the abyss unknown

la línea del horizonte
© víctor m. alonso for the photo and the words

delimito con golpes de silencio
la línea del horizonte;
anterior, como yo, a un abismo ignoto,
desconcertante, que precede
al sueño, la estridente pesadilla
de quien me sueña

I delimit with silence beats
the horizon line;
previous, like me, to an unknown abyss,
disconcerting, which precedes
the dream, the strident nightmare
of who dreams with me

Ray would be a ghost type pokemon user probably 🤔

Please do not edit or post my artwork on other sites without my permission!

I want to fall sea deep into intimacy with you
submerge in all fashions of emotional bonding
let the waves be our guide as we allow
ourselves to dive and experience all the deepest
secrets that lie underneath our shells


Surf through the beginning stages of romance
with the courting of each other
Learning how to navigate
through the abyss of the unknown
that is this growing relationship


As we surf we try to ride the waters
steering left and right avoiding the little things
the farther we sail, the more turbulent it becomes
No longer basking in the clear crisp blue sea
as the cool breeze created the illusion
of us floating


Storms settle in and we find ourselves
losing ourselves while on the verge of sinking
Drowning in the depths of secrecy and miscommunication
lack of trust and one-sided compromising situations
so what was thought of as wanderlust
surged into a robust connection


But with time comes experience
and we begin swimming our way back to each other
cruising past the stage of hardship
and smooth sailing back to shore with a new understanding
that love can’t transcend to its purest form
simply through fairytales and steadiness
because love thrives on difficulty
through merriment, chaos, and indifference


I want to ride the roughest waves with you
only to get through it and have you to smooth sail with
but only if you’re willing

—  The Ocean’s Tirade
Remedy

Originally posted by fuckyeahteamjones

I apologise for any mistakes but I’m not very well at the moment and my time off gave me the perfect time to formulate my revenge to @thevalesofanduin

Here’s to tight suits and tousled hair.

Tags: NSFW (Just in case)

“Thank you for tonight, I-” A large smile wormed its way onto your face as your feet began to slow in pace, your fingers nestled perfectly between the gaps of Leonard McCoy’s. Glancing to the side, your eyes met his own as he squeezed your hand; a subtle sign of affection.

“I had a good time.” The words slipped from your mouth with ease as you finally came to a slow stop before your quarters, the cold metal of the door seeping through the silk dress you wore as you pulled your fingers free from Leonard.

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CS Pillow Talk - You’re My Hero

Killian Jones Appreciation Meme: Day 2 Favorite Hero Moments

I really, really wanted to participate in #kjam17, and since I don’t know how to make gifs I decided to write something. This was written in a ridiculously short amount of time for me, because I tend to obsess over every word when I read and write things, and it is unbeta’d. All mistakes are mine, apologies. Have a baby bit of angst about Killian’s heroism.  (Although some of you -@xhookswenchx may read and say where was the angst, I’m allergic to angst, so this is angsty af for me to have written.)

                                               ~*~*CS*~*~

Emma was still shaking as he held her flush against his body, arm wrapped tightly around her middle. “Relax, love. The town is safe once again, and no one is worse for the wear.”

A broken sob escaped before she could contain it, and she rolled over to face him. “That’s not the point, Killian. You could have died!” Again, she thought. Emma had watched helplessly once more as Killian had made ready to sacrifice himself on yet another battlefield this afternoon. Though the need hadn’t arose, she was still  furious with him. She’d barely spoken to him on the way home. She’d taken a little of her aggression out on him in the bed, having her way with him fast and hard.  

Killian had mistaken her rough affection for a battle high, right up until she’d pushed off him moments after orgasm and told him she was pissed at him. Emma had headed straight to the shower making it clear with a look that he was most definitely not invited to join her. Killian had laid in bed wondering what had happened between their victory and this moment. He was sure he’d gotten her off. Twice in fact, if he wasn’t mistaken.  He thought to earlier on the field and suddenly realized what was eating away at her. Being the wise husband he could be, he let her finish her shower alone, then took his own and gave her a chance to settle into bed.  When he finally climbed in behind her, he was met with her shaking body, and frayed nerves.  He wrapped his arm around her waist and cradled her to his body.

“Emma, I-”

“No, Killian. I need you here, we haven’t had enough time yet. I am so sick and goddamn tired of you sacrificing yourself. Let someone else do it for-”

“Like you?” he interrupted, a thinly veiled anger lacing his tone at the mere thought of losing her.

“Like anyone,” she yelled turning over in his arms to face him. “You’ve died more times than I care to recall. You don’t always have to be the hero.”

“In any time, and any realm love, it’s me before you, my life for yours. I will not let you die if I can stop it from happening. If that means that I no longer live so you can, then so be it,” he explained softly.

Emma broke down into tears, “That’s exactly what I mean. I can’t watch you leave me again.” The emotions of this battle had really eaten their way inside her. She was so used to having to attend to everyone around them that it was rare she had to really deal with her own feelings.

Killian wiped at the tears streaming down her cheeks, a few of his own welling up. He rubbed her back gently as she took deep breaths. He knew one of Emma’s least favorite pastimes was feeling out of control.

“I’m going to attempt to tell you what I’m feeling. You and I both know this isn’t my strong suit, but this is important to me Killian,” she said after regaining a little composure.  

“Aye, Swan, I’m listening,” he murmured kissing her forehead.

“Before I ever knew what we were, it killed me to see Cora, Pan, and even Regina threatening your life. It made me ache to know you might die because of me. At first I chalked it up to getting emotional over a human life being threatened, then over time I grudgingly started to realize it had more to do with you specifically. You have always done the heroic thing where I am concerned. You took me to Neverland to find my son, you traded your ship for me, you followed me into an unknown abyss and were my prince. I was falling for you that whole time, and those were the heroics that I could handle. Before you, no one had ever done anything for me, it was me, myself, and I.”

Emma paused, breathing in deeply before she went into the next part. Caressing his stubbled cheek she continued, “Then we were sucked into Isaac’s world. You will never know how much it hurt to watch you die, to see you sacrifice yourself so I could save everyone else. There was no guarantee that you’d be back in Storybrooke even if I succeeded, and up until that moment in my life, it was the single hardest thing I’d ever had to live through.”

Killian brushed at the tears that had started to slide down her cheeks again. “Emma,” he whispered.

“Let me finish.”

He nodded his head silently.

“Then not only did I have to watch you die again, I had to be the one to do it. I know you’ve seen death, and I know you’ve had loved ones die in your arms. I’m not belittling that, but you are my true love Killian, and I had to kill you, I don’t think you know what that does to a person. Then when we came to get you, you promised we’d leave that hellish realm together, and you tricked me into leaving you there.” Her forehead and eyes ached trying to stop the tears that wanted to pour. Her chest was tight, and she was having trouble inhaling deeply again.  

“I’m sorry, Emma. They needed you. Henry and your parents needed you.”

“Don’t you get it, Killian?” she cried out, “I need you.” She pounded her fist against his chest trying to get him to understand. Trying to make him feel just one ounce of the hurt she felt at losing him repeatedly. The floodgates opened again, and she was inconsolable once more.

“Forgive me,” Killian choked out raggedly as his own tears fell. Of course he knew how Emma felt about him. But it broke his heart to hear her telling him that she needed him, as though she thought he didn’t care about her needs. “Forgive me, my love.” He kissed her through the tears, then rested his forehead to hers.

“Come to other realms with me when I’m swept away, take me where I need to go to help the town, fight by my side, gamble with the Jolly. Just please stop sacrificing yourself.” Emma kissed him fiercely, holding his face between her hands to make him see her. Looking deeply into his eyes she focused every feeling she had channeling it to him, “Stay. Choose to stay, that’s all I’m asking. Stay here with me, Killian.”

Recover // Stiles Stilinski

Summary: After an assailant leaves you dying in the arms of your best friend some things are admitted with tears and blood. Unable to kickstart the healing you reveal feeling to give you peace but can your best friend save you?

Characters: Stiles Stilinski x Reader, Scott McCall, Dr. Alan Deaton and Lydia Martin (mentioned)

Words: 1301

Disclaimer: I do nor own Teen Wolf or the characters included in this nor do I own any gifs or images included. Credit should show up under the gifs used.

Warnings: Possible swearing, attempted murder, and fluff (somehow is included)

Requested: Yes by faypol

Author: Caitsy

Masterlist

Prompt List

ASK US A QUESTION LIST

Originally posted by xtaehyung

You whimpered feeling the blood ooze out of the wound left by your assailant with no knowledge of who or why it happened. You weren’t healing like you should have been for some reason and it tore your study partner apart. He sat there by your side as your life trickled out of you and as it left your body he felt the pain fill his body.


“You can’t die on me.” Stiles cried out, “Who’s going to alternate watching tv, looking over our studies and talking about how we’ll apply to the same bureau location?”


“Y-you’ll live.” You gasped placing your hand on his cheek leaving a red print on his skin, with shaky hands you tried to swipe it off but only smeared it more.

“Why aren’t you healing!” Stiles cried out tugging you closer, “I can’t lose the love of my life.”

“That’s why.” The new voice interrupted as Stiles felt some relief, “Hey Y/N. I came as a soon as I could. I know why you aren’t healing.”

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“I can’t stay away.” [Part 3] [Nesta x Cassian]

~ new part released 07/10/17 ~
a/n
: I’M TRYNA KILL THE UPDATE GAME here’s part 3 of my NESSIAN FIC!!!! Part 4 smut and CassianwashingNesta’shair afeajweofiawe;f are yoU FCUKING READY

tags at the bottom :) and thank you to my beta and fellow elorcan/nessian trashie, @easkyrah~~


NOTE: MAJOR ACOWAR SPOILERS!! MAJOR ACOWAR SPOILERS!!
CW: Nightmares, PTSD
FST: Moth’s Wings (stripped down) by Passion Pit
Word Count: 3233

[ teaser ] [ part 1 ] [ part 2 ] [ part 3 ] [ part 4 ]
Read it on: [ fanfiction.net ] [ archive of our own ]


“You come beating like moth’s wings
Spastic and violently
Whipping me into a storm
Shaking me down to the core

But you run away from me
And you left me shimmering
Like diamond wedding rings
Spinning dizzily down on the floor”

- Moth’s Wings (stripped down) by Passion Pit


Cassian

After visiting Nesta the previous night, Cassian had flown straight home and collapsed onto the silky red sheets of his king-sized bed, clutching his pillow like a life-raft.

Although he dozed off half a dozen times, his vivid dreams were tormented by a series of scenes – the King of Hybern smiling viciously, soldiers vanishing from the field as the Cauldron’s power swept over the earth, Nesta screaming his name, the King of Hybern snapping his wings, the King of Hybern killing him, the King of Hybern killing Nesta…

Cassian resisted. He fought, even though what he saw in his mind’s eye wasn’t real; his reality and fears clashed and manifested into his worst nightmares. He felt sluggish, there were rocks tied to his limbs and he was sinking deeper into the water, into the unknown abyss…

Still, he struggled. I’ll kill you… Don’t you dare touch her, don’t you dare…

Cassian’s hands wrapped around the King of Hybern’s neck, he could see the obsidian eyes and the gleaming teeth right in front of him. There was nothing else but inky black all around him.

And then… Nesta’s face. Nesta’s beautiful face replaced the king’s, and instead of the mask of laughing cruelty, there was only fear laid bare.

And Cassian’s hands were still around that neck, that slender and pale neck… which had turned cold, beneath his fingers.

Nesta’s lifeless body lay beneath him, lacerations and bruises across her arms…

What… have I done…?

Slain soldiers lay in beds of their own making; vivid pools of red stained the ground and ran in rivers through the bloodstained fields surrounding him.

There was only blood. Cauldron save him, there was so much blood, and he couldn’t stop the bleeding…

The red sheets around him were blood, and he was drowning. Drowning, drowning…

Cassian bolted upright, face and torso covered in a sheen of sweat and chest heaving as his heart hammered in his rib cage… His eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he took in the familiar surroundings of his room, inhaling the familiar scents of the townhouse…

Cassian closed his eyes and focused on his breathing. He couldn’t look down at that sea of redness, at his trembling hands, or he would vomit right then and there.

Just a dream… he reassured himself, still breathing fast, just a nightmare…

He lay back down to relax and stared up at the ceiling, letting his imagination form the swirls and whorls into shapes and creatures.

But exhaustion soon dragged him halfway under again, somewhere between the realms of wakefulness and sleep…

Occasionally, he swore he could hear Azriel, the Shadowsinger, whispering in his ear, Wake up, Cassian

He could see the Illyrian crouched down next to him, a look of worry on his face.

Wake up, Cass…

Cassian…

Cassian?

He couldn’t move his mouth to answer, couldn’t do anything except lie there paralyzed… And when he finally wrested control of his muscles from his unconscious mind, he forced his eyes open to once again take in the undisturbed appearance of his room.

There was no one by his side. There was no one in his room, but whenever Cassian closed his eyes, he could hear voices and see forms while he lingered in limbo.

Cassian finally caught a few, precious hours of dreamless sleep just before dawn broke.

After his alarm rang at 6AM, he languished in the silken sheets of his bed longer than usual. The townhouse was near silent, save for the chirping of birds outside his windows and the faint-but-growing bustle in the city a few blocks away.

Usually, he woke to the smell of brewing coffee but today there was no familiar smell of cacao beans. From that, he inferred that Azriel had both ate out and slept out, which was rare. Unless he had somehow missed hearing Azriel come home; after all, the Shadowsinger could easily mask his presence if he wanted.

While Cassian and Az often went out to bars in the city together, they rarely slept over at a sexual partner’s place to avoid forming any unnecessary attachments. Sex without emotions was just… easier. Less messy.

Before going home with women – or men – Cassian and Az would make their terms clear from the start. Just sex, with no strings attached. And if the individual wasn’t looking for a casual hookup, then they’d part ways, no hard feelings. Nine times out of ten though, the individuals agreed to the terms.

So… not coming home was very unusual for Azriel. Cassian made a mental note to ask his brother what was going on at breakfast later this morning.

Just as he suspected, Azriel was already at the House of Wind when Cassian arrived. He was also surprised to see Nesta, already seated in her usual seat at the dining table. He gave her a cursory nod but that was it; the rejection from last night was still fresh in his mind, and the nightmares hadn’t helped, either.

Perhaps Mor was wrong. Perhaps Nesta really did just need time and space, like he had initially convinced himself.

Cassian poured himself a glass of orange juice, morosely hoping it would jog his spirit or revive whatever was left of his soul. But the lack of sleep was taking its toll so he poured himself a steaming cup of coffee as well, mixing in just enough cream and sugar in to take the bitter edge off.

Nesta seemed to be waiting for him to speak to her, as were Azriel and Mor, who were lounging casually by a column.

But Cassian turned his attention to Mor instead, giving her a lazy grin. “So did you make it to Rita’s last night?”

Mor made an exasperated face at him but started telling them a story about her night, while Azriel listened in the corner, weaving shadows between his fingers. Cassian was only half-listening to her story, although he vaguely felt like he had heard it before…

Nesta vanished shortly after Mor started chattering away, probably retreating to the library.

Neither the Morrigan nor Azriel missed it when Cassian’s eyes followed Nesta out of the room, looking… torn.

Before either of them could say anything, Cassian chucked his head towards Az. “So… where were you last night?” Mor’s brown eyes turned to Az’s face again, but her expression was unreadable.

Az smoothly replied, “Mor and I… had a long talk last night.” Mor nodded, giving a somewhat shaky smile.

Cassian instinctively took a step closer to Mor. “How’d it go?”

Az put his hands up, palms facing forward. “Relax, Cass… I slept on the couch.”

Cassian’s shoulders relaxed a bit as he glanced between their faces, but Mor didn’t refute anything Azriel said.

“Really, it’s fine, Cassian,” Mor said softly. “I mean, it’ll take some time for… things to go back to the way they used to be, and things may never be the same but…”

“‘The truth sets us free,’ remember?” Azriel quoted, smirking at Cassian.

Cassian flushed slightly as he turned on Mor. “You told him I said that?”

Mor pouted. “You flicked my nose!” Cassian rolled his eyes.

Azriel cut in. “So, what about you, brother? What are you going to do about Nesta?”

“Yeah, what are you going to do about Nesta?” Mor chimed in.

Cassian glared at both of them with annoyance, but he just sighed.

Maybe the situation could be remediated by adding a shot of alcohol to his morning coffee.


Keep reading

A dream about Anti

April 1st, 2017 (this dream was dremt the night before)

“TOP OF THE MORNING TO YOU LADDIES, my name is jacksepticeye and welcome to–”
With buzzing and excited energy, Jack starts his 5pm video with a bang with a brand new game for his viewers to see. His bubbling energy and bright smile made any viewer feel safe and fuzzy inside. The game seemed weird and warpy, like as if someone snatched chunks of play-doh and mashed them together to create a biome, whilst the sky above lit a poisonous venom colour (sort of looking like the Soda Drinker Game). Neverless Jack tells his story about how he found the game and that he seemed interested in playing it.

“Let’s get into it!” Jack announced hitting play. “Now i heard that this is some sort of circus game, with all kinds of like… tricks and pranks, all that sort of thing. Which is great because–” he lunges his body out of the shot of the camera, making him out of sight for just a few moments, it was so quick that it almost didn’t seem human. “APRIL FOOLS!!!” he bellows, his face so close to the camera it basically took up the entire webcam frame. Chuckling to himself he sat back down and started playing.

The game consisted of weird carnival games and events; giant wheels that go high into the air, whack-a-mole and arcade games, hall of mirrors and hook-a-duck… pretty much a circus fair simulator! But each event or ride seemed… broken. Something was sure to start freaking out and fly in some sort of direction or straight up not do as its told when Jack interacted with it. Despite it breaking, Jack got many laughs out of it all.

Throughout the game, something didnt feel right. The game gave off a weird effect, as if it was pulling you in more and more as you played. Not as if “i want to play more of this game” sort of way, it was more like there was some sort of mental magnet, making you never want to leave this place. Jack himself looked like he was in a trance every now and then whilst he played. Out of nowhere inside the game, an elevator appeared, just sat in the play-doh concrete floor, and Jacks eyes suddenly sparkled with curiosity.

“Ooooh… let’s go in here!” He suggested, walking up to it. Clicking the mouse and pressing several buttons to try and interact with it, he managed to get inside the elevator. “AHA!” He announced, “finally something that didnt break of me–eeeeah?” His final word turned into a confused mumble when the game loaded. He was inside the elevator, but there were four doors, one on each side, and there was a barrier stopping him getting through them all.

 "Can i not leave??“ Jack asked, trying everything he can to escape. “Aaah fuck, i should of known this would be broken EVERYTHING IN THIS GAME IS BROKEN.” he complained. Sitting up in his seat he tried again.
“Is there really no escape–” the video suddenly sent silent, and the webcam changed, an image of anti sat there, smiling at the camera; you could barely see him, but his smile shone through.

Suddenly a sharp noise screeched out of nowhere, making Jack flinch in shock. The elevator started moving, like as if it was descending. The rumble of the room got faster and faster, the elevator flying into the unknown abyss of the game.
“Ohhhh god i dont like it i dont like it i dont like it” Jack said, tensing up to the point his shoulders almost met his temple. “I can literally feel the force of–” he shook his head frantically, juttering almost and another anti glitch appeared; blood running down its face and grin, “the fucking pull of going down in an elevator!” Jack sat in his seat, wincing and wishing for the elevator to stop vibrating. “Ohh god please stop…”

“̸͡Y̵͜o͟͜ú̷̕͢ ̸͡҉̨̕w̸̨͝i̴͝ş͟h̸̀͝͡ ͝͏̛t̶̸́o̸̢̡͢͢ ̷̶͡ś̡̢͡t͏͞҉̴ơ̶͠p͏͠.̴͢.̵̧̧͝.̸̸̢̀͞?̢̡̨̡̛"̸̧̨͜͟

That familar voice. It would send shivers down your spine. Both of excitement, and fear. "P̷̴̀͠͞a͏̷̨t͡͏̨͡͏h̶̢ȩ̸̕̕͞t̷͡i̵͠͠ç-̸̡-̷̶͢ ̡̢̧̕͜y̷̵͟͜͝o̶̵̕̕͡ų͝͞ ̵̛͘͟c̷̕a͜҉͝n͟͏'̶̢͢͟͟t̡̨͜-̷̷̛̀-̨́ ̵̷͜͝҉i͘҉̨ ͏̧͠͞c̷̸̛a̵͘n̶͘'̢͜͏ţ̴ ̧̛s̴͏t͡҉͢o͏̢̨͟ṕ̵̵̷.͝͠͞"̵̛͢͡͡
The facecam suddenly turned black and disappeared, leaving the gameplay in a state of silence, only the rumble of the elevator making a small trudling noise. All of a sudden, the camera view of the game breaks away, switching it from first person to third, and Jack appears, panting. The webcam hisses and static noises break loose before reappearing, with Anti in Jacks seat, and Jack in Anti’s game.

"̴͡Y̢ǫu̸ ̨͜͜c̷̕͟a̕n̴͜t̴͜ ̷͜͡è͡s͏̡̛c͠à̕͘p͞͡ȩ,̸̴̧ ҉̷͜y̸o̵u̸ ͜c̀͝à͡ń̵̡'̷͘͘t͜ ̛͟e̵s̨͘͟c͜a͠p̧͠͠e̡̢͘!͘͜͞” Jack stands and stumbles from the force of the elevator before running around, frantically trying to pry a door open.
“͏̧͡Ý̵ò͝u͢͜ ̵̧́c̴a̶n̛ ́͢tr̸̨͟y̷̢-͘͜-͟͠ ̵̧i̛͡͞ ̧c͝ą͡n̵̛͡ ͝ţ͘͟r̢͢y–̷̕ ̸a͢͞l̕l ̷͟y̴͠͠ou̸ ̨w̕à̕̕n͏t̴́,҉͝ b̷ų̵t ̢ẁe҉͝–̸ w̸̕͝í̛l̴l͝ ́b̷e̶͠-̕͞-́"̴ The facecam sparks and creates static, Anti throwing his head in wild directions, making the game itself freeze from time to time; almost as if to stop Jack from trying to escape. 


"̠́͗̑̆ͫ̚͢ͅW̛͎̥̳͎͌ͮ-̫̪̯͇̃̓ẁ̴̫̻͎̩͔̗̣͒̒͆ͦ͐̅e̢͈͎̖ ̉͆҉̦̤w͇̟̬̋ͤͫͤ͛̓̀ì͉̹̯̖̘l̳̦͐͋ͩͭ͌͜ͅl̴̊ ̦͎̯̲̭̭̈͆ͅb̥̈́̐̐ͪ̃͌͢ę̬̫͇̅͑̚-̙̝̬̟̓͐ͅ-̖͔̩̞̤̓͆̌ ̼̈́͒͗̈͌̽͞T̴̳͔ͦͩ͆O̩̟̠͛ͫ̎̒́G͖ͤͩ̉͑Ê̦̗̋̀T̶ͭH̲̒̇ͤ̌E̹̦̪̫͓̟̻̓̒̓ͥ̓ͣR̡̥͔̻͚ͣ̿ͪ̃̍ͬ̚!̵̲̞̺͇̻̲̥̊ͥ̈́ ̮̀͛ͦ̒̓̊f̵̽̏̾o̹̜̩̰̻͖̩ͯ̒ṙ̡͔͚͇̰̊ͥ͗ͪe͈ve͚̦̞͕͈r͎̣̱̣̬̠͚.̠͖̼̲͙̖̽̽͂ͤ̐̂͜.̟̒ͥͨ̄͟.̖̪̱̖̥͚̀͆ͬ̌͋ͅ"̲̦͔̱͇̼ͩ̈́ͮͪ́́̎

"NO!” Jack yelled, kicking at a door one final time before giving up. “I might not be able to hear you fully because your shitty signal doesnt work, but FUUUUCK you.” Jack stood in the centre, smiling to himself from his witty comment. The facecam froze in shock, Anti didnt like being talked back to.

“̶̡̨̙̠̲̥͛̇͐̃̽ͤͯ̄͑ͯ̈̀͗̋͐͟F̸̡̠̙̰̯͔̳͓͉͈͎̫̠̆̐̆̓̅ͨ̀͐̄̉ͣ̐͢͢I̷̥͔͚̝̺͙̤̰̫̦̩̬̞̎ͦ͛̂ͫ͆́̏͂̕͠͠N̴ͩͬ͗ͮ̀͢͏͙̹͕̘̤͙E̯̘̱̪͕ͦͧͯͣͥ͋̽̓ͩ̑̀̀̚ͅ!̶̧̧͚͙͇̣͎̦͕̮̙̹̩̬̒̿̑ͬ͒̓ͨͩ̾͒̾́̂̅ͅ!̃̈ͮ͌ͪ͊ͯͣ̈ͪ͂ͯ̚҉̮͚͉̟̮̥͚͓͍̯̳̕͟͝” Anti lunges at the camera, arm outstetched and hands clawed, ready to almost grab you. The facecam turned into TV static and disappeared, and the elevator around Jack started to break down in glitches. The walls ran with vibrant broken colours, the textures switching sides several times. Worried, Jack retreated to the centre of the room.

“Shit, shitshitshit.” All of a sudden the speakers and several rides from the circus rides glitch through the ceiling and straight through Jack, but the wires and cords latch onto him and pull, trying to make him go through the floor into the unknown. “NO–” he yelps, trying to fight against it. “Fucks sake Anti i dont want this– i’m so sick of you trying to control me–!”

“̵̡̡Ì͟m ͏͞s͜͡o͘͝ ̡s͘͟͡ic̷̴k̢ óf̸ ͞w̢͠-͘w̧͟a̛͝-̧w̵̡a̶̡i̡̛t͝i͏͜n̛͝g̀͝ ̢f̶͢͝o̵͝r̡͞ ͏ỳ̨̛o͏u̴͠ ̢͘͞t͢-̵͞t̶ǫ g̢͏i̵̡͜v̧͢ȩ͟ ̸͟ùp,̢͝ ͢i҉̨͢ ̧͟͞m̧͝ì̵͢ǵht͟ ̶as̀͢ ̨́͞well̴ ͢k-k͞҉-̶̴k̴͢҉I͘͠L̴L͞ Y̕͝OU̸̢͘ ̸̢Ǹ͢O̢W̸͜!̨͜” The cords dragged Jack down more, making him go onto his knees, the glitches dripped down the walls more and more, creeping towards the floor. If jack can’t escape, the glitches will reach the floor, make Jack fall through it, and he will be lost inside this circus game forever.

Just seeing this happen… you felt a strong incline for Jack to win. If all goes to plan Jack will be lost forever, and Anti will take over. Jack struggled and fought, cursing under his breathe as he tried to wriggle out of the cords. The glitches dripped more and more, getting closer as time grew short.

But despite it all, Jack broke through. Anti’s chants and glitched facecam and video, made Jack more determined to win. He didn’t want to be a puppet of his game, a toy, a shell.
“FUCK YOU ANTI!” Jack announced, pulling hard at the cords. “YOU GLITCH BITCH MOTHERFUCKER, YOU’RE JUST DEPRESSED BECAUSE YOU CAN’T HAVE A BODY OF YOUR OWN TO SHOW OFF YOUR MASSIVE EGO.” Blue sparks flew off of the cords, the glitches have hit the floor, and they were growing toward the green beacon. But with determination, the cords snapped, and the whole video had plunged into darkness.

“Thank you… for hearing my call” a faint voice said. A Jack’s voice said. A small giggle was followed after that, and the video ends there. Jack had defeated Anti for the time being.

(Some bits were made up in this dream but only to fill in the blanks, but most of this DID happen in the dream. Sorry its super long!!!)

@singingartbird

medium.com
Dear Chefs, (This is For You)

They won’t understand you. They won’t. I know this, because I used to be on their side, stuck in a dead end office, working a shitty job, making decent pay. My family and friends were convinced I’d lost my mind when I gleefully leaped into the unknown abyss of cooking. I suppose they thought it was a phase I’d soon grow out of. Could this be you? Maybe finishing high school and are contemplating a life in the kitchen, or are already in culinary school. Maybe its not you, but rather someone close to you. Whatever the circumstances, if you’ve gotten this far, I implore you to keep reading.

Regardless, keep reading.

Most will never know what it’s like to make a living as a professional cook or chef, and that makes me smile. It’s something of which I am arrogantly proud. No, not because I think we’re better than anyone, but because of the fact that to be a really good cook or chef it takes tremendous physical, mental and emotional fortitude. Most people don’t have, nor appreciate the gifts we’ve been given, and this often includes our front of the house counterparts.

Seven days a week, we show up willing to get our asses kicked. We sign up for this in exchange for an opportunity to express ourselves through food. There’s no such thing as weekends or holidays. We might get a random Tuesday off, and if we’ve put in the proper dues and happen to be in cahoots with the chef, we just might have the good fortune of being exonerated from working the dreaded Sunday morning brunch shift. No one wants to work Sunday morning. We work longer days than just about anyone. Days start early and end late, typically when the rest of the western world is changing into their PJs, brushing their teeth and hopping into bed. The length, isn’t the hard part though, its the depth. Fifteen hours on your feet is grueling enough to scare away some fence-straddlers, but on top of that, consider the kitchen atmosphere where everything is either excruciatingly hot or sharp as hell. Cooks scurry around cussing, the printer spewing out tickets as fast as it can, and for hours every inch of one’s body is physically tested. Emotions are tested, and sometimes you will fail that test. You’ll break into frustration mid-shift, relying on a teammate to help pull you through. Your mental strength will be tested — misreading tickets, overcooking steaks, undercooking pasta, or completely blanking the fuck out on any number of things, once again having to rely on a teammate to pull you through. You’ll do the same for him — it’s how we survive. Close call finger-nicks and tears shed while chopping onions don’t phase us, not even secondarily. Screaming hot 50 pound pots of salted water simmer away, not boiling fast enough most of the time. When the potatoes or pasta are ready to come out, chances are a dry towel is nowhere to be found, and lacking time to search, we somehow make do, most likely further searing the callouses up and down our already damaged hands. Pain is an after thought, it doesn’t phase us. It can’t, or the whole ship sinks. We owe it to the warriors next to us to keep going. There will also be a point mid-shift, when you’ll have to make a dash to the dry storage pantry, or the walk-in cooler. Darting across the obstacle course of the kitchen typically includes maintaining one’s sense of balance while leaping across oil-slicked tile, dodging pans flying in the vicinity of the dish pit, and having to weave in and out of fellow line cooks, then back into our place on the line. This is all to be done without dropping your supplies, or worse, disrupting the rhythm of the team. Disrupt the rhythm, and we all go down with you. This takes serious skills. To create the rhythm necessary for success on the kitchen line takes hours and sometimes years working together as a unit, in the trenches, slugging it out, together. Next to the military in full fledged combat, a group of guys and gals in the kitchen know teamwork better than anyone.

Let’s say you made it to the end of the service. By now several hours have elapsed since the first tickets came chirping through the printer, and the apron draped around your neck now resembles something your dog might have chewed to hell after having splashed through the mud. You are filthy, but pots are done flying across the kitchen, flames from the burners are dulled to mere pilot lights and for the first time all night, you have a minute to breathe. A Red Bull sounds pretty good right about now, or traditionally, a cigarette in the cool fresh air outside of the kitchen hits the spot for most chefs. The burns on your hand have probably blistered already, and now that you actually have a minute, the pain hits you. The slightest of breaks and its back to business identifying prep needs for the following day. It’s the easy part of the night, coasting home, after a dozen hours afoot. Now, the challenge is powering through when your mind is occupied with fantasies of beers, shots, the dive bar across the street and the pretty new waitress whose name you’ve already forgotten.

If there is one thing I’ve learned as a chef, it is that we are always learning to adapt —rolling with the punches. We put ourselves out there as artists and creators. Its a beautiful thing to have the opportunity to express ourselves through the creation of food, and the food we craft should be an expression of who we are. What we create is just as much of how the world has shaped us, as it is us shaping the way we see the world through our food. Unfortunately, most diners don’t connect with our perspective. They want their food, their way, and it pisses us the hell off. Chances are, if you aren’t a chef, this has been you, and we have undoubtedly bitched about you to our fellow cooks. If you’ve ever put your work out into the world, you know how much it stings to have your work not appreciated as you intended. This is what keeps us up at night asking ourselves how could I do it better, and what should I have done differently? It eats at us if we let it.

Don’t let it.

Chances are your family, friends and virtually anyone close to you will be unsuccessful in understanding the life you have chosen for yourself, but maybe this letter helps, just a bit. If so, they might understand why your mind is racing at 2AM after a 400 cover Friday night, and why you can’t celebrate Mother’s Day brunch with the fam. Perhaps now they might understand why every square inch of your body hurts most of the time, and how there really are no sick days in restaurants. They might understand why we settle for grossly underpaid wages, and hopefully they can read between the lines, and figure out why we bitch about customers upon getting off of work. They might understand how the stress from our jobs might lead us to have a few cocktails, which might be followed with a few bad decisions. Above all, if nothing else, maybe they will see that we can’t imagine our lives any other way.

I’ll take a hand full of burn blisters, some achy knees and the hankering for a cocktail at the end of the night, over ever having to sit at another desk miserably debating whether or not to shove needles through my eye balls. Living this life means we get to be creative. It means we get to showcase our skills in the heat of battle, feeling the adrenaline rush of sloshing through the trenches with guys to our left and right. These are guys we’re lucky to call teammates. It means we get to be creative and stand proud for something we believe in. We get to sleep with a certain piece of mind and awaken the following morning hungry for more. Even if it means suiting up for brunch every now again, we get to make a difference in the lives of people around us, in the best way we know how. We get to make them happy, and we get to through food.

Promise me this:

Show up every day looking to make the most of it. Learn from the best, seek to be the best, and once you are on your way, teach others to be the best. This life won’t be easy. It will be damn hard, but it will be worth it, and in the end you will have lived a life of which you are proud, one that’s yours, and in doing so, you get to make the world taste a bit better in the process.

Cook Your Ass Off,

Chef Chris Hill

Fear.

This isn’t a word associated with Scorpio much. More than anything, like their co-ruled Aries under Mars, Scorpio repels while attracting. It’s usually Scorpio that consciously or unconsciously provokes fear in others. And thats because they may be perceived as a body floating in a black, empty void. Like Pluto. They strike fear in others because Scorpio has danced with death and become buried alive by pain. Scorpio confronts others with the terror they would rather avoid, passively. Many people fear death, and Scorpio’s presence offsets the energy that reminds people of the impending shift of consciousness. Some people are energized by this. Other people are intimidated by Scorpios for reasons they can’t pinpoint. And for this many Scorpios find people instantly like them or are repelled by them.

Fear is what drives the lower evolved Scorpio to evil, crime, cruelty and power hunger. Their inability to negotiate the underworld torrents, the plunge into infinite blackness with only their senses to rely on. And while alone, tumbling through a shadowy Pluto abyss, the less integrated Scorpio grabs a hold of anything they perceive will provide them a pillar to step foot on or satisfy their own spiral of indwelling mysteries. This comes through abuses of power and the grotesque manipulation of people through contaminated Pluto water. Authority, money, control and dominance provide a platform on what is a seeming infinite abyss of unknown blackness. And Pluto turns into a dirty waste product when Scorpios, or any of us processing Pluto submit to the underworld guardian with fear, ignorance, aggression and  fail to confront our own psychological processes and harness the  transformative facilities.

These lesser evolved characters have coloured the Scorpio imagery with malevolence and painted Pluto as the assassin dwelling in the shadows. And yet this is typical of Pluto, to illuminate the murkiness while shielding the light. Harsh and humble. Unlike Saturn who stirs the rapids in the water and the flotation devices at every achieved obstacle; with Pluto, we are already submerged and blinded. Here we are forced to find the breath of life behind the eyes wide shut, the light found only in the darkness of the soul and the symphonies in silence.

This is powerful, yet all too overwhelming for some Scorpio incarnates. For some the blackness begins to leak into their soul and their reflex is to spread this in malicious acts of cruelty. We see this through corrupt politicians and remorseless criminals. But what they deem as ‘power’; sitting behind desks with profound titles, victimising other individuals, possessing ultimate authority, religious command and monetary esteem is the ultimately powerless attempt to fill a void of fear. This is a fear of the deep, spiritual and unconscious processes and difficult truths they cannot fathom or manage, and yet, it is largely these types deeming the integrated Scorpio - the healing mystic, the compassionate redeemer, the meditative solitary as weak or unsubstantiated. Intimidation is the response to their intimidation of their own inner world. This doesn’t attenuate their distress so their desire for power grows stronger and stronger and their acts becoming more desperate and callous. Scorpio is a complex sign that blends the purest and most volatile of the human traits. Where the zodiac has learned to form, own, converse, belong, express, analyze and balance; it has developed the human awareness to to consciously weave the web  choose how to walk alongside the gatekeeper.
-C.

“Until we have met the monsters in our own heart, we keep trying to slay them in the outer world. And we find that we cannot. For all the darkness in the world stems from the darkness in the heart. And it is there we must do our work” —  Marianne Wilson  
  • guinness world records man: sir you have done nothing but do pushups from this one spot for 20 years with no rest. what drives you?
  • me, still doing pushups: i wanna push this planet out of the idiot solar system and into the horrifying abyss of the unknown universe and this is the only way I know how
  • world records man, in awe: [drops everything and instantly begins doing pushups next to me]
The Moon

Amidst the Fall; We Bleed the Same: chapter 9

When the party returns to Winterfell, Jon notices something strange, a peculiar event in where every so often it twists at his mind. Theon refuses to look at Sansa or deny her, as if somehow she holds the reins to his arrogance. It’s all he thinks of as he spars with Robb.

Theon no longer cracks willful jests of milkmaids or farmers daughters. Nor does he go on about his name, the entitlement he deserves, or how great he is. At least not when Sansa is around. And that is what is unnerving.

The Ironborn acts himself around Robb, Ser Jory, and Jon. But the moment Sansa comes into view he shuts up, only to twiddle his thumbs like a dolt.

He isn’t the only one who has noticed. Robb has, as well as father, and even Arya. Who mutters of Theon’s inconsistency. They have been home for almost a fortnight and the actions that dispose of Theon’s incredulous prerogative.

A piece of Jon wants to ask what’s going on, why Theon feels the need to silence himself around Sansa, but another part is almost afraid to ask. What could have Sansa possibly done to silence the great Theon Greyjoy?

No one has been able to drain the Ironborn of his narcissism, not even a little. Yet here they are in Winterfell, Theon succumbing to simple words, keeping any story he could have continued shut under the presence of Sansa Stark.

Keep reading

the end of the world as we know, part ll. (a story)

I feel out.  Drunk on deserted centuries and no cadence of a tribe in suit.  I’ve left my ghost to loiter in my discreet quiet turbulence of an equivocate mind, I guess my understanding is not so rational. This city bleeds crimson on the closing of the second calm, as the dark masses everywhere have swarmed our streets to a hush of hidden low. It’s silly and juvenile really, how did we get to this trampled sea? It’s somewhere between the bottom empty in my words I try to expel from my cracked lips, and I cannot speak, nor breathe.  The dead know everything and my heart has wanted to stop beating the horizon of this new fallen moon. You’ve abandoned me when I have not you, you have scratched my skin to oblivion where I wear only shreds and shards of bone. I don’t have to scribble your name in my heart to let the world know that keenly I am fond, I am a quiet griever in the abyss of the unknown.  I yell down those desolate rocky hills, only to see wildly the black birds that fly over the dead, like a trampling army consumed with fight.  These ancient sorrows I feel has breathed a whole new life inside my body, a fight I now realize I do not want to give up so easily.  So I look the heavens directly in the eyes as I hear my existence quiver and shake to my new found blood, that guides by my own soul.  I beat at the sky and my gesture is all in strength and in numbers that I bear in my fist,  “don’t fuck with me,” I scream from the uncontrollable intolerance off my lungs.  I will capture your eyes once again,  I will billow like tall flowers that you will worship in ecstasy to breathe in, I will be the shield in the darkness as you crawl the years of a land that is shrouded with dragons, and I’ll be the lake that glimmers off the sheen of her moon.  Delicate and delectable to taste from your strong hands, you shiver onto me, and wickedly we become our own Edens divine.

Remember You

Originally posted by bamethyst

Reader (you) x Bambam

Warnings: IT IS SAD AND I AM SORRY

Word Count: 1.8K

note: a little inspiration from the album lol! I hope you enjoy it and I’m sorry if it’s sad LOL. Happy Reading! -admin rose


BAMBAM’S POV

We were strangers.

Anonymous, absent, on our own paths. Our knowledge of each other’s presence, obscure. Our identities, unknown. My own road was pitch black, yet I trotted down its dim path regardless of my tumbles, my misdirection. Little did I know, I was lost, I didn’t know where I would end up. Life for me was an abyss; intimidating, unknown, longing to send me careening down its unforgiving drop. But one day, my path crossed yours. I was shy at first, but then you lit up. You reached out to me, warmth in your fingertips, and took my hand. I grabbed on, attracted to your fire, and we wandered down the road of life. Together. You were my North Star, the light in my abyss. You found me, so I could find myself. We wandered out of my bumpy road, and onto one illuminated by your warmth. I held your hand, out of the darkness, and we walked through life. Together.

Together… an expression, a feeling that once gave me refuge, now inflicts a bruise on my heart every time it erupts from my repressed brain. Together. The word reminded me of us. It reminded me of our love, our memories, our collapse.

Keep reading

when I let you come close/r/
I let myself go of everything

everything I had built up,
around me, within me

I don’t think you understand
how much I actually did, change,

for you, before we even talked
before we even could interact

just because a heartbreak
years ago, fucked me up
pretty bad, left me in pieces

just because this asshole,
I let inside, destroyed me
broke me, heart and soul

I don’t think you’ll ever understand
how much I needed someone,
like you

I knew right away,
you were worth it,

the unknown abyss
awaiting me

if I was to let go
and letting you in

          ARCHETYPES 7/?: WATER

A woman is only as good as the water she is drowned in. Her worth is measured in bath tubs and city gin, spilling from taps and faucets. She is made completely of her sink – fill it with babies, fill it with dishes, fill it with vegetables to be cleaned. Fill her cups, her mugs, her glasses with tears and fluids spat out from her bitter tongue.

The woman teaches you the worth of water. She shows you herself, screaming and cawing. She comes to you on your ships, your boats made of riches and makes you hear her. She sees your cruelty, your harsh words and puts you where you belong. Is your heart blackened? Is your mind wicked? When you open your mouth to speak, are you words kind or vicious? 

                  How clean is your spirit?

Answer honestly, but know that she see all. Before you, she has taken sailors and slave traders. Rich and cruel men have died at her hand, boats smashing against the rocks. Their bodies, mangled and misused, sleep in her home. She gives to them a blanket of seaweed and a pillow of anemone. She picks her sharp, pointed teeth with their bones. She weaves a dress from hair and fishing nets, teeth and strange things caught between the lines. She has no use for their jewels – she wears their sins as gems. 

Down in her abyss of the unknown and frightful, she is unclaimed. Sailors will tell stories of mermaids and of sirens. They whisper to each other how to capture one. They say, “If you find one, you can keep her.” As if she is a thing to be kept. As if she is some strange bauble to put on a shelf and admire. Their bones rest with her too, a bed warmer for the cold and bloated.

 She is endless, vast and omnipotent. She is both death and birth. She is the water used to scrub hands and the water used to snuff out lives. She is the river under the bridge, accepting bodies fallen like lovers come home. She is thunderstorms to rock your home and gentle rains to lull you to sleep. 

   You are right to fear the water. 

                     There is a reason the ocean is unknown.