#she has a faint Appalachian accent

[anniecrestalover]

indigenous Katniss>>>>

[abyssurvived]

THINGS YOUR MUSE WILL NOTICE ABOUT MINE repost, do not reblog

WHAT THEY LOOK LIKE. ivy stands at 5'5" with a slim, and even build; her chest, waist and hips are proportional, but her limbs are slightly shorter in comparison. her back is in a perpetual slump / hunch, but she typically walks with a speedy gait, chest forward and head on a constant swivel, and hands either tucked in her pockets or swinging. she looks like someone's that had to fought to be taken seriously, because she has; people see her and see just another average person, but there's a lot more to her than you'd expect. ivy weighs roughly 135 lbs, with her frame/demeaner and baggy clothes keeping her tone and slender muscles hidden from the naked eye. her most noticeable facial features easily is her eyes; she has large, wide, deep set and round earthy-green eyes, and her second most prominent feature would be her wide bow-shaped lips with a key-gap between upper & lower lip when smiling, and slightly crooked upper front teeth. her hair is naturally dark auburn red ( closest to her shade ), and is 3B-type curly which is almost always worn down messily and unbrushed, but she will occasionally wear it in either a ponytail or a bun. she has cool undertoned ecru skin, and is covered nearly from her head to her toes is various scars; her most prominent is the deep claw marks that span from across her right collarbone, and end across the back of her right shoulder, followed by the various bite marks ( made by both inhuman and human teeth ) across her shoulders, wrists and both sides of her neck. additionally, she has a large part of her left helix missing due to a game of throwing knives with her sister, various claw & nail marks across her chest/stomach/abdomen ( some deeper than others ), has slightly tipped ears ( see: here ), and to the supernatural eye, she has the faintest outlines of small wings spanning from her shoulder blades to the middle of her back ( see: here ). she refuses to get tattoos for fear of being too easily recognisable, stating that her scars would be more than enough to identify her if needed. clothing wise, when working ivy will wear a casual suit as her uniform; a blazer, a light collared shirt and suit pants, but never a tie, and the top buttons of her shirt is always open; when out of uniform/not working, ivy likes to drown herself in soft flannels, baggy jeans, plain tshirts and long sleeved henleys. she never wears a bra, and is fond of men's underwear; typically stealing hers from one-night stands on buying in bulk from walmart or other supermarkets. for shoes, she only ever wears boots, even when in uniform, she'll be wearing some form of boot. jewellery wise, the only necklace she'll ever wear is marilyn-ann's locket, and either stud or small hooped earrings; she doesn't wear rings nor watches for fear of losing her hand/fingers if they were to get caught. ivy refuses to shave her bodyhair, instead keeping it neatly trimmed; besides the hair on her head, her darkest hair is her underarm and pubic hair, and a slight trail leading from her belly button to her pubic hair, as well as slightly dark hair across her arms, legs

WHAT THEY SMELL LIKE. rain, the faint smell of copper, diner coffee, non-descript deodorant, lynx's " ice chill all day fresh, " bodywash, and dr brenner's soap. typically smells most like diner grease, sweat, dirt and blood by the end of the day.

WHAT THEY TASTE LIKE. sensodyne toothpaste, very sweet coffee, various greasy diner foods ( usually burgers, fries or pancakes ), strawberry milkshakes, strawberry gum, blackberries or blueberries depending the season, and various sodas ( off-brand cola, lemonades, energy drinks etc ).

WHAT THEY SOUND LIKE. ( here's a small clip of ivy's voice claim talking. ) ivy has a southern appalachian-influenced west virginian accent, due to her grandfather being from virginia and living in the mountains most of his life, until he left home and moved to the town where he eventually settled and started his family, ivy speaks with an appalachian dialect; she typically drops the letter "g," off of her words, and will combine "y'all," with the starts of words as her father, and grandfather did this too. throughout college, and in the bureau, ivy does tend to soften her accent, partially to prevent being the butt of stereotypical jokes, but also to ensure that people can understand her easily as she has been told throughout her life that it's hard to understand her. around other southern muses she won't hide her accent, and will often speak openly with the dialect that she was raised in as she feels comfortable enough to be that open with them. she has a fast paced way of speaking, often cutting herself off mid-sentence; her voice is smokey, and her tone wavers between erratic and nearly completely monotonous. she often raises her voice to get points across, to catch people's attention and to try and drown out those arguing with her, but rarely outright shouts; only ever doing so if absolutely necessary ( she hears her father when she yells, so does her best to avoid remembering him ). when ivy yells it's with the same tone and affect as someone yelling to scold, or yelling to belittle.

WHAT THEY FEEL LIKE. ivy's hands are rough; years of picking at the callouses have left her with perpetually rough, and tough skin on her fingertips and her palms ( most noticeable around her thumbs ). her scars are smooth, and shiny; years of slathering moisturiser and oils over then to fade tem leaving then surprisingly soft, as is the rest of her skin; ivy makes sure to moisturise after washing, and so her skin is soft to the touch with execptions to the areas that she has callouses ( her hands, and feet ). her hair will often feel standard, not particularly soft, but not incredibly dry, but her roots will often feel powdery and greasy due to dry-shampoo on the days she forgot to shower. the slightly dark hair on her arms and legs is noticeable upon touch, and her scars, despite being soft, to feel raised and bumpy ( especially the larger ones which haven't healed properly ).

taken from @susponte tagging: @YOU

[bakedbananners]

Annabeth thoughts and hcs?

I love that girl so so SO much. HOWEVER, I’ve only actually read through the original series and MCGA, so yah. I find her to be resourceful, with a LOT of mental fortitude; supportive and caring, while also able to give tough love when she needs to. I also like that she’s sometimes mean and judgemental and overly prideful, she’s a complex character to me 😭. This is an Annabeth Chase stan account LMAO.

Headcanon-wise, I have a few!

Someone on Twitter mentioned that it would be funny if sometimes she just got little bits of knowledge and fun facts about things and places etc, like how Percy can perfectly navigate the sea, and I love that. She’s a walking Wikipedia lol

I think she also picks up languages super quickly. She‘s fluent in like 50 by the time she’s 25

In my brain, she’s a trans girl :)

Later when she and Percy think about starting a family, she’s a big proponent for adoption. She wants to be the Best mom so badly lol

Also hc that she’s somewhere on the ace-spectrum, though I’m not solid on where she would lie. Probably gray-ace or something lol.

Not sure whether this is canon but I want her and Thalia to hang out a lot in their down-time. I want Annabeth to go chill with the Hunters from time to time 🥺

She and Magnus talk like every week. She volunteers at the Chase Space when she’s in Boston, which is rare but welcome.

Magnus keeps forgetting to tell Annabeth that him and Alex are an item, so she keeps trying to ease him into the “it’s ok if you’re gay” conversation and it’s really awkward because Magnus like never picks up on it.

I want her to have a very faint Appalachian accent so bad, since she’s from Virginia or whatever I think? Percy teases her about it sometimes, but thinks it’s really cute.

When she and Magnus are kids she probably thought he was really strange. I think he kept trying to give her bugs and she hated it because of her arachnophobia lmao

She loves playing like, Civ 5 and the Sims and stuff like that. It makes her feel like a god or whatever. She doesn’t understand the appeal of like RPGs or platforms to Percy’s immense distress

Annabeth is buff as hell and can carry Percy over her shoulder with no problem, and has done so many times when he irritates the shit out of her

Percabeth Disney dates… /neutral….. lol

She’s obsessed with watching those chocolate building videos on Instagram. OBSESSED.

I cant think of any more right now but yeah 😁😁😁😁😁 I love Annabeth she’s cool 🤯

[whump-town]

Ambushed

Warnings: attempt sexual assault and Emily's potty mouth

No Pairings

Summary: A bathroom break goes very, very wrong

It's whumptober so I have to at least try this month to make things awful. Also, this is for @olivinesea, who has been waiting on this fic for months... maybe longer

Hotch’s order had been for Reid to follow him, that it would be the two of them departing tomorrow morning at four a.m. for Charleston, West Virginia. The way Hotch had marched across the catwalk with his file spoke measures about his mood before his clipped tone did. The second Hotch roughly called his name Reid flinched, looking pleadingly to Emily. Knew he was the target and was pleading with her to find some way to save him. With a sigh of resignation, she leans her head into her palm, knows what she’s about to put herself through for the sake of Reid and Hotch.

If Hotch has a problem with her rather blatant insubordination, he doesn’t say anything about it. He comes in and sees her, her go-bag at her feet and two coffees in hand, and raises an eyebrow. Ultimately, he carries on his path towards their SUV. Sharing not a word just a glance that she takes to his equivalent of a motion for her to follow him. She knows his silence to be of low social battery drained by the early morning and fatigue, nothing personal.

Besides four a.m. is way too early to be talking to anyone.

It gives him time to think, to try and not sour this entire trip with his bull in a china shop mood. He’s just unsettled, has this awful feeling in his stomach that he’s grown accustomed to developing whenever they take cases in the mountains. It’s not that he is afraid of them, this isn’t a matter of ghosts or monsters, but there is so much uncertainty every time you enter them. He spent his entire childhood roaming the Appalachian Mountains, knows them by their many dimensions. Chasing squirrels, knee-deep in rotting leaves every fall. The cooling breeze sweeping through pine needles, snakes striking at ankles. The trees swaying to tunes unrecognizable to his ears. Hearing his mother’s voice calling his name, turning to find nothing but shadows. Knowing someone, something, is watching around every turn.

Quantico is about all the Virginia he can handle, the city nestled warmly where the southern Virginians rarely touch it but northern Virginians are everywhere to be seen. The accents not so thick and the city full of tourists-- people from Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York, etc. Fewer woods to get lost in.

Charleston?

He’s going to be neck-deep in the mountains everywhere he looks.

Emily’s here so that’s bound to make this whole trip more interesting. With her annoying wit and much to be desired charm. It’s like she can feel him thinking about her. With a yawn Emily sits up in her chair, shooting a sleep-stained scowl at him. She rubs her fists into her eyes, attempting to force herself back to awareness. “That coffee went right through me,” she tells him, clearly annoyed. She’s prone to oversharing but, for some reason, with him, it’s so much worse. He assumes it’s just because she knows it exasperates him. Doesn’t anger him but he typically sighs and shakes his head.

Secretly, he likes it. The way she’ll invade his person like no one else has the courage to. Casually laying across the couch and putting her feet in his lap or leaning against him. Talking like they’re lifelong friends and not two people distantly connected for the last twenty years as enemies, tied together by their hatred for one another. Only recently having learned there’s something more, still a nice enough connection that binds them as friends.

She squirms in the seat, bladder a little too full to be comfortable. The darkness outside consumes every indicator of where they are on the road. She can hardly make out the tree lines and aside from yellow precautionary signs aligning them with the turns on the road, there are only thick, choppy clouds of fog. It’s a little after five-thirty so they still have to be in Virginia. “Where the fuck are we?”

He grunts, furrowing his eyebrows at her explosive fuck cutting so harrowingly through the peaceful silence. It’s not an unusual occurrence, he’s used to the way she effortlessly tears through the walls and caverns he builds up around himself. “Strasburg.”

She groans, “really?” She should have made Reid come on this stupid trip. She could still be in her own bed, pressing snooze and rolling back over. Instead, she’s got to pee so freaking bad and she doesn’t know if Hotch is in one of his “no stops” moods or not. He’s such an asshole about making stops when they’re on the road. “I’ve got to take a leak, boss, so… We’re looking at a bathroom stop soon or new detailing on these seats.” She looks down at the worn seats, runs her fingers over the loose seams and torn fabric. “Not that they couldn’t use it.”

He seems more agitated with her oversharing than with having to stop-- looks like a bathroom break in her future.

She stays silent for a few minutes, just watching what she can from outside her window until the next town comes into view. She shoots him a glance, wonders if he’s actually going to stop, and breathes a sigh of relief when he uses the turn signal, pulling them in that direction. There was no way she was going that long without a bathroom break.

Hotch pulls the car into park, frowning when he sees the lack of lights guiding their path to the gas station and even around the side of the building where he knows the bathrooms are bound to be. Leaving them standing in the dark facing the woods. She’s already unbuckling, moving quickly so she can go pee, but he beats her out of the car. Opens his door first and announces, “I’ll go with you.” She frowns, cuts his back a dirty, confused look but doesn’t say anything.

He’s already standing on her side of the car when she gets out, glaring ahead at the empty field and then towards the woods.

“So you do care,” she mumbles, bumping her shoulder against his. “You don’t want me to get eaten by a bear.”

He grunts, still half-distracted by the darkness and the threat it presents.

She’s imagining him fighting a bear. “You know,” she keeps his pace, curiously looking around as they go. “I think you’re a really tough guy,” she says, “but Hotch vs. A Bear just… I’m rooting for you, really, but I’m not stopping to see who wins. No offense. I think you’d put up a good fight but I think, as a general rule of thumb, watching your friends get mauled to death by Pooh does not fall into the typical bonding experiences that strengthen dynamics.” She’s rambling, not in the same way Reid would have. At least with Reid, Hotch would still likely have the semblance of not only control -- the timing to include himself in conversation -- but also a clue about what the in the world they’re even talking about.

She sees him glare at her and so she glares back, “I said no offense!”

“Go to the bathroom, Emily.”

She smiles as she makes her exit, feeling triumphant with herself. She’d seen that little smirk, not a quirk of lips detectable to the naked eye but the way his eyes had flipped up. Looking to the stars, eyes searching up and away from her. A Hotch smirk and the very best kind.

Distracted by the graffiti all over the walls she hears the faint thump of something outside and humorously wonders if it’s a bear. “Hotch v Bear”, round one, and she’s in the damn bathroom.

While she’s washing her hands her stomach growls and she wonders if he’ll end up following her into the gas station too if she goes in for a snack. The man’s a shadow when he’s worried. She’ll probably try to reach for a snack and find him right underfoot mean-mugging the cashier for no apparent reason. A snack though… She’s starving and maybe if she’s feeling feisty enough she’ll start an argument with him until he gets a snack too. It’ll entertain her for a while.

“Hey,” she frowns when she steps out of the bathroom and finds that he’s not there. Not leaning against the wall like she thought he’d be. “Jesus, did that bear really get the--”

A gun cocks in her ear, slow but unmistakable.

“Slowly put your service weapon on the ground and raise your hands.”

She’s frozen in the spot. Eyes glued to their shadows cast out far around them. Drawn out caricatures of them.

“Do it or I’ll kill your friend.”

It wasn’t a bear.

She reaches for her gun, steady and slow movements. Her fingers curl around the metal and she wonders if she’d be able to move fast enough. That there’s a good likelihood if Hotch isn’t within her line of sight that he’s already dead and if she doesn’t do something she will be too. But she can’t risk it.

“Rob!” the man grabs her gun before she’s got it on the ground. Jerks it back from her grasp. To their left, coming around the section of the building facing the woods and completely dark, another man steps out. He’s younger than she is, probably thirty-fiveish, and dressed in work gear. Jeans that have plaster and paint stains and a t-shirt that is stained to the point of no return. “Get the G-man.”

Rob nods, disappearing just as quickly as he’d appeared.

“Listen--” as soon as she can open her mouth the gun taps the back of her head. A sharp warning followed by the order to shut up. No negotiating then.

A grunt turns both their attentions to the side of the building. Hotch stumbles out before Rob. His hands bound in front of him by rope and when he looks up to find her she watches him blink blood out of his eyes. There’s an open wound across his forehead, blunt force trauma split the skin open and now the wound weeps fat crimson tears down his face. His mouth is taped shut, deep grey cutting into his pale mouth. He’s disoriented enough to fall, tripping over his legs as he’s shoved forward.

Rob keeps a gun pointed at his head the whole time but looks to the man behind her. Waiting for the next instruction and as the man gives them she watches Rob react the same she does. Whatever is happening here Rob is an accomplice but he’s not in charge.

“Walk.”

The gun nudges her forward. She bites back her anger, annoyed with this constant nudging business, but her voice is still laced with it. She can play even-tempered but it’s going to take more control than she wants. But she has to play along. Unless she wants to die tonight or, worse, watch Hotch die. “Where?” she asks “Tell me where I’m walking.”

“The woods,” her answer comes, grunted and annoyed. “Now walk.”

Rob pulls Hotch up to his feet (so he’s stronger than he looks, Emily notes) and pushes him forward again. Hotch manages to stay standing this time, bringing his bound hands to his face to swipe at the blood. The glimpse she gets of his blood-stained fingers is what brings her to motion. To be close enough to inspect the wound herself.

“Straight ahead.”

She steps forward, shivering as the wind blows and she’s reminded that despite it being the middle of June it’s likely only sixty degrees out here. Getting out of the car, she hadn’t been planning on being kidnapped. If she had maybe she would have grabbed her jacket. Her fault, she supposes lack of forethought on her part.

As she steps into his gait, the two of them shoulder to shoulder but not close enough that she thinks Rob or the other man will say anything she glances over at him. A look she means to use to articulate her worry and to ask if he’s forming a plan on how to get them out of this. She’s met with his blood-stained eyes. He doesn’t know how they’re getting out of this. It hits her hard, unforgivingly.

If he’d set his shoulders and sent that haggard, worn look she’d understand he thought they were up against fools not even worth the exertion of escaping from. That the bump on his head pissed him off more than hurt him. Something akin to annoyance would mean he already had his plan, she should wait for the cue. Here, in the place she’s searching for his tactile brilliance, is trauma. He’s locking it down behind walls as quickly as he can but she still sees it. Trapped, they’re trapped and he’s blanking on what to do.

Well, maybe he gets a little leeway. He did get hit in the head.

So, fine, she’ll do it herself.

Can you fight? Dave said it was creepy, the conversations they passed through glances, and now she’s hoping creepy is enough to keep them alive.

He looks back, one glance over his shoulder, and gives a sharp nod.

Good.

Next comes the part she’s not really sure how works. The part where she never actually says anything at all, they just move together. Concisely at the same time. She moves for the unknown man and Hotch knows to go for Rob. Both trusting that the other can handle their target. She can hear Hotch take Rob off his feet at the same time her body smacks into the unknown man. The air is taken from her body, leaving her to pause for a dangerous second as her body fights to get it back. His elbow swings sharply into her cheek, smacking dancing lights behind her eyelids.

She’s trained for this kind of stuff. This shouldn’t be so hard.

It’s a bit of a panic, throwing her hands down. Just punching down blindly and hoping the blows land.

There’s a gunshot-- it takes her too long to recognize the sound. Her ears ring and her body aches. The wrangling limbs, the man underneath her, stops as they all identify who it is overcoming as the largest threat.

It’s Rob, blood-flecked across his face.

Hotch’s blood splattered across his face.

Emily screams, disembodied as she throws herself towards Rob but she’s stopped, grabbed by the hair, forced back down through the leaves, and sticks. The leverage pins her to the man’s chest, both pulled upright. All she can do is stumble back. She’s immobilized by the forearm he presses against her windpipe. “I oughta kill you,” he growls, smacking the gun against her temple. Not enough to draw blood but it cracks, makes the area of her scalp throb. “Stupid fucking bitch,” he pulls her tighter, ignores her fingers scratching at his skin as he cuts off her ability to breathe. “Both of you. I should have just killed both of you in that damn bathroom. Started with the G-man and I could have had hours, until day-light, with you trapped in that bathroom.”

He eases his hold on her not out of preservation of life but in his realization that he’s angry with himself for being so reckless. He and Rob had never had problems before. One woman wasn’t all that hard to control and after seeing Hotch and Emily walking so close, bumping together they thought it could be fun. Force him to watch and see if that makes this any more fun. To see him bargain for her life or sit there lifeless in his resignation that he could do nothing.

But Hotch was stronger than he looked.

“No!” her voice is scratchy from the pressure had against her throat. Combined with her desperation it cracks, pops like roaring embers in a hearty fire. “Stop! You’re killing him! Get off of him!”

Rob has Hotch pinned to the ground, his hands around his throat.

The other man holds Emily still, prevents her from being able to pull herself away. This isn’t how he’d intended for this to go but, he has to admit, this is fairly interesting as well. He’d expected it to be G-man that was forced to break. A big strong guy like him doesn’t take losing well. Feeling Emily shiver and cry in his arms is nice. Her desperation hums in his veins, arousing him in a way he hadn’t anticipated. He doesn’t want to lose that just yet.

“Get off of him, Rob.”

Hotch’s arms are still bound, all Rob had to do was push him over. It was over in a flash, leaving Hotch face down in the dirt one second and watching the trees above him fade out as Rob pushed down harder against his windpipe, his fingers digging into his neck. He couldn’t move. Unable to do anything more than turn and twist his hips, his arms pressed into his groin where Rob had immobilized them the second he threw his hips over Hotch’s.

Rob doesn’t let go, not immediately. He pushes down a little harder, wants to feel the snap of the other man’s neck but his name is called again. This time, not the light order the first had been. Rob doesn’t release Hotch and with an annoyed huff, the other man raises a gun. Emily cries out again, stunned by the gun right by her head, and flinches falls with a crash to the floor when the trigger is pulled. Her head a roaring buzz, trying to swivel its way off her neck. No matter how hard she pressed down on her ears she feels the throbs of pain as if her head was swelling. The world pulsing.

Rob’s dead.

She looks up and she’s looking right into his eyes. Shocked and open, not expecting the betrayal of his partner.

“Hey beautiful,” the other man crouches down beside her. Takes advantage of her confusion, of her shock. Her friend dead. Knowing she’ll follow soon after. “You never told me your name, you know. I’m Mark.” He strokes her hair back from her face, pushes her down to the ground.

Fighting is futile.

She had a chance with Hotch. Their odds nearly even, two against two. Even tied up and bleeding, they’re a threat that can’t be replicated and certainly not by an Unsub. Not one who takes women from gas station bathrooms in the ugly hours of the morning. Not ones dumb enough to take federal officers.

But it’s over.

It’s over and Hotch is dead.

“Don’t cry,” Mark whispers against her throat. He wipes her tears away with the back of his finger, shaking his head and mockingly comforting her. “But,” he holds her head, tenderly cupped in his palm. “You’re so pretty when you cry.”

Emily turns her head from Mark’s hand, finds herself looking at Hotch. His still body, head turned away from her. This is how it ends. Hotch dead and she’s powerless. She’s left his turned cheek, even he can’t bear to see. So she looks to the scar under his ear from New York, the hearing he lost and never fully recovered. A scab from shaving this morning. His hairline, the greys that were popping up around his temples and ear. Still sparse enough that he doesn’t look aged by them. And the blood. The wound Rob inflicted on him in their initial meeting. It doesn’t bleed now, it hadn’t been agitated in their fight. Color had started to creep into its edges, bruising to further demonstrate its anger in having been disturbed so violently.

Now he’s just dead.

She tries not to make a sound when Mark gets her pants undone, tries to make out unaffected. His hand cups at her hip, cold fingers curled around her. There’s a certain level of invisibility she’d felt on the other side of the yellow tape. After years of having used her body to get things, to win Ian Doyle’s trust and eventually his secrets, she’d thought herself too clever for this. Got too comfortable, perhaps. Surrounded by the likes of Hotch and Dave and Spencer and Derek. How many times had she stripped down to just an undershirt, leaned in too close over one of their shoulders just because she felt comfortable? Knew they wouldn’t hurt her.

But she’s losing.

After all the ways she’d won, all the ways she’d found victories in men’s selfish desires, and now she’s laying in the woods. She’s losing.

She’s going to die too.

But she doesn’t.

She jerks, unprepared for the sudden sharp pain across her temples. Her hands coming up to protect her ringing ears and not expecting the dead weight of Mark over top her. She writhes away, feels something hot and wet landing on her breast, sliding down her ribs. Sticks and rocks push against her shoulders but she fights with a terrified panic, crying in her blinding fear. Her fist connects hard with an audible crack of bone against bone and everything stops.

She pushes herself up and back, the back of her hand swiping through blood and sweat across her face. Leaves give beneath her, too slick with dew to hold properly as she moves backward. Sticks dig into her skin. Rocks turn over as she kicks them. Until she’s got an actual picture of what’s happening. Until her brain can work over details.

Mark is on his chest. His head split open, a terrifying weeping wound. Shot.

“Hotch?” she’s removed. Only partially aware of things as she takes them in. Of Mark’s death. Of the damp ground beneath her. Of the chill in the air. Of her own pounding heart. Of Hotch laid out on his back, eyelashes fluttering but open. Gasping sounds -- from her and from Hotch. His chest rising quickly with his shallow breathes.

Her knees scream smart pain as rocks and twigs dig into her flesh, deadened leaves chilled by the night’s air seeping through the material of her pants. She doesn’t even realize she’s moving, it’s automatic. It’s uncontrolled. “Hotch?” she touches his cold skin, taps at his cheek an indistinct beat she hopes will raise him from whatever unconscious solace he’s found. He breathes, shallow but audibly as his body tries to work again.

She touches his throat, grazes her fingers against miserable, chilled skin. He’s alive. Despite all the odds. Despite what she’d seen. Alive.

She cries as she leans forward, pressing their temples together. Cheek to cheek, their cold skin warm against one another. “I thought you were dead,” she sobs, fully allowing herself now to break. To feel the terror and isolation she’d felt thinking he was gone. Killed right in front of her. “You fucking bastard,” she holds onto his clothes, feels his hand come up and his fingers fumble to grasp her. To feel her alive and well. “I thought you were dead.”

He lets out a huff of breath, as close to relived laughter as he can manage. “Me too.”

She pulls back just enough to look down at his face, his pale lips twitching up and the blood caked across the side of his face. “I’m never going on a road trip with you again,” she says.

He nods, breathlessly whispering, “fair.”

She shivers, the breeze picking up. “Can you walk?” They can’t be that far from the car. She’s already pushing her hands into his pants pockets before he can answer, in search of the keys. Distracted to the point that she misses when he shakes his head. When he admits things are a little worse than what she thinks. “What do you mean--” and she looks down, his left hand shakily lifting off his abdomen.

“Shit!” she pushes his hand back over the wound. The first thing that comes to mind is to ignore the problem but that’s not very rational. “Why couldn’t it have been a bear?” That seems like it really beats watching him bleed out in the woods. She lowers her head, turns away from him for a second. She can’t lose her cool. He just saved her and now she has to return the favor. At this point, she refuses to go home without him.

Her earlier remark about bonding has aged like milk.

Something cold nudges her hand just faintly grazes her fingers. Despite everything they’ve been through in the last hour she still flinches, tries to move her hand away from what she suspects is a spider. There are sticks poking her back and ass but she’ll be damned if she’s going to become a jungle gym for a spider to crawl all over. Except she looks down and finds fingers, Hotch’s right hand pushing at her fingers.

It’s candy. Slowly, trying to find her courage and work through her panic, she lifts her palm back up. Looks at the stark contrast of his white mint on the decaying leaves.

She laughs.

They say nothing and yet they share an entire conversation. All glances, his pain pinching at the corners of his eyes, fatigue weighing him down quickly, and her slight humor over his grandpa candy. The mint is crushed, it hadn’t survived their rough journey well. “Are you trying to tell me my breath stinks?” she asks, tilting her head and raising an eyebrow to dare him. A playful sort of smirk on her lips as she declares, “Because I swear to God, I’ll punch you in the balls, Hotch.”

He smirks and as he opens his mouth a branch cracks, a flashlight shines right into their eyes.

“Hands up!”

Emily raises her hand to cover her eyes, wincing. “We’re -- We’re federal agents!” The flashlight lowers just a bit, enough so that she can see it’s a man standing before her.

“Your buddy hurt?” he asks.

Emily looks down, Hotch is already looking back at her. He’s shivering now and she knows whatever is about to happen is all on her. “Shot,” she answers. “Some guys they… they ambushed us? Dragged us out here.”

The man nods, “can he walk?”

She looks back down, Hotch’s eyes sinking shut, fighting to stay open. “I -- I don’t know? Maybe?” No. No, but she’ll drag his ass out of here if she has to.

“Alright,” the man steps forward, and Emily tenses. “I ain’t gonna hurt you little lady but you ain’t getting that big fella up without some help.”

Hotch remembers very little of what happens next. Standing seems to pull all of the blood from his body, at least there isn’t any in his head. Everything is confusing, a strange man is on his left and Emily on his right. He wakes up in a truck bed, rocking back and forth. His head in Emily’s lap and the cold wind grabbing at the blanket pulled under his chin. “We’re almost there, Hotch. Just hold on.” But she sounds like she’s underwater. Far away.

And then everything is still.

“And that’s how I saved us.”

He follows the sound of the voice over to his right, to Emily. She’s sitting up in bed, legs curled underneath her. There’s a chunk of gauze taped to her temple but she’s not wearing a hospital gown. She looks good, nearly restored to the Emily Prentiss he’s used to seeing around the office. The others are gathered around her, Dave smirking at what must have been a rather grandiose retelling of what happened.

“Technically,” he rasps, “I saved you first.”

Emily’s face betrays the first thing she feels hearing him. He’s been laying there for four days, unresponsive. He’d been on a ventilator the first two days. Throat nearly swollen shut from Rob’s attack, bruised badly. But now his eyes are open and he’s challenging her, picking a fight having been awake a whole minute. She's weirdly thrilled to see him glaring at her, too high and too exhausted to hide it.

“Are we really going to start keeping score?” she asks.

His eyes burn, they’re too heavy to keep open. He lets them slide shut, smirking still. A moment passes, maybe longer, and he feels a hand take his. Plastic sitting uncomfortably against his palm. It takes him a moment, the drugs trying so hard to pull him back under. It’s the mint he’d given her.

She doesn’t smile now, they share no knowing glances.

He hums, closing his hand around the mint.

“Considers us even,” she whispers.

He manages to crack his eyes open just a sliver, voice is completely gone but she just barely make out what he says: “not a chance.”

[amoxgirl]

Legacies

Legacies Chapter 2

1995 Appalachian Mountain Territories

Jon knew he was different than most boys his age, what made him different he didn’t know nor understood but it didn’t matter. His Mom simply told him that he simply marched to the beat of his own drum and didn’t care for the ‘rough housing’ the other boys were doing. He had nodded at his mothers explanation and thought no more about it, he rarely played well with the other boys and often found himself coming to the rescue of the younger kids or the girls that was from the neighborhood.

It didn’t bother him, he rather liked it- other ten-year-old boys wouldn’t help the girls out nor would they play with the ‘babies’ either cause one group had ‘cooties’ or because the other group still wanted to play sillier games. But Jon was unique in the fact that just as long as he was outside where the sunshine could hit his face and he could take a deep long breath of fresh air he was happy.

Life was good… He had his Mom and his Nana and that’s all that mattered to him.

                                           ---(0)---(0)---(0)---

It was summer time and by far Jon’s favorite time of year, no school and the warm lazy days called to his heart like nothing else could. While this summer most of the boys he did play with got to go to a summer camp Jon had elected to stay at home, the majority of other kids that were still around were of families that couldn’t afford to go to the summer activities.

He had over heard his Mom and Nana talking about it once school had let out, that they had saved up enough money for him to go should he choose to do so but the flyers that his teacher had sent home with him on the last day of school looked so boring- and that’s what he had told his Mom and Nana.

Instead here he was in wooded park climbing a large oak tree, smiling successfully when he got middle ways up into the top of the tree. Parking his butt on a thick branch and digging out a granola bar from his pocket he enjoyed the shade and the pride of getting this far up when suddenly he heard voices shouting. Stuffing the rest of the bar into his mouth and pocketing the wrapper he hastily made his descent down again.

Listening closely, he realized that there was lots of different voices screaming, male and female alike- stepping into a screaming direction Jon was finally able to make out what they were screaming, “Sasha!” He tilted his head and thought about the name- he thought it belonged to a visiting young girl, she was spending the summer with her own Nana if he remembered correctly and something told him that having this many adults screaming for her was bad news.

Suddenly from around a tree a man stepped out and froze- Jon hadn’t felt him there and by the raised eyebrow he thought the man was just as surprised to see him as he was. In the stretched silence Jon took a moment to look at the man and found himself freezing when he noticed the guns at the man’s hips. Wetting his lips, he felt a slight, very so slight fear bubble- “you’re not truly afraid are you?” when the man spoke it was a funny accent Jon had never heard before, and with Cincinnati being a ‘port’ city he had heard so odd accents before this. But trying to be polite, as his Mom had taught him, he answered the question, “no Sir!” There was a smile forming on the adults lips when the shouting came closer.

Then Mister Connors stepped out around the park path and spotted him and the other man and snapped, “Jonathan what in the blue blazes are you doing out here?” Then Mister Connors eyes snapped to the other man and froze, his head lowered, and a closed fist came over his heart as he spoke, “hail Gunslinger!” Jon felt his eyes go wide as he looked at the strange man who was bringing up his right hand and with two fingers tapped his left side of collarbone. “hail Sai, what’s all ruckus for?” Mister Conner’s raised his head and spoke more softly, “a girl has went missing Sai!”

Jon shuffled his feet as the adults talked, he barely understood the conversation but the pieces he understood was the Gunslinger was on a hunt for parts of a posse he had been chasing for a long time. Suddenly the Gunslinger spoke up, “I will help in the search,” Mister Connors sputtered and finally managed out a thank you- Jon beamed and added, “I will help too!”

At this Mister Connors thundered at him, “certainly not young man- your march your butt back to your mamma and stay there! We don’t need to be looking for two lost kids tonight!” Stiffen his back Jon was ready to fire back when the Gunslinger spoke up, “the Lad can accompany in my search- I don’t know the terrain and something tells me he might be handy to have along!”

Once Mister Connors left Jon turned his full attention to the Gunslinger and with a shy voice was able to squeak out a thanks, but the other man simply studied him harder. After a minute he spoke up again, “what’s your full name Lad?” Jon straighten up to his full height, which was pretty tall for his age. “Jonathan Dean Moxley Sir!” The other man let out a laugh and held out his hand, “Steven Regal young Moxley!” Shaking his hand Jon felt his small world center and a heat ignite deep in his little heart.

                                              ---(0)---(0)---(0)---

It was the next day, the second day of the search for the missing Sasha when Jon had mentioned the pond to Mr. Regal when he asked Jon why he was concerned about the pond he shrugged his shoulders and said as an afterthought, “girls like cute animals and stuff- sometimes ducks swim in that pond!” The other man simply stared at him for a moment and then had him lead him to the pond in question.

Jon watched in awe as Mr. Regal walked with him around the large pond and pointed about small but noticeable foot prints- once when they bent down to examine an odd set of tracks Mr. Regal began to teach him differences of each track they found so when they bent down again some hours later Jon was about to identify the deer tracks without pause.

This seemed to please Mr. Regal and Jon felt such pride in himself that he never wanted this day to end however Mr. Regal wasn’t done teaching him. Next he was taught about the moss on tree trunks and how to avoid poison ivy and what mushroom/berries were good to eat. He learned how to identify the scat left behind to know what type of animal he was tracking- learned how to listen for sounds and more importantly for the sound of water.

It was closing in on dark when Jon felt the odd sensation at the back of his skull, the sensation quickly turned into a headache and just when Jon thought he couldn’t take it anymore everything in his vision tilted and he tripped. Mr. Regal caught him easily enough and frowned at him, “Jon…. Jon what ails you?” Working his mouth Jon had never felt so tired before but he forced himself to speak, “I had this funny feeling in my head then it turned into a headache but now it doesn’t hurt- when the pain went away it surprised me!” He felt Mr. Regal go completely stiff and watched as the other man bowed his head, after a moment he spoke softly, “do you hear it Jon?”

Jon was trying to detangle himself from the arms of the other man when he asked, as his heart thumped wildly against his chest, “hear what?” Mr. Regal glanced up at him at last and whispered, “the voice of your father?” Suddenly Jon was scared to breath, scared to move but Mr. Regal continued on, “a gunslinger will always hear the voice of his or hers forefathers Jon- a gunslinger will never lose focus nor get lost in thought cause they are never alone in their own head!”

They spent the hour in silence, man and boy both staring straight ahead- the man razor focus ahead while Jon himself stares ahead. They quietly came a upon a fork in the road- bending down in the dirt Jon traced the funny looking track when a small but quiet voice murmured deep inside his ear- left, “Mr. Regal I think we should go left!”

Mr. Regal studied him for a moment then nodded and as they walked Jon whispered. “I heard him!” Mr. Regal quietly laid a hand on his head told him one of the most important things in his young life, “listen to him Jon- he will never lead you astray.” Nodding as they continued on until they came to a hill and small cave crop to left- She is inside, glancing at Mr. Regal Jon smiled big when the other man thumbed his thumb into the direction of the cave, “Agreed!”

With that they both walked into the cave and a mile in they found the destroyed corpse of little Sasha Banks and Jon let the tears fall freely.

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

1997 Gator Country

It was summer once again and this year the heat had came early and Jon was suffering because of it- his Dinn had swung by after school had let out and nabbed him for their annual summer training. It had been two years since he had met Steven Regal and awoke his inner gunslinger spirit- his Dinn (not teacher- heaven forbid) had continued his hunt but had always dropped back in to train him, a fact his Mom and Nana had hated but when Regal (as his Mom calls him) told him that the instinct to hunt- and the pressure of the voice in head would make him insane before he hit adulthood they had relented.

It had been on their first trip outside the Appalachian Mountain Territories that his Dinn told that he had called in some favors to some  local Bookmen and after much digging they all agreed that Jon was perhaps the youngest gunslinger to awaken his inner instinct.

“It’s not doing me any fucking favors in this swamp!” He knew if his Mom and his Dinn heard that fowl word muttered from his lips he would have received a lashing but in the heat of the day- with only his hunting knife and four bullets left in his apprenticeship  guns, and half a canteen left of drinkable water he was annoyed.

Drop off to the left

Smiling in a cruel kind of way, a smile unbefitting a twelve-year-old Jon simple stopped and listened and after a moment he heard the faint sound of a rattle from a rattlesnake.

“Oh, goody dinner!”

                                                ---(0)---(0)---(0)---

He never got to eat or skin the damn rattlesnake that night, why? Simple, really- his instinct had spoke of the drop off, but it was Jon’s own intelligences that found the cave buried back in the drop off- and in finding the cave (his least favorite places) he had found the two-man posse he and his Dinn were hunting.

Quietly and slowly exiting the cave he took up post in a tree and set off a soundless flare and waited. He knew better than to engage the posse on his own- even though he thought he might be good enough to take them on, but in doing so he might have to kill them and so far he hadn’t been giving the go ahead to kill anything human yet.

Behind and to the right

Already having his gun drew and in the guard position Jon quietly shifted to take a peek behind him- having the tree trunk to his back firstly made him work a little harder at not being heard or seen. The man that slipped out to the right of his tree was a larger man than his Dinn- but the guns at his hips told Jon all he needed to know. Softly, “a mile in it forks- they are to the right fork. The girl is either sleeping or unconscious.” The big man pauses and just as softly asks, “not dead?” Jon snorts and snaps back, “give me some credit man- I know the difference between the living and the dead!”

Yes, little Sasha Banks had taught him that fact two years ago. The sight of her cold body plus the signs his Dinn took shown him taught him early on the differences. Sighing Jon made his way down his post and landed soundlessly next to the unknown Gunslinger, glancing at one another for a second then Jon smirked when other man puffed out his cheeks and moaned in disappointment. “your just an apprentice….” A pause then, “numbers?” Giving the other man a flipped look Jon respectfully, cause like it or not this man wore gunslinger guns, “two!” A long moment, “you made your first kill yet?” Swallowing hard Jon simply shook his head was about to answer when a scream echoed from the cave, “Fuck me- come on then seems like today is your lucky day!”

Jon wanted to back peddle and tell the man to fuck off- he wasn’t his Dinn, had no right to give him orders but another scream echoed out and the image of Sasha Banks flashed in front of his eyes

Never stop never look back

Muttering, ‘fuck you!’ and when the other man gave him a funny look Jon sheepish blushed and said softly, “not you!” The other man nodded and jerked his head inward and Jon took a deep breath and followed.

The work that follows is fast, deadly, and precise on both the unnamed gunslinger and himself. Both their aims were accurate and just as deadly- Jon thought he would be sick afterwards, but he felt nothing when he noticed the girls tore cloths and the bite marks on her shoulders and small breasts.

Always shoot to kill and never kill just for the sake of killing

The girl had stopped screaming long enough to understand that the people that had just saved her wasn’t there to inflict more pain and started to cry. Jon went to the man he had just killed and checked his pockets- looking for any type of ID, he had witness his Dinn do this countless times and so he knew to also check the pulse to make sure his kill was dead.

“Your fucking good kid, what’s your name?” Smiling at the praise Jon answered proudly, “Jon Moxley!” The older man cocked his head and mumbled, “Moxley- I know I have heard that name somewhere before,” shaking his head clear he continued onward, “Well done Jon Moxley, I am Mathew Reigns but most in these parts call me Rosy!”

Smiling Jon stuck out his hand to other gunslinger and replied back, “nice to meet you Rosy!”

[winebleeds-a]

𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑹𝑨𝑪𝑻𝑬𝑹 𝑺𝑯𝑬𝑬𝑻. repost,  don’t reblog !

𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐬 !

FULL NAME.      elizabeth marie spencer PRONUNCIATION.       (ง'̀-'́)ง NICKNAME.       liz. lizzie, if you wanna get on her bad side asap. GENDER.         cis female HEIGHT.         5′2 / 157 cm AGE.       25, but verse dependent (ex. she’s 29 for tua or 31 in a private verse) ZODIAC.         cancer (marko & liz need to stop being alike by now being like their zodiacs) SPOKEN LANGUAGES.       english (native). french (advance). yiddish (intermediate). fiddles with other miscellaneous languages which is verse dependent bc she will try & learn your muse’s native language. 

𝐩𝐡𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬 !

HAIR COLOR.         blonde. natural light brown EYE COLOR.         a ‘caramel’ brown with ‘honey’ specks SKIN TONE.         pale. sun tan days are in the past. BODY TYPE.         slim but fit ACCENT.         american. closer to sound like the mid-atlantic region (think of modern DC, not transatlantic old timey accent), especially being closer to the appalachian region. so it’s complicated. but, like, for the accent aspect... think of bil.l nye. VOICE.         eh? still working on this. tho i do feel she does train her voice to sound different base on situations. DOMINANT HAND.         right POSTURE.         stiff,  straight-laced,  resting bitch face, hands either on hips or crossed. probably even has her feet shoulder length apart for a ‘power move’ SCARS.         one on her head. some over her hands & wrist from equestrian thing, but those are really faint. probably some ache scars faint scatter across her hairline?      TATTOOS.         none, but can get some if verse dependent. she loves seeing them on others, however. BIRTHMARKS.         a starish shape blob near her right shoulderblade MOST NOTICEABLE FEATURE(S).        smile (when she ever smiles which is like a .01% chance of ever seeing it). piercing eyes. probably just how she’s able to make herself to appear taller than her actual height.

𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐝 !

PLACE OF BIRTH.         lexington, va HOMETOWN.         raphine, va BIRTH WEIGHT.         ?? BIRTH HEIGHT.         ?? MANNER OF BIRTH.         born in the carillon hospital at lexington FIRST WORDS.         neigh (for horse) SIBLINGS.         raleigh : older brother by a year & nine months, maddie : younger sister by seven years PARENTS.         robert spencer & martha loeb (still kinda deciding on her maiden name as we go) PARENTAL INVOLVEMENT.         she has a better relationship with her father than her mother.  

𝐚𝐝𝐮𝐥𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 !

OCCUPATION.         it specialist for the united nations (main) CURRENT RESIDENCE.          nyc (main) CLOSE FRIENDS.         wine. maybe caitlyn fields & alfred jones. oh, and sana @ivoryhearted RELATIONSHIP STATUS.          verse / thread dependent.   canonically single. FINANCIAL STATUS.         middle class DRIVER’S LICENSE.         yes CRIMINAL RECORD.         verse dependent. but overall, no. VICES.         drinking, from caffeine to alcohol. her pride.

𝐬𝐞𝐱 & 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 !

SEXUAL ORIENTATION.         bisexual ROMANTIC ORIENTATION.         greyromantic PREFERRED EMOTIONAL ROLE.       submissive  |  dominant  |  switch. PREFERRED SEXUAL ROLE.       submissive  |  dominant  |  switch. LIBIDO.         not as high as y’all think TURN ON’S.         submission. glasses. yet some sort of challenge when wanting to hatefuck. kissing / biting necks.  TURN OFF’S.         being put into the submissive role. uh... eh? LOVE LANGUAGE.        eh? get back on me on this. RELATIONSHIP TENDENCIES.         normally has one night stands & is colder than the other partner. but, within a relationship, she’s softer than her ‘outer’ layer. tries to help the person, even as simple as cleaning or cooking. is a wee bit more open but still struggles to fully be... herself.

𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐨𝐮𝐬 !

CHARACTER’S THEME SONG.         she’s always a woman to me~ granted idk what ‘theme song’ she would give herself. BECAUSE I STILL HAVE NO CLUE ABOUT HER MUSIC TASTE  HOBBIES TO PASS TIME.         horseback riding. cleaning. reading. tinkering with machinery, depending on verse. MENTAL ILLNESSES.       none PHYSICAL ILLNESSES.         has infertility issues. LEFT OR RIGHT BRAINED.         left. PHOBIAS.         close spaces. though does feel anxious within colder weather. SELF CONFIDENCE LEVEL.         arrogant. or is she? VULNERABILITIES.         cold hearted. closed hearted. pride / ego. 

TAGGED BY:  billy joel @dilkos TAGGING: @serotiinal @shmonah (yes i’m tagging both your blogs <3) @qwilll (for any of your blogs) @strxnzo @ichorvcins @lovisguttae @musichealed (for tony too) & like anyone that wants to steal this. just let me know.

[writtenthroughtime]

Mo Chridhe - Part 12

Previous Installments:  Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11

Jamie pulled Claire down the sidewalk at a run, while keeping a soaked newspaper overtop of her head. The rain relentlessly hammered all around, the trees swayed with the force of the storm. Seeing a faint glow of lights ahead, Claire redirected Jamie to the establishment.

The smell of tea, coffee and old books surrounded them. Jamie taking a deep breath and letting out a contented sigh at the comforting smell.

“Where have ye brought us, Sassenach?” he asked, looking around the cramped space. Worn leather arm chairs and sun faded plush velvet chairs were strategically placed around windows and bookshelves.

Claire shrugged while running her fingers through the drenched curls.

“Storms really ragin’ innit?” a deep Appalachian accented voice said from directly behind Claire, causing her to jump and let out a gasp. Jamie whirled around to face the stranger.

The old man had a permanent hunch, and his beard would rival that of Brianna’s favorite Harry Potter character, Dumbledore.

“M’name’s Art Altizer, and this here is my shop. Feel free to come ‘round to the back to dry off by the fire.” In his accent it sounded like ‘far’. He gestured to follow as he weaved around furniture and books with surprising ease. “I have a small selection of drinks and cakes if you’re interested.”

Jamie quirked a brow at Claire, and she smiled in response. They followed Art to the back where a teen leaned against the countertop, her tattooed hands tapping on her cell phone.

“Dee here can make the fanciest coffees you’ve ever seen, with little designs and everything floating in the cup!” the old man complimented his worker.

With a hug and an eye roll Dee corrected Art, “It’s latte foam art Grandda, not rocket science.”

Art smiled and let out a chuckle. “Ah, so you’ve said before. Her lattes are almost too beautiful to drink,” he said, turning back to Jamie and Claire.

“We’ll take two, but make one decaf, please,” Claire said to Art who beamed and clapped.

“Very good! Dee, m’dear…”

“Already ahead of you Gramps!”

Jamie guided Claire to a loveseat that sat directly in front of a roaring fire. He sighed and peeled off his jacket.

“Weatherman said this is the storm off the latest hurricane. Should last few more hours. Y’all are welcome to stay as long as you like. The books are free to read and borrow. I have a sign out sheet just over there.” Art pointed a crooked finger at an owl carved podium.

“Thank you. You’ve been so kind to us,” Claire said, taking the latte from Dee.

A small bell dinged and Art’s eyes lit up again as he scurried towards the front to welcome another customer.

“Gramps loves having people here. Not too many people stop by anymore, not since the Barnes & Noble opened up down the street,” Dee commented, pulling at a loose purple strand of hair.

“I’m sorry to hear that. This place looks incredible!” Jamie said in earnest. Dee gave a half-hearted smile and shrugged.

“He spends all his time here since my Granny Deeana passed last year. He opened this place for her because she loved sweets and a good book at all times,” she said with an imitation of her grandmother and a smile. “I was named after her and spent all of my childhood in here. I fell in love with the place too. I wish more customers would come.”

“We saw your light, that’s how we knew to come here. All along the street, the windows were dark and uninviting, but this…” Claire waved her hand. “This place showed warmth and led us here.”

Dee snorted. “Yeah, well, three more buildings down and you’d have found a Starbucks and the Barnes & Noble. That’s where tourists want to go.”

Whatever she was going to say next was interrupted by her grandfather ushering in another disheveled person.

“...oh yes sir! We do have scones. Butterscotch, blueberry, chocolate, and vanilla flavored ones all in this here case. Which would you like and I’ll have Dee warm it up for you?”

The man chuckled. “Surprise me.”  

Ice formed in the pit of Claire’s stomach at the voice, a voice she hoped didn’t belong to who she thought it could be. When the stranger turned around, his blond hair and light blue eyes confirmed Claire’s dread. Her ex had found her.

“Cl-Claire?” John stuttered and Jamie stiffened at Claire’s side.

“Hello John,” she said tersely.

“I can’t believe it! Claire Beauchamp as I live and breathe!” he exclaimed, pulling her up into a hug. Claire patted his back lightly. “What are you doing stateside? Last I heard you were in South Africa on some wild goose chase of a dig with that hairbrained uncle of yours.”

Claire’s lips tightened and she nodded. “Yes, well, time does move on and that was nearly fifteen years ago. I was in South Africa looking for a magical talisman my Uncle believed to be hidden near the cape, but that was on my summer holiday from uni.” Claire groped behind her for Jamie’s hand, when he laced his fingers with hers, she pulled him to her side. “This is my husband, James Fraser.”

“Hu-husband?” The smaller man’s adam’s apple bobbed as his eyes shifted nervously, taking in the large form of Jamie Fraser. “Ni-nice to meet you. Claire and I go way back.” John stuck out a hand that Jamie took, squeezing harder than necessary.

“Aye, weel Claire hasna ever mentioned ye.” His Scots burr thickening with each word, overpowering the nasal british accent of John’s, who nervously laughed.

“Ah, you see, we ah… didn’t end things on good terms.”

Jamie arched an eyebrow as John nervously played with the hair at the back of his head.

“No, you see, ah… well. I mean that… what happened was…”

“He cheated on me with the local paper boy then tried to force me into marriage because his mother wanted him to marry a woman, all while maintaining his relationship with the underaged boy. Mind you, this happened when I was eighteen and had no inclination to be wed,” Claire stated with little emotion. “I had just been accepted to Oxford and several schools here in the US. I wanted to be a doctor, not a nobleman’s beard.”

Jamie tried hard not to laugh, a quick pinch to his side stopped it from exploding out of him.

“Aye, weel then, John. Did ye and yer paperboy lover continue after Claire rejected ye?”

John jerked his head. “No. Percy decided that he’d rather take his chances with another man than me.”

“Then who was the lucky lad that married ye?” Jamie nodded at the golden band on John’s hand.

John shoved his hand into his coat pocket. “Her name is Isobel, and we have a son together. My mother got what she always wanted. A grandchild and for me to marry a woman.”

Claire arched an eyebrow at this. “Well congratulations, John. I had no idea you were willing to give a woman company again.”

A feminine hurmph came from behind Claire.

“Isobel!” John said nervously, walking around to get his wife and the toddler at her side.

“Izzy, this is Claire Fraser and her husband James. Claire, this is my wife Isobel and my son, George.”

“Hello,” Isobel sneered.

“Hello,” Claire said sweetly then turned to the child. “And hello to you, young man. How old are you? I believe my son may be about your age.”

“Five,” George said, sticking out his hand showing all of his fingers.

“Oh my! You are a big boy.” George nodded and gave her a toothy smile.

“My daddy says that I’m gonna be even bigger than he is!”

Claire smiled at the boy and nodded. “I’m sure you will be.”

“Do not speak to my son like that,” Isobel said hatefully.

“I’m sorry, in what way?” Claire asked confused, eyebrows drawing in.

“Like a condescending bitch! I know exactly who you are, Claire Beauchamp! You’re the bitch who ruined my life!”

Taken aback, Claire looked from Isobel to John, who was frowning at the ground. “I don’t--”

“Don’t give me that! It was your fault I had to marry a queer! Your fault I had to give him a sorry excuse of a--” She cleared her throat. “It’s your fault! If you would have married him when told, I wouldn’t be in this situation. Do you have anything to say now?” she demanded, her face turning puce.

“Your hat is crooked,” Claire said calmly.

George had begun to cry and jerk his hand away from his mother, who was squeezing it to the point of pain. John walked over to her, but she threw the child’s hand away and stormed out of the shop and back out into the rain.

“John, I am so sorry,” Claire said, tears in her eyes. John shook his head picking up his son trying to soothe his pain and ease the crying.

“Let Claire take a look at him, aye? We’ll keep an eye on him if ye want to run after her,” Jamie offered, patting John on the shoulder.

He nodded reluctantly. “Georgy?”

The boy’s red and tear tracked face dug deeper into his father’s neck. “Georgy, I’m going to let Mrs. Fraser hold you and look at your hand.”

George shook his head and a muffled ‘no’ could be heard.

“Yes, dear one. Mrs. Fraser is a doctor and knows how to help hurt people.”

A small, ‘okay’ was murmured and John handed over his son to Claire.

“I’ll be back shortly. This isn’t the first time Izzy has spoken out like this. I,” he sighed. “I don’t think she’s happy with our new move to the states, or my other preference.”

They both nodded at John as he took off after his irate wife. Claire didn’t even have to ask when Dee and Art brought her cloths and ice in a plastic bag. She checked George’s hand, and didn’t think anything was broken. He cried and hiccupped himself to sleep on her chest while cradling the ice wrapped hand between them.

Jamie smoothed back the boys light brown hair. “At first I was jealous and angry at yer ex, but now all I feel is pity. The lad shouldna have to experience what’s to come.”

“He’ll need a friend,” Claire confirmed.

“Aye, maybe a whole houseful of friends, the lad and yer John.” Jamie kissed Claire’s temple and rubbed George’s back.

“I think the Fraser clan can help there. So long as you don’t mind the past…?” Claire asked nervously.

“It’s yer past, Sassenach. I ken I wish I was yer only man, but I canna fault ye for lookin around when I wasna there.” He kissed her again and she leaned into his embrace.

“One day, I’d like to have a less exciting trip to a coffee and tea shop,” Claire mumbled and Jamie laughed.

[kidsviral-blog]

Blood Line

New Post has been published on https://kidsviral.info/blood-line/

Blood Line

Hiking on the Pacific Crest Trail in my late forties, and thinking about conversations I never got to have with my mother.

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Alice Mongkongllite / BuzzFeed

During the six-hour flight to Seattle from my home in North Carolina in the summer of 2013, my period arrived before my flight landed. So in the cramped bathroom of the plane, I pulled my Diva Cup from its fabric pouch and wondered how to use it while hiking on the Pacific Crest Trail.

While I’d been using the Diva Cup for years, I’d never taken it into the wilderness. By some fluke, my hiking adventures during the previous summers had fallen on weeks when I didn’t have my period.

The Diva Cup — which is made of silicone and sits inside your vagina, collecting menstrual blood, while you have your period — has made this stage of life manageable for me, as tampons can’t handle the heavy flow. In my late thirties, I discovered the Diva Cup after a friend turned me onto the environmental and health benefits of reusable products, and now, the Diva Cup is the only device that will contain the massive quantities of blood produced by my now-49-year old uterus. For most of my life, I privately judged those who complained about their periods, as I could run marathons while menstruating. But now, approaching menopause, my body produces blood clots the size of grapes.

When I drove to the trailhead the next day with my hiking partner, I stopped at a gas station to buy baby wipes, which I hadn’t purchased since my two daughters were toddlers.

“Don’t you think dumping blood in a stream violates ‘Leave No Trace’?” I asked my longtime friend Gary, referring to the low-impact principles that focus on carrying out everything you bring on to a trail. For women using tampons, this means putting them in a plastic bag throughout the hike; I was worried that I’d be pouring blood from the Diva Cup into Ziplocs as we hiked.

Gary follows the low-impact rules about camping away from streams and avoiding dish soap in mountain waters, but practicality often trumps principles for him; he sometimes throws his apple cores or orange peels into the woods, even though he works as an avian ecologist and knows better than most how food can attract wildlife.

“I think you’ll be fine,” he said, giving me the answer that I was hoping for.

As we hiked, I stopped at every stream to rinse out the Diva Cup, and my typical hiking attire of a well-worn Patagonia dress made this process quite efficient. Within an hour, we fell into a rhythm of walking and stopping, rinsing, and refueling. The second day, we hiked to the Pacific Crest Trail, also known as the PCT, and I took a picture by the small wooden sign that identified the trail.

Cheryl Strayed’s book and movie Wild have now popularized the Pacific Crest Trail, but in spring 1999, my parents hiked the entire distance of the trail, all 2,650 miles. (Five years earlier they had completed the 2,168 miles of the Appalachian Trail on the East Coast.) They waited to depart until I had delivered my daughter, Maya, but before I went into labor, my parents mailed their care packages of food out West and weighed every item before placing it in their lightweight packs.

While we often camped as a family in the 1970s, my parents became middle-age gurus of long-distance hiking after their four children were grown. In hiking circles, they were known by their trail names of “Annie and the Salesman” and were featured on an instructional film about lightweight hiking. With her slow Southern drawl recorded on the video, my mother held up a towel the size of a washcloth: “After you rinse off in a stream, you just shake off like a little puppy!” she said with a self-conscious grin and a flip of her head.

She always described hiking as a form of prayer.

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Alice Mongkongllite / BuzzFeed

Their last long-distance hike was the near-completion of the Continental Divide Trail, part of the trifecta called the Triple Crown, which also includes the Appalachian Trail and the Pacific Crest Trail. But before they could complete the last section of the Continental Divide Trail, they were killed by young male drivers in separate but mirror-image accidents two years apart. They both died while biking to an organic farm where they volunteered in exchange for fresh produce each week in our hometown of Fairhope, Alabama. My mother and father died long before showing outward signs of old age, at 58 and 64 years old, respectively. In fact, at the time of their deaths, in 2003 and 2005, they were in the best shape of their lives.

During our many conversations on the phone and in person, I never asked my mother how she dealt with her changing female body while hiking, although I have faint memories of her mentioning the subject of “heavy flow.” In the years before she died, I was having babies, starting jobs. Menopause was the farthest life event from my mind.

But I do remember when my sister was in college, my mother wrote her a newsy letter, filled with plans for an upcoming hike. My sister says her roommates cackled at this line in the letter: “I’ve discovered the most marvelous thing!” my mother wrote, in her perfect penmanship that seemed to echo her graceful Mississippi accent. “It’s called OB!”

I’ll never know if she packed out OB tampons in Ziploc bags on the Pacific Crest Trail or if my father understood her “change of life” as they walked across mountaintops and deserts. But I do know that when I walked on the Pacific Crest Trail — step after step on the same path — I felt my body melt into her memory. When I hiked on that trail, my mother had been dead for 10 years and my father for eight, but I could imagine them singing together as they walked and then stopping to admire the wildflowers. In fact, I was stepping into a prayer with both of them, following the actual trail of their walking meditation.

The loss of a parent signals the loss of an entire unrecorded history. Every day, I want to ask my mother, “What was it like for you?” When my teenage daughter looks at me with irritation one moment and vulnerability the next, I want to ask: “Did I look at you in that same way?” Because of course, I can’t remember. So I make up stories in my mind, even as I yearn for the weight of her arms around my middle-age body. Some nights, I pray that I might dream about her, just to spend a few minutes of subconscious time with her voice.

“You’ll always be my girl,” she would say, as she embraced me over the years, patting my back with her right hand, over and over again, even when I grew taller than her. When my mother was my age, 10 years before her death, her children were grown, and she was settling into the second stage of a seasoned marriage that had grown stronger with time. In contrast, I am a single parent of a teenager and a third-grader; we live in a 900-square-foot house in North Carolina with one tiny bathroom, where my older daughter has walked in on me as I rinse out my Diva Cup in the sink.

My own body — that can birth babies, hike trails, and raise a teenage woman — has become my mother’s. And there is nothing that can contain it all.

Read more: http://www.buzzfeed.com/mallorymcduff/hiking-period