#later on you get this subtle but insidious tone shift

[symphonyincoordination]

Things I love about Big Mac:

-Klinger’s refusal to yield at the prospect of a MacArthur visit

-Trapper and Hawkeye respecting his efforts

#mash #mash 4077 #max klinger #hawkeye pierce #trapper mcintyre #he’s a force of nature I love him #his reaction is the only appropriate one and I love that the episode knows that #later on you get this subtle but insidious tone shift #where his escape attempts sometimes feel set up as something we’re supposed to root against #the young and the restless for example #but this? 💖

[thegirlonpeetamellark]

Christmas Break - Part 1

Surprise!! After a looong time away Court returns to Everlark fic world with a little holiday treat for everyone  - enjoy! :)

Hi everyone. So 2020 has sucked. For me, the beginning of quarantine was actually a bit of a gift. Being home gave me the gift of time, something I haven’t had much of as my daughters (who were very little when I started writing in this fandom) have gotten older. While I never stopped writing, it was a struggle to find long enough chunks of time to get into a flow. I started writing again with earnest. Not all of it was my fanfiction; some of it was my original work. El keeps me posted on the humbling and kind asks she gets about my writing. I felt bad that despite my increased writing, I still wasn’t ready to update any WIPs. But I did remember a story I had started for the final holiday PiP that I was never able to get past the first page (due to lack of time that year) and to my surprise, it started flowing. I had every intention of finishing it and having El post it as a gift to this fandom. But once my school went “back” in October and hybrid learning started, that was it. My time was gone. And further, my family experienced the very sudden and non-Covid-related death of my aunt. So while I have nearly half of this story written, it’s not done. But it will be, very soon, since it is a one-shot. As with all my stories, it took on a life of its own and it needs more love. So what I have for the readers who have loyally followed me is the first part, the part that involves Christmas. It’s my hope to have a second part posted in a week or two, so that by the time that part posts, a final part is nearly done. 

Thank you for your asks and your patience, and thank you to El, one of my favorite people in this world and the best thing my time in this fandom has given me. Thank you for your encouragement. Our friendship means the world to me. 

Here’s to a better 2021. Love to you all. Court

Christmas Break

Fuck, not again, Peeta grouses as the opening notes of that insidious Mariah Carey song pipe through the loudspeaker. That’s the third time in the last two hours. He’s all for holiday spirit, but if he never hears this fucking song again it will be too soon.

Leaning his forehead against the cold pane of glass, he peers out of the fourth-story window into the darkened sky. When he had arrived at work a few hours ago, the snow had just been starting to fall; a slow, lazy tumble of flakes. Now it’s coming down in a tumultuous swirl. It figures Panem would finally see a white Christmas his first Christmas Eve on rotation in the emergency room. No doubt the weather is partially to blame for the crush of bodies crowding the waiting room tonight. 

Peeta walks away from the window and opens the cabinet where he stashes his Clif bars. The economy-sized box looks suspiciously closer to empty than it did the other day. He’s heard complaints from other doctors and nurses that snacks are pilfered on a regular basis and was warned to label his own boxes. But he had forgone the warnings. If someone needed an energy bar badly enough to steal one, what was the $20 he had spent on them at Costco. He snags one and unwraps it. 

He’s just raised it to his mouth when his Apple watch pings and his silenced cell phone pulses insistently against his thigh. Heaving a loud sigh, he sets down the energy bar and withdraws the phone from his pocket. 

“Mom, you’ve got exactly 60 seconds,” he grits out. He doesn’t even need to look at the screen to confirm it’s her. She’s called twice already tonight, calls he’s ignored with good reason, but somehow his mother thinks a phone call from her trumps any actual emergencies her doctor son could be dealing with. Which, tonight, have been nonstop since his shift began at six. 

“Please tell me you ate something,” she begins. 

“I was just about to, when you called,” he replies. “I’ve only got a couple of minutes. It’s been utter chaos for the last four hours.” 

“We missed you at dinner. I can’t remember the last Christmas Eve when I didn’t have all three of my boys together.” Peeta closes his eyes. All these years my mother has been gushing about having a doctor in the family, and yet she never stopped to consider the ramifications of actually having a doctor in the family, he thinks. Particularly its impact on holiday gatherings. She obviously hadn’t learned anything from this past Thanksgiving, as now, just a month later, she’s already dumping a fresh guilt trip on him for missing another family dinner.

She continues, “And Jackson and Maxwell were just devastated when they heard you weren’t coming, until I assured them they’d see you tomorrow. We will see you tomorrow, yes?” 

Peeta suppresses another exasperated sigh and breaks off a chunk of the Clif bar. “Yes, Mom, I’ll be there.” And though it’s childish, he crams the bar into his mouth and mumbles around it, “I wouldn’t miss it for anything.” His chewing masks the sarcasm that weighs down the words. 

“Excellent. We need an updated family portrait before Everly and Rye have to leave for her parents’ house.” Placated, his mother moves to ends the call, but not before getting in a less-than-subtle comment about how much she adores his brother Rye’s fiancée and how happy she is Rye is settling down. 

Staring at the disconnected call flashing on the screen, Peeta tries not to let the remark get to him. Mostly because he knows it’s a lie. His mother has complained more than once about Everly and how she’s not good enough for Rye. Peeta knows the dig was directed at him. He hasn’t truly had a serious girlfriend since junior year of college; just a few casual relationships that barely qualified as relationships. He doesn’t know how his mother expects him to meet someone with the hours he keeps. And his father, for as close as they are, never seems willing to jump to Peeta’s defense. 

Taking a deep breath to let his irritation suffuse, he jams his phone back in his pocket and scarfs down the rest of his pathetic dinner. All three bites of it. Then he uses the restroom, dutifully washes his hand, and stalks out of the staff lounge, his short break over.

As he strides up the corridor, he hears loud shouting coming from the ER waiting room. 

“…should be asleep in her bed, waiting for Santa Claus to come, but instead, we’re still here waiting for someone to take a look at her arm! It’s been over two hours! Don’t you people have any compassion? Or is Ebenezer Freaking Scrooge running this place tonight?”

Curious, Peeta veers towards the reception desk, where his eyes land on the ranting woman. She’s young, probably no older than her mid-twenties, and in spite of the fact that her dark hair is spilling out of a messy braid and she’s not wearing any makeup, Peeta is immediately struck by her beauty. The rosy flush to her cheeks from her tirade actually makes her even prettier. She’s cradling a toddler and protectively shielding the little girl’s right arm. The toddler’s blonde head rests on her mother’s shoulder, her thumb wedged into her tiny pink mouth. Her left arm clutches a stuffed orange cat. She looks tired. Actually, both mother and daughter do. 

“Miss, I understand your frustration, I really do,” the receptionist says calmly, her eyes cutting to Peeta as he stops by her side. He reads the name on the file on top of the stack, the next patient scheduled to be seen: MCMURPHY, JOSEPH. Clearly not the little girl in front of him. 

“I don’t think you do!” the young mother cries, her eyes flashing steel. “She’s three, she’s in pain, and she’s scared. And what’s more, I’ve seen at least five people go ahead of us who came in after us!” 

“That’s not how the emergency room works, miss,” the receptionist replies. She drums her fingertips on the desk, offering the young mother a tight smile. 

“It’s Christmas Eve,” the young mother adds, an edge of desperation creeping into her tone. Discreetly, Peeta moves around the receptionist’s chair, scanning the desktop until he spies the stack of files for the patients awaiting admission. While the receptionist continues to give the young mother the run-around, he thumbs through the stack, searching. His eyes land on what he’s looking for: a date of birth. His lips tip up. Bingo. This has to be it: HAWTHORNE, IVY ANN. 

At the exact second his hand snatches Ivy’s file from the pile and slips the other one in amongst the stack, the young mother’s eyes lock on his. Her gaze narrows. He can see the exhaustion all over her beautiful face. Her full lips twitch, her countenance suspicious as they stare at one another. 

“Ivy Hawthorne?” Peeta taps the file he had extricated. An immediate flicker of relief lights the young mother’s mercury eyes, and that lush mouth breaks into a grateful, relieved smile. The receptionist’s neck snaps up. “I’ve got this,” he adds, his tone leaving no room for her to argue with him. It’s not protocol for Peeta to take a patient directly, but it’s also not blatantly against the rules. Sure, it might mean a little more work for him, but if it means he can get this little girl home sooner on Christmas Eve, it’s worth it.

He smiles at the little girl. “Ivy, I’m Doctor Mellark. I’m going to help make you feel better, okay?” She nods once but doesn’t lift her head from her mother’s shoulder. Peeta’s arm sweeps to the side, ushering the young mother and Ivy past the desk. He scans the hallway and spies a partially drawn curtain halfway up the corridor. He leads them to the available partition and close the curtain behind them. As he turns to face them, he nearly slams into the woman. She hasn’t moved, and her luminous grey eyes fasten to his. She looks as if she’s going to say something, but several seconds pass and she’s still quiet, still watching him. The silence starts to become uncomfortable. Peeta clears his throat.  

“If you’d have a seat, please, Mrs. Hawthorne. You can hold her while I get some more information from you.” 

The young woman’s lips part slightly, again appearing as if she wants to say something, but instead she shuffles forward and Peeta waits while she settles on the edge of the hospital bed, gingerly adjusting Ivy so she’s sitting sideways across her mother’s lap. 

Peeta sinks down onto the stool and scoots towards the edge of the bed. This close he has a much better look at Ivy’s mother. She really is a beautiful young woman, and given how adorable Ivy is Peeta assumes her husband is probably also very attractive. He feels a twinge of jealousy. Lucky bastard. Pretty wife, cute kid…probably has a nice little house and a golden retriever too. Living the dream. His dream, if he allows himself to admit it to anyone but his mother. If he was being perfectly honest, he had always envisioned himself married by now. 

“How old are you, Ivy?” he ask, even though he knows from her chart and her mother’s declaration that she’s three years old. She hesitates, and still clutching the stuffed cat, manages to display three fingers. Peeta smiles at her again.

“I have a nephew who is the exact same age as you are. He told me just last week that he’s a big boy now. Are you a big girl, Ivy?” He keeps his tone gentle, hoping it will put her at ease with him. She nods, her big blue eyes lightening imperceptibly. “I thought so. Can you be a big girl and tell me what happened to your arm?” 

Her mother answers automatically, “She fell. I was only gone—” Peeta holds up his palm. He has the triage nurse’s initial assessment, so he knows Ivy’s arm is likely broken. What he doesn’t know is how the arm got broken. And those details he needs to try to get from Ivy herself. Kids her age always tell the truth when it comes to how they were injured, and unfortunately it’s part of Peeta’s job to make sure there isn’t a more sinister reason she’s in the E.R. tonight, no matter how sweet and innocent her mother appears. He’s already had a few encounters with suspected child abuse, though his gut tells him that isn’t the case with Ivy Hawthorne.

“Please. I would like Ivy to tell me how it happened.” 

Something dangerous flints in Ivy’s mother’s now stormy grey eyes.

“She. Fell.” The words are curt, enunciated coolly, but her voice is soft and Peeta can tell she’s keeping her temper in check for the benefit of her daughter. Eyes still pinned to his, she inhales deeply. A second later, her shoulders relax. “Go ahead and tell the nice doctor how you hurt your arm,” she whispers, stroking Ivy’s curls. 

“I was trying to see Santa,” Ivy replies, her tongue tripping in a lisp on the “S’s.” 

“What do you mean by that?” he prompts her. 

Ivy scrunches up her button nose. “I was trying to see up the chimney. ‘Cause the chimney at Aunt Katniss’s house is so skinny and Santa Claus is real fat and I don’t know how he’s gonna fit down it to bring me my presents!” Her blue eyes brim with tears and her lower lip starts to tremble. Peeta reaches over and pats her knee. 

“I wouldn’t worry about that, sweetheart. Santa Claus is magic. He’ll get you your presents, no matter what the chimney looks like.” He exchanges a look with her mother. 

“It was all my fault,” she says quietly. “I went in the kitchen, to get the cookies and milk—”

“And the carrots! For Rudolph and the other reindeer!” Ivy chimes in, her eyes shiny wet. 

“I never should have left her alone, not even for a second. This is my fault. It’s my fault. She wouldn’t have slipped and fallen off the hearth if I had been watching her.” Guilt chokes her words, and it sounds as if she’s close to tears. 

“Accidents happen, Mrs. Hawthorne,” Peeta says empathetically, “that’s why there are emergency rooms.” She presses her lips together, her brows knitting.  

“It’s Everdeen,” she says quietly. Peeta drops his eyes to Ivy’s chart, and furrows his brows, his gaze wandering to the young woman’s left hand. No ring. A brief thrill curls through him at the thought that she’s single. Asshole, he immediately chides himself. So not what you should be thinking about right now. He scans the chart more carefully and shakes his head.

“I’m sorry,” he begins, “but this lists Primrose Hawthorne as the mother, under the Parent/Guardian information, and a Rory Hawthorne as the father. I just assumed—”

She cuts him off. “Primrose Hawthorne was her mother. But I’m not Primrose Hawthorne. I’m Katniss. Katniss Everdeen. I’m her aunt. I should be listed as her primary emergency contact.” She swallows and squeezes her eyes shut briefly. When she opens them, they plead with his. Peeta glances down at Ivy, and then raises his eyes to Katniss again. The guilt that was clouding those silver irises a moment ago has dissipated, replaced with anguish. He doesn’t know what the full story is here, but he didn’t miss Katniss’s usage of the past tense in referring to Ivy’s mother. So he honors her silent appeal not to ask questions.

“Okay, Ivy, you fell, and you landed on your arm? I bet that hurt,” Peeta says to the little girl, but his gaze stays fastens on Katniss. She gives him the faintest smile and mouths, “Thank you.”

~*~*~*~

An hour later, the orthopedist informs Peeta that Ivy Hawthorne is ready for his approval to be discharged. Not wanting to keep her and her aunt waiting any later than necessary, he sets down the X-ray he had been studying, and heads back to where Ivy is. 

Standing outside the curtain, he hears quiet singing. He draws back the curtain and sees Katniss seated on the bed, with Ivy nestled in her lap. A bright pink cast safely cocoons the girl’s arm. Her blonde head rests on Katniss’s shoulder. Her eyes are closed, and her little body rises and falls with the deep breathing of sleep. 

Katniss continues to sing, unaware of Peeta’s presence. He doesn’t recognize the tune she’s singing. It’s not a Christmas carol, at least not one he’s ever heard before, but he continues to listen, captivated by her voice. It’s soft and decidedly feminine, but there’s raspy undercurrent to it that gives him chills. It’s like the first sip of a rich, smoky bourbon.

Gingerly, he tiptoes towards the bed and stands before her for several more minutes, until Katniss finally lifts her eyes. She immediately stops singing. Peeta smiles and nods towards Ivy.

“Someone is worn out,” he whispers. Katniss’s lips twitch into a chagrinned smile. 

“I’m sure the second we get home she’ll be wide awake and it’ll take forever to get her into bed. She was already amped up about Santa Claus before this.” She tips her head and gestures with her chin towards Ivy’s arm. 

“Warm milk. With a little bit of cinnamon,” he suggests. 

“Really?” Her eyes round. “Cinnamon? That really works?” Disbelief clouds her words. He shrugs sheepishly.

“I have no idea. No kids. And I’ve never had much trouble sleeping. I’m usually asleep the minute my head hits the pillow. But I’ve heard from a friend with a toddler that it does the trick.” He waits for her to say something—anything—in response, but she doesn’t. Her gaze is back on the sleeping toddler in her arms. 

Watching her stare tenderly at her niece causes something unexpected to claw at Peeta’s chest and he’s overwhelmed by a fierce compulsion to want to keep her here, to get to know more about her. It’s been a long time since he felt this kind of instant attraction to a woman. Why couldn’t he have met her under different circumstances? 

“Are we all done, doctor?” 

Peeta startles from his thoughts and offers Katniss an apologetic smile.

“Yes, sorry. You are good to go as soon as you sign here—” He holds the clipboard at an angle, to allow her to sign without having to disturb Ivy, “and here.” He flips the sheet back to the second page and she scrawls her name across the line there, too. Normally a nurse would go over discharge papers and protocol with patients, but Peeta had taken it upon himself to grab Ivy’s. He needed to spend every possible minute in Katniss’s presence. 

Once the release forms are complete, he review the plan for Ivy’s follow-up care, including how to manage any pain she has and when she’ll need to return to have the cast removed. Katniss listens attentively. 

When he’s finished, she stands up slowly, her movements tentative so as not to jostle Ivy. A sigh parts the little girl’s lips and she stirs, but she remains asleep. God, she’s cute, Peeta thinks. 

“Thank you, Dr. Mellark,” Katniss says softly. “For everything. I know what you did…” She falters. “I mean, I know we, ah, weren’t next, and ah…” Peeta waves a hand dismissively, sensing her discomfort with his hijacking of the queued patients.  

“It was my pleasure,” he replies. “Little girls should be home on Christmas Eve. Waiting for Santa.” He echoes Katniss’s earlier words. “I hope he’s good to her.” 

He doesn’t miss the forlorn expression that flits across Katniss’s face as she glances down at her sleeping niece. 

“He can’t bring her what she wants most, but he’ll try,” she murmurs and moves towards the open curtain. Just before she steps out into the hall, she pauses and turns to face Peeta.

“Merry Christmas,” she adds.  

“Merry Christmas,” he concurs. With a faint smile, she steps around the curtain. It rustles in her wake and resettles. Peeta exhales and slumps against the wall, regret washing through him, followed by a stronger wave of sadness at seeing Katniss go. If it hadn’t been for Ivy, he might have concocted some kind of delay to keep Katniss here longer, found some excuse to pry more information out of her. Like if she’s single. A surge of adrenaline spikes in his blood. He can’t let her go this easily.

He bolts out into the corridor, scanning the bustling hallway for any sign of Katniss and Ivy, but they’ve vanished. Disappointed, his shoulders slump as he trudges towards the nurses’ station to hand off Ivy’s file. 

It’s probably best, a nagging little voice inside him taunts, and he reluctantly concedes that it probably is. As much as he’d love to finally shut his mother up and find a woman that he’d want to spend more than a night with, it’s not fair to subject one to the kind of schedule he has to keep. New doctors are low-man-on-the-totem-pole. He’s had mostly graveyard shifts and he’s often on call. It’s his dream to have a pediatric practice, but he’s well aware that he’ll have to toil for a couple of years to get on track to make that dream a reality. 

A few minutes later, en route to his next examination, Peeta spies Johanna, one of the triage nurses, coming out of the room Ivy had occupied. His eyes immediately narrow when his gaze lands on her left arm.

“Was that in there?” He motions towards the vacated room and then nods towards the stuffed cat Johanna has wedged under her armpit. 

“What, the cat? Yeah. It must have fallen under the bed. I’ll take it to the station, in case someone comes back to claim it.” 

Ivy’s cherubic little face flashes in Peeta’s mind. He remember how fiercely she had been clutching that cat, and how she had reluctantly agreed to put it down when it had been time for Delly, another one of the triage nurses, to take her for X-rays. 

Peeta’s pulse quickens and he immediately thrusts his hand towards Johanna. “I’ll take it,” he says impulsively. She wrinkles her nose and cocks her head, her hazel eyes intensely scrutinizing him. Though they have a casual friendship, Johanna is far too insightful for her own good. Peeta doesn’t really need her questioning his motives for taking possession of the toy. 

“The little girl it belongs to goes to preschool with Max. I’ll make sure he takes it to her after the holiday break.” Fuck, that lie flew off his tongue so easily he almost believes it himself. Johanna shrugs and tosses Peeta the cat. 

“Suit yourself. One less thing to overflow the Lost and Found.” She strides past him and disappears into Triage 6. He stares down at the stuffed animal. His heart skips another beat and a slow smile tugs at his mouth. 

~*~*~*~

Stifling another yawn, Peeta squints at the numbers above the garage. He’s definitely in the right place. He kills the engine and sits for a moment, glancing at the clock on the navigation system. It’s quarter after nine. Early, but not obscenely so. When his shift had ended at six am, he had driven home and fought the urge to crawl into bed; instead, he grabbed a quick shower and freshened up. True, part of him hadn’t wanted to see Katniss Everdeen again looking like the bedraggled, exhausted mess he was at the end of a rotation, and also true, he was going to have to clean up before he’s due at his parents’ house at one. But he also knew he couldn’t really have shown up at Katniss’s house at the crack of dawn on Christmas morning, even if he suspects Ivy likely had her up by then. He recalls, with a wistful smile, that Christmas morning was the one morning he and his brothers were always awake before his father. It was only a question of which Mellark brother was going to be the first to rouse the others. Him being the youngest, it was usually him, he admits with a wider grin.

He quietly exits his car, careful not to slam the door, and gingerly steps across the icy driveway. He pauses at the un-shoveled front walk, where a pristine blanket of snow blocks his path. “Shit,” he whispers, gritting his teeth as he takes the first step. His foot plunges into the deep drift, up to nearly his calf. He braces himself and takes a huge step, hoping to eat up the distance in a few long strides. Fortunately, it’s not a long front walk. He reaches the also un-shoveled front steps and carefully ascends them. He contemplates ringing the doorbell, but instead raps his knuckles against the door. His breath pipes out in white plumes and he rubs his palms together for warmth as he waits. 

No one comes to the door, at least not immediately. Peeta lifts his fist again, but just before his knuckles can connect with the wood again, the front door opens a crack and he’s suddenly looking at Katniss. Those silver eyes round almost comically as recognition lights them. 

“D-Doctor Mellark? Wh-what are you….”  

“Hi. Merry Christmas,” he begins. “I thought Ivy would be missing this.” He smiles and holds up the stuffed cat. 

Katniss stares at him, her lips parting faintly, and shock and confusion war on her pretty face. But then her grey eyes darken with what Peeta can only describe as restrained fury. 

She opens the door fully and glares at him.  

“You had Ivy’s cat?” she accuses. 

“Uh…yeah…” he stammers, his own confusion welling. Why is she so angry? “My nephew…he has a bear. Otis. Can’t sleep without that thing. I thought if Ivy is anything like Max…well, she’d be missing this.” He holds the cat out to Katniss. She snatches it so violently that she stumbles backwards. Peeta is equally jarred, but his jolt is from the very brief brush of Katniss’s fingers against his when she had grabbed the toy. 

But Katniss gives him no time to revel in the feeling.

“So this is why no one at the hospital had a goddamned clue what I was talking about when I called there looking for this cat an hour ago!” she spits. 

Shit, Peeta thinks, an uneasy feeling clawing its way into his gut. 

“Why the fuck—” He can’t help but notice her slight hesitation before she lobs the obscenity at him. “—would you take my niece’s cat? Is this something normal people do?” She’s shivering visibly as she rants, a clear consequence of stepping onto her front porch wearing nothing but green plaid pajama pants and a threadbare black Henley shirt.

“I….I…” He shakes his head. He’s not even sure how to defend his actions. He can’t very well tell her his ulterior motives in bringing the stuffed cat back to her niece. Not now. He definitely fucked this up.

“I was just trying to be nice. That I’d save you a trip on Christmas morning,” he finishes lamely. 

Katniss’s nostrils flare and her jaw flexes. “Christmas morning,” she mutters, just barely audible over the clattering of her teeth. “Did it occur to you, Dr. Mellark, that I might be looking for Ivy’s cat and I might call the hospital looking for this cat?” She shakes the toy in his face. “And did it occur to you that, in spite of all the toys she had just opened, Ivy might be bawling and throwing a fit because Buttercup was missing?”

Buttercup, he has to assume, is the stuffed cat.

She pauses, as if waiting for him to defend himself, but all he can do is swallow against the lump crowding his throat.

So she continues, “They made me think I was crazy—but not until after they left me on hold for 20 minutes while I tried to calm a wailing toddler. And then they said there was no toy matching this description in the Lost and Found. And that’s because you had it!” Her eyes are a maelstrom now, but he notices that an edge of frustration has crept into her furious tone. 

“And now Ivy doesn’t have it. So thank you. Thank you very much, Dr. Mellark. Merry Christmas.” And before Peeta can release the breath he’s been holding during her outburst and plead his case, she whirls around, her disheveled braid lancing through the air like a whip, and slams the door behind her. Stunned, Peeta can only stare at the wreath on the door as he processes what just happened.  

What. The. Fuck. 

Heart pounding, gut churning, Peeta retreats to his car. He takes a few minutes to absorb the shock of his encounter with Katniss, his mind reeling through the accusations she made. He never would have expected her to react like this. So much for any shot with Katniss Everdeen. 

He finally gathers his composure and navigates out of her complex. As he drives, his mind continues replaying Katniss’s words over and over, and he finds one thing nags at him. 

And now Ivy doesn’t have it.

Those words don’t make much sense to him. He just gave the stuffed animal back to Katniss. She can give it back to Ivy. She’ll have it now. In her wrath, Katniss just wasn’t being rational, he decides. 

But her words continue to haunt him off and on for the rest of the day. Along with persistent images of Katniss that further torment him. She is never far from his conscious thoughts. As he sits down next to the fireplace in his parents’ house with a tumbler of scotch to exchange gifts with his brothers and his nephews, he finds himself wondering who Katniss is celebrating with. Ivy, obviously. But does she have other family? 

By the time the Mellarks all settle around the table for dinner, he’s conjured up the notion that Katniss may not be married, but she surely has a devoted boyfriend who is showering her with gifts at this very moment. Her mood is infinitely better than what Peeta witnessed earlier. She’s probably dressed nice for him, and he’s sitting around her dining room table with Katniss and Ivy, like a makeshift family.

His mother’s irritation is palpable when she has to command his attention twice to try and draw him into the discussion centered on Rye’s upcoming wedding. Peeta murmurs the apology he knows she expects and feigns his dutiful brotherly interest for Rye’s benefit the remainder of the meal. But a dull ache has taken up residence in the center of his chest and he realizes just how badly he wants what his brothers have. 

He just won’t be having it with Katniss Everdeen.

#everlark #the hunger games #everlark fanfiction #court81981

[thanidiel]

Change

[This is a late story I meant to post around Christmas of 2020. You may want to go back and read Disparu which chronologically occurred after this for some context on light choices of prose.]

"Do I live in the other world, then? Dare I say that?" - Franz Kakfa

How many times can you shake a snow globe before it gets fucking boring?

She’ll let you know as soon as she derives that answer.

At this point, she’s lost exact count of how many times the porcelain flakes have been thrust up and swirled about. But Xiaohu started at around two bells into the day, and she’s shook it up about every eight seconds so far. And that can be calculated once, whenever, she calls it.

She’s thinking and she’s not thinking. There’s something there being breached, and identified, and sorted. But she’d be kidding herself if she tried to say there’s her usual analysis, her unabating tactile sort of digestion of whatever she set her mind to. It’s coming a little more like something parasympathetic, behind the stage curtains. Reminding her it’s there; this growl emitting from her internal wilderness.

In the meantime, the ‘fore’ of her mind is distracting herself on how Lord Silmontaix’s ‘sprites’ managed to get her visage right down to the lines of black tattoowork wisping out from around her collarbones. At least Breandan and Silvestre were left no less probed - because she could definitely work out the very subtle shift of tone across Minidan’s cheeks of his own markings, and, somehow, Minivestre’s pose and little dotted eyes eerily conveys his ponderous nature.

The fact that she’s missed this sort of scrutiny either proposes she’s starting to lose her touch, or that Aramis has a lot more magic going on than she’s willing to really think about right now. Not that she’s willing to think about the former having a grain of truth to it, either.

She has more interesting things to preoccupy herself with.

Like…shaking up her Drachenglobe again.

What’s inside it, anyway?

Besides the porcelain they used for the snow, she picked that up in a snap. Only had to look at it there, at the party, before she was reminded of those little surprises amidst instances of shattered dishes. Pale flecks through pools of spilled over tea, or rust-coloured debris that slid out from her skin as easily as they had incised into their beds.

The liquid had to be something strange, some byproduct of the manufactory if she was going to hazard a guess. It didn’t have the viscosity of water, the behaviour of water. Xiaohu knew that instinctively, any being would. She’d have to ask Avenai later to brainstorm, even if the Garlean likely had just as little experience with something as… frivolous as this.

(Shake).

It makes snow feel so whimsical. Such an odd association that she understands so easily, but yet wants to dispute. Snow is never whimsical. It just isn’t. What a load of fucking bullshit, really.

The snow she had to duck her face from whenever it’s been time to drop in and make a presence in Ishgard is bullshit. The snow that always taunted her through windows and powdering the courtyard in Kugane is bullshit. The snow that she remembers, oh-so long ago, that swallowed everything and that she tries to not think too hard on — else the vividness of yellow earth, and dust, and rock, from her childhood would be overwhelmed by white noise — is particularly bullshit.

Snow is bullshit.

Fuck snow.

Fucking bullshit.

But, then, most of everything chalks up to bullshit.

People are pretty bullshit too.

And she’s a part of that bullshit, too.

But that’s just part of the product. And it’s a fault of the consumer if they don’t register how much bullshit they’re buying into, or fail to realise they signed up for more than their tolerance went.

Crystal-cut situation, here.

But it bothers her anyway like she’s trying to search for an answer that isn’t there. Because you are trying to search for an answer that isn’t there.

(Shake)!

Who are you?

Animal; shapeshifter. Xiao Hu; Bian Lian.

What proper name is there to give you? You, who sheds past lives in one living vessel? What designation passes to you in lieu of Mandate?

Apparently that everyone’s giving a lot more credit than there is.

Do you accept?

Sure. (Shake). No. (Shake). Maybe. (Shake).

Look, here’s the rundown: maybe she’s done some nice fucking things. Maybe she says nice things. Maybe she believes some nice things. Maybe other people believe the same about her. Does that really make her a nice person?

Well, that’s the bit that’s not fitting right between your teeth, isn’t it?

Damned straight.

When did any of this matter? What makes a person?

Not the body, not the actions, not the perceptions; a soul.

Just a soul.

Has your soul changed?

We’ll also chalk that up as a ‘maybe.’

(Shake).

…actually? No. Fuck no, it hasn’t. Nothing’s changed.

That’s the fucking problem, right there.

Nothing’s changed.

You want it to.

Yeah, maybe she does.

Maybe the difference this time is that she has a personal stake now on whatever people want to say about her. And maybe it is a fucking downer sometimes to pull off the perfect heist. Maybe it fucking sucks to be held unaccountable.

That’s it?

Yeah — that’s it.

You could hold yourself accountable.

Next part to the philosophical dilemma going on here: she doesn’t even know how much she is accountable for. How would she even start to trace that sort of thing? Where’s the legal framework that works out the ownership of a sin throughout its hands? But then, it’s not just ‘one’ anyway isn’t it?

It was a life; it was culture; it was drowning; it was more than just one moment; it was a life.

(Shake).

Does a soul inherit the transgressions that pass through it in worldly current?

The body, when it blooms under the moonlight, is it, itself, responsible for allowing something so insidious to feed it?

You don’t have answers.

What fucking answer is there?

(Shake).

What do you think?

That to place evils on the shoulders of the originator and nothing more is a crock of shit. Immature, irresponsible. That it shifts away the fact that wrongness in the world exists in nine parts obedience, one part authority. It wasn’t just Manami.

It wasn’t just Manami.

But even if she wanted to, she doesn’t know how to blame the right person, people, anyway - and not for lack of fucking trying. She doesn’t know. Every time she tries, it just doesn’t work. It writhes like letters that do not wish to be read; thoughts that do not wish to be comprehensible. These facts that should mean something.

But they just fucking don’t.

(Shake).

What she thinks is not the same as what she feels.

What she feels is that her soul doesn’t remember anyone’s face but Manami’s. Because everyone else became Manami to her in those years. Manami, Manami, Manami.

Manami Chinatsu.

Three steps down the palate (three shakes down the clock).

Chi-na-tsu.

To swish out, on three, from between her teeth.

She wanted it all to be Manami’s fault.

She wanted everything to be like how it was at the beginning.

Manami; lotusbloom; whitewall; bloodpaint; moonsway; sinsoul; Manami.

Just Manami.

(Shake)!

But you lived through it too.

She survived.

Did you?

She was a child.

Were you?

She had no choice of her own.

You made them anyway.

It was wrong.

One part authority…

…nine parts obedience.

…(shake)…

Clinched.

She hung him.

Snuffed.

She smothered that one too.

Permitted.

She never even tried to do anything else but…

…what they taught you.

…what they taught her.

(Shake).

You are guilty.

Go fuck yourself.

That is what you wanted to hear.

Yes.         ...no.                    …                           ...yeah.

Maybe— no?

Go fuck yourself.

What you want, then, is—

Impossible. Stupid. Whatever.

She doesn’t want to be accountable.

Or unaccountable.

A nice person? An awful person?

She doesn’t want any of it.

That’s i—

How about you just shut the fuck up?

(Shake)!

Like, seriously.

(Shake)!!

Just go fuck yourself.

(Shake)!!!

She doesn’t want it.

She never wanted it.

She shouldn’t have to feel this way.

She shouldn’t fucking have to.

She shouldn’t fucking have to.

She should be innocent.

She should be innocent, and she shouldn’t be thinking about this.

It doesn’t matter what anyone can say.

Nothing has changed.

(Shake).

The answer comes out to a clean one-thousand-five-hundred-sixty, give or take a bit.

By the way, if you were curious.

#writing #xiaohu #silvestre #breandan #aramis #avenai

[keeroo92]

Be My Nightmare Ch9

Freedom

Warnings for murder, gore and mutilation.

Word count - 3,487

~~~~Previous Chapter~~~~

________

---V---

Pine needles and loamy earth muffled his hurried steps. Quiet huffs slipped through his parted lips and metal warmed under his fingers as he kept the cuffs still. Somewhere not far behind him, shouts of alarm rang through the trees as staff members hunted him down like cattle.

But he was no one’s prey.

He was the predator.

They used an insipid grid pattern to search; it was child’s play to navigate around their movements. Honestly, how did they expect to find anything when they traipsed about so noisily? Even an imbecile would hear them coming.

It took him less than five minutes to get into position, crouched on a low hanging branch directly in line with the grid. Kelly’s death was a mere appetizer; it was time for the main course. He licked his lips and shifted his weight, eyeing his target as it approached without a clue.

“Section seventeen, clear,” the orderly said, holding a small walkie-talkie to his lips. Not standard issue; it was wise to wait.

Three… two… one… now!

The artist dropped onto the unsuspecting fool, the chain of his handcuffs serving as an excellent tool to crush the man’s trachea. He braced his legs on the man’s spine, using all his body weight to force the chain ever deeper, just to be sure. He couldn’t afford any mistakes.

Wet gurgles accompanied his victim’s pathetic clawing, vessels in his eyes popping as his face twisted into a lovely new arrangement of despair. V hummed happily and brought his lips to the dying man’s ear, shivering in delight as he chose the last sentence the man would ever hear.

“You should’ve stayed home today.”

A final gasp and the man went limp, falling forward into the dirt and leaves. A sadly bloodless death, but to be so up close, to feel the final heartbeat… there was no feeling like it.

The artist had total control in those moments.

How much things had changed in the time since school. The man he’d been never would have made it this far. He knew that beyond a shadow of a doubt. Ignorant and unaware, easily caught off guard and unable to respond quickly in a crisis. That man would’ve gotten himself killed months ago.

This ain’t the time, Van Gogh. Keep moving.

Griffon was right, he couldn’t tarry. No more distractions, not until he was out of their reach. He made quick work of the man’s pockets, taking the walkie talkie and a protein bar. No key, unfortunately, though that would’ve been far too easy.

The artist narrowed his eyes and chose a direction, darting in a mostly straight line through the trunks and foliage. If he went in the same direction long enough, he was bound to find civilization. Instead, he found the stone wall he glimpsed mere minutes before. Heavy blocks of unknown origin stacked in uneven patterns, pleasing to the eye but not to the touch. His hands slid right off.

“Damnit…”

A subtle roar and soft clatter of crystal echoed from his left. The brush of warm fur under his hands, prowling pawsteps as Shadow came to his aid. Her glowing eyes met his and her tail flicked across his face, her massive claws gouging a path for his hands in the accursed wall.

“Perfect timing,” he murmured, fingers already caressing the fresh crevasse left behind. Much better, plenty of friction now.

A few moments of clumsy scrabbling later and he crouched atop the stones. This was it. Freedom. No more restraints, no more Kevin. No more medication or group therapy sessions where he had to pretend to care about his fellows.

No more Y/N.

The thought gave him unexpected pause. While he planned to return and have his vengeance, there was no guarantee you would still be there when he did so. He may never see you again if he left. It ached, to imagine a life spent alone.

It doesn’t matter – you need to move!

Yet his legs refused to move. What a tragedy, for you to remain blind to all he had to offer. Perhaps he should’ve waited before spurring Ken into action, taken more time to show you his world. You showed so much promise…

A pulse of mind-numbing pain rippled across his flesh. His body was fire, his nerves magma and his blood, acid. The artist doubled over and clutched at his belly but it was too much. Saliva flooded his mouth as his stomach spasmed and reacquainted him with his most recent meal. If it weren’t for the vomit, he surely would’ve screamed and gotten himself caught.

“Move. Now.”

The agony faded and he wiped his mouth, searching for the source of the insidious voice. Jade eyes widened as he spotted gnarled feet encased in what might be armor, but the texture wasn’t quite right. It couldn’t be flesh, not in that blueish-black tone.

Ropes of muscle and sinew extended upward, outlandish hooks and spikes here and there. And, was that an eye?

The legs moved, stepping closer. Indeed, it was an eye. One of many blinking from the creature’s form in a hideous shade of orange. He’d never seen such a grotesque being, not even in his nightmares.

“Ur… Urizen?” he stuttered.

A clawed hand reached out to him, lifting his chin to meet the creature’s gaze. It’s eyes glowed with malevolent light and the artist shivered, suddenly glad the being was connected to him. As long as Urizen needed him, he was safe from his true cruelty.

“Indeed. Do as I command and I can end your suffering.”

An echo of his earlier agony twinged his mind, just enough to drive the point home. A feather’s caress in comparison yet still enough to force his eyes closed and drag a hiss from his throat.

When he opened his lids, Urizen was gone. He took one last look at the facility and turned away. Yes, it was regrettable that he had to leave you behind, but now wasn’t the time to dwell on that. His conflicted emotions weren’t the focus right now, only his continued movement.

Descending the other side proved far easier than climbing. More trees greeted him, soft grass and pine needles muffling his steps as he jogged away. All he had to do now was put some distance between himself and the facility, and then he’d need to figure out a hiding place. Perhaps a change in attire, and he certainly wasn’t going to leave his hands cuffed forever.

Hours passed in silence as he trekked ever onward. Even his friends remained silent. The stillness soothed him, he rarely had the pleasure of plotting in solitude.

At long last, with the tree’s shadows reaching for him as the sun set, he found it. A road, thankfully empty. If he were spotted now, with hands still cuffed and wearing the standard issue white linens of the facility, he’d end up right back in that accursed room.

Following the asphalt brought him to the edges of a city before the stars were fully visible. Perfect timing, he wouldn’t need to worry as much about passerby if everyone was safely indoors.

Safely…

The artist smirked. Now that he roamed the streets, none were truly safe. They’d learn to fear the night and dread the shadows. But first things first.

He ducked into a trash-strewn alley and slammed the walkie-talkie against the bricks, cracking the casing open to expose the circuitry and wiring. Several options confronted his gaze, but he settled for a pair of copper wires and got to work.

Within moments, he regained the ability to stretch his arms in any direction he liked, and he didn’t waste a second in doing so. One should never neglect the simple pleasures.

“C’mere, baby. This’ll work just fine,” said a man’s voice.

V crouched behind a dumpster instantly. A feminine giggle followed the voice, loud and careless footsteps growing closer. Poor lost souls, how unfortunate for them that they chose this alley on this night, when a predator lurked.

More giggles, the soft thud of a body pressed on stone. Rustling cloth and a quiet whimper of need.

Not yet… a moment more.

The artist shifted his weight and rolled his eyes. If they could just get on with it… How inconsiderate of them to take so long to lose themselves in pleasure.

“Ah! James, please!”

The woman sounded as impatient as he felt. What did they look like? His size, or would he need to find others? Better to be sure. Keeping to the shadows, he peeked around the metal that concealed him.

Perfect!

The man faced away, pinning the girl against the bricks and out of view. He looked to be slightly shorter than he, but with a similar build. Cropped hair did nothing to hide his gauged ears and tattooed neck, currently being assaulted by the young woman’s mouth. Her small hands pawed at the man’s leather jacket, pausing only to stroke the bulge between his legs. Muttered curses accompanied her efforts and even in the darkness, his reactive thrusts were obvious.

The two lacked any class whatsoever.

V watched in silence as the two exposed one another’s skin to the pale moonlight. He caught glimpses of the girl’s body, her milky skin and the delightful roundness of her chest. The man at least had good taste, physically speaking. Heat coiled in his gut, his cock a growing stiffness he refused to indulge until the work was done.

The moment he heard them gasp in unison, he made his move. With silent steps he crept behind the man and looped the chain of his cuffs around his neck. He would have preferred a knife, but desperate times…

“What the f-“

A sharp tug and all that remained was a corpse. The girl screamed, yet she was too foolish or terrified to run as her companion fell to the filthy ground. Without his body in the way, her full figure gleamed as if on display just for him. Truly, the universe was kind to provide him all he desired.

“Oh fuck! Oh, shit fuck what the fuck?!” she cried, utterly incoherent. No matter.

He slapped her, his eyes threatening endless horrors if she didn’t silence herself. With his other hand, he brought her shaking fingers to press against his cock, forcing her to stroke him and ease the ache even a fraction. Slowly, her curses and shouts turned to sobs and he smirked. Good enough.

Now, how best to use her? It’d been so long since he had such creative freedom. Perhaps… oh, how perfect.

A small clip held something inside the man’s pocket. The artist hummed and tugged it loose, chuckling as he flicked open the small blade. Could this night get any better? He doubted it.

“On your knees, girl. Right over there,” he ordered, a wicked grin twisting his lips as she obeyed.

He had to admit, she was quite beautiful, yet he would make her even more so. Without his tools, this would be far from his best work, but he’d make do. Images and ideas flowed though his mind and his heart raced in anticipation.

The girl squeaked as he joined her, towering over her huddled body. Silver glinted in his teeth where he held the knife, freeing his hands to explore her quivering body. He traced every curve and valley, planning his desecration. Stomach, thighs, ass, hips, all his to decorate however he pleased.

His fingers crept higher, tracing the roundness of her chest. A soft whimper slipped through her lips and he pinched, hard enough to bruise. Distractions would not be tolerated. She was his canvas; she should be thanking him for all she would become.

“P- please! Let me go!”

Forgetting the blade between his teeth, the artist clicked his tongue and winced as copper flooded his mouth. He took the blade in hand and dipped his other hand into his mouth. Waste not, want not.

“No,” he murmured, and then he traced the first mark on her pristine flesh using his own blood.

Her sobs intensified, broken by begging every few moments. The artist tried to focus through her mewling but the girl simply refused to be silent. He’d have to do something. An unplanned adjustment, but he could make it work.

He pried her stubborn jaws open and carved. He didn’t need to be careful, it’s not like she was going to need any of her mouth to work anyway. Blood flooded the cavity, her throat spasming as he sawed away at her tongue and anything that got in his way. Small, feminine hands scrabbled against his arm but she was far too weak, and he too strong.

Something gave way under his blade, the resistance of seconds ag gone. The girl tried to scream, but only wet gurgling resulted form her efforts. Tears and blood alike smeared her cheeks. He leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to the crown of her head before releasing her jaw, allowing her to cough up the gristle left behind.

He didn’t give her long.

---Reader---

The inexorable passage of time offered little comfort after your suspension. It still seemed like every minute lasted an hour, and every hour a week. Maddening. 

How has it only been two days?

You sighed and took another sip of coffee, settling into your now familiar spot on your couch. Nothing good was ever on cable, but you had nothing better to do. Maybe if you watched enough crappy soap operas they might start appealing to you?

Kotomi only made it worse, with her endless emails about which patient needed what, how to get them to talk to her, blah blah blah. You only gave her the answers because to refuse only tarnished your already bruised reputation. You couldn’t afford to add any more black marks to your record. Perfection was the only route forward.

At first, she tried to be friendly. She mentioned the latest gossip and asked about what you were up to with all the free time. How did she expect you to just ignore what happened? You weren’t going to pretend she hadn’t betrayed you or left you to take the fall for her failure. And she never apologized. Infuriating. 

So much for friendship. Oh well, what use was it anyway? It wasn’t like she’d ever added anything meaningful to your life. Idle chatter, a distraction and the appearance of normalcy. Things only necessary when in a group setting. The outcast always got singled out, you knew from experience. 

But here you were, cast out yet again. 

And why does it hurt so much?

You pushed the thought away and changed the channel, might as well see what was happening in the real world. Normally the news bored you to tears, but who knew? Maybe today it would provide some entertainment.

“Local police still have no suspects for the recent killings downtown. So far, four bodies have been found, two of which missing the heart. It is recommended that you stay in your home after dark until the police have made an arrest, though no official lockdown has been initiated at this time. We’ll continue to bring updates as the story develops.”

So, V was still in the area. The heart thing was new, his last killing involved a liver and intestines, a kidney if you remembered right. Why the change? What did it mean?

If only I had my notes from our sessions! I know I could figure this out!

A far-too-cheerful ding broke your morose thoughts as a new email came in. No doubt more questions from Kotomi. You sighed and stood from your perch, stretching your arms as you padded to your laptop.

Sure enough...

Hello, Dr. Waras.

I have a question regarding Jacob Miller’s treatment. Have you had any success with hypnotherapy or suggestion? I thought it may help but if it’s already been tried, there’s not much point. Thanks in advance!

Dr. Kotomi Ishida

Oh, for the love of god... didn’t she read the man’s chart? Your notes were meticulous, every treatment method you tried was thoroughly documented. What a waste of your time. 

Still.

You typed a succinct reply stating that yes, you tried that and no, it was not successful in the least. If anything, it made his symptoms worse. A quick proofread later and off it went, its destination the one place you wanted to be but weren’t allowed.

Well, surely there were other places you wouldn’t be allowed. Monuments. A private home. Crime scenes.

Another ding, what now? Couldn’t she manage for ten minutes on her own, honestly...

But the sender was unknown, the subject line blank. Spam, probably. The filter wasn’t perfect. Bracing for an ad for men’s growth pills, you clicked on the message. 

Unknown has invited you to chat! Accept/Decline

You pursed your lips and glared at the screen. This had to be a joke, and you had absolutely no patience for it. You had enough to deal with without this nonsense. 

Do I? What else have I got to pass the damned time?

With a resigned sigh, you clicked accept and waited.

You rolled your eyes. Whoever it was, they were a cocky one. A shiver of foreboding trailed down your spine as you stared at the screen. You needed to be careful; without knowing who was on the other side, how would you know what information you could trust them with?

Something about the conversation felt familiar, but you couldn’t place why. You couldn’t deny the thrill at a new puzzle, a new problem to solve, but to be careless spelled disaster. It might be someone from work, trying to see if you’d reveal private info to a friendly stranger. Hell, it could be Malphas.

It didn’t seem like the Malphas you knew, but it seemed you didn’t know him as well as you thought.

Your mind sizzled, whirring faster than it had in days as all the pieces slid into place. Of course. How hadn’t you seen it sooner? Only one person you knew of had the taste for this kind of mind game. With trembling hands you responded, lips pursed and shoulders tense.

Shit. Shit, shit, motherfucking shit. Of all the idiotic, foolish, irrational things he could’ve done, he chose this? To contact you?

Why?

He’s too smart not to know how risky it is to talk to me. What in the world would make that risk seem worth it to him?

Possibilities flooded your mind, all the standard things that motivate people. Stupid, he wasn’t like most people, you couldn’t pretend his motivations were the same as anyone else’s. 

Okay, calm down. Think. Work the problem.

In your sessions, he came to life whenever you discussed art and philosophy. He traded knowledge of his personal life to gain access to the simplest of art supplies. He was curious, intelligent and wily. Not prone to impulsive decisions or taking unnecessary risks. A planner. Not to mention he had a healthy libido, if inappropriate. 

And an impressive...

Stop that.

You rolled your shoulders and hummed, still unsure about his reasoning. Perhaps you could just ask? Perhaps his freedom would make him more open to an honest conversation.

You almost laughed. Of course being direct got you nowhere. Always with the mind games... fine, if he wanted to play, he would lose.

You paused, unsure about his meaning. It felt like you were having two different conversations, about completely unrelated topics. What cage? You weren’t living in a cage. He had to mean something else, something subtle and hidden.

The back of your chair creaked as you leaned back, letting out a deep breath as the thrill of using your mind wore off. How you missed it, solving problems and finding solutions others didn’t dare to imagine. How could Malphas do this to you? He knew your background.

And he did it anyway. Maybe he doesn’t care.

A growl of frustration rumbled through your chest and you slammed the laptop closed. Enough wallowing, this was getting you nowhere. If talking to V was the best thing to happen to you since getting suspended, something was clearly wrong. Time to take action.

---V---

Full lips twisted into a smirk as he signed off. What a delight, how fortunate he’d come across this place. Such an interesting home, full of surprises. The cat, for example. Currently it sat on his lap, purring madly as he stroked its fur. He didn’t know its name, but it probably didn’t either.

Now, on to the next task.

“I still say blonde, Van Gogh,” Griffon cawed. He was perched atop the television, his usual spot since taking up residence here.

“And I say brown, it’s the most common and least likely to be noticed,” Vergil chimed in from the massive leather couch.

A muscle in V’s jaw twitched in annoyance. He needed to go out, there was no food left and the locals needed a reminder of his truth. But first, he needed to do something to disguise himself. For a day and a half, he and his friends argued over the best choice, and he was growing impatient.

Shadow flicked her tail at the white walls, her way of casting her vote. She lounged on a plush rug, bathing in the what little sunlight leaked through the venetian blinds.

At least Urizen wasn’t adding to the chaos. He’d never get a word in edgewise.

“Blonde!”

“Brown!”

Flick, growl.

Over and over again. Perhaps he ought to just shave his head and be done with it?

“Blonde! Everybody loves a blonde!”

“Brown, it’s inconspicuous and that’s the main objective!”

Flick, growl, flick.

“Enough!” V shouted, silencing all three at once. “I’ve had it! All you do is argue, and you’ve all missed the obvious!”

Three sets of quizzical eyes stared at him, waiting for an explanation. Instead of speaking, V headed to the bathroom, his friends in tow. He wasn’t sure how they all managed to fit in the tiny room, but somehow it worked out.

Elegant fingers rifled through several drawers before finding what he searched for. He knew there had to be some, the woman had ridiculous hair. No way she didn’t have some way of managing it.

“Wait, are you really gonna cut it?” Griffon prodded.

He didn’t want to. Having his hair like this was Nero’s idea, and he had far too little left of his friend. It took a year to grow it out and another year for him to get used to having a curtain of black blocking half his vision, but he honestly liked it now.

But every picture on the news of him featured him with long hair, draped over his face. This was the simplest way to change his appearance, there could be no argument. And hair grows back, eventually.

He raised the scissors high and prepared to make the first snip.

~~~~Next Chapter~~~~

#fanfic #my writing #Be My Nightmare #dmc v #vitale #v x reader #reader insert #devil may cry #tw: gore

[eigwayne]

Door of Night (Silm time travel story)- Cut Finduilas scene

I feel a little bad that I haven’t shared any writing lately, so here’s the first draft of Finduilas arriving back in the past for the time travel Silm fic I haven’t started posting yet, The Door of Night Is Breaking. I redid Finduilas’s entrance into the past, and realized I messed up the bit about the pestilence anyways, so this scene has been cut. I think I’ve shared another version of the bit about Numenorean romance novels? and I might recycle it if I can find a spot, but the rest of this has to go.

Things to keep in mind:  -This is a time-travel story but also a romance story. It is not LACE-compliant. -I started it for NaNoWriMo so the point at the time was to get the words out, not make them any good. -Gwindor/Finduilas is a major pairing so I’m not trying to be subtle at all. -Finduilas is Gil-Galad. No one knows who the real Gil-Galad was. -The bits in square brackets [ ] were meant to be filled in later. I have not done so yet.

~*~

Gil-galad awoke to someone calling a name that shouldn’t be used. They were getting ready to assault Sauron. Who the hell was going to ruin three thousand years of carefully constructed fiction- Well, Celebrimbor had, but that was special, wonderful and regretful, and he was dead a thousand years. Gil-galad rubbed at his eyes to clear his vision, and he-

She remembered that being ‘Gil-galad’ was the fiction, a stolen name to serve the Noldor when the real name wouldn’t suffice. Finduilas couldn’t have pulled together the remnants of her people, so she cast that name aside and let them call her Scion of Kings, ward of Fingon the Valiant, Gil-Galad the High King. She had been Gil-galad for so long, Finduilas was nearly gone.

‘With Celebrimbor gone, few know the truth and fewer care to remember,’ Finduilas thought.

But then she thought of the deep, soothing voice from her dreams, and the promise she had made to walk in her old dancing slippers again. She was back to naïve Finduilas, even though she still felt like the battle-hardened King.

“Faelivrin, Finduilas, please.” Someone cradled her in their arms, and it had been so long since she had felt comforted that she wanted to weep.

“Gwindor?” she whispered. She pitched her voice low from millennia of habit, but when her vision finally cleared and she saw that beloved face, still young and fair and unscarred, Gil-galad fell away. Or maybe she threw him. Regardless, her voice was high and clear as she threw her arms around her once-betrothed. “Gwindor, I missed you, oh my sweet Gwindor!”

“I’ve been here the whole time,” he said, concern in his tone. She buried her face in his shoulder and clung to him.

“Don’t move too much,” he told her. “The healer should be here any moment.” She shifted and looked at him quizzically. “You fainted, while we were walking in the garden. I sent for a healer. So please, don’t exert yourself.”

She had never fainted before Sauron’s heat had taken her life. And here she was, less than two minutes back in her own healthy, young body, wilting like a damsel in mid-thirteenth century Numenorean novels.

/All Numenor seemed to be on a Manly Hero kick that century, with fantastic tales of delicate Princesses prone to heaving bosoms just waiting for some clod to rescue her. It was even worse than some of the poetry that was going around Nargothrond when she was young. Eventually, in the fourteenth century since the raising of Numenor, some beleaguered Edain lady started writing ‘Princess Marries Balrog Instead’ stories in response and oh, how Gil-galad had laughed even though it was horribly inappropriate. Celebrimbor and Elrond both said that was exactly why it was funny./

Still, if she had to wilt, she was glad Gwindor had caught her. ‘My heart will not waver this time,’ she told herself. ‘He is always this good and valiant and I will never stop loving him.’ She hid her face against his cloak as other thoughts came, unbidden, of handsome, doomed Turin. And a time much, much later, surrendering to other passion. Just one lover in three thousand years, but-

‘He can never know,’ she decided. She tightened her hands in his clothes. ‘He doesn’t need to know because that will never happen now. I will save him and all of Nargothrond. My heart will not waver for Turin, nor-’

“Finduilas?” Gwindor asked, worried by her silence.

“Please,” she said. “Can I stay like this, just until the healer comes?”

“You can stay like this as long as you wish,” he said, and her heart soared.

~*~

It was some time later, after the healers were gone, that she figured out when she was. Her mind carried the memories of her past, but her body carried memories of this past and some of them were different. Her early childhood was exactly the same.

[insert some of the differences here- celebrimbor visited? She heard aredhel was alive?]

But despite the differences, she could tell it was spring, and by the fall, Morgoth would break the long peace and Glaurung would ravage the North.

By this time next year, the High King would be riding in despair and rage to face Morgoth in combat.

In two years, Celegorm and Curufin be in Nargothrond, and the end of the city and of Orodreth and Gwindor and Finduilas would start racing nearer.

She looked over at Gwindor. He held her hand again, returned to her side after being shooed away by the healers. ‘I do not deserve him,’ she thought.

“I’ll be fine,” she said to him. “It’s just a bit of fatigue.”

“A bit of fatigue kept you abed most of last autumn,” he reminded her.

“I don’t think that was just fatigue. You know I was not the only one ill.” That had not happened last time. Something more insidious was at work, and that concerned her. She remembered, or her body remembered, being at Minas Tirith with her father and becoming sick a few days after a windstorm. Her lungs had been heavy and full, and it made her weak. She could feel the vestiges of it when she moved too much.

‘Will I recover?’ she thought. ‘I have, mostly, but can I become Gil-galad if I am always like this?’ The idea troubled her.

She shifted and sat up, pulling her hand from his for only the briefest moment. “Gwindor, I think the Enemy is moving. He’s sent all manner of evils after us. [name] thinks there were spores or mold on the winds, since so many of us who sickened were at Minas Tirith when that strange storm came.”

“True, but I can’t help but worry about you in particular.” Gwindor’s fingers twitched, like he wanted to touch her with the other hand- he always did like to caress her cheek and hair.

The part of her that was older and wiser said that was his way of joining with her, since they never married and their trysts had been few and much later than this point in time. It was a safe affection when he wanted more.

‘If he wants me, I will give him everything,’ she thought. She raised their joined hands up and brushed her lips against his fingers. Gwindor’s eyes widened. She hadn’t been so forward before.

“You need to rest for now,” he said. But his expression was thoughtful and hungry.

#silmarillion #wip #cut scenes #my writing

[sakumosowainthirst]

What's the shipping dynamic behind claudeleth? :3 I'm trying to study their characters

Sorry to answer this so late; life’s been a mess lately, but isn’t it for everyone?

The thing I like the most about Claudleth is that it’s clear they mutually respect each other, more than with the other lords, imo.  Even before the timeskip, Claude respects Byleth and acknowledges their power.  Though he starts out wanting to use that power to achieve his goals (which isn’t even as insidious as some people make it out to be, as you find out later), by the time the skip happens, it’s clear he sees Byleth as an equal and a dear ally.  I kind of feel like, even when not shipping them, the overall plot gives a lot of subtle hints that at the very least, Claude loves Byleth, sort of how Robin canonically loves Chrom, even if they marry other people.  Not-shipping them, it would probably develop into a familial/platonic love, and they’d be very close post-war.  It’s clear even outside of his support line that Claude trusts Byleth with his deepest secrets.  When shipping them, his A rank in particular is Claude sharing his dreams with Byleth, stating he wants to build a new world together with them.  It’s a very soft and honestly hella-romantic support.  I remember saying out loud during that scene, “None of this sounds platonic, Claude.”  It legitimately sounded like a proposal, won’t lie, lmao.  In the actual proposal, I give mad props to Joe Zieja in the English dub, because there is so much nuance in his delivery.  It’s soft, tender, and caring, but also bittersweet and melancholy.  It makes the scene really powerful and poignant.  Joe’s performance throughout the game is superb, tbh.  There’s a slight shift in how Claude speaks to everyone versus how he speaks to Byleth in private, particularly during postskip.  With others, he has this aloof but commanding, “anime hero,” voice, but alone with Byleth, he speaks in softer tones.  There’s a subtlety you wouldn’t really get if you were just reading the lines versus hearing them acted out, and it really highlights how Claude trusts Byleth damn-near completely, which, considering one of Claude’s biggest flaws is he’s very guarded and slow to trust, is saying a lot.  It’s just...*chef kiss* sublime.

I have other thoughts, but they’re kind of spoilery for Claude and for their endcard, so I’ll just say that their ending feels very satisfying.  Some people are a little disappointed it doesn’t specifically state they married, but I maintain the endcard as it’s described is peak romance, at least imo.  You can absolutely infer there is marriage and peace through their hard work in their future.

Personality wise, they are very much, “Type A Sunshine Chaos Energy Personality/Type B Reserved Quiet Energy Personality,” which is a balance I adore in and out of Fire Emblem ships.  I feel like Byleth’s personality blossoms in different ways depending on the route, and with Claude and the Golden Deer, I think Byleth would become more upbeat in general.  With Claude as an influence, I think they’d smile more and learn to fire back at Claude’s quips with their own sass/snark.  Much more laughter and learned sarcasm than the other routes.  Claude even states in a line at tea pretty lategame that Byleth has become more expressive lately, and one of the good options is to blush. xD  Also, I think there’s a small touch of, “moronsexual,” energy there, because Claude is absolutely an intelligent dumbass in my mind, lol.

So ye, sorry to write this huge synopsis, but that’s kind of how I see them as a pairing.  :3

[mxnstrxlogy]

idk a theory about ‘gorgeous’ by taylor swift

ok I wouldnt really normally do this but I’ve just listened to Gorgeous on Reputation by Taylor Swift about a million times and I’ve had a spliff and this song has REALLY confused me, so here’s some of my thoughts on a potential theory because the way it’s worded, to me, makes it seem like it’s not as simple as the love song people are taking it as.

1. Right so the VERY first line is “You should take it as a compliment” which I think is very telling considering most women have heard that from a man, preceded by something that’s definitely not complimentary like catcalling (or being groped, as T was ... hmmm)

2. This shift in responsibility (ie this was just a bit of fun, why are you making an ordeal about it, sounds familiar huh?) is mirrored not only in this song “You should think about the consequence /Of your magnetic field being a little too strong”, “You're so cool, it makes me hate you so much” but also in the rest of the album; the sentence “look what you made me do” is basically shifting blame from the perpetrator to the victim (which is why i was confused about the name of the single ...). What’s more is with the line “There’s nothing I hate more than what I can’t have”, she’s not angry at the fact she can’t have someone (Tay of all people should know that people cannot belong to you??) but at the person in question. If you think about it that’s petty and manipulative “you won’t be with me because you love someone else therefore I hate you” mind set is so childish and entitled.

3. This is all the more interesting considering we haven’t really heard this form of “love” in the shape of such an accusatory, guilt worthy attack, or at least not to the same extent with Taylor before which could be a lyrical way of putting this song aside from Tay’s other love songs. It could even be a direct hint from Tay herself (who we all know is SUPER calculating and analyses EVERYTHING so wants the listener to as well) telling us to not take the song at face value (a love song) because she’s actually saying “you could take this as a love song and fulfil the prophecy that all I do is sing about my exes” OR actually look deeper and listen closely realising it’s a lot more complex.

4. interestingly enough there’s an obvious semantic field of anger: “i hate you so much”, “You've ruined my life”, “And I'm so furious”, “There's nothing I hate more than what I can't have” which surely contradicts the professed love for this person, right?

5. There’s a very pejorative aspect that goes on throughout the song, we hear a lot of negativity. ”You should think about the consequence / Of your magnetic field being a little too strong” sounds like a scolding, “He's in the club doing, I don't know what” sounds like her complaining/bitching, “I hate you so much” enough said, “You've ruined my life”, “I'm so furious”, “I’m jealous of her”, “That’s honestly worse”, “it makes me so mad”, “I feel like I might sink and drown and die” wow that is a pretty dire and scary situation no? and here we see the escalation but seriously my dudes it’s ALL over the song with this hella negative narration of events.  The extreme beauty of this person has turned her into this crazy, ANGRY and obsessive individual.

5. Ok call me crazy but to me the whole song also seems a lot more superficial than her typical heartfelt love songs. Hell just give “Call it what you want” a listen and there are SO MANY lyrics that imply a very profound and meaningful connection and a detailed metaphorical account of what goes on between them. In ‘Gorgeous’ all we REALLY know is that she has admired this person from a distance, they’ve touched hands at a party together where T got drunk and made fun of his voice, she actually has a boyfriend but he isn’t there, she doesn’t even know whether HE has a girlfriend, that’s how little she knows about this person. The whole narrative rings very hollow and superficial to me

6. “I can’t say anything to your face, cause look at your face” ok so this person is so overwhelmingly beautiful she cannot even speak to them? Ok this may be a generalisation and exaggeration of the reality but it’s put so bluntly (and sang in the same blunt tone) that to me it almost seems like she’s saying they haven’t EVER had a conversation. So WHY would she be SO infatuated with somebody she’s never spoken to? Unless it’s ONLY superficial attraction from a distance (clues in physical description and adjectives used: “You're so cool”, “You're so gorgeous”, “Ocean blue eyes”) confirmed later in the line “You should take it as a compliment / That I'm talking to everyone here but you”. So this person should not only see the value in, and even appreciate her behaviour (not interacting and actively avoiding talking to this person)? umm ok yeah that’s normal

7. Bearing in mind that we know about Taylor’s experience of a man inappropriately touching her, or helping himself to something that isn’t his, all of the points I’ve made so far either seem like extreme hypocrisy on Taylor’s part (the entitlement in her expectation that she is owed this person’s love/attention simply because that’s how she feels, the anger she feels towards not only the situation as a whole but to the person she professes to love? and the distancing/disassociation of not talking to them) or, to me, could be construed as a subtle way of critiquing the Nice Guy™.

“The Nice Guy™ believes that if he is nice to a girl and actually treats her with respect, then that girl should want to have sex with him. Actually, the concept goes a step further by allowing the Nice Guy™ to feel entitled to sex with the girl of his choice simply because he has treated her with some sort of basic human decency for an extended period of time.” (https://medium.com/@KevBeirne/rape-culture-and-the-friend-zone-aecc31c4d598).

It’s not for no reason that Taylor would write a song from the perspective of someone in the “friendzone”. The friendzone is the most subtle and therefore one of the most insidious aspects of rape culture because it paints women as machines that if you put “’nice coins” into, you will eventually get sex in return. That a woman’s own desires and feelings are unimportant in comparison to a man’s desire to fuck her. We see this in lines like “you should take it as a compliment”, “And I'm so furious / At you for making me feel this way”, “Ocean blue eyes looking in mine/ I feel like I might sink and drown and die” which are all the kinds of manipulative and controlling (borderline abusive) things said by those who victim blame. 

Gorgeous depicts someone who becomes obsessive over someone they hardly know, puts them on a pedestal as something to be desire/revered (which is dehumanising in a sense that everything on the inside, the personality and soul of this other person isn’t actually important) and then when “refused” they hold it against the victim like a personal vendetta that they should feel extremely guilty for. . We  could interpret it as a critique of the culture around men feeling women owe them things like sex, respect and even love simply because they are men. Because a dudebro stuck in the friendzone bitching about it seems harmless, but this is the thin end of the wedge. That type of individual is the kind who could easily “snap”, feeling they are owed something can lead to them “helping themselves” or taking some kind of stand against their “suffering” which is precisely when they may take advantage of another individual, whether that’s grabbing someone’s ass, forcing or manipulating them to kiss them, or far worse. We know this is a subject dear to Taylor’s heart; she sued her aggressor for $1 to demonstrate that it wasn’t just for the money but to send a message that even something as “harmless” as having your butt grabbed should absolutely not be tolerated.

I’m really struggling to put this all together clearly but basically Niceguy/friendzone mentality can lead to sexual assault, which Taylor has suffered, so she’s trying to point out this kind of dehumanising “love” exhibited by The Nice Guy and its potentially dangerous outcomes. Gorgeous is even more symbolic because the song IN ITSELF sounds super harmless and even cute! Nice Guy behaviour is exactly the same, though it seems totally harmless it can have some serious and insidious outcomes.

my dudes idk if this just sounds like me massively overanalysing this shit but whatevs enjoy

#taylor swift #taylor swift theory #theory #gorgeous #taylor swift gorgeous #reputation #taylor swift reputation #gorgeous analysis #gorgeous theory #swifties

[sarahburness]

How to Prevent Blame and Criticism from Destroying Your Relationship

“Who is it that’s unhappy? The one who finds fault.” ~Anonymous

If you are anything like me you yearn to know in your bones that you are showing up in your primary relationship as your best self. You want to be loving, kind, and supportive (and to reap the gifts those qualities sow in your love life). But certain habits of interaction get in the way, making you feel inept and ashamed.

Like many of us, I grew up in a family that was steeped in criticism and blame. Though I rebelled against this behavior intellectually, it found its way deep into me.

When the first blush of love-bliss wore off in my more serious relationships, blame and criticism would rear their ugly heads, leaving me guilt ridden and very disappointed in myself. It always created distance in my relationships.

This habit is the top reason relationships fall apart. Not only does it feel terrible to the one being criticized, it also destroys the perpetrator’s own sense of confidence in their worthiness and integrity, further shutting down the free flow of love.

Looking back at my first marriage, I see that this ingrained and destructive habit was at the root of our love’s erosion. Because I tended to use a subtle form of blame and criticism that were harder to label as such (I mostly thought I was asking for things, when actually I was belittling and condemning), it became pervasive. Over time, like weeds left to grow rampant, it overtook our joy entirely.

Criticism and blame can be blatant or subtle. The obvious expressions are often in the actual words we choose. But, as I learned the hard way, it’s the subtler forms of blame and criticism that can do the most damage because they are harder to spot.

Since much of our communication is non-verbal (up to 93 percent!), it makes sense to take a good look at if and how we are imparting blame and criticism without words.

Some of these subtle ways include:

~Tone of voice (“Can you please stop…” said with a tone that drips blame or implies stupidity.)

~Sounds (“Ugh!” meaning, “There you go again.”)

~Body language (rolling your eyes, giving them cold looks… I once stuck out my tongue at my partner in a heated moment.)

~Asking someone to “do better” can be an insidious form of criticism, if not done well. This was my main way of using it.

In my current partnership I vowed to do things very differently. I let him be him, no complaints. We enjoyed years of authentic, kind, tolerant, and loving ways of relating to each other. I felt proud and happy to have seemingly overcome that bad habit.

And then we hit a rough patch. Over the course of one stressful year we had a baby, with all the lack of sleep and physical and emotional adjustments that brings, as well as built a house (a huge and challenging job…as the saying goes: “build a house, lose a spouse”), while also raising my older boys and maintaining the rest of our lives.

The strain of this time put a lot of pressure on me, and I found my old bad habit of blaming and criticizing really hard to suppress, as if it had a life of its own.

I started subtly putting him down, sometimes saying things like, “You never listen!” or once, “You are such a teenager!” because he stayed out later than he said he would. But mostly it showed up in my tone of voice, judgmental and intolerant. This would set him off and send us downhill fast.

This went on for a few months. I felt terrible about it, yet didn’t know how to stop. The effect was that he became more on guard, not as open and warm as usual. And I started berating myself for my behavior, which cut me off from being able to feel and express my warmth and love.

It also made me afraid I might destroy this incredibly good thing we had—one of the most cherished things in my life.

It was time to regroup. So I rested up and rebalanced a bit. It was from this more centered place that I had the capacity to take a really hard look at where I was going wrong.

The powerful insights I discovered have all but completely eliminated that harmful way of relating. Here they are for you, with tips on how to live them so that you can keep, revive, and grow that beautiful thing that is the love in your life.

1. Build an inner eco-system of self-compassion. 

Don’t make the mistake of re-directing any blame back at yourself. Instead, try kindness and curiosity.

Start by understanding that blame and criticism are misguided attempts at protecting yourself and, ironically, at creating a better relationship. At the heart of it is a longing to feel good. Although the goal is virtuous, the method is not. Just understanding this invokes a sense of self-compassion.

Then, consciously cultivate an attitude of kindness toward yourself.

The next time you are experiencing the fallout emotions of having blamed or criticized your partner, simply feel what you feel. Be there with yourself the way you would with a child who is having a temper tantrum—compassionately.

Put your hand on your own heart (or cheek or arm) and say to yourself “be safe, be well, be at ease, my dear.” I like to call myself “my love, or my sweet” when I do this.

Experiment and see what feels most resonant for you. As feel-good hormones are released through this simple action, you start to feel more safe and at ease inside yourself. This raises your ability to be your authentically loving self in your relationship.

2. Own it.  

Taking responsibility for your unskillful ways is essential for wholeheartedly ending them.

Whether in the heat of the moment or later, you must be able to say: “Oops, my bad—again!” Admitting your blunder to yourself (compassionately) and to your significant other is part of taking responsibility for your actions.

Doing so will help soften your partner’s barbed defenses and start to ease any tension. An authentic “I’m sorry” can work wonders, as a starting point.

Own that when you are complaining or blaming you usually want something but are simply sharing that ineffectively. Instead, figure out what you want. Then be brave enough to ask for it—when you are ready to use a calm kind tone.

3. Notice that fear is the underbelly of blame and criticism. 

Below every angry expression of blame or criticism is fear. Fear of discomfort, pain, or otherwise feeling bad. Fear hijacks our brain and makes even our allies look like enemies, leaving behind the rational, kind, and loving parts of our nature.

A small example would be if I were whining to my man about how he never sticks to his agreements about our division of house chores. Underneath that blaming expression is the fear of feeling stressed out and exhausted by having to squeeze more chores into my already full schedule.

The key here is being deeply and bravely honest with yourself. When you find yourself about to criticize or blame someone, or having just done so, ask yourself, “What am I afraid of here?”

Then ask, “What’s underneath that?” You might find that sadness lives there. Or even shame. Either way, this will help shift you out of anger and into curiosity, compassion, and a sense of integrity as you draw closer to your genuine truth. If you can uncover that truth just once, it will unravel the grip of the habit and make it easier to stop the next time it tries to grab you.

4. Enlist your body.

When the mood of blame and criticism hovers close, smothering you from the inside out, move your body. Shift your position, go for a walk or, my favorite, dance.

Instead of closing in on yourself, as fear and anger cause us to do, allow movement to physically open your posture, shake out the irritation, express the frustration, and soften your muscles.

Or maybe your need is to rest, shifting the body into a softer easeful state. This will melt your fear brain, connect you to your essence and get you back to acting from your natural kind goodness.

5. Redirect to appreciation. 

Ask yourself a really good positivity-boosting question to direct your attention toward appreciation. As a self-protective measure, our brains are wired to look for the negative. To counteract this bias in our relationships, we must consciously look for what is positive.

So ask yourself, “What is wonderful to me about him/her?” If at first answers come slowly, stick with it and the floodgates will open.

When I do this I start to see many things that I adore about my man, and it fills me with love, replacing anger or fear. Nothing is too little: his cheekbones, the way he plays with our sons, the unique sound of his breathing as he shifts into sleep…

Sharing these appreciations with your partner through words or gestures encourages a flourishing of warmth and affection.

—

Now that I am through those few months of stress when I was once again ensnared by the temptation to criticize and blame, I am grateful for that time because it motivated me to dig out the roots of that harmful habit.

I am now deeply confident in my ability to show up as my best, most loving self in my partnership (which helps my man do the same).

These days, if my love life were a garden, it would be the most lush, colorful, and medicinal place, with an occasional root leftover from that giant old criticism tree that I pulled up not so long ago.

When those roots occasionally grow a shoot, I notice it and gently but firmly pull it up using the techniques I discovered. Then I turn back to adoring my magical garden, allowing it to nourish my whole life. And you can do this too.

Couple painting here

About Hannah Brooks

Hannah Brooks is a Mind Body Relationship Coach who helps deep-feeling and easily rattled women create genuine connection, peace, and wholehearted satisfaction in their love lives. For further tips and guidance check our her free toolkit, 3 Essential Steps to a More Loving Relationship, Even When You Feel Irritable, Resentful, or Disconnected. Grab it free here and find her at lifeisworthloving.com.

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