but it happened regardless

Support equality? Please read!

I decided to open a blog dedicated to pro-equality quotes from tv, movies and more! 

The blog is a humorous pro-equality page for entertainment and empowerment reasons.

The idea is to take quotes from TV and films, and show them as they are, regardless of their original context, what happened a about to happen.
We don’t try to present only quotes said by characters who support equality. The quotes should:

1. entertain us

2. empower equality in various different ways.

The target audience: feminists, lgbt+ and everyone who supports equal rights for everyone. 

Did you like the idea? Great! Reblog this post, follow us and send us your own screenshots! Be patience, sometimes it takes us time before they are uploaded. We’ll credit you, unless you specify tell us that you want to remain anonymous.

Together we will change the world!

anonymous asked:

Is there, at the very least, a way to keep your eyes closed while in sleep paralysis?

i mean, if you can realize what’s going on and tell yourself to close them, yeah, but most of the time it’s super hard to realize that’s what’s happening, and of course if youre seeing terrifying stuff around you it’s kind of natural to stare at them because youre afraid. and auditory hallucinations will still happen regardless

Can we just talk about Raven Reyes for a second? Actually, we should talk about her for more than a second. We should always be talking about Raven Reyes, one of the most revolutionary and inspiring characters on television. But, for the sake of this post, let’s talk about her for just a hot second.

See, Raven Reyes is the kind of girl who has, without fail, voluntarily almost been blown to bits in an explosion in attempt to save her people each season. 

Season 1; Ends up being moments away from shooting a bomb off that will stop the enemy from getting to her people even though she knows she’s only a few feet away from it and she knows she would be killed by the blast.

Season 2; Decides to blow up an entire turbine even though there was no way she’d be able to make it out of the dam in time and avoid injury (regardless if grounders had happened or not), just to save her people.

Season 3; Gina gave her 45 seconds as they were running out of Mount Weather. Even with that in mind, even with knowing there was only a few seconds on the countdown left, she still risks her life in an explosion in the attempt to save people.

I just. #1. Please stop putting Raven Reyes near explosions. But also #2. Raven Reyes needs to be talked about more like seriously, she cares so much and would do so much for her people it’s just ridiculous.

sigh something i’ve never seen anyone talk about is how people with physical disabilities who are perceived as female are treated when they dont wear makeup

because, like, i’ve noticed it. i’ve noticed it a lot. if i want to get service, not be harassed, and treated like a human being (although let’s be honest i’m still not treated like a human being at ALL) i have to wear, like, full face makeup. if i don’t go out looking like a fuckin MAC employee, i will be ignored, talked down to, and refused service in most shops i go into. don’t get me wrong, i mean, i’m still targeted like this regardless, but if I have makeup on, it definitely happens less.

and it’s expensive as hell. like, i can’t even get fucking medical attention unless i wear makeup. i’m literally having to choose bewteen food and cosmetics - because i can go a day or two without food, but if I don’t slather on thick, high-quality makeup, i am literally unable to get basic medical care and assistance

and it’s shit. along with my gender being often ambiguous in a lot of situations, it all contributes to the fact that no one ever takes me seriously.

im fucking over it

charli-mcda asked:

Hello again. So my Korrasami fic idea would be what if Asami didn't hit Mako with her moped so she didn't end up meeting Korra and when Hiroshi was found out to be an Equalist, Asami was assumed to be one as well and ended up in prison missing out on the rest of the events of Book 1 and Book 2. (which end up happening like in canon regardless of Asami being absent). I think it's best if Asami shows up for Book 3, getting released for reasons and ends up in Zaofu for reasons. STUPID PLOT BUNNY

That’s an interesting idea actually. So, I imagine if she was in prison for that long that she’d have lost all control of Future Industries and perhaps all of the Sato family wealth is gone (compensation to victims of the equalists?) And that she’d be pretty sick of Republic City by that point.

Zaofu would be a good place for her to go, working for Suyin since I imagine Su would love to have someone with her brains onboard project metal clan, and she doesn’t have a problem taking people in with criminal records. (Note Varrick).

It’s definitely an idea that’s got legs!

okay guys โ€” WOWZA. iโ€™ve only had sandy since tuesday night, and last night i hit 100 followers !! how did that even happen?? regardless, thank you all so much for being here with me on this three day journey. anyways, lets get to the actual follow forever !!

Keep reading

Don’t think I’m invalidating your social shyness too. I still haven’t found actual Sikh/Muslim teachers to help me understand Sikhism and Islam from their perspectives so I can help fight against Islamophobia (which affects both faiths). It’s a work in progress. You are a work in progress, and so are the people we are trying to educate them in matters they don’t understand and hurt people over. Take as much time as you need, but make things happen.

I support you regardless of how shy and afraid you are of people, and I love you all.

7

the 100 episodic meme: wanheda (part one) → favourite scene (½)

“Try and keep up!”

Why are you framing your work before you've finished it?

This is something I see happen with cross stitch pieces a little more than with surface embroidery, but it seems to happen regardless. I go through the tags and see so many beautifully-stitched pieces just thrown into a frame the second the last stitch has been finished. They’re never stretched or pressed, and many have never even been washed.

Why? I can understand being so excited to have finished something that you need to just get it displayed RIGHT NOW, but pressing and stretching your stitching will make it look so much nicer once you’ve got it in the frame. Do people just not know how that’s done? Are they not aware it’s supposed to be done?

Please tell me, I want to know!

What is this straight up bullshit that I’m always seeing about the Minutemen being the only ones looking to avoid killing innocents in the Institute? No faction has more of a reason to hate the Institute than the Railroad and yet Desdemona says straight out the gate that they’ll be doing everything they can to avoid collateral damage.

When you get into the Institute, she tells Tom to “send out anyone that’s unarmed, Institute personnel included.” And it’s not like the Sole Survivor has to argue her into it or like she even puts it up to debate with them. This is how the RR operates. You can see it in her dialogue again-

“But the Institute isn’t just populated by diabolical scientists. Families live there. Children. If we destroy them, we’re going to evacuate more than just Synths.”

and again-

“I can’t condone the killing of innocents. That is not what the Railroad is about.”

and again-

“…if we ever can permanently disable or even destroy the Institute, we will do it. But we won’t do it for revenge. We’ll do it out of necessity. To ensure that the synths stay safe and free, forever… We will spill only as much blood as we have to. We’re more than murderers…” 

i honestly am probably one of the most bitter teen top stans out there. im just so mad at how underrated/under-appreciated they are rn. its also frustrating bc a lot of fans are working their BUTTS OFF to support and promote this comeback as much as they can. its just really disheartening when the song isnt doing well on the charts and the mv views aren’t increasing when so many angels i know are streaming and looping the heck outta the video…also the fact that i would to feel very guilty if they don’t win anything and that makes me even more sad bc honestly its not the fans fault lol… @ tm.. BUT THEN! THE BEST PART IS… regardless of what happens; win or lose, teen top are just so fucking sweet & understanding and thankful towards the fan’s efforts which makes me even more mad- bC THEY ARE REAL LIFE ANGELS WHO DON’T EVEN CARE ABOUT WINNING OR ANYTHING THEY JUST LOVE MAKING MUSIC AND DOING THEIR OWN WEIRD THINGS. I JUST FEEL BAD BC THEY DESERVE THE WORLD. I DON’T WANT TO CARE ABOUT THEM “SUCCEEDING” AS THEM WINNING TRIPLE CROWNS OR ANYTHING BC IT REALLY DOESN’T MATTER… BUT I DO WANT EACH OF THEM TO KNOW THAT THEIR WORK HARD AND EFFORTS DO NOT GO UNRECOGNIZED!! THEY ARE TOO TALENTED IT HURTS AS A FAN NOT SEEING THEM SUCCEED WHEN YOU KNOW THEY DESERVE TO!

in short…

please stan teen top.

or at least watch this mv- 

current views: 963,727

please help us reach 2,016,118 views!!

and it’s a miracle, that just this little thing is quite enough

summary: she says, โ€œromantic-stylzeโ€, with a z, only this time thereโ€™s actually someone being left behind waiting, as it were, and itโ€™s maybe a little less awful than it was before

anyway this melodramatic garbage is literally written in half an hour and iโ€™ve done zero (0) proofreading, shoutout to dan goor and the rest of the b99 gang for being Extra and Ruining My Angst-Loving Trashcan Self with this new information.ย โ€œI bet theyโ€™ll make it tragic,โ€ says my mom,ย โ€œbut comedy tragic. So not tragic, but, you know. That kind of thing.โ€ (getting my mom into b99 was the best thing i ever did tbh) Anyway this will likely never ever happen regardless of b99 being Literal Fanfic but here you go, Quality Trash:

Sheโ€™s facing away from him when he blurts it out, her back stiff and unyielding and her arms wound around each other over her chest, hands cradling her elbows. He can see the tightness underneath the blue fabric of her suit jacket โ€“ so familiar and normal, so unlike the panic settling in his chest. He was okay, he thinks. Up until this morning, he was fine.

He knows her (every detail). He trusts her (with his life). He can handle this, because thatโ€™s what heโ€™s expected to do, what she expects him to do, what he expects of himself. His eyes are betraying him, though, drinking in the little details of her posture: the glossy shine of her long hair where it tucks into its neat bun, the glint of light in the tiny sliver studs nestled against her earlobes. Thereโ€™s a part of his brain โ€“ the part that lights up when heโ€™s working cases, that scans every detail of a room or piece of evidence, thatโ€™s committing all the little Amy details displayed in front of him to memory. Thereโ€™s a stain of desperation on it that Jake doesnโ€™t want to think about, because that would mean heโ€™s not okay anymore, and Amyโ€™s shoulderโ€™s would get more stiff, and his chest would cave and peal and crumble and heโ€™s being melodramatic, so sue him.

The light in the evidence locker is dim and artificial as it usually is, and somehow the threadwork in Amyโ€™s suit jacket is highlighted. His eyes are locked on a single snagged thread, maybe one inch in length and horizontal against her shoulder blade, when the words tumble out of his mouth.

Itโ€™s going to be fine and this is exciting and, the most recent, the too-strained, stubborn-coloured why are you being so weird? all echo against his words, and Jake tries to stop his voice from cracking, he really does.

โ€œBecause itโ€™s scary and itโ€™s lonely and screws with your head! I know, Amy, I โ€“ itโ€™s โ€“ โ€ย 

His voice is catching and heโ€™s not okay, he thinks, which is dumb and heโ€™s dumb and this whole thing is dumb because if thereโ€™s one thing he knows without a doubt, it is just how important this whole operation is to her โ€“ to the whole squad. Theyโ€™ve been working on this for weeks, Jake thinks. He needs to pull it together.

Amy turns around, and now his traitorous eyes trace over the slopes and curves of her face, her cheeks, her eyebrows and the bridge of her nose, the way her soft lips are tight around the edges and turned down. Jake thinks, I love you, and tries to take a deep breath.

โ€œJake,โ€ she says softly, and some of the brittle defensiveness, borne of years of fighting to prove herself, that held up her earlier annoyance has bled out.

โ€œIโ€™m sorry,โ€ he says, and looks down at his feet. Itโ€™s harder than Jake cares to admit, tearing his eyes away, and he stares at his shoes and sees the details of her face, its exact expression, imprinted against his eyelids.

He feels her in his space before she touches him, her small hands, rough and gun-calloused as his own, sneaking in between his fingers. They donโ€™t come up to cup his face as they usually do, but stay linked against his palm as she leans forward and lets her forehead rest against his. Jake feels his eyes flick up to meet hers, face already angled downwards. His exhale is tight and lacking energy, almost empty.

Itโ€™s not okay, Jake thinks, but heโ€™s managed not okay before.

And then Amyโ€™s fingers squeeze his, so tightly and suddenly that he almost starts, and she says,

โ€œMarry me.โ€

Keep reading

Guys, I’m gonna say this just once - I cannot *accurately* tell you how to find a deity. The deity I am working with came to me through a friend, so I have no experience with actively seeking one out (except for my failed attempt at Kemeticism). I am literally as new to this kind of thing as you all sending questions - I am really an inappropriate person to ask

Not to mention, these sorts of things tend to be very personal. Not to mention, you can seek out a deity all you want, but if they’re not interested, nothing will likely come from the contact (i.e. me and Thoth). All you can do is try to reach out to one you may be interested in and hope for the best (through a godphone, divination, etc.), or keep an eye out for signs that a deity may want to get a hold of you first. It may not necessarily happen, though, regardless of your intentions or desires for it to be so. You can’t exactly force a deity to work with you if they don’t want to… 

That is literally all I can say on the topic - it is all I know. I can give some links for you guys to read more, but this isn’t my area of expertise, so I feel weird writing about it because I could be wrong and have no idea.

* Please note that I will redirect any future questions about contacting a deity to this post.

ssenseless asked:

How to believe in yourself and let go of self-doubt?

Before self-doubt, was there a need to believe in yourself? 

First there was simply your naturalness. That naturalness is like that of a tree, which spontaneously grows and forms in its own way. Ideas of confidence and “believing” in yourself are meaningless to naturalness. 

Then the mind, reflecting upon its identity, causes some uncertainty that results in insecurity. This is like a tree worrying about how it should grow its limbs. It begins by feeling uncertain and starts to doubt what it has already done. Then it seeks to contrive its growth to counteract the self-doubt. Whether or not the tree believes in itself at this point is irrelevant for it has lost its naturalness

Of course, naturalness is natural and cannot be lost. It is only forgotten, covered up by our own noise and tension. 

“Tension is who you think you should be. Relaxation is who you are.” ~ Chinese Proverb

When you notice yourself feeling tense, awkward, and self-doubtful, observe it. Notice what thoughts arise and what feelings accompany them. Don’t agree or disagree with this experience. Just witness it like a dancing monkey. 

By introducing this element of observation without judgment, you loosen your fixation on the mind. You cease to wait for the mind to be agreeable before allowing yourself to feel natural. Your mind cannot give you naturalness, only when the mind is relaxed and at ease does your inner naturalness shine through. Typically this happens when the mind is satisfied, when your desires and preferences are in line with your current circumstances. By practicing mindfulness, you learn to let go of the mind’s compulsive orientation. This too allows your naturalness to become more tangible to you.

Ask yourself this: What does it mean to be natural? Your mind has been conditioned and shaped since your moment of birth. It is a tool but it is not your naturalness. So what is naturalness?

“We accepted a definition of ourselves which confined the self to the source and to the limitations of conscious attention. This definition is miserably insufficient, for in fact we know how to grow brains and eyes, ears and fingers, hearts and bones, in just the same way that we know how to walk and breathe, talk and think—only we can’t put it into words. Words are too slow and too clumsy for describing such things, and conscious attention is too narrow for keeping track of all their details.” ~ Alan Watts

Your naturalness is the very thing that has allowed your body to take form. It is what causes the body to spontaneously heal from cuts. And yet the essence of your naturalness is something far more intimate to you than the body itself. It is the unobstructed radiance of your existence. Practice daily meditation and come to discover this for yourself. 

Painting, coloring, listening to music, dancing, poetry, all of these activities help to bypass the critical mind and reintroduce your heart to its own naturalness. The self you can doubt is not yourself but only an idea to which you cling. 

Namaste :) Hope this helped. 

The End

Twelfth installment of the Castiel “At First Sight” series (“At First Sight” - “You’re Growing On Me” - “Under His Wing”- “Wandering Thoughts” - “Warrior Of Heaven”-“When You Wake” - “The Ultimatum” - “A First Glimpse” - “A Flared Soul” - “A Final Farewell” - “The Crosshairs”). Requested by so, so many of you after the cliffhanger, but no one supplied any real request so… requested by me: “There was no request so I’m kinda just goin’ for it here and I’m going to write whatever thoughts come to mind please don’t kill me.” Regardless of what happens in this installment, and we’re going in blind, you have the power to resurrect anything or anyone. I hope you like it.

(All past and future installments can be found on the “The Story Continues…” page)

The chill of metal seeped through the fabric at your stomach like melting ice, the tip of Ansiel’s angel blade pricking along your skin like a needle, the blade’s frigid temperature thrown into starker contrast by the heat washing over the rest of your terrified form. You felt the flush of your every heartbeat scorch against your cheeks, your temples throbbing as your body prepared for what would likely be an impossible fight for freedom. His hold on you was unbreakable, other-worldly in its strength; there was no escape unless your captor willingly released you… a feat you knew would never have crossed his mind. To Ansiel, you were no more than a vermin, a strange, hostile breed of venomous rat, slowly but surely infecting his home (and in doing so, infecting his brother), your very presence heralding doom. You weren’t a person, to him; you were something to be exterminated. Your ear was pressed into the crease of his elbow, his bicep flexing against your head, his hold on your neck tight enough to cause some minor difficulties in breathing, but weak enough to show that your death was not underway in this moment. His hold was not intended to strangulate, but one wrong move would easily result in a broken neck. Simple as snapping a toothpick, your life would end. There was no point in a struggle you would not survive. If it hadn’t been plain to you in Ansiel’s hold around your throat, or the blade he held at your stomach, it was clear in the mute horror present in Castiel’s eyes.

Castiel’s wings, so swathed in darkness, began to hiss, the angels on either side of him shifting their hands to better hold him steady, their muscles straining visibly as his wings threatened to lift his otherwise compliant body from the earth. His eyes never left the blade Ansiel held at your stomach, watching the tip as if averting his gaze would plunge it into your body. Ansiel’s foot slithered through your own two feet, guiding your step forward as he advanced, keeping you bent backwards against his chest, thieving any hopes of balance, your body twitching along in front of him as he drew nearer to your lover. His wings, unruly as they acted now at the sight of your immediate peril, had sense enough not to reach for you, their first desire to take flight overwhelmed by a new, necessary desire for your safe release. The ebony quills, darker than you could have ever imagines them, trembled as you drew closer, bristling feathers shifting between obsidian and a woolen grey, sparked through with veins of a thick, deeper-than-black color than could only embody the terror gripping your body. The tendrils of this unnamed hue were pulsing with the frantic beat of your own heart, rich colour polluting the crystalline beauty his wings once possessed. In places, the lights above clung to patches of scarlet where Castiel had clearly been injured; his wings had been battered by blade and fist alike, feathers missing in large clumps, blood pouring from the open wounds those feather left behind. He was in better shape than you had hoped while simultaneously being in worse shape than you could have tolerated. The blade flinched against your stomach when Ansiel stopped his march, a whelp striking the inside of Ansiel’s palm as it closed over your mouth, his skin swallowing your involuntary cry of pain, however minor. Dean thrashed against his captor’s hold, his eyes alight with fury, peridot irises blazing with a rage you had yet to witness within the man. He’d been hunting with you long enough to know the sounds you made when you’d been injured, and he was far from pleased to hear them now. Castiel’s eyes, however, remained locked on the weapon held against you, no matter how much you wished he would meet your stare. A tear fell from your eye, coaxed over your waterline by panic and fear, meeting the edge of Ansiel’s finger, water pooling along his skin to travel down the backside of his hand.

You assessed the situation as quickly and efficiently as one can when one is held captive at knife-point. Your scattered thoughts of self-preservation and worry for the safety of those you loved organized, and for one fleeting moment, you were able to absorb your surroundings. Ansiel had moved your forward enough to allow for closer examination of, and by, Castiel. He was far enough away that, even if he ran, Ansiel would be able to harm you before you could be reached. The distance was strategic, organized. Sam and Dean were on either side of the angel on trial, forming points on a charted map. You’d all walked into place as if you knew your marks. You were pawns on Ansiel’s board, nervously awaiting checkmate. Ansiel tightened his grip on your throat then, wrenching your thoughts away from hopeless strategy back to the urgency of your current predicament.

“Castiel, look how she has mangled you.” Ansiel muttered, his voice slippery and vile, tainted by the bravery and courage of one who believes themselves to be in the right, his chin pressing your ear against the side of your head, his cheek at your temple. “See how this maggot has brought us to this! Brother, look at her, and see what she has caused!” Castiel’s eyes flitted to your face for the first time in too long, his composure breaking like the foaming crests of waves from behind his ocean irises. A million apologies flooded along his waterlines, though not a single tear dared to drop. When Ansiel spoke again, his eyes focused on the angel’s face. “We have fallen again because of her! Because of what you’ve allowed! We’ve been driven to the highest extremes fathomable, all because of this… this… temptress! We have slain our own kind, our sisters and our brothers, we have watched those we love perish on the ends of the own blades because of her actions, and because of yours.” His breath polluted what little air you managed to choke don your throat, smelling strongly of ginger and of earth and of dust. Castiel’s lips relaxed into a thin line, his features organizing some to form a broken facade of diplomacy, his hands raised in surrender still. The blade dragged upward along your stomach as Ansiel’s position altered, his arm dropping from your throat to bar across your chest once more, your skin pulsating where the sword grazed. How strange, that your skin had not yet been broken by the angel so fervent on killing you. “Surely you must see the treachery she brings in her wake, the treachery she brings out in you. All you need do is look around you, Castiel, and see the carnage she creates. Let. This. End.” Ansiel voice offered no options, his command bellowing from wall to concrete wall, Castiel’s wings shivering like broken leaves as the sound rattled his feathers, their impossible hue darkening still. His lips parted slowly, cautiously, his hands unmoving in their position of peaceful defeat.

“If, brother, by speaking of an end, you mean killing her… you know I won’t do it,” Castiel spoke, his voice surprisingly steady when compared to his trembling wings and his busted facade. His eyes remained locked on Ansiel’s, offering a level of respect he could not possibly believe to be deserved, refusing to meet your gaze. you chanced a glance in Dean’s direction, finding his eyes hardened in fear, his jaw tense, eyes boring into yours. What he could not say spoke volumes; if Dean Winchester was afraid for you, you had next to no chance of survival. “Ansiel, you and I both know I had no say in this. Neither she nor I chose for this to happen. I see no evidence other than the carnage you have created in pursuing her that would have lead to this mess, and we have never punished the innocent for crimes they unknowingly committed.” Ansiel’s hold tightened, your chest constricting under the weight of his arm. “Let us go and I promise you, it will end,” Castiel assured, his face a mask of kindness, of professionalism, as if by negotiating for your life he was discussing the disadvantages of laying-off an employee, singing praises of their talents to prevent the higher-status boss from snipping their thread. Behind his eyes, though, laid a true terror, a pleading, suffering fear that he fought tooth and nail to keep bottled up within him. Unfortunately, teeth and nails have a habit of tearing things apart, and his anxiety was made clear as his faltering show of calm failed him. “You cannot possibly blame her for her humanity. You can’t blame me for loving her when it wasn’t a choice that I made-” At this, Ansiel scoffed, his hand shifting to your mouth, the movement causing the blade to scratch through the first layer of your skin, the tip puncturing you like a tack. It was a shallow wound hardly deep enough to draw blood, but painful nonetheless, your eyes screwing shut as you cried out. Castiel jumped at your cry, his eyes widening, his mouth opening in silent protest. Ansiel’s moved the blade to a more comfortable (if a knife at one’s stomach can be classified as such) position, his hand relaxing, allowing for easy breathing. Ansiel jilted your body, holding you tighter to him, your hands gripping his arms as you scrambled for balance.

“Choice, Castiel? You think this is about choice?” The angel laughed aloud, one breathy, unbelieving gust of air to pierce the otherwise quiet atmosphere. “This is about you, and this is about her. This is about the extent of your relationship, about the dangers that can and will arise because of your inability to see the worthlessness of this race! To see the ruin you will cause with her at your side!” He shouted, his voice piercing your ears like a dagger, his hand clenching at your chin to display your face to his small audience, your lips pursing as his fingers dug into your jaw. “She is a vessel for destruction, Castiel! It has to end!” The fluctuating frequencies his voice achieved now bordered on insanity, tone crackling like a growing fire, his hold on you dropping to your throat, hand clenching around your neck tight enough to make you squirm for air, for comfort, your hands clawing mindlessly at his arm, your movement causing the blade to prick along your stomach. You went relatively limp, save for your hands, which continued in their attempts to peel the angel from your throat. “I gave you a choice, Castiel, and you failed to keep your distance. You know what I must do.” Castiel started forward, his arms restrained by his captors, his outstretched hand yanked back to his side, wings shrieking behind him.

"Brother, don’t do this. Don’t allow your… your fear to end an innocent life.” Castiel’s voice was no longer serene, but broken in fear, in desperation, his eyes wide on Ansiel’s. “If you are looking to punish an instigator, punish me. I pursued her, I fought against the urges at first, but I am the one who began this. Punish me. Let her go,” Castiel cried, while Sam attempted to negotiate alongside him, his steady voice a beacon of unrealistic hope, his words cut off by a swift blow to his stomach, dealt by one of the two angels holding him in place. Dean’s thrashing continued, outraged by your ill-treatment and his brother’s, his eyes shifting from your face to Sam’s buckled body, a long string of profanity spewing from between his livid lips. Castiel pleaded openly, his eyes glimmering wetly. “She’s done nothing, Ansiel. If you hurt her… it will only end poorly on your part. Believe me when I say that there is no limit to what I, or the Winchesters, will do when it comes to her. So… please, please… don’t do this,” his eyes now shone bright with sorrow, with fear.

“Without her, I doubt there will be enough of you left to make a difference,” he replied, his hand on your throat dropping to the blade, arms locking you in place as both hands twisted into a comfortable position around the hilt. Your own hands reached out to wrap around his, to push him away, horror congealing in your stomach, his otherworldly strength overpowering you easily. Castiel screamed in protest, calling your name as your hands slipped against Ansiel’s, your attempts to keep his attack at bay fruitless against the unyielding power of Heaven. The metal shaft dove into your stomach without resistance, accompanied by an acute slicing sensation. Your uncovered mouth produced a an agonized scream you couldn’t place with your body, the pulsing in your ears numbing your body to all other sound. The blade carved through your body, making its tedious way deeper and deeper into your stomach. It tore through you like butter, Ansiel’s hands steady beneath your shaking palms. You stared at the blade as it grew shorter, the visible metal disappearing into your stomach until the majority of the sword was buried within you, a warmth rising in your throat, burning like bile and soothing like milk, your pulse the only sound in your ears. Crimson dripped wetly to the earth, dropping audibly first as tears, then like rain. Blood spurted over the handle of the blade, covering both your hands and Ansiel’s in a violent scarlet, your fingers struggling against the slick of your blood for purchase on Ansiel’s arms, fighting now not to push him away, but to cling to him for support. Your lips, wet with the heat of your blood, separated in wordless shrieks. Your eyes wrenched themselves away from the blood spilling from your stomach to find Castiel, his sapphire eyes frozen in shock, his mouth open over silent screams… and feathers… feathers falling to the concrete around him. He threw the angels from him, their arms constricting him seconds after his freedom, halting his dash to your side, is body recoiling as they pulled. Dean was screaming, you could see, his face flushed as his feet left the ground, writhing against the angels holding him steady. Sam’s features were stuck in fear, his mouth open over one long, soundless no, his arms tensing as he too struggled forward to save you.

Ansiel twisted the blade, buried up to its hilt in your stomach, your body lurching forward, your weak hands tightening on his own as he furthered his injury. Crippled forward, he stepped back, drawing the blade from your stomach as he did so, one of your hands reaching to cover your wound, the other extending outwards for help. Ansiel clasped his hand around yours as you reached for assistance, your vision going blurry. Patiently, slowly, he laid you on the ground, prying your fingers from his without struggle, a palm cradling your head before gently setting it onto the concrete. Gazing into your eyes, he frowned, as if disgusted by the mess he’d made in killing you, but apologetic for having done so. These apologies only went so far; he still deemed it necessary. His face blurred around the edges, your vision hazing as you blinked the tears from your eyes, your hands fluttering weakly against your torn abdomen. "I am truly sorry, brother. Perhaps now you will be able to clear your head.“ With that, he walked off, leaving you to bloody your hands as you fought to stop the bleeding, your eyebrows knitting together in pain. You called out for Castiel, your voice numb in your ears, though the vibrations scratched in your throat. There was nothing but ringing, impossibly loud ringing, as you assumed each feather fell screaming to the floor. You called for him once more, blood choking off the ending of his name, heat and fluid pouring from the corners of your mouth. Something fluttered against your hand. Though you no longer possessed the strength necessary to lift your head and look, you knew exactly what it was. You lifted a finger, trapping the single feather between them, holding onto with little strength you still possessed to your last shred of comfort. Clearly, someone upstairs thought you deserved to die with a little peace on your mind. One last spark of warmth flooding through your fingertips, a final kiss from his fallen wings, before you could feel nothing but the pain. You felt your hands slide from the blood-slick puddle of your stomach to the floor. Every other sensation fell just short of reaching your nerves. Your vision failed and in you blindness, you heard the last of the ringing fade into nothingness.

All was silent.