(Some backstory; the paladin and I (wizard) are both nobles, but from opposing nations, and wildly different statures of society (merchant and heir to a much larger estate) so we were at odds in a joking way and eventually this led to me jumping from a window, passing out (0 hp) and having a chamber pot poured on me while our warforged decided to turn it into a public show. This took place at a market the next day)
DM: You see a merchant selling foodstuffs.
Warforged: I go up to him.
DM: Welcome, welcome! Come try my delicious sh*t on a wizard! (Que confusion/disgust from the party) They were doughmen, but I saw a hilarious show this morning and decided to pour chocolate on them.
Warforged: How much?
DM: 2 copper each.
Me: (Is passing by and still pretty sore about the incident) I cast mold earth, making a 5x5 hole underneath him.
DM: Oooof! Oh! Look at this! Magical shit on a wizard! They make magical miracles happen! Buy your own for 3 copper each!
Me: Mold earth, I move a pile of dirt on his head.
DM: AMAZING! These things are magic of the highest degree! Come! Buy your own for just 4 copper each! *Dusts dirt off his stock*
Me: Mold earth, I write “Latrine” and an arrow pointing to his face in the dirt.
DM: LOOK AT THIS! These are amazing magical items! Come see what they can do! Have your own magical miracles in your own home! Just five coppers each! *Rubs out words*
You can’t go on like you’re going to start really living one day, like all this is some preamble to some great life that’s going to magically appear. I’m a firm believer that you have to create your own miracles. Don’t hold out that there’s something better waiting on the other side. It doesn’t work that way.
You, standing at a precipice
You, a full tank of gasoline
You, forest fire lit by the matches of supremacy
You, burning down everything you touch.
You were a kid falling in love with every black cat that crossed your path.
You broke your mother’s hand mirror just over 7 years ago
but you don’t see your luck turning around.
You burn down everything you touch.
You are a fire you never wanted to light.
You are so hollow
You can stuff kindling in your bones.
didn’t sleep the night you killed her
didn’t sleep the night you found her
are not her
So why does it feel like you’re choking every time your hands are around her throat.
You don’t know how to kill something that never was alive
She is only a clay sculpture
That you call your body
You are a forest fire
That only knows how to serve as her kiln.
You do not love her
But you still are her
“Every block of stone has a statue inside it and it is the task of the sculptor to discover it.”
That is to say you may have built her with your own chisel
But only because you found the wrong slab of marble
That is to say
You were born more archaeologist than artist
It’s no wonder you’re still trying to dig out the boy inside you
That is to say
You learned discovery synonymous with invention
It’s no wonder you’re trying to build something by finding what’s already there
All life is made of cells
That is to say you are made of the same stuff as God
The holy spirit of your own within
The writer of your first creation myth
And your own fucking miracle once you learn how to build.
Anonymous said:Can you make another Rosalie Hale where she asks her mate about her past but her mate was abused by her adopted guy and what she experienced was so horrible it’s like Isaac Lahey from teen wolf but worser and Rosalie had tears in her eyes please
A/N: Yes of course, sweetie. I usually stray from these types of imagines, but I’ll do something different for a change. Thank you for requesting and I hope this is what you were looking for, anon. Please enjoy! By the way, it’s really really long!
Not my gif. Gif credit goes to the amazing creators!
Imagine: Rosalie asking you, - her mate-, about your past and when you tell her, it chokes her up.
WARNING!: THE IMAGINE UP AHEAD HAS TRIGGERING THEMES LIKE ABUSE, BUT IT DOESN’T ACTUALLY DESCRIBE MUCH! IF YOU ARE EASILY TRIGGERED BY THIS THEME PLEASE DO NOT READ THIS FOR YOUR OWN GOOD!
Rosalie’s gorgeous golden ochre eyes glued themselves to you. “So tell me something, sweetie,” she begins, causing you to look up at her, your own gorgeous yellow ochre eyes meeting hers. “What was your past like? You’ve never spoken about it for the whole time in our immortal lives. It’s been so long. Surely you are dying to tell someone.” Rosalie prods a little nosily and you knew that this was going to come up some time soon since Rosalie always asked you about it.
“There’s nothing to know. It was a life almost like yours but maybe worse.” you shrug, getting up and turning your back to Rosalie.
“Well then, why won’t you tell me?” her irate tone doesn’t surprise you any more. You’d grown so used to her mood swings it no longer effected you.
“Because,” you says slowly, turning around to face her. “My life was hell and Carlisle turned me for another reason. We lived in the same time period but on different corners of the world. Can’t you just leave it at that, Rosalie?” you beg her.
“I’ll just ask Carlisle, then.” she lifts her nose up like she had smelt something disgusting as her eyes icily settled on yours.
“You know what? Fine. Take a seat. You’ll be here for a long time and grab a box of tissues because it’s a big old sob story.” you snap.
“Don’t humour me with tissues. I won’t cry, and besides you know we don’t have tears.” Rosalie sits on the edge of the bed the two of you shared, ironically. “I know you don’t like getting emotional but maybe it will help us connect further.” she carries on.
“Like we need to get any closer, Rosalie.” you sigh, leaning against the wall on the other end of the room. “I don’t talk about this simply because it makes me go bitter.” you start.
“You already are bitter in a sarcastic manner.” Rosalie smiles wryly at you. You roll your eyes.
“If you want to hear it then quit with the commentating, tuts.” you warn her and she smirks, glad that she’s having her way.
You take a deep breath before you speak, facing the large window. You didn’t want Rosalie to see you weaken before her. “I lived in a foster home most of my life and we all know what foster homes were like back in those times. I was there until I was about seven, simply because my biological parents died in a house fire.” you breathe out. “I don’t want to tell you what happened in the foster home, though you could guess. All the children were treated the same.” you shudder from the memories flooding into your brain right that moment. “When I was seven this rich couple adopted me and I thought I was saved.” you turn around, making jazz hands.
“What happened next?” Rosalie furrows her eyebrows.
“They treated me like a mule, Rosalie. What do you think? They had children and I became their slave.” you spit out bitterly. “Do you know what it’s like to get beaten to a pulp and still expected to clean a mansion from top to bottom?” you laugh out, but you’re crying with no tears. “One day, the day that Carlisle found me,which was my nineteenth birthday,” you break because you hated feeling vulnerable and Rosalie could see that. “My adopted father drank too much that night and I think you can guess what happened next, Rose.” your tone is like poison pelting her chest.
“I want to hear you say what happened. To let it out.” she encourages you with a ginger smile.
“I was working too slow for his taste, apparently. And with a broken arm it’s hard to clean silver fast without not doing it properly.” you laugh nervously. “the adopted mother wasn’t so bad, had a soft spot for me but she never stopped him. That beating left me worse than a pulp you know? He just threw me in the back yard with the dogs, leaving me to bleed out for hours.” you clench your jaw, swallowing thickly. “When it got dark and the lights were out, Carlisle found me because of my blood, the dogs were huddled around me to keep me warm. I miss those dogs.” your lower lips quivers as your body starts shaking. Rosalie’s expression saddens, imagining what you went through. “He turned me and I took the longest out of everyone to change. Carlisle thought that maybe it was because of all the injuries I’d endured, but I made it.” you grin, holding out your hands and twirling.
Before Rosalie could utter a word you continued. “Carlisle begged me not to go back, but I did. I scared them until they were begging for me to leave them alive. But what good did that do?” you slam your back on the wall, slightly indenting it as you slide down it, knowing everyone in the home could hear your story. “I killed them. Even the younger children.” you shake your head. “I became a monster over night. I-I became what I was scared to become. Him.” and now you’re blubbering up a storm, curled. “The children weren’t innocent either you know? They did mean things to me, horrible things. No one ever stood up for me or liked me there apart from my adopted mother. she wasn’t so bad…” you shake your head. “I left the dogs alone, though, made sure they were okay.” you were getting off track from the trauma.
“She begged me to leave him alive, but I grew impatient and impulsive. I snapped her neck like a twig…” you shake your head. “She didn’t even deserve it. But then I saw him, him crying and begging and pleading like I used to and I had power and I bit into him, slaughtered him like a pig, Rose.” you tug on yourhair. “I never got over that so I ran away from Carlisle but he followed me with Esme.” you shake your head. “I was a ripper and I preyed on innocent people and that made me bitter. That’s why I am the way that I am, why I’m bitter and sarcastic and can’t take things seriously. If we ever die and there’s a chance we get to Heaven, Rose. God won’t forgive me for all the killing I did. Hell’s my home.” you shrug, laughing a little.
That’s when you looked up to see what Rosalie’s expression was like. It was torn and agonisingly hurt. Her ochre eyes did not meet yours whatsoever as she sniffled, swallowing thickly. “And now I’ve made you cry.” you throw your hands up.
“No,” she shakes her head. “Not you. Them. How could they have done something like that to you or all people?” Rosalie inquires. “When I met yo, you were so cheery and I adored you from the moment I saw you. I noticed your bitterness and I related, because I get bitter like that…” she shakes her head. “We’re so alike it’s frightening. But I’ve always loved you as you are, with all your flaws and all of your perfections. Your past changes nothing of the love that I feel and have for you, (Y/N). It’s only deepened it. I have hope for you, you know? You’re going to change this world with your amazing gift of helping others in situations like your own. You’re a miracle.” she grins at you and you imagined tears running down her face. She would be beautiful even if she cried.
You never said anything as she crouched before you, pulling you forward and caressing you into her arms. “I love you, (Y/N).”
“I love you too, Rosalie.” you breathe in her scent from her golden blonde wavy hair.
“And I promise that you’ll never have to go through such a situation as that ever again.” she promises you and you hoped that she’s right.
Please keep requesting imagines! If you like it, please follow for more.
what happened with mcargent? how did it end? how was the scene??
honey i need you to do me a favour and go watch it because okay they didn’t get enough moments as usual but what they got was the actual cutest fucking thing in the history of this show and i’m not gonna be over it for the rest of my life. my dying words will be ‘mcargent…. was…. so … cute…’ and they’ll have to put it on my grave i am never letting this go
just click on the lena fic tag to see the previous installments
You wake up almost 13 hours later; propped up against a cold cement wall. Your vision refuses to clear no matter how many times you blink and there’s a constant, dull pain radiating through your skull. You suck in a breath, trying to revive yourself as much as possible, and reach up tentatively to feel the back of your head. Blood has caked over the most painful spot; gluing your hair together where the bat struck against it. Touching the area hurts so badly it causes your stomach to lurch and you turn your head to the side just in time to vomit a small puddle of bile. It dawns on you that your hands are free and you squint at the deep ligature marks on your wrists. The camera is also gone, which you notice after glancing around the room. In the tripod’s place are two bottles of water and a small paper bag. With a grunt of effort, you try to propel yourself to your feet, only to have your breath taken away by a shattering pain in your left leg. Collapsing back onto the cement, you pant and try not to get sick again. There’s no doubt in your mind that your leg is broken; the feeling is one you’ve experienced before. You vaguely recall jumping from a swing set on the playground of your elementary school and immediately hearing a crack, followed by the same hot agony.
It feels pitiful to do so, but you eventually drag yourself across the room on your hands and good leg. Even that amount of effort leaves you lightheaded and you fumble for one of the waters. The liquid seems to rouse you a bit as it soothes your parched throat and you manage to sit up against the room’s metal door.
After draining one of the bottles as fast as your stomach will allow, you open the brown paper bag, leaving smudges of blood from your stained hands, and dump its contents onto the floor. Two apples roll out, along with two pens and a small yellow notebook. Your heart falls at the realization that you’re expected to write your last thoughts onto it. It’s a morbid, but strangely merciful action. Too weak to think about scrawling anything across the paper, you instead reach for one of the pieces of fruit and, despite the ache in your jaw, bite into it.
The small amount of food isn’t much, but it at least raises your blood sugar enough for your vision to clear. After studying your watch, you determine that it’s been over 100 hours since you were taken. You begin to wonder whether or not Lena knows you’re in trouble or if she just thinks that you bailed. The idea of her never knowing makes your chest tighten and you wonder if you write something to her, will your captors have enough decency to deliver it? Are they sending her the videos from the camera or are they just to assure Lillian that they got the job done well? Would your note just end up in the hands of her mother as something to scoff at?
Exhaustion overwhelms you at the thought of trying to think of what to say to her and it surprises you to feel tears streaming down your face. The salty drops sting the abrasions on your skin and you suck in a shaky breath before closing your eyes and folding your hands. You were never one for religion, but you find yourself reaching out to a God you had doubted since childhood. You ask not for your own freedom, but for Lena’s. You pray that she somehow knows that you didn’t leave. That you would have stayed in her life as long as she would have let you. That the idea of your death scares you less than her hurting because of you. You don’t bother asking for your own salvation; miracles aren’t something you could bring yourself to put your faith in at this point. You don’t have the mental strength. Eventually, sleep takes over and you lay down on your side as gingerly as possible before passing out with Lena’s features projected across your eyelids.
Lena Luthor had never called in sick to anything before, but that changed. A lot changed. She let herself slip into the nagging idea of drowning her sorrows in booze that had followed her around since early adulthood. Supergirl had returned to her apartment later that night after she begged for her help, only to inform Lena that she hadn’t been able to detect any sign of where you might be. National City was a huge place and while she had the senses of a god, she hadn’t been able to pick up on anything. Lillian was still secure in prison; that she had been able to confirm by peering through the walls of the maximum security facility. None of that was of any comfort to the dark haired woman, but Supergirl had assured her that she wouldn’t give up.
Drunk and in a particular state of anger the next night, Lena had called Kara out on her secret the next time she landed on her balcony. While before all of this she had chosen to respect the hero’s wish for anonymity, Lena was in no mood to go on pretending. Kara didn’t seem particularly surprised and she took a seat beside the CEO on her couch; eyeing the astonishing amount of liquor bottles on the coffee table. Lena looked like hell.
“Do you want to talk about her?” the reporter asked hesitantly. She wasn’t quite sure whether that would make things better or worse, but she knew she couldn’t leave her alone like this. Lena was crumbling. “Who exactly is Y/N?”
“I don’t know,” Lena laughed ruefully and sipped at what looked to Kara like scotch. “I was still trying to figure that out.”
“What do you mean?” Kara frowned.
“I thought she was my assistant for a while, and then we were sleeping together—“ it was immediately apparent that Lena was past the point of a filter, “—but then she showed up in my office, telling me all about how my mother had hired her to spy on me—“
“What?” Kara interrupted. “Lillian hired her? Lena, why…why would you…” she let her voice fall, unsure of what to even ask.
“I don’t know. She betrayed my mother and saved me from a hitman. But, you’re right; I shouldn’t trust her. I shouldn’t…have the feelings for her that I do. She promised that she’d make things right; that she’d change. I thought that she skipped town before that video turned up.”
“Lena, is she even someone you can trust? I just…I hate to see you hurting like this.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know anything,” Lena’s voice trembled and Kara watched her knuckles pale as she gripped her glass like a vice, trying to keep herself together. “And I know it’s foolish, but I want to trust her. I wanted her to stay so badly.”
“But, maybe it’s for the best that she’s gone,” Kara ventured. She immediately knew that it was a mistake as the other woman’s eyes began to glisten and her face reddened with the strain of trying to reign in her emotions.
“No,” Lena whispered. “Y/N is good. She’s good. You have to find her Kara. Please.”
A sob that absolutely broke Kara’s heart echoed through the lavish apartment and she wrapped her arms around Lena, feeling her shake with the weight of her grief.
Five hours passed before your eyes open again. It was difficult to even manage that much at this point; your entire face had continued to swell from the beating you took earlier on. Sitting up is another difficult feat, but you manage it and reach for your second bottle of water. You’re well aware of the fact that your time is running out; Lillian would be out soon. You had a feeling that she would want to be there when they killed you. Perhaps she would even deliver your death personally.
With trembling hands, you take a drink and then reach for the paper and pens. Your wrists ache from being bound for so long, but you’re still able to write Lena’s name at the top of the first page legibly. You stall for almost a minute; unable to find words to describe the mix of emotions swirling in your chest.
You finally manage that much and grimace at the bloody traces your fingers leave on the paper. It’s hard not to imagine Lena holding the paper in her own hands. You move the pen again.
This shouldn’t have happened. I don’t know if they’ll give you this, but I hope that even if they don’t, you know how sorry I am. I hope you don’t have to see what is happening here. Please try to move past all of this if you do and know that you always deserved better. You deserve so much more and please don’t settle until you find it. I don’t know what to say except that I do love you. I wasn’t good at it and I wish I had been. Find someone who is good at it, please.
You barely have time to write your name at the bottom before the lock on the door clicks and it swings open. Your heart starts to hammer in your chest again at the sight of your captors and you slide away from them until your back hits the far wall.
The new voice makes your blood run cold and a third person enters the room, accompanied by the click of high heels on the cement.
aries: "Ah, my daughter. Eighteen, and already you’ve been accused of murder, aided felons, and acquired a death count higher than most guardians will ever see. I couldn’t be prouder.“ - Last Sacrifice
taurus: “If your eyes weren’t open, you wouldn’t know the difference between dreaming and waking.” - Richelle Mead, Blood Promise
gemini: “I fought against her, trying to mount some kind of defense, but it was like fighting Dimitri on crack.” - Vampire Academy
cancer: "Rose is in red, but never in blue. Sharp as a thorn, fights like one, too!” - Frostbite
leo: “If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead.” - Blood Promise
virgo: "You don’t know what it’s like. It’s… amazing. Transcendent. All your senses are alive; the world is more alive-” - Blood Promise
libra: “Life, unfortunately, doesn’t seem to care what we want.” - Last Sacrifice
scorpio: “If I let myself love you, I won’t throw myself in front of her. I’ll throw myself in front of you.” - Vampire Academy
sagittarius: “And I keep thinking about all the things I could do, all the people I could help.” - Vampire Academy
As you begin to align yourself with the evolution of life itself, with the growth of life and consciousness, you will be lifted up in ways that you may not be able to imagine. Miracles will occur. Opportunities will open before you, and your destiny will be changed as you live in service to life.
When there is an opportunity to be kind to another human or an animal, let your kindness show. When there is an opportunity to show compassion to another, be compassionate.
When there is an opportunity to listen to someone, grant the grace and listen. Listen fully and deeply without wanting to impose your own views or your own agenda.
There are miracles waiting for you when you ask the unasked question, “What can I do here that will serve the greater good? What can I do here that will serve life’s deepest purpose through me?”
Saturday morning comes around faster than you thought it would. You’re
awake from the early hours, as ever – you’ve become used to it with a
seven-month-old in the house, but you insist on letting Dean sleep in – he’s
been working more hours than ever at the garage lately, even though you
continually insist that you have enough money and he doesn’t have to worry.
Nonetheless, he’s exhausted, and still insists on taking turns feeding
Mary throughout the night, so you threatened to strap him to the bed unless he
went back to sleep – he winked, made an entirely inappropriate remark, then
turned over and closed his eyes once more.
You’re in the kitchen, balancing a baby on your hip and using your
spare hand to fry up some bacon when you hear footsteps on the stairs. After a
few moments Dean heads into the kitchen, inhaling deeply.
“Damn, Y/N,” He grins, heading straight for you, “Sometimes I wonder
why I married you. Then I smell your cooking.”
You laugh as he kisses the top of Mary’s head, then lifts her from
your arms as he leans over and presses a sweet kiss to your lips.
“Mm, of course that’s why.” You grin, rolling your eyes at him as you
return your attention to the bacon before it burns, “Sam called. He’s gonna pop
in this afternoon for a few hours.”
Dean nods, smiling at the mention of his brother, “Of course. He
hasn’t seen Mary in… what? Three days?” He grins down at his daughter as he
sits, playfully bouncing her on his knee to elicit her sweet laughter – it
doesn’t take much doing. She’s a complete daddy’s girl, and the happiest child
you’ve ever known.
“He loves her almost as much as we do,” You smile as you begin plating
up the bacon, sandwiching in between a couple of slices of bread before you
drop it in front of Dean, “He was on about taking her down to the park and
giving us a couple hours of peace.”
Dean smiles at that, “Oh, I’m definitely up for that,” He winks over
at you, and even after all these years, you find yourself blushing like a
“Well, whatever the motivation, Uncle Sammy gets to have some Mary
time.” You grin, crossing one leg over the other – because of the obvious
threat to your little family, there’s no such thing as a reliable babysitter,
so you don’t get much time alone with your husband – not that you mind. Mary is
worth every second, every cry; every 3AM feed. She’s your own miracle and
you’re grateful for every moment you spent with her and Dean.
As your husband bites into the sandwich he lets out a moan, letting
his head fall back – this prompts a rather bemused, concerned look from your
daughter which almost has you in fits of laughter.
“Good sandwich?” You ask, your voice lilting into a playful tease.
“I love you.” He says, grinning – but his eyes are entirely serious,
“So much. Both of you, always.”
Your heart, if possible, grows three sizes and you’re flooded with warmth
and affection for him, “We love you too.” You assure him, and in that moment
you’re all surrounded with a golden glow; untouchable.
If only you could love deeply enough and sustain love long enough, you could become the source of your own miracles… There is no dream you couldn’t turn into a reality, no law you can’t change, no situation you can’t reverse- if only you could love enough.