhing. "It lasts about as long as that laughing curse you keep casting on us in camp."

"Yohou're awful!" Astarion squealed as the tickling moved into his armpits, and his legs kicked out in wheels. 

"I can't help but notice you aren't begging for it to stop, darling. Where does it tickle most? I want to know so I can focus the magic there."

Astarion was not about to tell Gale the magic all seemed to jump around his worst spots, making him spasm and twist in his giggle bouts. He couldn't, and didn't dare, imagine what it would be like for all of his worst spots to be tickled at once. His arms went up and down as his hands tried to soothe his tingling skin. "Fuhuck you!"

"More experimentation it is. I don't mind! You had me cackling like a damn loon yesterday, you know? Wyll and Karlach got the best cuts of meat for dinner and I got bone broth. Clear. Bone. Broth."

"I'm sohohorry!"

"Well yeah, you are now."

"Aha! Heh. Heheh…" The tickling slowed and disappeared, leaving Astarion panting hard on the ground. He was not left alone for long though - Gale sat himself down on the other's thighs and wriggled his fingers into the exposed stomach lying before him. "GAHAHALE!"

"I had no idea you were actually ticklish dear, I simply must try this for myself."

"Oho no you dohohon't!" A struggle ensued, or started to, because Astarion was still a panting mess from the magic tickle attack. He tried to grab Gale's hands as they snaked up his sides and to that bottom rib, but he was too clumsy and panicked to stop the wizard from making him cackle. He squeezed his eyes shut and caved as the other played his ribs like some instrument. "Nohohoho! Gale, haha, GAHALE, stahp! NAHAT THERE! THAT! HAHA! FAHACK! Yes, yehehes, gohoho bahahack dohown! Get awahay FROM OHAHAHA! THEHERE!"

Pinches turned into loops and swipes, then stopped, and Astarion's cackling slowed to gasping giggles. He managed to open his eyes and give Gale a pleading look. 

"Your real laugh is adorable, you know that?" He said fondly. 

"Yohou're an insufferable asshole."

"Are you going to stop casting that laughing spell on us around camp now that I perfected one of my own? Because I can tickle you all day long, darling."

"I…" His smile faltered as he thought, and it returned as a playful and practiced smirk. "As awful as that was, darling, I think it is awfully strange that you created such a playful spell just for me. That wasn't designed to be a one time use, was it? I mean, here you are, on top of me-"

"Oh my gods Astarion."

"And you know? I rather like the attention. And I think you want to make me laugh. Keep making your teasing, playful spells for me Gale, it makes me feel special. Now get off of me so I can exact my revenge when you least expect it."

"It makes you feel- oh you do want another round is what it is? Projecting your feelings onto me, like you aren't the one making us laugh first, I see right through you," His hands began to glow, but the vampire had time to recover. Astarion twisted and threw Gale off, and they wrestled for control. "I'm not giving in!…NO!" Giddy giggles filled the air as they jabbed at each other, and Gale found himself weakening to protect his sensitive stomach. "I'll blow you up you ass, you get that finger OUT of my AHA! SHIRT! "

"Found the tickle button," Astarion had gained the upper hand, literally, and kept wiggling his finger in Gale's navel. The wizard's hands fell to protect himself. "Now we…are…on…the saaaame page. I may be ticklish, but you seem to be far worse off than I. Is that why you felt the need to cheat with magic?"

Gale was giggling too hard to answer. The tables had turned and he was drained from his earlier magic use.

"This is fun dear, and now that I know you're enjoying yourself here too," Astarion paused to admire the man below him. He ran his hands over Gale's stomach to soothe his nerves. "Well," he chuckled. "I prefer being the one to make you laugh. Remember that next time you start a fight I will always finish." He collapsed beside Gale on the ground. They caught their breath together, and Astarion broke the silence once they were quiet again. "So can you teach me that spell? I want to see if Lae'Zel is-"

"No."

"But-!"

"I hate wasting a revival scroll, dear. If that power were in your hands this whole camp would either be at your mercy or I would have to keep bringing you back after they kill you."

"What if I only use it on you?"

"Even worse. If you want to tickle me you have to be brave about it."

"A challenge…I accept. Now cuddle me, if the group isn't back by sundown we can keep playing."

"Gladly, darling."

[amnevitahwritesstuff]

Feyre dies of old age. Rhys becomes a god to get her back. 

Fandom: A Court of Thorns and Roses

Pairing: Feyre/Rhysand

Rating: Teen

Triggers: Major Character Death, Murder, Questionable Life Choices

Chapters: One-Shot

AO3 Link

For @officialrhysandweek Day 7: Free Day.

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Across the Universe

Nothing’s gonna change my world. 

Across the Universe - The Beatles

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Once upon a time, Feyre died. 

And, in one world, she was reborn. A high fae and High Lady to rule alongside her mate for centuries. 

This was not that story. 

Instead, Feyre died in Rhysand’s arms, an old woman. 

They had had many happy decades together. And in those decades he had watched her body wither and tire. Her hair go bone white. Her skin turn pale and delicate. He did everything he could to delay the inevitable. Fed her rare tonics to boost her vitality. Scoured every inch of The Library for some spell or ritual to lengthen her life. 

But, in the end, there was only so much one could do against the ravages of mortality. 

And so, Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court, spent his mate’s final days clutching her frail body to his own like at any moment she would be snatched away. He whispered his love into her ears and into her mind and reminisced with her over the life they had shared. 

“I only wish…I had given you children,” she said, voice frail and soft now. “So I wouldn’t have to leave you alone.”

“No,” Rhys replied firmly. 

It had been one of his greatest regrets, that he had never managed to give her a child. She had thought it was her failing, but secretly he thought perhaps it was his own. After all, the fae were not a fertile race the way humanity were. Children were as rare as they were cherished. So he hadn’t been surprised when no children had resulted from their union. Disappointed, yes, but not surprised. 

“Put it out of your mind. I wouldn’t change anything. You’ve given me more than I could have ever deserved.”

It was an old argument. One she usually was more than happy to repeat over and over again. 

But, it seemed, she was too tired now to argue. 

And that was what scared him most. 

He had tried to coax what little food he could into her, as if her favorite delicacies would stave off the inevitable just that little while longer. 

“Please,” he had begged her, holding a bowl of broth to her lips. “Please, just one more.”

And, dutifully, she had choked down a few swallows. He knew it was solely for his benefit, her appetite having all but disappeared these last few weeks, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. 

He was afraid. 

So very afraid. 

And so, in a strange role reversal, it was the dying woman who found herself consoling an immortal in her final moments. 

“Please don’t cry. You’re too pretty to cry. It makes me self conscious.”

Rhys couldn’t help but laugh at the old remark, even as he buried his face deeper into the hollow under her ear, staining her skin with his tears. 

“Don’t talk. You’re wasting too much energy,” he scolded. 

I’m going to die either way. She thought ruefully. 

That just made him sob harder. 

Her time came all too soon. 

Rhys felt it when she finally died. 

I love you, he said frantically to her fading consciousness. I’ll never stop loving you. 

Feyre was too far gone to form real thoughts anymore, but he felt her love for him through the bond. Felt her sorrow at leaving him and the relief she felt at finally being free of the pained and broken body she was leaving behind. 

And then the bond…broke. 

And he felt her soul disappear beyond his reach. 

And Rhysand felt a very necessary part of himself fracture and die with her. 

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He went mad for a while. 

His duties to his court went ignored. The inner circle, Mor and Amren especially, took on the brunt of keeping things running and making sure his subjects stayed in line. Not that he particularly cared either way. He had all but barricaded himself in his townhouse after his mate’s death. 

He left only once, for her funeral. 

Rhys buried Feyre under her favorite tree. A weeping willow that grew along the waterfront. It had been her favorite place to paint. He dug the grave himself. And then, afterwards, he went back to his empty home and wallowed in his grief for nearly a century. 

By the time he emerged, he was nearly unrecognizable to those closest to him. 

“You need a haircut.” Mor had said. They were the first words she had spoken to him in a decade. 

She hadn’t been wrong either. His once perfectly groomed countenance had fallen into ruin. He had even grown a beard, something unusual amongst fae considering how long it took to grow. But then…he had nothing but time now. 

Mor took pity on him. She assumed he had emerged to return to his duties. To distract himself from his grief with work. And Rhys didn’t correct her. 

It was easier that way. 

For a while, no one really seemed to notice what he was up to. He’d been isolated for so long that erratic behavior was all but expected from him. 

But then, slowly, things began to stand out. 

Like his endless visits to the Library. Or the information gathering missions he would send Azriel on across the sea. Or the ever more dangerous voyages he funded to bring back rarer and stranger artifacts. 

It only became clear what was happening after it was far too late. 

Mor was the first to confront him. 

“You can’t.”

Those were the words that greeted Rhys one afternoon as he left his home. 

“Can’t do what?” He said, his mind already elsewhere. Mor latched onto his arm and forced him to a standstill. 

“You can’t bring her back.”

That got his attention. 

Rhys’s eyes narrowed. Not in anger. But in challenge. 

“Can’t I?”

The words chilled Mor to the core. 

“She’s dead Rhys.”

The look he gave her made every one of her hairs stand on end. 

“She’s dead,” she whispered again. 

“Yes,” he said. “But I’m going to fix it.”

And then Mor watched him stalk off, terrified of what those words meant. 

⎯●⎯○⎯●⎯○⎯●⎯○⎯●⎯○⎯●⎯○⎯●⎯○⎯●⎯

Buried deep down in the darkest, oldest parts of the Library Rhys finally found his answers. 

It seemed such a small thing when he finally brought it into the light. A brittle, fragile scroll made of vellum so ancient he wasn’t quite sure how it hadn’t crumbled into dust a millennia ago. It took ages to decipher the words upon it. The script was so faded and the language so archaic that even Amren had puzzled over it. 

But Rhys was nothing if not stubborn and this too soon laid its secrets bare for him. 

So many things he learned!

That there were other worlds. Whole sister universes. World just like his own with other Prythians and other Rhysands. 

And, most importantly, other Feyres. 

Of course, one could not just traverse between worlds as one would winnow from one place to another. This he knew all too well. 

But, as it turned out, there were those who had. 

The Daglan. 

And so, it was with renewed conviction and fervor that Rhys saw the path now set before him. 

He would become a god. 

No matter the cost. 

⎯●⎯○⎯●⎯○⎯●⎯○⎯●⎯○⎯●⎯○⎯●⎯○⎯●⎯

To become a god, he discovered, one must first kill another god. 

And, as it so happened, he soon discovered a goddess sleeping underneath his court. A creature of unparalleled beauty with snow-white skin and hair as dark as the night itself, sleeping ever so soundly in a crystal sarcophagus. 

A Daglan. 

It was shockingly easy to kill her. Goddess she may have been, but she was still weak from thousands of years of slumber. It took barely any effort at all for him to slide his knife into her breast and soak his clothes with her wine dark blood. To paint it onto his skin. And then to tear her heart from her chest and consume it whole as the old scrolls demanded. 

But that was only the beginning. Those same scrolls demanded sacrifice. A whole manner of them. Godhood was not something so easily won. 

Nothing worthwhile ever was. 

They called for a blood sacrifice. So he culled the Court of Nightmares. They demanded he give up something of great worth. So he burned all of Feyre’s paintings.

On and on they went. Greater and greater forfeits. More and more significant pieces of his soul bartered away so that he might finally touch the divine. 

And have the power to restore what was lost. 

“This goes against everything the Mother stands for,” one of the priestesses told him one night as he set the Library alight. 

It wouldn’t do to have anyone else following the same breadcrumbs he had. He couldn’t risk someone gaining the power to stop him. 

“If the Mother cared she wouldn’t have taken her from me.” He didn’t need to say who. “I’m only taking back what was stolen from me.” 

The priestess lifted her chin in defiance. “This isn’t what she would have wanted.”

“It doesn’t matter what she wants,” he said calmly as he watched the flames swallow thousands of years of knowledge. “She’s dead.”

But not for long, he thought. 

Soon. 

⎯●⎯○⎯●⎯○⎯●⎯○⎯●⎯○⎯●⎯○⎯●⎯○⎯●⎯

It was a slow process. 

One bought over many years and with a veritable ocean of blood. His blood. The blood of his enemies. The blood of the innocent. All of it ran together and baptized him anew. 

No longer a creature of flesh and bone and sinew but of darkness and death and the endless void. 

A god. 

⎯●⎯○⎯●⎯○⎯●⎯○⎯●⎯○⎯●⎯○⎯●⎯○⎯●⎯

Divinity was tearing a hole in the fabric of reality. 

It was reaching past the boundaries of his world and grasping onto another. Sifting through all the endless realities and worlds until he found the one he wanted. 

One where she still lived and breathed. 

And then it was only a matter of slipping through that crack he had made. 

And taking back what belonged to him. 

⎯●⎯○⎯●⎯○⎯●⎯○⎯●⎯○⎯●⎯○⎯●⎯○⎯●⎯

As it turned out, he didn’t have to search far before he found her. 

He saw her, alive and defiant before a cruel queen he had not seen in centuries. 

It took but the barest measure of his power to bring him before that broken (beautiful) human. Shocked gasps echoed through the mountain hall at his sudden arrival, but he heard none of them. All he could hear was the precious, lovely, sound of her beating heart. 

Alive. 

She was alive. 

Behind him, the queen shrieked to her subjects. Once, this creature had tormented his nightmares, even long after she was dead and gone. But now, standing before her, he felt only irritation. Like the buzzing of a particularly annoying insect. 

(And there was only one thing Rhys had ever done with annoying insects.)

With nothing more than a thought he tore open a hole in the universe and didn’t bother to watch the void swallow her whole. Around him, the crowd of fae shrank back in shock and terror. 

All except for one. 

His other self stared back at him. 

Not that the other Rhysand knew it was himself he was staring at. He had been ever so careful to cobble together some semblance of his old mortal shape…though all he had managed in the end was a vaguely humanoid void. He was the vast darkness of space. The cold and unfeeling void. It was so very hard to contain all that now. 

To be small. 

But still, he had tried. 

For her. 

He heard the alarm from his other self then, as he realized this thing meant to take her. His mate. 

(Because even then, he had known. He had always known.)

“Don’t worry,” the god said to his lesser self. And his voice was like the terrifying whisper that came from the shadows of a dark and empty room. “I won’t let you suffer without her.” 

And then, with a sweep of his hand, the other Rhysand disintegrated. His atoms scattered like so many motes of dust on the wind. 

It was a mercy. 

After all, he had been forced to live without her once. He couldn’t very well subject his other self to the same fate. A god he may be, but he wasn’t that cruel. 

He turned back to Feyre then. 

She recoiled. 

He felt her fear. Her confusion. But it took no more than a thought to wipe that all away and take her into his cold, dark embrace. 

“Come,” he said. And then ushered her through the gap between worlds. Back to their home. 

Where she belonged. 

⎯●⎯○⎯●⎯○⎯●⎯○⎯●⎯○⎯●⎯○⎯●⎯○⎯●⎯

Once upon a time, the Lady of the Night Court died. 

But then, one day, she appeared once again. Hale and whole and young once more. 

No one questioned how such a thing had been accomplished. 

Their High Lord was a god after all. 

[allsadnshit]

hello! feel free to disregard if this is overly personal, but a close friend is getting exploratory surgery for her endo in a few weeks and i am brainstorming different ways i can give tangible support. im planning to cook a few meals and put together a care package, and i was wondering if u had any recs for specific products/natural medicine/meals? your candidness abt your own journey has been really moving to me and i would appreciate some insight! again apologies if it crosses a line and feel free to delete <3

that's so sweet! endo surgery is different for everyone - and also really taxing because you don't know what's gonna happen till they are in there (like if a lots gonna be cut out, if they don't find anything, etc)

I think meals is a 10/10 to have ready. Cooking is hard and nourishing food after surgery is soooo important! bone broths, herbal teas, congee, and things easy to digest and get the system back in flow.

My essentials were: cramp cream from the brand getsomedays (I hate their social media marketing and I think they post a lot of dumb stuff, but the cramp cream is their best product and I haven't found anything that works better), a heating pad, a meal tray with a soft bottom for eating in bed, maybe comfy slippers, SOMEONE WASH AND DRY THEIR SHEETS BEFORE SURGERY SO THE BED FEELS CLEAN AND GOOD, aaaaaand if they are offered opioids...which they likely will be....I HIGHLY recommend NOT taking them and opting for the other pain meds that are less addictive.

also if they are suggested birth controls or IUD after finding endo and they arent already on them - PLEAAAASE let them know there are OTHER options that won't destroy their body and hormones...Chinese medicine, holistic medicine (brands like Elix healing or root + bones), physical therapy for tightness and muscle strain...like literally anything else!!!!!!! and if they decide to take the birth control please make sure they look into the user experiences on reddit. Mine gave me such crazy heart palpitations I thought I was going insane or dying!

GOOD LUCK <33333 tell them recovery is a slow burn not a race

[muffinlance]

Fellow Prisoner Li, Part 4: Zuko Goes to the Time-Out Thinking Corner

Previous || Read from the beginning  || Read all chapters on AO3

The prison was there. And worse than Sokka could have imagined, which was a pretty high bar, but the Fire Nation really dedicated itself to exceeding his expectations. At least it explained why Li had been acting so weird. What with his trying to scout ahead while they were still outside. And trying to get them to wait inside that empty cell while he went ahead. And then they’d found the prisoners, and… yeah. Yeah, maybe Sokka shouldn’t have let his little sister and a twelve-year-old see that. Maybe, just maybe, Li had been on to something. 

Since the twelve-year-old was a fellow genocide survivor—and wow, that applied to three-fourths of their team, Sokka had never really realized that before—and. And since he was the Avatar, well. There had been glowing. And then there was a convenient hole in the ceiling for Appa to enter by. 

There hadn’t been many prisoners left. Still should have been too many for one flying bison. But their added weight was not large enough to cause an issue. 

It should have been. The Fire Nation was— 

Sokka did not have words. He just. He didn’t. 

* * *

They landed in some forest at night, somewhere outside anywhere major. 

And got jump-scared by some old lady who appeared out of the trees with the creepiest grin and then promptly lost it.

“Amka? Ikiaq?” creepy lady said.

“Hama?” whispered one of their rescuees. Her smile creased her face, like leather going against its grain. “You did it. You really did. We never knew if they caught you, they told us they did but there was no body—”

And now they were at an inn. Sokka collapsed into bed, and resolved not to question the convenience of this all until morning. 

* * *

He woke up too early, and yawned his way down the stairs.

“Why didn’t you go home?” someone was asking, from the kitchen.

There was a clink of cups being set down. Maybe bowls. Hama had insisted on bone broth and nothing but for last night’s dinner. To be fair, that had been all Sokka’s stomach could handle, too.

“And give them an excuse to raid again?” the innkeeper quietly scoffed. “No. I do what I can from here. Our tribe is safer without me.”

Sokka went back upstairs.

* * *

Hama offered to train Katara. 

“Yes,” Katara said. And, after the hugging was done, and after a small guilty time delay to remember their mission: “Will you train Aang, too?”

“He’s a waterbender?” the last healthy southern master said, with a glance at the airbender’s tattoos.

“He’s the Avatar.”

“Yes,” Hama said.

* * *

Sokka sat down next to Li on the steps outside. The firebender looked like he was having a moment. His face had been stuck like that since mid-escape, though, so. Probably time to talk to him. 

“Hey, Fellow Prisoner,” Sokka said. “Sure makes you realize how good we had it, huh?”

At which point Li opened his mouth and said words, but there was no way Sokka had heard them right.

“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t catch that. Say again?”

“...The Fire Lord doesn’t know. There’s no way he… he wouldn’t have allowed that. I need to tell—”

“I am,” Sokka said, “going to stop you there. Li. Buddy. Fellow Prison Pal. I am aware that it is apparently a shock, that the people who burned half your face off as a kid, then beat you and threw you in Commander Muttonchop's fun-time ship prison basement for more beatings as a slightly older kid, are not the best people—”

“But…” Li interrupted, and then stopped talking, because apparently he didn’t know where he was going with that, either. 

“—And it is important to me that you know I don’t blame you for this. But it’s also important that you understand that that prison wasn’t built in secret, and it wasn’t staffed by uniquely evil people. It’s… it’s been there for decades. And people just… just went to work there, and got paid for it, and it was a normal job to them, and…” Sokka took a deep breath and let it out. “...And that is what the Fire Nation is. What it does. If you weren’t on our side from the start, I would have hated you and your bending on sight, because that’s what the Fire Nation does. And I really can’t be the one consoling you through this, because it is actually a little offensive to me that there are peaceful little villages like this a day’s travel from places like that, and decent people like you who knew the place existed but you… what? Think it’s just mismanagement? How should they have locked up generations of my elders, Li?”

Katara was right. He really, really shouldn’t be the one to have these conversations with the guy. Something something he’s got a good heart and yelling at him doesn’t help with the de-eviling.  

“Listen,” Sokka said, standing up. “Why don’t you… think about it. Some more. And maybe about your place on the team, okay? Because we want you here. And we trust you. But our goal isn’t to sit the Fire Lord down and enlighten him about all the things his country is doing. Our goal is to get rid of him. If that’s not for you, that’s…”

That would be a choice. But one Li could make. And Sokka would rather have him make it now than have a breakdown during some future fight.

“I’m going to go help Kirima take her walk,” Sokka said, and went back inside. The elders’ walks were all in done inside. Because it wasn’t safe for the prisoners to show their faces outside, and it wasn’t like she could walk far enough to enjoy the sunshine, anyway. 

Li was still sitting there, when he closed the door. 

* * *

“You,” said the innkeeper, “have been sitting here all day. I’ve always found an evening walk to lift my spirits. Help an old woman find her way in the dark? Besides, I know a better spot for thinking.”

“I… okay.”

Under the full moon, Zuko followed.

Next

[insane-brit]

Royalty (Ch. 4)

Muzan Kibutsuji x Soulmate!Fem!reader

Chapter Links: Prologue, Chapter one, Chapter two, Chapter three

Next scheduled Royalty update (Ch 5.): I’m not on hiatus for this story or any others, however, my semester has started so updates will be slower and I cannot give a true update schedule at this time. Thank you for your patience.

Tags/Warnings: Dark, dark story/themes, enemies to lovers, semi slow burn, Muzan, talk of death, mention of gore, insulting/degrading words and names, anger/hatred, planning/scheming, light teasing (not the NSFW kind), dialogue, dialogue heavy.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Word Count: 2.4K

Steam wafted from the pile of white jasmine rice. Generating a warmth that relaxed her muscles and coaxed an exhale from the depths of her chest. Gingerly gripping the sides of the ceramic bowl, she pulled it towards her form. The plushness of the cerulean cushion cradled her bruised knees. 

“I hope you like Karē Raisu. It’s the first thing I thought of to make you.” 

She looked up at the older woman standing in the doorway. A tired smile graced her wizened face as she looked over (F/N). 

“I do. Thank you, Mrs. Aoki.” She whispered and grabbed the spoon next to the bowl. 

The clinks of the metal hitting the ceramic resounded in the otherwise quiet room as she mixed the darkened spiced roux with the rice. Thick cuts of beef with onions, carrots, and potatoes raised a potent aroma that made her stomach growl. Aoki beamed and the wrinkles around her mouth became more prominent. 

“I’m glad.” she meandered her way to sit across from (F/N). Setting her bowl down before slowly lowering her body onto a cushion. (F/N) studied Aoki, noticing the dark blemishes that almost looked akin to welts blooming across her arms, sun-kissed patches dotting her face, the droopiness of her skin as it weighed from aging, and the slight tremble of her hands. 

She sucked in a breath as the corner of her mouth ticked a ghost of a smile before settling back into a line. “Thank you for helping me. I am in your debt.” 

Aoki hummed as her shaking hands grasped her spoon. “Nonsense, I was merely passing through and heard your distress,” she blew gently on the pile of rice and broth. “If I didn’t know any better, I would’ve thought you were a dying animal.” (F/N) choked on her rice. Feeling it lodge itself in her throat as she coughed and flushed from embarrassment. Thumb grazing the corner of her mouth as she covered the lower half of her face.

“I apologize.” 

“No need. You were quite shaken, and I couldn’t leave you there,” Aoki sighed. “How are your bandages? Not causing any trouble?” 

(F/N) looked down at the carefully wrapped dressings. Her hands were covered in the cream-colored woven fabric. “They feel great,” she reached over and gently grazed the wrapping on her elbow. “What did you use?” 

“A salve I got from a nice young woman in Asakusa. I wish I could’ve acquired more things, but the young man accompanying her seemed less than pleased for me to be near her,” Aoki looked down at her bowl dejected. “But I’m happy this finally came in handy.” 

A benign smile crossed (F/N)’s lips as she set her spoon down. Today’s events weighed heavily on her mind, and it seemed her body was just now catching up. Fatigue settled into her bones and her eyes burned. The pads of her fingers rubbed the feeling away as she raised her head to look around. 

Aoki’s Minka was simple but pleasant. From the moment she helped her and Seiichi, paranoia, and all, to the front door of her home she was a delight. The lanterns adorning the rooms gave off a hue of glittering gold and sparks of amber. Exactly like most fixtures in people’s homes, but Aoki’s was much more inviting. It reminded (F/N) of flames licking at chopped timber; a sentiment to the nights her and the other Hashira would gather and reminisce, and the musty, earthy smell of pages being turned; memories of when her grandmother would read her old fairytales. 

The older woman even had bundles of wisteria hanging here and there in rooms. A few shrubs of the woody vine clung to her home and (F/N) wondered if she knew of demons. If she did, Aoki didn’t mention it to her. Nor look at her with any difference as she took the haori off her shoulders and set her katana off to the side before inspecting her wounds. In a way, she was grateful to not be looked upon in awe and bombarded with questions. She didn’t have the energy to answer or feel deserving of such a gaze. 

The rustling of fabric and slight grunt had her snapping her neck towards Aoki. The woman was standing with her empty bowl and picking up the miscellaneous things scattered on the table. (F/N) reached her arm out to aid her, but Aoki held a hand up, effectively halting her extended arm that was about to grasp a ceramic teapot. 

“I can do it dear. You’re my guest.” 

(F/N) furrowed her brows and her tongue ran over her dry lips as she spoke. “I insist. Please let me help you. You’ve done so much for me already.” 

Aoki shook her head and arched her brow. A teasing look in her eye. “I don’t think so. If you move an inch from your spot, I’ll make sure that crow of yours never hears the end of it.” 

The younger woman gawked at Aoki before a small snort sounded from her nose. (F/N)’s body shook as she tried to contain her laughter. The back of her hand rested over a smile that cracked over her face. The older woman teetered between scowling at the girl and joining in on her amusement. 

In the end, she hummed and chuckled to herself before staggering away to another room. “I’m being serious.” 

(F/N) took a deep breath trying to reel in her merriment. When Aoki was tending to her, Seiichi busied himself by stealing pieces of jewelry and even coins from the older woman. Flaunting them around and hopping away when either of them would try and snatch the items from his beak. She could still hear the older woman berating the bird in her mind, and she swore from the look on Aoki’s face that she was ready to wring his neck. 

“I hope you know how to play.” Aoki hobbled back into the room with a bag in her frail hands. She handed the cloth over to (F/N). The Hashira opened and poured its contents onto the table. Eyes widening a fraction seeing it was Men’uchi. 

“Of course, I do,” she said staring at the engraved clay pieces. “It’s been a long time.” The kind gestures from the older woman had allowed (F/N) to momentarily forget everything. She felt warm and something akin to safe here. 

“Then I suppose we should change that,” Aoki began separating the pieces before pausing. “Right, here.” She reached into her pocket before placing something on the table. It clinked when it touched the wood, and she slid it over to the young woman. (F/N) trailed her hand before seeing a thin gold pin poke out. The metal curved up like vines wrapping around a pale sea foam-colored gemstone, jade. An even thinner gold chain dangled from the stone and branched off into mismatched lengths. A cerise-colored bead held the trains at the branching point and at the end of each, a milky glass teardrop hung. 

Her mouth parted and she held up her hands as if afraid to touch the ornamental hairpin. “Why are you giving me this? I can't take it. It’s too much.” 

Aoki made no move to take it back and hummed. “Well, I’m not taking no for an answer. I promise it's fine so don’t question or fight me on this.” 

(F/N) gingerly picked up the delicate item and ran her fingers over the smooth metal. “Thank you.” 

“Of course,” the older woman continued to separate the pieces. “Oh, and please share it with that crow. Maybe he’ll stop taking my stuff.” 

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

Muzan stood on the tatami flooring. His body hunched over his desk as his nails pierced into the wood grain. The vastness of the Infinity Castle caused echoes and creaks to magnify and drone. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up past his elbows. His eyes were sharp and shrewd as he glowered at the line laying in pristine condition across his workspace. Books were thrown open and some pages torn; shredded to ribbons. 

The surroundings felt suffocating. Desolation whispered sweet nothings in the expanse, and a looming presence stood stoic and ominous not far away from Kibutsuji. His aura felt heavy and stifling. As if zapping any energy or spirit from one’s body.  

“To think, after all this time,” Muzan said straightening up his posture and turning to face the man behind him. 

Kokushibo did not waver. His fist circled the hilt of his blade and the other rested at his side. All six eyes that resembled carefully soldered stained glass bored into his master's slitted claret ones. 

“It is… strange.” He drawled. His eyes flickered from Muzan’s to his wrist. A very thin thread, only visible in certain angles of light, shone and connected his lord to someone far off. It glittered like a spider’s silk. Spindly and thin; stronger than steel but looking as if it could break with the slightest tug. 

Muzan’s face remained constant upon looking at Uppermoon One. Though, the warmth that fury carried crept along his collar. “You can see it?” 

“Yes,” Kokushibo shifted slightly. The fabric of his purple-and-black kimono ruffled against his hakama. “I suspect…it is the lifeblood’s doing.” 

The progenitor’s brows dipped downwards but an inch. Festering anger bubbled like molten lava. The ambrosia: rich velvety fluid that ran through his core, that had Oni’s imploring their master for more, was what granted them the sight of what he despised. Slipping a pen ornamentally engraved from his pocket, he clicked it open. The tip scratched the smooth paper in the book he now clutched. His apprehensiveness showed faintly from the bone-breaking grip he had around the cool metal. 

It made perfect sense. His creations were an extension of himself. Remade into cutthroat violent things with the weight of his ichor circulating in their undying bloodstream. They were him, but also themselves. 

“How does it appear to you?” Muzan hissed through his teeth. 

Six eyes and their cracked black pupils focused studiously on the filament. “Like… a phantom. Clear and… barely visible.” 

The sound of ripping reverberated through the endless wooden rooms as Muzan’s pen tore through the paper. His knuckles were white, and his jaw clenched. This did not bode well for him; however, a trace of possibility crossed his mind. If the upper ranks, who pulsed with his vitality, could barely bear witness to the tie, then maybe beings less fortunate to receive generous amounts of his blood could not at all. It was a stretch, but one that seemed likely. 

This thought eased Muzan’s pride. He would not be perceived to have a weakness of any sort. His Kizuki knew better than to assume such foolishness, but others he could not be so sure of. Muzan would be damned if some sly little vermin thought they could exploit something the progenitor had no control over appearing. Much less presume that he cared for the woman connected to him. 

“The woman… was a Hashira, was she not?” Kokushibo queried. 

“Yes, but I doubt her abilities considering the cowardice she expressed,” the book slammed shut with a loud crack. “She must not be very valued.” 

Kokushibo’s voice thrummed in his throat. “Valuable or not… she poses a threat. Or… an opportunity.”  

Muzan’s lip curled back into a snarl and his eyes narrowed. He was not blind. The desire to sever the bond even if it was in vain, and the ire that overcame him when he saw the mockery that was the slayer consumed him, but he remained conscious of the possibilities. If that spineless woman were to open her mouth, it could be detrimental to everything he’s worked towards. 

“That Hashira can lead the corps to us. Ubuyashki will make sure of that.” he bared his teeth. 

“Even so… if he were to be eliminated… they will tuck their tails between their legs and run to the hand that feeds them. Without him, they are nothing.”  Kokushibo uttered lowly.

His subordinates’ words weighed heavy on Muzan’s mind. Ubuyashki was skilled in eluding even his most capable forces, however, the slayers had a weak spot for him. It was clear in the way they held themselves, and it was no secret how deep their loyalty ran. He could see it on their faces and when they would speak. Granted, it was rare that Muzan ever came across a swordsman that would divulge anything regarding their master, but in his over one thousand years of existence it has happened, and once was all it took. 

They were soft at their core, and regardless of whether he located Ubuyashki’s estate and sunk his claws in his tender flesh, tasting the coppery substance on his tongue, or dangled an empty threat over their heads they would scramble and wail to his side. 

“You propose a possibility that none of you have been able to achieve. Yet, your strategy pervades you Kokushibo.” 

The man in question tilted his head down slightly in acknowledgment. 

“Misleading the Kisatsutai into thinking their lord is in danger would divert their attention to him and not locating us but preventing the woman from speaking would sever the chances completely,” Muzan took a few steps towards Uppermoon One. His posture was rigid. “In turn, the wretch could provide an advantage.” 

Kokushibo studied his lord’s stature. The abhor was formidable and bled through his skin. He had seen Muzan’s wrath many times but the moment he had disclosed what the Uppermoon had understood upon being summoned, he had never felt animosity such as this. It was explicit as to why, and he would feel the same if he was bound to a mere mortal.��

“What are your orders?” he asked easing the grip on his blade. 

“Follow the thread. Find the slayer and do what you must to ensure her silence, but don’t kill her,” Muzan growled. “Don’t disappoint me.” 

“I will not… is there a reason why I can’t end her life?” 

“Don’t be daft,” Muzan seethed. “You know why, and I will not leave it to chance.” 

Kokushibo mulled over Muzan’s response before it clicked. “I’ll see it done, my lord.” He lowered his head in respect before his aura faded. His presence no longer there to cast a baleful weight. 

Muzan curled a finger under his tie and pulled, loosening the silk. He had the notion to take care of this matter himself, but he was not about to risk revealing himself more than he already had. The boy with the Hanafuda earrings and now the Hashira woman was enough to pose a risk. His hair flitted over his jaw as he ruined the tomes sitting on the umber shelves before moving to tear into the desk with his nails. The timber screeched in agony as long marks were formed on the unblemished surface. 

Taglist: @shellseys @athalahild @stxrrielle @lulu-83 @nianre @sincerely-aaronette @horror4themasses @warringwarrioridiot @vilshoenheitishot @woozzz @kathleen7i

[wishbrightdreams]

My Non Negotiable’s

This might give you ideas for your own non negotiable’s!

1. Eating 3 meals a day & a cup of bone broth a day

2. Listening to frequencies and subliminal’s every night

3. Weekly review and monthly goal setting

4. Meditation daily (preferably before bed but not super strict on the time) & weekly cleansing

5. Good sleep hygiene & sleep routine (limit how long you nap for during the day, no electronics in the bedroom)

6. Listen to music to fuel soul

7. Have quiet time in the mornings

8. Daily personal care (teeth, skin, hair)

9. Get light daily (use sun lamp during colder month’s when cloudy)

10. Have things out in the open where I can see them (but organized!, out of sight, out of mind syndrome is heavy with me!)

[clerkwithamouth]

Crime Boss Red Hood and Nursing Student Steph AU

Goon: Hey boss, we weren't sure how to take care of you while your sick so we brought you a little something.

Red Hood, sniffling: Why is that body bag moving?

Goon: Oh yeah, we couldn't find anything else to transport her in so-

Red Hood: Her? Tell me you guys didn't kidnap somebody and bring her heAHHCHOOO!

Goon: Gesundheit. Boss, just give her a chance. Me and the boys did our homework on this one. We followed her all week. She's top in her class.

Red Hood, about to have an aneurysm: Her cl- ... So let me get this straight, you kidnapped a med student instead of an actual doctor and brought her to our SECRET hideout in a body bag to treat me?

Goons: ... She's uh actually a nursing student but when you say it like that...

Red Hood: GIRL PROBABLY THINKS SHE'S ABOUT TO BE EXECUTED! *starts having a coughing fit*

*Muffled sounds coming from inside the body bag*

*Hood opens the bag to reveal a beautiful young blonde woman with tape over her mouth*

*She seems unafraid and unfazed by him and gives him a little wave from her hands, also taped*

*Hood pulls the tape from her mouth*

Steph: OW! Thank you. I was saying, it sounds like you have strep throat. Hot tea with honey and bone broth soup would do wonders for you.

Red Hood: What the hell is happening right now?