#are you a sociopath or just a 13-year-old with too much free time?

[candaru]

Hi do you like Apple products? I want to sell my iPhone 13 pro-max, i need money to cover my debts

Why actually yes! I'd love to purchase your phone, and I do have the money, as I am a Nigerian prince. Unfortunately, I'm currently stranded in a foreign country, and I'm having trouble converting my massive fortune to the local currency. If I could just use your bank account to transfer my money over, it'd be a massive help! All I need is your login details (username, password, and any security passwords you have set up) and I'll be happy to compensate you handsomely~

[thrillingdetectivetales]

Author Interview

I was tagged by the lovely @ianandmickeygallavich1​ 

(Throwing a read more in here because this bitch got LONG!)

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

I have 136 works across 45 fandoms, just to give you an idea of what a shameless fandom hopping multishipper I actually am.

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

My total WC is 676,938.

3. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

By a Thread, By a String, By a Rope The Magnificent Seven (2016), WIP, Kudos: 987

Matinee Suits, 5125 words, Kudos: 947

Careful Application of External Pressure Grimm, WIP, Kudos: 876

This Night Ain’t for the Holy Man The Magnificent Seven (2016), 5578 words, Kudos: 875

Catch It Like a Butterfly Leverage, 1497 words, Kudos: 658

4. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I try really hard to respond to every comment, but sometimes they pile up and the anxiety of seeing the number gets to me and I just mark them all read and start over with a clean slate. So, apologies if I skipped you. I promise it was nothing personal, just me trying to practice some fumbling self-care.

5. What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

Probably Curtain Call, which is a Roy Harper-centric DCU fic exploring his feelings in the aftermath of the 2015 Red Hood/Arsenal run.

6. What’s the fic you’ve written with the happiest ending?

Pretty much all my fic have happy endings, so I’m not sure which one is the happiest. I feel like that’s a subjective question, haha.

7. Do you write crossovers? If so, what is the craziest one you’ve written?

I do write crossovers! I love crossovers and crack fic premises and wild “okay but just go with me here” scenarios, haha. They’re the most fun to figure out, imo. The craziest one I’ve ever written is probably the Shameless-meets-Ducktales crossover I did for Tumblr Jukebox a little while back, though the one I picked up as a pinch hit for the Crossworks Fandom Exchange just last month, crossing over Brooklyn Nine-Nine with Dragon Age: Inquisition is definitely a contender for that spot.

8. Have you ever received hate on a fic?

I received a couple of snide comments on a Matt/Foggy Daredevil fic I did under a different name back when I was in college, but that’s about it.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

I do! I don’t think I’m particularly bad at it, though I do find it very difficult. I’m not sure what the “what kind” question is asking, exactly, but I actually do a smut writing challenge called Monday, Slutty Monday that includes a list of kinks I’m willing to write. You can give it a gander here, if you’re curious.

10. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

No, though I have had someone ask if they could use the concept of the lover’s noose from By a Thread, By a String, By a Rope for their original works. I said no, largely because it’s a concept I intend to use in my own original works, though I welcome transformative, not-for-profit works to remix or reimagine or play in any of my sandboxes.

11. Have you ever had a fic translated?

I have! I was lucky enough to have Doomed to Play, a Magnificent Seven werewolf/vampire AU, translated into Russian several years back!

12. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I have not! I am extremely interested, though, as I’m a huge fan of old-school, forum-style roleplaying and I really, really love collaborating on projects, so if you’re interested, please feel free to reach out to me and ask! I can’t promise anything, because I’m lucky enough to live a very full and busy life, but who knows!

13. What’s your all-time favorite ship?

I am not really sure that I have an all-time favorite ship. I have a few oldies but goodies that I revisit pretty regularly, including Harry/Draco, which was baby’s first ship, and Fraser/Kowalski of Due South fame, but I don’t think I’ve ever had a true OTP.

14. What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

God, so many of them, haha. I’m terrible about finishing WIPs because I have a very short attention span, but I’m not fully willing to write any of them off because I do periodically poke at the GDocs for a lot of them, even if they haven’t been updated in years. The only one I truly don’t foresee finishing is So Let Us Not Be Lonesome, which is a Magnificent Seven ghost/medium AU, and the only reason I don’t foresee finishing it is because I hope to one day revisit it as an original work.

15. What are your writing strengths?

I’m pretty routinely cheered in comments for writing true-to-character dialogue, really lush sensory descriptions, and tempting food descriptions, so I’ll go with those.

16. What are your writing weaknesses?

I tend to overwrite and I really fucking love adverbs, haha. I was a big reader of doorstopper fantasy in my youth, which tend to be really, really purple in their prose, so I lean in that direction. I have a lot of betas whose opinions I trust tell me I go too purple quite often, but I love my descriptive language so I’m not sure it’s a weakness I’ll ever overcome. Let’s call it a stylistic choice, for now, haha.

17. What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

I do it all the time, and I really enjoy it in other folks’ fic, so long as the dialogue is something that a non-speaker can still understand from context. I think I probably wasn’t great with that when I first started writing Spanish-speaking characters into my fic, but I like to think I’ve gotten a better handle on it since then.

18. What was the first fandom you wrote for?

I think it was honestly Ronin Warriors, an anime that used be on Cartoon Network’s Toonami block way back in the day. I had a lengthy and involved Mary Sue self-insert fic that got be like, a few hundred pages long, though it never saw the light of day.

19. What’s a fandom/ship you haven’t written for yet but want to?

The two currently at the top of my list are Ted Lasso and 9-1-1, though I can hardly watch a piece of media these days without seeing something in it I want to explore that the creators didn’t have the time or inclination to explore, or that didn’t fit their narrative.

20. What’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

Oh, this is so hard! I honestly don’t know. I don’t tend to go back and re-read my own fic too terribly often, so I’m really not sure, but I will say that one of the ones I think is underrated is The Lady and the Knife, which is a Luther/BBC Sherlock fic that came about because I got tired of Sherlock stans claiming his behavior should be forgiven because he was a high-functioning sociopath and thought it would be fun to see what happened if he ever crossed paths with someone who was actually a high-functioning sociopath and not just a dick. (Don’t get me wrong, I really enjoyed the early BBC Sherlock and some of the fic is chefkissingfingers.gif, I just really hate it when people require their characters to be morally upright at all times. Let them be villains! Let them be dicks! Don’t apologize for finding that interesting!)

I am tagging @thesummoningdark, @blahblahblahclintnickiscanon, @townhulls, @ksansart @rubinecorvus @persipneiwrites @irolltwenties and anyone else who feels like participating! I have a lot of mutuals who write fic and I’m really bad at remembering everyone’s various handles, so please, if you want to participate but I didn’t tag you, go ahead and do it and @ my ass anyway!

Luh ya bbs.

[umbrellalad]

An Excerpt from a Book I’ll Never Finish

The Galaxy and all it’s Stars

Why is quiet so hard to hear? Sitting in the quiet, listening and thinking and all I can hear is the static in my brain. No matter what I do I can’t turn it off. Even when I try to use it all the thoughts do is jam together, running into each other jumping around until all it’s caused is a headache. I try to sort them out, to figure out what it is the universe is trying to whisper in my ear, but all I hear is noise, noise, noise, until I have to just stop trying. 

My thoughts are as vast and as jumbled as the universe itself, so you’d think we speak the same language, but I guess the two don’t mix, because all I can hear is static. My room reverberates with the stuff. A box full of echos only I can hear. Still, it’s better than outside, where all of my thoughts are trapped inside my own head. Outside they swirl in the wind, forming a cloud around my head. I have to reel them in, chain them up to keep them from running out. I don’t know why they’re so hard to control. Others don’t seem to have a problem with controlling their own heads. They walk around perfectly content with the way they’re thinking, the way they’re acting, the way they’re talking. To them the world is nothing but hopscotch for one to enjoy. For me the world is a tight-rope across a windy canyon. One wrong step and it all goes tumbling down, down, down.

I find comfort in the universe. With something so colossus and magnificent, how can anything I do possibly ruin it?

Still, at times it feels like the universe is shrinking in on me. Gravity increases and the galaxies collide in on themselves. Then I go to bed. Wake up. And the universe has begun expanding again. 

Waking up today was easy. Summer had begun. I no longer had to worry about the load of homework or projects piling up while I sat in my room doing nothing.

I roll over and look at the clock at the side of my bed. It’s a retro rectangle of an alarm clock, because somehow turning the clock face into a rectangle made it more desirable then. 

9:26. Not a bad time to wake up. Early enough that I haven’t wasted the day away, and late enough to feel like it’s too late to go back to bed. 

So I get up. Whatever extensional crisis took it’s turn last night has retreated back into the basements of my brain. If it was a good day hopefully I wouldn’t have another one until at least four.

Downstairs my mom is cooking breakfast for my sisters and my brother. I can smell the bacon as I walk into the kitchen. What would be described as a peaceful, welcoming scene to wake up to is anything but. There’s not so much serenity and love in the air as there is simply hunger and tension.

My youngest sister Brielle is sitting at the table, smearing scrambled eggs on the table. Now with this behavior one would guess Bri is three? two? She’s ten. My theory is she doesn’t have that little voice in our heads that tells us our actions will have consequences. Or that she does have this voice, but only listens to it when the consequences include her. She knows that she could get up from the table right now, and Mom would go over and clean it up without a second thought.

The twins Adalyn and Asher are play fighting. A game that will without doubt turn into a real duel the moment one of them knocks their elbow the wrong way on the couch. They’re both 13. Old enough to know that actions have consequences, but still too young or too sociopathic to care. 

My mom sees me first. She’s making more eggs for Adalyn and Asher along with frying bacon. “Morning sweetie, do you want anything?”

White Dwarf

A white dwarf, also called a degenerate dwarf, is a stellar core remnant composed mostly of electron-degenerate matter. A white dwarf is very dense: its mass is comparable to that of the Sun, while its volume is comparable to that of Earth. A white dwarf's faint luminosity comes from the emission of stored thermal energy; no fusion takes place in a white dwarf.[1] The nearest known white dwarf is Sirius B, at 8.6 light years, the smaller component of the Sirius binary star. There are currently thought to be eight white dwarfs among the hundred star systems nearest the Sun

My mom is a white dwarf. She was once a shining star, a radiant young woman, full of life, energy, and excitement. When she was young my mom would go on spontaneous adventures with her friends. They would go skydiving or cliff jumping or bar hopping or just go on a road trip to the middle of nowhere. I’ve seen pictures from back then. She looks so free, so unburdened. When Mom had kids that part of her life took a decline, and when my dad left it ended completely. No more time for spontaneity. No more opportunity for it either. Now she’s only a remnant of the woman she used to be, but she still manages to give off the same warmth. 

I know she has a lot on her plate, so I try to stay out of her way most of the time. I do my best to be self-sufficient and try not to cause her too much worry. 

I wish I could be more like she was, when she was a kid. I find it hard to even leave the house without planning it a day in advance. She would board a plane and fly to Italy without a second thought. My life consists of the same thing everyday, no changes, no excitement. Is it because I made it that way or is it the way it was made for me?

I say no, like I always say no. Not because I don’t want to accept her hospitality, but because I don’t want to add to her plate of things to do. 

Nor do I want to partake in this mess we call a home life.

I grab a banana from a bowl on the table and sit on the opposite side of Bri. I look down at the egg she’s using to decorate the table. She stares at me challengingly. 

I take a bite of my banana.

Adalyn and Asher’s voices rise. Someone hit someone else a little too hard. 

Bri glares at me harder, increasing her pressure on the eggs.

Asher screams.

The banana feels tough in my throat.

The sizzling of the bacon rises.

Bri smooshes her eggs.

Adalyn yells.

My head hurts.

The scent of bacon gets thicker.

My heart picks up pace.

A cry.

A scolding.

A challenge.

A throbbing.

A yell.

I get out of my chair and go back upstairs.

My room is safe. In my room I don’t have to worry about screaming children or a messy home. The only things I have to worry about in my room are the things I create myself. Still challenging, but at least here I have a sense of control.

My headache lessens and my heart slows to its normal pace.

This house is like a prison. Everyday it feels like it’s closing in on me, tightening it’s hold on my life. There’s nowhere to go, no escape. It just drives me deeper and deeper into my own brain. 

I’m sitting on the floor. I’ve found that sitting in places where one wouldn’t normally sit when there are chairs available, is calming. It gives me a fake sense of personality.

Looking up I examine the face looking back at me in the mirror. I inherited my mother’s thick blond hair. It falls past my shoulders in ringlets. Needing something to do, I part my hair and braid it into two plaits. 

Full lips. Brown eyes. A freckled face.  Heavy brows. A pointed nose. Thick lashes. 

This is who I see in the mirror. It’s me. This is the body which my mind, my soul, my essence is encaptured. An infinity of possibilities, an infinity of features and these are the ones I’ve been graced with. An whole wide universe to choose from and this is where my soul settles. 

Oh look there’s the existential crisis. In almost record time.

I sigh and fall back onto the carpet. Stare up at the ceiling. The quiet is nice.

A crash sounds from downstairs. More yelling.

A sudden urge strikes me. Like my chest will explode if I don’t do what it says. 

I need to get out of this house.

I pull on my shoes from my closet and jog downstairs.

“I’m going to go on a walk,” I call to Mom.

She’s busy trying to talk Bri into eating some fruit with her eggs. She doesn’t hear me. I stand in the middle of the kitchen. I don’t see Adalyn, but Asher is sitting on the couch, looking very upset about the book he’s most likely being forced to read. No one sees me.

I’m used to being invisible.  As soon as the first attempt to be seen goes unnoticed, all of the others just melt away. 

I go out the front door, not bothering to take my phone with me. I don’t have to worry about getting texts. I was never really one for making friends anyways. Whenever I did find people to hang out with it always felt superficial, like they were just pretending to tolerate my company. Besides, I could never find the right thing to say. My mind wouldn’t go with the flow of their conversation, it would pick at each word, each voice inflection, each micro-expression. Trying to decipher the hidden meaning in every one of their simple sentences. 

When I was 14 I had a friend named Blake. She was my first real friend. We had met at school when she said something funny in history and I laughed. She turned around and smiled at me and I smiled back. We exchanged numbers and then every night we would text for hours. We talked about school and the teachers we hated. She talked about the boys she had crushes on and I told her why they weren’t good enough for her. We traded music suggestions and talked about how Sherlock deserved a fifth season. 

I would lay on my side in bed and smile in the glow of my phone screen. It was the best feeling in the world.

But then the spaces between her texts got longer. And I started to realize that the only nights we talked were the nights where I texted her. And then that feeling started to melt, to harden in my stomach. I worried that she felt obligated to text me back. What if she didn’t actually want to text me, and only did because she felt like she had to?

So I stopped texting her, and I waited for her to text me. 

And the text never came.

A couple times after that she would say something like “Hey we haven’t talked in so long!” and I would reply “omg what’s up?” But it was just that. An obligation. She had gotten bored of me and after a while I began to wonder why it hadn’t happened sooner.

My feet slap against the hot concrete as I walk away from home. I don’t know exactly where I’m going, but it feels good to go. I keep walking until I find myself at the edge of the sidewalk. Trees, tall and proud, loom over me. 

I step into their embrace. In the trees the air feels cooler and the light is muted. Sun shines in through gaps in the leaves, trickling over the stones and the roots. I go deeper into the woods and I feel the pressure in my head drop with each step. The world seems to sparkle and I find solace in the quiet beauty of it all. This is a place untarnished by whatever messes us humans decide to create. 

Eventually, I find what would become my refuge. It was a large pile of  massive stone blocks, shaped so that if there was a fourth side it would have been a square. But the fourth side must have fallen out, must have given way to nature, because all that remains are a few scattered blocks leading up to the top.

I like to think that it was once part of a grand castle, and that this structure was all that remained from that era we’ve romanticized so. But I live in the United States so that’s unlikely. I don’t know why it was built, or what it was meant to be, but now it stands in solitary, unbothered by whatever expectations were once put onto it.

Excited, I move towards the stones. It stands over four times taller than me, but still I climb. I crawl over the blocks and pull myself up until I stand at the top of the ruins. My heart clenches as I look down, but it’s not a completely bad thing. It’s… exhilarating. For the first time in a while I’m not stuck inside my own head. The thoughts that normally ping ponged around in my head had flown out. My mind was clear.

It was amazing. 

I felt like I was alone, sitting on an island of time just waiting. I don’t know what I was waiting for, but I didn’t mind the rest. I laid down across the stones and looked up at the sky. It was framed by the trees, a perfect little viewing spot just for me. 

I laid there for a long time. Watched as the clouds raced across the sky, eventually moving out entirely and leaving the sky open for the stars. It’s so funny how when we think of stars we think of tiny little dots sprinkled across the heavens, while in reality stars are massive, flaming orbs of heat and gas, so big we can’t even comprehend how big they really are. The sun is the closest star to Earth and we are so used to it that its mass settles slightly better in our tiny brains. But if you think, if you truly think about how immense stars, the galaxy, the universe is… Our brains aren’t big enough. 

Proxima Centauri

Proxima Centauri is the closest star to our sun. It is a small, low mass star and is a member of the Alpha Centauri system. It is located 4.244 light-years away from the Sun in the southern constellation of Centaurus. This means that even if traveling at the speed of light was possible, it would still take 4.244 years to reach the star.

The second closest star in the entire universe, and at the height of technology right now it would take 73,000 years to get there. An amount of time past comprehension. We think that time is something we observe, but time will continue long after everything else is gone. The only thing we do is give time a little more meaning, a little more use. Time goes and goes and goes and goes every if there’s no one and nothing to observe it.

I don’t know how much time I spent laying on those ruins, but eventually I stood up, climbed down, and walked home. 

Quietly pushing open the door I stepped inside. It’s moments like this I don’t mind being at home. When the house is silent everything seems a bit more bearable. The shadows give everything mystery, making each step a small adventure.

I tiptoe upstairs, making sure to step over that one stair that always groans. I peek into Mom’s room. 

She’s asleep, sprawled out across the bed. She had probably thought that I was just in my room all day. I couldn’t blame her. It wouldn’t have been off brand. 

There’s just a small part of me that wishes she would have stayed up so that we could have talked without the commotion of my siblings wrecking the house. But it’s unreasonable, it’s late and she’s tired. 

I’m tired too. Closing the door to my room I fall onto my bed. My head is still clear from my little adventure.

It was a pretty good day.

[maddiicake]

Ramblings of a Madwoman

Because I honestly have no other idea what to title this as. To put it simple, that's what this entire journal is going to be. From start to finish--no stopping to think about whatever f-ed up stuff will be put into written text and to be immortalized for eternity (deleted after or not) here on the World Wide Web--nothing but unedited, freewriting, off topic sidebar-ing throughout the entirety of this Journal. So, we'll see where and how it ends.

In about a month, I'll have been on DeviantART for an entire decade (and about 8 years since Tumblr). And, I just want to make it clear: I've done a shit tone of fucked up things in all the years that I've been here. Of course, this was things that I mainly did to people. (Yes, people, because, let's face it, whether or not we have the comfort of anonymity behind the keyboard in the middle of our "safe space" of the internet, we're still people on the other side of the screens). But, yes, I've done and said fucked up shit to people during me time here. I'm not ashamed to admit it. Nor will I deny any of the messed up stuff that I've done, especially to said people, in the past decade. I'll spare you all the wall of novel-length text that consists of my usual self-deprecating self-flagellation, since you all know the drill by now. Plus, I would hate putting you all to sleep just at the beginning of this Journal.

I'm messed up in the head. Plain and simple.

In my younger years (earlier in the decade, right about when I first appeared on dA), I had something wrong with me--not sure what, but it was definitely something that I, unfortunately, would never fully realize until recently this year. I grew up sheltered in an overly Conservative and Bible-Thumping household. The neighborhood I grew up in was what my parents lovingly called "God's Waiting Room", because of all the old-timers living in the homes. Any kids around were ones that I wasn't allowed to socialize with because my parents didn't want them "influencing" me. So, needless to say, I didn't have much of a social life growing up. I only went to a real school for two and a half years of my life, and, during that time, I stuck out more than a sore thumb (Hell, I didn't even know what a "Cafeteria" was, because the only "Cafeteria" I knew of was the dinner table. So, needless to say, my first time experiencing "lunch" was very awkward). All in all, being sheltered and not having much of a social life when you're still in your single-digits you grow up having this narcissistic know-it-all, controlling, 'I'm better than you', 'I'm the only person in this world and everyone else doesn't exist' personality and you think that you can control everyone else to your every whim. Being put into a real school with other real life people and kids my age was, obviously, a massive culture shock. When you suddenly realize that other people are their own individual person and have their own free will, you start to become aware that you were educated and raised in a world that could be similar to solitary confinement.

"Oh, hey, (Saki's real name). What're you doing?"

"Oh, nothing much. Just trying to think of how I can get all my classmates together for our superhero team so we can go off and fight bad guys in my head, all the while thinking I can bend them to my will as if they're not actually other human beings."

"...Didn't Chris-Chan already do that?"

"Pfft. This is 2005! Chris-Chan won't be a thing for another few years."

Now, my parents weren't perfect. I was their first child, and the first-borns are always the "guinea pigs"  for new parents.  Of course, I never understood that my parents were humans until my 20s. They made mistakes with me, like thinking that not giving their young impressionable daughter a social life through the first crucial years of her childhood was a good idea.

I know it sounds like I'm complaining--that's always the initial reaction people get whenever they read posts like this from me. "Oh, Saki's just starting drama", "Kura just wants attention", "She's cray-cray and needs help, like srsly...". Believe me, I get it, I completely understand why one would think that I sound like I'm complaining. Because you, the reader, are just reading these little pixelated words that look black on your computer monitor/mobile screen. But, in reality, when up close, those pixels are just a collection of RBGs. You interpret what you see through your reading and comprehension of the words before you. Because you're not the author. You merely interpret what you're writing and filling the blanks with guesswork of what the writer is trying to convey through these little pixels making up words.

It's weird, y'know... They say that "hearing voices" is the first step into insanity. But, are you insane if you're fully aware of it? They say that psychos and sociopaths don't admit nor are aware of their disorder because of the narcissism that accompanies it. So... would you still be a psychopath or sociopath if you admit it and/or are aware of it? These are just a handful of the kind of questions that fill he chaotic Hell in my mind when nothing else is going on.

Lately, though, that hasn't been very often. For those of you, who follow me on Tumblr (by the way, if you still follow me there, you must have a lot of tolerance for me), you may have noticed the rather alarming on-and-off episodes I've been having over the past few weeks. Trust me when I tell you that former friends will assure that "This is normal for Saki/Kura. Just stay away from her. She's just a lost cause. You'll only end up hurt associating with her, much less talking to her."

"Saki... the things you have been saying aren't really 'normal'--"

"Oh trust me... this is the Keemster-level of a 'cycle' that she goes through. Why do you think we made her theme song that Keemstar Parody of All Star? LMAO. This is 100% Normal for her."

But, what is normal? 'Normal' is nothing more than a perception of what we're used to: routines, topics, lifestyles--whatever we are used to. When something occurs that is out of our routine, we immediately perceive it as 'abnormal' (or just not normal). Much life me experience, albeit rather brief, time I spent in an actual school. You feel that unnerving unease as the stranger in a foreign land.

Now, what I do and say isn't Healthy, that would be the proper use of the phrase you're trying to portray. But, my diagnosis came far too late. There's no undoing what is done. There's no chance at saving loathsome sinners, the chance they had was the life they had before and the punishment is this. There's no rainbows inside of demons.

People, who view others outside of their little bubble, call those 'abnormal' people "toxic", simply because that person has disturbing psychological issues. It's like: "Ewww! A mud puddle! Gross I can't believe I stepped in that! Now my $200 shoes are ruined forever because of that damn puddle!" Those people are treated as lower than dirt just because their perceived in such a negative light. It's a label those high and mighty ones quickly slap onto those, who can't help the disorders they have. Sometimes those people aren't even aware they have a disorder, yet those prissy princesses still sit with upturned noses and chastise with their prim: "You need help, srsly." with their venomous undertone of "I'm better than you." Is it really fair to be some uppity hoity-toity sociality; sneering through your little rainbow-soap window down below at those loathsome dirty little plebian peasants? Perhaps that may be "normal" for you.

Sometimes--no, actually, often; very often--I just want to pop that bubble. Let that sprinkle of soap sting their eyes as it dribbles into their corneas. Their screams and cries in pain while they lean over the sink to wash them out would be such a delight.

I would go into more detail about other things regarding this, but I'm not dumb enough to freewrite my thoughts out to the point there's incriminating evidence against me.

"...Saki, this Journal is getting a little dark..."

"It's called 'Ramblings of a Madwoman' for a reason. Besides, the little 13-year-old edgelord wannabes on this website get away with far worse. Trust me, I've seen them. Some of them are in their 20s and haven't grown out of that phase. Them going on and getting away with using their boyfriends, who has ties to the dark Web, to get the personal information (mailing address and all) of the people they don't like just so that they can have them killed. You'd be surprised how thin-skinned these little lefties are. 'Someone Disagrees with me?? -cue Mission Impossible montage of tracking that person down and killing them-'."

"But you're talking about killing people!"

"I have said no such thing! At least not put it in writing. What part of 'I'm not dumb enough to post incriminating evidence of myself' did you not understand, my dear?"

Yes... it would be nice to have a peace of mind for once day. It would be amazing to not have to wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat from another night terror (had one just last night actually). When people want you dead--and have gone out of their way to find your address so that they can kill you--, all you want to do is keep you and your family safe. People can't kill you if they no longer exist, right? It would be just so nice to be able to go on for the rest of my life without having to worry about being sought after and killed just because I disagreed with someone and told them they were being stupid and immature. Or just randomly responding to condescending Twitter users, who think I'm talking about a certain someone when I'm not. But, just knowing that people still continue to go after me for no apparent reason just causes those night terrors to persist.

I just want to keep my family safe. Selfishly, I want to be able to sleep without having to worry about people in other States and Countries somehow knowing where I live and can come and kill me at any moment.

"Why didn't you call the cops--?"

"Because I didn't know it was them at the time it happened. Their former friend didn't tell me about all the plots and things they said in their Discord server until two years later. So, they were able to get away with this because of the Statute of Limitations."

Regardless, that still won't put my mind at ease knowing that they're still out there and can pull the same thing or worse once again. I wasn't the only one they they did this too, either. Of course, that the YouTube Drama Channels for you. They do fucked up shit behind the scenes while putting on some "I'm a good person" face.

You can't trust people, who act nice publicly. They aren't the innocent souls they want everyone to believe that they are. They want something. They want something from you. And when they've squeezed everything out of you that they want... they'll toss you away with no hesitation because they're done using you. Using you to feed their little lambs, whose fleece are white as snow, while they sleep their way to the top.

They want me dead. They've always wanted me dead. They know where I live, and they'll take me out along with the rest of my family. They'll rejoice and be glad of course~ ^u^ "Ding Dong the witch is dead~!" They will sing as they dance together happily in the streets. "Huzzah! Hooray! The monster has been slain. No longer shall she continue to torment us because we have FINALLY killed her~!" They said so themselves: "I'm happy that people told you these things." That was back in 2015 (and I still have the screenshot and the link to the original post)... half a decade ago. Even back then, they wanted me dead. Their party planning for that day is still in preparation. But, they'll immediately set up once that time come when I no longer exist. "...Saki, you're not okay."

This is what happens to people when they've finally Snapped.

But, I want to get better. Don't get me wrong. I don't like that I've become this person. No, I don't believe in change--I don't believe people can change whatsoever. I just want to feel better and not have to worry about these things anymore. But, I know well that things will never be the same. All I can do is continue moving forward and hope and pray that I don't mess up once again and start the cycle all over.

[rosepetals-flyingbirds]

Tortured Souls. (6)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader.

Summary: Y/N Stark is being chased and accused of a crime she didn’t commit, what happens when the person behind all of this possesses her very own face.

<<

(Gifs go to their rightful owners.)

Warnings: None.

Word Count: 5,400

Compound.

Steve was in the main living room with Sam watching the game when it went to the commercial and a Break News red sign appeared.

The reporter started to talk about the game so Sam stood up and walked to the kitchen to grab more beer in the fridged. “The SHIELD building in Washington has been invaded a few days ago, our reporter Samantha is in the local and will tell us what happened.” Sam stopped his tracks and walked back to watch the television.

The reporter was in front of SHIELD's building in Washington D.C, the lady told about how a dozen workers died in an invasion that occurred in an attempt to free a prisoner.

A picture of Artem appeared on the screen. “The prisoner is called Artem Melnikov, he is a Ukrainian that the Avengers and Shield’s agents got in an old HYDRA’s base in the middle of Russia. As you may know, Hydra is a militaristic and science division of the Nazi and was created by the German Baron Wolfgang von Strucker. Strucker isn't alive anymore and SHIELD told the world that neither Hydra was, but the event in years prior showed how a few important people of SHIELD were related to HYDRA organization. 

The last information the world received was of James Buchanan Barnes, the Winter Soldier.” Steve crossed his arms. “Barnes was accused to kill the king of Wakanda T'Chaka and a lot of other victims over the years. The man was the very own friend of Steve Rogers, Captain America himself. Our sources don’t know where Barnes is right now but the last time he was in the public eyes was in a court where the judge declared him innocent. Could it be possible to Barnes be behind all of this?” Sam shook his head, people didn’t know shit about Bucky and yet everyone loved to call him the bad guy. 

“Our sources managed to grab a few footages of the night of invasion here on SHIELD, the young woman clearly is Y/N Stark, daughter of the billionaire Tony Stark also known as the Iron Man. Apparently it doesn’t matter how much money do you have, children will always try to take their parents' attention, right? Back to you Trevor.” She said and Steve wanted to punch the TV.

Sam put the TV in mute and scratched his scalp, “Godamn it, now her face is plastered around the country.”

Steve nodded and took a deep breath. “We knew it was going to happen, how Fury let that leak?” He asked pissed.

Sam shrugged and looked at the TV that showed the victim's pictures and their relatives crying at the funeral. “Maybe he didn’t, you know has other people inside there that are important, and I don’t know… Maybe it was one of the victims’ relatives that wanted revenge and then,” He pointed to the TV. “That happened. Do you know where Stark is?”

Clicking his fingernails against his knees Steve darted his eyes to Sam. “He said something as grabbing some evidence in Turkey, I don’t know what.” He looked at the television again and an old lady was crying and yelling asking for justice.

Sam felt bad about the scene and knew Steve was feeling the same. They were Avengers and their work was to bring justice and hope. “We better call him.”

The game got back but neither of them had the head to watch it. “He probably knows by now.”

Tony.

Tony was flying through Turkey and went to meet one man he had hired to find some old documents.

He met the man in a cafe, he was in a hurry so he spoke with the man and grabbed all the information when his phone vibrated.

It was your name and a set of small alive videos of random News Programs talking about you. He sucked his breath and cursed Fury for letting these pieces of information leak that way. Tony touched the device and told the men his job was done and the money was on his account.

He got back at the hotel he was staying and opened his suitcase at the floor stepping on it making the Iron Man armor mold perfectly on his body.

He flew through the windows heading back to the States specifically to Washington searching Fury. ‘Nick Fury is calling sir.’ FRIDAY announced. 

Tony answered and before Fury could answer Tony was yelling at him. 

“Calm down! I didn’t give them her information, neither Everett.”

“Well someone clearly did, so what you don’t know about your people whereabouts or sources?”

“I’m sorry but whose daughter is being hunted?” Tony rolled his eyes. “Where are you?”

“Flying to Washington, I need to talk with you personally.”

“I’m not there, are you on a jet or in your armor?”

“What difference that makes,” Tony asked annoyed.

“Can you stop playing and tell me, if you are in your armor come to Logan in Utah, surely your armor will find the coordinates, you can also track this call if it makes it any easier.”

Tony argued a bit more but ended agreeing to his request and flew through Logan-Utah, he saw Fury there and landed outside a cafe that seemed empty, Fury probably sent everyone away saying he would have some government confidential meeting.

Tony kept using the armor but without the face part. “This brings me memories.” Fury scoffed and entered the place, Tony following behind.

Fury sat in the secluded booth and Tony sat in front of him, it had pancakes and coffee above the table. “This is how I’ll die? You’ll poison me? Or is just some sort of truth elixir that will make me tell you my deepest and weirds secrets, do you want to know how was the night I lost my virginity? Urgh, it was gross, do you know that-” Fury’s face was serious and clearly annoyed by Tony’s words. “Maybe you don’t.”

Fury sweetened his coffee and started to drink and Tony did the same. “I called you to say that I wasn’t the person that leaked Y/N’s information. Not anyone I know either, I said she would be in home confinement and I wouldn’t sell private information to the media. You know I keep my promises!”

Tony drank his coffee and stared at Fury’s wondering.

“All of them?”

He sighed. “Tell me one goddamn time I had lied to you or broke a promise.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Listen I’m trying to save Y/N okay? How come you can’t believe she is innocent on this?”

Fury rubbed his face. “Stark, you haven't been around in that world much okay?! The majority of your life you’d spent in parties and ignoring everything important surrounding you. And as you may remember we get betrayed in that world, a lot. I’m sorry she is your daughter. You know I consider her as a friend too.” He said.

“Let’s be honest, do you think she would do that with us? You know her since she was 13 years old for God’s sakes, actually was that sneak eye of yours that made her start in that crazy world, if you hadn’t praised her skills, and she stood at home or safe and sound avoiding this life she probably wouldn’t have to go all kamikaze in Russia.” He said clearly pissed you had chose that life.

Fury rubbed the brow as if to ward off a headache. “Oh come on, when I first saw her she was beating your ex-bodyguard ass in a boxing ring in the middle of the living room.” He pointed. “I wasn’t the one that inserted her into that life, we both recognize she would go after them with or without the knowledge I helped her build. She is a great agent, one of the best actually. But just because we all care about her it doesn’t mean that she feels the same.“

Tony ate a few bites of his pancakes and was tapping a foot under the table, very annoyed about the topic. “Then what? Are you saying she is guilty and is trying to screw our lives by selling Hydra our information?” His lower lip quivered. “Not my Y/N. I’m sorry you had a lot of disappointments in your life, I did too, but I’m sure she isn’t guilty. And you should too.” Fury nodded, he knew Tony would say it.

Fury took a sip of his coffee and shared a silence questioning his next words, he didn’t know if he should say it and help you even somehow indirectly. “I found something, on the footage on the night of the invasion in D.C I used a mixture of two programs and,” He grabbed a small blue device out of his big coat and opened the video, Tony scoffed and opened his mouth ready to say he had seen the videos hundreds of times but Fury cut his words. “Shut up and watch it,” He played the video and then Fury clicked in a few words on the side of the screen, then the video froze and when Fury zoomed it the left side of ‘your’ face was sort of blurry, it wasn’t the cameras since Shield use A1 technology, it was something out of it. “I analyzed other random people with the same illumination and hour on the cameras but none had that weird effect on their faces.”

Tony took a deep breath and smiled. “Great now you are on our side, took you long enough.” He let a relaxed puff of air and enjoyed his pancakes, it wasn’t easy to use the fork with the ‘iron hand’ so he took it off.

“I still don’t trust her.” Fury said.

Tony placed the fork on the plate and swallowed the bits that were in his mouth. “Really? You just said it wasn’t her, what other reasons do you want?”

“She is smart and makes the best tactics, she might have contracted someone just to put us exactly where we are.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “You know what, you think you are so intelligent and forward of everyone else's but you are just crazy. This isn’t a movie Fury, what can’t you just believe her?”

Pinching his nose Fury tried to find a good reason to make Tony open his eyes. “Because people aren’t victim’s Stark, people are psychotic and you know her parents had a record of drug use, maybe her mother had used and it had hit her brain inside the womb and with that transforms her in a sociopath or psychopath. You know this happens.” Tony's brow furrowed completely mad at his words.

Tony gnashed his teeth in the mention of something so insulting. “You are an idiot for saying those things, you like to believe you have control of everything while she is just a young girl being incriminated by something she did not commit!” Tony's voice was raising in each word. His hands trembling.

“You are right, I didn’t mean in that way.”

“Send me that version of the video, it will help me with the judge and with the whole court process.”

Nodding, but with a tightness to it, like he was holding back from saying something else. “Speaking about it she won’t be able to stay at home confinement much longer, I will go to the Compound later to talk with her.” Fury said and finished his coffee, Tony kept quiet eating his food which made Fury sense something was wrong. “She is there right?” He asked.

“Y/N? I don’t know we are not really intimate right now,” He answered quickly and chewed the last of the pancakes pushing the plate further in the table, Fury shook his head knowing Tony was hiding something. “What?” He tried to play coy.

“She isn’t." Fury shook his head. “I do all in my power to help you two and this is what I receive?” He spoke throwing his hands up.

Tilting his head to the ceiling and letting out a heavy sigh Tony stuttered before finding the right words. “I’m serious I don’t know if she is in the Compound, we fought because of her stupid decision and I’m not really staying at home or going in the Compound,” He moved his hands to his armor.

Fury studied his face. “You know I can read all your facial signs right? Where is she?”

Tony shook his head and looked at Fury’s ‘device’ above the table. “Isn’t you that have her anklet coordinates?”

Fury rolled his eyes. “Stark, Y/N is a criminal and I’m putting my head in the middle of the crossfire to help even though I don’t believe her innocence in all of this.”

Tony rolled his eyes and propped his left arm on the table propping his head on his hand.

Fury saw his annoyed face and felt angry about how Tony always get annoyed when he didn’t get what he wants like a spoiled infant.

“Contrary to your belief, you are not the center of my universe! So if you truly consider I’ll lose my job and my whole career to make you happy you’re really really wrong.”

“Fury, all I ask is for you to hear her out, okay, please! She is the girl that saved your ass in that mission you went with. She is the girl that helped Nat when she started having anxiety. She is the girl that spent six whole days in the hospital when Sam got into a coma. Do you think she will be the one that will sell information to HYDRA? And besides that, she really cares about Steve and… and the other guy, which both had suffered by HYDRA. Do you truly believe she is guilty? Search the truth in your heart.”

Fury squeezed his eyes. “‘The truth in your heart’? Why the hell you said that? Is a t-shirt or something?” Tony gave him the look of ‘come on’. “I want to believe in her, Tony. But what if she is guilty and in the end, she will go away with them and leave us behind? I can’t risk my career out of a friendship.”

“What is more important reputation and people who care about you?”

Fury scoffed. “Are you reading those help-books she bought for you?” Tony laughed, Fury did too. “I’ll talk with her, let’s see if she can convince me.”

Y/N.

You had set all your clothes and a few research items in the room, you looked around the place and did almost every possible thing.

It was dark outside and Bucky hasn't got back yet. You started to create scenarios in your head where he regrets the almost kiss and are running away scared that you’ll confront him about it.

Jordan was with Barsi and you had made sure that the place would be a safe place for animals, you surely could use some love now so you placed a pair of boots on your feet and walked out the place searching the separated spot where the dogs and other animals should be.

Five minutes more into the woods you found what you were looking for.

It has big shelters one for each type of animal, normally the cats found a way out and the sneaky creatures entered in the dog’s one but it was cool since they got well with each other.

The dogs were really calm, normally when someone got closer they would make a huge mash of sounds. You opened the outhouse and found what you weren’t looking for.

Bucky was sat on the floor with two dogs laid close to him with their heads in his lap, the others were quiet sleeping and looked really comfortable having him around.

One dog barked when saw you making all of the others too, Bucky got up in seconds like you were some sort of threat. The babies came running and you pet every one you could reach, Bucky placed his hands in the pockets of his pants and cleared his throat. “I fell asleep.”

“I noticed,” You laughed, “It’s late already, I wanted to see them again and since I found you, do you wanna eat something? I mean you had been out around... five hours, at least.”

“I lost count of time. It’s pretty awesome what you did here.” He referred to the animals.

You looked around seeing the big place had space for each one of them. “Yeah, I mean is sad the fact that I have to do so, but I adore seeing the pure joy on them.” He made a confused look. “I mean the fact that someone has to save them from bad people, stupid people who hate them.”

He nodded. “People are stupid.”

Jordan appeared in the outhouse holding a big dog food bag. “Oh hey.” He said, you thought you heard Bucky scoffing but it was probably something else. “Is time for their dinner.”

You looked at the big barrel where food has always been inside. “I thought their food stood here.”

“It does but I just got back from town with a few new bags, the old ones were almost empty.” He placed it in the floor and walked out of the place, he looked behind and saw you stopped there looking at the dogs that were more than happy to see Jordan. “Uau, I didn’t know the famous life made you lazy, help me get the rest princess.” Jordan joked and you rolled your eyes laughing.

You walked out and found the pickup truck. You got one bag and walked inside, Bucky got the food separating it in the plates helping in the process. “The cats have eaten already?”

Jordan separated the food with a perfect portion for each type of dog and nodded at Buck's work. “No, neither the horses. You can go there, but be careful with the yellow one, she just got back from surgery.” You nodded and walked out of the place, you shook your head to Bucky which he understood the meaning since he followed you.

You opened the place and saw the cats running around playing with their toys when you grabbed their food they started to meow all together making a huge mess. “Surgery?” Bucky asked trying to not trip on them.

“Maybe is castration, or something else…”

“Castration?”

“Yep, I make sure all of them get castrated. I hate the number of abandonment it has already so we don’t need to make it bigger. My point is if everyone castrated their cats and dogs, it wouldn’t have so many lost babies out there. I mean I know I help them here and in every state money can allow me, but it isn’t the same thing for them. They are supposed to be the 'man's best friend’ so having just one owner isn’t the same.” A one-legged kitty was amazed by Bucky’s pants.

He laughed and grabbed the poor things in his hand. “I agree.”

You scratched the kitty's chin and took her out of Bucky's chest placing the food pot in front of her face. “Good.”

Bucky was amazed at the animals there, he surely knew about the shelter you had in NYC. “How did you asked Tony to do those things? With the animals I mean.”

“Well, since being a Stark I’m what people can say 'filthy rich’ so rather than spending my money in plastic surgery or fancy clothes and a possible contract with famous people to get me 'Hollywood famous’ too,” You laughed at the ridiculously. “I rather spend with what truly matters. Animals, kids, countries where hunger and thirst is a strong characteristic… I just try to use the pros and power of money on things that truly matter.” Bucky swore his heart was beating even faster.

When all was done, you and Bucky got back to the dog's place.

The two of you helped with anything that Jordan needed an extra hand with.

And when it finished Bucky excused and got back to the house.

You kept brushing the horses with Jordan, who had a grin splattered on his face. “What?”

He shrugged “Nothing.” He replied with a smirk.

“Come on.” You tried.

He looked out the barn looking at the patch that leads to the house.

“He is jealous, of me and you.”

You shook your head and kept paying attention to your current task. “He is not.”

“Come on. He had been staring at me the whole time like I was about to pick a gun and shoot you two.”

You laughed and shrugged. “He is just being cautious… he, he is of the world that me and Tony live in.”

“He is the Winter Soldier. Of course, he is of that world of yours and Mr.Stark.” You widened your eyes, you didn’t suspect him to recognize Bucky. “Don’t worry, I know he was a victim of all the torture he had been through. And you know me, I won’t call the cops or anything.”

You calmed down. “I think it would be no use. He was declared innocent by the judge and he is a free man.” You finished brushing the third horse and changed their water.

Jordan finished grooming the last horse and walked away to wash the brush and his hands. “So nothing to worry about then.” You caressed the horse for the last time and walked to wash your hands too. “But I’m serious the way he looks at you and the threatening way he looks at me says something. What? You two had dated and it didn’t work?”

“Not quite. We are good friends and… and I don’t know I got injured on a mission and he sort of blocked me out of his life.”

“Hmmm, I assume the injury it was bad.”

“Someone shot me.” He widened his eyes, he knew how to use a gun but yet it was sort of unknown to him. “But I’m here aren’t I?”

“So what, you two will keep liking each other and will be silent about it.”

“What? Wait what do you think I like him?” You played innocent.

“Well, first of all, I don’t believe my friend would ever come back here with some guy that seems really nice and just be friend with him, and also the fact that you are talking about him with that sparkle in your eyes.” He pointed at you.

“Jordan we are in the middle of the night in a barn, the “sparkle” can be the lamp above our heads.” You pointed your fingers at the five bigs lamps it has there.

“Nah, I know that spark. It just appears when you truly care about someone.”

“What are you? A novel writer?” He laughed.

“All I’m saying is that even spending years away from me I know you too damn well to be able to recognize when you’re liking or loving someone.”

“Okay love is really a strong word.” You put emphasis on the really part.

“You don’t love him?” He asked teasingly.

“Of course, he is my friend.” He gave you the look. “Come on I have a lot of guy friends. Actually, the majority of them are men.”

Jordan walked closer to your reach and dried his hands on a cloth and handed it to you. “Okay, so you look at all of the majority of friends the way you look at him?”

You let a sigh, he wouldn’t let the subject go away. “Not all of them.”

He nodded. “And that is why you’re blushing and avoiding to go back there?”

He was right, yet the last time you had seen him was years ago. “Excuse me, I spent five years away from your life. Is that inconvenient for me wanting to know more about you?”

He laughed. “Either way the way he looks at you it definitely says something,” You two walked out of the place and closed the door. Your emotions were screaming. “How do you know that?”

He looked at you and spent a few seconds trying to find the best words. “Because he looks at the same way I used to.”

You blushed, you had felt a small crush on him, but it was when you were just a mere kid and the idea alone of being close someone emotionally gave you bad memories about Raza. “Oh come on,” You bumped his shoulder with yours.

He laughed and nodded but spent some seconds looking at you, like he was reading every trace in your face. “Whatever you say but the way he looks at you it clearly states something. And I don’t have any idea what happens in that SuperHero universe you live in, but he would be good to you. I mean he is here right? And the way he looked at me when I entered the house it gave me chills. The guy had literally a gun aimed at me.”

“You were with a shotgun yourself. And besides nothing could give you chills Jordan.”

“Oh, one thing does scare me.” You kept quiet and wondered what he meant. “A angry Y/N.”

You laughed and remembered the number of times you two had fought when you were younger. “Surely!”

“Okay. So go back there to your 'only friend’ guy and… I don’t know, find something to talk about.”

“He surely will ignore me,”

“Make him pay attention then.” He said and kissed your head and hugged you. “Good night, troublemaker.”

“Good night, firefighter.” 

Both titles were nicknames you two received, you because you would enter anyone house if you thought an animal was hurt, and Jordan because once he literally ran into a house on fire to save an old lady, which made Happy really mad about his job as your bodyguard.

And as a joke, Tony placed him to watch out for Peter.

Bucky.

Steve had called Bucky ten minutes ago to put him inside what was happening in the real world. 

Steve told about your information that leaked and he asked if Bucky had grown the guts to talk with you. He answered yes and told him about Jordan.

“Who is Jordan?”

“Apparently an old friend, they are taking care of the animals now. I think he likes her.” The talk went on until you entered the house, you saw Bucky was on the phone and it surely was someone you knew.

But you let it be and walked around going to grab some water. Bucky gave you the phone and you saw Steve’s name on it.

Steve explained that the information had leaked but Fury assured he wasn’t the responsible for it.

He also explained that Clint and Tony were going after some evidence to help in the process, you asked about Natasha and Vision. He told he hadn’t seen Natasha in a week and Vision was okay as always, he didn’t tell anyone about your whereabouts.

                                 …

Bucky started to make a dinner since he likes to cook you wouldn’t interfere with it, actually it brought good memories when he cooked and you two spent the time talking.

He was just placing the past inside the boiling water. “So what had you done in the months where we weren’t close?” You asked.

“I got a few missions, it was okay.“ He answered, you gave him a beer, even knowing he wouldn’t get drunk but at least would make the ‘talk‘ more equal. “You?“

“Well, everything became a terrible soap opera, then I moved out of the Compound, I don’t know if you’d noticed.“ He lowered his head, of course, he did, suddenly he came back from a mission in Siberia and you weren’t there anymore. “Then one day Fury appeared in the door of my apartment saying I was being arrested for leaking private information… and well here we are.“

“Do you have any idea who can be behind all of that?“

You shook your head in a silent ‘no’. “I’m glad the majority of my friends believe me, thank you for believing in me, Buck.” You reached his flesh hand squeezing for a few seconds.

He smiled making the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Sure, you’re my friend and I know you wouldn’t do this type of thing.”

You smiled completely delighted that he gave you his breathtaking smile after so long, but the subject was something that was stealing your rest. “Steve almost believed them, you saw how he was when he watched the footages.”

His forehead furrowed. “You know that punk, but the important thing is that he raised his hand.”

You let a heavy sign and took a couple of sips. “I know it’s stupid and I had a huge luck having so many on my side, and Sam apologized and everything but… I still feel like you guys don’t believe me. Tony, I get it, he is the father figure and wants the best for me, but what if he is doing that just to protect the idea of me?”

“What do you mean?”

“I��m his best friend, daughter for all effects, but, what if he is just trying to prove to himself that I won’t be a failure in his life?”

Bucky felt in the same way with Steve. “Tony really loves you, you’re the only family he has.” He said and felt a punch in his throat. Only family because I killed the rest of it. He thought.

The following hours you two settled in a comfortable conversation like all the rest didn’t matter. He talked about the new things he remembered and even brought the little notebook he used to note the things his mind got back.

You smiled and felt happy having your friend there again.

You two cleaned the mess in the kitchen and got ready for bed.

When you finished your shower Bucky got his and you sat on your bed reading his note-book, with his permission of course.

You worshipped reading his memories, loved his messy handwritten and adored how he placed a few pictures here and there to make it more sense in his mind.

He walked out of the shower and gave you a goodnight smile. “Bucky. You don’t have to sleep at the end of the hall.” His faces blushed, he didn’t expect you to realize he was trying to create a barrier between the two of you. “You can sleep in the others, or here if you want too.”

Bucky had nights and nights filled with nightmares, and it wasn’t awkward for you two sleep in the same bed, it had occurred thousands of times over the years. Didn’t matter if it was his nightmares or yours, didn’t matter if it was in a small hidden place in dangerous missions nor if you two passed out after watching something on your laptop.

It was normal for him, he even believed the soft mattress wasn’t too soft with you in there. But then you two had been self-conscious with each other in the last weeks. Would it erase all the years of building trust you have accomplished with him?

“Okay, I will just make sure everything is locked.” He answered after questioning himself and walked downstairs.

It has happened before. And the mattress was huge and he probably would face the other side of it.

Bucky was pacing downstairs he saw if everything was okay dozen of times, and walked back to your room. He knew he loved to feel you beside him when he wakes up sweating his fear out. He likes to see your peaceful face and hear your heartbeat beating in a certain rhythm. He took a deep breath and walked back to the room.

There you were laid already but the notebook was still in your hands, Bucky thought it was adorable, you probably knew all the letters there by heart. He laid on the other side and darted his eyes everywhere in the room.

You closed the book and placed it on the nightstand after a few minutes. You turned the lamp and moved your body so you were facing him. “Good night, Bucky.” He looked at you and answered softly.

"Good night, Y/N."

                                 …

After a few turns around he eventually got asleep until he felt something somewhat heavy on his metal arm. It was you supporting your head on his shoulder and your arm was over his torso.

You always liked the cold feeling of metal against your body, the contrast it made on Bucky’s warmth. He looked at the scene and smirked, your mouth was slightly agape so he knew you wouldn’t wake up easily, he moved his flesh arm and grabbed your hip calmly pulling your body above his.

You moved sleepily adjusting your body above the new heat, for Buck’s sake you were really tired so the new position didn’t alert you.

Bucky caressed your hair and fell asleep rapidly feeling somehow protected with you above his chest.

Before his slumber could take him fully, he whispered a soft. “I love you, doll.”

                                 …

>>

I’m sorry if the mention of animals shelters it’s very personal, BUT I love animals and if you don’t, what is wrong with you? (If I was Tony’s friend/daughter I surely would make hundreds of shelters.)

[jungdrizzydraco]

An O.C. for Your Asses!!!

I wanna see if the characters are legit before I move forward with this short story im working on (I'm a character first kinda guy, so I work inside-out) leave any form of constructive critique you wish, they are still works in progress, thanks!!

Augustine Harriet Andersson

Age:22

Sign: Gemini (sun) Cancer (moon) Virgo (rising)

Height: 5'8

Eye Color: Formerly dark-brown, bleached to a pastel-hazel because of some dark magic fuckery

Hair Color/Cut: dark-brown,q shifting variations of a fade, whose design changes somewhat based on his thoughts and emotions (yes, this is an enchanted fade)

Build: lean, lightly muscled from years lifting cauldrons in his grandfather's potion shop

Notable Features: Dimples; left-dimple is deeper than right, multiple piercings on each ear, artificial left eye (looks organic but to magical eyes, it looks otherwise)

"Have you ever been like...fundamentally angry? I feel that way...like at my core, there's this rage that seethes and coils at the pit of my stomach, everyday, like a python that can't quite squeeze his prey all the way to death. Everytime I think I've grown up, forgiven something or someone or myself, there's this anger that tightens right back up all over again...like it's reminding me of something. Somedays...I feel like that feeling will petrify everything I've ever loved about myself, and I'll just be another slave to outrage and ego and pain...just like everyone else...haha, then I'll really be a normie."  -August Andersson, on his depression and internal anger issues.

Augustine Andersson is a witch-boy. But you could probably already tell that from looking at him: the way his eyes are almost constantly fixed towards some unseeable infinity, the way air molecules hum with fresh, manic energy around him, how he seems to absorb sunlight and the way his brown skin would filter the glow as a result of his connection to the natural...it was all very off putting to others around him for most of his young adult life. And as we all know, no one likes a freak, so such years had a hand in building his current trust issues, feelings of great anger and inadequacy, and all the tics and tricks he uses to keep such feelings at bay. He's not at a total loss; at his core he is a humanitarian, deeply compassionate and available to those who have managed to capture his heart, as well as wild and humorous. However, he keeps a tight lid on his darkest feelings and insecurities, out of fear that they may be too much for those around him (also, he might accidentally call forth a vile arch-daemon on accident, but that's neither here nor there.) After finally having had enough of his mundane time amongst the humans, he vanishes from his college campus one day and takes to the open road, hoping that like the many young, angsty teens in the movies he loves, he will find himself in his own solitude. But the best way to deal with oneself is when confronting someone else, and after a close-call with a reckless (and very cute) motorcycle rider on an interstate, August will be forced to deal with every single part of himself, the good, the bad, and the strange...

A few more things about him...

1. His father is Afro-swedish, hence his last name.

2. Loves to travel and is nomadic by nature.

3. He gets a special kind of warmth out of being moderately petty at all times.

4. He loves open spaces and bodies of water, as well as hikes through mountains (ok so he only went once in Vegas, so sue him, he really liked it!)

5. Surprisingly low maintenance, really just likes being around people that are happy, and the feeling easily rubs off on him.

6. Both positive and negative emotions easily rub off on him.

7. Can get caught up in moments of warm content, given his unstable interior life, and can get lost in wasting/spending time.

8. Gets restless easily.

9. Budding film buff, faves include Kill Bill vol. 1&2, Her, Moonrise Kingdom, Gone Girl, Blue is the Warmest Color, Moonlight, & Mean Girls.

10. August's father is very engaged with politics and civil rights, so in honor of that, he decided that his son's middle name would belong to one of the greatest figures of the civil rights movement: Harriet Tubman.

11. Favorite new movie is The Favourite.

12. Due to a lack of acceptance of his full self and the full spectrum of his sexuality, he is judgemental of others and holds them to the same near-impossible standards he holds for himself. 

13. Things he expects from others: To read his mind and conjure what he wants without saying, to have his needs and boundaries respected without actually stating so, for others to fit in whatever box he thinks they should be in, for everyone's intellect to be slightly lower than his own, but high enough not to annoy him with silly questions, ect.

14. Listens to Lorde, J. Cole, Rex Orange County, Frank Ocean, Lana Del Rey, Tyler the Creator, Young Thug and assorted film soundtracks.

15. Enjoys playing into his double-sided nature when it suits him, and has a secret glee in melding into different roles depending on who's around him.

16. Is attracted to more eccentric personalities in platonic and romantic relationships

17. Smokes weed to escape boredom. (and his problems)

18. Smokes weed because he likes the feeling.

19. Is secretly a little ratchet, but he'll kill you if you say so, it'll fuck up his reputation as the quasi-sociopathic erudite.

Magic House-Thoth

Augustine is a member of the Sacred House of Life, witches whose magic is passed down from the Egyptian Gods themselves. August himself is a descendant of an African slave-witch, once known as Ashe. She was taken to Egypt as a typical piece of cargo from zealot raiders, and was sentenced to a life of building the pyramids. Or so she would have thought: Thoth, the God of Magic and Knowledge, took pity upon her and beguiled her to follow an invisible force into the desert one night. He then revealed himself to her in his ibis-headed brilliance and bestowed upon her a set of choices: he could free her now and set her loose across the desert with all the things she would need for survival, or he could give her secrets and wisdoms unknown to man at the time, but she would have to frequently return to him for lessons. Ashe always prized knowledge and growth over any material thing, or even something such as freedom (I prefer to disagree myself). And secrets from a God must count for that much more, right? She indulged in option two. Thoth grinned and whispered to her the mysteries of life, the secrets of the stars, and the riddles of worlds lost and intangible, he spoke magick into her very soul. She would then use her newfound knowledge to fool her captors, freed any slave that would believe in her, and with her wits about them, guided them across the desert to build a library-like sanctuary, in honor of Thoth. The former slaves then learned from the god's teachings, passed through Ashe, and became witches and educators in their own right, and Ashe came to lead this new coven of magi. This is how the House of Thoth became to be. 

Magick: As a member of house of Thoth, August has the ability to manipulate various aspects of the moon, writing, hieroglyphics, knowledge and sciences, and the progression of time. His particular specialty is the creation of Moon Dust, a substance used as a medium for most of his spells. By gathering various quantities of mineral, be it: crystal, rocks, pearls, aluminum, or even silvers and golds, he can channel his magic into them and break down and rearrange their atomic components into a corrosive, abrasive substance that also tends to stick to objects due to an electric charge. This dust is also dangerous to breathe in. He tends to carry around a pouch or two on his person, as trying to create some on the fly is nearly impossible given how much time and intricacy is needed to create the substance. (I mean, working with just a pile of plain old rocks would take a couple of hours to convert, let alone harder or more distilled substances.) Spells that he has mastered so far include...

Spell of Refraction: A spell in which the moondust bonds to whomever or whatever August desires (sans the harmful effects, it's enchanted in this state) and whatever is enveloped in dust turns invisible via light refraction.

Spell of Revelations: He can spread his moondust over an area and have the pieces cling to imprints of negative emotion or dark magick. A spell used for forensic work.

Spell of Retribution: An offensive spell that uses moondust to its fullest offensive powers and creates small funnels of dust to ravage the opponent. The largest funnel made could surround a fully grown man.

Golemancy:  Can create golems out of the moon dust he has formed, usually no larger than a human toddler. They tend to take form roughly resembling lego-men (he was a big fan of the Lego Expanded Universe as a child), but one can easily be fooled by their size: each golem has the strength of three men, and can combine to further power themselves up.

There are a few spells that don't require the moon dust...

-The Veil: A surface-level illusion layered directly over the skin. This allows the caster to look like whatever he wants to look like and sound however he wants, but can be broken if struck with bad intentions (like a slap from an offended woman on the street)

 -Somnus: A very old, yet practical spell. Also one that does not require moondust, this handy spell induces sleep.  Those affected by this spell will not remember being forced to sleep, but they will have active and vivid dreams for distraction. Also necessary for Dream Diving.

-Dream Diving:  A skill Augustine has yet to master, this allows the caster to astral project into one's consciousness for complete access to the afflicted parties mind, if the brain is distracted by dreams. August has gotten stuck in several public nude dreams, and it takes long hours to remove oneself from another's mind.

-Illusion Casting 

-Temporary Madness Inducement

-Script Magick: By writing down a word or phrase on any surface that can be sufficiently marked on, whatever has been written manifests somehow, just so long as it is within his power. He can't create miracles with it though.

Top 10 Roadtrip Songs

Sobriety- Sza

No Role Moldelz-J. Cole

Sacrifices -Dreamville, assorted artists

Grown Up Fairy Tails- Chance the Rapper, Taylor Bennett 

My Boy-Billie Eilish

U.N.I.T.Y.- Frank Ocean

West Coast: Lana Del Rey

Cruise Ship-Young Thug

400 Lux-Lorde

Let Em Know- Bryson Tiller

[ryik-the-writer]

Chapter 20: The Mystery of the Dead Nun pt. 2

[A03]

Previous Chapters

Chapter 1: Pan meets a Wendy

Chapter 2: Scars (Felix’s Story)

Chapter 3: Day One

Chapter 4: Revenge and Fireflies

Chapter 5: Brighter than Stars

Chapter 6: filler: The Tigress

Chapter 7: Operation Spotless!

Chapter 8: Operation Spotless: Reporters Down

Chapter 9: A Dance with the Devil

Chapter 10: filler: Felix and the Pancake

Chapter 11: The Girl with Blue Eyes pt. 1

Chapter 12: The Girl with Blue Eyes pt. 2

Chapter 13: The Girl with Blue Eyes pt. 3

Chapter 14. Recovery

Chapter 14.2 Recovery some more

Chapter 15: Trapped

Chapter 16: Fairydust pt. 1

Chapter 17: Fairydust pt. 2

Chapter 18: Fairydust pt. 2

Chapter 19: The Mystery of the Dead Nun pt. 1

God it felt good to write this after a three-month long writers’ block :P Also, first update of the year. Not bad :PP

P.S. It takes less than two days to perform an autopsy but the time the report gets out differentiates. It can be a few days to, as I’ve learned, months.

For fic convenience, it was a couple of hours :p

P.P.S Still depressed, slightly more financially stable, still hopeful for the future. I hope you are all the same.

                                                      -,-,-,-,-,-,-

16-year-olds had no business walking the streets at night.

Then again, the closest thing to danger in Storybrooke, Maine was when Leroy Miner had too much and sang off-key through the streets.

Pan was disgusted that he knew that. He’d been in the overly quiet town for nearly a month, and had grown uncomfortable there, yet comfortable enough that he had no qualms about walking the streets at night like he would in Scotland.

He exited the Dark Star pharmacy with a playful frown and an Apollo bar in his pocket, unpaid for. Mr. Clark had been too busy sneezing to notice.

With a low hum he unwrapped the candy, breaking one of the corners off and slipping the light chocolate into his mouth. He shoved the rest into his pocket next to the long-handled screwdriver he’d brought with him.

The walk to the convent was short. He could walk across the entire town in less than twenty minutes. Some still and very quiet sleuthing helped him find the head nun’s car, the very car the wicked woman had thrown Tink La’Belle into just that afternoon.

Pan didn’t know either one of them, nor did he know the blonde stud that had tried to rip the car door off when the nun drove away. But he had seen them around school, even had a class or two with the boy.

What he saw today however revealed all he needed to know about them.

They needed a savior.

First step was to plant the seeds of gratitude in their heads.

He eased carefully towards the car, looking over his shoulder every few seconds as he unraveled the rest of the Apollo bar and broke off one of the symmetric squares.

“Enjoy car trouble bitch.” Pan hissed as he unhinged the fuel cap and dropped the sugary squares into the tank one by one. He smirked with each plop of the chocolate into the gas tank. Who said revenge didn’t pay?

“What are you doing?”

Pan froze, his mind stilling as his scrapping instincts kicked in. Peter Pan never got caught, not in Scotland, and certainly not in Storybrooke fucking Maine.

The young teen turned slowly. Before him was a young woman, small and mousy in her convent clothes, and judging by the fidgeting of her hands, very nervous to be before him.

Pan dulled his grin. He could use her fear.

“Evening,” he greeted, his breath intertwining into the cool night air.

“T-that’s Mother Superior’s car.” The woman said.

“I certainly hope so,” Pan chuckled. “Otherwise I’m going to have to get another candy bar.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and stepped forward, his blood tingling in anticipation when the young woman curled into herself.

“Please,” she gasped. “I don’t want any trouble.”

Pan shrugged. “That’s something we have in common. I plan to finish what I have to here and go home. You can just walk away, and as far as anyone will know, you were never here.”

“I…you shouldn’t…”

Pan took her moment of conflict to examine her. She had to be only a few years older than Tink, and much less lively than the 17-year-old.

Mother Superior must have already broken her spirit.

“She’s hurting someone I know,” Pan told her. “She’s hurting her the same way she’s hurt you,” he held up his hand when she began to stutter in retaliation. “I’m simply giving her something to focus on so that she can be free.” He watched her eyes wavered and saw what he needed.

Seeds of gratitude.

“You’d like to be free too, wouldn’t you? From her?”

That was it. The seeds were planted and fertilized with the hate buried deep in her eyes.

Pan could have easily sent her away. He could have done the act alone and reveled in his own demise.

Yet, when Pan reached into his pocket for his smuggled screwdriver, the handle cool against his heated palm. This time when he approached the young nun, she didn’t flinched.

He reached down and took hold of her dainty, clammy hand.

He hadn’t had such contact with a person in so long.

He unclenched her fingers and wrapped them around the handle, his eyes never leaving her confused, heated gaze.

“I…what are you—”

“Help me.” He suggested. Peter Pan didn’t need help, but he needed followers.

In this young woman he could have his first one.

The seeds were planted.

“I…I can’t—”

“Yes you can.” Pan stated forcefully, leading her up to the car. “What’s your name?”

The young woman swallowed, not knowing that once Peter Pan had her identity, he had her all.

“A-Astrid.”

“Astrid,” Pan chuckled. It was such a strong name for such a timid woman. “Astrid, I want you to take this,” he emphasized by tightening his grip on her clasped hands. “And rip her tires a part.”

“No.” Astrid hesitated. Pan was losing his grip.

“Yes.” Pan said firmly. “She’ll never stop unless we put a sense of fear in her.”

“But…it’s a sin—”

“It’s retribution.” Pan snarled, his heart racing. Adrenaline was his greatest foe and best friend. “I can see it in your eyes. Every humiliation, every moment she made you question yourself.”

There was something else there, of course. Past the pain and the temperate hate was a gentle flutter of devotion, of love.

“She’s keeping you from someone, isn’t she?”

He didn’t need for her responsed; it was obvious that there was romance somewhere in the crestfallen woman’s life, same as there was in Tink’s.

“Why not make her pay for it?”

Astrid blinked, so conflicted, so wanting to do the right thing, to turn away.

But it was too late for any of that. A single moment in Pan’s presence and she was already tarnished.

“I’ll start.” Pan winked, pulling out his house key (Gold was going to be pissed). In a swoop he plunged the key into the aged paint and created a screaming line.

Astrid watched, flinching at the sound.

Pan howled with laughter when the key slipped, a deep silver scar in his wake, the first of his night-long abuse. He turned to the stunned woman, the screwdriver still clutched in her shaking fingers. She needed a release, a way to make Mother Superior pay for the pain she had afflicted onto her, on to all of her sisters inside the convent.

Perhaps this would solve nothing, and would only succeed in buying her and Tink a day, or even just a couple of hours, of peace.

Pan didn’t care either way. This was just a small tiptoe onto his path for dominance.

And now, he had his first follower.

“Your turn.”

0-0-0-0-0-0-0

 Wendy awoke in terror when she heard someone jimmying her apartment lock. It had been so quiet last night that she was certain that her days of being terrified in her new home were over.

Now however, it would seem that the demons that had followed her from her misadventures were literally trying to break back in.

Wendy rolled off her couch and made a quick getaway to the connected kitchen, chastising herself on such an idea as sleep left her.

“Demons don’t exist, but robbers certainly do!” she scowled as she armed herself with a skillet. Whoever was about to come through her front door was alive and well and fixing to get a well-sized knot on their head for breaking into her flat!

The lock clicked and the door opened quickly, a hand reaching in to turn on the light. Wendy was momentarily blinded and held her breath so that she could hear the intruder coming in.

“Morning.” The intruder greeted, and Wendy’s hair immediately stood on end.

“Pan!” she shrieked, blinking rapidly. “What the hell are you doing in my apartment? It’s 2 a.m.!”

“Oh you know, visiting, checking everyone’s water pressure,” he closed the door with his heel. “Nice underwear by the way.”

Wendy’s cheeks lit in flame and she made a dash to her bedroom for proper clothing, having stripped down sometime around midnight without care of pajamas.

She glared at his smirk when she reentered.

“Guess now we’re even.” He winked, and Wendy flinched at his audacity and the memory of finding him post-coital yesterday morning.

How could he be so peppy after all the devastation he had caused?

“Get out.” She growled.

“Look,” he laughed. “I came to—”

“I don’t care why you’re here!” she screamed so loud she was certain her neighbors could here. “I want you to get the fuck out!”

“Wendy—”

“You’re a sociopath!” Wendy continued. “You have no soul, no sense of humanity in the least! You don’t care about the life you’ve just ruined despite how it’s the life of your friend!”

Pan’s stare was hard as diamonds, inshatterable. Once again Wendy couldn’t tell what he was thinking, let alone feeling. Except for the anger. She could always tell now when he was angry. He’d stare ahead, his lips pressed in a shapeless pink line, his hands clenching something, restraining.

She acted the same way.

“You done?” he inquired chastely.

“With you.” She retorted, stalking around him to the door. Before she could reach for the knob Pan took hold of her wrist.

“Listen to me.” He ordered. He didn’t have time for niceties.

“Let go!” Wendy fought, clawing at his hand.

He grabbed her arm, pinned it to her side and forced her back. Her leg came up and caught him on his thigh, narrowly missing his groin. He managed to restrain her swaying arms before pinning her to the door.

“I’m trying to help you!”

“Go to hell!” Wendy screamed as she stopped struggling and dug her nails into his wrists. “You are the last person I need anything from! You should be worried about yourself!”

“I always am.” He hissed, pressing into her shoulder until she stilled.

“Get off me!”

“Five minutes.” He demanded (because Peter Pan did not beg for anything—even when he was reaching a dangerously high level of desperation).

Wendy pushed him back, sending him stumbling into the arm of her chair. She rubbed her hands over her bathrobe and face, feeling shaky.

“Don’t you ever do that again.” She croaked, clutching her robe tightly.

Pan could have apologized. In fact he had the natural decency to want to. Yet there were more pressing matters.

He was in charge. He was feared. And when Wendy made no threat to kick him out again, he jumped in.

“I just got word from Lily,” Pan explained quickly. “Mother Superior’s death may have not been a suicide.”

Wendy blinked, the information sinking into the knot of guilt buried in her chest.

“How do they know?”

“Time stamp doesn’t match up. She died just after you left her and before the paper was printed.”

Wendy felt the guilt that had been resting inside her shrink into a wee flaming dot that may never die out.

“How exactly did she…”

“Die? Croak? Expire? It’s not that hard to say.” Pan snorted, climbing over the arm into the seat, crossing his legs and placing unceremoniously on the coffee table. “Don’t be so damn prudent.”

Wendy stalked over and slapped his legs off her furniture.

“If you want anything, you need to give me straight answers!” Wendy shouted. “What happened to her!”

“Keep it down.” Pan hissed. “Last thing I need is your nosy neighbors waking up and ease dropping. Or god forbid—”

“Pan!”

“The coroner’s labeling it an overdose with suspicion of foul play.”

Wendy gasped. “Suspicion? They don’t know?”

“Tink and some of the nun’s are vouching for her immortal innocence,” Pan said with a roll of his eyes. “With that, all the evidence is pointing to foul play.”

“Foul play from who?” Wendy pondered.

Pan gave her a knowing look, watching as she paled in realization.

“They think it was me.”

Pan snorted, though the humor didn’t quite meet his eyes.

“You were the last person to see her alive.” Pan explained with a humorless shrug.

Wendy paused, Pan’s words slowly singing through as an intense wave of fear and anger washed over her.

Pan sighed and stood. “Look, I know a way out of this…” he paused when Wendy advanced towards him, her stance as limber as a prowling lioness.

“They’re after me even though you caused all of this in the first place!” Wendy yelled, pushing him away. “You took something that could have helped two people and you crushed it to dust!” she hastily wiped her eyes. “Now a woman is dead and the other…” Wendy stepped away, mourning her lost friendship.

Pan growled irritably. Of course she would bring that up.

“I didn’t come here to discuss the theory of cause and effect, I came here to get your assistance.”

“What could you possibly want my help with?”

“Assistance.” He specified with a hiss. “I don’t need help from anyone. Ever.”

“Oh whatever.” Wendy scoffed. “Get on with it.”

“We can find out what happened, who killed her, and stop this from getting any more out of hand.”

“Feeling repentant, Pan.” Wendy sneered.

Pan curled his hands to his side.

“I regret nothing because she got what she deserved.”

“Did Tink?” Wendy snarled. “Did she deserve to have her life obliterated.”

Pan rolled his eyes, turning back to the door so that Wendy couldn’t see the destress in his features.

“She deserved to know the truth, and the truth hurts more often than naught.”

Wendy blinked away tears. They would be lost on the heartless man before her.

She felt like she was caught in a never-ending twister. She just kept circling into nothingness while the world around her was picked up and destroyed right at her feet.

Pan was that storm—uncaring of the damage around him. And for whatever reason, he chose to suck her in the middle of it all.

The young journalist sighed, the silence helping her think, helping her decide what she wanted to do.

She could go with Pan now and follow his lead, solve this thing and work on earning the town—and more importantly Tink’s—respect back.

Or she could turn herself in now until the investigation ended. Her family had a good lawyer in London. It would mean the end of her career in Storybrooke or in general, but it would be a small price to pay for all of this to stop.

She stepped up to Pan, her decision resting on her tongue.

She wondered briefly just how and when he got so cynical, and wondered if she would become the same if she continued to follow him down the dark road.

He turned to face her, his indifferent mask back in place, his eyebrow arched as he awaited her response.

With his eyes on her it was hard just to let him go. She recalled their more gruesome adventures and how—somehow, even when Death had their names carved in stone—they somehow made it out okay.

They somehow—even know with blood soaking unjustified on her hands—had somehow built up a strange sort of respect with one another.

He was the storm, and if he was going to suck her up in it, she was going to find the eye.

“Just what did you have in mind?”

-,-,-,-,-,-,-,-

Dr. Whale considered himself a decent doctor. He dealt with his patients swiftly, turned paperwork in on time, and drank only when things were quiet.

And usually in Storybrooke, it’s devastatingly quiet. Thus, the doctor did a lot of drinking.

However, due to rules and regulations, he had to sneak his flasks in secret.

The very, very, few people who knew of this very illegal and very unorthodox on-the-job activity knew that, should an emergency occurred in the middle of the night, Dr. Whale could be found in the depths of the morgue.

(On the east wing of the hospital, not the west where the old one was now covered in police tape. Once upon a time the former mayor thought it would be more beneficial to build a new one than to repair the one that was already there.)

The doctor was almost done with his nightly flask of scotch when the back door suddenly beeped and unlocked from the outside.

It didn’t make sense. Only he and the morgue assistant (who had gone home hours ago) had the key card.

Well, there was one other person…

“Good, you’re here.” Pan deadpanned as he rushed through the door, someone else just behind him.

“Pan what…” he paused when the person behind Pan removed their hood. He knew she was Wendy Darling, of course. He had treated her in this very hospital enough times to recognize her.

Dr. Whale avoided small-town gossip as much as he could, but he knew good and well the circumstances surrounding this particular instance.

“You two need to turn right around and go home.” He warned them.

“How authoritarian.” Pan mocked.

“Pan.” Wendy whispered as a warning, her eyes darting around nervously in the familiar but much brighter morgue.

Whale considered calling security, but the smell of alcohol on his own breath kept him from grabbing the phone off the wall.

Pan waived Wendy off, making a beeline to the filing cabinet where Mother Superior’s autopsy would be.

“Get away from there, Pan!” Whale yelled.

“Why?” Pan mused as he opened the cabinet and began searching its contents. “I do this all the time.”

“Things are different right now!” Whale fought, coming up behind Pan and slamming the cabinet shut. “There’s a murder investigation going on and she,” he pointed at Wendy. “Is the main suspect as of three hours ago.”

“She didn’t do it, and you idiots know that.” Pan fought, trying to pull the cabinet open.

Whale slapped his hand away, and Pan sized him up when he stepped too close.

Wendy stepped behind them, fearful about the exchange that was unfolding before her.

“Acting frisky tonight Vic,” Pan smirked. “Drinking on the job?”

“I feel like keeping my job.” Whale growled. “I’ve put up with you for a long time. Broken the law, hid your dirty little secrets, all just to keep you out of my hair—"

“And you can keep me in it just a little bit more.” Pan growled, snatching the handle of the cabinet from Whale’s grip.

“For christ’s sake Pan!” Whale hollered as he rumpled through files.

The disturbed doctor glanced at Wendy who did her best to look inconspicuous. She could see the inside of a jail cell now—and more terrifyingly she could see Pan beside her in the vision.

She looked around the clean morgue, her stomach turning when she saw her own distorted face looking back at her.

Cruella. Jekyll. Mother Superior.

She looked away, willing away the fierce snarls of her former foes. She looked up to see her a worn, sunken face staring at her in the equally reflective morgue drawers. It numbed her to the core when she quickly recognized it as her.

A loud crack broke Wendy from her musing and nearly from her skeleton. She shot around, expecting to see Graham or some other conundrum awaiting. Instead she found Pan holding a slightly dented tool tray and an unconscious Dr. Whale moaning weakly at his feet.

“Don’t know why I didn’t do that as soon as I walked in.” Pan muttered as he threw the tray aside.

Wendy could have easily exploded at what he had just done, could have chastised him and have him shoot her down as he usually did.

But things were different now. He didn’t quite faze her anymore.

“Is he alright?” she asked instead.

“He will be.” Pan smirked, pulling the doctor out of the way so that he could better access the filing cabinet. “If we’re lucky, he’ll count the lump on his head and our visit as a bad hangover.”

“I doubt it.” Wendy muttered, stepping to Pan’s side after sparing the doctor a concerned glance.

Pan found Mother Superior’s file quickly and with a swift turn he had it spread out on the autopsy table.

“Alright, timeline time.” Pan announced as he spread out the papers.

“What time does the autopsy say she died?” Wendy questioned as she reached for the toxicology report.

“Looks like it was between 10 p.m. and 4 a.m..” Pan mused.

“We were there around 11,” Wendy added, the wheels in her mind slowly beginning to turn. “Cause of death?”

“Overdose,” Pan confirmed, licking his lips. “Vitacin.”

Wendy threw her hands in the air. “That’s fine! It was probably an accident or even—”

“It wasn’t suicide.” Pan declared, pushing the autopsy report to Wendy. “Tink gave an air-tight testimony.”

Wendy read over the hand-written statement and her heart sank to the pit of her stomach.

It is my opinion as one of Mother Superior’s life-long charges that she did not commit suicide. Accidental dosage or foul play are possible contributes to her death in my opinion.

-Tink La’Bell

The handwriting before her was sloppy, hardly the well-balanced penmanship Wendy had come to expect by the devil-may-care Tink.

She had been in great pain when she wrote this, her hand probably shaking from the grief of it all.

It was also the word choice that made Wendy’s mind begin to go into overdrive. Accidental dosage. Or foul play. The grieving woman was looking for someone to blame, yet she wasn’t willing to point fingers. She could have easily written, “Wendy Darling did it kill her arse!”

But she hadn’t, and Wendy wasn’t sure to feel grateful or terrified.

Pan watched the emotions swirl on Wendy’s face. Disbelief, inquiry, and hurt, all mixed together.

They didn’t have time to deal with her heartbreak.

He didn’t have time to deal with it.

“Graham’s still going over the crime scene, trying to find evidence that someone else was there.” Pan explained, snatching the file from her to bring her back. “Did you see anyone else?”

Wendy glared at him, not appreciating his hastiness. “No, just me.”

“What about the first time?” he pressed. “Did you see anyone in her office?”

“No,” Wendy sighed. “It was just her, there was no one…”

Pan watched her when she suddenly paused.

“What is it? What!”

Wendy recalled the nun who escorted her in. The lean, mousy young woman who looked at her with pity as she entered Mother Superior’s office.

The harder she tried to remember her, the blurrier she became.

“There was…but that couldn’t…that was nothing.”

“Who?” Pan questioned.

“The nun that led me to her office.” Wendy answered. “I cut to the chase as soon as the door closed. Maybe she heard something and…”

Pan smirked. He knew nuns were bored enough during the mundane lives that they would eavesdrop on anything. Whatever she heard Mother Superior and Wendy talk about would be perfect blackmail material.

They may have just found their murderer.

“What did she look like?”

“Like…a nun.” Wendy shrugged. She hadn’t exactly had time to shake hands and get to know everyone in town.

Pan rolled his eyes. “Hell Wendy, hair coloring, freckles, what!”

“Burnett, about my height, maybe a little bit older than Tink.”

Pan blinked as a certain, very distinct nun came to his mind.

Wendy noticed the change in his demeanor, noticed the very rare glimmer of concern in his eyes. This person meant something to Pan, truly meant something to him.

“I saw her leave when I went back to the convent.” Wendy added. “I don’t think it was her, but she’s the only other person I saw. It’s probably nothing—”

“It’s never nothing. It’s always something.”

“Pan, we could have the police coming this way right now, we don’t have time for riddles!”

“Just…shut up and follow me!” he demanded, grabbing her arm.

Wendy faulted his dragging and turned back to the unconscious doctor. “What about him?”

“He’s taken worse falls let’s go!”

Wendy dug her feet into the ground, taking hold of his arm to keep him in place. His heated glare was softened only by her wide-eyed desperation.

“Pan, tell me.”

Pan stared down at her hand, nails clenched deep into the green material of his jacket, holding him in place and demanding he stay. He smothered a smirk, her dominance stilling the adrenaline coursing through his brain.

“Who is she?” Wendy demanded smoothly.

Pan let the answer balance on the tip of his tongue. If he told her, he would just be revealing another heap of filth to her, let her become just a bit more corrupted.

How long, he wondered, until she was as filthy as him?

Would telling her keep her close to him or push him further away?

“Her name is Astrid,” he revealed with a careless shrug, though his heart was about to break through his ribcage. “She’s a few years older than Tink and just as abused.”

“And?” Wendy pressed expectedly. Pan’s stories never ended so jaggedly.

“And I…showed her once that she didn’t have to take it,” Pan nodded, ever a vigilantly in his own mind. “If we’re lucky, that advice would be enough to end all of this.”

Wendy shot back, leaving Pan just a bit less grounded without her angry restraint.

“Lucky!” she exclaimed. “Pan, a woman is dead and if your theory is right, another is a murderer!”

“You’re off the hook—”

“I don’t care!” Wendy screamed so loud the metal drawers shook. “I don’t want anyone to take the fall for me! To have their life ruined! I just want…”

“What Wendy?” Pan sneered. “What could you possibly want?”

“For it to be over! For it to never have happened! For you not to be a complete bastard for once!”

Pan burst into laughter.

“Well guess what, darling,” he gasped. “It’s not over. It happened. And…well, I am who I am.”

He leaned forward until the tip of their noses just barely touched.

“Get used to it.”

Wendy stormed out of the morgue without a response, just the light cry echoing in the empty room.

Pan’s smirk faded as soon as she was gone. His mind was buzzing too much for him to feel guilt, or desire, or other crappy thoughts that would allow him to slow down and just talk to her like he knew—deep down—he should have.

Now, he had to get to Astrid. Had to find out the truth of Mother Superior’s death before it was too late.

After all, he couldn’t afford to lose anyone else.

He securely tucked Mother Superior’s autopsy report back into the filing cabinet, sparing a frown at Whale’s unconscious form, and stepped out of the morgue.

“Wendy,” he spoke, ignoring the way her shoulders tensed when he did. “We have to go.”

I’m sorry.

[littleredroseonthevalley]

St. Augustine

Or, The Realization of Truth

Summary: After Mr Sinclaire storms off his own party, Lady Susan comes to find him at the yard.

Rating: T -  Suitable for teens, 13 years and older, with some violence, minor coarse language, and minor suggestive adult themes.

Words: 1474

Notes: I reiterate I am not a sociopath who can only take pleasure on sex and the suffering of my fellow men. To prove it, have some fluffy fluff.

“Why, then, does truth generate hatred, and why does thy servant who preaches the truth come to be an enemy to them who also love the happy life, which is nothing else than joy in the truth—unless it be that truth is loved in such a way that those who love something else besides her wish that to be the truth which they do love. Since they are unwilling to be deceived, they are unwilling to be convinced that they have been deceived. Therefore, they hate the truth for the sake of whatever it is that they love in place of the truth. They love truth when she shines on them; and hate her when she rebukes them.”

~ Confessions, Book 10, Chapter 23

Ernest felt like screaming, shouting until his voice was hoarse, but he contained himself on the grounds he had humiliated himself enough tonight. No need to feed the likes of Theresa Sutton with more babble to spread through the city.

God knows she had enough already.

He breathed heavily and tried to loosen his tie, in hopes that it would help the flow of air through his throat.

If the simple fact of upholding this travesty of a party while he would rather be doing just about literally anything else, including touring an apiary farm covered head to toe in honey, was not irritating enough, that… that… thing who the Fates had the sick pleasure of making a Duke had the damned idea to crash it.

What was the sick obsession of that man with him? It was going on years, even before the death of his wife, the Duke’s tendency to trail behind him, like a demon who could not be exorcised. The man leaving him alone might not make Ernest hate Tristan any less, but it would make the exercise less taxactive.

Perhaps if he had not came without an invitation, the esquire might have contained his temper, he might have thrown a respectable, composed, adjusted act for the night. Yes, the coup de grace had been a courtesy of Miss Sutton, whom, be stated, he also had no intention of inviting, but the Duke chirped at his patience enough before.

Though, to be fair, he had placed great expectations on tonight. He set himself for disappointment. He had hoped he could prove, to his peers, to himself, to her, that he was capable of doing this, being a standing member of polite society, to live up to the training he received as a boy.

He wanted to reinforce that first image Lady Susan had of him when they first met, on the road to Grover. Of the staunch nobleman to her county peasant. Out of spite, yes, all their encounters were in some way humiliating to him, but also because, in his head, this was the kind of man she desired and respected.

Now, would be better, he considers, to be taken as a bumbling, wimp of a man or as someone who threw tantrums and conniptions left and right? Those seemed to be his options at the moment, perhaps he ought to cut his losses and invest in one of those personas.

The season had already started, and people would soon notice Lady Susan. Not only a dashing, young, ludicrously wealthy heiress, she was also highly intelligent, sharp and the very envy of Helen of Troy. She was a wild bird, he could not cage her, he did not want it, but he could convince her to stay of free will.

He could, too, curtail at all chances her contacts with possible competitors. Ernest had to hand it to himself. Sitting her between Mr Marlcaster and Mr Chambers was resourceful of him. Marlcaster was an engaged idiot, and while the esquire held appreciation for Mr Chambers, he was hardly blind to where his preferences laid.

Hence the also very convenient invitation to Mr Konevi, the Sephardi gentleman who seemed to be quite taken with Chambers.

He could not help but think it was going all so well until he lost his nerve and fled to the gardens. God, he was pathetic.

If it was not enough, he also left Lady Susan alone with the leering Duke.

That thought brought him another wave of anxiety. Lady Susan was inside his house, surrounded by a horde of useless ninnies and a rapist disguised as a peer of the realm.

He jumps to his feet and turns to race inside once again, but as he looks towards the house once more, there stood the very same woman he intended to protect, her eyes shining from the lights of his porch.

“I never understood why we hold the social season so late in the spring. I would much rather to face the heat at the fields, where it is windy, or to wash my feet on the river, than in the stuffiness of London.” Susan says, leisurely fanning herself. “That is to say, I know in the times of old, the landowners were needed at their estates during sowing and harvest, but the idea the likes of the Duke of Karlington to labour in any way makes me laugh.”

Ernest looks deep into her eyes and tries not to disclose the dejection he felt on the corners of his heart in saying, “Is your party not to your satisfaction, Lady Susan?”

“On the contrary, Mr Sinclaire, send my regards to your cook. I am yet to find such a tasteful roasted meat.” She closes her fan and walks over to the shade of the tree, where he currently stood. “Perhaps it was the herbs. You would not know what they use, would you?”

“I do not take much attention to those details, Lady Susan, I apologize.” The esquire punctuates his apology with a nod.

She hummed, unaffected. “Of course, I did not think you would. Foolish of me to ask. Tell me, Mr Sinclaire, what do you like to eat?”

The blond man scoffed. “From our earlier exchanges, Lady Susan, I was led to believe you detested to ‘beat around the bush’, so to speak.”

Susan smiles, amused. “Indeed, I do not favour this kind of behaviour, but I am nothing if not adaptable. I did not think you would appreciate if I came running and fretted over your hysteria.”

He frowned. “I do not have hysteria, Lady Susan.”

She chuckled, sitting on a bench he had installed years prior for reading on days of intense heat. “What would you call it then? Or would you rather me believe your urgent errands consist on circling around a tree and mumble to yourself?”

The brunette tapped the seat next to her, inviting him to join her. He complies with her request, but the slight pout does not subdue.

“You see, Mr Sinclaire, only because I have been taking under my responsibility your regular releases for the past few months, does not mean I cannot be of help in other areas of your life.” She places her hands on his, and he cannot contain a shy smile to spread on his face.

“I am a very capable and, dare I say, forward woman.” The brunette continues. “I understand your wife’s death might be a delicate subject for you, especially if Miss Sutton’s word is to be taken at face value, and I also understand the Duke’s presence is particularly unpleasant for you. I will not press you into details.

“Know that, however, I am here if and when you want to talk about it. I said it before and I will say it again, I do care for your well-being, and it stands regardless of both of our desires to wed at the season’s closing.”

She caresses the sides of his face. “Much as I appreciate your callings for our… nightly activities, I would not mind to heed your way for other business.”

Ernest smiles widely at her, his eyes glinting. “I am so very sorry, Lady Susan. I am a fool.”

She chuckles. “What for, Mr Sinclaire?”

“I once thought you were beneath me, I though you to be some bold coquette who was trying to bite more she could chew.” He breaks eye contact, ashamed of himself. “The truth is you are an extraordinaire woman. I came here to brood like a petulant child, and you had the grace to come and get me, to console me, and to offer more consideration I can possibly make myself worth.”

Lady Susan smiled at the man, and boldly kisses his cheek. “It serves you not to doubt me again. Shall we return to the party?”

Ernest stood tall and offered the woman his hand. “It would be my greatest pleasure, milady.”

Susan took his hand and they walked into the house. For the remainder of the night, her hand did not leave his own, and a smile was never seen away from his features.

Taglist: @catlady0911; @choicesyouplayandmore; @cocomaxley; @llholloway; @mrsernestsinclaire; @shelivesinthewoods; @tornbetween2loves

[toasttz]

How to make games: MMORPGs

Hey, you! Does your current job not fill enough of your life with soul-crushing misery? Have you ever stopped to consider 'man, I wish I could get into a line of work that involved me wasting more time away from home and friends but I would have to pay infinity dollars for the experience'? I have to say that's a very particular set of tastes, but I play Mei in Overwatch too, so I understand having a weird sadist/masochist relationship with our gaming experiences. I'd also say that it sounds like you're in the market for an MMORPG, which is good because that's what we'll be talking about today! Making an MMORPG is easy, since it requires literally less effort than the last two genres we've covered: no one actually expects you to innovate past the good-old WoW standard of gameplay. So steal the most generic Tolkien stereotypes you can bring together, but leave out all that "Jesus" and "patriotism" stuff that accompanied Tolkien's work, because our primary market is going to be east-Asian countries and 13 year olds with money burning holes in their pockets. Making a character creator is as easy as going through the process of making one yourself, as you start with the obvious stuff like species. Species should include, but never exceed: Humans who are neither good nor bad at anything (but called some kind of stupid fantasy name), Elves for sissy magic users, Dwarves for your tanks, some kind of dragon hybrid for the fucking furry degenerates, and the obligatory Sexy Race which you'll slap all over your ads that show up on the sides and bottoms of webpages when viewed by morons who don't know what AdBlock is for. If the above doesn't address it, you should also pick a class, so just steal them from early D&D: Fighter, Mage, Cleric, Thief, etc. No more than that - gotta save room for those sweet, sweet expansion packs so you can fleece your players for "Monthly Server Maintenance Fees" in addition to the price of the game. Never mind that 'sever maintenance' is just ripping out old HDDs and putting in new ones and that HDDs are dirt-fucking cheap, you need to fleece these fuckers for gold like your name was Jason. (That's a smart joke.) Your art style should revolve around the most generic mono-themes you can steal assets for, preferably in the Unity engine since that won't make it look like unabashed shit or anything. For music, just hit royalty free music websites, because everyone's just gonna put Youtube in the background when they play anyways, so fuck it. We got money to earn and gameplay to digest, so let's get what your players can expect. Remember, making each class distinct is important as all members of a given party operate like different members of a family unit. For instance: DPS Roles are the family dog. They get excited easily and rush into situations without regard for life or limb, usually making way more noise than they have earned any right to make. They think they're the leader of the party since they insist on being front and center of every encounter even though they are not. Tank Roles are the Asian helicopter moms. They feel the need to live vicariously through their DPS compatriots because the damage they dish out is, frankly, paltry and any time the situation isn't about them - they make it about them somehow. They believe they are the leaders of the party, though they obviously rarely have control over the most immediate threats, let alone the entire party of sociopaths. Support Roles are the stern fathers. They can't immediately intervene on the behalves of the above roles no matter how much they want to, so they stand back and grant all the help they can muster and, at best, will be largely ignored despite the fact that their movements will dictate the pace, flow, and results of combat above all others. They will only be recognized for what they do when they fail in their tasks, which makes this metaphor hit a bit too close to home for most. Just remember: Supports who aren't active in their party are every Raid Boss's future wingman. Don't come crying to me when your DPS Daughteru comes home dating one of those degenerate dragon-people! Anyways, the pacing of the game is paramount, since making an "end" of an MMORPG is essentially illegal, so you need to make it so it's easy to get to somewhere between levels 30-50 before you just start scaling things on a logarithmic basis. For those who don't math good like what I do: your first three level ups should happen more or less instantly upon completion of the tutorial and the players should be able to make good progress over the next few dozen levels as they play with their friends and make larger parties for stronger instances. However, you're not gonna be wringing any monthly server fees out of these plebs if you make it that easy on them, so around level 40-ish or so, just start slapping higher multiplier values on the Exp. required to level up to the point where solar eclipses happen with greater regularity than the "LEVEL UP" chime. By the time players hit this wall, they'll make one of three choices: that they will persist through the grind because the game is literally all they do outside of work now, they will ragequit (and hopefully forget to cancel their credit card subscription to the game with some luck!), or they'll resort to the premium cash shop. What, you didn't know your MMO needed a premium cash shop? Well it does, wake up and smell the lack of ethics, game dev! For some paltry sum between 1 and infinity bucks, your players can buy some kind of in-game premium currency, as mentioned in my gacha explanation. In fact the comparisons here are apt as this, too, is morally dubious and really is for trying to wrench even more money out of your players for something that they can rest more or less assured that you aren't gonna update meaningfully until Halley's Comet passes through the solar system again. However, for some amount of this premium currency, they should be allowed super powerful weapons and armors that completely invalidate any sense of pacing up until the low 70s level range. This will help them play further into the mindless grind until they are playing at least for a few months (worth of fees) time. Once hopelessly addicted, they'll slog through the remaining 30 levels or so of grind, ideally. All other premium currency items should be cosmetics - preferably cosmetics with expiration dates so you can fleece them for their fashionista tendencies repeatedly. If you have any pangs that make you think this might be "not exactly on-the-level", hey, you're right! You're really getting the hang of modern game design! After that, it's time make expansion packs! The beauty of this is that not only have they paid for the base game and monthly fees, but now they get to buy the game ALL OVER AGAIN! Slap on a few extra islands and some quests to populate them and sometimes raise the level cap. The design is the easy part. The name is where you will likely struggle. However, using our advanced scientific algorithms, we have deduced that the ideal title should follow the template: "Adjective Noun Adjective" plus or minus a definitive article and a couple of "Of"s. Do you not know what those are? That probably means you're at the right IQ level to actively make MMOs! Or to play them! Oh yeah, every second expansion pack you should add an additional class - preferably one that invalidates the classes of an earlier build, so as to subtly 'encourage' making a new character. But the prereqs for getting these should be difficult to the point of patent absurdity. After all, you can't class change to a "Bumtickler" until you get that level 85 Pirate! Congrats! You're a soulless monster who cares naught for their fellow man. You are now a living example of gaining the world and losing your soul. I hope the Faustian bargain was worth it. You're welcome.

[teenguyen92]

Why Friends With Benefits Are the Best Relationships

Just a nice article to read. It seems true to me though.

In a few days, I’m going to Cuba on vacation with a guy I’ve been sleeping with for eight years, but whom I've never once called my boyfriend. We live on different continents, but inevitably, a few times a year, we find each other somewhere in the world, have a few days of romance, and then go our separate ways. This arrangement would generally be called a friend with benefits, or a fuck buddy, or a romantic friendship, or perhaps even a relationship—with “no strings attached.” But let’s be real: There are always strings, aren’t there?

It was while planning this vacation that it hit me: The two longest relationships of my life have both been with men who I was never officially dating. Boyfriends and girlfriends have come and gone, but my friends with benefits have stood the test of time. I mean, eight years. That’s longer than I predict my first marriage will last. And while I can’t imagine being with my Cuba date “for real”—I mean, he’s a low-key homeless anarchist who once took me on date to his Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous meeting; there are red flags—I still value our relationship immensely. And he actually knows me better than a lot of my partners ever did. So what is it about the friends with benefits dynamic that is more sustainable, and often more transparent, than an actual relationship?

People are skeptical of fuck buddies. They’re like: How can you have sex with the same person, again and again, without falling in love? Or at least, without getting super-jealous and Fatal Attraction–esque? Some assume that one of the “buddies” is always being strung along, secretly hoping that the fucking leads to something more serious. Others dismiss fuck-buddy dynamics as just being compulsive sex that’s devoid of emotion. But why do things have to be so black and white? Surely it’s possible to find a middle ground between eternal love and zombie-fucking a stranger: a place where you can care about someone, have good sex, and yet not want to literally implode at the thought of them sleeping with someone else. Right?Case in point: The most significant romantic friendship of my life was with an ex-editor of mine, whom I’ll call Malcolm. We started “a thing” five years ago and have yet to end it. When I met him, he was 45 and charmingly grumpy, and he would always tell me: “Sex is so perfect. Why destroy it with a relationship?” I’d go over to his apartment for a couple hours in the afternoons, we’d have sex (soberly, which meant I could actually cum), and then afterward we’d drink tea and complain about stuff. It was the best.

There were times when we saw each other frequently, and other times when things dropped off for a while, usually because one of us had a partner. And sure, when he would get a girlfriend I would be a little bummed out—I’m (unfortunately) not a sociopath—but it didn’t cause me to spiral into an emotional cyclone the way I would have if I’d been cheated on by a boyfriend. After all, disappointment comes from expectation.Over time, Malcolm and I became really close. It felt like we had entered this secretive bubble of transparency—we were emotionally intimate, yet free of the burden of jealousy and ownership. We could spill our guts to each other because we didn’t have anything to lose. I told Malcolm about my previous relationships, my fantasies, my heartbreak. Once, he told me this long, complicated story about an affair he had with his cousin, adding, “That’s not something I tell most people.” Probably wise on his part, but I loved that story, as problematic as it may be, because I loved knowing something about him that no one else did. Sometimes it feels like we are more honest with our friends with benefits than we are with our partners.This paradox always makes me think of that Mad Men episode when Betty seduced Don at their kid’s summer camp, well after they had both remarried. Afterward, when they’re lying in bed together, Betty says of Don’s new wife, “That poor girl. She doesn’t know that loving you is the worst way to get to you.” Harsh. But sometimes, romantic friendships can offer a type of intimacy that committed relationships can’t.I was curious to know if Malcolm felt the same way I did about all of this, so last week (for strictly journalistic purposes), I paid him a visit. “Having a friend with benefits is great because it’s just—it’s just less annoying,” he said, smoking a cigar and dressed in an inexplicable beige silk onesie. “It’s more of a low-intensity intimacy. It’s not encumbered by obligations, which just lead to resentment.”He then gave me that look—the one that means he’s about to admit to something despicable and blame it on humanity. “We are all selfish—we all live in this Ayn Rand–ish self-centered world, whether we like it or not,” he said. “When you’re in a friends with benefits situation, you don’t have go to the other person’s awful friend’s birthday party. But if you behave like that within a conventional relationship, it causes problems.

“With [FWB] there’s no illusion about the carnal aspect,” he went on, “so you can be really literal about it: You are two people who like and respect each other—and you like to fuck. There’s beauty and freedom in that honestly. And you can be playful. You can have your sex-power persona, or you can play the super-misogynist pig, or the bimbo, and it’s okay, because you’re not being judged. But if you change that dynamic into being a real relationship, then those games might not seem so sexy anymore.”In other words, your fuck buddy gets all the good stuff about being in a relationship—the wild sex, the cuddles, the juicy dark secrets—minus all of the boring, would-rather-die activities that go hand in hand with commitment, like having to help assemble your boyfriend’s IKEA bed, or having to watch your girlfriend stab at the ingrown hairs on her bikini line while she watches the Kardashians. (That’s me—I’m the girlfriend who does that.)Essentially, you’re taking a relationship and removing the creepy ownership of another human being, which leaves more room for hedonism and sexual exploration. Like, who do you want to bring to the sex party—your boyfriend or your fuck buddy? It’s a no-brainer. I’ve done so many things with fuck buddies that I never would have tried with partners, because I was too much of a jealous monster. (Like once I let Malcolm tie me to a dresser while I watched him have sex with my best friend. Unsurprisingly, it was literally awful, but now at least I can say I’ve done it?)One of the most masterful fuck friends I know is my friend Casey, a 26-year-old Ph.D. candidate in English, who until recently had a FWB for 12 years. It started when she was 13, with a boy whose family spent every summer in the same beach town as she did. (Cute alert.)Over martinis at Cafe Mogador, Casey told me, “When I’m dating someone, my immediate impulse is to be like, ‘Let’s lock shit down! My anxiety will decrease if I know you want to marry me in six years from now!’ Which is crazy and not hot or sustainable. But my longer romantic friendships have been a safe space. They’ve helped me figure out how to relate to someone romantically without the immediate trigger of, Where is this going?” In other words, having a fuck buddy is a great exercise in non-possessiveness.

“The thought of my boyfriend fucking someone else makes me want to wear his skin like a goddamned wetsuit,” she said, eyes bulging. “But with my fuck buddies it’s been like, ‘Oh, my God, tell me more.’ There’s almost a level of titillation to sex stories when it’s somebody who’s not your boyfriend. But why is that? I wish I knew, so I could bottle it and never be possessive ever again.”For all the benefits of fuck friendery, it’s still possible for this dynamic to screw with your emotions. “At different points in our relationship,” Casey recalled, “it was hard to respect the line between friendship and flirting when he started dating someone, because I’d known him more intimately than his new partner. It’s like my morals were thrown out the window, and I felt this gross egotistical sense that I should come first, because I’ve been around longer, like, ‘Girlfriends come and go, but I’m forever.’” Sometimes it’s hard to accept that these dynamics usually have an expiration date, which tends to be when one person gets into a committed relationship. And, unfortunately, not only do you lose the benefits, but you sometimes lose the friend, too.We are taught that all relationships that don’t end up in marriage are failures (because, ya know, hetero-normativity and patriarchal narratives or whatever). But subscribing to that belief ignores the fact that romantic friendships can be extremely fulfilling, enlightening, and straight-up fun. Of course, I’m not dismissing the benefits of committed, long-term, loving relationships. But both dynamics are valuable in their own right. And perhaps the reason romantic friendships are often so sustainable is they lack the soul-baring vulnerability and intense emotional investment.Maybe the coolest thing about the fuck-buddy economy is that it allows women to actually enjoy sex in a casual way, without having to enter an old-fashioned ownership contract. It celebrates female sexual autonomy. It’s a chance to explore ourselves and other people. And in the interim, we can discover who we are and what we like, instead of committing to a pseudo-marriage we aren’t ready for.

[recentanimenews]

The Promised Neverland – 13 (S2 01) – Freedom! Horrible, Horrible Freedom!

When the first season of The Promised Neverland wrapped at the end of March 2019, none of us could have imagined what life would be like a year from then: a pandemic unprecedented in modern times spreading death, chaos, and uncertainty across the globe. Now it’s January 2021, and things are looking up in the U.S., a nation that has handled the pandemic the worst proportional to its size and wealth.

A new president will be inaugurated in just two weeks, joined by the first woman vice president. Just today we learned he may have a cooperative Senate on his side. Vaccines to tackle the virus have arrived. Now that the second season of Neverland has arrived and picked up right where it left off, I can’t help but relate to Emma, Ray, and the other kids who escaped the farm.

Like them, we are getting the first taste of freedom in what feels like far more than four years. Also like them, it is far too early to celebrate or rest easy. Yes, elections were won by reasonable, non-sociopathic, non-authoritarian people, and the vaccines are being shipped. But the winners must still implement policies to heal the nation, and the vaccines must still be distributed while maintaining the necessary safety guidelines that have caused so much economic harm.

As for the escaped kids, they are free, and freedom is sweet, but also terrifying. The Grace Field House sheltered, clothed, and fed the kids, but now all their survival needs are up to them, and the threat of being caught or killed by forest monsters is constant. And of the fifteen or so kids, only four (Emma, Ray, Gilda, and Don) are old enough to keep the group organized, and even these four are mere tweens. They’ve had to grow up in a hurry.

Fortunately, the kids have an ally out there somewhere in William Minerva, whose smart pen serves as a map and guide for those who have his books to decipher the code. That code points them to a particular spot on the map; they just need to get there and they’ll (presumably) be safe, though I won’t rule out the possibility Minerva could be dead or this could all be another cruel trap.

But potential threats on the horizon are of far less concern than those more immediate, starting with the giant monster that chases them in the cold open. The forest is very Nausicaä-esque with its giant trees, whimsical plants and creatures, but the kids have inserted themselves into a food chain that would be glad to avail themselves of easy prey.

It’s a good thing the kids practiced “playing tag” so much, because those organizational skills prove crucial to their survival. The group branches off twice, first with Gilda and the slower kids, then with Emma and the rest. Ray volunteers to lure the monster into a vine trap they find on the forest floor. But before he can implement his plan, the monster is beheaded by a sword-wielding demon pursuer, aided by bloodhound-like demons seekers who detect Ray’s scent.

If Neverland stretched credulity a bit by having all the kids run fast enough to elude the beast, and only one little kid stumbles (and happens to do so right beside Emma), it restores that credulity by not forgetting about the fact that Emma is missing an ear, and a wound like that can and does open up if you run around too much.

The blood loss becomes too much and Emma faints at the worst possible moment, but they are met by an unlikely ally—a mysterious cloaked figure—at the best possible moment. Meanwhile, Ray runs as fast as he can as far as he can, but ultimately collapses from exhaustion, at the complete mercy of the demons bent on returning the product to the farm.

Thankfully, their task is made harder by the fact that killing or harming such prime stock would defeat the purpose of catching it. A second mysterious cloaked figure on demon-horseback exploits this by snatching up Ray and riding off, leaving smoke bombs in his wake that confound the seekers.

Ray wakes up in a serene cave, safe and sound, and more importantly not tied up or otherwise restrained. He explores the caves and finds Emma also safe and sound, her ear wound re-dressed. They are approached by the female cloaked figure, who has apparently never heard of Minerva. She leads them to the other kids, who are about to be fed.

Then Ray notices the figure isn’t human, but a demon, based on her clawed bare feet. The second figure, the one who saved Ray on horseback, also appears. Emma and Ray have every right to be suspicious considering recent events (along with their upbringing, obviously). Do these two represent a faction of “good demons” opposed to the ones running the human farms?

Maybe. Then again, this sounds too good to be true. It could be these demons simply have different plans for the kids. For now, I’ll hope that’s not the case, and the fact the kids can roam free after waking up is a sign they don’t have to fear their rescuers, and could even regard them as allies in their ongoing struggle for freedom.

I just hope that we, as well as Emma, Ray, and the kids, don’t end up like the poor space ants who provided the title for this review:

By: magicalchurlsukui

[rosepetals-flyingbirds]

Tortured Souls. (13)

With: Bucky Barnes x Reader.

<<

Note: Conclusively some action, uh? I’m so glad it finally happened, I don’t like long fics and I know it took like 12.

(Gifs go to their rightful owners.)

Warnings: Pain, injuries, agnst, sadness. 

Word Count: 5,197

You felt a headache and opened your eyes adjusting to the bright place, after Artem’s men dragged you inside the ‘panic room’ you heard some explosion and then a hit in the back of your head making you faint.

You adjusted your eyes and you were sat on an iron chair with your wrists and ankles tied to it, you tried to move but it was really tight.

You thought about the knife in your boot but you couldn’t reach it. 

The door opened and you saw ‘you’ entering the room, you looked at the person open and down and you felt rage crippling over your body. “Do you want an invitation to show who you really are?” You shouted and she smiled. She held the y/h/c wig and throw it over the floor, she took the nylon wig cap and her blond hair fall over her shoulder.

She touched her ear and pushed the small transparent pellicle and you widened your eyes at the absurdity.

“Sharon?!”

She smiled and nodded her head, she took the coat she was wearing and throw on the floor as well, you saw two guns on her belt, your gun. “Wow! I wasn’t expecting that.”

“I know what you were expecting.” She said and you saw how proud she was of the situation. “Besides I know you too well.” 

“You don’t know me.” You said annoyed.

“Oh, I do! Y/N Y/L/N.” You widened your eyes at her at the mention, no one knew that awful name, Stark has been your last one since 2008 and to all the aspects it was the only one. “Daughter of two drugheads. Daddy sold you and got a really low money. You were trafficked by Ramon Jones an American human trafficker that surprisedly died a few years ago. You were raped by the famous Raza the biggest terrorist in Afghanistan. Am I missing something?” She said with a smile on her face.

“What is this all about Sharon? Is this about Steve? About money?” She smiled dragging a chair and sitting on it in front of you.

“I do like him, who wouldn’t he is the best man. But every time I try something he is busy with his dearest friend Y/N.” You scoffed. “But no, isn’t just about Steve. Have you any idea how it’s being related to a most famous women in history? How it’s to accomplish big things but always being told your auntie made better?” She said and you rolled your eyes, definitely the worst dramatic movie ever.

You let an exaggerated sigh. “You know who is my father right?”

She laughed in ridicule. “Tony is smart I can give you that but he isn’t a hero.” You scoffed, what a bitch.

“I will ignore your ignorance towards Tony and I will ask: Are you working with the most stupid organization because you suffer from some diva moment that wants attention?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Have you any idea how powerful Hydra is? How much money they have. I worked for SHIELD for years and for CIA too, but Hydra has always been there. The Avengers work to get them and what? They still there, we will always be there.” 

You laughed at the mention of we.

“Wow, this is the worst episode of a soap opera! Look, Sharon, you don’t have to do this. You’re smart and pretty, you can find someone and you can work on the good side of the coin.”

“Fury didn’t even appreciate my worth, he threw me in Berlin to work with Everett and what? Am I not good enough to be his right arm on operations?“ Maria, which made sense since she tried to incriminate her.

Rolling your eyes you scoffed. “Stop with the drama, you diva. Your job in Berlin is great and people would kill to have the same position.” Being basically the supervisor of CIA was truly a high collocation.

“Yeah, what about the Avengers? Natasha joined, why can’t I? Besides you is only there because of the last name Tony gave you.” You smirked at her audacity.

“Listen, if you did all of this to become an Avenger you could make an application, I’m sure you’re capable of a chance.”

“Yes I am!” She shouted and pointed her finger at her chest. “I did all of this, me!” She threw her arms mentioning the place/situation.

“Yeah, congratulations. This isn’t an overact case at all.” She punched your face and you felt your face aching.

“I don’t think you are in the position to make jokes.”

“Do me a favor, when all of this ends, because it will end.” You spat the blood on the floor. “Remeber me to kill you myself.”

She gave you a sullen glare. “I know you and Steve don’t have anything, I mean he isn’t the super soldier you are dealing with. Matter fact he is here isn’t he?” You looked at her doubtfully, how did she know about you and Bucky? She doesn’t, she can’t. “Sergeant Barnes, the famous Winter Soldier. I actually helped Steve and Sam to save him years back in Berlin. But what that gave me? A lame kiss with Steve and just that, not even a call afterward.” You rolled your eyes. “Is hard, isn’t it? Your loved one had been tortured by an organization who wants to torture you too.”

You would reply but the metal door opened with Bucky and a man on his side holding a gun to his head. Bucky had some cuts on his face, his clothing was a bit burned, some grey hue on his skin like ashes had fallen on his skin and his knuckles were red. You were terrified for his life, but the same time you felt relieved to see him.

The man on his side wasn’t taking the normal wariness mode, Bucky surely handed himself over to that man. The moment Bucky saw you he punched the man head in the door and walked to grab Sharon, she cocked a gun and directed it at your head, the cold barrel touching your forehead.

“We were just talking about you.” She smiled and moved the gun so it was pointed to him, Bucky raised his hands and walked closer to her, he caught the gun in a quick movement making it shoot but he quickly turned the barrel to the ceiling, he threw the gun away and punched her, he raised his other hand to do the same when someone beat a big weapon on his head.

Sharon laughed and rubbed her red skin. You looked at Bucky in the floor, unconsciously. “Would he die for you? Or be killed for you? I wonder about that, he is pretty good looking I give you that, how is the sex? Is he too old-fashioned and just like one position? Is his vibranium metal arm a kink?” She said and you wanted to slap her face, your intimate life didn’t matter to her, besides how the hell she knows about your relationship? “Do you think he could have a relationship with another woman? I mean with the triggers and all…”

“Enough, Sharon.” The man said and you looked at him closely, Artem. “Go outside, I want to talk with her alone.”

“What? Will you free her because she is pretty?“ She said mad.

“I said get out!“ Artem yelled and she obeyed.

“What are you gonna do? Kill me?” You suggested.

“I wanted to, but Hydra has a future for you. I mean if being a normal human you managed to kill almost forty people without anyone knowing you could become a great Hydra’s spy. Your friend Doctor Banner had tried, right? Tried the serum that made your buddy Steve Rogers and that one here who they are today.” He pointed to Bucky. “The Winter Soldier had just basic knowledge of fight when we got him, you? You are already skilled, with the serum you would become even better for us.”

You rolled your eyes. “The serum doesn’t exist anymore! And you said yourself Banner tried to recreate it… what happened? It turned out wrong!” Banner did try to recreate the serum, ended up becoming the Hulk.

“But he didn’t try to take the plasma out of the blood they had right?”

You got shocked, you had thought about it one day or two, that maybe with Steve’s and Bucky’s blood people would be able to somehow drain a bit of the serum. “So you think I’ll work for Hydra? Seriously? You actually believe I would accept that?”

“Isn’t about free will Y/N, do you think your big friend here had any? I will place you in cryo, put you in electrical shock therapy, one day you will become one of us.” He circled your chair and you felt uneasy. “I saw a video of you two training together, you two could be the better couple ever on our hands. Can you see that? Would even be poetic.”

“You’re a sociopath! So what do you want? Revenge for taking your cousin’s job?” You yelled, angry about not holding the control of the situation.

“Pavlo? Pftt, you see… I became part of something bigger. Hydra will never die, it doesn’t matter how much your loved Captain America or even you work to destroy us, it won’t stop. You cut the head of the snake and two reborn in the place. And we want a thing with you.” He grabbed a knife and touched your face. “People weren’t lying, you are really pretty.” He cut a small spot making you wince. “Who trained you?”

You made your best attempt at a scared face. “Obi-Wan.” You said in a serious voice and grinned.

He shook his head and slapped your face. Apparently making Star Wars references wasn’t a smart idea.

He let a sigh, things would be really less messy if you just cooperated.

He leaned closer and kissed your lips, you winced in disgust and surprise. He got a needle out of his pocket with a thick liquid inside. “This is triazolopyridine mixed with carbidopa, garamycin. These medications are from Parkinson diseases, you’re a smart person so you know it acts in the brain, of course, we mixed a bit of Temozolomide that its used to brain cancer. Some oxide and dioxides here and there and we managed to get in a substance that would reactivate the ‘triggers words. ”’ You looked at him in disbelief, it wouldn’t work, mix some medicines wouldn't suddenly re-do all the process Hydra had made years ago.

“T'challa made sure that everything got washed, mixing some remedies won’t change the work they did there.”

“Let’s see.” He laughed and inserted the needle on Bucky vein, you tried to get off of the chair but it was no use if it was a wood one you could try to throw your body at the floor and break it, but it was a really heavy metal.

Bucky’s eyes widened and started to get red. You shook your head and prayed for it doesn’t hurt him. Artem took a piece of paper out of his pocket and started with the words, he said all of them. ‘Zhelaniye, Rzhaviy, Semndstat’ all at the end. Bucky stood at his feet and you hoped he was just acting.

“Soldat?” Artem said with a smile on his face.

“Ya gotov otvechat.” He answered you shook your head in blame. How they managed to bring it back?

And it was all your mistake.

“Beat her. Don’t kill her, just beat her enough to get really bloody. We can’t kill her, not yet.” He told to the Winter Soldier and you started to feel anxiety in your veins. “Y/N was really nice seeing you." Artem said and walked out of the place locking the metal door.

Bucky’s face stood blank watching you, your wrist sore from the tightness of the rope. But would be worth it break free and fight with the Winter Soldier? Surely you two had trained together hundreds of time, but somehow he always held back… now he wouldn’t.

Bucky walked to your reach, his eyes cold and his face hollow. “James listen, listen you don’t have to. We can fight this and-” Before you could finish you felt a terrible pain in your cheek. 

He punched you.

You looked at him in complete horror. He did again with the other side and pulled the chair you were sat on the floor and throw punch after punch.

You tried to get out of the chair but the ropes were too tight. “Bucky.” You choked on your blood and he turned your face to the side so you could spit it, you couldn’t die anyway.

You looked at him and his metal hand slapped your face.

You kicked and moved your hands trying to break free, after some trials you did so and got up but he just threw you on the floor again and sat above you caging your legs.

You had trained with him, but never trained with the machine before. Your vision wasn’t the best and the left eye was a starting to get swollen after his punches.

You kicked his back and used your hand to punch his ribs, he groaned, you thought about grabbing you knife but you couldn’t stab him. 

He threw another punch before beating your head on the floor repeatedly until you stopped to move, your breath weak.

He placed one of his hands around your neck and the other held your wrist up. His blank face and metal hand was the last thing you saw until you passed out.

                               …

You heard some explosion sound really far and tried to open your eyes, your ribcage was hurting and you couldn’t breathe well.

Your distorted vision spotted two men entering the place. You heard something far away maybe it was your name?

One of the men touched you and you whimpered. “It’s okay, it’s me! It’s Steve.” The man said and you calmed down a little.

Your right eye vision became clear but your audition wasn’t the best. You looked around and didn’t see Bucky, it was Steve carrying you out of there and Peter. 

Wait what Peter is doing? Does Tony know he in the middle of it?

You whimpered and Steve apologized, he tried to move more carefully. The place was a mess, people on the floor and a fire burning some computers. You tried to breathe but it hurt too much.

“Is she okay?” A female voice said, Natasha.

Steve shook his head pessimistic. “No, but at least we took her out of there. Let’s go.” He announced. 

The whole area was burning, papers and computers becoming ashes. You saw dozens of men on the floor and something shining gaining your attention.

You looked over Steve’s shoulder trying to use all of your force to realize what was it, it was someone passed out on the floor with blood on their forehead, Bucky.

Tony.

“Mr. Stark.” The doctor announced and said Tony could finally enter the room.

Inside the room, he saw you on the bed sleeping. When he heard the trackers his life stopped for a moment, he knew you were alive and grabbed one of the new Macks and called Steve.

Gladly he managed to locate the “secret place” and with a team of agents more his co-workers of the super-secret boy band, they found you and Bucky.

The doctor cleared his throat. “We gave her some anesthesia and she will have to do a few surgeries, we made a few exams and apparently her ribcage had been fractured and we need to open to see if any bone or cartilage has the risk to enter on her lungs. Her neck and facial bones are sore and I would recommend a cast but she wouldn’t able to move much since her injuries. Whatever she had been through, she needs to stay unmoveable to heal, her body won’t heal alone without the help of machines.” He said and Tony nodded silently still looking at you.

Tony was happy to know you hadn’t died, he didn’t know what he would do when he thought he lost you. But now he had the chance to do differently, to save you. “But she will heal, right?”

“Yes, I recommend to do an induced coma, that way her body will only focus on the healing process, the method would surely be faster and less painful for your daughter.” Tony shook his head understanding what the doctor said but he didn’t know what to do right away, he didn’t know what to answer. The doc knew it was too much information. “I will leave you alone to think about it, when you make your choice click on that button and I’ll come to talk with you about what will happen in case of your decision.” The doctor said and walked out of the room.

Tony looked at your injured body.

It was like a truck has hit on you, your face held four different colors and was sore.

Your neck purple, your knuckles red, and your arms had marks all over the skin.

He raised a part of the hospital garments and saw how your abdomen and ribs were purple because of so many punches. His eyes filled with tears, you didn’t suppose to go through this, he always tried to prevent such horrendous things to happen to you.

He pulled a chair close to your bed and sat there staring at you.

“What do I do, Y/N?” The only sound was the A/C on and your heartbeat in the machine. “How that happened? How-” He lowered his head. “How I let you out of my sight and that happened?”

You were still motionless in deep rest, Tony was alone with his thoughts and decisions. “Induced coma… I don’t know if you would like that, and wearing that tube would certainly make your throat hurt when you wake up. What do you want me to do? I don’t think you would like to be in a coma, but how could you know right?” He chuckled and placed his hand on his face rubbing it in pure exhaustion, he tried to found a way out, he just wanted a miracle.

I just wanted to you to heal and go back home with him.

“I wish you would tell me what to do.” He glanced around and saw a painting on the wall, it was a lady and an angel above her. He wasn’t much religious but he knew that someone up there had to like the two of you since, after everything you both got through, you remained alive.

He grabbed your hand and held on his. “I think I rather see you sleeping and healing than awake and suffering.” He decided with tears in his eyes and kissed the top of your hand.

He retired and took a deep breath, grabbing the small remote beside the bed he clicked the button the doctor had told him to, kissed your hairline and waited for the doctor.

He signed a few papers and asked if it had the possibility to move you from the hospital to somewhere more reserved, the doctor said it was possible but it was necessary for you to spend at least the first five days over there, then Tony could hire a few nurses and place you in a jet to take anywhere he wanted.

And he did so, he hired the best types of equipment money could buy, and placed all the machines inside one of his jets.

The media wouldn’t let him or any of the Avengers alone and he didn’t want to stress himself more than the routine already did.

He bought a house in another country, one that no one knew of, and took you there with him, the master room became yours and the equipment stood there 24/7 working to make you better. Three nurses were hired to make sure you would have everything you might need.

Bucky.

Bucky was hidden in his old apartment, the one he bought in Brooklyn close to Steve’s one.

The place was still his but he sneaked there planning the country he would run to, it was such an obvious hidden place that he concluded no one could locate him there, but Clint did.

The man entered the place rather quietly, but Bucky’s heightened senses sensed the man and knew who it was by the sound of the steps. “Where is she?” Bucky asked looked at him while placed fake passports, credit cards inside the bag.

Clint looked at him up and down seeing how hurt he was. “In Italia, Tony thought it was better to be away from all the media running after information, she is really bad.” Bucky felt a punch in his heart, you were hurt because of him. “Steve said she is in coma, induced apparently, I don’t know when it will pass.”

Bucky’s eyes filled with tears, he knew he would hurt you sooner or later, he was just too selfish to go away, but he wouldn’t commit the same error twice. “I hurt her Clint. I- And just the thought of it it’s killing me.”

Clint knew Bucky was destroyed, of course, your situation was worse since you were not only physically hurt but also emotionally.

But Clint knew how bad it was being controlled by someone else, not only when he worked for some bad guys in the past but also when Loki had used him as a puppet controlling his mind and ordering him to hurt his friends.

Bucky was regretting his whole existence.

“Man, look I don’t know what to say and I can’t speak for her, but Y/N loves you and you love her. I don’t know if you two will overcome this but you two can work things out, somehow.”

Bucky just shook his head, he looked at the place and it was like he had just left Hydra for the first time, the feeling of being lost and pain he was holding.

“This isn’t a love story Clint, I thought… I thought I had the chance to move on you know, after Wakanda and years of stabilization… and then this happens? I can’t risk that.”

“I won’t stop you. I came as a friend and whatever you may need in the future you can ask me, we are friends after all.” Clint said truthfully and raised his hand to Bucky shake.

Bucky felt a small joy knowing Clint didn’t hate him, but he couldn’t rely on him.

He needed to leave.

Especially you and Steve.

Bucky rented a car and drove to New Jersey renting another one to Indiana and kept doing so, being out of the system since he paid everything with money and he knew how to be ’invisible’.

Bucky checked in on a small motel, he just needed to sleep and leave, he wasn’t carrying much, only his bag and some guns knives over his tall form.

He laid on the floor of the rented room and tried to sleep knowing it would be a waste of time.

He would be bothered about the dirty floor, about the people that probably had been there before doing anything, but since the serum didn’t allow any diseases he relaxed.

He woke up and felt inconsistent. He saw his metal arm and it was heavier, could it be a remembrance? He looked at it and saw the metal and the flesh hand on his body, he saw some doctors around the white room. 

But then the place became darker. 

He sat on the bed and saw you close to him, he looked around and suddenly the place wasn’t the bed he was before.

He was sat in a chair but he couldn’t stand up and walk to your reach, his metal arm was heaving him down and it was completely irrelevant trying to move.

Someone opened the door of the dark room, the place was a mixture of black and dark blue. You were peacefully sleeping, your hair perfectly on your back and your face looking angelical as always.

The person walked closer to you, it was a faceless man, a tall man with a black mask, he wore a coat and touched your face with leather gloves that adorned his hands.

The man caressed your cheek and chuckled. Bucky saw the unidentified man propping on his knees and caressing your hair, you opened your eyes and smiled sleepily like you knew the man.

Bucky didn’t know what was happening, he didn’t understand why had a covered man touching you and why were you smiling at him, the man took the mask off and he saw the man had blue eyes.

You touched the man shoulder and pulled him closer to your body, he hovered over you and caressed your naked breasts, you moaned and giggled. “Buck, stop playing.” Your sweet voice sounded and Bucky widened his eyes.

He felt his chair being pulled and he was on the side of your bed close to the scene.

The man that was up you took off the mask and his brown dark locks dropped perfectly against his face, you smiled and looked at him with pure love and Bucky didn’t know what to feel, he was trapped in a chair while he was touching you?

Why?

You started to kiss the man and you opened your eyes moving your head to look directly at the side of the bed seeing Bucky there.

The man above you stopped kissing and his face became blank.

He took off his shirt.

The scars on his body were more brutal than Bucky recognized they were on his form, Bucky hated those and he always avoided mirrors, especially when he was shirtless. Somehow the man above you had black scars rather than the red and white ones. His metal hand caressed your face and you kissed his palm making the man smile and opened his zip pulling his length out and entering on you, you moaned and the man just stood there watching your reaction while he thrust in and out of your body.

Bucky began to move the chair trying to take the man out of you, the man that was him.

You smiled in pure bliss and the man above you grabbed your neck on his metal hand making you gag unable to breathe, Bucky yelled ‘stop’ but the man just smiled seeing you struggling under his touch. “Stop, stop!” Bucky shouted and the man just grinned. His blue eyes entranced by your tears.

You attacked and kicked the man’s back, just like you had done when Bucky hurt you under Artem’s orders.

You stopped breathing and your eyes closed, the man placed his mouth on your ear. “Hail Hydra.”

Bucky woke up sweating and stood up quickly looking at the dirt floor as it was some sort of the evidence he had just dreamed off.

“No no.” He sobbed and cried remembering how bad he hurt you when Artem triggered the words, he remembered your scared eyes.

He felt terrible, he loved you so so much, and he couldn’t see you ever again. He couldn’t ruin your life one more time.

20 Days Later.

Your eyes opened and you were in a white room, you could hear some waves outside.

The room was too big to be in a hospital. “Hey.” You heard someone and saw Tony with tears in his eyes.

You tried to say something but your throat felt terribly dry.

Tony grabbed a cup of water and gave it to you. The pain in your ribcage wasn’t strong as before and you felt sort of relaxed.

“What happened?” You asked in a small voice.

“That fucker!” He shouted and took a deep breath, it wouldn’t be the best to scream at someone that just got out of a coma. “Artem got you and cowardly enough had beaten you.”

Artem? It wasn’t him it was the Winter Soldier… you couldn’t misremember that. The situation was fixed in your mind.

You were happy that Tony didn’t know it was Bucky. Gladly he thought it was Artem, which were but Tony wouldn’t ignore Bucky’s actions, he would surely blame both. So if he said it was fully Artem, then Steve must have told him. “Do you guys caught him?”

“No.” He said pissed. “He disappeared.”

The memories came back and you jolted on the bed. “Sharon! Tony is Sharon that was using my face, she was using that nano chip thing Natasha used once with Alexander Pierce. It’s her, Tony, she is the villain.” You told him rapidly and he grabbed your forearms trying to calm you down.

“We got her Y/N, she tried to escape but Natasha got her.” He said and you felt more relaxed.

You two spoke a few more and he said Steve was there too, he called your friend and you felt relieved seeing your savior.

Steve came to see you and you smirked after seeing your beautiful friend. “I was worried, Y/N." He sat by your side.

Tony excused himself and you knew he was tired, he let you alone with Steve.

You smiled when he kissed your hand but you couldn’t forget your worry. “Where is he?”

Steve let a sigh and shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know.” He looked around to make sure Tony wasn’t near to hear anything. “When we got out of there we hit him the head for him to pass out, like before when just doing that he would wake up being him. And when he woke up he just started to have an anxiety attack, I helped him out and he asked for a glass of water… I did so and when I got back he wasn’t there.” He explained softly.

“That was in the Compound?”

“No at my apartment. Tony took you to the hospital so I and Sam got back there to grab Bucky. We knew it wasn’t good to take him to the Compound so we took him to my apartment instead.”

“Do you think he will come back soon?”

“He had been gone for twenty days.”

“Twenty? Wait, what day is it?”

He said and couldn’t believe. “Your injuries were very deep. Broken ribs, fractures in the bones of your face and in your neck. The doctor said that you would suffer if you were awake so Tony decided to leave you in an induced coma so your body could heal properly.” Steve said sadly, knowing who managed to hurt you so terribly. “He was the one that hurt you right?”

You nodded.

It was hard.

You wanted to say that it wasn’t his fault because it truly wasn’t. But also you couldn’t shake the image of him hurting you so deeply.

His blue eyes, his face, but not him. “Where am I?” You changed the subject.

Steve looked around. “Tony brought that house, it’s in Italia. He didn’t want you in a hospital especially because the media couldn't stop questioning us.”

Italia? Why Tony bought another house? But most important why Captain America was there with you and not fighting the bad guys. “What are you doing at Italia, Steve?”

“Come on, you’re my best friend what kinda of the friend should I be if I didn’t stand here.” He said with a smile on his face, surely happy you were better.

Bags under his eyes and you touched it softly. Steve was always trying to make the right thing.

You closed your eyes but just saw Bucky’s hands hitting you. “How bad is my face?” You asked fully aware that would have tons of colors on it. “Is my nose displaced?” You smirked.

Steve laughed and smiled at you. “No, it’s perfect as always. And about your face I’ll be honest, you had worse.” He promised and you two giggled. 

Things would get more complicated but you needed to focus on your healing, however, you just wondered where Bucky was. 

How he was.

               …

>>

[barghuest]

1, 2, 5, & 8 for the writers meme :3

1) what are you currently working on? I’m working on my original story that I’ve been working on since I was maybe 13 years old (obviously it changed a lot from what it originally was lmao. I mean can you imagine. Being a teenager and all. Embarrassing.)

2) summarize your current project: oh boy I’m afraid it’s super convoluted but basically: 

It starts in the 80′s and there’s this kinda secret island called Inferi which has become the nr. 1 place for scientific research and technological and medical progress in the world, and surprise surprise, at some point waaay in the past a few scientists created a bunch of monsters, mainly for warfare and the like, which partially failed and was partially successful with their intent. Anyway, there’s also vampires, werewolves, ghosts and all sorts of cryptids, that may or may not be related to said science research; but because that’s dangerous of course, they came up with Sentinels, who are supposed to protect the people; basically they’re just modern warriors, but trained in a way so they could pretty much use super human abilities etc.

Anyway, my main boy Terry ends up on this island and he’s really smart but also sociopathic and there’s a lot of corruption going on around him and many tragic things happen to him too, and he becomes a Sentinel eventually. The thing is, he has monster genes in him that eventually get ‘awoken’ and that gives him monster abilities, while also being the host of a black shuck that is bound to him to hinder him from losing complete control of his now monster self.

His main objective is basically to rid the island/world of the mentioned corruption, bring the truth to light and justice and equality for the people. Personally, he just really wants to be free from everything, and just find out more about death and everything surrounding it, as that is a pretty big theme here (lots of undead people here, including himself (that may technically be a spoiler but it’s never been a secret either sooo it’s fine).)

I... guess that sums it up for the most part? I mean there’s so much happening but I guess it’s fine to understand context a bit I guess? Is it understandable?? Lmao I’m sorry I’m so bad with proper summaries

Genre wise it’s horror/sci-fi/paranormal/action 

5) post a line from your current project without any context: But as he left Dakota’s line of sight, Terry was revealed right behind him, his eyebrows so high up they almost disappeared into his hair line. Dakota blinked at him in confusion, before Terry’s eyebrows sank back down and instead the corners of his mouth crawled up into the most impish smirk he could muster. Dakota suddenly felt dread at that expression. Had his pride allowed it, he’d have already fled into his room, locked it and blasted Blue Monday at full volume on repeat just so he wouldn’t have to hear what was about to come. (ok a bit more than a line but still out of context ok??)

8) briefly discuss your outlining process, if you outline: hooo boy I mean I’ve made so many separate files by now with world building, characters, and basic plot points but tbh it’s a mess haha especially since i like to create new text files for random notes/research so yeaaah. but yeah i’m really bad with these kinda things so i try my best to just remember all the plot things i wanted to happen and smoosh it into my plot points file and later figure out how to make it work lmao

cause seriously i’ve kept so much just in my head for years and years and then kept on going w my story while forgetting this or that thing i wanted to happen, and of course then it leads to issues with like ‘how tf is this supposed to fit in now’ hahaha whelpso yeah, not sure if you could call it a process but it is something

oh boy this sure ended up long huh haha but thank you for taking the time to listen to ol’ rant-y me :^>

[shinneth]

Gem Ascension Tropes (Peridot-specific: R)

Reference:

Primary Peri Post ▼ Primary General Post ▼ Full Article

Rage Breaking Point: A couple of key moments in Act III qualify. The first is Peridot being triggered in Chapter 6 by seeing (the presumed) White Diamond’s neck and immediately thinks of the nature of her own Tricked to Death scenario which has permanently messed with her life in ways she still can’t comprehend. She holds back for a while, but the moment she doesn’t have to escort any teammates, she goes completely Ax-Crazy with an obsession of slicing open White Diamond’s neck. Fast-forward a couple of chapters where Pumpkin is killed, and Peridot completely loses it. She’s invoking destruction of a much larger scale this time, as it ends up not only compromising an already-dying Homeworld, but tears its own atmosphere to shreds.

Rape Leads to Insanity: It nearly did. While Peridot managed to overcome her own instinctive urges to just accept, embrace, and enjoy being regularly subjected to this by the higher-caste gems, she couldn’t completely shut down her body’s urges that were awakened by her Near-Rape Experience with Jasper. She opted to deal with that herself, though Peridot couldn’t get Jasper out of her mind no matter how hard she tried at the time. The experience also all but completely shattered her identity as The Sociopath with far more ambition than a Peridot should ever have. She also no longer resisted pain as well as she once did, which was what Peridot was originally lauded for in the first place.

Rapid-Fire “No!”: Peridot’s panicking devolves into this when she learns from White Diamond that she emerged with a shard from Yellow Diamond embedded in her gemstone, making her a peridot-diamond hybrid.

Razor Wind: What is primarily conjured from Peridot’s Heroic BSoD-charged Angst Nuke, due in part to her Death Wail that Peridot constantly screams out.

Really 17 Years Old: Played with. Peridot refuses to tell anyone her age, as she’s going out of her way to fit in with the rest of her fellow gems who are Really 5,000+ Years Old (and often exceed that a great amount). Being the only Era 2 gem, however, makes it obvious that she can’t possibly be over 5,000 years old, and most of the Crystal Gems don’t think Peridot even breaks 1,000. The gems closer to her, like Amethyst, don’t believe she’s even in the 100s.

Amethyst ends up being correct, tying with Greg on the betting pool regarding Peridot’s age that she does reveal in Act II’s chapter (but only to Garnet via her Video Will). It turns out Peridot is really 13, making her younger than Steven. 

Rebellious Spirit: Per canon, she gained this after her first Heel-Face Turn long before GA started. By the time GA starts, this is yet another Up to Eleven trait Peridot has, and largely what fuels her power as a Determinator. More prominent in Act III since she is an authority figure throughout Act I and isn’t present in Act II. But when she’s with White Diamond… played oh-so straight.

Recruited from the Gutter: Per canon, Peridot was basically Left for Dead after failing her mission and was lost and alone on Earth until that fateful day when she got desperate and resorted to kidnapping Steven straight out of his bed… although in GA, while this is referenced a lot, there’s more emphasis on Peridot’s identity, and how Steven saw signs of it even before she was captured by the Crystal Gems, which was what compelled him to free her from the Burning Room in the first place.

Red Oni, Blue Oni: Red to Lapis’, Steven’s, and 5XF’s Blue.

Reformed Bully: As a working-class gem on Homeworld, Peridot bordered on Complete Monster territory towards her fellow kin. Then she met Jasper, Jasper Broke the Haughty, which greatly softened Peridot up (though it didn’t reform her) shortly before she directly confronted the Crystal Gems. Once she was stranded on Earth and taken in by the Crystal Gems, she Took a Level in Kindness and became virtually the opposite of who she once was. Once Peridot regained her memories of the full extent of her cruelty in her past life in Chapter 4 of Act I, she’s even more driven to separate herself from who she once was… although she still constantly lives with the guilt of her past actions.

Repressed Memories: Following Peridot’s canon Heel-Face Turn, she did this for most memories of her Homeworld life. Some memories were just pointless to keep fresh in her mind (especially when Peridot was under the impression that she would never return to Homeworld again), but others were done subconsciously so that Peridot could better live with herself and focus on actually becoming a better person rather than dwelling on what a Manipulative Bastard she was for most of her life. The several new, more positive memories she made on Earth made this a fairly easy process. However, most of her Homeworld memories were easily regained when Peridot did return to her planet of origin. One memory stands out as being far more repressed than all others, as not even that stimulation would bring it out; it was so well-buried that it took a direct confrontation from Steven to come forward. Peridot’s first meeting with Jasper when she was assigned as her escort was traumatic enough to nearly shatter her entire identity; the only reason it wasn’t completely buried was due to the role Lapis played in it, as said memory reveals the real reason why Peridot was so lenient with and subservient to her once they became roommates, and why she wouldn’t let herself hate Lapis after being abandoned by her.

Required Secondary Powers: Not powers, per se, but in order to be able to will something to happen or for something to exist, Peridot (and Chartreuse) needs to know what it is and mentally visualize it. This is Who I Am best represents this, as while Peridot is capable of teleportation, she needs to have an idea of where her destination is and visualize it. Before teleporting her group to Egypt, Steven shows coordinates and pictures to Peridot so she can accurately and precisely teleport herself and others to said destination. If she just learns the name of an obscure location without any additional information, she won’t be able to teleport there, as she has no concept of what direction to even go – let alone having a clue what her destination looks like.

Restrained Revenge: An inadvertent example resulting from White Diamond’s attempted attack In the Back being countered by Peridot’s Backstab Backfire… which Peridot at first halts at the last second before the attack hits White out of respect for Steven… then, upon seeing White’s utter fear of her, realizes this is far more satisfying than just killing White off. A Diamond fearing the lowest gem in the caste system is a memory and a visual Peridot will treasure forever, and goes a long way in tempering her (justified) rage over the fact that White killed Pumpkin. Ironically enough, this moment is what causes White to self-destruct shortly afterwards, as she’s too ashamed to live it down.

Revenge Before Reason: Becomes a bit of a Hypocrite in Chapter 4 of Act I when it’s revealed her plot to poof Yellow Pearl and use her gemstone as a Skeleton Key doubled as a means for Peridot to get back at some of the gems who made life miserable for her. This is just a couple of chapters after Peridot berates her teammates for even considering doing anything on Homeworld not related to their mission, especially personal revenge. Bismuth and Lapis don’t hesitate to call her out on this, though at this point, Peridot finally succumbs to a nervous breakdown that had been building up all chapter since suffering 9FC’s No-Holds-Barred Beatdown. She’s too far gone to be reasoned with right away, and passes out soon afterwards.

Romance-Inducing Smudge: Sort of. In Chapter 5 of Act I, the first thing Steven heals is a bruised scar on Peridot’s face that she sustained during the one-sided No-Holds-Barred Beatdown. Peridot’s not actually aware she has this injury (the three crippled limbs are a bit more attention-grabbing), so she’s first disgusted when Steven smears a slimy thumb coated with his Super Spit across her face… only to abruptly stop complaining once the pain in her face fades away. Then Peridot is fascinated with her Love Interest’s healing abilities.

Romantic Hyberbole: Peridot actually thinks no hyperbole exists that could accurately measure how much she loves Steven. She constantly credits her entire identity to him, which extends to her life. Peridot means every word of what she says to Steven, and the bizarre part is that she’s not exactly wrong about a lot of it…

Peridot: “Oh, Steven. I’d say I love you, but that doesn’t even come close to accurately describing just how intense that sentiment is. Even if I said it nonstop all day long, it wouldn’t even reflect 1% of how much I mean that.”

Rudely Hanging Up: Peridot does this to White Diamond three times in Chapter 6 of Act III.

[mayphoenix]

“Though Death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.”

This morning at 5:30 am EST, my paternal grandfather and the last of my grandparents, died.  He was 93.  Born into poverty in Tennessee to a mean, abusive father and a gentle, quietly-suffering mother,  he enlisted in the United States Army and was stationed in Hawai’i as a mechanic during WWII.  Before serving his country, he had dropped out of high school to find a full-time job. He went back to school at age 82 and got his diploma, proving that you are never too old to accomplish basic life goals. My grandfather was one of the wisest and most well-read men I have ever known.  This guy not only taught me how to fish, hunt mushrooms, and the proper way to taste wine (which he made in his basement, along with beer and hooch), he gave me my love of books.  He could recite full poems from memory, including Kipling’s The Betrothed (which he would do while using one of his ever-present cigars as a dramatic prop) and Poe, one of my favorite authors (and for whom I named this account).  He would read from an old tome of Shakespeare’s works and explain the historical references (the title of this entry is from King Richard II).  And I would sit, enthralled, and absorb every word.

He came from God-fearing people, tent revivalists and holy rollers, but his thirst for knowledge had him reading every book sacred to the different religions of the world.  He said Moses was a brilliant man and would engage me in a discussion about Jesus’ life during those years not covered by the Bible (he also had a large painting of Christ at age 13).  He passed on this fascination with theology to me, saying, “Always ask questions.”  Grandpa was a truth-seeker.  He never bought into anything at face-value.  He wanted to know what made things tick, which is why he loved to work on cars and was on the Internet even in his late 80s.  He had dabbled in genealogy and I was able to pick up where he left off to go back further in our family history because he wanted to know where we came from and what made us this way.  In his personal library, he had the Qu’ran, The Apocrypha (which is now mine, and that old book of Shakespeare will be coming to me soon), but also texts on the Third Reich and Hitler (he wanted to understand why some men become evil) and the secrets of the Freemasons.  I inherited his insatiable curiosity of the world and I credit him as the reason I became a writer.  For that alone, I will always love him and be grateful.   Grandpa was not perfect, though.  He was an alcoholic.  Grandma once told me he had cheated on her and while he had never raised a hand to me, he beat her after she had cheated on him (yeah, they were messed up -- but they remained married 75 years, until her death, so there must have been some love in there).  During his drunken stupor, he had molested my aunt when she was younger.  (It should be noted that she had been the only one of his children to step up and take care of him after Grandma died; she was sleeping beside his bed when he passed this morning.)  I once asked her if he might have done something to me (I was the first-born grandchild) that I could have blocked from my memory and she said flat-out “No,” and "he would never touch you because he respected your intelligence too much.”  (My father had also abused his sister and one younger brother -- he was 16 and they were 8 and 7, respectively -- but he had always been The Golden Child Who Could Do No Wrong; he went on to abuse me, too, but not because he had been a victim.) I realize that it seems almost horrific that I should pay homage to the patriarch of such a fucked-up family.  Like I said, Grandpa was not perfect.  He could be stubborn to a fault, and opinionated, but I never once heard him use the “N” word.   And this was a man who was born and raised in Chattanooga during the height of Segregation.  It should also be noted that he did not glorify the Confederacy or have any trappings (flags, etc) to honor that side; it was with great pride that he told me one of our ancestors had defected from the South because he did not agree with slavery. In Grandpa’s eyes, you were either a good person or a bad person -- race, creed, social position, etc, had no bearing.  He never said a negative word about me being gay, and he never pressured me (like Grandma did) about my life choices.  Sadly, his mind started to go in the last year and someone -- I don’t know who -- convinced him to vote for Trump.  This man was a life-long Democrat, he had voted for Obama (whom he would praise), so I was stunned to learn that he had been influenced to go with someone who had no respect for veterans or the disabled.  

For better or worse, Grandpa was a huge influence on my life.  I learned so much from him.  Today, my cousin said to me “I wish I could have been as smart as Grandpa and you.”  Truthfully, Grandpa and I were on an intellectual level no one else in the family could understand.  I have been fortunate enough to find a small handful of people with whom I can hold similar conversations, who stimulate my brain in the same fashion and make me delight in the discussions we have.  While I have them, I will miss what I had with Grandpa.   Three days ago, I went to see Grandpa one last time.  He was unable to speak, just grunted a little (with great effort).  He had gone from a big man to a frail, pale creature, skin on bone, hooked up to oxygen, feeding tube, and catheter, receiving morphine and in danger of aspirating.  He opened his eyes when I came in and I could not tell if he recognized me, but I told him repeatedly that I loved him as I stroked his bald head.  I thanked him for all he gave me, promised him I would continue to question everything and keep learning.  And then I said I knew his life had not been easy, that he was not always a good person but that he had tried hard to make up for those things and do the best he could.  I told him I knew he was tired and that he deserved to rest, now.  He began to cry.  In all my life, I had never seen him cry, not even when I begged him to let them pull the plug on my great-grandmother (he was the executor and she had slipped into a coma from which they said she would never return; I was the only one willing to say to him “I understand she’s your mom but you need to set her free” -- and shortly after, he did).  I held his hand, read Hamlet (”What a piece of work is man...”), Kipling (”If”), and when I asked if he wanted to hear some Poe, he got excited, so I read “The Raven” (and even tried to do the voices the way he did for me when I was a child).  I played his favorite Andrews Sisters song, “Rum and Coca-Cola” (which made him smile).  I even painted a mental picture for him, describing his favorite fishing spot in vivid but idyllic detail.   And now...he’s gone. I am relieved that he’s no longer in pain.  That his great mind and spirit are no longer prisoner inside a withered body.  I told him I would not say goodbye to him, but instead that I would see him later for another adventure.  I will not go to his funeral because I know it will be a clusterfuck of drama and anger and in-fighting among the rest of the family -- my manipulative, narcissistic-sociopathic father at the center -- and I will not be party to that scene.  Grandpa is not there; it’s just his body which will receive military honors before being laid to rest in the veteran’s cemetery where Grandma is interred.  I will go there another time to pay respects at the grave.  I’m sad to lose him but happy to know he’s off somewhere else, continuing that never-ending search and discovering new things along the way.  I’ll catch up to him, later, and have him fill me in on everything he’s learned.  

Just like old times.   “For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause: there’s the respect That makes calamity of so long life...” 

 - Hamlet, Act III, Scene I; William Shakespeare

[thomasreedtn]

A Tale of Two Timelines

Below is an updated version of a post I wrote in 2014, a time that seemed so intensely polarized. I have to laugh as I recall 2014, because the split grows wider and wider each year. Compared to today, 2014 was mellow!

I’ve received emails from some very anxious people begging me to blog about current events. I only do so when I feel led, and you won’t find me taking sides here. Some people have asked why I no longer blog directly about vaccines, BigPharma, GMO’s, and other Shadow topics. I used to, but at some point I found my blog getting censored. WordPress wouldn’t let me post if I included certain words; several search engines dropped my blog for two years. Even if I searched “Laura Bruno, Medical Intuitive,” my blog would not appear. My YouTube channel got censored into non-existence way back in 2011. I was one of the original ones booted off that platform for sharing non-mainstream, empowering information.

I consolidated five websites into this one blog. Forgoing YouTube and social media, this blog is the only online presence I now have. The risk of total censorship outweighs what I feel I can accomplish anymore by posting about certain topics. You can search the blog if you want to see what I’ve written over the years, although I removed some of that content, too. I feel like we’ve entered a new phase, where portal painting, orgone gridding, Reiki, energetic intervention and other under the radar actions produce stronger results with far less risk. And yes, more Divine Doorways and Portal Paintings are in the works. Those I’ll share.

My own path — along with many clients and blog readers — involves embracing paradox and the integration of seeming opposites. Best of the old, best of the new: what would create healing, harmony, generous yields and soul soothing beauty? These are the questions I ask, and most public work I do occurs very much behind the scenes. I will always support free will to choose creation or destruction, realizing that many times creation follows destruction. That said, the opportunities to choose keep ramping up. In any case, here’s a post from 2014, which if anything, seems even more true today:

A Tale of Two Timelines:

I know it has become rather vogue to declare that “we’re all on one timeline now” because “we’re all one;” however, from my vantage point, this world continues to polarize in ever more dramatic ways. Clients, friends, family members, people I know through community volunteering — lately everyone seems to be receiving a mega-phoned, “Are you sure?!”

Revelations of betrayals have become so absurdly obvious that the levels of denial now required to ignore them truly boggle both mind and heart. Personal relationships reveal evidence of in-your-face double lives and months or years of deliberate, calculated lies. Companies that have demanded loyalty from good employees reveal themselves as totalitarian versions of the same old, same old, regardless of lip service to their “different way of doing business.” BigPharma and BigTech apply even more tyrannical pressure, and political hypocrisy now rivals theater of the absurd.

Yet somehow, even amidst revelations that have grown surreal in magnitude, some people continue to live in complete denial of the importance and responsibility of choosing something better. This choice hasn’t yet affected everyone; I’m not talking about people who are truly too busy to look at anything beyond their own three jobs to put food on the table. I’m talking about otherwise intelligent, reasonably capable and conscious people who’ve had their worldview rocked by what would be a rude awakening, if only that awakening occurred. It’s quite shocking how deep the Pollyanna programming can go, and meanwhile, their world creeps or runs ever closer to tyranny and dystopia.

This theme of betrayal is on the upswing. As Mark Twain said, “It is easier to fool people than to convince them that they have been fooled.” Betrayal not only hurts our hearts; it hurts our pride. It begs questions like “How could I have been so stupid?” or “How could I have missed those signs?” It takes courage to answer those questions as real ones rather than rhetorical invitations to self pity and the downward spiral. Approaching betrayal as an opportunity to learn what went awry and how — and as an invitation to troubleshoot for a preferred future — also requires swallowing some humble pie. But the question of “getting one’s just desserts” has become so very urgent in our times!

When the Universe approaches you with a neon lighted, mega-phoned, smack upside the head, “Are you sure?!” please carefully consider your answer. The “elite” psychopaths running rough shod over our planet do engage in their own bizarre code of honor, which requires people give them permission to proceed with their diabolical plans. Through leaks, Hollywood films, best selling novels, symbolic actions, or direct quotes of elected officials, these “elites” broadcast their intentions. Similarly, everyday, run of the mill sociopaths, philanderers, thieves and cheats drop clues via behavior, Freudian slips, circumstantial evidence or those mysterious “can’t put my finger on it” triggers that unsettle our stomach, ring all the anxiety alarm bells, and put our intuition on hyperalert. If we feel ourselves saying and feeling, “Something’s just not right about this,” but we refuse to investigate and discover what isn’t right, then by the psycho’s code of “honor,” we become fair game. They’ve duly warned us; our taking and acting upon the warning is our responsibility, not theirs.

I don’t know how this experiment called 21st century planet Earth will play out. All I can do is observe and extrapolate, but what I see happening worldwide is a sharpening of the divide between realities, not the blending of everything together into what I call the New Age Borg.

Some people — quite a high percentage in my sphere of influence — continue to experience incredible breakthroughs and freedom in areas that previously refused to budge, sometimes for decades. Those who make something of the breakthrough go on to experience exponentially faster and more powerful breakthroughs. By contrast, those who refuse to use the original breaking through of information as a catalyst to major change, become even more committed to the controllers’ trajectory of totalitarian dystopia and a drugged, brainwashed, Pollyanna populous to slave away on behalf of the self proclaimed elite. They continue to excuse those who reject the Golden Rule, and they continue to wonder why life keeps throwing drama at them. What they conveniently edit from their awareness is the reality of that blaring question: “Are you sure?!”

I don’t know when or if the deadline will arrive for making such decisions, but the frequency and intensity of that question seems to indicate that it will, and soon. What kind of world do you wish to live in, and what illusions are you willing to give up in order to embody it? Are you willing to transmute the increased effort it takes to continue lying to yourself and instead turn such efforts into creating a better life and world? Effort is effort. One type of effort maintains dissatisfaction and gives permission for misery and tyranny; the other effort actually generates new worlds and allows you to create a real version of your imagined potential.

A Tale of Two Timelines: which will it be? The choice — and the responsibility — are yours.

from Thomas Reed https://laurabruno.wordpress.com/2019/04/13/a-tale-of-two-timelines-2/