#or i just assume that when it is in debilitating pain that it's just... somehow to fuck with me and i am cognizant that this isn't true

[uncanny-tranny]

You know... it's okay to trust your body. If you are separated from your body to such an extent you feel you cannot trust it, I truly from the bottom of my heart empathize and feel grief for you, but you can trust your body.

It's okay to listen to your body and to heed what it is telling you. I wish you (and your body) well wherever you go. You deserve the peace of mind to feel able to do what you want.

[should-be-sleeping]

Tough day today... and friendly reminder that being human is easier when we help each other.

I saw one of our neighbors, an older woman we sometimes talk to in passing, sitting outside of her house. I don't know what exactly made me look twice, but on second glance as we drove by I realized her walker was in the grass. She was otherwise just sitting there, like she had a thousand times before, so it would have been easy to assume she was fine and go on with my life as normal but something told me to go check in on her anyway.

She was not fine. She was the polar opposite of fine. Just diagnosed with terminal cancer not fine. No next of kin not fine. A veteran facing eviction from her house for missing rent while in the hospital not fine. In constant debilitating pain not fine. Only semi-lucid not fine. She was extremely alone not fine.

I thought, at most, she might be bored while unable to pick up her walker not fine. A five minute detour from my day not fine. A help her back into her house and say "see you later!" not fine. Instead I spent the last three hours with her because she was so scared and alone and no one should be alone.

We talked a lot while I was there. She's actually two years younger than my mom (who also has cancer but slightly better luck, I guess). I helped her into her house and got her a drink and we talked about what all is going on with her. None of it was good. I was as reassuring as I could be, but there's only so much of this I can actually help her with.

"Why did you come?" she asked through tears.

"Because you looked like you might need some help."

She called me an angel. I told her I was just doing my best. I told her that kindness should never be rare. That we should all try to make the world just a little bit better than it was.

She offered to pay me but I told her I was just there as a friend. Before today we were basically strangers. No need to repay me with anything other than her company, I assured her. She cried, a lot. I managed not to somehow. Something tells me she had needed to cry long before this but in being Strong she never had the chance to.

She needed to get her mail, which is a long walk when you're disabled because it is not at all handicap accessible (across a parking lot, over a bridge, across a small field). So I helped her get her mail. We stopped every three feet because her pain was so bad, but she was determined to be able to go do this with me and not just send me on an errand. I patiently stayed with her and reminded her, through her apologies, it was fine to take our time: there was a nice breeze and birds were singing. She appreciated this. She loves nature.

Halfway back she said she wanted to go to the pool. To put her feet in the water. She loves water, and has not been able to even see the pool in a month. Neither of us were dressed for swimming, but I took her to the pool anyway. There is a stair leading down to it, meaning she couldn't bring her walker, so I offered her my arm.

We went to the pool. She put her feet in the water and then, with more energy and enthusiasm than I'd seen the whole time, she jumped in. In her fancy dress! She was instantly ten years younger at least, clear and happy, floating in the sun. Dress and all. She grew up with a pool and had been on a swim team.

I sat by the edge of the pool while she swam, keeping her company and also making sure she was okay. When she got tired I took her back home and then had to help her get undressed and redressed. I made sure she felt no shame. Getting out of wet clothes is hard for anyone, let alone someone with like twenty pounds of tumors racking them with constant pain.

She was so fucking happy to have gone swimming.

She is trying to "make everything right" before she goes. Trying to repay her debt to society and her debts in general. She couldn't understand why the corporation that owns our houses wouldn't take her money. She was genuinely distressed -- not to be homeless on her deathbed but to not leave this world with a clean slate. I told her intent matters. She can only do her best.

This company not letting her repay her debt was their fault, not hers.

When I finally needed to go, I told her to let me know any time she needed a hand or just wanted company. She told me she was going to die tonight. I told her I hoped not, so I could see her tomorrow. I offered her a hug, we hugged and she sobbed for a solid ten minutes into my shoulder. I told her she was okay. That it was okay.

When I got home I cried myself, because I could not believe she was going through all of that alone. I cannot even imagine how isolated she must have felt. Once I pulled myself back together I sent her a text reminding her to reach out any time and I'd do my best to come over. Like, any time at all.

I hope she is here tomorrow.

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Remember the Pokémon trainer ask with having pokepastas in their team? Could I maybe request something angsty?~ basically can I get headcanons of Arven and Kieran’s reaction to finding out Trainer got in a accident and was suffering from VERY lethal injuries and in panic missingno..basically messed them up into a pokepasta trainer,kinda corpse looking and now in never ending pain because of the raw wounds that never fully Heal but ofc take medication to numb the pain down and look out now for they’re friends so they don’t suffer the same fate? :))

Oh btw have a nice day or night!!! Remember to drink water!

Arven

From the moment he, Penny, and Nemona discovered your team enjoying a picnic...he always wondered how you got something like Missingno on your side.

But since it nearly corrupted his damn pokedex trying to just get information on it AND you were reluctant to share your past, he figured you'd just say "don't ask questions you don't want answers to" and end the convo right there.

He definitely wouldn't let Mabosstiff near it.

Last time he went near a Pokémon nobody should've known about...he almost lost his companion.

From time to time, he catches glimpses of your wounds (not during picnics ofc), bandages, and the medication Nurse Miriam prescribed to you, and suggests you save some of the herbs for yourself.

And they do help with your pain management when incorporated into tea or sandwiches (especially the salty herba mystica, which relieves your aches for a little while).

They're not miracle cures, but it's something.

Eventually, there comes a point where you know Arven wants to understand how you acquired Missingno, why you have so many ghastly Pokémon by your side, and why you were determined to defend him and the others down in Area Zero.

So you sit down and explain how you found it by accident in Kanto, caught it, and realized it was simply a lonely creature who wanted a trainer it could love and protect. Like any other Pokémon.

Yet you didn't realize the extreme lengths it would go to achieve that goal....until you nearly suffered a lethal wild Pokémon attack (it was in the dead of night, and you were ambushed while chasing after what you thought was a shiny).

You were bleeding out, bones broken and gaping wounds all over your body, and unconsciously begged for help-

And Missingno somehow heeded your call, escaping its pokeball and reviving you.

But in doing so, you were brought back as a zombie..one who still remembers the pain of that night and often cursed the glitch for not letting you die.

In time though you've made peace with it, knowing you were stuck this way now and it wouldn't let you go...

To the point where it erased its own pokeball from existence and became a constant presence around you, invisible aside from a few occasional glitch particles.

Yet you knew Missingno didn't mean any ill intent--all it wanted to do was save you.

Now you vowed to save others so they didn't suffer the same fate as you, whether that be haunted Pokémon left abandoned in some town or atop a mountain or your human friends in Area Zero.

Your pains aren't as severe now thanks to the meds, and you're grateful for Arven introducing you to herba mystica.

You were afraid he was gonna be freaked out by your story (or not believe you), but..while he finds it horrific and sad at first, he understands you better and is simply glad you're here now.

He's also happy to help his buddy manage their pain better, even if the remedies are only temporary.

Kieran

You had to bandage and conceal a great deal of your wounds so nobody at BB Academy got concerned, with DISABLED giving you a consistent best Heal Pulse to ensure your chronic pain wasn't debilitating).

Even so, Kieran assumes you got better over the past year and is desperate to battle you and win Missingno..something he vowed to acquire after realizing he'll never get Ogerpon.

You try explaining that it's literally impossible for you to surrender it, and it's too dangerous to bring it into a battle anyway, but he thinks you're just lying to him again and bragging.

In the back of his mind, though...he kept wondering why you had so many injuries..

Ofc..he's too focused on being stronger than you to ask you.

But after seeing Missingno come out (in its Fossil Aerodactyl form) and literally glitch Terapagos' beam out of existence and use Cut on multiple falling rocks---he was amazed.

You finally invite him to your dorm to talk after the mochi mayhem events, knowing he deserved some answers.

He sees the pain meds littered all over your countertop, and you finally reveal to him why you need those, why you look the way you do, and why you keep Missingno around:

Basically, after catching and befriending it, you got attacked by some wild Pokémon, and they would've left you for dead had it not intervened.

You made it feel loved, cherished, never using it as a weapon or an infinite item dispenser...and it couldn't watch you bleed to death.

So it saved your life, but it came with a great cost: neverending physical pain with your wounds never fully healing.

You used to curse Missingno for not letting you go, trying to release it several times to no avail, and just being miserable in general.

Yet once you realized it attracted more misunderstood, tortured, and damaged Pokémon to your side..you came to forgive it, knowing it was just like them despite its uncanny appearance: a creature who just wanted to protect its trainer.

Now you take medication (and a few leaves of herba mystica) to numb the pain down, so it didn't hurt as much as it did before.

You wouldn't want anybody to have a brush with death like you did. Not even your worst enemy.

That's why you went so far to protect your friends in Area Zero, especially Kieran.

After hearing your story, he felt so torn up and guilty--and convinced he was being "overdramatic".

You were still suffering all along, for years..and he had no idea, only thinking about himself and his selfish ways and how his pain couldn't possibly compare to-

But you stop your friend from spiraling, holding him and letting him cry out all of his renewed guilt, telling him that his own suffering was valid, too.

He was starting to look like a corpse with the dark circles and paler complexion....and it scared you.

Seems like he took "I wanna be like you" a bit too literally.

But you're glad Missingno saved you--otherwise you never would've gotten the chance to meet him and help him become more confident in himself (ofc you wish things were different before and didn't require you shattering his confidence first).

Since that conversation, Kieran starts taking better care of himself and makes a promise to protect you.

Not from physical threats per se as you're basically immortal, but from rude stares and whispers of how "creepy" you are.

He tends to hug you a lot and lend you his jacket for warmth if you ever get cold in class or in the polar biome.

It does help with the chills you get so often, and makes you feel grateful that you two were still friends despite everything.

[j0kers-light]

Hi chaos! I hope you’re having a good day!

I saw your headcanons post for joker x reader who struggles with anemia & loved it so, so much! It’s always lovely when we get to see our favorite characters caring for us in little ways like that, especially when it comes to our daily struggles that often go largely ignored by society. I was wondering if you’d be willing to do a joker x f!reader with Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome sometime? And as always, no pressure at all <3

— 🌹

Welcome my sweet 🌹anon!!

You ask, and I deliver! I had to do some extensive research with my mom to make sure I was accurate with this request! I learned so much via articles and short documentaries! Shoutout to my chronic pain sufferers! Chaos acknowledges you and I loves you!!

If anything doesn't sound right let me know 🌹 anon so I can correct it! I hope you enjoy! There are several sub-types of the disease but we'll focus on hEDS for this head canon 🖤✨

Since your disorder is rare and hereditary, there isn't any known treatment or any medical studies/research done to cure the illness. There isn't even a test done to diagnose its so vastly ignored! 😡😡

Society turns a blind eye to _EDS, simply chalking it up to hypermobility and being non-life threatening. WRONG.

hEDS is life threatening and sources fail to address the lifelong chronic pain and other debilitating issues that the rare disease causes. There are 13 sub types with their own crippling ailments.

Joker would hardly notice anything wrong until you go and hurt yourself, which is rather easy due to your fragile skin and joints.

Your body doesn't heal well after injury so bruises linger, scars are permanent, and dislocations are a common occurrence. Yay to pain. 🙃✨

Growing up, it was cool to show off your double joints and overly flexible body but as your age hit the double digits, you noticed the complications of your parlor tricks pretty quickly.

Muscle weakness was the first indicator followed by scarier issues like weak blood vessels and potential organ ruptures. Chronic pain is a reality that you have to endure since your body fails to function properly.

Life grinds to a halt when you have a flare up and Joker arches an eyebrow when you stay in bed for days at a time and work remotely.

Just moving is an impossible feat and your body punishes you for defying its demands for rest. You still have to live your life! Somehow.

Joker tries to crack jokes but you roll your eyes and ignore him. You’re just not in the mood.

He doesn't understand how you can go from practicing yoga in the sunroom to being bedridden in the same hour so he assumes you're faking being sick and that thought makes you cry.

Knowing that your lover believes that you are acting, hurts more than your aching joints and Joker immediately notices when your mental health begins to decline.

Now he's worried. When you can, you do as much as you're able, never knowing when your body will betray you and confine you to bed. Every moment is precious and Joker will never understand that.

Life returns back to "normal" but Joker demands answers. He's still in shock.

Weren't you on death's door just yesterday? Now you're returning to work, laughing and smiling, as if nothing is wrong. He doesn’t know what to think.

So he disappears to search the internet and after hours of clicking away, he's just as confused as when he started. (I feel you J..)

Joker refuses to believe there is nothing he can do to help his Bunny. This hEDS can't keep you down forever. Right? 👀

Why aren't there any studies, or any institutions pledging to find a cure for this?! Does he have to kidnap a doctor or two to get the ball rolling?

Joker remembers he does have a doctor on his payroll. He calls up Sarai and bombards her with the same questions he typed into Google.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH MY BUNNY?🧑‍💻

Sarai doesn't give him much else to go on except keeping you comfortable, well medicated if you take any, and to continue your physical therapy but not too much exercise as to aggravate your joints.

Great... so he's back to square one!

Joker hears you groan from the next room and goes to check on his poor Bunny. He would find a way to make you feel better himself.

You had dozed off for a long quick nap and woke up to the sound of something falling over in the bathroom.

It still hurt to move but at least it wasn’t agonizing anymore. This current pain level you could tolerate.

You were willing yourself to toss the covers back when Joker appeared in the doorway looking rather sheepish.

“Hey doll. Uhh are ya feeling up to move?” He scanned you over as if he could gauge your pain tolerance by sight. Your small smile gave him some hope.

“Mmm. I gotta get up and fix something to eat.” You were weak and probably dehydrated from lying in bed all day, but that was to be expected.

Joker watched you swing a leg over and rushed to your side. “I uh.. ran a bath. If ya want. A Reddit post mentioned ah.. hoT water being helpful.”

It didn’t dawn on you just what Joker was saying. All you heard was the latter part of his sentence. “You have a Reddit account?”

He smacked his lips while helping you slowly walk towards the en-suite bath. To your surprise, the bath was waiting for you with a rolling cart next to it, hopefully with something to snack on.

You were speechless. “J… you did all this for me?”

He looked away and you got the impression that he was blushing. He still had his clown makeup on so you couldn’t tell for sure.

“Thank you J. I mean it.” He helped you sit on the nearby wooden bench after you kissed his cheek. “Um. I can undress myself.. if you need to—ah! Okay! You’re seriously doing this.”

Joker started with your socks and worked his way up until not a single thread of fabric was left on your body. You felt so exposed sitting there nude while Joker dipped his hand into the bath water.

It was hot enough to be medicinal but not scalding. He snapped his fingers and dashed over to the storage area to grab your bag of epsom salt before dumping a few cups in.

You got to see a rare softer side of Joker hard at work. No one would believe you if you reported this. The Joker, Gotham City’s worst nightmare, was preparing you a bath with the greatest care.

“All-right-yyy ya ready pretty girl?” Joker’s voice snapped you out of your daydream. He playfully flicked some water at you to get your attention.

You couldn’t flinch away and huffed your displeasure.

“I couldn’t resist, Bunny. Now in ya go! Hold onto my shoulders, yeah?” He picked you up as if you were made of glass and gently lowered you into the bath. “Easy doll, I know it’s hot. Just relax.”

Joker shushed any whimpers you made and held you steady underneath the water. For the next few unbearable moments, Joker was right there whispering sweet nothings to calm you down.

Finally you relaxed with a deep sigh, “This is perfect.”

“Good. If ya want, you can rest a bit. I’ll keep you.. well you know.. from drowning. But ya do need to eat something first. Here.” He dried his hand off and fed you a [insert favorite snack].

You felt like royalty and Joker had no issue helping you adjust to the role. He fed you piece by piece, offering you sips of water in between while holding your hand and rubbing soothing circles on your skin with his thumb.

The contact warmed your heart. Joker may not know much about your medical condition, but he would always be there to support you.

You couldn’t ask for a better partner.

[winwinwrites]

Is it Bad Parenting if a Sacrafice Kills itself?

Pairing: c!Foolish & Sacrafice the Totem, Foolish's Chat & Sacrafice the Totem

Word count: 1.3k

Summary:

Remember when Foolish had a 3rd Totem and chat called it Sacrifice, because Foolish didn't want to adopt it,,,well if not then I am misremembering canon but anyway here is some angst about that.

Tags: Emotional Whump; Heavy Angst; Hurt No Comfort; Self-Doubt; Self-Hatred; Self-Worth Issues; Body Dyphoria; Existential Crisis; Existential Angst; Open Ending; Child Neglect; Child Abandoment; It/Its pronouns for Sacrafice; He/Him Pronouns for Foolish

TW: ^^honestly all of that^^

Read on Ao3 || My Ao3 || Other Dsmp works

Is it bad at being a totem? Sacrifice thinks so.

Or at least it assumes it is, since it has nothing to go off from, it has to assume the worst by now. Sacrifice longs for things, oh so many different things, this longing inside it is like a flame which keeps it alive, but at the same time fuels the flames of doubt, of the disgusting feeling of selfishness.

It is uncertain if it should want things, is it even allowed to do so? Would it go against a totems nature to want rather than to give? It was made with a purpose, a purpose to serve and to grant its life to whomever it belongs to, but it is hard to fulfil that role if no one is holding onto it. What use does it have if just trapped in a chest?

What it wouldn't give, for the golden Hand to finally reach into that chest, reach into the void that imprisons it in a space where neither time nor space move. There was nothing here, just a stagnant silence, it itself almost feels like part of the unchanging state of the void. It was unbarable. Golden skin melting with the being of the darkness.

Every now and again when an enderchest is opened by its owner it is being teleported from the nothingness into that specific chest which was in use at the moment, but each time it is still ignored. Shuffled around to make space for building blocks and other rarities like heads.

Sacrifice doesn't know what is worse, to look outside whenever it is allowed a short glimpse of the outside, to look at the blue skies, rainy storms, shiny nights or inviting warmth filled with red; or even its owner, golden smooth skin marked only by decorative engravings, his green enchanting eyes mirroring its own, be enveloped by a sense of belonging and realise what it is missing out all the time while trapped in here or if it is just better to look away, but still feel the debilitating loneliness.

It pains it. The silence, but it isn't sure if the words of its father, if it is even worthy enough to call him that, when he first brought it to live were any more bearable. The doozers happily jumping around, urging its father to adopt it, to give it a name, but Foolish only getting frustrated at that, pushing it into the enderchest and telling the little workers that he would like a totem for himself to actually be able to use. The doozers call out Sacrifice, to Foolishes dismay.

And so it was named. Not by its father, its maker, but by the kind workers who saw something more than just another things to use.

Giving something a name means getting attached to it, giving it a life, to actually care about it. Sacrifice was neither cared for nor was Foolish attached to it, but having the doozers call out its name did give it a reason to hope that maybe one day their chants would reach its fathers ears and would make it be loved by the only one it cares about more than itself.

Calling Foolish its father was just a fantasy it likes to think about, a possibility that somehow, someway Foolish will look into the chest see it and exclaim how stupid he is for leaving his child behind like that. That one day mercy would be given to the small helpless totem and be called his child. It is a disappointing to think about really, every time hoping for it to be brought out for only another thing taking its place in its makers hands.

Something which adds to the tragedy of the totems situation is that it is conscious, it is aware, which wouldn't be the case usually. Totems are just in reality objects, just like any chest, stick, block is and will be, but the differentiating factor between its kind and a regularly thing is that it is infused with magic, with live giving magic and so when none other than a God was holding it for so long while subconsciously thinking of it as a child, or trying not to, it manifested into existence, but not enough to fully bring it to live. So while Sacrifice is trapped in its body, unable to move or even show any signs of life, a true totem in all aspects but in awareness.

It is a cruel joke forced upon it, being not only trapped in a prison of dark obsidian, the void, but also trapped in its own body as well. A cruel game life is playing with the totem, it never asked to end up this way.

Through its situation Sacrifice has a lot time to think, which is not really ideal for a small child like it was, left with nothing else to stimulate its senses other than its lonely being. It barely gets to see the outside world for no more than a few moments at a time, so what was it supposed to learn about the world? How is it supposed to experience the world, people, nature, concepts and all the different pleasures the world has to offer if trapped in here?

How is it supposed to think about something other than its father, which was mostly just make believe scenarios in its mind, made up, and its own incapability. It can't stop denying the fact that it is a faulty totem, a bad totem, a selfish totem.

A faulty child, a bad child, a selfish child.

Simply a totem that wants to live.

Is it too much to long for a fatherly embrace, but not in case there is a fight and it is just a plan B in case Foolish might not survive. Sacrifice wants to be loved, to be cared about, to experience what it means to have a family. People who it can trust, who wouldn't leave it alone, to not abandon it as soon as it was made.

Even if its existence isn't much, actually mostly lacking even, but the thought of not existing, dying, is a scary thing which it does not have to fight with, well that is until it is brought out by its maker to grant him another life.

But Sacrifice would perish for its creator, for its only light in the void. As horrible as the thought of not existing anymore might be scary to a child, it still depressingly agreed that it would not even second guess the choice between its existence and its fathers life. It would give up all lives in the world if it meant to save its father, maybe, just maybe if it proved itself to its father as worthy, as helpful, maybe then will Foolish accept it as its child, as his own blood and gold.

What if it isn't its intentions that were repulsive to its maker, but its appearance instead? Was it not shiny enough? The lack of sun surely did a number on it, but it doesn't think that anything has changed because of how little it has been handled in its life. Is it the dullness of its eyes, is the emerald not green enough? Does it lack in pureness? Sacrifice doesn't feel this way, it knows that the pillagers always used the best materials that they could provide to create totems to bring people to live or else it might not have worked, but maybe they didn't have the best materials at hand while making it? Maybe Foolish could see something a normal mortal like the pillagers couldn't see?

Maybe it just is a disgusting impure child that needs to be ridden of its dirty outside.

Every moment that passes makes the little totem more and more depressed, its thoughts mimicking the void of the enderchest and consuming it whole. If it could cry it would, but instead Sacrifice just screams out in its head until its mind ached and the fire of longing subdued.

[a-very-sparkly-nerd]

Snake Boi Callum Week - Day 3: High Mage/But Rayla Was In Trouble/Mirrors/Magic

(heads up, possible TW for pregnancy complications; I know they can hit close to home, and better safe than sorry!)

I'll Become the Monster, Like None They've Ever Known

Silence was not a good thing. Silence meant grasping for words, words to soften the blow. Or, worse, a kind lie.

“Well?” Rayla prompted, and Xan finally moved away from her stomach.

He straightened his glasses, slowly writing and checking off boxes on his clipboard he not-so-subtly held out of the couple’s view. “I…”

Out of nerves, Callum squeezed Rayla’s hand so hard that she hissed. Immediately loosening his grip, he murmured an apology before turning his attention to the doctor. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Your baby…” Xan began, and now he wouldn’t look at them, and that was not a good sign. “Well, they’re malpresented. That means the fetus isn’t correctly positioned. In this case, your child’s head is at the top of the womb, near the heart, rather than near the birth canal.”

“What does that mean?” Rayla asked nervously, glancing to Callum as he felt her heart rate speed up. “Can it be fixed?”

“Well, no,” Xan said. “There are chances of both the mother and child surviving the birth, but those are rare. The chances of one of you surviving rather than the other is about 50/50, given that most result in the death of both.”

Rayla leaned back against the chair, somehow paling even more as she let herself go limp onto Callum. He put an arm around her and rubbed slow circles into her back.

Xan wasn’t done. “However, your pregnancy is also ectopic.”

Callum sharply looked up at him as Rayla buried her face in his shoulder. “And what does that mean?”

“It means your child can’t be carried to term because it is growing outside of the uterus. To be frank with you, I’m shocked you haven’t come to me with concerns of, at the very least, extreme discomfort.”

Rayla… even all these years later, she still didn’t complain when she was mildly uncomfortable, or even in debilitating pain. She still never wanted to burden anyone, and now it could cost her her life.

He shot to his feet. “And why didn’t you tell us sooner?!”

“An ectopic pregnancy can be diagnosed anywhere from the first trimester to quite literally during labor. And malpresentation usually shows up at thirty-six weeks pregnant on average. We actually got quite lucky, finding it as early as we did.”

“You call this lucky?” Callum spat, pacing now as his voice came out strangled. “My wife and child are both going to die!”

“Well… not necessarily…”

Rayla tugged his hand, and he sat back down, tucking her further into him. “What are the survival odds?” he asked in a low voice. “For either of them?”

Xan took off his glasses and wiped them off with the hem of his shirt before repositioning them on his face. “Near zero for even one of them surviving. I think it’s safe to assume both Princess Rayla and your child will die if the birth continues as planned.”

Rayla threw her arms around his neck, her sobbing loud and clear despite being muffled by his shoulder. His shirt was quickly soaked, Callum pulling her into his side and rubbing her shoulder.

Still, he had to ask. “And if the birth doesn’t continue as planned?”

“Well, if we act now, one of them can be saved. We can perform a surgery to remove the child, and your wife’s chances of survival will skyrocket; I can near assure you she will live and be just fine in due time. Or, given how far healthcare has come due to the use of magic, we can force the birth and an Earthblood and Sunfire elf can heal the child and give them the nutrients and growth needed to simulate a normal pregnancy, an incubation if you will, to keep them healthy until labor would be induced in normal time. But Princess Rayla will not live.”

Callum let those words sink in. Rayla or their child, probably both, would die if a decision wasn’t made at this very moment. It didn’t feel real. It felt like a nightmare, a cold dread wrapping around him, like a cruel trick because the universe could never get enough of fucking around with his and Rayla’s lives. It’d been difficult enough to conceive, only able to do it at all because of magic, and now this? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fucking fair.

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[ripley-ryan]

I haven’t ever gone to the ER for pain. Only for other forms of illness. But I can tell you even then that from infancy neither I nor my mother were taken seriously when it came to getting me treatment. I won’t get too much into her experiences with healthcare here aside from the fact that I probably wouldn’t have ever even existed had it not been for my grandmother sticking by her side during emergencies. But I will tell you about a shared experience between us. Below the cut so this doesn’t take up too much space.

When I was born, I was vastly premature. Just short of making it into the third trimester. So obviously, I spent the first few weeks of my life in NICU. I finally arrive home. That Friday afternoon, I quit breathing. It’s temporary, I resume shortly after. But this is enough to prompt my mother to take me in. Now obviously this is a Friday afternoon, nobody wants to deal with the new mother and a baby that seems fine. But she refuses to leave until I’m treated. A social worker is even sent to speak to her. She asks, “Are you afraid to be alone with your daughter?” to which my mother replies, “No, I’m not stupid.” Thankfully a few minutes later I stop breathing again in the waiting room and someone finally takes me back. We leave with a little infant sized baby monitor.

This experience, I think, really highlights this kind of issue. I was an infant. I had no way to self-advocate. I’d only just come home from my first few weeks of life in that same exact place. So the only person I had to advocate for me was my mother. A woman with her first ever infant. On a Friday night when everyone just wanted to go home. Holding a baby so small she had to wear Cabbage Patch Kid clothes for the first few months of her life. Of course any doctor or nurse would assume she was nervous about finally being alone with such a small and fragile child. But she was right, I was having problems. And so I was on a breathing monitor for the next few months.

I’ve never been withheld treatment for pain in an emergency (although I have been told I can take a third! extra! advil if the first two didn’t work for my knee pain that was borderline debilitating at the time). But I have faced similar levels of disbelief. I recently had to gather medical records for an upcoming doctors appointment. I came upon test results from a 24/48 hour set of heart monitors from a few years ago. WHITE COAT HYPERTENSION was what the title of the page said. In big bold letters in case I somehow missed anywhere else on the page it said the same thing. Simultaneously, but at the bottom of the page in a place that wouldn’t immediately catch the eye, the paper read that I experienced enough of an anomaly that it could “result in more target organ damage and a more adverse clinical outcome.” It also took the time to list every factor as NORMAL even though those same numbers were the ones that prompted my doctor to even order those tests in the first place.

Now, I can’t fault all healthcare workers for not treating women the way they do men. I know how exhausted they are. How overworked and overburdened. But I think it’s fair that I should have known when they ran a pregnancy test on me as a teenager without notifying me beforehand. That also occurred during a visit to the ER in 2020. I was 15 and in the beginning stages of an allergic reaction to something I couldn’t put my finger on. Due to the nature of a disorder I have, it could have been anywhere from a cold or bug bite to a broken bone or surgery (although the latter two were clearly not the cause that time). But the cause didn’t matter. I was 15 and female and so despite my insistence I was not pregnant, they ran tests without telling me first. In retrospect, it’s nothing in the long run. It’s pretty harmless. But I think it’s definitely interesting what I was told and not told in my many visits to the hospital. For the white coat hypertension diagnosis, I was simply told that the results were slightly different than normal but showed nothing wrong with me and that I was fine. So I never bothered to read the results for myself, because when you’re told you’re fine, what else are you going to do? And for the pregnancy test, I was just straight up never informed of a test being run. Of course it was negative so there was nothing to report back, but it’s still something I should have been notified of.

This is honestly part of why I still sometimes call my mom back with me during specialist appointments. It helps to have an advocate around. Because when you’re female and not trained in the medical field, and your doctor is much older than you and has training, you’re very likely to be intimidated by the interaction, even if you are not intimidated by the person on the other end of it.

Early on a Wednesday morning, I heard an anguished cry—then silence.

I rushed into the bedroom and watched my wife, Rachel, stumble from the bathroom, doubled over, hugging herself in pain.

“Something’s wrong,” she gasped.

This scared me. Rachel’s not the type to sound the alarm over every pinch or twinge. She cut her finger badly once, when we lived in Iowa City, and joked all the way to Mercy Hospital as the rag wrapped around the wound reddened with her blood. Once, hobbled by a training injury in the days before a marathon, she limped across the finish line anyway.

So when I saw Rachel collapse on our bed, her hands grasping and ungrasping like an infant’s, I called the ambulance. I gave the dispatcher our address, then helped my wife to the bathroom to vomit.

I don’t know how long it took for the ambulance to reach us that Wednesday morning. Pain and panic have a way of distorting time, ballooning it, then compressing it again. But when we heard the sirens wailing somewhere far away, my whole body flooded with relief.

I didn’t know our wait was just beginning.

I buzzed the EMTs into our apartment. We answered their questions: When did the pain start? That morning. Where was it on a scale of one to 10, with 10 being worst?

“Eleven,” Rachel croaked.

As we loaded into the ambulance, here’s what we didn’t know: Rachel had an ovarian cyst, a fairly common thing. But it had grown, undetected, until it was so large that it finally weighed her ovary down, twisting the fallopian tube like you’d wring out a sponge. This is called ovarian torsion, and it creates the kind of organ-failure pain few people experience and live to tell about.

“Ovarian torsion represents a true surgical emergency,” says an article in the medical journal Case Reports in Emergency Medicine. “High clinical suspicion is important. … Ramifications include ovarian loss, intra-abdominal infection, sepsis, and even death.” The best chance of salvaging a torsed ovary is surgery within eight hours of when the pain starts.

* * *

There is nothing like witnessing a loved one in deadly agony. Your muscles swell with the blood they need to fight or run. I felt like I could bend iron, tear nylon, through the 10-minute ambulance ride and as we entered the windowless basement hallways of the hospital.

And there we stopped. The intake line was long—a row of cots stretched down the darkened hall. Someone wheeled a gurney out for Rachel. Shaking, she got herself between the sheets, lay down, and officially became a patient.

We didn’t know her ovary was dying, calling out in the starkest language the body has.

Emergency-room patients are supposed to be immediately assessed and treated according to the urgency of their condition. Most hospitals use the Emergency Severity Index, a five-level system that categorizes patients on a scale from “resuscitate” (treat immediately) to “non-urgent” (treat within two to 24 hours).

I knew which end of the spectrum we were on. Rachel was nearly crucified with pain, her arms gripping the metal rails blanched-knuckle tight. I flagged down the first nurse I could.

“My wife,” I said. “I’ve never seen her like this. Something’s wrong, you have to see her.”

“She’ll have to wait her turn,” she said. Other nurses’ reactions ranged from dismissive to condescending. “You’re just feeling a little pain, honey,” one of them told Rachel, all but patting her head.

We didn’t know her ovary was dying, calling out in the starkest language the body has. I saw only the way Rachel’s whole face twisted with the pain.

Soon, I started to realize—in a kind of panic—that there was no system of triage in effect. The other patients in the line slept peacefully, or stared up at the ceiling, bored, or chatted with their loved ones. It seemed that arrival order, not symptom severity, would determine when we’d be seen.

As we neared the ward’s open door, a nurse came to take Rachel’s blood pressure. By then, Rachel was writhing so uncontrollably that the nurse couldn’t get her reading.

She sighed and put down her squeezebox.

“You’ll have to sit still, or we’ll just have to start over,” she said.

Finally, we pulled her bed inside. They strapped a plastic bracelet, like half a handcuff, around Rachel’s wrist.

* * *

From an early age we’re taught to observe basic social codes: Be polite. Ask nicely.Wait your turn. But during an emergency, established codes evaporate—this is why ambulances can run red lights and drive on the wrong side of the road. I found myself pleading, uselessly, for that kind of special treatment. I kept having the strange impulse to take out my phone and call 911, as if that might transport us back to an urgent, responsive world where emergencies exist.

The average emergency-room patient in the U.S. waits 28 minutes before seeing a doctor. I later learned that at Brooklyn Hospital Center, where we were, the average wait was nearly three times as long, an hour and 49 minutes. Our wait would be much, much longer.

Everyone we encountered worked to assure me this was not an emergency. “Stones,” one of the nurses had pronounced. That made sense. I could believe that. I knew that kidney stones caused agony but never death. She’d be fine, I convinced myself, if I could only get her something for the pain.

By 10 a.m., Rachel’s cot had moved into the “red zone” of the E.R., a square room with maybe 30 beds pushed up against three walls. She hardly noticed when the attending physician came and visited her bed; I almost missed him, too. He never touched her body. He asked a few quick questions, and then left. His visit was so brief it didn’t register that he was the person overseeing Rachel’s care.

Around 10:45, someone came with an inverted vial and began to strap a tourniquet around Rachel’s trembling arm. We didn’t know it, but the doctor had prescribed the standard pain-management treatment for patients with kidney stones: hydromorphone for the pain, followed by a CT scan.

The pain medicine started seeping in. Rachel fell into a kind of shadow consciousness, awake but silent, her mouth frozen in an awful, anguished scowl. But for the first time that morning, she rested.

* * *

Leslie Jamison’s essay “Grand Unified Theory of Female Pain” examines ways that different forms of female suffering are minimized, mocked, coaxed into silence. In an interview included in her book The Empathy Exams, she discussed the piece, saying: “Months after I wrote that essay, one of my best friends had an experience where she was in a serious amount of pain that wasn’t taken seriously at the ER.”

She was talking about Rachel.  

“Women are likely to be treated less aggressively until they prove that they are as sick as male patients.”

“That to me felt like this deeply personal and deeply upsetting embodiment of what was at stake,” she said. “Not just on the side of the medical establishment—where female pain might be perceived as constructed or exaggerated—but on the side of the woman herself: My friend has been reckoning in a sustained way about her own fears about coming across as melodramatic.”

“Female pain might be perceived as constructed or exaggerated”: We saw this from the moment we entered the hospital, as the staff downplayed Rachel’s pain, even plain ignored it. In her essay, Jamison refers back to “The Girl Who Cried Pain,” a study identifying ways gender bias tends to play out in clinical pain management. Women are  “more likely to be treated less aggressively in their initial encounters with the health-care system until they ‘prove that they are as sick as male patients,’” the study concludes—a phenomenon referred to in the medical community as “Yentl Syndrome.”

In the hospital, a lab tech made small talk, asked me how I like living in Brooklyn, while my wife struggled to hold still enough for the CT scan to take a clear shot of her abdomen.

“Lot of patients to get to, honey,” we heard, again and again, when we begged for stronger painkillers. “Don’t cry.”

I felt certain of this: The diagnosis of kidney stones—repeated by the nurses and confirmed by the attending physician’s prescribed course of treatment—was a denial of the specifically female nature of Rachel’s pain. A more careful examiner would have seen the need for gynecological evaluation; later, doctors told us that Rachel’s swollen ovary was likely palpable through the surface of her skin. But this particular ER, like many in the United States, had no attending OB-GYN. And every nurse’s shrug seemed to say, “Women cry—what can you do?”

Nationwide, men wait an average of 49 minutes before receiving an analgesic for acute abdominal pain. Women wait an average of 65 minutes for the same thing. Rachel waited somewhere between 90 minutes and two hours.

“My friend has been reckoning in a sustained way about her own fears about coming across as melodramatic.” Rachel does struggle with this, even now. How long is it appropriate to continue to process a traumatic event through language, through repeated retellings? Friends have heard the story, and still she finds herself searching for language to tell it again, again, as if the experience is a vast terrain that can never be fully circumscribed by words. Still, in the throes of debilitating pain, she tried to bite her lip, wait her turn, be good for the doctors.

For hours, nothing happened. Around 3 o’clock, we got the CT scan and came back to the ER. Otherwise, Rachel lay there, half-asleep, suffering and silent. Later, she’d tell me that the hydromorphone didn’t really stop the pain—just numbed it slightly. Mostly, it made her feel sedated, too tired to fight.

If she had been alone, with no one to agitate for her care, there’s no telling how long she might have waited.

Eventually, the doctor—the man who’d come to Rachel’s bedside briefly, and just once—packed his briefcase and left. He’d been around the ER all day, mostly staring into a computer. We only found out later he’d been the one with the power to rescue or forget us.

When a younger woman came on duty to take his place, I flagged her down. I told her we were waiting on the results of a CT scan, and I hassled her until she agreed to see if the results had come in.

When she pulled up Rachel’s file, her eyes widened.

“What is this mess?” she said. Her pupils flicked as she scanned the page, the screen reflected in her eyes.

“Oh my god,” she murmured, as though I wasn’t standing there to hear. “He never did an exam.”

The male doctor had prescribed the standard treatment for kidney stones—Dilauded for the pain, a CT scan to confirm the presence of the stones. In all the hours Rachel spent under his care, he’d never checked back after his initial visit. He was that sure. As far as he was concerned, his job was done.

If Rachel had been alone, with no one to agitate for her care, there’s no telling how long she might have waited.

It was almost another hour before we got the CT results. But when they came, they changed everything.

“She has a large mass in her abdomen,” the female doctor said. “We don’t know what it is.”

That’s when we lost it. Not just because our minds filled then with words liketumor and cancer and malignant. Not just because Rachel had gone half crazy with the waiting and the pain. It was because we’d asked to wait our turn all through the day—longer than a standard office shift—only to find out we’d been an emergency all along.

Suddenly, the world responded with the urgency we wanted. I helped a nurse push Rachel’s cot down a long hallway, and I ran beside her in a mad dash to make the ultrasound lab before it closed. It seemed impossible, but we were told that if we didn’t catch the tech before he left, Rachel’s care would have to be delayed until morning.

“Whatever happens,” Rachel told me while the tech prepared the machine, “don’t let me stay here through the night. I won’t make it. I don’t care what they tell you—I know I won’t.”

Soon, the tech was peering inside Rachel through a gray screen. I couldn’t see what he saw, so I watched his face. His features rearranged into a disbelieving grimace.

By then, Rachel and I were grasping at straws. We thought: cancer. We thought: hysterectomy. Lying there in the dim light, Rachel almost seemed relieved.

“I can live without my uterus,” she said, with a soft, weak smile. “They can take it out, and I’ll get by.”

She’d make the tradeoff gladly, if it meant the pain would stop.

After the ultrasound, we led the gurney—slowly, this time—down the long hall to the ER, which by then was  completely crammed with beds. Trying to find a spot for Rachel’s cot was like navigating rush-hour traffic.

Then came more bad news. At 8 p.m., they had to clear the floor for rounds. Anyone who was not a nurse, or lying in a bed, had to leave the premises until visiting hours began again at 9.

When they let me back in an hour later, I found Rachel alone in a side room of the ER. So much had happened. Another doctor had told her the mass was her ovary, she said. She had something called ovarian torsion—the fallopian-tube twists, cutting off blood. There was no saving it. They’d have to take it out.

Rachel seemed confident and ready.

“He’s a good doctor,” she said. “He couldn’t believe that they left me here all day. He knows how much it hurts.”

When I met the surgery team, I saw Rachel was right. Talking with them, the words we’d used all day—excruciating, emergency, eleven—registered with real and urgent meaning. They wanted to help.

By 10:30, everything was ready. Rachel and I said goodbye outside the surgery room, 14 and a half hours from when her pain had started.

* * *

Rachel’s physical scars are healing, and she can go on the long runs she loves, but she’s still grappling with the psychic toll—what she calls “the trauma of not being seen.” She has nightmares, some nights. I wake her up when her limbs start twitching.

Sometimes we inspect the scars on her body together, looking at the way the pink, raised skin starts blending into ordinary flesh. Maybe one day, they’ll become invisible. Maybe they never will.

[fenristheorem]

How do you think Lance will react or behave when he realizes he’s falling in love with Gardienne?

Somehow, I feel this is a masterpiece of both fluff and angst... mostly angst, I guess, but with a bit of fluff.

Also, since the ask doesn’t specify, I wrote this assuming that they’re not in a relationship. It gives me more to write, however, I’ll be happy writing headcanons on Lance realizing he’s falling in love when he’s just casually dating Guardienne!

~Under the cut~

Lance realizing he's falling in love with Guardienne:

What is this feeling that he is feeling???

Is he dying? Having a heart attack? Has she poisoned him?

Lance is confused as all hell - why is his heart racing and his body tingling around her?

He knows why, and he wants to kill himself for it

He nearly destroyed the world, killed his brother and now he’s falling in love with the woman who should have killed him. Nice job. Well done.

Lance thinks he’s sick really. Maybe he’s actually ill or maybe he is twisted beyond redemption.

He decides not to tell her, she would probably kill him if she found out. Maybe he should tell her then???

It starts out slow. He begins to focus on her greatest qualities; the time she invests into the guard, her adamance on protecting the guard and Eldarya, her stubbornness on not taking shit from anyone - even her superiors. She doesn’t play games when it comes to safety and moral boundaries.

But she’s also soft, and kind. She’s not afraid to open her heart up willingly to others knowing how easy it would be for her to be hurt in the end. She lost many things, and yet she’s still willing to keep loving others knowing that they could be lost in time.

And as much as she used to hate him, and sometimes tries to hate him still, he knows that she’s getting used to having him around.

Lance tries to make this transition as easy as possible. He stays out of her way, does his best to provide help or protection without bothering her, remains friendly and cordial whenever he can. She has every right to be here, he doesn’t, and he’s not willing to step on boundaries.

However, he can’t ignore the warmth that begins to bloom in his chest when he observes her, and over time that warmth spreads from his chest, throughout his body, until it turns into an inferno that burns him from within. He begins to notice how beautiful she is, with vibrant eyes, sleek hair, and perfect skin, littered with small scars from their past battles.

And then she begins to grow comfortable with touching him. It doesn’t happen very often, but it drives him to the edge of sanity when it does.

It can be a small brush, or a gentle touch, but the absolute worst part of it is that he can’t actually feel it. He’s aware of the pressure and length of the touch, but the armor protecting his body doesn’t allow any actual physical touch to occur. It distress him to no end; he’s that close to actual physical contact - with the woman he’s in love with no less - but it can’t happen because of the armor.

He nearly stops wearing armor. But he’s also aware of the fact that he’s a warrior and needs to be well armed and protected at all times.

Besides, it would be very suspicious if he suddenly stopped wearing his armor. The last thing he wants is to scare her away.

However, the burning heat that spreads like liquid fire through his body is eventually replaced by cold anguish. The tingling he feels where her skin should have touched his turns to painful tensing as he steels himself to not reach out and initiate his own touch, knowing that it would likely upset her. His breathing, once completely aware of how steady and deep it is, turns to well-hidden constricted heaves as he breathes through a tight throat. And his eyes, once having glittered with interest and admiration, now glint with tragedy and turn away from her.

He can’t have her, he can never have her, he doesn’t deserve her.

This once beautiful feeling that embraced him kindly has now turned to a cold, painful sheet that lays over him every time he sees her.

Eventually he tries to avoid her for his sake. He finds it hard to think around her - she distracts him - and she doesn’t even know it. This tactic works for a while until he realizes that he just feels empty again not being near her and seeing her around. So he allows himself to go back to a bit of a normal routine, allowing himself to see her around occasionally. This just puts him in agony again, feeling how much he needs her but knowing she couldn’t ever possibly feel the same.

Lance begins to have dreams of her. He dreams that they’re together, alone, pressed so tightly against each other that he doesn’t know where one of them ends and the other begins. In these dreams, he savors the softness of her lips as he kisses her deeply, her enticing scent as she’s laid on his bed, the soft lull of her voice as she calls for him, and the way that she grasps onto his back and arms as she lets him have his way with her. And then he wakes up, cold and alone, and the rest of his night is rendered sleepless as the vividity of his dream quickly slips away to turn into an emptiness that makes him curl in on himself to try and ease the pain.

He turns this distress into physical labor; training harder and more often, spending more time at the forge, going on longer, harder missions in hopes of being away long enough to eventually forget about her. But nothing he does can truly distract him.

When he trains, he wonders if she’s perhaps watching him in interest and admiration from a corner he can’t see. When he works the forge, he can only imagine how she would react if he made a special reawakening gift dagger for her. When he’s away on missions, missing her so much that it hurts, he wonders if she’s missing him too.

Lance eventually gets used to this feeling - it’s just like his emotions on his brother’s death, or the terrible crimes he’s committed in his past. It’s an emotion that physically effects his whole body. And while it can be debilitating, sometimes, late into the night when he’s left alone to suffer to his own thoughts and opinions on himself, it’s nothing that he can’t live with.

He does his best to avoid and ignore her, but he can’t help but jump eagerly whenever she acknowledges his presence or extends a bit of warmth to him. He’s nearly completely sure that she doesn’t know about this, he hides it very well, but sometimes he wishes that she did. Who knows, maybe she does feel the same? He can’t know for sure until he asks, but he knows that if she doesn’t it’ll complicate things beyond any possible repair to the point where they won’t be able to function around each other. The cost of telling her and having her not feeling the same heavily outweighs the cost of not telling her and him suffering for who knows how long with an unexpressed love. He refuses to complicate things for the guard again, especially when it’s for something so personal and useless to the rest of the guard, so until she expresses any sort of interest that may possibly reflect his own emotions, he’ll bite his tongue and suffer it.

He’s suffered many things before, he can suffer the burden of hopeless love.

I hope this is alright! Again, I’m happy to write headcanons on Lance already being in a relationship with Guardienne and realizing he’s in love with her then, just submit a request if that’s something I should write. I might make that a scenario/short-story combined with his confession of the weight of his feelings if it’s asked for.

Have a request? Ask them here!

But first, please read the rules list for asks!

[yinses]

salvation and redemption   if you could only save one soul in this wretched world fyodor dostoevsky x reader rating: t  a/n: interrupting our normal scheduled programming for this idea i couldn’t get out of my head after going through my 5th rerun of bsd. i’ve always found fyodor to be an interesting character and he remains as an enigma i can’t shake.

“you love me right, kroshka?”

your hand paused at the crown of his head, a lapse in both your thought and judgement. it should have been a practiced answer for you, with how often he asked it. your response should have been expected as well, certainly given how his arms-his hands warmed your body. being with him was like living with a bomb inside your chest, a timer with no limit as he teased your existence by his mere proximity. 

everyone assumed you’d been numbed by experience. no one truly trusted a man like fyodor do. so of course you were simply submissive by defeat. you couldn’t escape if you wanted, so why not be pliant and just enjoy the life you were given until he deemed it time for your retribution. 

but in truth, you never feared fyodor in the way others did. 

you didn’t dread what he was, your trepidation stemmed from the person he once was. a child lost in his own ideals and thrown head first into a task bigger than himself. 

for as long as you could remember, it had always been you telling him not to worry. that it would always work itself out somehow. and in the event it didn’t? you would be there to save the day. 

in your youth, due to your ability, you likened yourself as a hero. not the super kind, with all the strength and posture. no, you were more comfortable behind the scenes, the afterthought once all the glory had dispersed. 

everyone liked to think it all happened in a simple swoop. the champion would defeat the adversary, stop the chaos and life would go on. but only for those unaffected by the utter destruction left behind. crumbling infrastructure and a debilitated economy. 

growing up in moscow was just another city under the predation of evils and conflict. it was easy for such a place to worship the one who could bring forth deliverance. yet in the overwhelming relief of the downfall of the perpetrator, they often forgot about the repentance of the souls and atmosphere that was distributed in the process. 

truly what did grieving do for anyone but bandage cracks when they needed to be filled. 

as a child you had more cracks than porcelain should have allowed, yet the integrity remained if only in name. 

“watch out!”

“wait, fyodor don’t!”

but you were too late. with a sigh, you fell to your knees uncaring of the blood that stained your already soiled socks as you cradled the dead canine. it had been made feral by nature, instead of choice. starved due to the lack of substance in his environment and forced to turn on whatever viable option was left. 

you were just children. fleshy but not overly meaty and certainly not part of its diet. he struck out of his own fears of humans, cruelty baring its vulnerability to the world. in search of your own next meal, you’d stumbled unknowingly into its territory. 

already dirty from the streets, fyodor hadn’t seconded his thoughts when he’d darted for the nearest trash can in hopes of salvaging anything to appease your stomachs. he’d been a moment too late to see the dog hidden in the corner, already thrown back by a lunge before he could dare to evade. it had been instinct for him to strike first, a thoughtless punishment executed out of fright. 

rubbing his freshly scraped palms against his ratty jacket, fyodor spared you a sour look. “yes, kroshka, im fine. thanks for asking.” his dry reply went unacknowledged as he rustled through the garbage. 

in the changing seasons of russia, even the newly dead didn’t take long to scum to the cold. despite the insulation, it’s coat already had a chill as you ran your fingers through it’s fur. 

“you’re not actually going to bring it back are you?”

uncaring of the way it stained your clothing, you drew the dog close to your chest as a dull light m encompasses your body. in that moment, time seemed to stop as if altered by a silent command before it backpedaled backwards without regard for reality. at the first shift of life, you carefully disentangle yourself and put distance between you as the animal slowly comes to terms with its restoration. 

not even a drop of blood was present as evidence of its past demise. shaking it’s coat, it stood on unstable legs, gaze filled with trepidation without cognition. a good deed should bare fruits of gratitude. 

so why were you suffering from the sharp pain of fangs tearing into the flesh of your shoulder? your cry was short lived, however, as fyodor jumped back into action, a quick touch of it palm undoing your works. 

in his haste, he’d carelessly knocked over the metal trash bin causing the crash to echo through the night. coupled with your cry of pain and the wail of repeated death, it was no surprise that your commotion attracted attention. 

“not every life deserves a second chance.” 

you don’t fight it when his fingers close around your wrist and he promptly drags you out of sight. whether the police or less honorable citizens, it wouldn’t be good for the two of you to linger too long. your hand grips the curve of your shoulder where the attack had just missed your throat. a second light show reveals a dingy shirt but one without tatter or blood. the pain from the bite gone with it but the sting of your decision lingers. 

“not every deed should be punished,” you whisper. 

you expect for him to stop you then, overcome with the need to debate but he continues to drag you along, making up for your lack of speed with his strength. 

“this world wouldn’t need either if it wasn’t so cruel. maybe then people like us could be happy for a change.”

for orphans, a strive for happiness was best waited out until you could age enough to properly take it from the world at will. eventually the two of you would be able to contribute to society and earn a decent living. 

it was easier to dream of a house. not too big or small. one that sat comfortably on a plot of land away from the dirt and grime of the city. you’d live off your own crops and grow old by your own ambitions. these for the aspirations that manifested in your heart. leaving only room for emotions like acceptance and expectation. 

but fyodor was already sowing the seeds of condemnation and reformation. tired of the mishandling of the world and the path it was on. as a child he promised you a life without faults. you couldn’t have imagined at that age, how many of his own would manifest in turn. 

yet out of obligation- or perhaps maybe it was affection. you stayed with him. slowly the hero of your story became the villain and your backstage presence was pushed further and further out of your inherent role of retribution. 

what good would punishment be if you unraveled the seams of disciple after all? 

salvation and redemption. 

that’s the name given to your ability. 

the ability to reverse the wrongs of the world, at the price of your own soul. for as black as this reality was becoming, at your rate you would have long been swallowed up had it not been for his intervention. 

gradually your hand picked back up its pace, fingers working their way under dark tresses as you scratched at the scalp. for some many years, you’d only known the body lain against you to be cold, shivering against the bricked walls of abandoned buildings. but because of his actions, his directive- now you were both warm, fed and properly housed. 

no, you didn’t need to be the hero. they only ever perished in the end. 

just his salvation. 

his excuse for redemption while he scoured the world for crime and provided the diligent punishment. 

dropping your head, you pressed your lips against the rise of his cheek.

“until the end, fyodor.” 

[vintagedolan]

could you maybe write a lil something about grays girlfriend getting a migraine? like how he would react or maybe he knows the look on your face when you start to feel one coming on. i get them a lot and just need gray snuggles, forehead kisses and for him to play with my hair 🥺

 as a chronic migraine sufferer this hits ~different~

You’d had to learn how to function. Unfortunately, the world doesn’t stop just because you felt like your head was going to explode. 

Internally, it was a shit show. Your stomach was churning, lights painfully bright against your eyes - even the smallest sounds were deafening. And that was all on top of the pounding in your head, the feeling of your brain beating against the inside of your skull with every fast beat of your heart. You prayed it was as worse as it was going to get, that it wasn’t going to progress into the debilitating pain that would have you curled up in the dark for hours.

Externally, you had on the everything-is-fine mask. You did your best to keep your face composed, to keep listening to Ethan talking about how excited he was for the candle launch - the meanings of the crystals, which ones he thought were going to sell best. 

You thought you were playing it off well. You shifted, let your head rest on the bottom of your palm, subtly putting pressure on your temple to try and ease some of the ache. Ethan was standing, so you couldn’t look at his face for too long without the lights making things worse, but you still tried to nod along and give him an encouraging smile or comment when you could. Only somebody who really knew you, knew your tells, would know something was up.

And after a year of dating, Grayson prided himself on knowing you very, very well. He suspected it as soon as he walked in, but it wasn’t until you closed your eyes for a moment too long and sucked in a long breath that he was sure.

“Baby, does your head hurt?” 

You turned to look at him, catching his concerned frown over by the fridge as he watched you.

“A little.” 

He knew in your world, that meant a lot. 

“You wanna go lay down for a little bit?” As if on cue, the pounding in your head started to somehow intensify even more, moving behind your eyes and pulsing. You nodded - or at least you assumed you did, because Grayson was next to you then, guiding you out of your chair with an arm around your waist, headed down the hallway. 

It took you a minute to realize you weren’t headed towards the bedroom.

“Where’re we goin,” you mumbled, not even having the energy to keep your words from running together.

“Pod studio. It’s quieter, and darker in there,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your head when he reached around to open the door. The newest room in the house was wonderfully decorated, but you didn’t have enough time to appreciate it. All you were focused on was the very inviting looking couch that he was leading you over to under the dimmed lights. 

You sat down, head dropping into your hands and thumbs moving to your temples, desperate for any kind of relief. 

Grayson crouched down in front of you, ducking so he could meet your downward gaze.

“I’m gonna get some stuff, I’ll be right back okay? Hang in there.” 

The whimper that came out of your mouth was involuntary, and you hoped he didn’t hear it as he hurried out the door. You weren’t sure how long he was gone, but you looked up when he got back with his arms full. Balanced in his left was the diffuser that usually sat on his shelf in his room - he’d already prepped it with peppermint oil, knowing it was supposed to help with headaches. In his right was a bottle of water, some medicine, and your favorite blanket from the living room. He came and crouched in front of you again, passing the little pills and his hydroflask over.

“Here baby,” he turned his hand so the pills fell into your palm and you grimaced, knowing that tilting your head back to swallow them was going to make the throbbing worse - it always did. 

“They’ll help. Please take em, for me,” he murmured, low and soft so it didn’t hurt you. You nodded at him, watched him sigh a bit in relief as he untwisted the cap of the bottle and kissed your forehead, standing up to plug in the diffuser while you took them. 

The lights dimmed down as low as they could go without being completely off, and then finally he was there, the couch dipping down with his weight as he climbed on next to you. You waited until he got situated, laid back against the pillow and the arm rest before you used the energy you had left to crawl on top of him, straddling his lap and tucking up against his chest as he spread the blanket over you.

“Tell me if need to move,” he whispered - the best position always changed based off where your migraine was centered, and he was content to let you use him however you wanted. This time, you moved until that little bump on his shoulder was lined up with your right temple, giving you just enough pressure to take the bite off the pain. 

He took your stillness and the little sigh you let out as the sign that you’d found the ‘sweet spot’ as you called it and he was careful not to move much as he brought his right hand up to your head, gently starting to run his fingers over your scalp and through your hair. He turned his head, pressed a few kisses to your forehead before he spoke.

“Hate seeing you hurting like this. Wish I could make it better.” His voice was so soft, so careful to not cause you any more pain.

“You do make it better. You always make it better,” you mumbled, pressing a kiss to his neck, sweet and light. It still made his eyes flutter closed, right hand moving from your hair down to your neck, over your back and back up in a soothing cycle that distracted you from the pain until you could drift off in his arms, hopeful for relief when you woke back up.

[generallynerdy]

One life, I thought—a thousand deaths (Jon Antilles & Fay)

Summary: On Queyta, Obi-Wan Kenobi is not the only one to escape Durge and Ventress. One of the four legendary Masters, Jon Antilles, emerges from a lava stream despite knowing he’s going to die. He’s so sure of it that he crawls his way to Fay’s side, wanting to spend his last moments with the woman who he considers his Master. But she has other plans. Plans to make certain that Jon Antilles lives past today.

Warnings: Angst, Character Death, On-Screen Character Death, Implied/Referenced Character Death, there’s both sorry, Self-Sacrifice, The Curse of Immortality, holy shit i made myself sad dude Word Count: 2,191

Prompt: Angstpril Day 2 - Sole Survivor

Author’s Note: listen I know nobody knows about these characters that are in literally one comic but I have FEELINGS about them okay?? Jon is meant to be a badass mysterious enigma but he screams sad boi and Fay is like...the greatest cryptid Jedi ever, I love her. So, of course, I decided to make them and Knol and Nico suffer. (Also I know Obi-Wan survived the mission but the Sole Survivor still applies because Jon is the sole survivor of the four legendary Masters, just in case that wasn’t clear.) I just finished this today, so the editing is minimal.

Read on AO3

*

Using the Force as a shield is, in theory, one of the easier skills a Jedi utilizes. That is assuming, of course, that the Jedi in question is in good health, a decent mental state, and isn’t under a severe amount of stress. If said Jedi is, say, three feet into a pool of lava, already bearing grievous injuries and the weight of the deaths of two close companions, and feeling the fading life of another, the simple task, understandably, becomes something of a problem.

Jon has finally managed to pull the Force around him like a blanket. It protects him from the bubbling lake around him now, but the first few seconds he couldn’t pull it off were torture.

As it turns out, lava burns. It burns like shame, like failure, like the nightmares Jon used to have about his Master abandoning him on a planet in Hutt space for getting just a little too mouthy. And it hurts nearly as much.

“Fuck,” he hisses. He makes a rule of not cursing, but right now feels like an appropriate time to break it. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

He claws at the charred remains of his robes. Contrary to popular belief, lava doesn’t melt initially, as Jon now knows. Instead of melting, he burst into flames for the few seconds it took to pull himself together, though they felt like an eternity. Red, throbbing burns litter his entire body, his hair singed but miraculously intact thanks to his hood, which is entirely ashes now. The pain consumes his thoughts, making his shielding start to flicker in and out.

And then, through the debilitating agony, a touch of something familiar.

Jon’s eyes fly open. “Fay,” he whispers.

Her light is dimmer than it should be, not flickering in and out mischievously like it usually does. But still, she makes an effort to reach out, to check on him. It sends a sob up his throat.

“Hold on, Fay, hold on.”

Clenching his fists, he opens himself up to the Force. His actions are ones of faith, not of desperation, and he lets it flow through him as he takes a deep breath. The idea of using one of his Master’s abilities would normally make him nauseous, but the disgust doesn’t even cross his mind this time as he prepares to teleport. He thinks of that open, flat space of rock that Obi-Wan and Fay ran to, their enemies close behind. Focusing fiercely on that distant image, he pulls on the Force and folds the two points—

Jon collapses on solid ground with a heaving gasp.

Every inch of his body protests the change, especially his knees, which burn when they make contact with the ground, but somehow he manages to ignore his own complaints.

Fay isn’t far, or she shouldn’t be, at least. The distance between them seems gaping when he tries to move.

Still, her light is fading fast. And he wants to be by her side.

So, Jon Antilles crawls on hands and knees, dragging his body across sharp stones and past bubbling streams of lava. He aches with each movement and cries out when it becomes too much, but he persists regardless. Something in him knows it may be the last thing he ever does.

Finally, he sees her.

She’s sprawled out, her chest hardly moving as her breathing becomes shallow. Her near-golden hair is filthy with ash and her eyes are dim. She’s hardly herself, Jon thinks, and feels his stomach sink.

Hundreds of years the great Master Fay has lived and breathed. Hundreds of years and he’s going to watch her die today.

“Jon,” she calls out weakly.

He pulls himself to her side, grabbing her hand with his own shaky ones. “I’m here, Master.”

They only met when he was a teenager, but he feels as if he’s known her all his life. They’ve travelled the Outer Rim together, following the Force, for decades now and he’s never regretted a second of it. In all but title, Fay is his Master. She was always better than Dark Woman, even when the bar was six feet under. The only record with both their names will be at the Temple, where the dead are listed, a handful of mission reports with other Jedi, and the stories the younglings share of the 4 legendary, nomadic Masters.

“Knol and Nico,” Fay breathes out, “they’re one with the Force.”

Jon grimaces. “Yes. And the Force is with us.”

She laughs, breathy and half-choked. It’s an old lesson, familiar and grounding. “And so too are they,” she adds.

“Where’s Obi-Wan?”

“Gone, with the cure.” She smiles just a little. “The Republic fights another day.”

Suddenly grim, he squeezes her hand. “But not us.”

A pause.

“But not us.”

The silence overwhelms them. The wind whistles in the distance, carrying with it nothing but smoke and ashes. Queyta isn’t the best place to die, Jon thinks absently. He would rather it have been someplace with flowers.

“I wish it could’ve been Jedha.”

He almost jumps at her voice, but her words jarr a surprised laugh from his sore lungs. “Jedha? I thought you hated cold planets.”

“Oh, yes, but not that one. Force, I should have taken you. The Force there is so...so strong, so pure, you can feel the kyber from the surface,” she explains, staring straight up at him. If anyone else were to gaze so intensely at his scars, he’d be uncomfortable, but she’s safe. She’s family. “And the Guardians of the Whills are so kind. I met a young one of theirs some decades ago. You two would’ve gotten along.”

Jon laughs a little. “You’re always looking to find me friends, Fay.”

Her smile turns sad and she lifts a hand to his face, letting it rest on his cheek. “You’re so young,” she whispers. “Too young to be so lonely, Jon.”

He shuts his eyes, lets himself be comforted by her touch. When he opens them again, she still has that gut-wrenching look on her face. He places his hand on top of hers, unsurprised at how cold they are despite the blistering heat.

“I’m not lonely,” he promises.

Jon doesn’t say that it’s because of her, Knol, and Nico, but Fay picks up the thought anyway. Her eyes fill with tears.

“I have watched so many I love die.” Fay’s voice wavers as she says it. He realises that it’s the first time he’s ever heard it do that. To be honest, he’d thought it was impossible. “Taken by age, by Darkness, by foolishness. Never have I met a soul as good as yours, Jon. And never a Jedi so worthy of love.”

“Fay…”

She shakes her head. “Your Master did not deserve you. The galaxy did not deserve you.”

Pulling her hand away from him, Jon squeezes it. “You did,” he says firmly, though his voice cracks.

“I hope so,” she admits with a rueful laugh. “I hope so.”

He smiles weakly. “I wish you’d found me first. But I thin-I think the Force knew when I needed you to save me. Because you did save me, Master. I could never thank you enough.”

She takes his word silently, holding his hand even tighter. “You never needed to.”

“Thank you,” he says now, even though it’s useless.

Fay’s grey eyes meet his pale ones and suddenly, she’s distressed. “You’re so young,” she repeats.

But Jon can see that she means something else this time.

“Not too young to do my duty.”

“Too young to die doing it.”

Jon thinks of Tan Yuster, one of four Padawans to die on Geonosis. The Jedi have experienced great loss these past months since the beginning of the war and so many so much younger than Jon have died in battle, the clones included. Of course, to Fay, they all may as well be children.

“I will go proudly into the Force,” he promises her. At your side.

Fay’s expression twists. “No.”

He scoffs. “I don’t think we have a say in it.”

“The Force let me live this long,” she says suddenly, as if it’s a realisation, “longer than I should have. Obi-Wan is gone, I’ve done what good I can, except...you’re here. Why are we here?”

“To say goodbye,” Jon offers.

She shakes her head, then tries to sit up, struggling until her would-be Padawan helps pull her up. “I’m done with goodbyes.”

“What are you—?”

He doesn’t get the chance to finish his question. Fay presses their foreheads together and grabs his hands with a newfound energy that terrifies him. Chills go up his spine when her presence in the Force covers him like a blanket. Warmth climbs up his hands, then his arms, and with a glance down he finds that his skin is healing.

“Fay, no!” he cries, trying to shove her away.

She only tightens her grip. “Stay still, Jon.”

She sounds more like herself, certain and unwavering. Jon would be happy-crying if he weren’t horrified. He tries to drag himself out of her grip, but she’s impossibly strong. Her healing creeps up his entire body, soothing his burns, though scars remain behind.

“No, no, no—FAY! Fay, stop it!” His screams turn to sobs. “You’ll die, stop—!”

“I already am,” she says, just as certain in her abilities as her fate. “But you don’t have to.”

Trembling, his attempts are weaker now but still there. “Please, please,” he begs. “Not without you!”

Tears stream down her cheeks. She allows herself a moment of weakness; she opens her eyes and meets his tearful gaze, remembering the teenager she first met. He was so scared and so brave. And for a moment, she’d thought he must be a ghost. But no, he was just a boy. For the first time in a long time, she had let herself build a bridge between them, like Knol and Nico before him, even knowing she would have to watch him die one day.

Now, she thinks with fierce stubbornness, she won’t have to.

It feels like her life is leaving her for him, though she knows it’s just fading into the Force. It’s to it that she speaks, the cosmic energy she’s dedicated her long, long life to.

“If anyone is deserving of the time you’ve given me,” she gasps out, “it is Jon Antilles.”

She doesn’t see the horror in Jon’s face, but she can feel it in his quiet Force-presence, so subdued. He hides himself on purpose and it truly breaks her heart. His light is so strong. The galaxy is all the better for his existence.

“I don’t want this! Fay, I don’t—let me die, please—”

Fay only lifts her head and kisses his forehead, the sort of gentle gesture a mother might give her son. “One day,” she promises. It rings with truth, with the strength of the Force behind it. “But not today.”

Jon cries out and tries to rip himself away, but freezes when pure light washes over him. The warmth he’s always associated with Fay soaks into him, healing all his wounds in an instant and rejuvenating his fading energy. Stars burst before his eyes, like he’s seeing into the very universe beyond Queyta, beyond what he’s meant to see with his petty Human eyes. In another instant, it’s gone and Fay is slumping over.

She falls to the ground with a thump, a noise that jolts Jon back into focus.

“Master!” he sobs.

He pulls her up from the ground with the sickening realisation that she’s a complete deadweight. She’s limp in his arms, already paling. Desperate, Jon pushes her hair out of her face and finds...nothing. Her eyes are dull. With his fingers on her wrist, he can’t feel a pulse.

“Fay?”

The steady beat of her Force-presence is gone, a gaping hole in his universe. Their bond, one strong enough to resemble a training bond, is shattered, a physical pain that throbs in his skull.

Jon begins to hyperventilate, his sudden gasps for breath burning his now-perfect lungs.

“Come back,” he begs Fay’s corpse. “Fuck, please. Please, come back.”

He pulls her into his lap, clutching her robes like a child being left behind for the first time. It doesn’t hurt to move anymore and, thank the Force for it because his entire body shakes with the force of his cries.

Overwhelmed with grief he’s never experienced, Jon wails into Fay’s shoulder, rocking back and forth. The agonizing sound rings across the valley, a noise like torture.

It’s only now that he feels the frayed edges of his bonds with Knol and Nico.

He screams again, his vocal cords protesting it sharply.

The last time Jon was this alone, he was a child. And now, he’s right back where he was before he met his three closest companions. Except now, now, he knows what it means to love and to lose. It aches. It aches like nothing he’s ever felt.

“Please,” he whispers hoarsely. “I can’t—I need you. What do I do? What am I supposed to do?”

He never gets an answer.

*

River’s Tags: @hahaboop & @mystoragehatesme

Masterlist

[onthepyre]

like real people do

1.4k prinxiety, featuring roman being incredibly stupid

To Roman, almost everything about Virgil is curious.  A lot of it is why.  Why does Virgil try to hide his smile — unless he's with Roman?  Why does he pretend he likes black coffee only to dump gallons of cream and sugar in when nobody's looking?  Why is he so incredibly… adorable?

(Roman isn't quite sure that's the right word, but it's the closest one he can find.)

But there are other things, too.  Where does he find such pigmented eye shadow?  What's his middle name?  Does he like Roman's singing voice?

Roman wants to know everything.  But lately, there's one question that's been almost permanently stuck in his mind: what would it be like to kiss Virgil?

Okay, wait, hang on.  He's not in love or anything — it's just curiosity!  It has absolutely nothing to do with the fervent eye contact Virgil will not stop making whenever someone brings up their love life (Roman can't figure out why — is he trying to show him how dumb he thinks it is?  That he wants to leave?  That he's jealous?  It can't be that).  And it isn't at all related to how he bites his bottom lip when he gets stressed out, which happens far too often for Roman to be okay with it.  And it definitely doesn't stem from Virgil's new experiments with makeup — especially the lipstick.  That's completely unrelated.

He's just curious, okay?  He wants to know.  He feels like he's been spending too much time with Logan, but this idea has wormed its way into his head and it won't leave.

Would Virgil be gentle?  Or would he throw his usual caution to the wind and press hard against Roman's mouth?  Would he go slowly?  What would he do with his hands?  What would Roman do with his hands?  Will teeth be involved?  (Somehow, that seems in character.)  Would Roman even do it right?

And for some reason, it is agonizing that Roman doesn't know the answer to any of these questions.  He's known Virgil for years and hasn't even kissed him once, which he thinks is quite a shame.  

(He's known Patton for even longer and it doesn't get on Roman's nerves that he hasn't kissed him, but he ignores this.)

So, he devises a plan.  It isn't a terribly complicated one, but he assumes this is for the better.  There are less steps to mess up, and fewer things that can go wrong.

First, he gets Virgil alone (he knows it'll make him less nervous).  This part isn't that hard — Roman knocks on Virgil's door at a groggy hour between afternoon and evening, when he knows Virgil will be home.  Virgil rolls his eyes — ask next time, asshole — but his smile betrays his harsh words.

He invites Roman in, and Roman tries to play it cool for a bit.  

"What are you here for?" Virgil asks as he sits down to turn on the TV.

"I missed your face," Roman says, which isn't untrue, but definitely isn't the main goal of his visit, nor does it fit the "calm and collected" vibe he was going for.

Virgil shakes his head a bit and shoots Roman a weird look, but forgets it almost immediately when he finds The Nightmare Before Christmas on Netflix.

"Oh, shit!  They must've just added this!"  He smiles, wide, and Roman's brain just screams, screams kiss him kiss him kiss him over a monotone of wordless noise.  But he doesn't, not yet, because he doesn't want to ruin Virgil's good mood even though something in the back of his mind tells him it wouldn't.

The noise in his head begins again when Virgil turns to lean against the arm of the sofa and throws his legs over Roman's lap, which is far more affection than he's ever shown before, at least through touch.  And Roman reminds himself this is just curiosity, just a vague sense of wonder, and definitely not a debilitating crush.

And this continues, all through the movie, every time Virgil shifts a little bit closer or smiles.  And Roman absolutely loses his mind when Virgil begins to sing along under his breath because his voice is so pretty and it takes every fiber in Roman's body to stop him from diving across the sofa and kissing Virgil.

The credits roll and Virgil looks over and stares for a second.  "Do you want to stay for dinner?" he asks, finally, with a remnant of a smile in his voice.

And Roman, like a fool, says, "Uh, yeah, I should — I should be able to."

Virgil practically bounces off the couch and into the kitchen, with Roman not far behind him.  He digs through the cabinets and settles on spaghetti, but not without suggesting at least three other dishes and deciding, without Roman's input, that he doesn't want to make them.

"Can I…" Roman begins, trying to decide if he's actually going to go through with this or not.

"Can you what?"

Roman chickens out at the last moment.  "Can I ask you something kind of weird?"

Virgil makes a face.  "I mean, within reason."  He pauses.  "You're making me nervous, Princey."

Roman takes a deep breath.  "Have you ever kissed a boy?"

Suddenly Virgil can't look at him.  He frowns into the boiling water.  "Uh, no.  I thought I was straight for fourteen years, repressed like hell for another five, plus nobody has ever asked me out and there's no way in hell I'm going to.  So.  No, I haven't."  He stares at his spaghetti for a bit longer, then glances over at Roman.  "Have you?"

Roman grins.  "A few times.  My first kiss was pretty shit — I think he actually tried to gag me with his tongue."  This prompts a chuckle out of Virgil, and he speaks again.

"I did kiss a girl once, when I was fifteen.  She turned out to be a lesbian, which should give you a pretty good idea of what it was like."

Roman grins.  "Well, that doesn't count, then.  It's like kissing your grandmother."

There's silence except for the boiling water, just for a moment, until Virgil continues.  "I kinda wish I had.  Kissed a boy, I mean.  Just to get it over with."

And.  Wow.  Okay.  This is Roman's moment.  Without actually looking at Virgil, he stutters out, "If — I can.  Um.  I'll kiss you, if you want."

Virgil's face turns three shades of red in seconds, and Roman can only imagine his is the same.  There's a long pause and Roman is worried that he has massively fucked up until Virgil says, "Yeah.  Okay."  And Roman does his best to squash the feeling of elation in his chest but gives up in seconds because wow.

Virgil moves towards Roman but stops at least a foot from him, making direct eye contact the whole time.  Roman does manage to overcome the urge to make fun of him and takes the last step, so he's only inches from Virgil's face.  Virgil's eyes are wide as he stares at Roman.  He places his hands on the back of Roman's neck and his gaze falls to Roman's lips and he finally, finally closes the gap.

There's about five seconds of just still, soft lip-on-lip contact, which already has Roman's heart beating fast, but then Virgil sighs through his nose and Roman can feel the breath on his face and the floodgates open.

Roman hand finds the small of Virgil's back and tugs him closer.  Virgil's mouth, hot against Roman's, falls open, and Roman's response is almost too enthusiastic.  He makes an embarrassing noise in the back of his throat and Virgil presses harder against him.  Virgil smiles and Roman can feel it against his lips and.

Oh.

Maybe this is love.

And Roman pulls back at this realization.  Virgil's eyes stay closed for just a moment and he frowns before looking up at Roman.

"What's wrong?"  Virgil's voice is quiet and gentle and it breaks Roman's heart.

"I can't.  I'm so sorry, I — this is my fault."

And Virgil's face is painful and for a second Roman almost wants to cry.

"Ro, what do you mean, I-"

"I'm in love with you, Virgil."  

Virgil screws up his face, frowning almost, and Roman turns to go — and Virgil grabs the collar of his shirt and pulls him into another kiss.

This one is shorter, just long enough and forceful enough for Virgil to make his point before he pulls away.  He presses his forehead against Roman's, smirking slightly.  

"Yeah, and?"

"Wait, do you mean-"

"Yes, dumbass.  I love you too."

Roman laughs — giggles — and pulls Virgil forward again (this is the third time he's kissed Virgil) and he feels him laugh and it's everything.

[captainpikeachu]

Booker’s trauma, recovery, and the role played in all of this by his nightmares of Quynh drowning

Okay, so we’ve all been talking a lot about how Booker could get better and maybe therapy can help, but I feel like there’s one thing that’s not been really addressed in the midst of all the talking about Booker’s trauma, and that’s the role played in all this by his nightmares of Quynh.

Now obviously with regards to this, the comics have addressed it as him not dreaming of Quynh, but the film has already changed aspects of the lore, and so when I address this issue, I will only be taking the information we have been presented to us from the film, not the comics. 

We know from information given to Nile by the team that the immortals dream of each other until they meet, at which point the dreams stop. We also know that Nile as the newest member hasn’t met Quynh yet, so she dreams of Quynh instead. With these two pieces of information, we can assume logically that Booker, who came into the group in the 1800s after Quynh had already been lost at sea, would also dream of her just like Nile because he has never met Quynh. So this means that since his resurrection in 1812, he’s at best had sporadic nightmares of Quynh drowning under water for 200 years, or at worst he’s been plagued by constant nightmares. 

As if losing his wife and kids weren’t an emotionally traumatic and isolating experience enough, it’s compounded by what could at worst be described as debilitating nightmares, nightmares that you could feel so very viscerally as if it’s happening to you, nightmares that likely would not help one to sleep and rest so that they could be emotionally and physically ready to deal with the toll of the grieving process. 

We talk about how Booker seems unable to move past the “depression” stage of grief, but perhaps what we are all missing here is that nightmares of Quynh is the WHY he can’t move on. 

Maybe those nightmares are what is weighing him down, making the pain and grief and trauma harder to process, and further isolating him from the rest of the team who do not experience this particular trauma. Because even if the team could love him enough to help him through the process of grieving a lost loved one, how could they really help him with the nightmares? It’s not something they can simply move past or make go away. Short of them finding Quynh, which seems like the team had long decided to stop doing for their own good, it’s just going to be there and there’s nothing that can be done. It’s a dark cloud that’s always going to hang over him, actively attacking him in his sleep when he is most vulnerable. 

Joe says 500 years in a box at the bottom of the ocean is enough to make anyone insane. So then surely 200 years experiencing some of that is enough to damage a Booker’s mental health badly enough that he simply cannot properly process grief and trauma. Because Booker isn’t just dealing with his own trauma, but also experiencing part of Quynh’s seemingly to be eternally unresolved trauma. So until Quynh is able to deal with her trauma or they meet and he no longer dreams about her, he can’t really move on because those nightmares aren’t letting him.

Just like Quynh is drowning at the bottom of the ocean, Booker is drowning in his bottles. He is her reflection in a way.

So maybe we don’t see Booker getting better even 6 month later because those nightmares haven’t gone away. Maybe his healing can’t start until they do. Maybe Quynh showing up to him at the end was a blessing in disguise, because if he is no longer dreaming about her, then maybe for the first time in 200 years he will finally have that weight off of his shoulder, maybe he will have clarity, and actually be able to work through his emotions properly without getting interferences from nightmares and trauma that are not his.

Now keep in mind, I’m not saying Booker didn’t make his own choices or that this somehow absolves him of the responsibility of those choices. I am simply saying that recovering from traumatic experiences is hard enough on its own without adding the weight of someone else’s trauma to all of that. And if he’s been holding onto two people’s trauma for 200 years, then there’s no doubt there would be damaging psychological effects. Those nightmares can easily affect his way of thinking, compounding his desperation and desire to die, and feeling like he can’t escape from that bottomless darkness. 

And if Nile in those short moments could get an emotional transference from Quynh, feeling her crazed anger and pain, then that’s what Booker has been picking up and feeding off of for 200 years. Could he even tell what is his own pain and anger from Quynh’s?

Obviously I don’t know what story plots a sequel movie might do, if they will follow the comics or not, but I think it is important that (as of right now) when we discuss Booker’s trauma and how he can get better, that we do not ignore the role that his nightmares of Quynh plays into how he is the way he is, and how perhaps without those nightmares, he can actually begin to work through the darkness and come back to the light.

Because let’s be honest here, we’ve all had nights where we don’t get sleep due to nightmares, we know how exhausting and damaging that can be to a person’s health physically and mentally, and how that effects everyday life and thinking. Even one day’s lack of well rested sleep could cause problems. Extend that to 200 years and we cannot ignore the serious damage that would do to a person.

Also oftentimes when people talk about Booker’s trauma, it is referred to in the past tense. That losing his family was something that happened in the past and that 200 years later he should have been able to cope and deal with it and move on. That he should have found happiness with his new family.

Setting aside that time doesn’t fix all things and loss of one family isn’t just replaced with a new family, if he’s been dreaming about Quynh for 200 years, then his trauma is not just in the past, it’s not just one past event that he’s had 200 years to get over, but rather it is a present and periodic repeating event that is still consistently traumatizing him. This means that even if he was trying to move on and be better, another nightmare, another traumatizing event would have likely set back all the progress made. He is being re-traumatized every time this happens and the grieving process starts all over again.

[bigskydreaming]

Not to harp on that last reblog but omgggggg. LOL, I had this acquaintance in offline life that tried to stress that like, I shouldn’t let peoples’ opinions of the way my face currently looks get to me, especially with as much stress and pressure as I was under trying to get a surgery that was essentially outside of my personal budget/resources range.

And it was just like, I appreciate the thought and the body image positivity and all that, but I’m kinda bemused that with as much pain medication as you routinely see me take, your go to assumption is that I’m trying so hard to get the prosthetic surgery because of image related issues, instead of like....the debilitating pain issues lolool. Its like, I promise you that conforming to what society says I should look like or my daily routines should be like doesn’t even crack the top twenty lists of reasons why I want a new jaw lmfao.

Its that thing where its like, its not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment in and of itself, its just it really had nothing whatsoever to do with me or my situation or motivations, and its kinda telling when people jump to that assumption despite me prioritizing and frequently making mention of literally a dozen other more pressing concerns. Like, I’m laughing, but in a sort of ‘oh no, a person who has watched you deal with pain and vertigo and nerve related issues for literal months assumes your reasons for wanting a super expensive surgery is people making fun of your jaw hurts your fee-fees and you’re laughing’ kinda way.

Like, it actually is super belittling to leapfrog over disabled peoples’ actual stated issues to make it about stuff that’s not even on our list. If you want to know what’s on the list, just ask, we’ll probably tell you? In fact, we probably already have, many, many times and the fact that you somehow didn’t hear and thus decided to just come up with your own hot take about what those probably are is like....hmmm...maybe....the real issue all along?

[thetomorrowshow]

Slower Than Words Ch. 5

1  2  3  4  5  6  7  8  9  10  11  12

I legitimately feel sorry about this chapter! It wasn’t meant to be this intense, just lightly angsty. Virgil really threw himself under the angst bus for this one so buckle up y’all

cw: gagging, unethical eye operations (not in great detail), panic attack, kidnapping, by a cult specifically, character being restrained (both on a table and not), brief mention of blood, fever, intense pain, vomit, that’s a lot of warnings, passing mention of drugs, singular mention of an IV, surgical implications

~

Everything was decidedly not going to be okay, Virgil realized several days later when he was rudely awoken by rough hands pulling him out of bed and out the door before he could say a word. He opened his mouth to scream and had a rag stuffed in it, which was also rude.

While being dragged down a hallway, Virgil took the moment to reflect on his current mental state, which was scarily calm considering what was happening. Shock, probably. Even more likely was the overwhelming gratitude he was feeling that it was him leaving the safety of the room, not Patton. That gratitude gave way to fear (finally) as he was brought into another room, one with a distinctly medical smell.

The room. Not the room, please, not the place where his eyes burned and he could hear himself screaming but was fairly detached, watching from the side as the men and women in white coats leaned over him and measured his reaction. The place where he was left alone, for weeks, as his eyes slowly healed but never saw again. The place where they had strapped him down, hadn't drugged him even as he struggled and sobbed with pain—

They were doing that now, Virgil realized with a start, and he began to fight, trying to force them away and roll off the table, but they already had his ankles secured.

“Get that out of his mouth, we're not monsters.”

Virgil would have cried at hearing words that didn't come from his own mouth if he weren't already crying. The rag was pulled from between his teeth, and he gasped out incomplete sentences of pleas and desperation.

“Virgil, is it?” a woman said.

“My name, that's my name,” Virgil sobbed, almost incoherently. No one had said it in so long, he almost wanted them to say it again.

“Well Virgil, we're here to help. All we need you to do is lie still.”

Virgil would have promised anything, but he was suddenly aware of the fact that they had finished strapping him down. He didn't have a choice here. He tried to calm his hitching sobs, aware that he definitely looked not only like a fool, but weak.

“Wh-what are you going to do?” he asked pitifully. There were several long moments of silence. Then the same woman before spoke, saying eerily familiar words.

“We're going to fix you, in the name of the Prophets.”

Virgil screamed.

-

Virgil had been in the back of this van for far too long. His mind was still in overdrive with fear, but now he could wonder—why had he been kidnapped? There was nothing special about him. He was just like any other college kid, trying to make his way in life with money in the negative and relationships even lower. The only person who might care about him was his roommate Roman, but he also had no money and therefore would never be able to pay a ransom. Not to mention, Roman was promising. He was only failing geology, he'd just gotten a role in a production at the high end theater across town, and he had a boyfriend who definitely didn't care about Virgil.

There was nothing he could do to escape whatever awful fate these strangers had for him. They didn't look too dangerous, all four men wearing square-looking jeans and plain t-shirts, but none of them had very built figures. Only one looked like he worked out, which was a testament to the fact that Virgil was a pathetic weakling. He should've splurged and bought that gym membership.

The van stopped for hours at one point, Virgil assumed in a hotel parking lot or something. He would've liked to get out of the cramped space, but it was clear that wasn't happening any time soon. His hands were tied to his ankles (a fact that had sent him into more than one panic attack) and both were pulled behind his back in a hog tie, and a bandana was bundled up in his mouth and tied around the back of his head. He could tell it was night; some of the light from the part of the van with seats filtered in during the day. It was nice to have a little light. Darkness scared him—he always slept with the blinds on the window turned to let some moonlight in, now that he was far too old for a nightlight. Now, however, there was zero light and Virgil was barely keeping himself from freaking out. He just had to survive the night, then nothing would ever be dark again.

They were back on the road. The men chatted loudly, but so many of the words seemed to have a different context for them than they did for him. Haven? Blessings? Liberating? It sounded like a cult, and Virgil once again attempted to free himself of the ropes. The only thing he gained was rope burn.

When the door opened and Virgil blinked at the sudden light and wave of heat, he had to assume they'd arrived. Instead of moving (or shooting) him, two people stared. A man and a woman, the man in a simple suit, the woman in an even simpler dress. Sweat trickled down Virgil's temple as he stared back at them, his jaw aching and limbs strained.

“This one will do,” the woman said eventually. The man nodded agreement, and then the ones that had kidnapped him in the first place were dragging him out of the van. Virgil maintained eye contact with the two as he passed. What did that mean? What did they need him for?

The sun beat down on them as the four men carried Virgil across a dirt road. There were small, one-story houses lining the street, but nobody outside. Virgil only had a moment to wonder why before he was being ushered into a large building. It was cooler inside than out, but still stuffy, like the air conditioning was one of those old window units.

He was carried into a room that smelled like a hospital—and looked like one. The counters were laden with different tools that he had no idea what they were to be used for, but looked vaguely like they belonged in a horror movie. The four men rolled him onto the operating table in the center of the room, then set to work untying him. Virgil lay still, hoping to trick them into thinking he would be compliant. He'd wait until his legs were free, then start fighting back.

That was a no-go, as it turned out. The men easily grabbed his legs and pulled a strap over them, securing him into place. He managed to flail his fist into one person's nose, and felt a deep satisfaction when the man doubled over, bleeding. It was quickly snuffed out as the other three got a hold of his arms and strapped them down as well. Then they all left, even the man Virgil had hit, shutting the door and leaving him alone.

Virgil's eyes darted around the room, taking it all in. The only sound was his heavy breathing. He flexed his fingers and toes a few times, trying to get feeling back into them. He groaned deep in his throat as they began to tingle, then ache. He shifted a little, the sweat pooling under his shirt and hoodie making him supremely uncomfortable.

The door opened with a bang, startling Virgil enough that he jumped. Quite a few—seven, maybe—people in white lab coats entered, the last man wearing plain clothes and looking less like a nerd than the others and more like a bodyguard. Virgil swallowed. What were they going to do to him?

“Hello, Virgil,” an older man with a scar on his chin said, smiling too wide. He leaned over the table, and Virgil tried to lean away. The man tsked, his smile dimming slightly.

“Now, that won't do. Don't be scared, Virgil. We aren't going to hurt you.” The man frowned for a split second, then chuckled. “I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to lie. This will likely be very painful, Virgil.”

Virgil couldn't force his eyes away from the man's, cold brown eyes boring into his soul. He felt the fear rise, bubbling out of his throat in a muffled cry, even as a tear slipped out of his eye and rolled toward his temple.

“We're going to break you, in the name of the Prophets.”

Then they were holding his head still, and—no—no—not his eyes, please, anything else—

Virgil screamed.

-

Virgil didn't know how long he feverishly drifted, but it was certainly hours. His eyes—it was more than burning, somehow. It was the fire of a thousand suns, concentrated in his eye sockets and pounding through his head. All he could feel was the pain, not knowing where he was or aware of any outside stimulus.

The moment Virgil recognized that it was terrifying was the moment that he could feel his fingers. Suddenly, he was no longer a miasma of pain, but a human being (engulfed by pain) again. That was also when he realized there was something pressed up to his lips. He opened his mouth—water, warm and stale but still water—flooded his dry mouth and and he choked as it hit the back of his throat. The bottle was pulled away, and Virgil spluttered for a few moments before all the water was clear of his airway. Exhausted by the fight and debilitated from the pain, Virgil let his eyes slip closed and drifted again.

When he next woke, it was to incomprehensible pain and the sensation of moving, as if whatever he was laying on was being moved. Barely letting himself wonder where he was headed, Virgil drifted again.

The cycle repeated for a while before Virgil found himself fully conscious. It hurt to turn his head, so he laid still, despite all the noises around him. He was shaking constantly, and he was pretty certain he was strapped down. The room wasn't cold, exactly, but Virgil longed for a blanket, something to perhaps weigh down his legs and ease the quaking.

“Can you hear me?”

Virgil wasn't sure if the person was talking to him or not, so he didn't respond. The other noises around the room—a sink running? A quiet conversation?—continued as if nothing happened.

“Can you hear me?”

This time, the voice was louder, and distantly familiar. Virgil nodded slightly, cut short as he grimaced in pain. Moving his head made the pain spike, inducing nausea. Now he felt he was going to throw up, as well as shiver to death. Great.

“Tell me your name.”

“Virgil,” he rasped. He'd never given these people his last name—how they'd found out his first was a mystery to him—but it didn't quite count as an act of defiance when just saying his first name had sapped all of his energy. He tasted copper in the back of his mouth and wondered vaguely if he'd screamed so much that his throat had bled.

“He's conscious enough. Try to get him to stand up.”

Virgil was trying to figure out how to respond to this when he registered the sound of Velcro tearing, then hands grabbed his arms and pulled him off of the surface. Immediately his headache spiked, and he cried out, barely aware of his knees buckling and hitting the floor.

A sigh was heard. Virgil sniffed back tears, despite the little voice in the back of his head telling him he had literally zero dignity left. He didn't want to cry, especially not at just standing up.

Then suddenly, they were moving. Virgil struggled to get his feet underneath him, but failed and resigned himself to being dragged. He was certain he was about to pass out. His head grew fuzzy, limbs filled with pins and needles. The sound of himself being pulled on the concrete was even louder than anything that had just been going on in the room; it filled his ears and pounded along to his heartbeat.

He distantly heard a laugh, then gasped as someone let go and his head cracked against the floor. It wasn't too bad, he wasn't very far from the floor anyway, but the pain of the impact still caused him to lose the battle against his stomach, vomiting all over himself and the floor. Some commotion followed that; Virgil's head was spinning and splitting and his eyes burned and put simply, he couldn't keep track.

He drifted again, laying on the floor in his own sick, not sure what was real and what wasn't. Too soon, though, he was brought back to the waking world by a jet of water hitting him square in the stomach. He jerked, then spluttered as the water hit his face. Somehow, while shocking, it was more pleasant than the pain, a nice distraction. That didn't last, though. Soon enough, Virgil was shivering and numb as the water kept spraying, a sob tearing from his throat as more and more went up his nose.

Finally it stopped, the only sounds being the water dripping from his soaked clothing and his shuddering sobs. Virgil couldn't stop crying and shaking, and there was only one thought in his head, playing over and over: I want Patton. Please I want Patton. Please Patton please I want Patton please—

After what felt like hours of just laying there, hands grabbed his wrists again and began dragging. Virgil didn't even try to stand, or stop crying. He was so cold. So, so, cold, and he just wanted Patton, just wanted to be safe. . . .

More noise—so loud—and a little more strain on his arms before he was dropped, palms bouncing lightly off the floor. Virgil wanted to curl up on his side, hoard what little body heat he had, but he couldn't move. He couldn't move, and they were coming closer. His sobs ratcheted up as he just knew they were right above him, holding those tools and moving closer and—

Someone touched him, and Virgil whimpered loud. He couldn't—not again—please no, please please please no—

They took his hand and touched his wrist—an IV, they were just putting drugs in him—with warm fingers, tracing something—

Tracing . . . something. . . .

P-a-t-t-o-n.

“Patton,” Virgil croaked. Patton was here. Patton was safe, Patton would make everything all right. With that knowledge, Virgil finally fell into a comfortable sleep.

~

Taglist (let me know if you want to be added/removed): @enragedbees @gotta-love-alejandra @bunny222 @basiic-emo @patt0n-sanders @rosiepupper @fangirlgeekandfreak @dn-fan21 @that2000skid @remy-the-lemon-berry @itsadastraperaspera @xionbean @sanderssides-angst @hell-yea-we-gay-tonight @maybedefinitely404

[chaosincurlss]

In another world, I’m camped at my best friend’s bedside, reminding her of all the ways I’m going to help her heal, of all the ways I am grateful she survived, of all the ways I love her. She wears a sleepy smile that I’ve seen nothing short of a million times, and a hospital gown that does nothing to hide away the deep purple of the harm the world has done to her. One person should never have known so much pain, and she never should have had to be the one reaching to swipe away the tears that cascaded along my cheeks. Of course, she wouldn’t be the girl I’d grown alongside if she wasn’t the one trying to piece me back together, even when she was the one falling apart. That would be the place where I know myself, where I know the person before me, where I’ve memorized the features of the face my eyes can’t leave.

In this world, I’m looking down at a person I’ve been told is my best friend, but the girl in the coffin looks nothing like her. Everyone comments on how she looks as if she’s sleeping, but those are just the lies they need to tell themselves, because the truth is that this corpse looks like nothing more than some mangled version of Elena Gilbert. As if some twisted person had been given a canvas and asked to paint an idea of her, a broken and warped idea of her that no restorative makeup was going to fix. Some depraved creature had been let loose with the idea of Elena Gilbert and they’d left her this distorted thing. Her cheeks sunken from where her bones had been crushed and they hadn’t cared quite enough to conceal it, the line of her hair disrupted by the loss from when she’d been pulled across the gravel, the perfect button shape of her nose that should be scrunched by laughter now forever scuffed by the injuries she would never have the chance to recover from. From the slumber she would never have the chance to awaken from. I don’t know why people say they look like they’re sleeping, now more than ever, I don’t understand why they say it. At best, they look dead. At worst, they look like someone you’ve never met, but are expected to mourn anyway.

In this stranger’s stray strands of chocolate hair, I was expected to find memories of the times we’d spent playing dress up before we had any idea of what the world would be. Of when we would take turns in whichever princess dress happened to be the favorite that week, though the plastic pearl clips were the constant that stayed with us through it all, and I wished I had them now — I wished I could tuck her hair away just as we did when we were nothing but a twirling vision of trouble in tiaras, and I wished for the magic they held for us then, the type of magic that could undo the very worst of days.

When I took this stranger’s icy cold hand in mine, it should have reminded me of the very first time she’d slipped her fingers between my own, when her skin against mine spoke of something more than it ever had before, of the night that had felt like finally coming home. When we’d held our breaths, and let the silence lay heavy in the darkness of a childhood bedroom, words too much of a threat to such a flighty thing, if we’d even had words for what we were at all.

There was a sickening connection that I didn’t care to recognise in the midst of all of this — one I didn’t care to recognise, which meant that it was the only thing my mind could latch itself on to. I wanted no link between this nauseating period in my life, and any kind of happy moment that I’d been lucky enough to share with Elena, but it was there. This sense of blur that only came along with an emotion so intense that the human body didn’t know what to do with it. There was no part in our mind well enough equipped for the way that our feelings can simply overpower every other function we have, so comes the blur. Either end of the spectrum, the body doesn’t care to differentiate, it all hits the nervous system in the same way, the edges of it lost to the intensity of it all.

The moments of undiluted ecstasy. The moments of debilitating grief. A blur.

How we went from friends to more, the stretch of time it took and the ways it wove its way into my days and into the very fabric of my being, much like the days since the accident and the flurry of planning for the wake and the way that it chipped away at the very fabric of my being. A blur.

The moments when our hands ventured further than they ever had before, the way she said my name as if it were a question, as if it was everything to her, the moment they said the word ‘dead’ and there wasn’t an inkling of a question to it, as if they weren’t taking everything from me. A blur.

The way her lips brushed over the sensitive skin of my stomach and demanded that every hair I had stand in salute to her and the ways she could make me feel, the way my screen lit up with her smile every time there was a call to make and I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to feel again. A blur.

Promises of forever made through tears as we braved her empty home for the first time since her parents went over the bridge and how I couldn’t leave her side, how I wouldn’t let her drown in her despair and waste what they would have wanted for her, how I stand alone without her arms around me and there’s nothing to keep me from going under. A blur.

As I try to find my memories’ home in this shell of a person I don’t recognise, without the comfort of the warm chestnut hues that housed every up and down of this rollercoaster that we had called us, the want of warmth soon boils over into a burn. A burning rage for the emptiness of it all, for the finality we would never have, for the clarity she would never be able to grant, for the moments that should have come with the time that we always assumed was guaranteed. Each moment ahead became blurred — first by the silent and pure anger that bubbled for a life that would remain unlived, buried six feet under with every possibility that went with it — second by the tears that came alongside the accompanying agony of such a realization.

From my parents, to my teachers, to my friends, to passersby on the street — I had always been this little gust of Chaos, the ever-twirling bundle of blonde curls, whose path you didn’t dare enter. Not without a taste for Chaos, or a strong enough armor to combat it.

And, oh, how the Chaos swirled below the surface, nothing in my path but this future of shattered bones and scattered dreams, and all that I knew was that I needed to reach for something real, and the scrap of this imposter that I’d been given was nothing close to enough. So much was left buried beneath the surface, beyond this face that I didn’t know, there had to be a piece of the girl I loved somewhere below the chunky wool of the turtleneck the undertakers had insisted upon. A freckle that sat just where her shoulder met her neck, perhaps they’d tucked away her mothers necklace to keep it safe, there had to be a piece of her somewhere, something to tie me to this desolation.

So, my fingers curled at the material, and pulled in search of a prayer that any God who watched over this abomination knew wouldn’t be answered. They would sit in their almightiness and laugh at the girl whose heart broke too easily, the girl who filled herself to the brim with more hope than any one person should be able to carry, the girl whose mouth would fall agape as her eyes fell upon the jagged markings that should be the dip of Elena Gilbert’s collar bones, the exact place where sweet kisses would pool in exchange for the sweeter sounds of her laughter. Not only was this not the body of someone I knew, it was barely a body at all, something sewn together and strategically layered with thick clothing to fool those who dared to gather here in this place that had no hope of salvation.

At once, my hand dropped away, and the material sprung back into place, returning back to its post to guard the secrets that lay below. I expected that the horror had found its way out from within, that the discovery couldn’t have gone unnoticed, but when my gaze shot upward — the same busy conversations were carrying on. The same stories being swapped of the loveliness of the girl we had all known, and the tragedy of such an accident, an accident that had somehow lost its details between the asphalt and this room. Silence and I weren’t well acquainted with one another, though my mind swam with the images that were now seared upon my brain, and they were something as unfathomable to me as the fact that I apparently hadn’t made a sound. Then I can feel that edge approaching, the one where the blur takes over, the one where your mind decides that your fragile little self has had too much of the emotion that it has given to you, and floats you out to sea until you can be trusted to be returned to calmer waters. There was no comfort to be found within the confines of the casket, lesser comfort to be found in the walls that surrounded me, and yet I couldn’t help but search — as if she might round the corner at any moment, and this might have been nothing more than the worst corners of my mind grasping at my dreams. Solace was all that I asked, among all of the unknown, just a moment of relief.

In a sea of unfamiliarity, there stood a startling reminder of what unfamiliar truly was, a face in the flood of bodies that swirled in this whirlpool that threatened to pull me under — an expression of complete stillness amid this Chaos, tucked away at the very edges of the crowd, where another may have let him remain nothing but alien. Not me, not the ever dutiful hostess whose role was snapping back into place at the sight of a guest left unwelcomed, one who was also uninvited as far as I was concerned. This skin of someone who planned, who preened, who tended to the details and the finer details of events — it was the familiar ground I’d needed to find my footing once again. It wasn’t the hand I’d wished to hold, it wasn’t the beauty mark I’d sworn to worship for the rest of my days, but it pulled me far enough away from the depths to satisfy the ever watchful guardian within my mind that was determined to protect me from myself. If I never said it aloud, the Gods that spent their days laughing away at my misfortune would know and wonder at the miracle of my gratitude for the rudeness of a man who showed up to a funeral without invitation. For they would know that if it weren’t for that moment, if my eyes hadn’t caught on his, if I wasn’t compelled to leave Elena’s side and ever so politely quiz him on his funeral attending etiquette — the waves would have crashed over me, and I never would have seen shore again.