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illyrian-dreamer · 3 months

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And Then There Were None – Part 2

Azriel/fem!reader

Synopsis: In the lead up to the war, Hybern releases a catastrophic spell that wipes out all humans, sparing just one.

Abandoned in the desolate human lands, you scavenge to survive long enough to find your family.

Reluctantly, you are found by the Shadowsinger as fate intervenes to guide you under his watchful eye.

<<<Part 1

Word count: 5.2k

Warnings: Death, blood, suggestions of miscarriage, suicidal themes

You woke in a bed as soft as the clouds, the covers silken with feathery pillows piled beneath your neck so plush your hardly felt them.

A level of luxury you had never known could exist – and that’s how you knew you weren't home.

Vision a blur, the room you woke to was dim, safe from the fire that crackled at the opposite end. Your vision reeled as it took in the space around you - an obnoxiously large bedroom.

The haze lingered as you raised your hand in front of your face - a quick way to decide between reality or dream. If this were real, someone had done an awfully good job at scrubbing the dirt from your fingernails.

But then a familiar ache throbbed as you bought your other hand from under the covers, and a stark white bandaged wrapped tightly at your wrist. Real then, and that fae male had indeed broken your wrist. The scars from your journey were faint now, but still there too.

You felt for your stomach under the covers then, for any signs of your lingering ailment. They had changed you - thick cotton like padding within the fresh undergarment and the softest gown you had ever felt between your fingers.

You pushed the thought of who might have changed you from your mind. Healers - you hoped.

Your skin beneath the gown was soft and oily, and smelt of salve. The healers had done well to heal you. Good, this was good. It meant you had a chance to return home, continue your search.

Gods – the search, your family. You had to continue.

You were alone in this room, and it was night - all good signs. Perhaps with enough strength, you might slip be able to escape unnoticed…

With a slight dizziness, you swung your legs from the bed, toes pressing to the warm, rich wood - as if they floor was warmed from within.

You wouldn’t dare to poke your head out the door - not in a house of creatures with heightened senses.

The windows - that was your only option to remain unseen.

Whether it was the delirium of the events days prior or the haze of exhaustion you were yet to shake, you didn't consider escaping into an unknown lands in nothing more than a nightgown was a fools choice, mortifying at the least. But survival called, your family called.

Padding around the postered bed, you scanned quickly for your belongings . Clothes, waist belt, knives were no where to be found.

The cupboard was empty, safe from a long black coat made from the softest velvet your had ever felt. Tying the fabric firm at your waist, you didn’t take the time to roll the sleeves that drooped well past your fingertips - clearly made for a much taller, larger form than your own. Black was good, especially at night, helping conceal the silky cream night robe that seemed to scream find me.

If you had the time, you would have marvelled at the wall of windows - in shapes and sizes you didn't know a glass welder could blow. Arched in a row of three, each of them had smaller panes within - still large enough to fit through, and with latches.

Perfect.

You fiddled with the latch, the world outside dark and unmoving with no sign of light until you cast your eyes upwards. Fingers halting on the latch, your breath knocked from you chest as you observed the most brilliant array of stars you had ever seen.

Were these the same stars as the human lands? How was it that such magnificent beauty was concealed from your own part of the world?

Another stab of loathing for fae found you then – it seemed even the Mother was versed in reserving luxuries only for them.

The latch clicked open, and you pushed gently against the pane, the window unmoving. Frowning, you pushed again, before trying to pull it inside instead. The glass moved on smooth, oiled hinges - and that’s when the howling began.

As loud as a pack of wolves, yet that insistent noise was instead from wind.

Fretting at the noise, you glanced behind you in urgency. Any second now they would come, the wind as good as any alarm. So with a strong grip on the window ledge, you pushed your head through, eyes squinting through the unforgiving gales.

The wind almost knocked you, hair immediately whipping this was and that, eyes stinging with tears as you failed to see clearly.

Scanning as best you could, you saw no stairs of landings to climb to, no balcony from which you could hope to escape.

And then you looked down.

It was instinct to back away, so fast that the back of your head knocked against the pane, and a quick profanity escaping your lips.

You had never been so high up before. Never knew anything could be built so tall.

With a roll of your stomach, you forced your head back out, avoiding looking anywhere below the horizon.

On the far left, hidden mostly by brick, was a distant glow of a city, the lights warm and flickering with glorious life. And between you and it - a river, it’s water the blackest of blacks in the night, besides from the reflection of the city that budded it’s banks.

To your right - dark, intimidating forms of mountains and peaks. And with a quick flash below, far, far below, there was only night.

Your gut lurched both from the height and realisation - it was suicide to try and escape.

It took a moment to force your rigid muscles to push yourself back inside the room, hair strewn over your face and cheeks pink from the bite of the cold.

“We don't usually advise opening the windows here,” a melodic voice spoke over the wind.

Hissing in fright, you whipped your head behind you, to the most beautiful women you had ever seen. And beside her - the same blue siphoned male, his eyes aglow with hazel.

You fished for your voice then, strained in your throat from days of not speaking, the rush from the wind and the awe of what and who stood before you fighting for silence.

They were am incredibly handsome couple.

Folded clothes in her hand, the blond simply placed the outfit on a spare reading chair, moving lightly to re-hatch the window behind you. You almost sighed in relief as the piercing howling stopped.

“The windows are charmed to block out the noise,” she explained, her tone light and friendly despite the step of caution you took to distance yourself. “Well, don't you look good in black,” she perked, brown eyes scanning you, her smile sincere.

You looked down, the fabric of the coat drooping from your frame.

“I stole this,” you said dumbly, before cursing yourself silently.

The women laughed, and you could have sworn a slight smile pulled at the males lips too.

“That’s quite alright, besides, you were awake before I could deliver you some proper clothes,” she gestured to the set she bought in, but you were fixed on those golden locks, the way they bounced when she moved, and that dress…

“I’m Morrigan by the way, but you can call me Mor.” If she caught you staring at her, she did not let on.

You frowned, senses returning, and you scanned the room again. Formalities, names, nicknames –completely unnecessary, unless…

“I must carry on with my search,” you said sternly, eyes darting between her and the blue-siphoned male.

He knew. He would have told her.

Those large, towering wings pulled in tighter against his frame, and the male opened his mouth to respond. But Morrigon beat him to it.

“You’re awake much earlier than the healers expected. They advised you may need a few more days rest.”

You tried to hide your panic, eyes scanning her, then the door, then where Azriel stood between it.

Mor traced your eyes. “We are no threat to you,” she said gently.

You swallowed. “Then I am free to leave?”

Mor schooled her face into something softer, more sympathetic. “You may want to meet with out High Lord and Lady. I know they are eager to meet you.”

“Me?”

She nodded. “They wish to discuss your predicament.”

“Have they found my family?” you all but blurted, heart thundering with anticipation.

She shook her head then, her face falling more grave. “I’m sorry, I haven't any news.”

A gnawing at your stomach then - something was wrong. How long had they kept looking, had they found anyone?

“How many days was I-?"

“Four,” the male answered, hands still clasped behind his back. There was no smile on his face, but it remained soft.

“And up and about well ahead of the seven days the healers predicted! Quite the fighter you are Y/N,” Morrigan chirped.

You almost jumped at the use of your name. And then a scowl fixed on your face.

“My apologies!” More gasped quickly, and you missed the glare Azriel threw her way, Mor’s eyes meeting his with guilt. “Please forgive me, I forget that humans aren't accustomed to-"

“Mind reading?” you gritted, more exposed under the ridiculous ensemble of clothes you wore. You wish you could drown in the lengths of extra fabric.

Mor wore a broken smile. “Of sorts, yes.” She paused then, fretting to fill the silence. “Would you like to change your clothes? They should be to your size.”

You looked at the set neatly folded at the chair.

“The healers have washed you, but we can draw you another bath if you’d prefer?”

Your cheeks reddened at the question, the male’s eyes politely finding somewhere else in the room to fix that gaze.

Was this their way of telling you that you smelt?

Humiliated and frustrated, your eyes narrowed on the male. “What is your name?”

Hazel flicked back to you, and he took a moment of silence to observe you before answering. “Azriel.”

You eyed him up and down, taking him in fully. Tall, large, muscled - your attempts to stab him would have been laughable. Delirious indeed.

As he eyed you back, his gaze fixed your wrist, even while concealed beneath the velvet coat. “I am sorry to have hurt you.”

Civilised - far more civilised than you would have expected fae to be.

You cleared your throat. “Well, I suppose I’m sorry for my attempts of murder.”

His mouth pulled into a polite smile, the apples of his cheeks glowing in the firelight.

Mor chimed in then. “They told me you caught Azirel off guard, Y/N. Like I said - quite the fighter. Not just anyone can catch the Shadowsinger by surprise.”

Shadowsinger. As if at their mention, the furling, smoky shadows peaked from Azriel, and you let out a small yelp. It seemed it was your turn to be surprised.

Without a whisper of a word, they withdrew into the Shadowsinger himself, as if scolded back into place. Azriel gave no hint of amusement as he kept watching you.

Your eyes danced from him back to Mor, cheeks once again redening.

“This is… overwhelming,” you admitted.

Mor gave you a sympathetic smile, before placing a delicate, manicured hand on your shoulder. “A bath, then?”

You nodded, and she led you to the bathroom, candles lighting with the wave of her hand, and water now filling the marbled pool, steam quick to fill the room.

You forget about Azriel in the other room as Mor closed the door behind her, marvelling at the arches and architecture, a new set of large windows in this room, this time facing the city. You padded there mindlessly, watching the twinkle of the town that beckoned.

“Velaris,” Mor came to stand beside you. “Or, the City of Starlight. It’s location is well concealed, unknown by the other courts.”

You were reminded of the courts then, the brief lessons they had taught you at school. The divide of seven different courts, each ruled by a High Lord determined by their magic gifted the Mother and bloodline. Allies, enemies – it was complicated twining of politics and power.

But you had never heard of Velaris.

“This place is a secret?”

Mor nodded. “The true home of the High Lord and Lady of the Night Court. A paradise they keep concealed, untouched by others.”

“Why?”

Mor chewed her cheek. “It’s safer this way,” she said simply.

“And you trust me with such information?”

Mor’s brown eyes warmed, but something sadder hid behind them. “It doesn't seem fair to lie to you about your own whereabouts.”

You nodded, eyes finding the city beyond again. “You mentioned the High Lord and Lady want to meet. Rhysand and Feyre?” Your head ached at the strain to remember their names, but the information found you.

Mor smiled at their names, and you remembered the way the males had too when they first found you. Loyalty coursed through them like some kind of magic. If you wanted to survive, you would be sure to respect their hierarchy.

“Morrigan,” you swallowed, bracing yourself for an answer. “Please, what do you know of the search?”

Mor stiffened, pausing for a moment. “The High Lord and Lady are on their way home to meet with you. They will tell you all they know.”

You eyed her carefully, your heart straining. “They haven't found my family, have they?”

Mor’s face of sympathy was beautiful, whether schooled or real. “I’m sorry, I really can not tell you.”

You swallowed once before nodding, eyes casting out to the city of Velaris, the name foreign in your mind.

“They are travelling as fast as they can, and should be here within a few hours,” she reassured. How or where from you didn't bother to ask.

“A bath then,” you nodded.

Mor smiled tightly. “Should you need anything, just ask. This house - the House of Wind - is just as alive as you and I. You should only have to speak what you wish.”

You nodded, hiding the overwhelming thought of a magical living house as the pool of warm scented water beckoned you with furls of steam.

“A fitting name,” you murmured, remembering of the persistent howl that waited just outside those obnoxious windows.

Mor grinned, catching your every word. “Isn’t it just,” she called and she fluttered from the room, pulling the large, carved door closed behind her.

You took a few moments of silence, again scanning the marble-splayed room you now found yourself in. Dream or reality, you were still yet to be convinced.

That was, until your dropped your undergarments, the thick wads of cotton stained with specks of bright, fresh blood. A saddened whimper escaped you, and your hands instantly found your belly, phantom cramps pulling from within.

You thought about calling for Morrigon, to demand an answer or to see a healer again. But deep down you knew, and that instinct to protect yourself, your privacy, was greater.

A waft of essential oils blew your way, as if the house was beckoning you to bathe. Toeing the water, each of your muscles seems to relax and steam clouded around you. An uncontrollable sigh left you as you moved deeper and deeper, breasts bobbing beneath the water, the muscles in your abdomen glad for the relaxant.

You had never had a bath like this, never indulged in such a level of luxury. Was this how all fae bathed, or just the ones so closely aligned with royals?

It was a jarring comparison to the tin bath in your family home, the steam quick to escape from the batches of hot water your mother boiled in the kettle when you were young. As you grew older, you would often forgo using the kettle, bearing the bite of the cold for efficiency, only treating the children when you bathed them.

A shock of panic found you as the pool dipped even deeper, and you shot from your toes back to the scooped edges of the pool, clinging to the edge. Obviously built for creatures much taller and larger than you, while you on the other hand had never learnt to swim. Not when your parents were so busy, and the creek behind your home merely ankle deep.

Bathe, change, and then you would have your answers - you reminded yourself. So you scrubbed with determination, dipping your head beneath the water and rubbing the pads of your fingers at your scalp too, washing away any remains of the taxing journey it took to get here.

You would start your search fresh, start anew, even swallow your hate for fae if it meant the help of the High Lord and Lady of the Night Court. You could drink their wine and pass pleasant smiles if it meant they would aide you, if it meant your family returning home safely.

————

You looked at yourself in the mirror, the black tunic and pants gifted by Mor fitting better than any of your skirts and dresses back home. The fabric was soft yet thick, protecting you from the cold, even while the House of Wind seemed to warm from within.

There were slippers waiting by your bed, black also, and your skin seemed to glow from the oils from the bath. The face staring back at you was clean, yet tired, the bags under your eyes still a swell of purple. Forcing your shoulders back, you forced a stance of determination. You could do this, you could meet with the most powerful creatures of Prythian, and you would convince them to help you.

With a gentle knock at the door, a voice called. “It’s Mor.”

“Come in,” you answered turning from the mirror, hands finding the pockets on your pants.

Her eyes warmed at the site of you. “Black certainly does suit you,” she repeated, and you wondered about the comment from earlier. Loyalty to black, it seemed, was also a part of their strange culture. Perhaps something to do with the Night Court, and you wondered if the other courts found such ties to certain colours.

“Thank you for the clothes. I will return them once-"

Mor raised her hand dismissevely. “We’d hear of no such thing. Are you ready?”

You nodded. “Are they?”

“Rhys and Feyre arrived a half hour ago. They await you in their office.”

Mor seemed to want to take your hand, but rethought it, and instead raised a palm to the door.

“Follow me,” she hummed before striding for the door, red gown trailing behind her.

With a deep breath, you followed in silence.

————

“Here she is,” Mor cooed musically as she pushed the doors open to the office, the High Lord and Lady stopping their polite conversation with as they turned to take you in.

Your knees almost buckled under their gaze.

That power, even as a human you felt it from many steps away, steely blue and violet eyes seemingly pinning you to your spot. A heavy dose of intimidation overcame you and your body faltered, even though their eyes remained soft, their smiles friendly.

They both stood, Rhysand donned in a neat black suit, Feyre’s dark gown falling from her frame like liquid night. Gorgeous – an absolutely gorgeous sight the both of them were.

“A pleasure to meet you,” Feyre spoke, her voice and as smooth as Morrigon’s, yet younger.

“Welcome to our home,” Rhysand added.

Blinking between the two, your knees almost groaned as you forced a curt bow. “Thank you, High Lord and High L-Lady,” you stammered. “For your hospitality.”

You waited for any sign of compliance from your bow - knowing that fae spoke a language of hierarchy and formality.

But your were instead met with an informal sideways smile of Feyre. “Please, call us Rhys and Feyre.”

You nodded, although you couldn't see yourself respecting that wish.

“Are you feeling any better?” Rhysand asked, violet eyes piercing, refusing to leave you. “We were told you had survived almost a fortnight on your own. That is very impressive.”

You weren't sure you’d ever get used to the unblinking ways of the fae as you blushed at his compliment. Had their parent’s never taught them it was rude to stare?

The smallest of smiles tugged at Rhys’s lips.

But you muffled your thoughts, forcing yourself to answer. “Feeling much better, thank you High Lord. You swallowed tightly, fishing for the right words to say. “And to your healers,” you added with rush. “Thanks to them too.”

“I am glad,” Rhysand smiled, moved back into his seat and gesturing for you to do the same.

“I’ve informed Y/N that you would update her on the search for the humans, to explain your own findings.” You could have kissed Mor for steering the conversation, desperate to hear what the High Lord and Lady had to say.

Feyre immediately began fiddling with the fingers, before Rhysand took them in his own hand. You observed closely at the small interaction, Feyre’s nervous fidget, Rhysand’s immediate response. They seemed to speak na unspoken language.

Not good, not good, not good. Your nails instinctively settled into familiar wounds at your palms.

“Of course,” Rhysand answered, his beautiful features schooling into something more serious as his voice softened.

Feyre’s eyes found you then, something like regret and sorrow burrowed within. In that moment alone, their difference in upbringing was at contrast. Rhys - ever the schooled socialite, tamed and controlled behaviour from years of perfecting courteous mannerisms. Feyre on the other hand – human, child-like sincerity shone through despite her pointed ears and occasional glimpse of canines.

“I’m sorry to say that we have not found your family Y/N,” Rhysand said straightly.

You nodded, assuming that had been the case. That didn't stop the sting in your eyes, or lurch of you gut. You clamped your lips against the wobble that already threatened.

“The truth is, we haven’t found a single human since finding you.”

Instantly the room began to reel, Rhysand and Feyre tipping slightly as your heart skipped to an irregular thunder.

How could this be? You had been asleep for four days, between their armies and winged beings among them, how could they not find a single other? Your mind screamed a flurry of questions, but your remained stiff, only moving to grip the arms of your chair.

Rhysand sighed then, glancing once at his mate who’s look of regret only deepened, tears shining in those grey-blue eyes.

“It is with the deepest regret that we inform you we have traced a powerful magic from the lands of Hybern. A spell, rather.”

You forced your voice past the lump in your throat, past the bile that swarmed in your mouth. “What spell is that?”

Tears spilled from Feyre’s eyes, whatever control she had on her breaking into unmistakable grief.

No, no don’t say it - your mind screamed.

“As spell to kill all humans,” she whispered.

You blinked. And the others watched, waiting.

You blinked a few more times.

"What did you say?"

Rhys's frown was pained. "It seems Hybern was intent on capturing your lands, and used a magic so strong it expelled humans..."

But Rhys's voice grew muffled as your vision narrowed, clouding with darkness.

And then it hit you.

It was as if someone had pulled the floor from underneath you. The room tipped unforgivably, vision blurring and stomach lurching with the lack of food in days.

A broken noise escaped you.

“Y/N, you must breath,” a voice spoke.

Panicked, laboured breaths wheezed from you, and you clenched your eyes shut past the horror of what they had told you.

Meek breaths passed your chest as you tried to speak. “I don’t-how, I don't understand.”

“Hybern has access to the cauldron, and we believe he used it to seize the territory of human lands.”

“It worked then, then spell? They’re gone?” You voice was hoarse, breathy with distraught. Tears had not found you yet, only an overwhelming dread laced with a flicker of denial.

Even while the room danced around you, you caught Rhysand’s tight nod, his face grave and solemn. “We are so sorry.”

Mor’s hand was gentle at your back, as an all consuming anxiety took over and you clutched at your head.

“Please do not touch me,” you rasped, audible wheezes catching in your throat.

Immediately her hand lifted.

“Dead, then,” you swallowed another rise of bile, raising frantic eyes to Feyre.

Broken eyes locked with yours. “I’m so very, very sorry Y/N” she whispered.

“My family, my siblings? Dead?”

She was crying, but you didn't care. You waited for the answer. All she offered was a nod.

A broken, crazed laugh found you then. It was a cold, lonely thing, and you caught Mor exchange a look with her High Lord. There was nothing they could do except watch as you ran shaking hands over your face.

You were trembling, eyes dancing frantically. No. No no no. This was unbelievable. You didn't believe them, you refused to.

“Impossible,” you scoffed.

“We wish it were, Y/N truly,” Mor said softly.

“Then pray tell, how it is that I survived?”

“We’re perplexed by you remaining, Y/N. We have no answer for it,” Rhys offered, a tanned hand stroking at Feyre’s back in practiced comfort.

“Liar,” you snarled, standing so quickly your chair fell back.

Liars - the lot of them, to tell you of the extinction of humans when you sat there alive and well in their home.

Rhys’s eyes pinned you, as if expecting your outburst. “I can’t begin to imagine your grief Y/N, but we tell no lies.”

“I don't believe you,” you spat, hands curling into trembling fists. “You wish to keep me here, to trap me!” Anger rose within you. Typical fae tricks and fibs, that's all this was.

“I would have thought the same thing if I were still human,” Feyre coaxed, wiping at her eyes. “I don't blame you for not trusting us. I truly wish we were lying.”

Something in her sincerity knocked you, cracking at your anger, demanding you to consider their words true.

But your shook your head stubbornly, crazed by their audacity, distancing yourself from the devastation that loomed underneath.

“I will not stay here and listen to this.”

You heeded for the door, pulling on the handles with trembling hands, only to find that blue siphoned male waiting on the other side.

Azriel.

His arms were neatly tucked behind his back, legs wide and ready as if waiting for you.

If only you had your knife.

“You will let me leave,” you all but growled, eyes darting from behind him back to his frame, looking for your way out. He bore no weapons this time , but it wasn't as if he needed them.

Azriel’s eyes softened. “I can’t.” His voice was soft and steady. “It’s not safe for you out there.”

Your fists clenched tighter. “I don’t care! I will not sit here prisoner, I need to find the truth for myself.”

You made to step around him, but those rippled hands gripped you, from the shoulders this time.

“Let go of me!” You struggled against him, but his grip remained strong.

“Listen to me. Hybern has sent an army and they sweep the human lands as we speak. I saw it for myself – if they find you, they will kill you.”

The integrity in his voice, deep down you knew he was telling the truth, even if you refused to believe it. Because believing it meant you had lost everything, everyone. It meant the cruelest punishment from the gods - not another day with the laughter of your siblings, the caress of your mother or hold from your father. No home, no love, no warmth - just a bobbing existence, with grief as your only friend.

Perhaps that’s why you started sobbing, still trying to pry Azriel’s hands from you with his own.

“I don’t care, I don’t care!” you cried, voice breaking as fat tears rolled down your cheeks. “I want my family!”

Azriel cast a worried look back to the others who could only watch with pained expressions.

Mor sprung into action, fetching a blanket from a nearby room.

“You are liars, territorial murderers, the lot of you! How could you let this happen?” your voice was hoarse once again, your knees buckling as shock took over.

Azriel moved with you, gently bringing you to the ground as you wept, your legs folding underneath.

The blanket was strewn around you gently, Azriel’s touch surprisingly tender. "I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice a strangely soothing balm against your turmoil. "I wish things were different. But your safety is paramount."

You wanted to fight against it, to push and claw and burrow in the bubble of denial, but you hadn’t any energy left.

Waking to an empty home, to empty streets, days of travel without another human in sight – perhaps you knew all along that this nightmare was real.

The room continued to spin as reality sunk in. Your family, gone. Your siblings, so young, so innocent. The humans wiped clean from the world. A full scale genocide, and you were the only one to survive it.

"They were children," you wailed, your words a harrowing cry. "They were only children."

Injustice, isolation and grief was leaden on your chest, so constricting and heavy you thought you might die.

“I-I can’t breath.” One palm braced on the wooden floor, the other against your heart as you began to pant. Eyes darting between the fae that watched on, you clutched at your chest, panic swarmed with bile.

And then you made sick.

Azriel's grip didn't falter, and someone moved to pull the hair from your stinging eyes.

"Try to focus on your breathing, Y/N," a voice coaxed in your mind, male or female you couldn’t tell. "In and out, slowly."

But the air felt thick, suffocating, as if the weight of the world was pressing down on you. Each breath seemed to be a struggle against an invisible force, and panic tightened its grip around your heart.

That voice in your head again. ”Just keep breathing," it said gently, the voice cutting through the haze of your panic. "Focus on my voice. You're safe here, I promise."

The words were like a lifeline in the storm raging within you, and you clenched your eyes shut, clinging to it.

Rhysand approached cautiously, his expression a mixture of sympathy and sorrow. "Az," he prompted, and the male raised from his knees.

Rhysand crouched down in front of you, his gaze unwavering. "We'll explain everything after you've rested Y/N, I promise," he said, his voice carrying the weight of truth.

And as the room slowly ceased its relentless spinning, you found yourself clinging to that promise, holding onto the hope that amidst the devastation, there was still a path forward, however uncertain it may be.

The world outside was dangerous, filled with uncertainty and threats you couldn't begin to comprehend. And Hybern. He had killed your family. Your siblings, those sweet innocent children who you loved so dearly. Your parents too.

Sobs wracked through you again, your body giving out as you let out a muffled whimper of grief.

Strong arms slid from under you turning you over to cup you by your arms and knees. And then you were being carried, away from that horrible scene, from the mess on the floor where your world came crashing down.

You clung to whatever you could, the blanket, Azriel’s shirt, you didn't really care – but you clung and cried. Even when you were again met with the softness of a mattress, even when the weight of the duvet being drawn over as it settled against your skin.

In that tumbleweed of devastation, a rippled hand soothed you, coaxing you to sleep. You gladly let it, letting the horrors of the world slip away, even if only for a moment.

“Just rest now. You are safe.”

And with a final thought, you sent a prayer to the Mother to not wake up to this nightmare.

A/N: Hey pals, thank you so so much for the love and support of Part 1!! I sincerely hope you liked part 2! <3 <3 Now would you like some fries with that angst? Because it'll only get darker from here. Again, I'll tag everything I can at the top of the fic, but please have a look at the warnings ahead, I would hate to hurt anyone <3 <3 If you'd like to join the tag list for this fic, drop a comment! Thank you so much for reading, mwa!!

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shaisuki · 1 month

Note

helllooooo!!!! can i request yan! reo with a chubby, female reader is pregnant but they went to the doctors alone (somehow) and the doctor said pregnant! reader might die during child-birth but they hide it from reo 🫶🏽

ASSURANCE OF A SECRET

FT. YANDERE! HUSBAND! MIKAGE REO

content warnings: implied noncon, forced marriage, talks of escape, inaccurate descriptions of medical related content, pregnancy, suicide, ideas of losing a child, sensitive content. read the warnings before continuing. dead dove do not eat.

notes. thank you for waiting.

synopsis: a secret visit to a doctor gave you the sweetest of dreams.

it took you weeks of careful planning to get away temporarily. considering he was like a leech to you after finding out you were carrying his baby. ultimately fussy with a heavy case of turning into one of those shitty in-laws who doesn't know personal space. he's one a hell of a baby daddy. experts and professional alikes already at your disposal within the first minute of the revelation.

you were more uncomfortable with the attention he was giving to you whatever time he got at the day rather than the actual pregnancy. doctors told him after examining you that the whole duration of your pregnancy is going well but you're not convinced with them. knowing they were trying to sweeten up reo by that. you need a doctor that will tell you all the complications and risk you are going to face with this pregnancy and so you formulated your plan which had gone successfully.

being alone was difficult, regarding the number of bodyguards that closely follows you and the hidden ones. you even cannot trust a simple citizen who was just trying to get their coffee done. convincing reo to allow you to roam the streets was out of the question so you begged him to let you go but with the bodyguards which he agreed easily.

getting to a hospital was the real difficulty. you can also be passed as secret agent from the way you acted and planned out all of this. starting to get yourself wounded from a accidental cut. blood dripping in your car seat and your bodyguard who was instructed to tend to all of your emergencies, yes, it includes having the smallest of paper cut and even it was a small wound. you tricked him into going to hospital and leaving you alone with a doctor to examine your wounds and that's when you strike.

all alone with the doctor with multiple charts relating to pregnancy littered in a private room. your obstetrician laid out what to expect from your pregnancy and the complications and risks which you gladly wanted to know and they were honest like you wanted.

“considering your stature and this pregnancy. it's not going to be easy.” the obstetrician began to talk to you of what may happen at the duration of your pregnancy. “it poses risks such as miscarriage, heavy bleeding, infertility and worst, death. you might die if you were to deliver this baby.” your brows raised at the possibility of your death and somehow you weren't scared of it. happy? nope. more like it's the satisfaction you were about to feel when it comes true.

you would be free and you hoped this baby will do too. it can never have a father like reo and it would be a slap to him in the face. his selfishness reflecting to you and it would be his biggest karma losing you and this child.

you listened in full attention to the obstetrician. their rules on how to avoid such scenarios (which you hoped for) and how to take care of your body and hundred instructions every doctor would tell you.

you left shortly after thanking the doctor and you were on your ride home. thinking of the outcome this birth will do to you and you were assured by it.

with your days numbered and you merrily played along with your husband's whims. asking how's your day was and the other stuff. omitting the pregnancy stuff that you had took with a second doctor's opinion. this will be his punishment. losing you and this child he wanted with you. forced him to witness the horror and it's a shame you would be long gone before you can witness it. bleeding and cold in that table. life sucked out of you like what he did to you when he forced you to be his and have to carry this child.

he holds your hand where you caress your baby bump, meeting his gaze full of hope and excitement. you smiled at him. you just couldn't wait to replace the look in his eyes with madness.

#♱ ⋮ shai's works⸝⸝#chubby reader #blue lock scenarios #blue lock x reader #blue lock #bllk #bllk x reader #bllk reo #mikage reo x reader #yandere mikage reo x reader #yandere blue lock #yandere blue lock x reader #blue lock x chubby reader #mikage reo

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pickingupmymercedes · 28 days

Text

Maybe in another life - Lewis Hamilton

Part 2 is here: When I get to meet you

Alternative part 2: I'd like to believe

request: "hello can do heavy angst? ... lewis faces the consequences of his stupid actions? like he grovels a lot and suffer a lot. just ripped my heart open with your writing i dont care 😭😭😭🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻" - anon

pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Reader!

warnings: Blood, Miscarriage, Asshole Lewis

wordcount: +1K

a/n: Angsty anon, that was a hard one to write. I changed the request a bit, hope it's okay. I just really don't picture him cheating with someone so close to someone he loves, specially since his relationships are very open (as of now, anyway), the rest is still there.

As always, I'm open for feedback, come say hi!

TRIGGERING CONTENT UNDER, PROCEED WITH CAUTION.

______________________________________________________________

The white of the hotel room walls seemed to closed in on Lewis as he reread the final line of the letter. "I needed you to know." Y/n's words hung in the air, a stark contrast to the roar of the city outside. Every muscle in his body tensed. It couldn't be true. He reread the entire thing, a cold dread settling in his stomach with every sentence.

The letter started with a casualness that ripped at him further. It was a stark reminder of the way they started – a fling fueled by adrenaline and an undeniable connection.

Then came the bombshell. The night she stormed into his Monaco apartment, the one he'd dismissed with a callous "call me later," wasn't just about a fight. It was about a child. Their child. Shame, hot and acrid, burned in his throat. He'd been a fool, blinded by fleeting pleasure, while she carried the weight of the future alone. Their future.

Tears pricked at Lewis's eyes as he read about her decision to keep it, to raise a mini-him, a mini-her, even without him. A part of him swelled with pride, a terrible, conflicting emotion considering how things ended.

The next part though, stole his breath, and even in the second read was still hard to stomach.

He learned about the miscarriage, the brutal way it unfolded – a sharp pain waking her in the quiet of the night, the rush to the bathroom, the crimson staining everything. The helplessness, the loneliness of it all. He should have been there. He should have held her hand, whispered reassurances. But all he'd offered was a dismissive phone call, months before.

Y/n's words about wishing he was by her side echoed in his mind, a constant refrain. The regret, raw and searing, threatened to consume him. He pictured her, alone, grieving a child they both would've never meet.

The letter continued. She spoke of the physical and emotional toll, the weeks that followed, a blur of doctor visits and a silence so deafening it screamed louder than any argument. She told him about leaving F1, needing a clean break from the world that constantly reminded her of what could have been.

The final paragraphs struck him with a force that left him reeling. "Maybe in another life, Lewis.” Another life. A life where he wasn't a self-absorbed champion, where he saw the woman behind the reporter, where he understood the depth of the love she carried, in her heart, and even for a few months in her womb.

Lewis crumpled the letter in his fist, the weight of his mistakes crushing him. The roar of the city outside mocked him, a reminder of the life that went on regardless of his private turmoil. He wanted to call her, to apologize, to somehow bridge the chasm he'd created. But the letter offered no contact information, and the knowledge that it might be too late settling heavy in his mind.

He sank onto the plush hotel bed, the opulence offering no comfort. He was a champion, a winner, and yet he'd lost the most important race of his life – the one for a future he’d thrown away in a haze of selfishness.

Now, all that remained were the ghosts of what could have been, a forever reminder of the price of his arrogance.

_________________________________________________________

Hi Lewis,

I don't want to blame you for any of what I'm about to tell you.

Our story wasn't exactly a fairytale romance, and I knew full well the kind of life you led when we started seeing each other. But somewhere along the line, things started to feel different. Maybe it was the late-night talks after Monaco, or the way you looked at me after a win, a genuine joy that went beyond the cameras.

Whatever it was, I fell for you, harder than I ever thought possible.

That night in Monaco, when I walked into your apartment, the smell of something I shouldn't have smelled. Then I saw the girls, the half-empty bottles, the porno on repeat. I was disappointed.

But deeper than that, I was scared, so damn scared. I needed to talk to you, Lewis, not just about the obvious, but about something more, something monumental.

See, the reason I was there, the reason my voice was shaky and my eyes probably held a storm you couldn't understand, was because I was pregnant, we were.

We were going to have a baby, Lewis. A tiny little person, half you, half me.

The thought had terrified me at first, the responsibility, the unknown. But then, this strange sense of calm. Maybe I could do this. We could do this.

I'm not gonna lie, I thought about ending it, the pregnancy. And that night made the doubt so much greater.

I need you to know I called the abortion clinic. Twice. I even scheduled a date. But I couldn't do it.

Turns out the universe had other plans.

It was still early, barely into the fourth month, but I swear I could already see a hint of a bump. Just the tiniest swell beneath my usual clothes, a secret I carried close.

I imagined late nights with a fussy baby, the smell of milk instead of the usual post-race adrenaline.

I pictured you, maybe not holding the baby because you were off winning another championship, but calling, checking in, a flicker of pride in your voice.

Naive, I know.

For a couple of days, there was just a feeling, a vague unease that settled low . Like a distant echo of discomfort, easily dismissed with a deep breath and a glass of water. But then, the backache started. A dull ache that settled and radiated outwards. It felt familiar, a dull echo almost like cramps, but different somehow. Deeper, more insistent.

The night it happened, I woke up with a sharp pain ripping through me, from the inside out. It stole my breath away, leaving me gasping for air. Panic clawed at my throat as I scrambled out of bed, a cold dread pooling in my stomach. I didn't make it to the bathroom in time, the crimson stained my clothes, the bedsheets, the mattress.

The smell of blood clung to everything in that bedroom for weeks.

The doctor confirmed it in the emergency, a hollow echo in a sterile room. I had a curettage to get the rest of tissue out.

The weeks that followed were a blur. Doctor visits, tests, a crushing silence that spoke louder than any argument we ever had. The grief was a physical weight, a constant ache in my chest.

I also need you to know that through it all, I mourned the life I couldn't carry to term, the tiny flicker of hope that had bloomed within me and that I couldn't keep safe.

That's on me, and I take full responsability.

I couldn't handle F1 after that. The constant reminder of what could have been, it was suffocating. And leaving was an incredibly hard decision, but I needed that. I had to move on.

Maybe in another life, Lewis. Maybe then things would have been different.

Maybe, I would have told you about the day our child started school, all jitters and excitement, a backpack bigger than their little body. Or maybe I would have been showing you their first wobbly steps, a mess of giggles and misplaced feet, a tiny us with ours eyes.

A what-if that will forever linger in the quiet corners of my mind.

This isn't a plea for a response. I don't even know if you'll read this all the way through. Maybe you'll crumple it up and toss it aside. God, maybe I hope you do. But I needed you to know.

- Y/n

______________________________________________________________

TAGLIST - @saturnssunflower @xoscar03 @chocolatediplomatdreamerzonk @happy-golden-hour @vicurious28

@0710khj @thecubanator2 @neilakk @bigratbitchsworld @adriswrld

@fearfam69691 @cmleitora

#lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton x you #lewis hamilton #lewis hamilton imagine #f1 x reader #formula 1 #f1 imagine

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seramilla · 1 month

Note

Here's a fun idea, extorsists are from miscarriages. Let's say one day vaggie gets hurt and needs a blood transfusion, sinner carmilla and her girls offer to be tested and they all have the same blood type and Vaggie is fine.

Thing is, vaggie has a rare blood type

They end up doing a DNA test and find out that vaggie is technically carmilla daughter that she miscarried.

Vaggie had always known there was something...off about her. And not just her; all the Exorcists, really. None of them had memories of a life on Earth. They also weren't created like other angels were, and Heavenborn who were willing to talk about it all insisted they were previously mortal. Vaggie never had any proof to the contrary, but the details of her aforementioned life, were never disclosed. There was like a wall there, almost like amnesia. The Exorcists seemed to exist in a vacuum all on their own, kept away from the rest of Heaven's population, in their own private barracks.

When Vaggie had asked Adam about this; why they were kept separate from every other Winner in Heaven, and not allowed to fraternize with other mortal souls, he just shrugged. He insisted he didn't know. His warriors had always been hand-picked for him by Heaven's elders, and he'd never personally questioned where they came from. He told her to stop worrying about it; questioning the life she had before was pointless, and he needed her to be in tip-top shape for what was to come.

All of that worrying ended when Vaggie fell. Suddenly, her origins were no longer a top priority, and she quickly forgot about it once Charlie welcomed her into her home, and into her bed. It was always in the back of her mind, but it suddenly mattered much less than it had before. There was no longer any need to consider the life she had on Earth, whatever it was; her life was here, and it was now, and Charlie needed her, and that was enough.

That was the case, anyway, until after the battle for the hotel, and Adam's sudden demise. Vaggie hadn't realized at the time, but during all the excitement, she'd lost a lot of blood in that battle. That had all been Lute's doing, and once Vaggie collapsed suddenly in Charlie's arms, Vaggie's next memory is waking up in a hospital bed, with blinding lights and loud electronic noises blaring in her ear.

Standing next to her bedside is Charlie, holding her hand. Also to her surprise, Carmilla is sitting off to one side, near the foot of her bed, clacking away at her laptop like she's just completing another day at work. Combined with the sound of all the beeping and booping from hospital machinery, Vaggie finds she can barely fight off the beginnings of a headache.

"Where am I?" Vaggie asks, and Charlie assures her she's all right.

"You lost a lot of blood, Vags," Charlie admits, grasping on to her hand tighter. "We...we rushed you here, after you collapsed. You desperately needed a blood transfusion, and, well...we thought my dad would be a match, but he wasn't. Carmilla was, though."

Wait. Wait. Hold on. Fucking wait.

"What? What do you mean?" Vaggie responds, trying to sit up. Charlie pushes her down, gently with her hand, before the angel can hurt herself. Carmilla closes the lid of her laptop, standing up slowly, looking at Vaggie with a gaze that might intimidate any other Sinner here in Hell.

Definitely not Vaggie, though. She knows now the arms dealer would never hurt her. She might kick her ass again, but it would all be for the purpose of teaching one of her twisted, secondhand lessons. She's not sure if she's ready for another round of that, just yet.

"What's going on?" Vaggie asks, bringing herself back to the subject at hand. Charlie looks away, still fumbling to give her a straight answer.

"Umm...well...you see..."

"Let me tell her," Carmilla suggests, moving to stand next to Vaggie's bedside. Vaggie hadn't noticed it before, but as Carmilla gets closer, she sees a bandage sticking out near the opening of her sleeve. That must be where they'd hooked her up to draw her blood. The blood that had saved Vaggie's life.

"Carmilla," Vaggie begins, questioning where in Hell this conversation is going.

Carmilla looks down at Vaggie, sighing deeply. Her gaze is longing, almost hurt and forlorn, like she might cry. Carmilla gets choked up at first, stuttering and fumbling for words like Charlie. She finally manages to say, through a clenched jaw, "We need to talk, mija."

#hazbin hotel #carmilla carmine #vaggie #charlie morningstar #chaggie #ask #anon #fan theories #adam hazbin hotel #lute hazbin hotel #vaggie carmilla related au

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transmascissues · 6 months

Note

Different anon. FGM is nearly the same to "bottom surgery". It's mutilation based on sex and genitals. The intent doesn't make it any less destructive or sad.

first of all, FGM is not at all nearly the same as bottom surgery, even just from a technical perspective. as many people in the replies of the last ask have pointed out, one difference is that bottom surgery involves the penis being either created from the clitoris or constructed on top of it, not removing it as with many forms of FGM.

but, for the sake of argument, let’s say they are similar surgeries on a technical level. do you really think it’s the kind of surgery that makes FGM bad? would you say that somebody who received a similar surgery for medical reasons was a victim of FGM?

what makes FGM “destructive and sad” is that:

it’s done to people who don’t want it.

it’s done to people who don’t actually know what’s being done to them or what the risks or consequences might be, so victims often find themselves living with complications for the rest of their lives that they never agreed to.

it has many potential harmful effects and no actual benefits.

gender affirming surgeries like bottom surgery don’t match any of those points. they’re:

performed only on people who actively want them and chose to have them done.

only ever done when the patient can give informed consent, meaning they know what the surgery entails and what the risks could be and have chosen to do it with that knowledge.

proven to have mental health benefits for the people who receive them, and are often considered medically necessary on that basis.

fundamentally, bottom surgery is an exercise of bodily autonomy while FGM is a violation of it. that’s what makes FGM so bad and makes the two so vitally different. mutilation is an act that causes serious harm without any true benefit; FGM fits that bill, bottom surgery doesn’t. saying the two are the same is like saying a medically performed abortion is the same as pushing a pregnant person down the stairs to cause a miscarriage: it focuses solely on the most literal understanding of what’s being done without any regard for the details or the impact on the people involved.

the problem with FGM is the fact that it’s being performed on people who can’t give informed consent and who will likely suffer from it while not gaining any benefits from it. if you actually care about victims of FGM, you should be upset about the violation of their bodies and lifelong suffering they’re subjected to, not the fact that it’s their genitals that are being altered.

#i hope this is a good explanation. my knowledge of fgm is admittedly not super in depth but this is my understanding of things #the fact that this came from a post about *top* surgery is honestly hilarious to me bc that’s. a totally different surgery #like y’all will really take any opportunity to shit on bottom surgeries even if it makes no sense huh #examples of transandrophobia #anon hate #transandrophobia #transandromisia #transmisandry #virilmisia #virilphobia #anti transmasculinity #transmascphobia #trans men #transmascs

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morallyinept · 7 days

Text

Adrift With You - A Frankie Morales Series - Chapter 18

Summary: Heading away on a work re-location, Frankie embarks on a flight, but unbeknownst to him, his life is about to change forever. For starters, he will need to fight for it; harder than he's ever fought for anything else before.

Marooned on an isolated island in the middle of the ocean, still recovering from an addiction, his chances of survival are bleak; but he’s not alone on the island, and soon he’s running towards a different kind of life - a life with fellow survivor, Jude, fighting right beside him every step of the way.

And if they can both survive the island together, they can survive anything, right?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x OFC Jude

Chapter word count: 8.3k

SERIES MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

☝🏻See Series Masterlist for full smut warnings & triggers in this story. Chapters that contain smut or triggers will be highlighted in the chapter notes below. 👇🏻

Chapter notes: Frankie tries to come to terms with the news. Jude encounters a person from her past. TRIGGER WARNING: Brief mentions of miscarriage and drugs.

Enjoy! 🖤

Chapter 17

In the silence of Benny’s apartment, Frankie is glued to the edge of the couch.

The exhaustion has drowned him, pulled him under the waves completely. The cacophony has diminished, his friends and family members thankfully long gone, and Frankie sits alone in the small lounge, in complete disarray from the impromptu party.

Empty plates and glasses litter all available surfaces, and the welcome home banner on the wall has partly fallen off, just hanging limply. The subdued quiet feels almost deafening after the noise of the excitement buzzing around him. His head thuds and his throat feels hoarse.

His thoughts race, colliding and overlapping like waves crashing against the shore. He can hear them, the roll and lick of the water, bounding and flowing over the rocks and sand. And for a while, he tries to focus on that, and not the world shifting beneath his feet leaving him unsteady and uncertain.

He leans forward, tossing his cap on the coffee table and runs a hand through his mussed curls. A shaky hand, his fingers are almost throbbing as he squeezes them into a fist.

He attempts to process everything that’s happened. The island, the rescue, the overwhelming flood of emotions from being forcely reunited with his family and friends - and now this. The stark revelation carelessly dumped in his lap that he’s a father.

He tries not to feel resentful, sympathy from somewhere inside of him resonates and tries to reason with him about Carla and the choices she must’ve considered. He tells himself it’s not her fault, that she was probably scared and clueless on what to do when she assumed like everyone else that he was dead on that flight, but it doesn’t help appease the situation.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, but it does little to calm the storm of thoughts gathering on the horizon of his mind. How could he have a child he didn’t know about? The weight of realisation presses down on him and it suddenly feels hard to breathe.

Footsteps approach and Benny appears in the doorway, carrying two mugs of coffee. He plonks one on the table in front of Frankie in a blue mug with an MMA logo plastered over it, and sits down beside him.

“Listen man, I'm sorry. The whole party thing was a stupid idea-” Benny begins and Frankie shakes his head.

“It’s fine, Benny.” Frankie sighs.

“You sure? I mean, I didn’t think how hard it might be for you, you know?” Frankie nods, but doesn’t say anything.

“You look like you’ve been hit by a fuckin’ freight train.” Benny says, carefully, eyes peering at him over the rim of his mug.

“Feels like it.” He takes a sip of the coffee Benny’s made, hoping the warmth will ground him. Instead, it only amplifies the anxiety swirling in his chest.

He recognises the sensation all too well - the same gnawing, desperate feeling he used to have when he craved. It’s an itch, an itch that doesn't satiate no matter the amount of scratching and picking at the scab.

His mind spirals further, trying not to sink into that vortex. He remembers the lengths he used to go to, the lies he told, the relationships he shattered. He wonders if he’s even capable of being the father that his child needs.

The thought of cocaine resurfaces vividly. He can almost feel the sting in his nostrils, the rush of euphoria that follows. His heart pounds faster, thudding heavy in his ears, hands trembling further. It’s a visceral reminder of the darkest time in his life and it terrifies him. He hasn’t thought about this since… since the island.

The waves roll in his ears again and he tries to follow the steady stream of them.

The island had stripped him down to his barest self. Out there, amidst the endless blue and the harsh reality of survival, there had been no distractions, no temptations. It was just him and the relentless sea and the will to keep going with Jude by his side.

He had no choice but to confront his demons and smite them down because there was no escape, no substance to numb or quiet the unbidden thoughts.

He remembers the initial days on the island, the physical cravings he kept hidden from Jude. They were still strangers then, just starting to co-exist together, and he could still cloak himself away whilst his body yearned for that familiar taste of poison.

But the island, in its harsh and unforgiving way, had grounded him.

Now back home, that safety net of enforced sobriety is harshly relinquished. Here, in the land of plenty, the risk of relapse looms large and heavy on his shoulders and Frankie is all too aware of that. The knowledge that he could easily get his hands on drugs if he wanted to - if he really wanted to - is both a comfort and a fucking terror.

“So, Carla told you then?” Benny cuts through his thoughts.

Frankie nods, running his hand over his tired face. “When were you gonna tell me?”

“Didn’t think it was my place.”

“Not your place? C’mon, man. You let me walk into a fuckin’ bear trap!” Frankie snaps.

“She wanted to be the one to tell you, Fish. We all thought it was best coming from her.”

“Fuck…” Frankie sighs. “How do the fuck do I even be a father?”

What does he have to offer, anyway? He’s just a guy who has barely managed to survive, a guy who has struggled to find his place in the world. He doesn't have a stable career or a picture-perfect life to provide as examples. As these thoughts swirl in his mind, Frankie feels another wave of panic wash over him.

What if he isn't cut out for this? What if he can't protect his child from the harsh realities of the world? What if he ends up being a disappointment and a source of pain?

“Well, you start by meeting ‘em. Kids are resilient. They don’t need perfection - they just need consistency and shit.” Benny says flippantly, as he knows. “He’s not even a year-old. He won’t know that you’ve been gone.” He says it so casually and it pisses Frankie off even more. “You won’t screw it up.”

“I’ve already screwed it up. What the fuck do I tell Jude?”

Frankie's mind races through countless scenarios, each one more terrifying than the last. He imagines sitting Jude down, trying to find the right words to tell her about the baby, only to see the look of shock and betrayal on her face. He imagines her storming out, leaving him alone with his thoughts and his fears.

In another scenario, he imagines Jude's initial reaction being one of anger and disbelief, followed by a painful silence as she processes the news and breaks down at the recall of her own loss on the island. He imagines her accusing him of betraying her trust, of choosing the baby she’ll never accept over their relationship. Jude listens to his confession with a cold detachment, her eyes filled with a mixture of pity and scorn.

He imagines her telling him that she can't be with someone who has betrayed her so deeply, who has kept such a monumental secret from her. He imagines her leaving him, leaving their relationship in ruins.

And then, in the scenario he fears the most, she scoops him up in her arms and tells him everything will be alright, and that they can do this together.

“Tell her the truth.” Benny cuts in.

Frankie snorts into his coffee cup.

“She’ll want to help you. Be a cool step-mom or something.”

“You don’t fuckin’ get it.” Frankie says, standing. He paces for a few moments. “On the island… Jude and I, we… we lost a baby. She had a miscarriage.”

He can hear it, the sounds of Jude’s sobs ringing in his ears. The sound of the water lapping over her bloodied thighs as he waded with her cradled in his arms into the cleansing ocean.

He stroked her hair, his own eyes brimming with tears. “I know, I know… it’s okay, you’re okay.” He repeated over and over his voice trembling. “Está bien, hermosa. Estás bien.” (It’s okay, beautiful you’re okay.)

Hours turned into days as Frankie watched helplessly as Jude was doubled over in pain, mirroring his own emotional agony tearing through him, and crying and sleeping through it as best as she could.

The flashback shifts to the aftermath. Jude was asleep, her face tear-streaked. Frankie had walked down to the beach, the weight of their unexpected loss heavy on his shoulders. He looked out at the endless ocean, the waves crashing against the shore. He envisioned walking through the water.

Just keep walking, keep going, don’t stop...

But he couldn’t, he couldn’t leave her. He couldn’t let her face that anguish alone. It would be cruel to lose them both. And Frankie wasn’t cruel. He was weak, but never cruel. He couldn’t be selfish anymore. He had to go on for her. To keep himself on the straight and narrow and strong.

He had to do it all for her.

“Shit, man.” Benny says, wiping his chin. “I’m sorry. That’s heavy.”

“We didn’t even know. There was so much fuckin’ blood…” Frankie says, his eyes watering. “There was nothing we could do. And now finding out that I have a-a kid? I’ve had one all this time when I’ve told her I don’t… fuck. It’s just fucked.”

“It is fucked. And I’m sorry, Fish. I can’t imagine what that must’ve been like. You got fuckin’ shit on out there, man.”

“You don’t know the half of it, hermano.” (Brother.)

“But you got a second shot here.”

“Benny,” Frankie says, his voice barely above a whisper.

“The kid, he’s fucking great. Really cute and-”

“BENNY!” Frankie yells, and he throws his coffee mug across the lounge, shattering on impact against the wall.

“What the fuck, man?” Benny growls.

“Jesus…” Frankie groans. “I need you to just stop talking. Just fuckin’ stop.” Frankie bites as he marches past him and out the front door.

Two weeks pass and it’s a long two weeks that feels more and more isolating as the time wears on. Frankie’s days blur together as he works to reassemble the shattered pieces of his old life.

His first stop was the barber. Sitting in the chair, he watched the shaggy, salt-encrusted locks fall away, revealing a face he barely recognised. He caught sight of the faint scars running the length of his neck in the mirror which his hair had hid from him for so long that he had seemingly forgotten about them, until the smell of aviation fuel filled his nostrils when he glanced at them in the mirror.

He looked around at the salon floor in horror as he felt the cold ocean water rising up to his neck as the barber carried on snipping away, whilst Frankie started to drown and scream for help.

He came to a few seconds after, and shook the infecting thoughts away as he glanced at his manic expression regarding him back in the mirror.

A shaved and shaped beard and his curls tamed to an acceptable length, he adjusted his trusty cap back on his head and headed over to his appointment with his doctor. He followed up from the hospital in Cape Town and had a second round of blood tests that confirmed he did indeed have Dengue Fever on the island, but had recovered well.

He was vaccinated for tetanus, given some more dietary advice and advised to have some counselling, which he declined profusely before heading over to the bank.

He stood in line, feeling strangely out of place in the bustling environment. When his turn came, he spoke in a quiet voice to sort out his account, payments and other financial matters. Which then proceeded into having a long drawn out argument with the cashier about his money and access to it, and having to file paperwork to reverse his death certificate, which was an unusual thing for someone clearly living having to do.

The cause of death on his certificate was marked as unknown; missing presumed dead, which was an unsettling thought that swelled around in his gut like the choppy seas.

Days later and at the bank again, Frankie was taken into a side area with an account manager, and whilst they tracked down his account and missing money, his thoughts wandered back to Jude, never straying too far from her at all.

He made the decision then, under the bright fluorescent lights of the bank that hurt his eyes a little. He wasn’t ready to tell Jude about the baby yet. He wasn’t even ready to see the baby himself. The thought of facing reality, of explaining everything when he still didn’t really understand it himself, was too much to bear right now. He had a list of tasks that he had to see through.

His mind couldn’t cope with straying away from that list.

After the bank, he walked through the streets of Pensacola. The familiar sights felt alien. He stopped at a small coffee shop, sipping a cup of black coffee which seemed to be the only staple in his diet lately. He knew he should eat more, but his stomach had been constantly churning ever since the news.

He sat and stared out the window. People passed by, oblivious to his inner turmoil. The sense of their normalcy made him feel bitter and was jarring. He felt like an outsider peeping in at his own life.

The days turned, and every day he and Jude spoke on the phone. Texting at random intervals, a long conversation telling each other about their day and all the intricacies within it.The pining and longing in their voices prevalent and a constant reminder of their pain and suffering at being apart. He told her everything, everything he did, how he was getting on with the list.

Everything except the baby, and he felt fucking awful keeping it from her.

And the calls kept coming from the press too. Unknown numbers sent to ignore, lengthy voicemails about opportunities to tell his story. His phone was blowing up the more the days went on.

“They called again. They wanna talk to you.” Benny says, relaying the messages when he gets in. They’d gotten Benny’s number too. “A few chat shows have requested to have you on them. You’re a fuckin’ celebrity.” Benny remarks.

“Like who?” Frankie enquires non-committal.

“Jimmy Kimmel, Ellen. That guy that ain’t funny, but thinks he is-”

“Conan.”

“Yeah. They all want an exclusive interview with you and Jude to hear what happened.”

“Well, I don’t even know if I wanna do it.” Frankie sighs, with sleepy, disinterested eyes.

“They’ll probably offer some good money. You could do that with that, get yourself a place again?” Benny murmurs, flicking through channels as Frankie flops down on the couch next to him.

“I’m cramping your style, huh?”

“No, man. I told you, mi casa, su casa,” Benny smiles. (My house is your house)

Frankie nods, though the reassurance feels thin. He knows he has a long way to go, more boxes to check off his list and sorting a place of his own is definitely on there. But for now he focuses on reclaiming the parts of himself that have been lost to the island, to the addiction, to the overwhelming guilt.

In his quiet moments, he thinks about Jude, hoping she’s finding her own ways to heal. He knows he can’t avoid the truth forever, but for now he takes solace in the small victories, each one a step towards the man he wants to be for her.

“You thought about getting back to work?”

“Yeah. I’ll go see Dustin soon. He might have some work for Lazarus Rising. I need a fuckin’ shower.” Frankie stands up.

“Eddie called too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Said you should stop by the centre. I think you should, too.” Benny encourages. “Might be good for you to talk to someone.”

The memories of his time in rehab are still fresh in his mind - the group therapy sessions, the one-on-one counselling coffee sessions with Eddie, the endless introspection. It had been a necessary step in his journey towards recovery, a journey he had thought was behind him. But now, faced with the prospect of returning, he feels a familiar sense of resistance building within him.

He knows talking to his sponsor could provide some much-needed guidance and support. But the thought of stepping foot back into the rehab centre, of facing his demons head-on, fills him with a sense of dread.

Frankie nods lazily and heads into the bathroom, sealing himself inside and lets the water drown him.

Back in New York, Jude follows a similar pattern in slowly rebuilding her life over the same two week period.

She gets her hair cut, chopping off more than she actually wants to, but after a year of sun and sea water damage, the hairdresser advises it’s best to go as short as she’s comfortable with, opting for a shoulder length bob. When she runs her hands through the choppy style, she’s amazed that it doesn’t feel like straw anymore. It’s almost like magic.

Her father buys her a car and helps her go to the bank to access her accounts and her photography business she’d had before shit went down in the plane crash. She wants to buy a new camera, but her mom has kept her trusty old Nikon, and all of her personal effects such as clothes, jewellery, photographs in the spare room at their house when she’d moved in following the split from Nate.

“I couldn’t bear to throw any of it out,” her mom explained as they both blubbed, holding each other tightly. “I just knew in my heart you’d come home one day. And you did, baby.”

Jude buys a new, up to date iPhone model and e-mails a load of her old clients, getting back in contact again ready to get back into some work. Life has to continue, right?

And the phone rings, each day, talking with Frankie and digesting the day. Figuring out when they’ll see each other again because she misses him more than anything. It also rings incessantly with unknown numbers and voicemails being left about telling their story to the whole world. In the end she stops answering, only swiping across the screen when it’s Frankie’s name on the caller ID.

Jude goes for an eye test and checks in with her dentist to get a polish and a check-up. She goes back to the doctor to check on her overall health too. She isn’t putting on the weight quickly as advised, but slow steps are needed in that department.

Although her lack of appetite worries her mom as she pushes away barely eaten plates full of food that her mom loads up for her. It’ll take a while to return to normal.

Jude's nightmares have become increasingly frequent in the weeks too, since they’d returned from the island. The trauma of their ordeal seems to weigh heavily on her, manifesting itself in the form of vivid, terrifying dreams that leave her shaken and exhausted. No matter how hard she tries to shake them off, they linger like a dark cloud, casting a shadow over her days and nights without Frankie there to calm her.

Jude’s walking down the block after her dentist appointment; the smells and sounds of her old neighbourhood haunts in New York City returning to her gradually as the days merge. She clocks the garbage truck loading up the bags from the sidewalk, the smells of the fried onions from the hotdog vendor as she passes it.

A lexicon of indistinct chatter ebbs and flows around her, the background noise to simple life that she’s missed out on for what feels like so long.

She thinks about the airport when they landed at JFK - how all attention was on them - on her, and it makes her skin prickle up in her sweater uncomfortably. All those eyes staring, casting assumptions, asking questions; she feels a little nauseous when she thinks too deeply about it.

Unsure how Frankie can muster the strength to seemingly ignore it, how he can switch off and not retaliate. Here, as she passes through the people of New York, the unassuming vox-populi and looks at their faces that aren’t looking back at hers, her invisibility suddenly feels daunting.

A sea of people seem to swell and surge past her - cars honking, people shouting and the constant hum of city life droning heavy in her ears. It’s so vastly different from the island, where silence was the constant companion.

Jude tries to steady her breathing, but her heart pounds in her chest. The crowds pass from all sides, making her feel trapped, unable to escape. Every direction she looks, there are more people, more noise, more chaos. Panic rises in her throat and she fumbles for her phone, her fingers slipping as she scrolls for Frankie’s name.

“Please pick up, please pick up…” she whispers to herself, feeling the edges of her vision blur with tears. She feels ridiculous, embarrassed even. A former shadow of herself.

“Hey, hermosa.”

Hearing his voice is like flipping a switch. The chaos around her seems to instantly dim, the noise fading into the background like waves receding. She always prided herself on her independence, she travelled the world by herself taking photographs and seeking adventure, and now in the familiarity of her own home city she’s rendered paralysed in fear.

“Hey you,” she gasps.

“Are you alright? You sound outta breath?” Frankie smiles down the phone.

“Yeah… no, I’m fine. I’m fine. Just out and about. Getting shit done.” She reassures, and his chuckle down the phone soothes her frayed nerves and she can finally muster the strength to walk again.

She closes her eyes and tries to push away the self-doubt that threatens to consume her. She’s faced worse than this - survived a damn plane crash, endured the harsh realities of life on a deserted island. She can handle a little bit of city noise.

“Just needed to hear your voice.” She smiles.

“I know the feeling,” he husks down the phone. “How’s the Big Apple treating you today?”

“A little overwhelming, but then again when isn’t it? How’s your day been?”

“All the fun and exciting stuff of getting my life back on track.” He snorts.

“Sounds exhausting,” she says, genuinely interested as the noise fades out around her. “Any progress on the job front?”

“Actually yeah, I was thinking of calling up my old boss. Maybe see if there’s anything he’s got for a man who's back from the dead.”

Jude chuckles. “Well, that's a great idea. As long as he doesn't send you to Madagascar again.”

“Yeah. Been there, done that.” Frankie chuckles. “And I think… I-I should probably check in with my sponsor too.”

Jude pauses, her heart clenching at the mention of his sponsor. She knows how hard Frankie has fought against his addiction, and she worries about him facing those demons again now that they’re back in the real world.

"You still there?"

“Yeah... Yeah. That sounds like a really good idea,” she says softly.

As she listens to him talk about his day, she can’t help but think about what life will be like for him now. The island had been a brutal, relentless test of their survival skills, but in some ways, it had also been a sanctuary from the temptations and pressures of the real world.

Now, Frankie would have to face his addiction head-on, surrounded by all the triggers and stresses that had led him down that path in the first place.

She considers the strength it will take for him to stay clean, to rebuild his life from the ground up. And she worries about how she can support him through it, knowing that her own struggles are far from over.

“Frankie,” she says quietly, “I’m proud of you. For everything. And I’ll be here for you, no matter what.”

Hearing her say that she’s proud of him makes Frankie's heart sink. Her words of praise are a sharp reminder of his deceit. The guilt gnaws at him, making it hard to accept her praise. He can’t do this. Not to her. The words are almost there, on the tip of his tongue…

“I fuckin’ love you, hermosa.”

She smiles and he can hear it. “I love you, too. We’ll figure it out, all of it.”

They talk for a while longer, the conversation flowing easily as they share stories and plans. By the time they hang up, Jude feels a little more grounded, a little more herself.

The city is still loud and overwhelming, but with Frankie’s voice in her ear and his support behind her, she knows she can face whatever comes next.

She’s still swimming in confused and muddled thoughts when she steps off the subway and up into the quieter suburbs of her neighbourhood, when someone swerves into her.

She looks up to be met with a sickeningly familiar face.

“Holy shit!” Nate exclaims aghast.

Jude immediately flusters, running her hands through her hair as she regards her ex-fiancé staring back at her like he’s seeing a frail ghost.

Without hesitating he clings onto her, engulfing her inside his arms, and the stench of his cologne is all too familiar and poisonous as she breathes it in.

“Fuck, look at you!” He regards her, still hanging onto her arms and staring right at her as she’s rooted speechless to the spot. Those eyes of his staring right back at her, with an astounded twitch of his lips beaming into the grin he always wore.

It still cuts deep, even after all this time. Since being back she hadn’t thought a lot of him, but knew that maybe at some point his name would crop up in conversation; they had friends in the same circles.

But here he is, on the damn sidewalk with her in the middle of the city that houses eight point three million, giving way to some weirdly fucked up fate or kismet. The isolation on the island had given her ample time to reflect, to heal - or so she thought.

“Nate.” She greets timidly, running out of breath, and it feels like his tightening grip on her arms won’t ever let her go.

“Oh my God, Jude. Shit... I can’t believe it! I saw on the news that you’d come home. I tried to call you, but... your number just rings off. Fuck! I thought you were dead!”

He holds her tight in his arms again, his arms crushing her against him and it leaves her jangled.

“No. Still alive...” She shakes her head slowly in disbelief, regarding him and remembering him all over again. His hair is shorter, but his face and his eyes remain the absolute same.

His bewildered vortex for a mouth slowly morphs into an astonished, wide grin at her, and she can’t help but smile back at his goofiness as though it’s infecting her motor functions and facial muscles.

He finally lets go of her arms. “Jesus... I can’t believe it, you’re really here. Where are you at, you staying at your mom’s?” He enquires, staring into her and not looking away.

Being the centre of Nate’s attention was something she craved once, now it feels off. Strange and unsettling. She feels like she might throw up.

She nods. “Yeah, I uh, need to find a new place, you know?”

“Yeah, shit.” He nods contemplating it all. “They rented it out not long after… your old place. Some weird old lady with a load of plants lives there now.”

All she can do is nod sympathetically.

“Wow. Look at you. You’re really here.” He says in wonderment.

His plague of a smile is creaking across his face and making it burn brightly at her. Laying down the foundations for certain destruction, making her remember all those swampy feels she once had for him. Back in a time when life wasn’t complicated; before the survival and the horror of the island.

“H-how are you?” She asks, cringing almost.

“Same old,” he snorts.

Same old… yeah, I bet you are.

“I mean, I... I was beside myself when I found out what happened to your flight. I was calling and calling your cell but getting no answer. Your mom called me, told me what had happened. They didn't find anybody alive.” He zones out a bit as he speaks. “I couldn’t believe it. I was devastated, you know, because of how things were left between us?”

Their eyes meet, and a jolt of shock ripples through her body. Nate’s expression mirrors her own - surprise, confusion, and something else. Regret, maybe? It's hard to tell.

He steps towards her, tentatively, as if he isn't sure she’s entirely real.

Jude bites down on the insides of her cheeks as she listens to him speak with a genuine sombre look about his traitorous, slick features. He’s the last person she expected to see, and the one person she hoped never to encounter again.

Nate had been the love of her life until she discovered his final betrayal. The memories of finding out about his cheating comes flooding back, the pain as raw as if it had happened yesterday. Jude had left to escape him, to escape the memories, and to find herself again. And we all know how that panned out…

But now, here he is, standing just a few feet away, looking as if he hasn't aged a day. Like the last year of her hardships and struggles are brushed off so carelessly, because he could never understand what it was like.

“I went to your funeral,” he says, now staring at something on the pavement only he can see. “I read a poem.”

“You did?” She enquires frowning with confusion. Nate read a poem?

“Yeah, never thought I’d have to do that,” he looks at her again. “You cut your hair. It suits you, you look really pretty.”

“What poem was it?” She asks, ignoring the compliment and feeling her heart accelerate.

He shrugs. “I don’t know, just one I found on Google. Sounded nice when I read it, you know?”

Yeah. Says it all.

“But fuck, you’re back!” Nate exclaims. “How are you doing, are you feeling alright?”

How had she been? The question seems absurd. She’s been through hell and back, both emotionally and physically. But standing here now, looking at him, she realises that despite everything, she’s survived. She’s stronger than she’s ever given herself credit for.

Jude adjusts her purse on her shoulder that suddenly feels like it's weighted with heavy boulders.

“I’m back,” she says “and I’m okay, I think... It’s strange.”

“Well, let’s hang out, let’s talk. I mean, I missed the fuck out of you. You hungry, we can grab some food and catch up? Tell me your stories?” He throws his thumb over his shoulder eagerly. “Let’s go to our place.”

Our place…

She shakes her head, hearing heavy fuzzing inside her ears. It’s all too surreal to see him, standing before her in all of his vapid, self-centred glory. But despite it all, that familiarity about him is somewhat oddly comforting amongst the frazzled angst that has been swamping her as of late.

She feels a surge of conflicting emotions. Anger, hurt, longing, and an overwhelming sense of confusion. Part of her wants to turn and run, to avoid the confrontation and the inevitable reopening of old wounds.

But another part of her, the part that had spent countless nights on that island replaying their relationship over and over, knows she needs some closure.

“Come on, we need to catch up,” Nate says, taking her hand and making the decision for her, pulling her along.

And before she knows it, a stream of time has whooshed by her, similar to when you’re drunk and blackout and there are gaps in your memory. How did I get here? Why am I here?

She’s now sat opposite him again, with a hot chocolate that isn;t hot at all, plonked in front of her in the same café they used to frequent together.

Nate tries his best to look collected as he sits back, and he watches her eyes avoid his deliberate yearning expression. Yet, the apologetic glance he throws her way assures him that Jude has read him like a book - a cheap paperback with no pictures.

But does he even realise that the situation cuts her open like razors slicing into skin? That the mere notion of them even sitting here like this, painfully far from each other despite their close proximity, squeezed into this little brown and beige booth, rips her to shreds over and over?

A shadow passes over Nate’s face. "Jude, I know I hurt you. More than words can say. I've had a lot of time to think about what I did, and I'm so sorry. If I could take it back, I would."

And the lacerations keep coming.

She looks at him, searching his eyes for any sign of deceit. But all she sees is sincerity. And yet, the wounds feel too fresh, the betrayal too deep.

“I didn’t - I couldn’t be with anyone else after that, you know? I just kept thinking about you, and it hurt so much.” Nate explains.

“Nate-”

She tries to talk again but the words don’t come, nothing. A lumpy block, swelling full of dismay and regret and that uncomfortable itch blooming all over her skin like being clad in a sweater your Nana knits with that prickly wool.

“I couldn’t sleep thinking you were dead. It was just weird knowing I’d never see you again, you know?” He continues to load up his gun and take aim at her, pelting bullets into her body and watching her die.

He watches as her fingers encircle the rim of her mug, moving in the same direction of the ever slowing clock on the back wall behind her; her head down and avoiding his burning gaze.

Staring at the chocolaty contents of her mug with clumps of whipped cream bobbing on the surface like sour milk, as if her very life depends on it.

“I didn’t think I would ever see anyone again.” She admits quietly.

“Even me?” He asks as her head rises slowly to look at him.

She nods and he smiles, killing her all over again.

It was true, she did think she wouldn’t ever see him again as she spent time on the island. Sitting on her regular spot on the sun-bleached rocks, staring out at the endless expanse of the ocean. The waves crashed rhythmically against the shore, a constant reminder of the passage of time. It was her fourth month on the island with Frankie, and solitude had become both her enemy and her companion.

The days blurred together, but the nights were the hardest. In the quiet darkness, whilst Frankie lightly snored beside her, her mind wandered back to Nate on occasion, and the memories she tried so hard to bury surfaced with brutal clarity.

One particular night stood out in her memory, as vivid as if it were happening again. She had been lying in the makeshift shelter she and Frankie had built, the air heavy with the scent of salt and damp sand. Unable to sleep, she found herself reliving the moment she discovered Nate’s first betrayal.

Jude had come home early from a work trip away, excited to surprise him with tickets to their favourite band's concert. But as she walked into their apartment, she noticed the unusual silence. No music, no TV, just a quiet that felt out of place. She called out his name, but there was no answer. Her heart began to race as she moved towards the bedroom. The door was slightly ajar, and through the gap, she saw them - Nate and another woman, tangled in each other’s arms.

The shock hit her like a physical blow, knocking the air from her lungs. Jude stumbled back, unable to process the scene before her. Her vision blurred with tears, and she felt as if the ground had been ripped out from under her.

The nights after the discovery had been a blur of crying, screaming, and asking herself why. Why hadn’t she seen the signs? Why hadn’t he told her he was unhappy?

Why wasn’t she enough?

She had replayed every conversation, every interaction, looking for clues she might have missed. Nate had knelt in front of her, tears streaming down his face, begging for forgiveness. He had told her it was a mistake, that it would never happen again, that he loved her more than anything. His words were a band-aid to her wounded heart, and despite her better judgement, Jude let him talk her round. He was good at that, saying the things she wanted to hear. She loved him deeply, and the thought of losing him was unbearable. So, she stayed.

But the betrayal didn’t end there. Months later, she found herself in a similar situation - this time, a text message from another woman. The hurt was just as sharp, the betrayal just as deep. Again, Nate had begged for forgiveness, made promises he couldn’t keep. And again, she stayed. Each time, she hoped it would be different, that he would change, that their love would be enough.

Until it wasn’t anymore.

The betrayals had left a deep scar, one that her time on the island was supposed to heal. But healing wasn’t linear. There were days when she felt stronger, more in control. And then there were nights like that on the island, when the grief felt as fresh as the day she found out.

She remembered throwing the concert tickets into the trash, the plans they had made crumbling like ash in her hands, and all sense of control and the person she was began feeling more and more distant.

“I just wanted you to come back to me so badly.” Nate says. “You’re so strong.”

Jude shakes her head. “No, I’m not really. I just... survived there. I know that if it wasn’t for Frankie-”

“Frankie, the other survivor?”

“Yeah, the other survivor.” Although he’s so much more than that. He isn’t just a survivor, he’s a fighter. “Without him, I wouldn’t be here now, that much I do know.”

Nate smiles softly. “You're stronger than you think.��

He echoes Frankie’s words and she feels it sear through her bone marrow.

It’s like those words spilling out of his mouth, those omissions about concern for her are being pulled languidly from him like colourful, silk scarves from a crummy kids magician’s trick. She’ll pull and pull all the words she wants to hear him say - that she would have given her right arm for him to say to her once - and the length will get longer and longer until they’re in a heap on the floor beside her ready to kick under the table out of the way, much like he used to do with her feelings.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you any of this...” Jude says, clasping her hands around her hot chocolate, which is still tepid much to her dismay. A whole year and nothing has changed in this world.

“Because you want to, maybe?” Nate suggests, sitting forward. “I can’t imagine what it was like for you. I really can’t. But I wish more than anything I was there for you, to have taken care of you.”

“I had... Frankie.”

Without Frankie, she would be dead, she knows that. She feels it and it’s visceral. On the island, Jude had found solace in the simplicity of survival - building shelter, finding food, and keeping a fire going. Those tasks had given her purpose, a way to focus her mind away from the pain.

But even in the busy throes of survival, memories of Nate slipped in under the cracks, uninvited and unwelcome. And she knew she would have been dead without Frankie. Frankie, with his untamed beard and kind eyes, who had been stranded on the island with her. He had been her rock, her lifeline, her only connection to sanity. When she was too weak to gather food, he had brought her fish. When she was too despondent to talk, he simply sat silently beside her.

He had listened when she needed to talk, and given her space when she needed to be alone. Frankie had sat beside her, his arm around her shoulders, offering silent support. He didn’t try to fix her; he simply stayed, letting her know she wasn’t alone. He loved her unconditionally, without reason or excuse.

Nate reaches for her hand and she doesn't flinch away. She feels it as he strokes over her knuckles and watches as his thumb does that soft glide over the peaks of them. His fingers clasp around hers and hold on as she stares down at them unable to register the feeling fully. Just aware it’s happening and she’s allowing it to.

She looks up and can see Frankie’s face instead of Nate’s and she snatches her hand back from him.

“I really missed you,” Nate says to her with those drilling eyes that swirl and lure her in like a Siren song.

There’s a moment shared between them, a silence that lingers and yet isn’t uncomfortable or awkward in its entirety. It’s full of nostalgia, full of that sepia wonderment and awe of when the times between them were good. The times when she was naïve and unassuming, and completely and irrevocably in love with this man to the point that she couldn’t breathe without the fibres of her lungs tearing and suffocating her.

The feeling akin to those times she found him in bed tangled up with other women too, and the stabbing pain that she felt then registers once more inside her heart, and she remembers all the reasons why he’s no good for her.

All the reasons why she walked away, and all those reasons why she got on that damned plane and crash landed in the middle of the ocean and ultimately fell in love with another man.

Nate’s phone buzzes on the table beside them and Jude watches his eyes glance at it and then his face changes. That small smirk slips out of his mouth like a cobra.

All snakes have two faces, the curious one you see testing the air with it’s forked tongue, and then the one right before they attack and sink their fangs into your leg. Nate’s fangs are out as he picks up the phone and his busy thumbs tap on the screen.

“Who’s that?” Jude feels herself asking casually as she sips her hot chocolate. Déjà vu playing on a sickening loop like she asked all those times before.

“Just a friend,” he says with that smirk still on his lips as he continues to stare into the screen.

“Right.” She says, knowing full well it’s more than just a friend. They were never just his friends. Nate doesn’t simply just have friends. All of his friends he’s inserted his dick into at some point.

As hurt and as angry as she had been with Nate all those times previous, watching him now Jude feels some sort of sympathy blooming for him. He will always be this - flighty, non-committal. Worried that if he let himself belong to just one person that he would miss out on something, something spectacular.

The irony is, he had something spectacular, and he let it go.

Suffering through the same repetitive status-quo as a chronic commitment-phobe, he will never have what Jude has with Frankie; he’ll never feel that same sense of relief or blissful peace as she does when swamped inside of Frankie’s strong arms. Able to shut out the noise of the world until there’s nothing else except for his skin on hers and his fingertips dipping into her soul to calm it.

She pities Nate now, pities the man who she once thought hung the moon. But yet this man right here was placed into her life to break her heart, she understands that now. She had to go through the pain and misery and self-loathing to carry on this journey; to take those steps onto that doomed flight, the wheels set in motion to bring her to something else utterly spectacular.

To endure through the heartache, the struggle, the life-altering fight for survival to be with the man who she was supposed to be with.

Everything happens for a reason.

“Now you’re back, maybe we could try again, slowly...” Nate suggests, and it takes Jude a moment to register he’s now addressing her.

She feels sick, his words slowly sinking into her body infecting her, even though she wills them not to. She shakes her head breathing in deeply, breathing in that sweet clarity once more.

What the hell are you doing here?!

“You loved me right? We were good together.” Nate sways.

“I did, Nate.” Jude nods, “until you broke my heart. I was already dead before I washed up on that island, because of you.” She snaps to him, staring him right in his eyes that frown at her words.

He breathes out slowly after the short, venomous outburst as she quickly surveys the damage around the room. Honesty always cuts deep like a knife and she now knows it, probably so does half the café. Luckily no-one seems to have given a damned thought to them and their grey cloud swirling.

“Don’t say that. I’ve changed, we can work it out.” And in his simple little mind, he truly believes that they can - she sees it on his face that still contains that slick smile that can tempt her into the water, luring her to her death.

Watching evilly as she drowns and pleads for him to save her, but he won’t. He’ll simply watch as the waves take Jude under and fill her lungs with water. He will be the death of her and she isn’t willing to die anymore. Not when she has something else entirely to live for.

“It’s true. I can’t forget what you did, but I can forgive you. If anything this experience has taught me that life is too fucking short to hold grudges, Nate.”

He looks hopeful, a glimmer growing inside of his eyes. Nate knows this is the end, but he fights for it like an obedient soldier brainwashed into thinking that glory will prevail. And she’s not entirely sure why.

“You’ll never change, it took me a while to figure that out. But I moved on. I healed. I found someone else, someone who really loves me.”

“Who?” Nate questions her, perplexed.

She shakes her head like he can’t be serious. He knows who. She stands suddenly, feeling like enough time has been wasted already and it all clicks into place. It’s him, it’s always been him - Frankie. And she’s a fool to deny herself from him, to deny him from her.

The decision had been mutual. They both understood the importance of re-establishing their individual identities before forging ahead together. Frankie had gone back to Florida to reconnect with family and tie up loose ends, while Jude returned to the city to reclaim her career and identity.

But the separation is harder than she’d anticipated. Every night, she finds herself staring out at the city, unable to sleep without him, thinking of the island - of Frankie. She misses his calming presence, his reassuring touch, and the way he can make her laugh even in the darkest moments.

They had shared so much - surviving against all odds, leaning on each other for strength and comfort. Their bond was unbreakable. They had faced death together, survived the harshest conditions, and found solace in each other. Now, being apart feels like a step backward and a pointless one at that.

They can recover from this ordeal together; they’re a united front - a team. The two of them against that island, against the world and conquering it together. She can’t be apart from him for a moment longer and they’re both fools to think otherwise.

“You and I, Nate? We were done long, long ago. There’s nothing else to say except I wish you well.”

Yeah, no hate, no evil insults because after all, the poor sap really does live in cloud cuckoo land thinking everything will have a rosy ending, when in reality Jude can just see that he’s a terrified man cowering in the corner, scared to give someone his heart.

“Where are you going?” Nate asks her, placing his phone down on the table and turning in his seat.

“I need to go.” Jude says with clarity.

“Well, give me your number, let’s spend some time together, yeah?” Nate suggests in his last ditch attempt at clinging on.

Jude shakes her head defiantly. “Goodbye Nate.”

Outside, she calls Frankie’s number again and when his voice greets her on the other end, she instantly feels giddy.

Jude feels a weight lift off her shoulders, replaced by a sense of clarity and resolve.

“Come back to the city, Frankie. We can sort out our lives, but we don’t have to do it apart.” She smiles.

“I’ll be there the day after tomorrow,” he says without hesitation. “Just got something to wrap up here.”

They can do this. They’re a partnership. There’s nothing they can’t overcome together. This is different to what she had with Nate - no secrets, no lies.

“I love you, Frankie.” Jude says, breathing down the phone.

“I love you, too.” Frankie replies, as he stands outside Carla’s house and braces himself to knock on the door.

To be continued...

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cvrnelians · 1 year

Text

smile like you mean it - chapter four

You knew filing for divorce would be no easy feat. But filing for divorce from Roman Roy?

"No easy feat” might as well have been synonymous with “impossible."

warnings: drug use, alcoholism, miscarriage, Roman and the rest of the Roy family being awful.

chapters 1-3 // chapter five

music

☽ Chapter Four ☽

“Are you mad at me?”

It was a genuine inquiry. You could tell by his tone of voice—whiny, timid, uncertain. He sounded like a kid that just smacked his friend on the playground, not a grown man that just accosted you on a private jet. Karma pays everyone a visit eventually, even the rich and powerful. Today, Roman’s karma came in the form of:

complete and utter terror over the plane landing, and

complete and utter terror over you being done with his shit.

The image of Roman’s barely restrained panic as the jet plummeted downwards flashed through your mind as you broke into a sprint across the tarmac. That image was the one and only thing keeping you sane at the moment. He looked the most rigid you had ever seen him as you came to an aptly rough landing, back pressed straight up against his seat as he clutched onto the armrests with shaky hands. Although you would never admit it, seeing him like that—after all he had said to you that afternoon—was the first time you smiled the entire flight.

Your throat was dry, your eyes were red and swollen from crying, and your ears were plugged. Needless to say, you were more than enthused to finally breathe in some fresh air. You lugged your suitcase behind you, its wheels squeaking loudly against the concrete. You were pretty sure you had pulled a muscle in your shoulder after yanking it down from the overhead compartment, but you didn’t really care. Your main priority was getting off that godforsaken plane and away from Roman as quickly as possible.

It wasn’t difficult to decide that you would be sitting next to the driver on this beautiful, windy evening in Herefordshire. There was no way in hell you were trapping yourself with your soon-to-be-former boss in a confined space again. You were already in the process of opening the front passenger’s side door when the driver stepped out; a thin, tall man somewhere in his sixties.

“Hi!” you practically yelled at him, receiving a bemused look in return.

“Good evening, ma’am. You in a rush?”

“Something like that. Just glad to have my feet back on the ground again.”

When you looked behind you, you were surprised to see Roman also barrelling full speed ahead towards the car. You found it laughable, considering how much he despised running. He would find any and every excuse to take a break whenever you went on your morning jogs together. “Morning jogs.” Yeah…

They were typically more of a walk/run hybrid, with breaks lasting longer than the time spent exercising. During these breaks, there was almost always food involved. This was one aspect of your job you didn’t hate. Roman really liked breakfast, so you often got free donuts and coffee out of the deal. A meager perk of working for the spawn of Satan, but a perk all the same.

You had managed to pull the car door open less than halfway when it was abruptly slammed shut. Roman pressed his hand flat up against the window as he leaned over you. Even while breathing heavily, he still managed to bestow you with you that smug little smirk of his.

You kept it simple.

“Romulus, I've had enough. Move.”

Roman raised his eyebrows. “Romulus, huh? Wow. That really gets me going.”

You glared at him, pulling the door ajar only for him to slam it shut once again. You hated him. You hated him with every fiber of your being.

“Roman, I’m serious. Move.”

“Awwwww, no more Romulus? Why not?”

“Get out of my way and let me open the door.”

”Whaaat?” he asked, his voice rising an octave as he held his arms up defensively. “I’m not sure what you mean.” He had to scramble to close the door when you tried opening it again, bumping into you in the process. You jolted at the sudden movement, stumbling into him. You could hear a loud thud and an even louder “OW!” as he hit the pavement. On any other day, you would immediately check to see that he was okay. Today wasn’t any other day, though.

Today, you felt like you were going to pop a vein in your forehead if you didn’t immediately remove yourself from his presence.

“Oh, come on!” he lamented, getting up just as quickly as he went down. He wrapped his arms around your midriff and pulled you backwards in an effort to move towards the backseat. He was so close to you that you were tripping over one other, collapsing onto the concrete. Once. Twice. Three times. At a certain point, you were both thrashing around so much that you weren’t even trying to meet your objectives—yours to go towards the front seat, and his to move you towards the back seat. At this juncture, you were simply trying (and failing) to protect the other from hitting the ground.

“Stop falling!” he yelled. “STOP FALLING!”

“STOP MAKING ME FALL!”

“JUST GET IN THE CAR!”

“I’M TRYING!”

The driver was making a valiant attempt to physically separate you. It was like trying to get in between two very irate koalas. “Sir…ma’am…you need t—” You could feel the driver’s hand gingerly touch your shoulder when you accidentally slammed into him, sending this poor, innocent bystander plummeting to the ground. Roman’s eyes widened as he finally let you go.

You managed to find your footing again, standing directly across from him as he stared at you. He reminded you of a housecat that managed to find its way outside and completely froze, not knowing what to do—even after putting himself in this position. You scoffed in disgust. Even if he was caught off guard, he didn’t even lean down to make sure the man was okay. You turned towards the driver, lying on his side with a stunned look on his face. “Are you alright?” you asked, reaching over to try and help him up. “Sir, I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry.”

The man simply sighed as he stood up, Roman jumping in at the last second.

“Yeah, sorry Gramps,” he said flippantly, his voice shaky. “Looks like you got caught in the crossfire.”

“Fucking unbelievable,” you snapped, rushing to wrench open the trunk and throw your suitcase inside.

Roman’s karma also came in the form of you sitting as far away from him as humanly possible on the car ride to Siobahn’s wedding venue—a castle “belonging to a family friend” where you would all be staying for the next week. No big deal or anything.

Or rather, would’ve been staying for the next week.

It was no longer so difficult to imagine yourself quitting this job. It simply wasn’t worth it anymore. You would figure something out. Even if he ruined your reputation, he had made a lot of enemies during his short time as COO. Surely someone in the industry would hire you, and even if they didn’t, you could get a job in another field entirely. You hadn’t been planning on being an assistant for the rest of your life anyway. Sure, you had wanted to move up in the corporate world. Sure, it was a shame that some entitled manchild was driving you away from what you wanted, but again.

Was it all really worth it?

There was a divider in the car, a tinted window that separated Roman from you and the driver, who you now knew as Doug. Ah, Doug. Although you had only known him for a few minutes, you definitively concluded that he was one of the most understanding human beings on the planet. You supposed you couldn’t be too surprised that he was so forgiving of the situation, granted that he had been working for Caroline for several years. Sadly, he must’ve been used to that level of…whatever the hell that was.

Little did you know, that tinted window worked just like any other window in the vehicle: it could be opened and closed. And open it did, with just the push of a button from the backseat. You let out a groan as the window slowly rolled down, Roman’s anxious face appearing in the rearview mirror. He seemed uncomfortable, like he was sick to his stomach. And then came the winning question.

“Are you mad at me?”

You were quiet for such a long time that he started to ask again.

“Are y—”

“I quit.”

You said the words before they were even fully formed in your brain. You pressed the button to roll the window back up, but he quickly rolled it back down.

“You…um. You quit what, exactly?”

“I quit,” you repeated. “I’m done. It’s over.”

“What are you quitting? Quitting smoking? Quitting your gym membership? Quitting life? Do I need to get you 5150’d, or…?” He was being sarcastic as usual but the discomfort in his voice betrayed him.

He didn’t like this. He didn’t like this one bit.

“This job, Roman!” you snapped. “I quit. I don’t want to work for you anymore. I never did.”

He was the quiet one this time. You tried clicking the button only for him to roll the window back down again. You wanted to scream. Yet another example of Roman taking advantage of something useful for his own purposes: annoying you.

“You don’t mean that.”

You chuckled bitterly. “You sound so sure of yourself.”

“You’re staying with us for the next week. So what, are you just gonna hang around until it’s time to go? You really think I’m gonna let you do that?”

“Of course not. I’m not putting myself through that misery,” you said flatly, scrolling through your phone. “I’m looking up flights home now. The reception here sucks, so I’ll have to figure it out when we get there.”

“Um, yeah. No.”

You stopped scrolling, your posture stiff. “I’m sorry, what?” you asked, your eyes shifting back to the rearview mirror. He was looking out the window, shaking his head as he scrunched up his face. “Did you just say no?”

He turned back to meet your eyes in the mirror. There was an air of false calmness to him. He could usually talk himself out of anything, but this clearly caught him off guard. Did he seriously think you would never get tired of putting up with him? On second thought, you supposed he would be surprised by someone asserting themselves, and ultimately withdrawing from him. He was constantly doing terrible things, and his family and everyone around him just boiled it down to “well, that’s just the way he is.” Professional enablers, all of them. Even Kendall at times. “No” wasn’t something he got told a whole lot, unless it was coming from Logan. And given his position of power, you leaving must’ve seemed out of the question to him.

“We need to…I don’t know! Don’t we need to have a meeting about this first? Like an exit interview, or whatever the fuck? We have to sit down and schedule a little get-together before you do anything drastic. You have to submit a formal resignation.”

“Okay, I’ll just email you one.”

“No, a hard copy.”

“It’s not 1996.”

“Nope, I want a hard copy. It’s the least you can do, you overpaid little brat. And wouldn’t you know? Uh oh, you forgot to bring your printer in your carry-on. Silly you. Looks like you’re gonna have to put your plans on hold.”

“Roman,” you turned to look at him, the anger evident on your face. “I mean it. I’ll say it as many times as I need to. I quit.”

“Look, I get it. Okay? You’re tired, I’m tired and what I said earlier wasn’t exactly…fair. And stop looking at me like that. I don’t like it.”

You just stared at him. “Roman, you called me an H&M wearing plebeian.”

“No, that’s slander, okay? What you’re doing is illegal. Slander is illegal. I didn’t call you an H&M wearing plebeian. I called you a run of the mill, ladder climbing H&M wearing plebeian. And a coffee gopher.”

“Oh my god. I can’t.”

You turned away, rolling the back window up. Instead of pressing the button again, Roman stretched his neck so his face rose above it as it closed. “Okay, yeah. I said it, but I didn’t mean the run of the mill part! Seriously, I—”

A few minutes of silence passed before you spoke again, this time to the only other tolerable person in the vehicle.

“Is his mother like this, too?” you asked.

Doug smirked and laughed to himself. “Caroline? Well, she can also be very…persistent.”

For the final time, the window rolled down.

“Hey. You two aren’t talking shit about me up there, are you?”

☽

You couldn't catch a flight until tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

And so, you were stuck in what had once been your designated room. A nice room, a room bigger than your apartment, but you would be lying if you said this wasn't the last place you wanted to be. When you got out of the car, Roman waved you off dismissively before practically running away from you.

"Just sleep on it, 'kay?"

You would not be "sleeping on it." You were leaving tomorrow afternoon, come hell or high water.

In addition to this, all things considered, you weren’t exactly jazzed about Kendall strolling in there at 11:00pm. He walked in casually (after knocking, of course. He may have been a Roy, but he wasn’t a Roman) just as he would when you used to work for him. It had been a while since you had really spoken to Kendall. He would email and text you pretty regularly, however. He liked to “check in.” It was clear that he missed you, and even clearer that he pitied you.

“Hey you!” he called out. “Catch!” He tossed something at you, small and light. To your surprise, you actually managed to catch it.

A sober chip.

“Ninety days,” he said fondly. “I’ve been keeping up with my meetings. I know it’s not a huge deal, but I figured you would be proud.”

He was correct. You were proud. You used to really push him to go to his meetings. Frankly, you were a little afraid he wouldn’t keep up with them after you stopped working for him. He seemed to prefer AA over NA. He never mentioned why. Although alcohol was certainly an issue for him, his main drug of choice was cocaine. You had never thought to ask about it. It seemed too personal.

“That’s great, Ken!”

Your anxiety about what had been said about you and your former boss seemed to dissipate slightly when he told you the good news. It appeared that a hug was in order, at least from Kendall’s point of view. You stood there awkwardly as he wrapped his arms around you and squeezed.

“Wow, you’re a shitty hugger.”

You laughed nervously, tapping him on the back a few times in what was supposed to be some…platonic form of affection. You peered over his shoulder. The door was wide open. Although you didn’t see anyone—and likely wouldn’t, considering how late at night it was—you didn’t want to risk people seeing this.

Especially not you know who.

“So,” he said, pulling away and smoothing out his sweater. You felt the urge to roll your eyes. Black cashmere, not one wrinkle in sight. So very Kendall.

“How have you been?”

☽

Thank you all so much for reading/liking/reblogging/replying 🩵 It means a lot. Short chapter this time (since I uploaded three in one shot last time lol), longer chapter next time. Reader is in a tough spot here 🙃

@pearlstiare

#roman roy x reader #roman roy #succession

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maharlika · 4 months

Text

spouse

a little arranged marriage halstarion ficlet for some folks over on the halstarion discord! tw for implied abuse, blood mention and miscarriage in this one. there's also mpreg.

—

Astarion tumbled off his husband with a satisfied sigh, sinking into the plush nest of feathers and fur, legs askew and thighs still trembling from exertion.

He watched, eyes half-lidded, as Halsin rose from the bed, then returned with a soft cloth and a wooden cup full of cold water, the latter of which he placed on the floor next to their bed.

“Do you think it will take?” Astarion asked, as Halsin gently cleaned him. Always so gentle, Astarion’s bear of a husband. Mate, Halsin called him, though Astarion did not quite believe it. Would not quite believe it until the child was seeded in his womb, rooted deep enough to cast aside any doubts of his place by Halsin’s side.

“It may or it may not,” Halsin said, seemingly indifferent to the possibility of siring a child. It had been baffling to Astarion the first time they’d consummated their union—it was baffling to him still, months into this endeavor.

Astarion swallowed down his worries with a nod, and told himself this was enough for now: to be wed to a man who had not once struck him, who had never raised his voice at him, and who did not seem to consider him a mere broodmare, as his father had raised him to be.

Still, fear lingered in his chest. If he could not bear Halsin a child, then he would be cast aside. Cazador would punish him for that, he was certain. But beyond that—losing Halsin would be a new sort of pain, one he had not anticipated, and one for which he had no one to blame but himself.

After all, it was his fault he had fallen in love.

—

Three months later, Astarion woke up to blood.

As his head spun with terror, Astarion could only think of one thing: not Cazador’s ire, not the breaching of the marriage contract, not even the horror of returning to the cold, bitter palace he had been raised in.

No—as Astarion limped to the healer’s, blood trickling down his thighs, he could only think: Halsin will hate me for losing his child.

—

Astarion sat quietly as the healer spoke to his husband. He wondered if he could still call Halsin that at all, given how much of a failure he had been as his spouse.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, as Halsin approached his bedside. His hands were twisted together in deep anxiety on his lap, and he looked down at them as he continued, “I—I have no excuse. I’m sorry.”

“Astarion,” Halsin murmured. He placed one large hand on top of both of Astarion’s. “Why are you apologizing, my heart?”

“Why are you still calling me that?” Astarion asked, his head jerking up in surprise. He met Halsin’s confused and sorrowful gaze, and tears spilled down his cheeks as he blinked. His mouth trembled, and a sob burst from his chest before he could stop it. “I heard what the healer said—that I might not—that I might never—”

“It matters not,” Halsin said swiftly. “You are my heart, child or no, Astarion.”

“You can’t mean that!” Astarion cried, eyes squeezing tight. “I am useless to you now!”

Halsin’s hand stiffened atop his, and despite the silence, Astarion could feel his shock. Astarion had never raised his voice at him before, had never been anything but a charming, pliant vessel.

He shuddered in fear and misery. Apologies would not save him now, he knew.

“Astarion, please look at me,” Halsin said. When Astarion did not obey, Halsin continued, “I am not so cruel to cast you aside for something so—so utterly beyond your control. When we were wed, I promised to care for you. I mean to keep my promise. There is nothing you could do that would make me stop.”

“I—but I—what am I for? If not to bear your young, to serve your House with my body—I don’t understand.”

“Is that what you think you're for? When I find the person who has put these awful thoughts into your head, I will tear them apart myself,” Halsin said, in a menacing tone that Astarion had never heard before.

He shivered, not entirely displeased to hear it.

“Oh,” he whispered. “You truly…you truly mean to keep me?”

Halsin lifted Astarion’s limp hands to his lips and kissed his fingers, one by one.

“Yes,” he said. "For as long as you would like to be kept."

Astarion nodded, his mind still reeling. This changed everything—and somehow, it changed nothing at all. Halsin still cared for him. Halsin still would not harm him. Halsin still did not care whether Astarion bore him a child or not.

“Rest,” Halsin murmured, as Astarion listed sideways and crumpled against him, overwhelmed with relief. “I will be here when you wake. I will always be here, my heart.”

#halstarion #halsin #astarion #bg3 #rai writes

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greenwitchcrafts · 3 months

Text

Yarrow

Achillea millefolium

Known as: Allheal, angel flower, arrowroot, bloodwort, cammok, carpenter's weed, death flower, devil's mustard, Devil's nettle, eerie, field hops, gearwe, green arrow, herbe militaris, hundred leaved grass, knight's milfoil, noble yarrow, nosebleed plant, plumajilo, seven year's love, snake's grass, soldiers thousand seal., squirrel tail, stanch grass, tansy, thousand-leaf, thousand weed, woundwort, yarrowway & yerw

Related plants: Is a member of the daisy family Asteraceae that consists of over 32,000 known species of flowering plants in over 1,900 genera within it such as chamomile, coneflowers, dahlia, daisy, dandelion, goldenrod, lettuce, marigold, mugwort & sunflower

Parts used: Leaves & flowers

Habitat and Cultivation: This hardy plant is native to temperate regions of the Northern Hemisphere in Asia, Europe & North America

Plant type: Perennial

Region: 3-9

Harvest: Harvest yarrow when the blooms only when they have fully opened. It should be cut right above the leaf node to encourage the plant to potentially flower again. Many choose to harvest the flowers in the late morning when the dew has dried before so that the plant is not stressed by the extreme heat. Hot, dry spells right before bloom seems to be ideal for producing the most fragrant leaves.

Growing tips: Plant in an area that receives full sun to encourage compact growth and many flowers about 1-2 feet apart. In partial sun or shade, yarrow tends to grow leggy. Yarrow performs best in well-drained soil. It thrives in hot, dry conditions; it will not tolerate constantly wet soil. Loamy soil is recommended, but yarrow can also be grown in clay soil as long as it does not always stay saturated with water. While this plant is technically considered invasive only in noncultivated settings, common yarrow still needs to be planted in an area where you don't mind proliferation.

Medicinal information: Yarrow has a history of being used for fever, common cold, hay fever, absence of menstruation, dysentery, diarrhea, loss of appetite, gastrointestinal (GI) tract discomfort, and to induce sweating. Some people chew the fresh leaves to relieve toothache. Yarrow is applied to the skin to stop bleeding from hemorrhoids; for wounds; and as a sitz bath for painful, lower pelvic, cramp-like conditions in women. Some people chew the fresh leaves to relieve toothache.

Cautions: Yarrow is commonly consumed in foods, but yarrow products that contain a chemical called thujone might not be safe because it is poisonous in large doses. Yarrow is not recommended for use during pregnancy or chestfeeding as it causes risks of miscarriage. Yarrow might slow blood clotting. In theory, taking yarrow might increase the risk of bleeding in people with bleeding disorders. In some people, it also might cause skin irritation & is toxic to cats & dogs.

Magickal properties

Gender: Feminine

Planet: Venus

Element: Air & Water

Deities: Achilles, Aphrodite, Cernunnos, Faeries, Oshun & Yemaya

Magickal uses:

• Add the flowers to a satchet or dream pillow to encourage prophetic dreams

• Hang a bundle above your bed on your honeymoon night to ensure lasting love for 7 years

• Place across your thresholds or plant near doorwaysto prevent negative energies & influences from entering your home

• Burn as an incense before or during divination to increase psychic abilities

• Wear as an amulet to attract love, friendships & give courage

• Place yarrow under your pillow & if you dreamt of your love, it was a positive omen. If you had a bad dream, or dreamt of other people, it wasn’t

• Combine with mugwort as tea to drink before divination to increase psychic powers

• Put near yourself while practicing divination to increase your psychic abilities

• In spells, use to re-establish contact with long-lost friends or relatives & attract their attention

• Braid into your hair to tap into inner wisdom

• The I-Ching divination was originally performed with dried yarrow stems

• Wash crystals& crystal balls with a yarrow rinse to bring about clarity of vision

• Drink yarrow tea & a cinnamon stick to release hidden truths

• Place on a coffin or grave to help the spirit cross over/ let go

•For powerful protection, pick yarrow flowers and charge them in the sun. Once charged, take the flowers and sprinkle them outside your home to prevent negative influences and energies away from entering your home

Sources:

Farmersalmanac .com

Llewellyn's Complete Book of Correspondences by Sandra Kines

Wikipedia

A Witch's Book of Correspondences by Viktorija Briggs

The Encyclopedia of Natural Magic by John Michael Greer

Wild Witchcraft by Rebecca Beyer

Plant Witchery by Juliet Diaz

A Compendium of Herbal Magick by Paul Beyerl

The Herbal Alchemist Handbook by Karen Harrison

The Book of Flower Spells by Cheralyn Darcey

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anamericangirl · 8 months

Note

Two quick questions, hopefully you don't get these all the time:

What exceptions, if any, would exist in your ideal abortion ban (incest, rape, life/health of mother, etc.)?

How do miscarriages weight for you, morally? Should criminal charges (child neglect, murder, etc) be considered in any/some/all cases of miscarriage?

Before I knew much about abortion, I supported exceptions to abortion in cases where the mother’s life was at risk and thought she should be treated as necessary, even if that included abortion because of the mother doesn’t live, neither will the baby.

Now, however, since learning more about abortion, my ideal ban would include no exceptions because abortion is never, ever needed. Children who are conceived through rape and incest are just as valuable and have the same right to life as children who are not conceived through rape and incest. We should not kill babies because their mother was raped. The person who deserves punishment here is the rapist and mother needs emotional and financial support and thorough medical care. Killing the baby does not solve any issues or remove any trauma.

There is no time when a mothers life is threatened that abortion is the appropriate treatment. When that happens it’s a medical emergency and she should be seen at a hospital and not an abortion clinic. Those cases are usually treated by delivering the baby alive early through an induced labor or c-section. The baby still might not live, but the procedure is not intended to kill them. There are no cases where the treatment needed is to brutally and intentionally kill the baby.

That being said, I would support any abortion bans that included those exceptions because all the things you mentioned are incredibly rare reasons for obtaining abortions and that would still ban nearly 100% of abortions.

Miscarriages should be treated like tragedies they are. That is a baby dying through natural causes, not because someone intentionally murdered them. It’s the difference between someone dying because they were shot in the head and someone dying of cancer. We don’t give criminal charges to parents who lose kids to cancer so why would we do that for miscarriages? There is no crime in a miscarriage. Unless there is reason to believe the miscarriage was caused by something like illegal drugs there’s no reason to do anything from a legal standpoint.

It’s the difference between murder and a natural death.

#answered

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sixhours · 2 months

Text

One Day at a Time - Chapter 2 - Implantation

Series Chapter Index | Read on AO3 | Complete

Rating: Explicit, 18+, here be smut Series tags: The Last of Us, The Last of Us (HBO), Joel Miller x f!OFC, Joel & Ellie, mostly follows canon, SMUT, gratuitous smut, dubious consent (drunk sex), unplanned pregnancy, fluff, references to past miscarriages, angst, hurt/comfort, romance, age gap (~21 years), childbirth, fluffy baby stuff, I've probably forgotten some so please let me know <3

~*~

And that should have been that.

Joel’s new life in Jackson was busy. Contracting projects always picked up this time of year. Patrols got more eventful as the last of the snow melted. There was work to do, and he had Ellie to consider.

Ellie, his fifteen-year-old ward, the second daughter he didn’t know he needed until she was forced on him in a desperate time. Things with Ellie were complicated for many reasons, all of which they were trying to ignore. She vacillated between treating him like a father and pretending he didn’t exist with not a lot of in-between. She’d recently moved out of his house and into the garage, and he hoped the extra space would improve their relationship, but it was too soon to tell.

Accidentally fucking his patrol partner in a drunken stupor was low on his list of concerns.

He put the whole ordeal in the back of his mind.

Mostly.

He saw Charlie around, of course. It was hard to miss her flash of silver-white hair during town meetings or meals at the caf. He might get a nod or a smirk in passing, and that was fine. He might have even felt a glancing flush of heat creep up his neck when she smiled at him, and that was fine, too.

But then…things got weird.

She’d see him coming down the street and cross to the other side. She ducked her head and avoided his eyes whenever they crossed paths during patrol prep. She suddenly wasn’t around in the usual hangout spots–the Bison, the caf. Then she missed three patrol shifts in a row. When he asked Tommy about it, he just shrugged and said she’d called out sick.

It shouldn’t have bothered him. They’d agreed to pin it on drunken stupidity and move on, but maybe she’d changed her mind. Maybe she regretted it. Maybe she hated him.

And maybe that shouldn’t have mattered, but it did.

He should have let it go.

He’s eating with Ellie in the caf when he sees Charlie come in, stamping the mud off her boots. She gets halfway to the serving counter and then stops mid-stride, faltering. She turns abruptly and catches him staring–her eyes lock on Joel’s for an uncomfortable length of time, long enough for Ellie to notice and turn around.

Then her eyes grow wide and she ducks her head and makes a beeline for the door, leaving the caf in a rush. The whole thing takes just a few seconds.

Ellie turns back to look at him. “Dude, you okay?”

“Yeah…”

He’s still watching the door, waiting to see if Charlie will come back, but she doesn’t. After a moment’s hesitation, he gets up.

“I’ll…be right back,” he says faintly, leaving his tray and his confused kid behind.

He catches up with her down the street, startling her with a hand on her shoulder. She wheels around, eyes wide and…tired, he thinks. Anxious. Like she’s just barely holding herself together.

“What?” she snaps.

He opens his mouth, realizing a moment too late that he doesn’t know what to say. He gapes like a fish for a few miserable seconds before he finally settles on the truth.

“You’re avoidin’ me.”

“I’m not,” she says, crossing her arms and setting her jaw.

“Then lemme walk you home.”

Her lips flatten into a thin line. “I’m not going home.”

“Then walk me home,” he says quickly. “M’up this way.”

She considers this, then rolls her eyes and continues up the road toward Rancher Street.

“I’m not avoiding you, Joel,” she huffs.

“Then what was that back at the caf?”

“I…wasn’t hungry.”

“I haven’t seen you around. Tommy said you were sick.”

“I’m fine.”

They continue in silence, Charlie tucked into herself with her head down, him trying to make his dumb, slow brain cooperate and figure out how to get her to open up. The walk is over too quickly.

“This is me,” he says when they’re firmly planted in front of the house on Rancher Street. “Look, if I, uh, did somethin’–”

“You didn’t.”

“I just mean…we said–”

“I know what we said and that’s still the case,” she says, the words tumbling out in a rush. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, agitated, almost…scared. “We said it wouldn’t be weird and it’s not, you’re just…making it that way.”

Her face screws up and she swallows hard; he can see the way her arms tighten around herself as she talks, pale fingers almost white with the ferocity of her grip.

His voice softens, unconsciously slipping into the tone he uses when Ellie’s having one of her nightmares. His hand twitches at his side, wanting to touch her, to console her, but he won’t.

“Charlie? What’s wrong?”

She closes her eyes and shakes her head slowly, then suddenly pushes past him, ducking off to the side of the house to vomit next to his garbage can. She heaves and spits and wipes her mouth with a soft fuck .

He moves toward her, reaches out a hand to steady her, but her next words freeze him in place.

“I’m pregnant.”

For one endless moment, this information doesn’t register. The words don’t make sense, echoing in his head until they’re reduced to nonsense syllables.

“You’re–that’s not–”

Charlie’s arms are folded over her chest, staring numbly at a spot on the ground near Joel’s feet.

“I thought you were…I thought you…couldn’t…I don’t–”

“You thought I couldn’t?”

“You’re just…we’re…older,” he finishes lamely.

She cocks her head, considering him from under long lashes. “How old do you think I am, Joel?”

Oh hell no. That’s a trap if he ever heard one. “M’not gonna answer that.”

“I’m thirty-six.”

“You’re–”

He feels his knees buckle. Christ, he’s old enough to be her fucking father. Sarah would be the same age if she’d lived–

Sarah.

He tries and fails miserably to make it look like his taking a seat on the porch steps is intentional.

Suddenly he’s twenty-two and having this exact conversation, parked in his parents’ beat-up station wagon in an empty lot in the middle of nowhere, Texas, the cute high school senior he’d met only a few months before riding shotgun with a plastic pee stick in her lap. His whole fucking life about to change, and now it’s happening again.

“Grayed early,” she says, absently touching her short silver locks, pulling him out of this painful reverie. “It’s hereditary.”

He swallows hard and grips the rough wood of the step under him, feels the prick of a splinter and doesn’t care. “You’re sure it’s mine?”

The acid look she gives him could melt steel.

“You’re the only person I’ve fucked in the last, oh, three years, so yeah. I’m pretty fucking sure.”

“Jesus Christ,” he moans softly, head swimming.

“It’s not like I asked for this, either,” she snaps.

A glimmer of bittersweet hope, then. Maybe she doesn’t want this. He sure as hell doesn’t want this. Maybe…

“What are you going to do about it?” he asks carefully, looking up at her from his spot on the steps.

This appears to give her pause, face suddenly pinched with something like grief.

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“It means I don’t fucking know. You followed me out here,” Charlie hisses. “I wasn’t even going to tell you, but then you fucking cornered me!”

He’s stunned into silence, stung by her venom. He knows what he’s supposed to say. He knows he should say it’s her choice, that he’ll support her no matter what. But fuck if he can make himself say the words.

He’s always been a terrible liar.

“Whatever,” Charlie says. “You don’t need to–you’re not obligated–don’t worry about it.”

He gapes. Don’t worry about it? How the hell is he not supposed to worry about this?

But she’s already turned on her heel and is marching away. He wants to get up and follow her but he can’t force his legs to hold him, so he stays, rooted in place by a panic that feels like deja vu.

He’s still sitting there when Ellie’s shadow falls over him, many minutes later.

“You look like you’ve seen a bloater,” she says dryly.

“I’m…fine, kid. M’fine,” he mumbles, wiping at his face.

“Thanks for ditching me for your girlfriend back there.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he mutters. “Don’t you have homework or somethin’?”

“Ugh. Yeah, but I’d rather bug you,” she grins, plopping down on the step next to him. “Besides, it’s movie night. Maria says it’s one of those cheesy action ones you like. Figured you’d want to go.”

He looks at her then, and his eyes must give something away, because she cocks her head, worried. “Joel?”

Oh, god, and he has Ellie to think about now. Everything with her is so fragile, so tenuous, and he’s gone and thrown another wrench into the works. He turns his head so she doesn’t see the single, traitorous tear that’s threatening to escape.

“Yeah,” he croaks out. “Yeah, kid, let’s…go see a movie.”

He doesn’t taste the popcorn, doesn’t follow the plot, and doesn’t remember saying goodnight to Ellie when the movie is over. Then he goes to bed and lays on his back and stares at the ceiling until his alarm goes off several hours later.

~*~

The next morning, he’s prepping for patrol, lost in the same hazy fog of shock, when Charlie rides up beside him.

“What the hell are you doin’ here?” he bites out before he can stop himself.

“I’m on the schedule,” she says. “Why wouldn’t I be here?”

“It’s…you’re…” he swallows hard, looking around to make sure no one is listening. He hauls himself into the saddle and leans in. “You’re fuckin’ pregnant.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“You can’t–”

“Your sister-in-law was out here until she was six months along, if I remember correctly.”

“Yeah, but–”

She glares at him. “But what?”

He groans in frustration, looking around. “Who’re you with?”

“Allan,” she nods to the curly-haired woman waiting by the gate with Tommy. “She’s new.”

“Fuck that,” Joel says. “She needs someone with more experience. Tommy can take her.”

It’s bullshit and he knows it. Charlie has been part of Jackson’s patrol roster longer than Joel, but before she can protest, he urges his horse to the gate to meet up with his brother.

“Tommy, we’re switching. I’m gonna go with Charlie. You take the new girl.”

Tommy studies him, glances back at Charlie, and raises an eyebrow. “If you say so, big brother.”

Joel scowls. “Don’t get ideas, s’not like that.”

“Didn’t say nothin’,” Tommy smirks. “Be safe.”

The gates creak open and the patrol team strides through, pairs breaking off to go their separate ways.

“What the fuck was that?” Charlie hisses when Tommy and his new partner are out of earshot.

“We should talk,” Joel mutters. “Figured this was better. Unless you wanted the whole fuckin’ town to know.”

“We don’t have anything to talk about.”

That earns her a look. “You’re carrying my fuckin’ kid. I think we can find somethin’ to talk about.”

“It’s not ‘your kid’ or my kid or anyone’s kid until it’s born, and that’s…that’s not…likely to happen.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Her lips twitch. “It means…I’ve been pregnant before. Multiple times. They don’t usually…take.”

He gapes. “Multiple…?”

“Oh, don’t fucking look at me like that,” she snaps. “It’s not what you’re thinking, not that it’s any of your damn business. I don’t make it a habit of getting knocked up. I had a life before Jackson.”

Heat crawls up his neck. He opens his mouth to apologize but nothing comes out. They ride in silence for several painfully awkward minutes.

“It’s fine,” Charlie says finally, staring straight ahead. “It’s something I’ve had a lot of time to come to terms with. Probably some hormone imbalance or whatever. I’ve never carried a pregnancy past nine weeks.”

He tries to count backward, to find that damp March day and the hazy hungover memory of their coupling.

“How many weeks has it been?”

“Eight and a half,” she says flatly. “Don’t worry, I’ll probably start cramping any day now.”

There’s a sadness in her voice that catches him off guard, tugs at his heart.

He’d only wanted to be a father in hindsight. He only knew he couldn’t live without his children when he’d held them in his arms, real and alive. He’d never had the chance to dream about what it would be like, only to have that dream cruelly stolen away.

They ride in a silence that Joel would normally prefer, but suddenly it’s stifling and heavy, almost suffocating.

“So, uh, Charlie…is that short for somethin’?”

She glances at him, bemused. “It’s Charlotte. I used to go by Lottie, but after the outbreak, I found it was…easier if people thought I was a guy. Short hair and all. The nickname stuck.”

“How’d you make it to Jackson?”

“I was part of a group that left Kansas City before the rebellion. Me and six others,” she shifts in the saddle. “One of them was a Firefly, had heard about Jackson through the grapevine and wanted to try to find it. We left in the winter, things got rough. I was the only one who made it. That was three years ago.”

“How, uh, long were you in Kansas City? Before that?”

She shoots him a look. “From day one.”

“So you were–”

“Fifteen. I was born and raised outside the city and was moved to FEDRA territory when the outbreak hit. I considered myself lucky at the time. Of course, we didn’t know how bad it would get.”

“You have family?”

“My folks and brother were killed. It’s just me.”

“M’sorry.”

She shrugs. “Was a long time ago.”

They ride in silence.

“So what’s your tragic story?” she says dryly. “I’m guessing you found Jackson because you’re Tommy’s older brother. Where’d you come from?”

“Boston.”

“That’s a pretty fuckin’ weird Boston accent,” she says, lightly mimicking his drawl.

“Originally from Texas,” he says, biting the inside of his cheek. “And there’s not much to tell. Shit hit the fan on my 36th birthday. Tommy and I got out.”

She whistles. “You’re older than you look.”

“M’not sure if that’s a compliment, but I’ll take it.”

“And Ellie? She’s your daughter?”

Your daughter. He still can’t hear the word without picturing Sarah first, a little betrayal.

“I’m the one they call when she’s gettin’ into trouble, yeah,” he mutters. “She, uh…she found me in Boston, we made the trip out here together. She’s a good kid. Seen a lot of shit.”

“Haven’t we all.”

A longer silence as they ride toward the outpost, interrupted only by birdsong and the regular thudding rhythm of the horses’ steps.

He clears his throat. “You’ll, uh, tell me if it doesn’t…take, right?”

She snorts. “I’ll let you know when you’re off the hook.”

“No,” he frowns. “I meant…you shouldn’t have to go through somethin’ like that alone.”

Her gaze in his peripheral vision lingers for a bit too long.

“Yeah,” she sighs. “I’ll tell you.”

#the last of us hbo #the last of us #joel miller #fanfic #fic recs #babyfic

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