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ziclovs · 1 year

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HSHQ TASKSEVEN / HSHQAC2022 DAYEIGHT

— TIE YOURSELF TO ME: A PLAYLIST

i. can you feel the sun? : below the willow tree, i get hung up on my insecurities, rose coloured dopamine, my soul feels like it could be make-believe. below the willow tree i search to find some sense of identity, this weeping willow tree, sits in silence, sheds no tears for me. can you feel the sun? i do but i can’t see it. can you feel the breeze? i don’t, but i believe it, i don’t feel safe when i’m not alone. and i know and i know what you’re thinking, i like it on my own. but i’ll let you in if you say it’s okay.

if you know me well enough, you’ll know that i am capable of constructing an entire character off 1 song and this would be said song. kaspar would not exist without it. the weeping willow is a motif that i adored when i thought about it and it became something i wove throughout his history and his intro. kaspar is somebody who has one foot in an idealistic daydream, a beautiful vision, and the other in harsh reality. he is always reaching for something intangible and sometimes, he is so many steps ahead, so clear in his calculations that his mind is already in a conceivable future way before anyone else. this is why the refrain — can you feel the sun? i do, but i can’t see it, can you feel the breeze? i don’t, but i believe it. hits incredibly viscerally everytime i play it. if you read his intro, kaspar can come off a certain way, he’s not always understood in the ways he wants to be and thus has always felt safer either completely alone or in crowded places rather than intimate settings. he needs some form of cover, something to shade himself with, be it with other people, or an occasion. now that i’ve played him for two years, you’ll notice how his amiable way turns into a bullet train about to crash when someone suggests a friendly one on one or when he’s alone with someone he really likes. in many ways, he’ll always be the little boy, taking shelter under a giant weeping willow, sketching by himself or reading a book because others can be so needlessly unkind.

ii. blue moon rising : when the night, is falling, and the land is cold, and that secret you found in your pocket, will remain untold. there’s a storm out on the horizon, and it’s coming our way, by the light of the blue moon rising, shall we just run away? will i meet you down on the corner where our hopes and dreams were sold? by the poet and the loner, on the streets we paved with gold. the deeper that you get, the more you will regret living on the edge of the night, but the blazing sunset in your eyes means more to me than life. cause you make me feel electric, beauty in truth is hard to find, some of us bleeding and some of us needing to find a way. it’s getting closer can you feel it? i’m glad i found you just in time, some of us bleeding and some of us needing to find a way.

the beat of this is important. kaspar has a long stride and a steady gait. he is ambitious. he reads the social tea leaves, he tries to foretell the way the wind will blow next. he looks at what is in front of him and makes something of it all to add value. it is the only way he can value himself. but when someone like this is also a part-time daydreamer, what kind of person would he find in a partner? kaspar needs to be understood, he has no problem putting in the work and the effort to in his own way, repackage his thoughts over and over to someone else so they can get on his wavelength, so they can see what he sees, and he is willing to pick someone else’s brain to understand how they work. it is a little mechanical, but it is how he operates. he does not get offended when he is told he has gotten it wrong and will re-evaluate. it is why he is so reliable to wiebke. she is a safe person for him and he is safe for her. but opportunities to do this with others are few, and waiting around for some magical moment where someone comes along to just get you feels unrealistic, even to him. it’s as if there’s some secret to the universe ( the secret you found in your pocket will remain untold ) that he does not know how to unlock. so for a long time, because he was raised by aesthetes, he thought the ideal person would be kind, gentle, an optimist, encouraging ( like the image fanni created for herself, sorry isa, i will continue using this example until i find a better one ) but the type of person who would implicitly understand his raw beginnings, his thirst for progress is always someone with more edge. people like iena. beauty in truth, is definitely hard to find. if he had ever truly gotten to know fanni he would have discovered this very quickly. and now he’s with anya, found just in time. i love that this song was prophetic because it was one of the earliest ones i found and the narrative unintentionally came true.

iii. island in the sun : when you’re on a golden sea, you don’t need no memory, just a place to call your own as we drift into the zone, on an island in the sun. we’ll be playing and having fun and it makes me feel so fine i can’t control my brain.

it felt appropriate to include music from the early aughts. he would have been firmly entrenched in his adolescence, and the sort of listless mundane way weezer sings kind of fits the vibe he must have emanated back then: parents freshly divorced and trying to eke out space for himself that was more his than the tumult of his home life. in basel he was both getting bullied and hanging around with new acquaintances who were neither rich, nor titled. they introduced him to refined sugar and weed. he definitely still cannot control his brain.

iv. solid ground : how does it feel, when it’s quiet and calm? and will i be denied? how will it feel, when it’s time to move on? mother says kneel and pray. when it gets hard i will roll those sleeves, life can be so unkind. i will be found, on the edge of the world, where there’ll be no one around. solid ground. how does it feel to be on your own? no one to understand. i know i’m here and i don’t belong. i’m on my knees today. when it gets dark i will know no fear. life can be so unkind. hanging around on the edge of the world... finally no one around.

this song describes a certain heaviness that settled over him after his father died, but it isn’t one that is related to grief. it is one thing to grapple with the idea that your father — a man who cast a long shadow, but was even larger than life than even the shadow could represent — is no more, and it is another thing entirely to really feel the reality of the situation. not only has he passed, but the title of grand duke now rests on your head. this song is that quiet moment of the in between, when kaspar reaffirms with himself, his unflinching sense of duty, what he wants for rhine, and the inability to get used to the fact that on the tail of a personal tragedy, he can finally become the sort of man he has been waiting to grow into. there is apprehension of course, dietrich zielcke was popular and certain things kaspar intends to set in motion will have him rolling in his grave, will he be denied? how long will he have to wait before he initiates change? these thoughts fight with the push and pull he still feels with his upbringing, mother on one side, father on the other, but now, he is finally alone in schlöss brühl, experiencing what being alone in it feels like for the first time after wondering for so long about something that felt unfathomable. it’s a mixture of melancholy, uncertainty, imposter syndrome, worry because there is no longer any safety cord holding him up, and still... the realisation that despite all this, he does not feel fear. he will make rhine into what he believes it can be.

v. reconfiguration : i won’t fear my rivals, leave them in the silence, i live in the present, moment to moment, i will fear no future, come live on in silence, i live in the present, moment to moment, moment to moment. feels like i’m more myself — tearing off and on, next in line. feels like i’m always gone, sweet re-re-reconfiguration. everything is turning out like it wants to, feels like i’ve been here before and everything is turning out like it wants to feels like i’ve been.

kaspar isn’t somebody who worries too much about things that are too far into the future. there are two things for forecasts, the signs and signals, the numbers, and the social element. he does not try to control these things, he leans into what he sees coming. it is easier to adjust yourself and your facilities, pick them apart and re-forge again to ride that than trying to puppeteer those external forces. that kind of arrogance remains with royals. the thing about this is sometimes there are cyclical results, which kaspar doesn’t always enjoy, his goal is to break out of that.

vi. holy branches : when you were young, you’d bite your tongue. calm, always did what you were told, never ran your mouth. lived on tiptoes, only felt peace if by yourself, when mistakes don’t count. there’s a hole in your chest from the time you were born, one that don’t get filled, cause you’ve always known, you’re nothing they want. (...) but everybody's bones are just holy branches, cast from trees to cut patterns in the world and in time we find some shelter, spill our seeds and then wait for our turns. but for now we're adrift on the waves of discontent trying to carve our place all in hopes we'll be something they want, but i ain't holding my breath.

this first part of the song really felt like kaspar was being read so i kept it. the message of the song is very relevant to him and maybe the chip on his shoulder. his sense of duty is strong, he sees himself as a servant, as somebody who needs to be worthy of being a guide. he is well read, he has access to more information, the public won’t see it, they don’t know what they don’t know yet, not the way he does, but if he keeps going, if he keeps churning the results, maybe they’ll realise they wanted the same things all along.

#hshqtask007 #task #hshqac2022 #i know 90% of you won't read this bc of how long i made it on purpose

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donttelljim · 2 years

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Vows

A side-by-side of young Alistair and Cullen, once two temporary templar recruits, taking their vows/Joining at the same time, in different parts of Ferelden. I figured as they’re the same age, and were both training to be templars at the same time...why not contrast their experiences of drinking from their two fateful cups? Lyrium and the Darkspawn taint - both drunk in the name of service, but neither are what the young recruits expect. ⁘ For @chaos-company’s Angstpril 2022, Day 8 - Don’t Lie To Me ⁘ (On AO3 here) ========== In two disparate parts of Ferelden, two templar recruits were looking at their shoes, trying not to throw up as they waited for their names to be called.

Cullen had worked for this his whole life. The white halls of the Grand Chantry echoed with music, the names of each recruit ringing out and mixing proudly with the voices of the choir. The air was thick with incense, holy and sanctified; above him, Andraste towered, the statue’s golden hands raised in supplication to the Maker on behalf of His people, and before him, held by a chantry Mother and flanked by real life Seekers, was the cup. His first drink of lyrium. His transformation, a realization of his boyhood dreams. People from Honnleath rarely got to achieve their dreams like this. He looked up at Andraste as he waited, thanking her for this chance. Alistair barely knew who these people were, besides the legends, but he knew that they were better than the alternative. Or, that had seemed the case until now. The winds of the Hinterlands whipped around the small group, the sky dark and bleak, untouched by stars. Outwards, the coarse, hilly grasslands seemed to stretch on forever, as though their band were the only people left in Ferelden. Nowhere to turn. Below him, at his feet, lay the bodies of his fellow recruits - the ones who had not survived their Joining. Soon, it would be his turn. Was this why they’d sent him…? Duncan, a man he had trusted and loved until about ten minutes ago, stood gravely before him, the cup in his hands. Alistair thought he’d left the templars to escape all this. Looking up into the empty sky, he wondered whether this was it: a pointless end to an unwanted, thrown-away life. He’d pray, but everyone knew the Maker wasn’t listening. The young templar stole a glance towards the gathered families, all here to watch their children or siblings take their vows. He spied his parents, brother and sisters, easy to spot by their simple clothes compared to the lords and ladies on every side of them. Stealing his chance when he didn’t think the clerics were watching, he shot them a toothy grin. His sister waved back, then pointed naggingly towards the stage - eyes forward. Smirking, he obeyed. Alistair looked desperately about him, searching for a single sane face amongst the small crowd. This was like some sort of nightmare - the kind where everyone goes absolutely mental, and you’re the only one left with any sense. Another recruit keeled over, frothing at the mouth, black veins running over them. A Warden stepped forwards, checked their pulse, shook their head, and stepped back again. “Are you all insane?! You can’t do this!” How far could he run? Far enough to get behind one of these rises before they shot him down? No… He’d die without honour or dignity, which would prove everyone in his life disappointingly right about him. Death with dignity, then. He tried to keep the tears of betrayal from his eyes. “Rutherford, Cullen Stanton, of House… - apologies. Of Honnleath” Cullen took a shaking breath and stood up straight, ignoring the sniggers from his fellows at the cleric’s mistake. He didn’t care. In a few minutes, he would be Ser Cullen, the same as any of them. But he didn’t want this for status - he wanted this for the same reason Templars enthralled him as a child. He remembered them passing through his village, with their gleaming swords and grand armour, but unlike the armies of Redcliff, they had been kind. Polite, courteous. They treated the people he grew up with like they mattered. That was a Knight. He wanted to be a part of it. He wanted to be good. He stepped forwards, feeling like he had lightning under his feet. This was it. “Fitz-Guerrin, Alistair.” Great, Alistair thought sullenly. Called to the gallows, and they couldn’t even get his name right. Not that he wanted to be a Theirin in his final moments, so being his uncle’s bastard was as good as anything else, even if it was the lie that got him abandoned out here in the first place. He stepped forwards, feeling like he had a ball and chain on each foot. He might as well, for all the choice he had. He eyed the man who’d refused to drink - stabbed through, by Duncan’s own blade. He made a final appeal to the once kindly-seeming Orlesian. “You know, you could have put this in the pamphlet! What if we don’t drink? Can we just become, sort of…Grey-ish Wardens? Off-white Wardens, the Cleaners of Pans?” Cullen approached the chalice, standing as tall as he could. This was his proudest moment. The bullying, the taunting barnyard impersonations, the extra hours, the mortification of learning how to read correctly whilst his classmates were learning Ancient Tevine - it had all led here. He bowed his head respectfully as he stepped towards the cup, receiving the Mother’s blessing. Her words washed over him, bathing him in the love of Andraste, emboldening him with the will of the Maker - “Be still, Alistair. Have courage. This is your chance to make something meaningful of your life. Your chance at purpose. To belong to something. You want that, don’t you?” Alistair looked from the corpses around him to the man speaking so gently, so much more kindly than he was used to being spoken to. He was wondering whether kind tones were overrated, suddenly. And yet…Duncan was right. What else was he? What else would he be? The world’s angriest, most reluctant templar? An unwanted, unwelcome heir stuffed in a cupboard just in case he was needed some day? Or this? In two disparate parts of Ferelden, the wind beating against chantry walls and barren hills, two templar recruits spoke the vows they were fed, line by line. Cullen’s voice rang out, young and proud in the grand hall, his hopes and earnest swallowed up and unfelt by its great size. One more templar. Out in the Hinterlands, Alistair’s words were whipped from his mouth and muffled by the battling storm, as unkind to him as it had been to his father and grandmother before him, not that they had anything to do with him now. Swallowing back anticipation in one, fear in the other, both Ferelden classmates took the cup that was offered to them, closed their eyes, and drank. Alistair cried out in pain, the chalice falling from his hands. He collapsed, the venom seizing him. His vision turned black - he could feel something in him dying. Cullen sighed, a light coursing gently through his veins, strengthening him as it lit him from within. He was reborn, something new. What he was meant to be. Beyond the two boys, two mentors looked on, knowing the truth of what was in these cups, of what it would do to those who served. There was no peaceful exit for either of them, no walking away, no kind end to this life. But, duty demanded it. If those before had suffered it, then this generation must, as well. What were lives in comparison to the greater good?

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ilonga · 3 years

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angstpril day 8

prompt: screaming

ao3

The first Council meeting since Geonosis is a quiet, somber affair.

They're grieving—the whole Order is grieving, really, for all that they've lost. For Dooku's betrayal. For the clones, and the start of a war. For the galaxy's sudden fractured state. For all the Master, Knights, and—the one Padawan that they'd lost.

Had it gone any differently, Obi-wan would be worrying about the state of the galaxy just like the rest of them. But all he can think about is Anakin. Anakin, whose body they never recovered. Who must have died at Dooku's hands while Obi-wan was unconscious. Who Obi-wan failed to protect as a Master should.

"A funeral, we must arrange," Master Yoda says quietly. "For the dead." He gives Obi-wan a sorrowful look.

"Did Padawan Skywalker—" Shaak Ti clears her throat awkwardly. "Did he express any . . . wishes that we should be aware of?"

And isn't that the tragedy of it all. The truth is, Obi-wan has no idea what Anakin would have wanted. They'd never discussed wills or dying wishes or funeral preferences—not that there's a body to bury.

"His mother, perhaps—"

"There was no body," Obi-wan interrupts. He knows he's practically grasping at straws. He doesn't particularly care. "We don't know for certain that he's dead."

The rest of the Masters only look at him sadly. "Feel him, can you?" Master Yoda asks gently.

Obi-wan looks down. They're right, of course. He can't. There's nothing left of Anakin in the force, in the galaxy.

"No."

Sidious stands at a distance from the cell where Skywalker is restrained. Beside him, Tyrannus shifts slightly to the side.

"He is. . . greatly disoriented, now," Tyrannus says. "Rather unresponsive. His memories are growing weak—he recalls very little about the Jedi."

"Has he seen you?" Sidious says harshly. Dooku is efficient and talented, no doubt, but often prideful. Sidious did not have time for mistakes.

"No," Dooku says. "Only the droids."

"Good."

"I do not presume to know your plans, Master," the Count begins carefully, "but I must question—"

"You need not worry about the Rule of Two, Tyrannus," Sidious interrupts. "The boy will be a weapon, nothing more. Much like Grievous and your pet Dathomirian."

"Not a true Sith, then?"

"No." That would require far too much finesse and far too much risk. Breaking him and building him up will be easier and fulfill the same purpose just as well. He turns to the Count, who's still gazing at the boy with a strange, conflicted expression on his face.

Ironic, considering that Tyrannus was the one to relieve Skywalker of his right arm.

"Leave us," he says. He will deliberate on his apprentice's conflict later. As for now, he wants to observe their progress.

Tyrannus bows and exits.

Sidious steps forward.

Skywalker, for his part, is shackled to the wall and barely conscious. His figure is slumped and battered, scars littering his neck and what can be seen of his limbs—the mechanical one, in particular, is constantly spasming. Another current of electricity courses through him and he lets out a hoarse scream.

His padawan braid has been burned off, Sidious notes. A rare moment of insight on Tyrannus's part.

He waves a hand and steps forward into the cell. The boy knows him fondly, after all. If he plays his cards right, the boy will trust him unquestioningly even when he has no memory of the friendly Chancellor Palpatine.

The boy blinks at the noise, and his eyelids crack open. He struggles to lift his head.

"Chancellor?" Skywalker whispers uncertainly, vague recognition sparking in his eyes.

"Do not worry," Sidious says. "I will help you, as I always have, young Vader."

Skywalker blinks uncertainly, too out of it to question the new name. After a few seconds, his breathing evens out and he slips into unconsciousness once more.

#angstpril2021 #fanfiction #dayeight #screaming #cw implied torture #cw amnesia #star wars fanfiction #star wars au #winter soldier au #my writing #anakin skywalker #obi-wan kenobi #palpatine #count dooku #star wars

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hujanmimpi · 3 years

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day 8: the power of music

bagi aku pribadi, musik punya banyak peran penting di sela kehidupan. sama seperti halnya menulis. ada begitu banyak momen yang bisa direkam, dirangkum, dan juga dikenang ketika sebuah musik mengalun di telinga.

jatuh cinta, patah hati, duka, suka, kecewa, marah, dan sederet perasaan lainnya bisa digambarkan dengan satu dua lagu yang rasanya kalau playlist dibuka, bisa memenuhi tulisan ini hingga entah seberapa panjang.

music is the soundtrack of our life.

aku selalu sepakat dengan kalimat tersebut.

soundtrack yang pasti berbeda bagi setiap manusia. soundtrack yang dipilihnya juga tidak dengan banyak perenungan. yang tiba-tiba saja bisa dirasa amat pas menggambarkan perasaan dan kejadian.

begitu, kan?

kekuatan musik sama halnya dengan kekuatan yang dihasilkan kata dan tulisan. bedanya, ketika kamu mendengarkan alunan musik, tidak perlu selamanya kamu tahu arti dari lirik sebuah lagu yang dimainkan, tidak perlu kamu jadi si mahir dan mengerti not balok dan lain sebagainya, namun kamu bisa menikmati dan merasakan emosi yang dicurahkan di dalamnya.

menarik dan memikat.

bagiku, musik seperti itu.

22 Agustus 2021 - hujanmimpi -

#hujanmimpi #healingtherapy #30dayswritingchallenge #dayeight #day eighteen

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lifblogs · 2 years

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Living That Apple Pie Life

@chaos-company's Angstpril 2022: Day 8 - "Don't lie to me."

Fandom: Supernatural Rating: Mature Pairing: Non-con Samifer Word Count: 1267 Summary: Lucifer has created a new reality in the Cage, one where Sam must play his part, or face even worse torture at the Devil's hands. WARNINGS: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Gore, Horror, Severe Injury, Blood, Domestic Abuse, Torture Mention, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con READ ON AO3

The white, one-bedroom house that Sam lived in was clean. He’d made sure. He’d vacuumed, dusted, swept, cleaned the bathroom, even moved the fridge and the stove to sweep and mop the places they’d been.

He forced himself to eat some lunch (just leftovers from last night’s dinner he’d cooked), and he was washing those dishes by hand now. He wasn’t supposed to use the dishwasher, though it was there to tempt him.

As he was drying the plate on an orange and white striped towel, Lucifer came home.

Sam was immediately tense, but he tried to hide it. He smiled, going over to Lucifer to get his coat and hang it up on the peg by the door.

“How was work?” Sam forced out.

Lucifer sighed and pulled out one of the four chairs at the round kitchen table.

“Same as always,” he said, voice holding annoyance and frustration. “How was your day?”

Sam shrugged. “Housework.”

Lucifer looked behind Sam, at the counter. His eyebrows lowered.

“Really?”

Sam stiffened, heart hammering in his chest painfully.

“Then why is there a dirty dish on the counter?”

Sam turned his head just a bit so he could see it in the corner of his eye. Lucifer was right. Oh god, how had he forgotten that?

“I-I—”

Lucifer stood up, and slammed a balled hand on the table.

“You’re supposed to keep this place clean. I go out, I work, and for what? To come home to a dirty kitchen? I might as well just wreck the place, huh?”

At that, he flipped the table, and Sam jumped back, nearly sitting on the counter to get away.

“I didn’t see it there.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I swear. I swear—”

Lucifer stalked towards him.

Sam saw the punch coming, had known from the moment he’d woken up that morning that it would come, but there was no dodging it. Lucifer was too quick.

His fist slammed into his cheekbone and jaw, the sensation just numb pressure at first. Then it began to throb, deep into his face. Before Sam could defend himself Lucifer had a hand around his throat, squeezing, but leaving just enough air to pass through so he could speak.

“Now, why did you leave the dish out?”

“I forgot.”

Lucifer slapped him with his other hand, hitting him on the left side of his face again. The hot sting was accompanied by a tiny flow of blood.

“No!” he roared. “You want this house dirty, don’t you? You want to make me upset.”

“I don’t, please!”

Lucifer squeezed hard, and then threw Sam across the kitchen. He hit the chairs and the table, body surely getting covered in large red marks where he’d hit wood. Those red marks would soon turn into dark bruises.

He collapsed to the floor.

Lucifer grabbed him by his hair, pulling him up into a kneeling position.

“You like me hurting you, is that it?”

“No.”

“You’re lying.”

“No!”

Lucifer kneed him under the chin, making Sam bite his tongue. Agony sparked in his tongue and didn’t leave. Hot, metallic blood filled his mouth, so much so that he almost choked on it.

When he tried to talk his words were all jumbled, and the edge of his tongue flapped. Oh god, he’d bitten almost all the way through it.

Lucifer looked down at him, those blue eyes turning red.

For a second, he broke the moment and said, “At least you’re playing the game.”

Sam nodded obediently. If he played along with this reality Lucifer had created in the Cage then he could escape worse torture. But instead each day passed in fear and ended with pain. Sometimes it ended with him shoved up against something, his pants down, Lucifer behind him…

But at least he wasn’t on fire. At least he wasn’t burning on hot coals, or having his eyes ripped out, or having his bones cut from his body.

Still, this game was sick. He could tell why Lucifer enjoyed it. Power. Dominance. That hint of romance.

Sam had never thought he’d experience domestic abuse like this, but here he was, in Hell, in the Cage, suffering through just that.

Lucifer sighed, seeming bored, and then said, “Clean up this mess.”

He stalked from the room, heading for the living room, where he would watch TV that was too loud just so every sound would make Sam jump and start with fear.

Sam stood and went over to the sink, spitting blood into it. Even that action hurt, and he moaned, gripping the edge of the counter.

Sometimes Lucifer would heal him. Why not this time? Was it more fun this way?

Sam didn’t know what to do to stop the bleeding in his mouth, to administer first aid for his freakin’ tongue, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to clean in this state.

He ended up just leaning over the sink, letting the blood drip out.

A horrifying thought came to him, one of cutting through the last centimeter or two just so he wouldn’t have the end of it flapping around like wet, raw meat in his mouth. He tried to disregard it as soon as it came up, but wouldn’t it be better to be missing that part? To have an emptiness in his mouth instead of something that he kept biting down on and felt like he was going to choke on?

Mouth full of blood, Sam went to Lucifer.

“What? What is it?” he asked, all annoyed. Acting.

“My tongue,” Sam tried to say. It came out more like, “Muh ung”

Lucifer just grabbed his bruised jaw, and squeezed till Sam was opening his mouth. Blood spilled out.

“Do you want me to take care of that?”

Sam’s vision grew blurry with tears.

Lucifer took out a knife.

“So you do like when I hurt you.”

Sam tried to refuse.

“Say it,” Lucifer said.

He considered saying no, but then he eyed the swiss army knife Lucifer had in an expert grip. That knife could do any number of untold things to him.

“Say it.”

“I uh ih.”

Lucifer shrugged. “Good enough for me.”

He grabbed the torn end of Sam’s tongue and brought the knife down.

Sam screamed, but at least his mouth was no longer so full with his own tongue. At least he wasn’t biting it, at least…

Oh god, his tongue.

Blood pouring from Sam’s mouth, he curled up at Lucifer’s feet, sobbing.

“Did you clean up the kitchen?”

Sam didn’t respond, so Lucifer kicked him in the ribs, making him cry out.

“Did you clean the mess in the kitchen?”

Sam shook his head, a sob escaping him.

“See? That’s all I wanted to know. Now go do it. And when you’re done come clean this blood off the rug.”

Sam forced himself to his feet, feeling light-headed from blood loss, nearly blinded by pain, by horror, and staggered to the kitchen, having to use the wall to support himself. He knocked over a picture. It crashed to the floor, glass shattering.

He stared at it in horror.

Oh no. No, no, no, no.

The hair on the back of his neck rose, and when he turned, Lucifer was behind him.

Lucifer punched him so hard that his nose cracked and crunched, and shards stabbed up into his head.

There were confusing, agonizing moments, bright lights in his vision, head bursting with pain, and then Sam collapsed, knowing no more.

But he’d wake up. He’d wake up healed, and he’d have to live this all over again.

#angstpril2022 #fic #dayeight #'don't lie to me'#gore #horror #graphic depictions of violence #rape mention #torture mention #abuse #domestic abuse #supernatural #spn #supernatural fanfiction #spn fanfiction #sam and lucifer #fanfiction #writing #my writing

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klara019 · 3 years

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Angstpril day 8

Screaming

I also want to dedicate this fanfic to @mmm-cheif-beifong who brought my ideas to life. I mean seriously thank you dude ❤️

(check tags for trigger warnings)

All Kya wanted right now was to scream. She wasn’t ready for this, she knew that there won’t be a day that she would be prepared to stand all that grief and sadness after losing her wife. She felt that her knees bent and she landed on the solid ground but everything seemed so distant and blurry. It couldn’t be true.

Lin fell behind the edge of the mountain and there was no way she could survive that fall. She saw Suyin wrapping P’li’s head with some piece of metal, she saw the explosion wiping her out.

Kya jumped and ran to Suyin as fast as she could. She wanted to look down to find Lin but Kya pushed her away with tears in her eyes.

“Don’t look there.”

But Kya wasn’t listening, she knew she was trembling with emotions and even then she came closer to the edge. Despite Suiyn’s warning she took a look and immediately regretted it.

She sat down hiding her face in her knees. She wanted to scream but wasn’t able to do it. She still couldn’t believe what happened.

Suyin embraced her trying to stay strong. It wasn't easy with all the guilt she struggled with right now. After a while she started sobbing because she couldn’t bear the feelings.

She wanted it to be a bad dream, a horrible nightmare that she could wake up from. But it was true, it all happened and no one was able to change this.

Kya was gradually becoming more and more angry. They took everything from her, everything that matters. She started to think about revenge, she wanted to do it for Lin because now, Kya wasn’t feeling like she is still a person. She felt empty, the void was filling her with its darkness and nothingness.

She wanted to cry.

She took a deep breath.

She wanted to feel.

She raised her head.

She wanted to scream.

So she screamed.

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firerose · 3 years

Text

You promised

Annabeth screamed. Luke was holding her hand, pulling her with him as they ran up the hill towards their destination. Luke had told her to stay calm over and over again but all of this terrified her. The knowledge that she could die here right where she was supposed to finally be saved, the monsters growls that bellowed behind her and Thalia. Thalia her best friend that she felt closer with than her stepmother, who was holding the monster army all by herself.

“Thalia! We have to help Thalia!“, She begged with tears in her eyes. Luke stopped suddenly as if her words had frozen him. He turned and for the first time, Annabeth saw the strong expression he always had crumbled.

“We….we can‘t go back Annie we have to get to Camp. Thalia….she will be fine.“ The son of Hermes said but in Annabeth‘s ears his voice sounded unconvinced and that scared her even more.