#(More like how he's been offered COUNTLESS opportunities to come back from the brink)

[incorrect-rainbow-rocket-quotes]

What doesn’t kill you gives you a lot of unhealthy coping mechanisms and a really dark sense of humour.

Cyrus

[lostinfantasyworlds]

Words: ~4,200

Cw for some descriptions of the pain of childbirth.

Includes my drawing of Inuyasha and baby Moroha later on in the story! (I will also post separately).

Read on AO3

A/N at the end.

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The first of the evening’s stars twinkled against a darkening sky above Kaede’s hut, where Kagome lay inside, deep in the throes of labor. The initial pangs of discomfort had begun shortly after daybreak that morning, the recent sunset marking thirteen hours since then. Now well into active labor, Kagome braced herself for yet another painful contraction. She groaned before clenching her jaw tightly shut, feeling the muscles within her lower abdomen begin to tense.

The fingers of her right hand were laced firmly through her husband’s, who sat diligently at her side. She squeezed Inuyasha’s hand with all her strength, grateful that she could do so without hurting him too much. 

Although it was not traditional for the father to be allowed in the birthing hut, a (reluctant) exception had been made for Inuyasha. Kagome recalled the earlier scene in an effort to distract herself from the building pain.

“Kaede!” Inuyasha called out as he burst through the entrance of Kaede’s hut, carrying Kagome in his arms. 

Kaede made a sound of annoyance as she finished making her tea, her back turned towards the couple. Her lack of surprise suggested that she had sensed the half-demon’s aura approaching. “What are ye making such a fuss about, Inuyasha?”

“Kaede, the baby’s coming!” Kagome said through labored breaths. Kaede finally turned around to see Kagome in Inuyasha’s arms, one hand on her swollen belly and her face screwed up in pain. Her face softened as she realized the reason for the sudden intrusion.

“Ah, yes. Good, good,” Kaede said calmly and set her tea down to begin preparing the futon for Kagome to lay on. 

She moved slowly in her old age, and after a few minutes when Kagome cried out again, Inuyasha growled and snapped, “Would ya move it along? Kagome needs somewhere to lay down right fucking now!”

Kaede shot him a one-eyed glare as she finished placing the last pillow. She gestured to the futon, indicating that it was ready for Kagome to lay down on.

Inuyasha lay Kagome down on the futon ever so gently, making sure she was as comfortable as possible given the circumstances. Once he was sure she was taken care of, he settled onto the floor himself, sitting cross-legged by her side.

“What do ye think you’re doing?” Kaede asked as she grabbed a clean birthing robe and water bucket from a storage chest in the corner. “Fathers are not allowed in the birthing hut, Inuyasha. It is time for ye to leave.”

Inuyasha cracked his knuckles in response, holding up his claws menacingly. “You gonna make me, old hag? There’s no way in hell I’m leaving Kagome right now!”

Kaede’s tolerance for Inuyasha’s rudeness was already running thin. “How dare ye threaten me in my own home! It is bad luck for the father to - “

She was cut off by Kagome, who had just finished breathing through her latest contraction. “Kaede, please, I want him to stay. I need him here with me.”

Kaede considered her request, ultimately deciding it would be less hassle for her to just allow the exception. She nodded slightly before turning away and sighing, preparing herself for a long night ahead with a stressed and overprotective Inuyasha.

Kagome looked up at Inuyasha, who smiled slightly, seemingly relieved that she wanted him to stay. She reached out and took his hand, intertwining their fingers. She returned his smile with a warm one of her own, before abruptly dropping it and replacing it with a glare.

“I want you here with me, but if you are rude to Kaede one more time, I will not hesitate to kick you out. Now apologize!” She gave him a look that made his ears flatten against his head. 

“Fine, whatever. Sorry, Kaede,” he grumbled almost inaudibly. Kagome rolled her eyes at his immaturity, but was still thankful that he would be by her side as they welcomed their child into the world.

Kagome was brought back to the present as her contraction peaked. Her muscles tensed impossibly harder, causing her to let out a cry of agony and squeeze her eyes shut. This was the worst and longest one so far. It was so intense that all rational thought was wiped from her mind as her vision went momentarily white. Unable to comprehend anything beyond her overwhelming desire for the pain to stop, she squeezed Inuyasha’s hand with a force that probably would have broken a regular human’s hand. 

She did her best to try and breathe deeply until her body mercifully began to grant her relief. Chest heaving and limbs shaking, she savored the brief respite, knowing that she didn’t have much time to prepare for the next contraction. They were only a minute or two apart now, and she instinctively knew that their baby was very close to making its arrival.

She felt the comforting coolness of a damp cloth dab the sweat from her forehead, and looked gratefully to her left where Sango knelt beside her. Sango gave her an empathetic, encouraging smile. She had happily volunteered to assist Kagome with the birth of her child, both as an excited aunt-to-be, and as part of her midwife training. 

Kaede’s strength continued to wane in her old age, and Rin had decided to spend some time traveling with Sesshomaru again to see if she still preferred that lifestyle over living with other humans. Not wanting to risk leaving the village without a midwife, Kaede had asked Sango and Kagome if they would be willing to undergo training so they could assist with births if the need arose. Although Sango was incredibly busy with her ever-growing family and occasional demon slaying whenever she got the chance, she jumped at the opportunity to give back to the village that she had made her home for the last seven years. As a mother of five children of her own, she had plenty of experience and advice to offer new moms.

Sango put a comforting hand on Kagome’s shoulder, remembering the excruciating pain of childbirth all too well. “You’re doing great, Kagome. Let me check on your progress.” She moved down between Kagome’s legs to determine how much farther she had to go. Kaede had taught her several methods of determining the baby’s position at any given point during labor. She hoped, for Kagome’s sake, that she was nearing the end.

“Good news, Kagome, you’re almost there! When the next contraction comes, you can start pushing,” Sango said, moving back to Kagome’s side down by her feet.

Kagome nodded slightly, closing her eyes and taking a few more deep breaths to try and prepare herself. Her heart was pounding, her hands were shaking, and a layer of sweat coated her entire body. She had never experienced so much pain, not from any of the injuries she had sustained during their countless battles. Even having the Shikon jewel torn out of her body was nothing compared to this. She had to keep fighting down waves of nausea as the contractions had become more and more agonizing.

She was already exhausted, already past her limit of pain tolerance, and the thought of pushing sent her into a panic. How much worse is this going to get? What if I can’t do this? What if the pain kills me? Maybe I wasn’t ready to be a mother! I’m not strong enough…

Terrifying cynical thoughts raced through her mind as her heart pounded against her ribcage, her breaths becoming more shallow.

“I’m scared,” she admitted quietly, to no one in particular. She kept her eyes closed, feeling weak and ashamed. She had been looking forward to being a mother for so long, so why was she suddenly so afraid? 

“I don’t think I can do this,” she whispered, her voice breaking. A few tears slipped out from under her shut eyelids and rolled down her flushed cheeks. She felt like she was on the brink of a complete breakdown.

“Yes you can. What you’re feeling right now is perfectly normal, Kagome,” Sango said soothingly. 

Kagome slowly opened her eyes at the sound of her friend’s voice.

 “Every mother feels the same way at this point, I promise. This last part isn’t going to be easy, but it doesn’t last too long, and then it will all be over and you’ll be holding your baby in your arms. When you look into their eyes for the first time, you’ll forget all about everything else, trust me.”

Kagome smiled down at her, thankful for the reassurance from someone who had been through this before. She then looked up to her husband who was still holding her hand and sitting cross-legged at her side. Her gaze was met with golden eyes full of concern.

Inuyasha was overwhelmed. There were so many sounds, so many smells, so many emotions. He had done his best to try and prepare himself for this day, but he had to admit that he was in over his head. It was killing him to see Kagome in so much agony, especially when there was nothing he could do about it. His instincts to protect her flooded through him with every cry of pain she let out, followed by the frustration of not being able to help. It was driving him crazy that all he could do was hold her hand and offer her words of encouragement every so often. 

He had kept relatively quiet since his earlier threat to Kaede, afraid of saying the wrong thing and upsetting Kagome. He was completely out of his element, having never witnessed a birth before. He had no idea what to do or say, or what was considered normal. All he knew was that he wanted to be by his wife’s side, and that she wanted him there as well. Now, as she looked into his eyes after voicing her fear, he knew he had to be strong for her. 

“You can do this, Kagome!” he said fervently. Hearing her say she didn’t think she could do it had made him want to scoff and call her an idiot, but he figured that wouldn’t be very helpful and might even earn him a ‘sit’ command in her current state. The idea of her not being able to do this was ludicrous to him. He had been watching her in awe all day, amazed by her strength and resilience. Since they first met, she had always been a fighter, never backing down or giving up when faced with a challenge. It was one of the many things he loved about her. 

He brought his free hand up to her cheek to gently wipe some of her tears and sweat away, letting his fingers linger on her face for a moment. 

“You’re so strong, you always have been,” he said, bringing his hand back down to grip hers between both of his own. He stared deeply into her wide brown eyes, trying to wordlessly communicate the neverending love and respect he had for her. “And I’m right here beside you.”

Kagome could feel her panic melting away at his words and the look in his eyes. She smiled a little at him before looking forward with a newly determined look on her face. That’s right, Inuyasha is with me. I can do anything with him by my side.

She felt the pain building again, but it was different from before. Somehow sharper and duller at the same time. She knew this was the final stretch she had to get through to meet their little one, so she gathered all the strength and courage she had left. 

The pain of pushing was almost unbearable, but she did her best to remain focused on the steady pressure of Inuyasha’s hand and the guidance given by Kaede and Sango. She felt every sensation in her body, her instincts kicking in to guide her through the final stage of delivery.

Over forty excruciating minutes later, a cry finally rang through the cabin, alerting all those in the area to the arrival of a new life. Kagome breathed a huge sigh of relief and fell back against the pillows. Kaede caught the crying baby and carried it over to the water basin to be bathed. Sango cut the cord and helped clean Kagome up enough so that she could comfortably lay her legs flat again. 

Kagome lay exhausted, trying to catch her breath and calm her racing heart. The cries of her baby echoed through the cabin, filling her with a euphoric pride. She had loved their child from the moment she knew of their existence. It felt like so long ago that she first found out she was pregnant. She could still remember the rush of pure joy she felt at the news. Finally, after so much wondering and planning and waiting, she was about to meet the one she already adored more than anything in the world. 

After giving her a few moments to catch her breath, Inuyasha helped support Kagome as Sango stuffed a couple pillows under her back so that she could sit up more. Once she was sure of Kagome’s comfort, Sango got to her feet and said, “I’m going to give you some privacy. You did so well Kagome.” She smiled warmly down at her friend, and then shifted her gaze to Inuyasha. “I couldn’t be happier for the two of you.” Both returned her smile, and Kagome reached out to take Sango’s hand.

“Thank you so much for everything, Sango. It really helped to have you here.”

Sango squeezed her hand. “Anything for my dearest friend. We’ll all come visit in the morning once you’ve had some time to rest.” She released Kagome’s hand and walked out of the hut to give a full report to Miroku and Shippo, who were waiting at home with her own children. 

As Sango walked out of the entryway, Kagome lifted her head up to anxiously look around for her baby, who was no longer crying. Her eyes found Kaede, who was wrapping the newborn loosely in a blanket. Her heart fluttered with nervous anticipation as Kaede slowly made her way over to her and Inuyasha, carrying their new addition in her arms.

“Congratulations Kagome and Inuyasha, it is time to meet your daughter,” she said with a smile. 

At the word ‘daughter,’ Inuyasha and Kagome’s eyes met, both of their mouths dropping open slightly. Their daughter. 

Kaede handed the tiny bundle off to Kagome, who reached out instinctively. As soon as the child was securely in Kagome’s arms, Kaede made her way outside to let them have their first moments as a family in private. 

A peaceful silence settled over the hut as Kagome held their baby close to her chest and stared in awe. Inuyasha moved closer to her, draping an arm over her shoulders. Kagome was overcome with emotion, an overwhelming feeling of love and warmth taking over every ounce of her being. She was still exhausted and in pain, and somewhere in her brain there was a terrifying, nagging reminder that she was now responsible for protecting this tiny being, but it all felt like dull background noise compared to the warmth that emanated from her chest as she marveled in the presence of her daughter.

“Inuyasha...she’s....” she trailed off quietly, unable to quite find the words. 

“...Perfect.” Inuyasha finished for her in a dazed tone. He couldn’t stop staring at the face of the life they had created. He had pictured the arrival of their baby many times in the months since they found out they were expecting, but he could never have imagined what he was feeling now. It was surreal and overwhelming to finally come face-to-face with the child who had only been an abstract concept in his mind until a few minutes ago.

He had struggled with the idea of becoming a father. Despite his excitement to start a family with the person he loved most in this world, he had trouble imagining himself in that role. Questions such as What if I ruin our kid’s life? What if something happens to them? Or to Kagome? How am I supposed to know what to do with a baby? had kept him awake countless nights over the last several months. Not to mention how much time he had spent worrying over Kagome. He’d had a hard time leaving her alone for more than five minutes during her entire pregnancy, constantly afraid that something could happen to her or the baby.

It was the worst on his human nights, the negative thoughts hijacking his mind and taking hold until he could think of little else. What if something attacks us when I’m in my human form and I can’t protect them? What if I’m not a good enough father and Kagome resents me? What if our kid grows up facing the same kind of discrimination I did for being part demon and part human? The questions became impossible to ignore on those nights, a couple times bubbling up to the point where his heart raced and his breath became shallow. He usually tried his best to hide his fears from Kagome, not wanting to cause her any extra stress, but those few times, it was too hard to pretend nothing was wrong. 

Kagome would try to comfort him. She would whisper reassurances into his ears. That she loved him and believed in him. That their child would be well cared for no matter what. That he would be an amazing father. She would look at him with such love and trust and warmth that he was almost able to believe that he was the person she saw him as. But it was hard to forget a lifetime of being told he was worthless, an abomination. It was hard to forget all of the awful things he had said and done in his past. How could he ever be a role model to a child? What if he had doomed them to the same lonely life of an outcast that he had?

Witnessing Kagome’s excitement to be a mother was the only thing that kept him from drowning in his anxiety. Although he didn’t know if he was cut out to be a father, he was positive that Kagome was meant to be a mother. She had always been the caring and nurturing type, and the joy she had to finally fill the role of a mother had radiated from her throughout her entire pregnancy. 

Whenever Inuyasha felt overwhelmed with doubts, he would just watch his wife tenderly rest her hands on her rounded belly, or listen to her hum lullabies to their unborn baby. In those moments, he knew that at least their child would have Kagome as their mother, and that even if he fell short, she would always be there to provide them with the care and support they needed. He vowed to match her as best as he could, all the while feeling terrified of letting her down.

Lost in his thoughts, he hadn’t noticed that Kagome was looking at him. She seemed to sense his inner turmoil and asked, “Do you want to hold her?” with a sweet smile.

“Uh..” Inuyasha responded stupidly, but Kagome had already extended their child towards him. 

“Just remember to support her head and you’ll be fine.”

Inuyasha took the tiny bundle ever so carefully, as if she might shatter into a thousand pieces at his touch. He slowly adjusted her position so that her head rested in the crook of his elbow and she was fully supported by his arm. He stared at her for a long minute, still unable to make sense of everything he was feeling. How could he have helped create such an incredible little human? How could he ever be a good enough father to her? She was so tiny and fragile, what if he hurt her by accident? Protecting Kagome was already stressful, but at least he knew she could handle herself in a battle. How in the world was he supposed to protect someone so small defenseless? He tried not to think about all the dangers of the world around them.

To distract from his racing thoughts, he focused on cataloging everything about her. The little tuft of jet black hair on the top of her head, her barely open chocolate brown eyes that looked so like Kagome’s, her tiny nose and mouth. Although she hadn’t inherited his eye or hair color, or his dog ears, the shape of her features still resembled his own. She was truly a perfect blend of the two of them. He inhaled and memorized her scent. It was similar to Kagome’s, with hints of his own scent, but distinct in its own way. 

Inuyasha cautiously extended one finger from his free hand to gently stroke her cheek, being mindful of his claws. Her skin was softer than the finest silk. He had never felt anything quite like it. He moved to pull away, feeling unworthy to touch her with his rough, calloused hands. At the same time, a chubby fist escaped the confines of the blanket surrounding it and waved blindly through the air. Tiny fingers found his retreating hand, and instinctively wrapped around his outstretched pointer finger. 

With a sharp intake of breath Inuyasha froze, suddenly hit with a surge of emotion so strong he could hardly breathe. His daughter gurgled and looked up at him, gripping his finger with surprising strength for a newborn. A soothing warmth began to spread from the point of contact throughout his whole body, almost reminding him of the sensation of being purified by Kagome’s spiritual powers. But this was something else, something deeper and more profound. 

Something shifted deep within himself as he felt her tiny fingers grip his own. Every priority, every feeling, every want and need he had ever had was rearranging, placing his daughter at the center of it all. The moment that she had touched him, he was forever changed. His rough edges softened just a bit, his heart grew a little larger. The world and his place in it made a little more sense. All of the doubts and insecurities he had about being a father faded to the background. He knew now that he would do absolutely anything for the little girl in his arms. 

A type of love he never knew existed rushed through him, seeping into every last crevice of his soul. It was all-consuming and indescribable. He felt as if he was staring into the sun itself, her radiant light giving him warmth and life in ways he hadn’t known he needed. All of the pain he had gone through in his life now felt worth it to be able to experience this moment. He would do it a thousand times over again as long as he got to meet her. He had known for a long time that he was born to be with Kagome, but now he knew he was born to meet his daughter as well. 

He let out the smallest of laughs, breathy and awestruck. After several more moments, he finally managed to tear his eyes away from her to look up at Kagome, who had been watching the heartwarming scene unfold. His mouth still hung agape, and as his eyes met Kagome’s, he felt a single tear roll down his cheek. The sensation surprised him, having never shed tears of joy before.  He hadn’t even noticed the wetness building in his eyes. As he looked at his wife, he noticed that tears were silently falling down her cheeks as well, though she wore a beaming smile. 

The familiar sight of Kagome’s smile made his heart swell with even more warmth. It hardly felt real that, after all the heartache and loneliness that he had endured in his life, he was here looking into the eyes of his wife and holding his daughter in his arms. He wanted to tell her how much he loves her, how thankful he was to be able to share this moment with her. He wished he had the words to explain what it meant to him to have a family of his own.

“Kagome...” he said quietly, trying to think of something else to say. How could he ever put into words everything he had just felt?

“Inuyasha,” Kagome responded warmly in a way that told him no words were needed. They had always had a quiet understanding between them, their love for each other much deeper than words could ever hope to describe. It was something he was eternally grateful for. With a smile, Kagome reached out to cover her husband and daughter’s joined hands with her own.

Her eyes drifted back down to their beloved child, and after a few moments of contemplation she asked, “Moroha?”

Inuyasha wasn’t sure where she got the name, but it didn’t matter to him. It fit her perfectly.

“Moroha,” he repeated, confirming her name.

Inuyasha rested his forehead against Kagome’s as they continued to gaze down at their daughter. He knew his fears hadn’t disappeared completely, but there would be time to worry later. For now, he simply let himself bask in the glowing happiness of this perfect moment with his family.

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A/N (sorry it’s so long)

Hope you enjoyed the feels! I’ve been working on this for a while now, so I’m really excited to finally post it! I had originally wanted to post it before the premiere of Yashahime, but I kept nitpicking and editing it over and over. Plus I decided to add the drawing which took me forever. I also went all out and made the banner and everything, which I’m not sure if people usually do for oneshots but oh well!

This all started with me imagining that one moment of a newborn Moroha grabbing Inuyasha’s finger, and that being the moment that moved him and changed him forever. I could see him being really nervous and unsure about becoming a father, but I liked the idea of her touch causing a shift in him and basically turning him into a puddle of mush. I hope it isn’t too OOC for Inuyasha to cry at this moment, but I thought if anything would have the power to make him shed tears of joy then this would be it. Plus I saw it as kind of an involuntary bodily reaction to all of the emotion he experienced.

I tried to throw in some of Kagome’s POV, but I mostly wanted to explore Inuyasha’s conflicted thoughts and feelings about becoming a father. I hope the descriptions of pain/birth weren’t too much. I have never gone through childbirth, but it sounds ridiculously painful and terrifying so I was probably projecting a bit haha. Kagome is a badass for dealing with all of that with no drugs! 

I tried to look up real stories of how people felt when they saw their baby for the first time. There were a lot of mixed reactions, with a lot of people saying they just felt really scared or didn’t have a strong emotional reaction. This is a fic so of course I wanted it to be emotional and happy, but I tried to mix in some of the fear they must have felt also.

I didn’t want it to seem like Kagome’s strength only came from Inuyasha being there with her, but from what I read about active labor, the pain at that point can be extremely mentally and physically taxing, so I wanted her to have a moment of weakness where she felt like she wasn’t strong enough. And I always loved that Kagome and Inuyasha draw strength from each other in different ways. So I felt like she would have been able to tap into that from having him by her side.

Also, in regards to Sango and Miroku having 5 children, I find it hard to believe that they would have stopped at 3 considering how much Miroku talked about wanting to have 10 + kids lol. So that was just a little canon divergence I threw in there. This takes place about 4 years after Kagome returns to the feudal era for good. 

Anyways, I could ramble forever and over explain everything as I tend to do, but I wanted to get this out there before we see baby Moroha in Yashahime this week. I’m so excited!

[themilky-way]

under my skin {bucky barnes}

gif credit: friendzoned-by-avengers

pairing: bucky barnes x female! reader

summary: it was the little things about you that enamored him. no matter where he went, or what he did, his mind always wandered to the thought of you. how long until he acts on it? based on only human by robin loxley.

warnings: implied nsfw themes but nothing’s actually descriptive. uh the fucking delicious scent of vanilla because i’m obsessed with it lmao. ALSO if you squint, you’ll find a scene from my previous bucky fic ;)

author’s note: what da fawk 😃 i’m reposting this bc tumblr was  stupid and this wasn’t showing up in the tags??? uhh okay 🤡😃

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there were nights when the world around you was still. the streets below the compound were silent, no horns sounding or engines running. footsteps didn’t resonate against the cold concrete of the sidewalk, and no random chatter from pedestrians or local restaurants was heard. for a city like manhattan, you had learned to appreciate nights like these and to never take them for granted. when midnight would strike and send a cool breeze through the open crack of your window, you’d drape a blanket over your shoulders and walk to the large balcony in the living room. the doors remained open behind you, as you knew everyone else was peacefully sleeping, and watched the city in front of you fade into nothing more than the whistle of the wind.

sometimes, a guest would join you. the sound of slippers padding across the marbled tiles would reach your ears, and you allowed yourself to smile. the moments that came with this particular noise were something you treasured, engraving them deeply into your mind so you could be blessed with the opportunity to look upon them again. you’d make out the silhouette that was now next to you, and even though you already knew who it belonged to, you never missed out on the chance to look at him. every now and then you’d come to find out that he was already staring, not creepily, but more of a mesmerized glare. what followed became a routine: you’d smile, coil away as heat rose to your cheeks, and then he’d place a hand on them so you’d look at him. he’d profile every feature on your skin, remembering them so as to be able to touch you again when he closed his eyes later that night. he prepared himself for one of the sweetest moments his life could ever offer him, and in turn showed you just how powerful the movement of his lips on yours could be.

bucky eventually lost count of how many times he’d fall asleep to the sweet, addicting scent of your perfume that lingered on his nightwear. the luscious smell of vanilla would work its way up to his nose, and when he’d catch it, he permitted himself to reminisce the feeling of you. when he did, it almost drove him to the brink of insanity. the sudden recollection of your fragrance when he’d connect his mouth to your neck, or even the purest parts of your body, was enough for him to worship you better than the previous encounter.

but then his mind would change the film and a different image of you appeared. now, you were sitting in front of him, trying your hardest to cure his wounds. the tiny water droplets that ran down your cheek would be wiped by the softness of his thumb, and words of comfort would spill from your lips. as he recounted this scene, his fingers would trace his scars and imagined you were the one doing it. his emotions would depict themselves in the beating of his heart, and he was almost sure that all of new york could hear it. but most importantly, he wished you could hear it. he wanted nothing more than for you to realize the things you did to him; how easily you had bucky wrapped around your finger. if you were to ask him to bring you a star, the one that glowed almost as bright as you, he’d give you the entire galaxy if he could. and he needed you to know that.

so the next evening you stood together in the balcony, and his lips carved into your own, he reluctantly pulled away to reach your ear. warm breath fanned the skin of it before you felt bucky’s teeth graze your earlobe gently, the fingers you had tangled in his hair tugging at the sensation.

“do you know the things you do to me?”

“i think i have an idea,” you breathed out. it wasn’t meant to come out as needy as it did, but you had him so close to where you needed him that you were left with no other option. caught in the spur of the moment, your mouth attached to bucky’s neck, pressing light kisses to the area. it was an act of affection, a demonstration that proved you did reciprocate his feelings.

the minute you dipped your tongue to drag it along the marks you left behind, you knew you were done for. firm, strong hands gripped your sides, pulling you closer to him than humanly possible, and that’s when you caught the impression of him. it released a gasp from your lips, consequently earning a low growl from his. it awoke something in him: a hunger-a desire-whenever he’d swallow the whimpers you made. “sweetheart, if you keep doing that-”

“i know.” that night was the first of many.

it took bucky some time to come to terms with his emotions. it was by no means an easy process; a super soldier trained to assassinate without mercy isn’t exactly deserving of affection. the countless nights spent without rest involved bucky questioning every phrase and touch of admiration you gave him. the nights that you slept in his bed, soft breaths escaping the lips he caressed only moments before, meant the world to him. over the course of this journey, a warmth began to ignite in his chest. something suddenly tugged at the pit of his stomach when you turned the corner of a room he resided in. his heart nearly jumped out of his chest whenever you’d touch him, and one of the things he loved the most was how cool your skin was compared to his.

was this love? what bucky felt? he didn’t believe so at first, pushing the thought to the very back of his brain. but one night, as your bodies’ collided and the soft sounds escaping from you mingled with the air in the room, he let the words slip out. if he were any other person, you would’ve thought it was the pleasure talking, but he wasn’t. and so you muttered the phrase back, and you let him know how much you meant it.

in truth, bucky had unknowingly let you under his skin. he was a smart man-without a doubt. yet here he was, granting this ethereal individual permission to do everything they desired. oftentimes, the possibility of this ending badly kept him preoccupied during most of the day, but when night came around again, his fears ceased to exist.

the soldier noticed that time passed rather quickly when he was in love. days turned to weeks, which then looped into months. he longed for more; whenever tony organized a gala in his ballroom, he’d much rather have his hand pulling you tight against him than converse with sam. he yearned for the public to see you were his, and belonged to only him. thus, when sam and steve dared him to ask the girl he believed was the prettiest to dance, his eyes fell upon you instantly. he got up from his seat, the glass of whiskey he was holding hitting the table a little too harshly, and went over to you. he pardoned himself for interrupting your conversation, politely requested your hand, and excused himself again.

you didn’t hesitate to question his actions, nor to even be nervous of what the others might think, just enjoyed the fact you got to be near him. the interaction was gentle, loving in every reasonable sense as it always was. you swayed nice and slow against his rhythm, the melodies of the live symphony providing the perfect elements for you to catch on quickly.

“be mine,” bucky murmured. he was serious, perhaps more than he’s ever been in his life. the tender way in which he voiced it morphed a cheeky grin on your face.

“i’m already yours.”

“no, i mean actually mine. i don’t want to keep hiding you.” you had never seen him like this. yes, bucky had spoken sincerely with you before, but it was never to the point he might spontaneously combust if he didn’t spill his thoughts. regardless of anything, the man staring at you with great concern was waiting for a response, and you had to answer.

“bucky,” you replied, mocked innocence poking at his name. “kiss me. hard.”

and by god did he kiss you.

[irandrura]

Now, just for fun, I’m going to list everyone I recruited and give some brief thoughts on each one. If I spend more time on a person, it’s because I found them more interesting, or did more supports, or the like.

I did go a bit overboard recruiting people, but I feel validated by that decision considering the number of people I might have had to kill otherwise. As it is I only had to kill two people I didn’t want to – Lorenz and Caspar; Linhardt also appeared but I was able to avoid him – and while I’m sad, especially since I should have gotten Caspar for the paralogue with Mercedes and the Death Knight, it could have been a lot worse.

I will, however, skip the four DLC kids, since apparently you need to start their supports in White Clouds, I missed them, and didn’t feel like going back. So I don’t have the content there.

Here we go:

Byleth: I covered some of my thoughts on him in the post on Jeralt. I wouldn’t say that I dislike Byleth as such, but because Byleth has no dialogue and has few definite character traits beyond ��doesn’t show emotion much” and maybe “likes being a teacher”, there isn’t much to work with. I suppose I find Byleth a serviceable enough player avatar protagonist, but if I were writing fan fiction or anything, I think I would need to work hard to develop a memorable personality for Byleth. As it is, Byleth only works because you imagine yourself in his or her shoes.

Sothis: I was originally quite worried about Sothis, since I thought she might be too sexualised. Fire Emblem has a bit of a tradition of uncomfortable loli characters, but fortunately in the game itself Sothis was not that bad, and definitely walks back the creepiness level from someone like Nowi. Instead it felt a bit more like Byleth was playing the same role as Micaiah, with a child-like fragment of the goddess accompanying him. I suspect other routes do more with Sothis, though, because on this route, you could probably cut Sothis from the game entirely without losing much. Azure Moon seems to be the route that is least interested in the history of the goddess, so I should not judge too prematurely.

Dimitri: The hero of this route, even if he sometimes feels like an anti-hero, or even just a psychotic maniac we unfortunately have to deal with. Of the three house leaders, I think it’s fair to say that Dimitri looks the most like a traditional FE protagonist, but as it shakes out, he might be one of the least. He seems to be quite straitlaced, reliable, and even bland at the start, but a lot of that turns out to be a cover and he goes on a real emotional journey, I suspect to a much greater extent than the other two. I do think his emotional arc goes a bit too fast and the game should have spent more time on it, but it was still a good idea, and I genuinely appreciate just how messed up and traumatised Dimitri is. He has issues, he suffers, he runs off into the wilderness and talks to ghosts, but I like it. I feel like he validates the idea that it’s okay to not have everything together. For him, overcoming his demons was the real triumph, and defeating the Empire was just a coda.

Dedue: He reminds me quite a bit of the Tellius games, with their overall subtheme of selfless service and lord/vassal relationships. Like Dimitri, he has issues, but because he’s such a quiet and reserved person, it can be easy to miss them. I suspect he’s a very easy character to misinterpret as well, both IC and OOC, where the temptation for Westerners to interpret him in terms of contemporary racial politics is going to cause problems. But ultimately I quite liked him, and felt that his faithful service really ennobles the person he serves. My one concern or regret around Dedue is that he isn’t present during the period of Dimitri’s madness, so we never get to see how his dedication to his lord might be tested. Would he enable or even encourage Dimitri’s instability? On the other hand, it seems like the belief that Dedue was dead was a major contributor to Dimitri’s madness in the first place, so perhaps if he’d been around, he would have held his friend back from the brink.

Felix: I like that Felix never stops entirely being an asshole. As time goes by his abrasiveness seems less important, and you get a better understanding of why he feels the way he does, but he’s still a bit of a jerk even to the very end, and that’s part of who he is. I also appreciate that he plays a useful role in being the only Blue Lion who actively dislikes knights and chivalry, so he’s important for the way he can provoke the others into justifying themselves. After all, the Blue Lions are a bit of a knight fan club, and he provides some contrast. Nonetheless, for all his scowling, he is a faithful retainer and can be relied on.

Ashe: He’s just a sweetheart, really. A commoner background contrasts nicely with the others, his lockpicking skill is useful, and he’s just generally very genuine and kind. Plus his appearance and voice-acting sell that he’s a bit younger than the others and on the callow side. I feel like he’s one of the characters who grows most in overall maturity, and his journey towards knighthood is probably the longest. He was a character I relied on a lot and I never got tired of him taking down the boss with a single arrow from halfway across the map. In my playthrough he ended up together with Petra and I am sure the knightly order they create will go on to be fantastic.

Sylvain: I’m a little confused by Sylvain. Early on it seems like he irrepressibly flirts with every girl he sees and always gets dumped, but later on, in part two, he clarifies that girls constantly flirt with him because they want to marry into a bloodline with a crest. It seems like it can’t be both ways? I suppose the best reading might be that Sylvain constantly flirts with strangers, who don’t know his heritage or his crest, while rejecting advances from people who do know about them, because what he really wants is someone who loves him as a person, not as a mere opportunity to increase in social status. For someone who seems so cheery and laid-back on the outside, he actually has some real problems beneath it all. That said, at times I was a bit suspicious of the translation: there are a few opportunities to call him a jerk, and I wonder if those were added, since otherwise his flirting seems like it’s presented as harmless, fun, or even a charming character quirk.

Mercedes: I didn’t think a whole lot of Mercedes at first: the caring healer character appears in a lot of FE games, she didn’t seem to put much of a twist on it, and I found her voice acting a little stilted at first. I suppose, to be fair, a soon-to-be-ordained friend of mine has a similar cadence, so it’s possible, but it did throw me off a little. For the most part I found Mercedes very reliable and my primary healer/mage, but I think a more full judgement of her character will need to wait until I do her paralogue with Caspar. Her family background and relationship with the Death Knight seem key to understanding her.

Annette: The translators and voice actor were clearly having fun with her dorky improvised songs, and I love them. They’re great. That said, Annette didn’t really come alive for me as a character until she got to interact with Gilbert. He’s probably a more interesting character than she is, really, but their relationship is what makes them both start to stand out. Overall I find her likeable and reliable, but, Gilbert aside, not one of the most fascinating characters on the roster.

Ingrid: Again, a quite straightforward character in many ways. She wants to be a knight. She trains hard. She becomes a knight. Okay. I did find it a bit odd that even at the end of the game she still talks about wanting to be a knight, even though she’s spent the last few missions entirely in the Falcon Knight and Holy Knight classes, has battled across the continent at the side of her liege, and has defeated countless enemy champions. Eventually I wanted to ask her, “What more could you possibly need to do before you’re a knight?” There is some drama around marriage and social expectations for her as well, and it surprised me that it took her so long to figure out that she could be a knight and serve her family. Her family don’t want a political alliance through marriage or anything: it is specifically money and resources that they need. Knighthood seems like a career that can bring you great wealth – plunder, ransoms, tournament rewards, etc. – so it seems like knighthood, no less than marriage to a wealthy noble after a crest, could be a path to restoring her family’s fortunes. (Also, she was the one I S-supported, so I suppose the marriage plan worked out anyway. *shrug*)

Ferdinand: Everything about him is laser-focused on this question of, “What is nobility?” At times it got a bit tedious, and I wanted him to just shut up about being a noble for five minutes. However, while he laid it on a bit thick sometimes, what I like about him is the way that his character development seems like it could really change based on which route he ends up in. After Edelgard declares war and dispossesses his father, he has a really interesting choice to make: take up arms against her and join the resistance, or accept her offer of rank and power in the Empire. Since I recruited him at the very last minute, in the last month before the assault on the monastery, I might have imagined him struggling with that choice, and I like to picture him debating the importance of visible rank and status to the nobility that he tries so hard to achieve. I could easily imagine him going either way on that choice, believing in Edelgard’s vision or passionately warring against it, and that to me made him much more interesting.

Bernadetta: Her voice actor was clearly having a ton of fun. The energy she brought to the role made the character very entertaining to listen to. That said, I feel bad for her: her extreme social anxiety is sometimes played for laughs, but knowing that it’s the result of an abusive childhood makes it quite a bit less funny. Oddly my favourite support with her was Bernadetta/Sylvain, mainly because of the supports that I saw, he was the only one who made a serious attempt to respect her boundaries and to communicate with her in a way she would find comfortable. Seriously, writing her a letter and tucking it into a book was quite clever and sensitive of him... even if he ruined it by just walking up afterwards and saying hello.

Dorothea: Judging from the online stats the game showed on loading screens, Dorothea must be one of the most popular characters in the game, and was deployed almost every mission. This makes it a bit awkward that I never really deployed her at all, or focused much on her. I don’t have anything against her, and she seems interesting enough, but I suppose I already had enough mages and other people were higher priority. Oh dear. Maybe next time. She seems to be a popular choice for the dancer class, but since I made Marianne my dancer…

Petra: On the other hand, I did like Petra a lot, built her as an assassin, and got a lot of use from her. I wonder what her odd speech pattern is in Japanese? Looks like in Japanese she misunderstands idioms, rather than misuses the present continuous tense. At any rate, I really like the role Petra plays in worldbuilding, since her status as an outsider taken to the empire to be educated as a hostage serves to characterise both Brigid and the empire itself. Like Ferdinand, I also think she’s in a fascinating position where she could plausibly end up either pro- or anti-empire. I enjoyed being able to fight for freedom and self-determination, but I could also see her buying into Edelgard’s vision of a reformed empire. That sort of flexibility seems really valuable in a game with different routes like this.

Raphael: Unfortunately another character I recruited only at the last minute and didn’t get to spend that much time with. The fact that I avoided brawlers probably didn’t help. However, from what I did see, I liked that they included a character who genuinely struggles with his studies, and I also thought it interesting that he presents yet another character who wants to be a knight, but for a totally different reason. Ashe has a romantic view of knighthood; Ingrid has a relatively romantic view as well but also thinks of fighting for her ideals; Felix outright hates knighthood and chivalry as a bunch of lies. In contrast, Raphael’s pragmatism is a little refreshing. He just wants to support his family, given his strength fighting seems like a good way to do it, and knighthood promises more stability than mercenary work. Good for him.

Ignatz: And yet another character thinking about knighthood, albeit again for a different reason. He doesn’t want to be a knight as such, but has to because it’s his duty. At times even I got a bit sick of the game constantly talking about knighthood, but the wide range of opinions on it was definitely a good thing. Alas, all Ignatz wants to do is paint and worship the goddess. Sadly I used Ashe as my main archer, so I didn’t see as much of Ignatz as I might have liked. Another playthrough, then.

Lysithea: See above, really. I get the impression she’s a quite popular character, but as with Dorothea, I already had a few mages and didn’t have much need for her. I’m guessing she would have a lot more importance on a route where her backstory with what are presumably creepy Slitherer magical experiments is more relevant? As it is, sorry, I just didn’t see that much. Young, likes sweets, ambitious in order to help her family because she hasn’t got long to live… but that’s about all I got.

Marianne: On the other hand, I did use Marianne quite extensively. She was my backup healer after Mercedes, and she was my dancer, so she was very useful. (Some might say it was cruel to make her dance in public: I thought it might help build her confidence!) Her paralogue also stood out to me as one of the most interesting and fun. At first I thought her self-loathing might be irrational or a symptom of depression, but it turns out that she actually has quite an understandable reason for thinking that she’s awful and that no one should  ever get close to her. Bringing peace to her ancestor and giving her the opportunity to increase her confidence and bloom as a person was very heartwarming. Her character arc gave me some WAFFy feelings, and I enjoy that sometimes.

Leonie: It’s weird to me that a character defined by her relationship with Jeralt, the player’s father, is so easy to miss recruiting. Nonetheless I did pick her up, because I love cavaliers and use far too many of them. Still, most of the other cavaliers were nobles, which made Leonie’s role as a mercenary knight a nice change. I think it might have worked better, though, if I’d known a bit more about the role of mercenaries in Fódlan. Are there mercenary companies? How do they usually find work? It would have been nice to know a bit more about the world that Byleth supposedly comes from, and which Leonie is so keen to break into.

Seteth: I was not a big fan of Seteth at first, but he grew on me, which surprises me particularly since I was on a route that never actually explains what his deal is. I feel like every long-term series fan, on meeting Seteth and Flayn, must have gone “oh they’re dragons”, because they fit that archetype just so closely, but somehow I got through the entire arc without anyone figuring it out. Nonetheless, while he starts off as quite suspicious of you, and even hostile, I enjoyed how further supports gradually humanised him. Seteth/Felix or Seteth/Ingrid, for instance, stood out to me as nice: the older man going out of his way to give practical advice to someone who’s still sorting himself or herself out. He’s a good mentor. I know often the thing people remember about Fire Emblem is the young protagonists and the shipping and so on, but sometimes it’s the older, more mature characters that I find the most interesting.

Flayn: In contrast, I did not find Flayn as interesting as Seteth. She’s a nice enough person, and the enthusiasm of the Flayn/Dedue support was cute, but ultimately I didn’t see that much of her. Mercedes and Marianne were my primary healers, and Byleth had a high Faith skill as well, so I didn’t need another one and didn’t take her along that often. I hope there are more depths, because as it is, I wasn’t that struck by her.

Hanneman: Another character I generally did not take along, so most of what I learned about Hanneman was around crests and his scientific curiosity. I think Hanneman supports my previous speculation that Fódlan might be starting on an intellectual renaissance at the time of the game. He is the Father of Crestology, even though crests have been known for a thousand years. That suggests that the organised, academic study of such matters is in its infancy.

Manuela: Again, not someone I looked at too closely, and her most obvious character trait, her romantic loneliness, could be a little bit cringeworthy at times. I would have to do more supports and look more closely at her to form a stronger opinion. The parts that I found most interesting with regard to her were about her history with the opera. Her relationship with Dorothea seems like it might reveal some more about both of them, but alas I didn’t use each character much.

Gilbert: On the other hand, I did use Gilbert quite a lot, since Dedue went missing for a while and I needed a substitute tank. Gilbert is clearly a loyal man who has suffered an immense amount, especially under the weight of guilt and self-doubt. It’s striking that he abandoned his family and homeland and fled to the church in order to assuage the weight of guilt he felt for the king’s death; but in the end the separation from his family only intensified feelings of guilt and unworthiness. Nonetheless, despite being a man who’s really screwed quite a lot up, he stoically tries to coordinate the Faerghus war effort, even when Dimitri is in his worst state. I was very glad to eventually get the Annette/Gilbert paired ending, as a valuable reminder that even at Gilbert’s age, it is possible to start healing and putting your life back together.

Alois: I really only got the Byleth support with Alois, so I don’t have that much to say. His cheery optimism is a nice change after a lot of the other faculty and knights are either serious or sad, and I enjoy horrible puns as much as the next man, but I think I need to see more.

Catherine: Speaking of cheery knights, Catherine’s rough-and-tumble confidence is also pretty appealing. Unlike the students, Catherine is strong and she knows that she’s strong, with a confidence that comes of years of fighting. What I saw of her personality I generally liked, and I learned a bit about her history, but I’m going to hold off on any further comments until I get some more context for her and Rhea. She is obviously incredibly devoted to the archbishop who saved her life, and in some ways seems to have reinvented her life from who she was before (cf. Dedue, the loyal service theme again), but I think I should need to see a route where Rhea plays a larger role before I come to conclusions.

Shamir: I like Shamir quite a lot, and she might be my favourite of the knights, even though she doesn’t have much to do with the actual plot. Her outsider status is the most striking thing about her: unlike pretty much everyone else, she has no personal investment in Fódlan or its politics, which frees her to focus on the needs of the moment. I would like to know a bit more about Dagda and Brigid, to be honest, but I suspect I’ve seen all there is to see already...

Cyril: Unfortunately I never used him. I can tell that he’s the Est of the game, a young character who probably has excellent growths and can excel in any class, but my roster felt pretty complete by the time I got him, he didn’t seem like he had interesting relationships with other characters that I might want to explore, and he’s so young that I feel uncomfortable making him a soldier. I can completely accept that there might be really good material around him, perhaps especially on the Golden Deer route where Almyra might come up, but as it is I don’t know any of it.

Anna: Yep, she’s Anna. Not much to say. Anna is always the same character, and Fódlan’s Anna doesn’t seem particularly special or unique.

 …phew, that took much longer than I thought. These games and their giant casts, man.

[flutteringphalanges]

Summary:  “Am I in Hell?” Agatha’s voice was hoarse, a hint of fear in her tone. “That depends on your definition,” Dracula answered. “Perhaps.” His fingers felt cool against her burning skin, the fever raging through her body. “If you’re going to kill me, then do it,” she mumbled. The count chuckled, gazing into her eyes. “On the contrary,” he smirked. “I’m going to save you.”

((In which Dracula cares for a gravely ill Agatha))

Characters: Agatha Van Helsing/Dracula

Rating: T

Read on FFN and AO3

A/N: Sorry for the delay! Thank you all so much for the feedback! I hope you enjoy! -Jen

                                                 Chapter Five

"You're dead."

Ten year old Agatha Van Helsing yelped in surprise as she was swiftly knocked off her feet, her back hitting the ground hard as her grandfather loomed over her. Abraham's weathered face showed no sympathy as he held a stick right underneath the girl's chin. Out of the corner of her eye, Agatha saw her own weapon lying far from her reach.

"Stand up," the old man grumbled. "You let your guard down again. In a matter of seconds, you could've been taken advantage of and drained of your life blood." He motioned towards her stick. "Again."

"We've been doing this for hours," the child complained. By now, bruises had already begun to form on the places that had been battered the most. She hated practicing combat, especially when it was with someone as highly skilled as her grandfather. "Can't we take a break?"

"There are no breaks when you're being hunted," Abraham replied firmly. "Now quit your protesting and come at me. We are going to keep doing this until you get it right." He ignored the girl's scowl and prepared his stance. "Again."

Even though she had yet to come across a mirror in Dracula's castle, Agatha felt as if her appearance was already improving by the day. No longer was her skin a deathly pallor and blotched with a red rash, but her fatigue had lessened too. By no means was she cured, far from it, but at least she was one step in the right direction. Focus on the positives. The nun had to constantly remind herself of that.

A loud knock sounded against her bedroom door causing Agatha to jump a little in surprise. Her eyes fell to the door knob, anticipating for it to twist and push open. She didn't put it past Dracula to waltz inside without permission. He'd done it several times before. However, after a few moments had passed without the vampire gracing her with his unwelcome presence, she relaxed.

"Will you be joining me downstairs to eat, or shall I leave it by the door as usual?"

Accompanying him for dinner, as if he actually ate alongside her. She inhaled deeply, flattening out the creases in the dress he'd gifted her. It was rather lovely, but it did agitate her knowing he probably realized her fondness of it. Regardless, she hadn't much else to wear-thanks to him, so she had to make do.

"You truly make being a good host such a daunting task," the vampire continued when she refrained from responding. "I've opened by home to you, healed you, and yet, you still don't trust that my intentions aren't sinister." He paused, quickly adding. "At least, not to what you expect."

"Exactly where does one find trust with someone who has slaughtered countless innocent lives," Agatha retorted. "I don't expect you to see my reasoning behind my hesitation as you kill without a second thought."

"We do what we must to survive," Dracula stated. "Monster or not, human or creature, it's in our genetics to thrive by whatever means necessary. If I made you a vampire right now, I can assure you you'd give into your cravings within a second. Whether you feel guilty or not afterwards is no concern, but you would consume blood."

"I'd rather die," she frowned deeply.

"As you've made very, very clear," the vampire exhaled. "Anyway, if desired to kill you, you'd already be dead. So rather than acting like a broody hen sitting on a clutch of eggs, perhaps it would do you good to come join me by the fire. Being confined in a room for so long isn't good for one's sanity."

His mere existence was pushing her to the brink of insanity. Chewing on the inside of her cheek, Agatha's eyes fixed on the door. Something told her that he wasn't about to give in and leave her to her own devices. At some point, she'd have to really face him. Exhaling heavily, she stood up. Positive thoughts. Maybe she could use this to her advantage. A learning experience. Information. Clearing her throat, she forced a stoic expression.

"Fine," she exclaimed. "I suppose I'll join you."

"Ouch!"

A small drop of blood trickled from the knick on Agatha's thumb where she cut herself. She set the knife down, and examined the piece of wood she'd been whittling into a stake. Abraham strode forward and grabbed her hand, his brows knitting as his ever present frown deepened.

"You need to be more careful," he instructed. "A vampire would be able to smell this a mile away and you'd be killed before you even knew what hit you."

"It was an accident," Agatha insisted.

"Doesn't matter," the old man frowned. "You can't afford to make a mistake. Always be vigilant. Vampires are monsters, Agatha. They don't feel. They don't care. All you are is a meal to them. You must remember that!" He snatched her stake, his fingers trailing down the pointed wood. "Keep going," he muttered, handing it back to the girl. "You're looking if this would go through a human's chest."

"How did you learn to cook anyway?"

Agatha's eyes followed Dracula as he set a dish in front of her. At first glance, it appeared to be some sort of fowl, perhaps quail, along with root vegetables. She'd be lying if she didn't admit it smelled incredible. It wasn't until the vampire placed a crystal glass filled with a red liquid that the nun visibly stiffened.

"It's just red wine," Dracula chuckled, snorting softly. "Honestly, Agatha, I may be a 'brute' as you'd put it, but I'm not twisted enough to give you blood." There was a glint of mischievousness in his eyes. "Especially when it's a requirement in my diet."

"You didn't answer my question," Agatha said, lifting up the cup to swirl the liquid around. "Where did you learn to cook? And why?"

"I picked up many skill sets throughout the centuries," he admitted. "When you have a lot of time on your hands, why not take the opportunity. Besides," he smirked. "It comes in handy when I have guests over." He gave a nod towards her dish. "Go on, give it a taste."

Eyeing him warily, Agatha lifted up her fork and picked up some of the meat. Hesitantly, she placed it into her mouth. Throughout her decades of life, she hadn't ever tasted anything so delectable. She tried to ignore Dracula's wide grin as he watched her eat. He was a good cook, she'd give him that.

"Well?"

"I'm not dead yet, so I suppose you didn't poison me," she said, setting her utensil down. "Impressive for someone who only consumes blood."

"I do try my best," he smirked. "And if we are offering compliments, might I add that you are looking much more lively now. The fire really brings out the color in your cheeks."

Agatha almost choked on the wine she'd taken a sip of. Heat rose to her face as the vampire eyed her smugly from across the table knowing what he'd done. Pleasant conversations and Dracula didn't go hand in hand. Especially when he was attempting to flirt for her own embarrassment.

"You really lack the ability for romanticism despite your centuries of life," she countered, an argument not helping her cause. She should've just dropped it. Left his snide remark where it was. "You have as much charm as a decaying crow."

"Ah, your insults are enthralling," Dracula mused, clearly entertained by her disdain. "Go on, do continue."

She should've stayed in her room. Ignored him. Pretended he wasn't there. Hell, she should've died back in that rundown clinic. But here she was, sitting before the buffoon of a man-if one would even give him the dignity of calling him that. Anger began to bubble within her chest, her witty demeanor fighting the urge to leap over the table with the strength she clearly didn't have and stake him in the chest with her butter knife.

"You're a pig," Agatha growled. "A barbarian."

"Come on, Agatha, you and I both know you can be far more creative than that," he teased, making his way over to her side. "I've witnessed it before. Give me your best shot. That is," he paused. "If you still have it in you."

What happened next was a blurred memory, as if Agatha had blocked out the event that led up to it. The next thing she realized was that she was standing, her mouth against Dracula's as he pushed her back against the table. The force of it hurt and the nun knew she'd have a bruise later. But that didn't matter now.

Her arms wrapped around his neck as he lifted her up, the dining ware knocked to the floor. Shattered. Teeth grazing her bottom lip. Fingernails digging into his impenetrable skin. She couldn't breathe. She didn't want to. The fabric of her dress tore as he ripped it off like one does the wrapping of a present.

"Don't trust a vampire." Abraham's words echoed in her mind as she lay splayed across the table like some elegant feast, Dracula looming over her with dark, lustful eyes. "Never fall into their trap."

His words faded as the vampire pressed himself close, his forehead against Agatha's. Her body ached for him. Burned. And she was a victim to its demands. Perhaps later she'd regret this. But later wasn't now. She allowed her eyes to close, bare skin to bare skin, as she drowned in the passion that was desire.

[nekun-uul]

​Hunger [#3 muster]

> Characters // Nekun > Warnings // blood, murder, broken bones, light cannibalism. 

Darkness, a recurring atmosphere for the beast, he knew not where he was or who had taken him. He only knew one thing, hunger. It gnawed at the pit of his stomach, whoever had taken him, had been neglecting to feed the poor creature. For whatever reason was above his understanding, but it would surely be their downfall, sooner or later. For you should never corner a beast who has nothing to lose, and a ravenous hunger that could break the strongest of men.

Nekun knew not of how long he had been subjected to this darkness, he only heard sounds. Ones of crashing water, of people shouting and ones of funny sounding ‘kwehs’. He knew not of where he was, but he was determined to break free, even within this weakened state. For his mere beast, wasn’t just an ordinary one. He had the wit of a man, and the ferocity of an animal. He just had to bide his time, wait for someone to slip up, and seize that moment for himself.

Resting against the cold bars of his cage, Nekun sat and listened. Though he couldn’t see that didn’t mean he was completely blind and out of his depth. Birds, ones he had never heard before resonated with him, it was strange. Taking in a deep breath, new smells filled his lungs. All of this was different, the sounds, the smells, it was nothing like the high peaks of the steppes or even the steppes themselves. He knew deep down he wasn’t in his territory anymore, how far away exactly, he would never know. But all of these new sensations, got his blood pumping, and maybe, just maybe this was the edge he needed.

Without warning Nekun was flung forward, seemingly whatever had been transporting him had come to a drastic halt. The sound of muffled voices and footsteps began to emanate, from beyond the darkness of his confines. Before he knew it the light of the setting sun bore light into his cage, as someone pulled away his cages cover. squinting at the light, though very dim it was, Nekuns eyes still had to adjust. He had been subject to darkness for a long time after all.

And as his eyes grew accustomed to the new light, he saw just strange sights. Trees, countless upon number of tall giant trees. Nekun had never seen such wonders, it was daunting at first, seeing these foreboding presences of nature. They were nothing like anything he had ever seen, on the high peaks of the steppe, though afraid at first, he soon grew calm. He knew deep down nothing bad would come from them, no, those who sought to cause him pain. Were the ones running about just beyond his confines, three men. The first two were goons in muddy trench coats. Wearing masks to hide their identities, they both lugged heavy boxes off of the caged cart, and placed them around a makeshift fire. 

To Nekun they were nothing, though he had been living in the wilds for many years. He had a rough understanding where they lay within the pecking order, and it wasn’t very high up. No, the one who was calling the shots, was a plain looking man standing aside the fire. A bald man wearing the same coats as the others. But this one, he wore no mask, maybe as a sign of his stature or, he had to fear of being caught. For whatever his reasoning was, it meant nothing to Nekun, all he wanted was to be free. Huddling into a far corner of his cage, Nekun lay watching, waiting, maybe one of these fools would soon slip up. He would just have to wait and see.

Soon the sun had fully set, and the moon climbed to its peak. Sitting around the fire, the bald man and his goons, began to feast upon the meat, that had been roasting just above the crackling flames for some time. Its delectable aroma, wafted gently over to Nekun, catching its enticing scent, the beast mouth began to water. It had been an age since he had last eaten, and it looked like he wasn’t going to get anything anytime soon. All the beast could do, was watch. Watch upon as his captures feasted, and he slowly starved.

Nekuns jaw quivered, and stomach audibly grumbled, looking over his shoulder at the caged animal. A devilish smirk creeped onto the bald man’s face, grabbing a piece of meat, the man got to his feet and made his way over to the cage. As the cold metal bars stood before him and Nekun, the man began to taunt the beast as he took large bites. With a mouth heavy with food he began to laugh, as his laughter began to pick up the two goons noticed what their ‘boss’ was doing and joined in with the raucous laughter. With meat in hand, the man slowly slid his hand through the slits of the cage, seemingly to offer up what he had to the beast. 

As Nekun went to hesitantly go for the meat, the man quickly pulled it away, an eruption of laughter came from the three. Nekuns eyes flared, and a low rumbling growl emanated from the beast, which only caused his captures to laugh louder. Call it what you will, ballsy, cocky or just arrogance, but the bald man full of vigor thinking he had beast this mighty creature, once again slid his hand into the cage, taunting the beast once more.

As the bald man looked back to laugh with the others, Nekun knew this was his chance. Seizing the opportunity, he mustered up all the strength he had and lunged for the man’s arm. The beast’s claws plunged into the man’s upper arm, howling in pain the plain man tried pulling his arm free from his grasp, but it wasn’t good enough. With each tung, Nekun grip grew tighter and with a low rumbling growl, the beast pulled the man’s arm deeper into the cage.

Hitting the cold metal bars with the thud, the man horrified, frantically began bark orders at the men round the campfire. Taken aback by what was transpiring before them, the men hesitantly jumped into action, as one graded the metal poker from the fire, the other rushed to the cage’s door. Unhooking to key from their belt, the goon’s hands began to shake as the bald man's scream grew louder.

With heavy breath, Nekun opened his mouth wide. Baring his teeth, he quickly plunged them into the man’s arm, screaming bloody murder, the man tried breaking free once more. Tightly gripping a bar of the cage, the man began to push off it. Feeling his grip loosen from his prey, Nekun bit down harder, flesh began to tare, and bones cracked under the pressure. The beast eyes began to glaze over, as trickles of blood began to drip into his mouth, he wasn’t about to let go. No, this was the first taste of blood he had had in a long time, and with all he had left Nekun tore into his arm. With a loud audible crack, both Nekun and the man were sent flying backwards.

Falling onto their back. The plain man screamed in agony, as he clutched his limp bleeding arm. As blood poured from his open wound, he began writhing on the floor shouting orders at the two goons. Scrambling to all fours, Nekun lay perched. His mouth covered in blood he watched, as the two goons failed multiple times to try and open the cage door. Swallowing the hunk of meat in his mouth, he let out a rumbling growl. Though this was meant to be his prison, it had quickly turned into his domain, and they had to come to him.

As the door finally swung open, the guard brandishing the hot poker rushed in. a low rumbling growl came from Nekun, as the guard hesitantly stepped forward, hesitation that one false step gave Nekun another moment. Lunging at the goon, the beast tackled the man to the ground, try as they might to retaliate against Nekuns attacked was matched with failure, as the goons body fell limp as the beast tore into the man’s neck.

Jolting up right, Nekun stared at the now cowering goon. Audibly swallowing the pound of meat, he slowly tilted his head, creeping slowly forward the beast let out a grumble. Horrified, the goon looked at their companions’ body and then back to Nekun, as they slowly began to back away. Nekuns eyes flared, growling, he pushed off the dead man’s body and lunged for the fleeing goon. As they went to turn and run, the goon fell face first into the dirt as Nekun bashed into their back.

Landing beside the goon, Nekun scrambled to grab at them. As the goon’s foot firmly connected with his face, Nekun recoiled back. Dazed the beast shook his head, giving the goon enough time to escape. Quickly rising to his feet, Nekun looked around the clearing, he truly had no idea where he was. Nothing felt or seemed familiar, this feeling, the one he had felt before was right. He wasn’t in the steppe any longer, a strange feeling, but an oddly welcome one.

Finding it in his best interest, to not be the next head on the chopping block, the bald man gritted his teeth, and began to slowly scoot away. Hearing the commotion, Nekun slowly peered over his shoulder. Eyeing the man intently he gradually made his way over to him, as Nekun loomed over the man, he stopped scooting away. Crouching down before him Nekun Leaned in closer, the man turned his head away as the beast drew closer. Titling his head, Nekun began to sniff at the cowering man. A rumbling growl came from the beast, as they bared their gnarled teeth…

Hunger, a feeling that has brought man and beast alike to the very brink of madness. It is insatiable, for no matter how you quench that desire, that need. It always finds its way back, dragging you with tooth and claw, to such depths of depravity, you can never truly see yourself free. It is what makes us, and it is what drives us. Hunger, voracious is its appetite, can lead us to do such awful things. Just to survive. 

[fuwafuwamedb]

A Cursed G Pt 27 (Gilgamesh, Enkidu, Siduri)

Previous Part: 1 - HakuPOV / GilPOV, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26

_____

The apsu were quick, quicker than usual with their speeds.

Yet still, as Gilgamesh tucked the bathed woman into his bed and glanced at the group entering his chambers, he found them to be lacking. They were too slow. They were too useless.

“My king,” Siduri pulled him away from the bed.

“I want her breathing smoothly by the time I return,” he demanded of the group. His eyes turned to Enkidu, “Stay with them and ensure that she remains alive and breathing.”

“You know I want to take care of her too,” Enkidu replied.

They should have, but they had both failed to realize that Ishtar would sink to such levels. The defecation room. Of all the places to attack someone, to sink to that kind of level and attack someone when they were relieving themselves was without a doubt the worst kind of coward.

He could feel his temper like a fire, flaring higher and higher towards the heavens. The woman at his side was remaining quiet, leading him as she was supposed to through the palace. He could see his people murmuring and hurrying to clean and do their work. The maidens of the palace were moving to greet him, being waved off.

“I want a selection of fabrics,” he informed the group. “You will all become maidens to my woman.”

They nodded, obedient as ever.

“She is this tall,” he told them, motioning to about his chest. “Brown hair, brown eyes. It gleams with bits of gold in the light. She’s small, but she has an abundant chest. Keep that in mind when you have the seamstresses called forth to the palace.”

Siduri waited, listening.

“She will awaken disoriented and her language skills for our kingdom have a hint of her mother tongue in it, but she will understand you.”

The women dispersed.

Still, Siduri remained, bowing.

“Shall we?”

“Where are we at with the preparations for me claiming Hakuno?”

“I ah…” Siduri scratched at her head a bit. “We’ve run into a problem.”

“Fix it.”

The woman spluttered. “It’s not that simple! We don’t know this woman’s background. The people don’t know who she is or where she’s from or even what she looks like! The advisors are panicking. You were gone for months, King Gilgamesh!”

“And I am back.”

“Ishtar claimed that you were dead!”

He would take care of that problem in due time too, but her words were a problem.

Gilgamesh paused in his office, looking at all the tablets that lined his desk and the walls. Countless cups on the desk said that someone had been pulling all nighters, attempting to make sense of the chaos that looked to be rampant in this room. There were soiled cloths in a bin beside the desk. The basin of water in the corner had a cloth tinged in blood.

“…Have you slept, Siduri?”

The woman froze.

“I asked if you had slept.” Gilgamesh glanced over, noting the heavy bags under her eyes and the faint traces of where she’d wiped under her nose to stop a nose bleed.

Siduri had been managing the kingdom in Enkidu and his absence.

“You need to rest.”

“My king-“

He turned her around, steering her towards his own chambers. The servants that passed were barked at for the apsu bedding. He himself grabbed blankets from a passerby bringing in fresh linen, refusing to hear anything out of the fool he was steering back to his chambers.

Siduri clambered, she begged; and, naturally, he wouldn’t hear of it. As the apsu treated Hakuno, he settled the foolish woman into a corner of his room and tucked her in.

“Rest.”

“I can’t! There’s too much to do!”

She wasn’t a good listener, was she?

“My king-“

“Would you rather rest beside Hakuno?” Gilgamseh asked, watching the woman begin to panic further. “I can have the apsu put you to sleep if that is what it takes. Enkidu and I will send them in regularly to ensure that you rest until such a time that you’re not on the brink of visiting Ereshkigal. You’ll sleep so deeply that not even the gods could awaken you, should they bother to try.”

“…I would not impose on your bed, my king.”

But she wouldn’t mind it.

Gilgamesh laughed, pulling the woman up into his arms and walking over to the bed. He tucked her in, just as he had done before and just as he had done with Hakuno. His poor attendant, flustered and burning away into nothingness out of her own embarrassment.

He would allow this.

She had done well in watching over the kingdom, from what he’d seen. There were no people stressing about the fact that he had been gone. It didn’t seem that anyone was second guessing his presence in the palace.

By her own admission, his advisors were worried, but he would quell them soon enough.

“Allow Siduri to rest once done with Hakuno,” he informed the apsu, watching the men divide and tend to the attendant now.

“Should I stay with them?” Enkidu asked.

“I need you with me.”

The apsu were bowing themselves out, thanking him for calling upon them for this opportunity. He could feel the two resting well now.

“What was wrong with Hakuno?”

“It was a magic block, in several places,” one of the apsu informed him. “Whomever got to her, managed to stop her mana and her blood from flowing freely. Had you not acted as quickly as you did, my king, you would not have her alive at this point, not with all limbs.”

One of the men faltered, shaking his head at the women in his bed.

“The woman’s mana was difficult to free. She may experience pain if she is a magic user. She will need to utilize her abilities once she has awakened. We’ll see what damage lingers.”

Lingers.

Gilgamesh waved the fool off before he bothered him further.

Hakuno wouldn’t have lingering pain.

The woman had saved his life. In return, he had been forced to do the same because of a problem he held. That was not a suitable return of favor.

“Enkidu-“

He paused, glancing back to find the being snuggling in between the two women and pulling them into their arms. The shit-eating grin had him chuckling.

“Are you planning to watch over them then?”

“It was the original plan, wasn’t it?”

“How are you going to protect them when you are half under them?”

The being snuggled both women closer, pressing their lips to Siduri’s forehead. “I’ll growl.”

The being didn’t know how to growl. They knew simply how to roar. Still, the being’s decision set him at ease. He nodded, turning away.

“There’s a fair amount of work to be done, I will have to see to it.”

He would leave the guarding to Enkidu.

Meanwhile, for him, he had a palace to attend to. The guards bowed at the entrance to his audience chamber. His advisors fell to their knees upon the site of him. Without fail, he found that the world he had been torn so viciously from had not forgotten him.

In fact, it had missed him sorely.

He dragged the advisors to the offices, assigning them piles and threatening punishment for being bothered with anything less than dire circumstances.

Gilgamesh then perched himself upon his desk, listening to the men murmur to one another and eyeing the piles that sat upon his desk.

Siduri had great organization. To a point, the most important documents always found their way to his desk and his desk alone. Eyeing the pile, he could already see the proposals, the requests for his attendance at festivals and traditional rituals. He had no doubt he would be turning kingdoms away since he had Hakuno as well.

Perhaps in a few days, he could open the pathway back to her time and allow for them to go through with the plan for the two of them.

Perhaps, but he had concerns in that regard.

The spells they had done had been directed towards Uruk, not back.

Even if Hakuno wanted to return, it would be almost impossible without great knowledge of her time. And, even then, they had no idea how the time would work. They could end up arriving before he had ever gone to Fuyuki. They could end up arriving after all of her friends were dead.

That kind of thing didn’t matter right now though.

Gilgamesh turned his attention to the top tablet, beginning to work.

The temple of Ishtar was demanding his presence a lot, it seemed.

The fools must have been informed that he was gone. Several correspondences demanded for his presence to be seen, to which Siduri had done a wonderful job imitating his indifference. Time and time again, she pointed out the futility of the traditions and the practices, citing words he had no doubt used at some point.

There were other tablets too, beseeching the temple of Ninsun to counter the other temples from interfering. His mother must have become involved in covering up his absence.

A pause at one tablet showed interest in the Ishtar priests visiting him.

Gilgamesh snapped his fingers for one of the advisors.

“Put up a divinity barrier around the palace.”

“My king?”

“Against Ishtar’s divinity, to be precise.”

The man fled, offered salvation from his paperwork.

More tablets, now on proposals, were now on his desk.

The kingdom of Ur had a young girl coming of age that would need to become accustomed to a man’s body. The kingdom of Nippur had triplets.

One look at their age had him tossing the tablet towards the window.

Bodies that young were useless for anything more than learning and partaking in selfish purpose. He had no need to be taking something younger than the number of months he had been with Hakuno.

Sunlight drifted from his office chambers as the tablets were trickling from the room. The servants of the palace were arriving now, their robes flourishing around them as they raised their hands to the wall mounts and illuminated space after space in their room. The flames flickered nicely, crackling a little as Gilgamesh paused from his work.

The food came.

He went back to work quickly after.

King.

It’s the king!

Lion king.

Gilgamesh paused from his work, frowning as he saw the beasts prowling into the room. The last of the tablets were vanishing, leaving him with the final few that the advisors had whittled the work down to. He could see the lions climbing onto his lap, nuzzling at his face and purring incessantly.

“It would seem you all know of my return.”

He listened to the purring, hearing the low murmur of voices beneath.

King.

King’s back.

Welcome back.

Room smells of female.

So the cure was not perfect for him, he guessed.

The advisors had gone. There were no guards outside his door. What’s more, the voices, far too close and intimate for anyone outside the room to fake, were no doubt from his beasts.

Ishtar had turned him into a cat.

It seems he had retained some senses from them.

Naturally, such a thing would actually be useful to him. He could keep tabs on the people in the palace due to these felines. What’s more, if they understood him, he could send them on tasks.

“Did you all see my woman?” He brushed back some manes, listening to the group grow louder in their pleasure. “She will be requiring your protections in the upcoming years. She is going to remain my female.”

The noisy bunch purred back to him.

King female.

Good smell.

Female.

Kitten.

“You are all going to be important to her. Indeed.”

Work was done.

That meant that he no longer cared about anything happening in the palace. His woman was safe. His attendant, the one he favored, was resting. Enkidu was watching them both. That left him with no bed and no plans for the time being.

That in mind, he stood up, motioning for the lions to follow him.

There was no one to stop him from the thought he’d been contemplating during the majority of his work. No one could advise him against what he could do to that fool’s people. Uruk was a kingdom that was built upon the people’s loyalty to their king. Each member within the kingdom contributed. Each person was given their due praise, as was befitting.

He walked down the steps of the ziggurat, eyeing the temple further down the streets.

There was a group in this kingdom who had done nothing to provide for these people he governed. Their actions, along with their woman whom they represented, had gone against the people’s wishes. They’d questioned his presence, knowing full well that he was in trouble.

A part of him wondered how fast he could have been retrieved had the fools acted as Uruk people.

Gilgamesh pushed the doors of Ishtar’s palace open.

“Kill the robed ones.”

The plain beasts roared forward, claws and fangs extended and glinting. The sounds of the screams echoed into the night air as Gilgamesh stood in the doorway, A few attempted to run. A few more attempted to beseech him to help them.

He raised his head up a little higher, regarding their ends.

Their blood would be on his hands, sure.

Their innocence was perhaps debatable.

However, they had known revolution would come if he was found to be gone. Siduri would not reign. Enkidu would have faltered, given that the gods were prone to ruining their lives like that. There would have been nothing and no one to help and protect his people.

The lions pattered forward, coated in red.

“You have done well,” he praised, kneeling down to stroke the beasts’ fur. “We’ll bathe you all in the canals and return to the palace.

His debt to Ishtar was returned.

She had almost killed him and Hakuno at random points.

He had managed to kill all of her priests.

Perhaps now she would learn that he had no intention of coming near her.

“Come,” he told the beasts.

The night was young enough to waste by watching the stars from his favorite gardens.

“It’s good to be back.”

[thesickpanda]

See you on the other side

Note: I have never talked much about my family on this blog for fear they might see it. But I am no longer afraid of how they will react if they do see it. Bring it. I have some things to say about how psychological and emotional abuse is normalized in families, especially towards firstborn daughters, so here it bloody well is.

I come from an extremely dysfunctional family. It is dysfunctional on both sides and I feel truly alien to everybody in that family network. The only exceptions were my late father, late grandmother and one cousin. And even then, there were aspects of my dad and Gran that seemed totally bizarre to me, such as their inability to talk about difficult issues or face their inner demons. That is something I've had to do alone all my life.

 When my father died unexpectedly nine years ago, the dysfunction was really obvious. My severely mentally ill mother had a complete nervous breakdown and it fell to me to take care of her while single-handedly organising a funeral from another continent. My sister locked down and turned to her friends rather than me, her battle-weary sibling, as she typically does. I received no support there. My entire extended family found my father's death an inconvenience. My dad's girlfriend had to intervene before his brother had cremated him without a funeral and without even letting us know he had passed away. (My father died in his home country). It was only after my dad's friend alerted his girlfriend that she was able to put a stop to it and give me the opportunity to give my dad a proper funeral. It was no secret in the family that I was extremely close to my father and loved him very, very much. But I received absolutely no emotional support from anybody. Even my cousin couldn't understand why I wouldn't attend her wedding the day after my father's funeral. Because I was upset? Because I had just lost the person I loved most in the world? Hello?

 Apart from the enormous toll that took on chronically ill me to organise dad's funeral with a 15 hour time difference, the mental toll was truly unbearable. I didn't want to be alone in this loss but that's where I found myself. My mother was wracked with guilt and couldn't face herself and my sister shut down and didn't want to talk about any of it. Shortly after I returned from my father's funeral, my partner's family cut all ties with me because they found out we were dating and didn't approve of me, being a non-Catholic and not Italian. They didn't speak to me for eight months. So my own family were not speaking to me or reaching out to me (I didn’t get so much as a text message from any of my cousins or even a card from any of my aunts and uncles) and my partner's family had made it very clear that I wasn't what they wanted for their son. So I tried to reach out to some of my friends. What a shock to the system that turned out to be. The friends I thought would be there for me weren’t and the friends that I didn't expect that from offered some words of comfort. But those friends were scattered around the globe. I had only recently moved to Australia and didn't know anybody apart from my partner so he was the only person I could talk to. I appreciated that, but I really wanted to talk to somebody who knew my father (unfortunately, my partner and dad didn’t know each other well) so I reached out to my father's friends. They all shut me down saying it was too painful to talk about the man. So then I reached out to my partner's girlfriend, who was much hated by my family for making a play for his will. I cannot emphasize enough how little I cared about the money. Money could not buy me comfort or solace or a salve to my grief, only compassion and communication could do that. And she was more than willing to offer that. Because she was the only person I could talk to about my father I leaned very heavily on her up until 2 years later when she drew the line and said that she needed to move on with her life and could no longer speak about it. I respect that, it was never really her responsibility, but she was all I had.

 Just before that happened, I visited the UK to see my family. They were totally disinterested in my visit. There was no fanfare around my arrival, which is fine, but showing a little enthusiasm for my return after a few years away would have been nice. Instead I got utterly bullied by them for being a feminist. I had a horrible realization that my childlike perception of my relatives was very rose-tinted; in reality, they were cold, hard conservatives who took it upon themselves to put me straight on my pathetic beliefs.  At one point, they had me on the ground sobbing into the carpet and were standing over me telling me that I didn’t know what I was talking about, that I was a wuss for crying after an hour of being gaslit, and that I wasn't really a feminist because I was reliant my partner (because, you know, I'm sick with 3 chronic illnesses and 2 mental illnesses, but hey they don't believe me about that, either). I was so roundly abused by everybody that I have not gone back since. My uncle even told me that my father had chosen to die rather than deal with his immediate family. I disagreed, stating that he had in fact been looking forward to my visit, tragically scheduled a few weeks after he died, and that his friend had told me it was all he could talk about. But my uncle said I was wrong: my father had chosen to die rather than see me. Picked his moment. Checked out deliberately. Shortly after that disgustingly callous remark, my aunt told me, in no uncertain terms, exactly what she thought about me and my family.  I won't repeat that here because it is too painful.

 Now, to paint a picture about the kind of person I am, every step of the way I have forgiven people. Even when they have hurt me and refused to acknowledge that hurt or apologize for it, I have forgiven them and come back to them. Why? Because I'm used to being a doormat. Because I'm used to being told that as the eldest daughter it is my responsibility to be there for the family; to be everybody's counsellor when they need it and to be their punching bag when they're feeling volatile. What gets me is that since I was a girl, I have been mocked and ridiculed for being “too sensitive” and “a crybaby”. I mean, I grew up with relentless domestic violence, a deeply unhappy home life in a country rife with crime and on the brink of civil war, and like a normal child, I expressed my fear and suffering through tears. But in response to that I was given so-called “tough love” (to quote my sister) and made to feel like it was a tremendous weakness on my part to acknowledge my difficult emotions. And yet that same softness and sensitivity is what they ALL turned to when they needed it from me. I was their sounding board, consoled them when they required it, reached out when I could tell they were down (especially my dad). But me? I'm not allowed to have feelings of my own, because they are an inconvenience that must be swiftly dealt with by dismissing them as an “overreaction”. Because  they won’t face their own inner turmoil, they have attacked me for not only feeling but expressing mine. After repeated episodes of this, I have learned NOT to show my hand to them. I am still the same sensitive, sweet person with my friends, and I still provide my family comfort when they need it, but I strive not to cry in front of them anymore or talk about my own pain or hardships. I have diagnosed PTSD from my childhood trauma that gets triggered whenever I make myself vulnerable to them, so I just don’t do it anymore, which has meant I have an absolute volcano-load of rage and resentment locked down underneath my smiling exterior.

Despite all of this, I have sent countless emails, letters, handmade cards and packages to relatives who never once asked me how I'm doing and don't bother to reply. I have done this because I have been so utterly brainwashed by society's expectation that the first born daughter is a secondary mother figure, including to her own mother, and must pour emotional labour into everybody without ever needing it to be reciprocated. It's a very pernicious form of sexism that I was completely oblivious to during my eight years of feminist activism.

 I kept up with my grandmother during the nine years after my dad's death until she passed away a week ago. The rest of my family couldn't be bothered to do the same for her. So when she died, knowing full well that I'd put a lot of emotional energy and time into that relationship, I thought at the very least they would reach out to me to say hey, how are you doing? What a fool I am. To think that they would do that when they didn't even do that when dad died! So I ended up angrily prompting them which has since opened a can of worms. They kinda sorta detected I am a bit pissed off with them? Even though they don't know why I'm so angry…???

 According to 5 different psychologists, I was viciously bullied and gaslit as a child and teenager. My gentle nature was seen as a weakness and a character flaw. I now know how wrong my family are about that. Ten years of therapy teaches you a thing or two about people’s maladaptive coping mechanisms.  I can see their dysfunction because I have spent 9 years reckoning with my own; looking into my past trauma and figuring out how to process it. I can see all their scars and wounds in a way that they just can't. And yet they continuously project that unacknowledged trauma onto me over and over again, triggering my PTSD and keeping me from being able to move on. The stress they cause me literally makes me ill. And even though I've had psychologist literally begging me to cut ties with my family because they are that poisonous to my mental well-being (and in turn my physical well-being), that brainwashing is so entrenched that I have just stuck it out.

 But you know what? Gran’s death broke something in me. It dredged up all the hurt and anger I have buried deep, known only to my counsellors and partner, and I have realised how utterly toxic it has been for me to swallow that down for so long.  In the past 2 years, I've put down boundaries with my mother and  even though she wrestled with them she's beginning to accept them and we are getting along a bit better now. I've accepted I will never have the sort of relationship with my mother that I'd hoped for,  because she cannot be the person I need her to be. Fine. But with the rest of my family I have absolutely had enough. I'm no longer going to be their emotional punching bag and I refuse to be taken for granted. I'm no longer going to be there for them when they need me only to get gaslit and dismissed when I need them. I'm dumping the role of the dutiful daughter/sister/niece.

  There’s a pernicious lie that is sold to us through media and mantras: that you often hurt the ones you love the most. That family need to be there for each other, no matter what.

 I call bullshit on that idea.

 I don’t hurt my friends, and if I accidentally do, I apologise for that, because I know that they can walk anytime and I need to work on making that relationship worthwhile for them. My bonds with other people are built on mutual respect, open communication and genuine appreciation for one another. It needs to be a two way street. I don’t take them for granted and they don’t take me for granted.

 I no longer subscribe to the view that just because you are blood related to someone you need to tolerate their abuse. I think respect is earned. I think respect should be mutual. I think that people should be kind and considerate to one another. Why should there be one formula for how my family treat their friends, and another for how they treat me? I think the belief that we should tolerate the cruelty of family has led to many suicides and broken human beings. My own father walked away from his family after they mistreated him and was subsequently able to live his own life. But his failing was that he never went to therapy to deal with his trauma and instead turned to addiction to cope which led to his death. I learned from his mistake. I have been getting lots of much needed professional support. But the rest of my family are headed on the same path as dad, despite my imploring them to seek help themselves. They all refuse to acknowledge their own pain and damage which they, in turn, inflict on me, the only person in their life who will take it.

 I am so done with being the only one to face the past, deal with my flaws and mend my broken parts. Because they refuse to acknowledge it and process it, it informs and affects their behaviour and actions, which are projected onto me and therefore leave me tethered to a time and a treatment I want to put behind me. In this way, maintaining ties with them has been the single most damaging thing I have done to my own process of healing. It’s a way of remaining tethered to the trauma.

 Right now, I am having a reckoning with my family. It is blisteringly painful but ultimately necessary. It will be interesting to see what's on the other side of all this grief and pain and rage. What’s so frustrating is that it took something like another death in the family to leave that pain raw and exposed for all to see.

 Better late than never, I guess.

  "The Other Side" by David Gray Meet me on the other side, meet me on the other side I'll see you on the other side, see you on the other side Honey now if I'm honest, I still don't know what love is Another mirage folds into the haze of time recalled And now the floodgates cannot hold All my sorrow all my rage A tear that falls on every page Meet me on the other side, meet me on the other side Maybe I oughta mention, was never my intention To harm you or your kin, are you so scared to look within The ghosts are crawling on our skin We may race and we may run We'll not undo what has been done Or change the moment when it's gone

Meet me on the other side, meet me on the other side I'll see you on the other side, see you on the other side

I know it would be outrageous To come on all courageous And offer you my hand To pull you up on to dry land When all I got is sinking sand That trick ain't worth the time it buys I'm sick of hearing my own lies And love's a raven when it flies Meet me on the other side, meet me on the other side I'll see you on the other side, see you on the other side Honey now if I'm honest, I still don't know what love is

[paullicino]

Hindsight is 2020

Just one of many posts taken from and funded by my Patreon.

This is a piece of writing about some things that I do know and some things that I do not know. It also is a piece of writing about another piece of writing which no longer exists, a sort of obituary for a document. It is also a confession.

I wonder where it is that good drafts go to die. Those half-finished pieces of work that are simultaneously salvageable and yet also surplus. There are times when words come easy and, if a writer isn’t careful, those words grow like a jungle, sprouting energetically in every direction until they destroy the view, ruin the perspective and reduce those caught amongst them to a sweaty, flustered mess.

I don’t want you to wade into my work to find yourself a sweaty, flustered mess. Otherwise, I’d be in the sauna business.

I throw things out. That’s good. Not everything we make or do will be up to our standards and it’s a wise idea to aggressively cull that which doesn’t work. It’s brutal, sure, but the fact is every writer you know is regularly hurling paragraphs down a secret trapdoor in their home, which they occasionally flip open empty their machine gun into. You have to kill your darlings.

And it's a luxury to be able to murder your mistakes.

But sometimes there’s one that you rescue. There’s one that comes back. There’s one that is pulled from the brink, thrown on the gurney and shocked back into being. "It’s alive," the writer screams, as it twitches once again. Watch it stagger out into the world, walking as if for the first time. Look at its cute little hyphens.

This piece of writing is one of those. It began, more than a month ago, as an attempt to reflect on December. It started like this:

“It’s difficult for me to write about December without also writing some kind of a retrospective for an entire decade. This month has been a hugely reflective one for me and it’s been impossible not to get swept up in the general trend of looking back and taking stock, something that I initially resisted but which has become a positive, enriching exercise. The past has been on my mind in part because it’s infinitely more concrete than the present or the future. It’s so much easier to hold on to. Hopefully it will also be something solid to leap forward from.”

I hope that you feel this way. That your past is something to leap forward from.

I wonder, too, where it is that good drafts are born. I’m not quite sure exactly how much control I have over what I write and I don’t know where the words come from. I know that I don’t wait for inspiration. I chase it. I chase it and I’m armed. It’s not a pretty sight and I’m neither glamorous nor gainly in my pursuit. Sometimes I catch it in lofty places, at the shining peak of a million-year-old mountain. Other times I pull it from a dumpster at three in the morning, scraping off the gunk. But I never understand quite how this catching happens and what the process is that follows. I seem to mostly just stumble into accidents. Just after writing that paragraph that I showed you above, everything went kind of off the rails. It all veered sideways. I wrote this:

“The 2010s were a period of almost constant change and now I’m looking at the possibility of a far more settled future. That feels very unusual indeed. I can’t get my head around it. Even before I gained residency here, my life in Canada offered me so much more stability than anything in a long time and I’m not sure quite what to do with that. While there might be some things I have to worry about going into 2020, there are so many others that have melted away into the past.”

And as I tried to find a way to document and describe some of the transience of that last decade, I began pouring over maps. I'm a very visual thinker and I find that sights and spaces spark my imagination, but the task got away from me very quickly, transforming from something that I was doing to something that was happening. I tried to find something in north London and, by chance, Google Maps dropped me right by a bus stop I could easily have been waiting at ten years ago today, way up Holloway Road and close to an ex-partner’s place.

I don’t know what the logic or whimsy is behind this behaviour, but sometimes Google Maps shows you a place as it looks in summer or in winter, right now or three years past. There’s usually a slider you can drag which pulls you through time and, as I wasn't looking at the Holloway Road of today, I went to try to pull myself back into the present. But it was then that I found I could also jump back almost exactly a decade and see how things looked on any of so many winter mornings or afternoons, as I stood waiting to travel home or to work. With one click, I could hurl myself back almost exactly a decade.

I can’t tell you how powerful that single click was. It demolished a nearby building, it switched out all the road signs, it reopened the old café. It summoned a bold, red 43 bus which loomed nearby and who’s driver would have no patience if I wasn’t about to climb on. I hated that damn bus. The 271, too. They lurched and retched their way north and south, never on a reliable schedule. There was no way of knowing when the next one would come. I’d better get on board.

But I didn’t. I turned on my heel and retraced my steps, winding and squirming my way down routes that weren't just streets I hadn't seen for a decade or more, but often streets that no longer looked this way. Estates have been built, businesses have moved, and while one thing in London can look the same after a hundred and fifty years, whatever sits next to it might change three times in a decade.

I wonder what Google will do when routes themselves change. When they have not only old images, but old layouts that no longer correspond to streets and paths and places that exist. I wonder if we'll still be able to walk through them. I wonder where they’ll go.

It wasn’t difficult to retrace my steps all around each of my old London neighbourhoods, recreating journeys I'd taken countless times. I walked streets just as they looked at the time, took the same shortcuts, remarked at the same details I would've noticed at the time. There was one neighbour's stroller outside their house. There was the same front door, faded before they repainted it. I roamed and I roamed until I found myself looking straight at the face of a building I might easily have been inside at the very same moment that imagery was taken. Like any other, its windows were black holes, its walls were blank, its doorway was featureless. Yet some past version of me could be just beyond. Right then. Right now.

What am I doing in there, I asked myself, and what am I doing in any of these other places I now revisit? The people there aren’t ghosts or memories, they’re living their lives at this moment while this phantom from the future glides back toward them, unable to reach out or to communicate or to leave even the tiniest trace. I could circle these places and their people infinitely. It had never before occurred to me to try to visit the past in this way.

And then I wondered this: If I could step inside, if I could pass through those black windows and blank walls to meet the me of a decade ago, and if I could speak to him, what would I say?

I know the answer.

“Stop being so stupid,” probably.

And also “Keep going and get ready to do an awful lot of things.”

It occurs to me now, as I write this, that the me of a decade ago had a lot going on. He had a lot to juggle. He was sometimes having a much tougher time than the lazy literary bum who types out these words with one foot on the floor and one foot hanging on the sofa. I don't know if he'd appreciate the perspective of someone like me. "Stop being so stupid," he might say. And also: "I hope you've kept going and that you're still trying to do an awful lot of things." The younger me never wanted to waste opportunity.

Other things I wrote in my abandoned draft included this paragraph:

“I’m really bad at relaxing. Really bad. There is always something to be done or something that *can* be done. Most of the last decade I’ve lived paycheck to paycheck, earning enough to get by but rarely to save. I think this has created a constant sense of urgency and an ever-present feeling that I should be doing something. I also think I wasted too much of my teenage years or early twenties and should’ve achieved much more, much sooner. I should be making up for lost time.”

I think now that the me of 2010 would agree we have to find some way to go back further, to the me of 2000, and kick this person into shape. I think we would say "Stop being so stupid," and, particularly "Oh my GOD be more grateful toward your friends, your family and the people you date," which would help us pretend that we don't still need to listen to that advice ourselves. But we do. I know this.

Through most of my life I've watched a British science fiction show called Doctor Who, which tells the story of an eccentric alien who travels through time, going on adventures and solving mysteries. In the course of those travels, the Doctor sometimes meets a past version of themselves and inevitably clashes with them, ending up somewhere between baffled and irritated. But that bit sure doesn't sound like science fiction to me.

I first watched Doctor Who when I was very, very young, at just about the same time when several British organisations worked together on a famous educational undertaking called the Domesday Project, a digital documentation of Britain that existed on collections of enormous laserdiscs, fed into the school computers of the time. They showed you pictures and videos of places all over the nation, letting you take virtual tours around cities or wander in the countryside. My strongest memory of it was of a friend and I getting lost in a field after walking through the most painfully generic and nondescript landscape. We couldn't get out because everything looked the same. To the adult me writing this now, that feels like an apt metaphor for how I felt about much of England, a country I found stagnant and sterile.

The technology used to create the Domesday Project was soon out of date. The media it was stored on was soon out of date. Its images of a country that clearly wasn't always stagnant and sterile were soon out of date. Where is it all now? I don't know. I do know that this makes it very obvious Britain did change, even if to me it didn't, and I can't deny that.

Now come all the coincidences. They start with one more paragraph that I wrote, but then discarded. It is the hardest one to share. It is the confession.

"I will be forty years old soon and I am embarrassed by my age. I know people older who feel so much fresher and people younger who are more capable and more mature. My life is not the way I imagined it would be at forty and I cannot reconcile the reality of who I am with the half-formed expectations that I had. There were things that I wanted to do and things that I meant to do and then an awful lot of other stuff happened along the way. I handled some of that with varying degrees of readiness, resilience and regret, while failing the rest."

I left this paragraph to gain dust and now, by coincidence, I am forty years old at this very moment. Who let this happen? This is unacceptable. Who's fault is this and who can I blame?

And in another act of ridiculous randomness, on the same day I began redrafting all this, a note almost exactly one year old and that I thought I had lost fell out of my notebook. The note pulled me back into the past with all the power of a black hole. HERE YOU ARE AGAIN, said the note, with words that deafened my ears, blinded my eyes and plugged my nose. IT IS 2019 ONCE MORE. I couldn't see or hear or smell anything except for the past, but this time I was armed with all the tools of perspective and perspicacity. I was better equipped to understand everything while also able to change nothing.

I flailed at the past with all the effectiveness of the phantom I had become.

In the third moment of curious concordance, just a few days ago I found myself walking past the first place I lived in Vancouver. It was late. It was cold. I could've decided to head straight home. The night bus was about to come. I’d better get on board.

But I didn’t. I turned on my heel and retraced my steps, winding and squirming my way down routes that weren't just streets I hadn't walked in years, but also streets that no longer looked quite the same. New houses had been built, businesses had moved. This wasn't unusual. While one or two things in Vancouver still look the same after a hundred and fifty years, it's a shockingly young city to a person like me and it regularly rebuilds so much.

It wasn’t difficult to retrace my steps all around my old neighbourhood, recreating journeys I'd taken countless times. I walked streets just as they looked at the time, took the same shortcuts, remarked at the same details I would've noticed at the time. There was one neighbour's bike left on their balcony. There was the same front door, furnished with a new intercom. I roamed and I roamed until I found myself looking straight at the same first apartment I'd rented. Like any other, its windows were black holes, its walls were blank, its doorway was featureless. Someone else lived there now, but someone else had also lived there in the past.

Everything that night was both so familiar and yet also so forgotten. So much had fallen out of my memory so soon and I rushed to gather it all once more. It was then that I realised what true nostalgia really is: It isn't just revisiting the past, it's rediscovering it. It's finding the things that surprise us again even after they've already happened. I know this now.

It brings a very particular kind of feeling. A kind of joy. A kind of reminder. A kind of reinforcement. And I think that's important.

I think it's important to be that phantom from the future, gliding occasionally through the past, because we can forever rediscover and reevaluate that which has already happened. I'm not sure there are many pasts more important than our own and it serves us well to reappraise them sometimes. History is an open book, not a closed one, one which academics continue to re-write, and our lives are the same.

The eternal lesson has always been not to dwell on the past, not to fixate on what has already happened and not to be dominated by what cannot be undone. I don't disagree and I think it's essential that I tell the present version of myself things like “Stop being so stupid,” and also “Keep going and get ready to do an awful lot of things,” and also "Keep chasing inspiration and make sure that you're armed" and a lot more personal, private and emphatic maxims. But it's vital to me to look back from the fresh perspectives I constantly give myself. Our past does not disappear; it is not a draft that we can throw away. It instead forms the ever-growing foundations of what we are and, whether those bricks are made from hope or anger or pride or guilt, we must at times acknowledge them all.

I know this: As we inspect it, we see where it is solid, where it best serves us. That is how it becomes the foundation that we leap forward from.

[tomfoolsery]

carry that weight -- an aftg chapter fic

hunger games au pairing: neil / andrew chapter: 1/?

summary: The 75th Annual Hunger Games have arrived. For years, Neil Josten managed to dodge the reaping by being meticulously careful and as invisible as possible. With only one more reaping until he ages out of the process, he makes a plan to escape the Districts (and his father's henchmen) once and for all. But when he realizes he's been plucked from the masses to partake in this year's Quarter Quell, his plans for escape are dashed. Being reaped for the Games only magnifies the target on his back, and District 12 has never had good luck in the arena. It will take every survival instinct Neil has to make it out alive.

trigger warnings for this chapter: past child abuse, torture, suicide mention.

read on ao3 or here!

The first game that Neil remembered watching was the 66th. The potency of the memory seemed to taint everything else that followed in his life, painting it in that shade for better or worse.

The Games were all about survival. A tribute could train for years, as most of the Career Districts did, but still not be guaranteed a victory. It wasn’t the strongest that always won the Games. Oftentimes, it was the most clever. The one who knew the dark places a human could go in order to ensure survival. The one who was willing to sink to those depths before anyone else could reach them.

The 66th Hunger Games was won by a 15 year old named Hugo. He didn’t look like much to begin with, and most of the commentators throughout the game assumed he would be an early victim at the Cornucopia bloodbath. Hugo’s scores hadn’t even been noteworthy prior to arriving at the arena. For all intents and purposes, he was an easy kill that could be taken care of at a later date. It was that oversight that cost the vast majority of the tributes their lives.

Neil could remember watching Hugo on the television broadcast, all but blending into the shadows that the densely populated forest arena afforded him. His footsteps were always silent, allowing him to traverse wherever he pleased without being caught. It meant he could hunt easier and sustain himself physically, and it meant that he could watch his opponents from afar, always a step ahead. The people watching from the Capitol ate it up.

In years past, the Gamemakers would generally speed things along, forcing tributes to encounter one another and spill enough blood to bring the Game to an end. Any wise Gamemaker would want to maintain a captive audience in the Capitol — lest they be punished for an underwhelming Hunger Games.

An avalanche would bring the tributes to one spot together, or an offer of food, water, or medicine would lure in the desperate to the Cornucopia. Everyone knew what an event like that meant, but most still attended. The alternative was certain death. At least if they attempted it, a chance at survival still existed.

In Hugo’s year, the Gamemakers barely had to lift a finger. The tribute was a master at setting traps and snares, using them to catch both his dinner and his opponents. His methods weren’t grotesque or violent, like past tributes had been. He was sneaky and practical.

On the surface, Hugo didn’t look like a killer or a terrifying figure. What made him scary was his behavior when the tributes were narrowed down to two: him and a Career Pack boy named Palus — who, ironically enough, was an initial standout with the Capitol sponsors. The tables turned once Palus injured his left leg, the bone nearly exposed after falling down a steep cliff. With no way to mend it himself, Palus carried on as best as he could, hoping that the elements or stupidity would do Hugo in so he wouldn’t have to attack first.

Instead of earning a simple, perhaps even cheap victory, Hugo opted to stalk Palus throughout the arena. The cover of night was his weapon, as well as mounting dehydration and starvation on Palus’ part. He was able to instill paranoia in the other tribute, lingering close enough to impart terror but far enough not to be noticed. It was a mental hell that even the Gamemakers couldn’t have dreamt up. Worse yet was the knowledge that Hugo was very much enjoying the unfair game of cat and mouse. Watching Palus’ sanity deteriorate was a decadent feast for him. He would draw this out for as long as allowed, ensuring that Palus’ last moments of life were drenched in nearly psychotic terror.

After a full twelve hours of this treatment, Palus took a drastic turn for the worst and, in an attempt to rid himself of the constant feeling of being stalked, wound up taking his own life. He’d already lost too much blood by the time the Gamemakers realized what was happening, too late to intervene. All the while, Hugo waited in the wings and watched the grisly scene play out.

During his victory tour and first interview with Seneca Crane, Hugo would come to admit that he would have happily continued tormenting Palus had he not killed himself. He was unashamed in his insistence that he survived because out of all the tributes, he was the only one with a thick enough mental-skin to endure the challenges of the game.

Hugo’s ruthlessness sent chills down Neil’s spine even when he was just thinking back on it. But he also knew that if he were ever dropped in the arena himself, he would have to embody those same traits. Neil felt admiration and horror toward Hugo in equal parts.

When it came down to it, he would do whatever it took to get out of the arena alive.

---

On reaping day, the district came alive with the hustle and bustle of business. Though District 12 was far from the most affluent, the heightened presence of Peacekeepers and Capitol attendees stirred up local merchants. The citizens were split down the middle in terms of disposition.

For families, this was a day of dread. Many households had to request tesserae multiple times, making their likelihood of being reaped that much higher. From those families, Neil could see the dread hanging off them like a heavy cloak, shrinking their already slouched shoulders and diminishing their hope. Many were dressed in the best clothes they owned, as was expected for such a day.

For Neil, dressing up meant finding an ill-fitting pair of slacks and a baggy button-down from the local seamstress — an outfit he stole when no one was paying attention. There was no way he could afford even the most tattered of clothes with what little money he had. Neil had perfected the art of pickpocketing and petty theft, a skill created out of necessity. By the time anyone realized their merchandise was missing, he would be long gone.

In some parts of the district where the more unruly folk flocked, bets were taking place regarding who would wind up being reaped. Neil tried to hide his grimace as he overheard an older man estimating how many tesserae one particular family had taken out. He couldn’t help flinching when he heard him say “that kid of theirs is as good as dead.”

As much as Neil wanted to believe that he was above that kind of cruel self-interest, he didn’t have much to say in the way of a defense. He wouldn’t bet on someone’s life, but he himself was hoping that literally anyone in the world would get reaped instead of him. He was on the brink of turning eighteen — after that, he would no longer be in the pool for the Games. Just a month longer and he could follow through with his escape plan. Given the fact that Neil had never taken out tesserae in his life, he figured his odds of getting reaped were extremely slim. Still, they existed at all, and Neil couldn’t shake the enormity of that fact.

He could hear his mom’s words echoing in his ears every time he fought the rising panic.

“What if I get reaped?” he would fret, imagining the countless scenarios that could play out.

Her reply would always be punctuated by a tight yank of his hair or a smack to the back of his head:

“Make sure you don’t.”

---

With the entire District gathered in the square, Neil felt like there were walls closing in on him from every angle. Claustrophobic though it was, he could take comfort in the fact that he blended in easily with the other people in his age group. Neil worked hard to be a mundane, ordinary presence in the world. His survival depended on being invisible.

The tension in the air was thick and uncomfortable, everyone’s fears laid bare and only intensified by the setting. Peacekeepers lined the permitter of the square, stun guns and tasers at their belt, ready to be used. It hadn’t come to drastic measures like that in recent years. The Capitol had beaten District 12 thoroughly into submission.

All of the shaking, fussing, and nervous movement among the crowd stopped at once when the speakers cut on. The Capitol escort onstage was ready to begin.

“District twelve! I’m so happy to be with you all here today,” she began, her voice nauseatingly saccharine.

It was clearly a lie — all Capitol citizens stuck up their noses at the districts and were eager to leave at the first available opportunity. But given the fact that they would be the one benefiting from the games, Neil supposed that perhaps her enthusiasm was real. A bloodbath was guaranteed with each year.

That notion nauseated him even more than her voice had.

Her hair was teased up high into a poof-like style, the color a mixture of orange and pink. Neil wasn’t sure of the last time he’d seen a color so bright within the district. Though he’d only seen a handful of Capitol citizens in propaganda videos and even fewer in Twelve itself, he could tell that they were a flamboyant bunch; not only did the people there don every color of the rainbow, but body modifications weren’t unusual either. He’d heard stories of people who had cat-like ears attached to their skulls, or full-body tattoos that blurred the lines of human and animal.

“As I’m sure you all know, today is Reaping Day. And this is no ordinary one, I might add— ” she paused, effectively lodging a boulder in Neil’s gut, “It is also a Quarter Quell. Every twenty-five years, we add a twist to the game, so to speak.”

It was dawning on him now that this was indeed a Quarter Quell year. He’d gotten so caught up in his hopes for an escape that the whole thing didn’t even occur to him.

There were always different adjustments made to the Hunger Games during the quells. One year, tributes were reaped from the districts by a vote among their own peers. Whichever two citizens had the most votes were sent into the arena. Families were pit against one another, leaving the districts frigid and tense long after the tributes were sent away. There were numerous murders and assaults within the districts that year as well — the Capitol didn’t want the bloodshed to be limited to the arena.

Neil had no idea what the cruel twist would be this year, but his imagination was already leading him to terrifying places. He wouldn’t put anything past the Capitol.

“During this Quarter Quell, the number of tributes will be doubled. Let this serve as a reminder to the districts that two rebels died for every Capitol citizen during the Dark Days. Instead of twenty-four tributes from the twelve districts, forty-eight will be reaped.”

Neil took a moment to do the math in his head, his pragmatism working hard to beat out his terror. Doubling the tributes reaped would mean four individuals being chosen from each district — two girls and two boys.

Even with this alteration to the Games, his likelihood of being picked wasn’t very high; Neil had only been entered in the reaping pool a handful of times, and he never received tesserae. The odds of him being chosen in comparison to the dozens of other kids in the district — namely the poorest ones from the Seam — were very slim. He silently chided his heart for thudding so painfully and his skin for sweating uncontrollably.

This event would be fleeting fear, he told himself. After the tributes were picked and the town square was dispersed, Neil would be able to narrow down his plan for escape. He was roughly half an hour away from the biggest sigh of relief in his entire life.

The Capitol escort onstage went into a lengthy monologue about the history of Panem, which Neil had already heard a thousand times over. The supposed history of their nation was beaten into every citizen’s skull, to ensure that they knew exactly whose boot they would always be trapped under. This was a tired, propaganda-laden tale that Neil had no interest in hearing. He found himself tuning out until a silence fell among the crowd. Neil’s focus turned back to the stage, where the woman was now walking over to the two clear glass bowls with names scattered within them.

As the woman on stage chirped out “Ladies first!”, the entire crowd held still. Neil could see a few girls in his age group beginning to tear up, a sense of fear falling over them at once.

With an exaggerated twirl of her hand, the attendant swiped a name out of the bowl of girl’s names.

His attention was scattered between his own thoughts and the goings-ons around him, but Neil caught the name Laila being spoken. There was a gasp within the crowd and a muffled sob could be heard a few feet from him. Neil watched on as Peacekeepers escorted the girl onstage. She couldn’t have been much older than fourteen. The sight of her tear-stained face and heaving chest only worsened Neil’s dread.

The entire event was inhumane. The Games were carried out for the sadistic pleasure of the Capitol, and there was no conscience to be found in people like that.

After a brief interview with Laila, the young girl was directed to the side of the stage and the escort moved on to the next reaping. This would be the first of two male tributes. Neil’s fingernails bit painfully into his skin as he clenched his fist, watching the escort’s hand swirl daintily into the bowl. Despite his effort to look as composed as possible, Neil couldn’t stop himself from closing his eyes just before the name was called.

“Matthew Boyd!” was the name that rang out in the square. Neil’s eyes instantly shot open and his hands relaxed at their sides, the tension wrung out of them for now. Matthew Boyd wasn’t a name Neil was familiar with

The person who stepped out from the crowd was older than him — probably reaped during his very last year of eligibility. Neil hoped that he wouldn’t suffer a similar fate. He was so close to being done — so close to being free.

There was a slight commotion as Matthew stepped up on stage, but Neil’s focus was ebbing. His hands still shook at his sides, awaiting the second and last choice for a male tribute. Time slipped by without notice and before Neil knew it, Matthew was being ushered to the side of the stage and the second female tribute was being reaped. No one he knew. No reason to care. The only way Neil could cope with the insanity of it all was to remain as pragmatic as possible.

“One last tribute!” the attendant chirped, strolling over to the bowl with ease. This, of course, only spelled the end of her fun for the day. Not potentially the end of her life, as was the trend for District 12. Neil could only remember two winners from their district, and that wasn’t an encouraging average in comparison to the Career districts.

Closing his eyes again, Neil stuffed his hands in his pockets and dug his nails into his palms. They burned as he clenched his fingers tighter, and his whole body felt rigid. If he wasn’t called, he knew it would take everything in his power not to break into a sprint right then and there. Tonight would be his last one in the Seam one way or the other. He just hoped—hoped with painful intensity—that he would be leaving of his own volition.

Not me. Not me. Not me. Not me. Not me.

Once the paper was pulled, the Capitol attendant fumbled with it for a few seconds before coaxing it open. A beat later, the name came. Neil’s breath hitched, soaked in fear from head to toe.

---

The strange thing was, Neil couldn’t recall hearing his own name. He couldn’t recall hearing anything in the few seconds between standing there, paralyzed with fear, and being yanked forcefully from his place.

He struggled against the Peacekeeper’s grasp, attempting to kick out his legs so he could escape. Had he been thinking clearly, Neil would have known that this was as good as futile. They would catch him, hold him down, and make sure he wound up in the arena. They would have their entertainment. His blood would be shed for the sake of cruel tradition.

He was so close. This wasn’t fair.

Neil fought the Peacekeepers all the way up to the stage, shouting every indecent thing that came to mind, his arms and legs still fighting to be free. Once he was pulled on to the wooden stage, a plastic zip tie was secured to his wrists. This wasn’t enough to temper his rage, though. Neil flailed a moment or two longer before he felt a shock at his side. It sent him falling to the floor, the impact shuddering through his whole body.

The one shock was enough to subdue him, but Neil felt three more on different parts of his torso. Electricity coursed through him; it was a mind-numbing pain that began to dull his senses. He could hear the crowd growing uneasy, talking amongst themselves to make sense of this unusually violent retrieval of a tribute.

The last thing he could remember before his vision dimmed was the sound of his name.

“Neil Josten, our fourth and final tribute from District 12!”

[lewigm-blog]

Newsletter 3.5: With just a few loaves and some fish we can all do the Magis

Published August 22, 2019

 “Taking the five loaves and the two fish, and looking up to heaven, he said the blessing, broke the loaves, and gave them to the disciples, who in turn gave them to the crowds. They all ate and were satisfied…”

-        Matthew 14: 13-21

 This one goes out to all those who have fed me when they thought they didn’t have much to give. It is because you give, that I am where I am today. Surely those efforts have helped others out as now it is me who is sharing more loaves of bread and fish than I thought I had.

 During our misa a few weeks ago, Matthew’s gospel passage had me reflecting on the magis, which for those who don’t know is a Jesuit/Latin comparative adjective meaning “the more.” This is something that Saint Ignatius constantly reflected on and challenged others in. At any time, it is to be and give more of yourself to others, yourself and, by nature, God as well. I have had countless opportunities to live out this magis during my time as a JV. I could always give my students and community more attention, a project more of my energy, and be more present during mass or during “Peruvian” meetings. While these are just a few situations in which the litany and struggles of life have tempted me from performing at 100%, I recognize that it is a completely normal thing to experience from time to time.

In the world of a volunteer and, I imagine, a professional, the temptation to be and do “enough” will happen more than once and can affect other areas of our lives. It can sneak into our routines subtly and casually (as sin usually does), but it can also happen all at once through traumatic events such as the death of a loved one, an accident or any other unexpected tragedy. You may very well be experiencing this difficulty in your lives now as Jesus did upon hearing the news of the death of John the Baptist during this past week’s reading. Like Jesus, we may want to retreat from the world to recover from a difficult moment but sometimes God has other plans for us and puts people in our lives that call for us to be more. In this Gospel reading we see that Jesus still tends to the needs of the people, performing miracles and constantly giving more of himself for others even when he may not be at his best emotionally. It is during these experiences that we are tested and pushed to the limit as people. Sometimes it is the people we give all of ourselves to that are the ones goading us, pushing us closer to the brink of giving up.

The children of Israel lamented, “Would that we had meat for food! We remember the fish we used to eat without cost in Egypt…But now we are famished; we see nothing before us but this manna.”

*This one does hit home with me literally as the frequency and access to meat was much more readily available back in the states than here in Peru, but I digress…

Oh, how ungrateful the Israelites were! Oftentimes, our service or jobs have us encountering and accompanying people who complain and fail to recognize the love in our labor as Moses experienced. Our children, students or anyone else who depends on us might be crying out for something that we aren’t exactly offering or feel obliged to offer. The hope is that they are seeking the magis, but it usually isn’t phrased or perceived this way. It can present itself as moaning and groaning after the students’ “reward” for finishing their work early is yet another worksheet. It could also be in the form of blank stares of silence and indifference after showing them what you initially thought was interesting or profound. God forbid you try to get your students to think a bit more critically! Maybe it’s just an off day for you and them and they’re not ready to understand why you teach this way. They might not even know what their words or actions are doing to our spirit, but it can be tough to keep moving forward from this. I haven’t had a formal education in teaching so why am I here anyway? All these thoughts have raced through my mind while I’m in school teaching.

“Why do you treat your servant so badly?” Moses asked the LORD. “Why are you so displeased with me that you burden me with all this people?... Where can I get [meat] (insert whatever applies in your vocation) to give to all this people? For they are crying to me, ‘Give us [meat] for our food.’ …If this is the way you will deal with me, then please do me the favor of killing me at once, so that I need no longer face this distress.”

Well we certainly don’t want to push Mr. Moses, cause he’s close to the edge (for the song reference click here). In the book of Numbers (11: 4b-15), we see an image of a frustrated, on-the-edge Moses (and at times Luis during 6th grade Catechism classes) going through a difficult experience. I remember feeling this way several times after the initial “new teacher” grace period was over. Some of my students wanted to test me and push me and see what would happen. Thankfully, I didn’t let it bother me too much initially, but after some time and external responsibilities piling up, I began to show my inner Moses.

Curiously enough, my session on the Ten Commandments for my 6th graders in June had me wanting to pull my hairs out. We were about about a month away from the mid-year break and the kids were starting to show their readiness for the vacation. This session was supposed to take only one class, but it spanned two, hour and a half sessions across two weeks. The session seemed simple as I asked the students to find the scripture passage on the Commandments, read it as a group (popcorn style) and then identify 10 or so commandments. A few of the commandments weren’t explicitly written out and this threw them for a loop. Once the 30-minute ordeal was over, I grouped them by table and they were to write on papelón, or big paper, their assigned commandment and provide an illustration of one situation in which people followed the commandment and then one example of people disobeying the commandment. The activity dragged on and the students did not want to cooperate. I was growing frustrated as I struggled to maintain order in class, so I asked them to present their illustrations. The results were sad, but hilarious.

The “Best” of the presentations on the Ten Commandments

           Perhaps not the most kind and loving way to teach, but I am still learning and feel that I have a sense of humor to uphold. After this episode, there were constant breaks in our lessons week to week as events would come up that would leave several weeks between religion classes. It is important to note that we teach religion once a week, which only made matters worse. This lack of organization at Fe y Alegria, my waning patience, and an overall lack of commitment to much of anything brought me into a low and apathetic state. I eventually fell into a trap of copy-and-paste lesson planning. I would provide relatively simple lessons that summarized the celebration, origin of a Saint or an image of Mary that was conveniently packaged into a video that I found the night before, or morning of class. The unoriginal and unengaging sessions could be likened to that of a substitute teacher plan that I had always dreamed and hoped for as a middle schooler myself; It was a shortcut way of “teaching” if one could call it that. In hindsight, this period was when my flame and passion for JVC and teaching flickered and grew dim. Utterly disheartened, inexplicably exhausted and seemingly drained of creativity, I found myself in a power save mode of myself.

This change didn’t happen overnight, and I still struggle to pinpoint its origins, but I realized that it wasn’t healthy place to be. It led to a lack of enthusiasm in many aspects of my life, namely with my JVC community, local relationships with coworkers, and then to family and friends from home. The JVC values of simple living, social justice, spirituality and community were also reduced greatly and often neglected. I was, as some of my Spaniard friends say, in la ubi or a critical point in my life. Thankfully I just had to make it until the mid-year break in order to see my girlfriend and lifegiving force Cat. But even with these brief feelings of excitement, I would wakeup exhausted and knew that I just needed a break. When the opportunity to sign up for the Spiritual Exercises came up, I took them seriously in the hope that it would restore me to the gung-ho, high energy JV I knew I was. I was hoping to encounter God and myself, and thankfully I did.

The 3-day experience of the Spiritual Exercises was a refreshing dive into the deep end of spirituality that came at the right time. I had always been in the pool, but I think I wasn’t doing myself any favors by staying in the shallow end for so long. It helped me reset and reassess what was important to me and let go of anything that wasn’t conducive to my growth and wellbeing. I used Dean Brackley’s The Call to Discernment in Troubled Times as a guide through the exercises and what moved me the most was his chapter on forgiveness. I was having a hard time accepting the fact that we are all sinners and have to ask God for the grace to accept ourselves.

“From a gospel point of view, appreciating God’s healing mercy is more important than fixating on our defects. For what frees us is knowing that we are acceptable and accepted, not as a prize for being good, but in spite of being not so good.” (29)

This quote, among others in the book, helped me to understand the way that God sees us as people in need of constant forgiveness. It might be the reason why Jesus helped out those folks who followed Him even when He wanted to be off by Himself. We are certainly imperfect creatures and it isn’t easy to admit that we are flawed and are in need of forgiveness. This self-forgiveness leads into other areas of our lives and helps us to recognize that those we serve also need forgiveness and patience. It works by both offering it whenever possible, but also accepting it whenever we need it. If you think about your own professions, the same might be said about you! I understand and appreciate this now especially as a teacher myself. Along with my own classes in primary school I also assist with the preschool in the mornings. I am more than aware of the amount of energy and patience is necessary to manage 30 children for several hours at a time! Something that the exercises that helped me reflect the goodness in the day was to review one’s day, week or year in this way:

Where was God in my day today? Where was it easy to find Him? Where was it difficult? How have I helped another? How was my energy or mood in that moment? Where do I draw my energy to continue forward when I begin to grow tired? Is this sustainable? Why or why not? This is simply a way of focusing less on the errors in our ways of teaching and more on the goodness of our service and labor. I am all too aware that I have a hyper-sensitivity and criticalness to how I live out my day and this can bog me down easily.

Something that helped me slowdown and be more was being assigned the chore of taking out the garbage. The unfortunate part about having the garbage chore is that the truck comes on Saturdays and you must unload your garbage whenever the truck arrives (between 6:30-8:00am) or else the company doesn’t pick it up. I took the morning and chore silently as I walked through the main plaza of Andahuaylillas and appreciated the stillness and beauty of the surrounding mountains. While I waited for the truck to arrive, I saw a short elderly woman that I had never seen before getting her garbage out onto the street. She came closer to me and advised me through hand gestures that the truck was on the other side of the street. I realized that she was deaf and tried her best to communicate with me. One of the reflection readings for the Exercises and this moment had me thinking about how Jesus healed the deaf man in (Mark 7:31-37). I also thought about how Jesus was reaching out to the poor and marginalized and gave them the opportunity to feel heard and listened to. I decided to sit down with this woman and let her feel heard, even though I couldn’t understand most of what she was saying.

I began to see and appreciate the way God works through people. It was as if He was telling me to stop and listen to others. It didn’t take much effort, it only took some time, patience and presence for me to be fulfilled in that moment. It might not seem like much, but the magis that I speak of is much like this. The magis isn’t only the great moments that transform the world noticeably, but a simple outpouring of self when you don’t have to. I used to think about how people sometimes seem to be “slowing me down” with a hello or how are you, when in reality these are the opportunities to be more for others. It is an opportunity to lean into someone’s life and be there to ask them the same. It is a habit that builds with time and mindful reflection. The Exercises have taught me to pray for God’s grace to be able to encounter Him more whenever the time or opportunity arises. It seemed foreign to me when I first truly heard about praying for grace, but it has improved my ability to find God in all things, large and small.

An example of how kindness imprints on the heart. Ben, a former JV, being embraced with one of his old students from his time here four years ago

This has changed my outlook and attitude on the kind of teacher I want to be. I feel more capable of giving myself over to the lives of the students and other teachers. I have a newfound source of patience with the kids, and it has already made a world of a difference. That isn’t to say that I haven’t slipped here and there, but I am much more mindful of the moments that we do have a productive session or activity. Even looking back before the Exercises, I realized that I did have fantastic moments of learning and discussion. It has happened less than I would like since working with primary school aged students is (roughly) 75% classroom management and whatever is left over is for learning material. I use learning loosely as it isn’t only about knowing concepts, but also the development of the whole person. Although we can build a tolerance for workloads and social obligations, we need these hiatuses from time to time to turn our low battery mode selves into a high-performance version of ourselves as well. When we are able to reach the 110% range and beyond, we can work and function more creatively and spectacularly for and with others.

The preschoolers are learning to cut hair and take on some adult responsibilities such as reading magazines

Ordering the mass by events! I learned a lot myself by planning this activity.

 It takes constant reflection and humility to be able to discern what our hearts are craving, but we must also ask for God’s grace to develop this skill. We may at times feel that we know what we need to be our full selves, and to an extent we do, but this knowledge is slowly revealed to us by God through people and experiences. We might believe that we crave one thing (type of food or drink), but in reality, what we needed was another (appetizer) that reminds us to stop and savor the moment (food) we are chewing now. I want to thank those who have given me exactly what I needed even when I didn’t know I needed it. These folks are the educators in my life who taught me the invaluable lessons of hard work, reflection, and self-empowerment that have kept me going. This is for all those in the counseling/ after school programs, coaches, family, friends and all my mentors in between. A number of you are on this list and know who you are. Keep on with the magis attitude but also give time for yourselves to rediscover or reignite that flame if you are ever feeling exhausted or overwhelmed with work. Even Jesus needed lunch breaks from time to time, so once again thanks for sharing yours.

“Taking the five loaves and the two fish, and looking up to heaven, he said the blessing, broke the loaves, and gave them to the disciples, who in turn gave them to the crowds. They all ate and were satisfied…”

  Matthew 14: 13-21

Peace,

Luis

P.S.

I would like to hear you tales and moments of feelings of burnout and being overwhelmed with life, and how you have moved past this. Teachers of mine! I ask that (if possible) to please share your stories, because I am sure that I have likely been the culprit or source of some of that grief at some point or another. (Whether that be sleeping in the front row of class or something from my time as an angsty teenager!) I look forward to hearing from you!

  For more pics click here! https://photos.app.goo.gl/Ay3FwhQEGCoRQ3oj9

(Full reading here)

[dcbicki]

“You’re Gonna See it Someday; It’s Affection Always” - Chapter 2

Fandom: Veep Characters: Dan Egan, Amy Brookheimer Pairing: Dan/Amy Rating: T (use of mature language) In which Amy’s pregnant, and Dan already has a plan mapped out for them.

He’s a fucking snake with the eyes of a hawk. Of course he’s up to something. She knows him, better than anybody else probably ever has, ever could.

“And now you’re gonna eat.” He reaches down, picks up a rounded bowl. “Eating for two now, Amy.”

She’s seriously gonna stab him with a fucking spoon.

Chapter 1: x | x

-

In truth, her reaction was exactly what he’d been excepting, what he’d envisioned.

Of course she was gonna be all headstrong and independent. Of course she was gonna turn him down and laugh in his face. She is Amy. She wouldn’t be herself if she hadn’t.

“Uh, no, I’m fucking not?” She’d raised a brow, face all blank and shit. “Jesus, fuck, Dan!”

“What?” He’d smirked, standing tall and confident. “You could do worse.”

“I could do better.”

“Not while you’re carrying my kid.”

“True, but better doesn’t have to mean I have to have someone, you dumbass. Maybe I’ll be a single parent.” Amy had shrugged, shoulders tense, collarbones raised.

“I don’t doubt you’d make a great single mom, Amy.” Dan offered, complimented, taking one closer when she takes one back, steps towards her as she backs away from him. “I’m just saying, it might be easier if we did this together.”

“You wanna raise a kid? You?” She couldn’t help but laugh at that, all sharp teeth and true smile.

It’s definitely not that he wants to, fuck no. It’s more that he feels the desire to because there are certain perks to having a child. Especially given their… situation.

“Dan, you wouldn’t even be able to look after a fucking goldfish. You’d forget to feed it, and never clean its bowl-”

With a roll of his eyes, he’d scooped up his jacket and rounded her, heading for the door. “Think about it.”

“Marrying you?” Amy had scoffed, nose crinkled, eyes squinting, “I gotta say, you aren’t really selling it to me. I don’t know how you’ve already gone through like six fiancées.”

“You’d be surprised how devoted I can pretend to be, Ames.”

“So you’d be pretending to give a shit about the kid?”

“I didn’t say that, did I?” He’d pulled the door open, stepped one foot through but kept a hand wrapped around the frame, just as he has on the way in.

It’s not like he doesn’t already give a shit about her…

He’d leant over her then, and she’d immediately regretted ever following him to the door. He’s warm where she’s cold, and it’s so strange.

Dan is not supposed to radiate warmth. Dan usually gives off fucking radioactive energy because he’s toxic to be around. So what the fuck?

“Marry me, Brookheimer.”

Of course he’d smirked. Of course his proposal had been more grossly self-indulgent than charmingly sincere.

“Fuck off, Dan.” If he didn’t have the face of a mass murderer, if she didn’t know him all too well, the tone of his voice would have almost made it – his lame excuse of a fucking proposal – sound honest, sweet, caring. His douchebag face hadn’t gotten the memo, though.

He’d left after that, after she’d shot him down blank and damn near shoved him through the doorway.

Okay, fine. He’s not at all surprised by her reaction, but that doesn’t mean he’s accepted it. Or that he’s going to accept it any time soon.

He’s not creepily persistent, by nature. He’s as far from being like Jonah as he could get, he likes to imagine. He doesn’t force people into things, doesn’t like it when others force people into things. Physical sexual harassment? Fucking disgusting.

But, despite this, he isn’t exactly a saint. Far fucking from it. He’s used people to his own advantage (countless times now, he gloats), and he’s never really apologised for his behaviour.

He knows he’s an absolute asshole, and that there’s no fixing him. He wouldn’t even try to change if the opportunity arose. But he’s game for anything, adaptable like a motherfucking political chameleon who’s ready to blend in with anything red, white or fucking blue.

And this? Knocking up his attractive coworker, who semi-successfully served as a former president’s senior advisor? Whom he has a publicly acknowledged ‘romantic’ history with?

Knocking up America’s reluctant poster-child for pretty little blonde girls who can grow up and create change, or at least prove that change is within us all? Knocking up the snappy, shrill (he’s never really agreed with that assessment), petite all-black wearing right-hand woman of Selina Meyer?

Having a baby with Amy Brookheimer while working alongside her every damn day and night, campaigning for a post-presidency President who finally (kind of, almost) has the nation’s full support behind her?

Golden.

Hell, he can probably work the whole moving-to-Nevada-to-shack-up-with-a-governor-come-cowboy thing into this, if he has to. He can angle it so that bland talking tree branch is once again humiliated.

Fuckin’ golden.

So, the next morning, when they’d been leaving the hotel to head back to New York, he’d talked Kent into swapping cars so he could slide in next to Amy, much to Selina’s dismay.

“What the fuck, Dan?” She’s rubbing in some hand cream, the tube of which Gary is putting away in some seemingly endless pocket deep inside the Leviathan.

“He had to talk with Ben about something, so we-”

There’s a hand held up, and Selina is already signing out of this would-be conversation, eyes cast out the window, “Amy, did you get those emails I had Gary forward you?” She’s eyeing the blonde beside Dan.

“Yes, yes.” She’s rummaging through her purse (on a weird angle), hair falling in her face, and then she’s yapping on about something Dan only has half a mind to listen in on because there are eight new messages on his phone and there’s honestly a lot more interesting.

Amy can’t find whatever she’s looking for, though.

It’d be easier if you uncrossed your legs, for fuck’s sake. Dan just watches her then, all breathless sentences and small hands. It’s only half a surprise when he realises that he’s missed this – being around her all the time, working together, watching her in her element. It’s like getting a good look at a wild animal on the brink of extinction flailing around in its natural habitat. Amazing.

She’d told him her talents were being wasted all year, especially since coming back to work with Selina and co, and (truthfully) he’s glad she’s found a purpose again. Or, rather, that Selina seems to have found a purpose for her again.

He won’t lie, of course Selina’s hiring of BKD had something to do with the guys – himself included, obviously – suggesting Amy be made campaign manager. She’d been good at it last time (after his breakdown, before her breakdown), and she’d been under-utilised so far in the Meyer post-presidency, by Selina herself and that thumb-twiddling twig of a man she’d temporarily hitched her wagon to. Jesus, he couldn’t stand him.

There’s a reason they’d almost snatched her up (oh, so close!) to come work with them, and it hadn’t even been Dan’s idea to bring her in in the first place.

Ben had propositioned them (because she’s like a weird surrogate daughter to him, a child he actually would have wanted), Kent had nodded and said something along the lines of ‘She’s definitely an asset. Her numbers are far superior to any other candidate’s we’ve interviewed so far’.

And Dan had simply agreed (maybe a little bit too eagerly even, despite himself), felt a rather strange gnawing sensation eating at his insides when she’d appeared in the office that day. Sure, he’d smiled like a fucking freshly fucked dick coated in slickness in human form. Sure, he’d been having some frankly fantastic fantasies of her as of late, all hot and horny and his.

But maybe it was just because they hadn’t been together in so long, hadn’t shared more than (just) a couple of drinks in over a fucking year. Maybe he was only grinning like a goddamn teenager that day because he’d missed her, and he quite liked the idea of getting to work with her and her mind again.

She’s fucking smart (brilliant, in a way, in her own way). She’s actually competent, and good at the job given to her, which is a fucking rarity these days. She is an asset, Kent’s not wrong about that; that’s why he’d quite liked the idea of having her around a lot more.

Because he wanted to work with her again, mess her up again, rub her the wrong way (or the right way) again.

It definitely wasn’t because they’d finally given in and fucked after years of built-up tension, and he was more than willing to do it again.

It definitely wasn’t because he’d missed touching her, even just the sharpness of her elbow, even just one hand on her arm.

It definitely wasn’t because he missed having her tear him apart and then be the only one he would let build him back up again.

It wasn’t because she was the only person he actually liked.

She’s finally found her phone and she’s scrolling through her calendar, ignorant to Dan’s peering eyes. Nosy prick.

She’s got some dates marked in blue, while all others are red. And it’s only when Dan realises the spacing between all the blue dates that he works it out.

“Amy.”

Locking her phone then, she snaps her head up and furrows both brows. “I’m sure Richard could do it, ma'am. I’ve got a doctor’s appointment that day.”

What can Richard do? What are your plans, Amy?

“And your appointment is more important than my pre-campaign campaign, yeah?” Selina licks her teeth, shakes her head with disdain. Dan is gonna fucking strangle her scrawny neck one day. “Don’t fuck this up, Amy. I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt here.”

Yeah, because your last run at a presidency would’ve been even half as successful if she hadn’t been campaign manager, Dan thinks.

Fuck, he’d done the job himself. He knew just how well Amy had done when she was given the job. Better than him, better than fucking Kent. (But that wasn’t saying much.)

“I won’t, it’s just- It’s unmovable.”

“You know what else in unmovable? This fucking crick in my neck.” Selina’s writhing, waving a hand over at Gary as though he can miraculously cure it.

When she’s too preoccupied with Gary’s long fingers rubbing at her neck (okay, nobody needs to see that) to pay them any mind, Dan looks over down at Amy, shifts away from Richard so he’s closer to her than the Yogi Bear of a man. (When the fuck did he get in here?)

“Thought about it yet?”

“No, Dan.” She grits her teeth, avoids his gaze.

“You haven’t given it any thought or you’re still giving me a solid 'no’?”

“Both.”

He frowns at that, crosses one knee over the other so his leg brushes against hers. He slips his hand down to his knee to scratch it, but then he taps his index finger against the outside of her thigh.

“We don’t have a lot of time, Ames.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Before you start to show. Before people notice and words gets out.

“Just a few months.”

“What are you, the fucking Riddler? Christ.” Amy sighs, encloses her phone in one hand, palm sealed shut, and she folds her legs tighter, moving away from his wandering hand.

Dan glares down at her from out of the corner of his eye, but he keeps facing the back window, right beside Gary’s fucking balding head. (How old is he?).

Is she seriously going to play this game? Fine. He can play, too.

“I’m just saying, your sister would be better off if she married that guy.”

Amy’s body tenses then, and she purses her lips. Dan beams beside her, all confident and cocky. Oh, no. Oh, fuck no. She shakes her head, false smile instantly plastered over her face, “My sister can fend for herself. And it’s none of your fucking business.”

“I’m not saying she can’t do it alone, I just think having the dad around would be better for everyone involved-”

We are not having that conversation again already, you stupid bastard.

“It’s not your decision to make, though.”

“No, but I think she should consider all her options.” Selina is staring at them now, frowning and curious. Fuck.

“Oh,” Richard pipes up from beside Dan, all smiley and wide-eyed like a slow child yet to be diagnosed with idiocy, “I see what you’re doing.” He nods, “You guys are talking about Amy being preg-”

Dan nudges him then, a hard jab to his ribcage, and he kicks him in the shin at the same time. Turning to face Richard, his expression shoots off a very clear message.

Shut the fuck up or I’ll kill you, you dopey Chewbacca looking fuck.

“Amy’s sister being pregnant?” Richard corrects, pulls on his tie as his smile lowers, “Sorry, had something caught in my throat just then.” He clears his throat as though that’ll confirm it.

“Something to tell me, Dan?”

“Hmm?” The man turns his head, “No, ma'am. We were just discussing Amy’s sister’s situation.”

“That fucking trainwreck? No offence, but your sister’s a bit of a drip, Ame. I don’t know anyone who’d fuck her well enough to get her pregnant. Up the ass, maybe, if that was an option.”

“No offence taken, ma'am.” Amy smiles, clearly enjoying the unintentional shade thrown at Dan.

Take that, you prick.

When they finally get back to New York, everything moves so fast that they barely have time to talk, much to Amy’s relief and Dan’s dismay.

She’d been unwilling to even acknowledge his existence on the plane, and he’d been seated too far from her to even bother trying to talk. Bitch. Of course she’d booked far away seats. Damn it.

He’d made his move when they all got settled in, though.

It was already the next day when he saw her again, dressed all in black, walking around Selina’s offices like she owned the place. Good. He’d stepped out of the elevator, slid his phone away, and tugged at her arm a little too lightly for anybody to notice.

“Can I talk to you?”

“No, you may not.” She shrugs him off, flicking long blonde hair over her shoulder and resting her iPad down on a desk as she talks to one of the interns. She says something about needing to get in touch with the head of some board of directors, about needing a meeting, and Dan only gives half a shit about whatever is or isn’t happening.

Then she’s springing back around, facing him indirectly because Gary has stopped between them both, “Amy, can you try this coffee?” He’s staring down at the mug in his hand like some kind of mentally challenged imbecile.

Nothing new there, Dan notes, watching the scene unfold with half a frown, half a smile playing on his face. How he hasn’t missed this - watching the complete travesty that is Selina’s bagman try to go about daily life, try to act like a normal human being. Fuckin’ imbecile.

“It’s a new brand we’re trying, but it’s decaf and I’m not sure Selina’s gonna-”

Amy sighs, eyes closing with a groan, “Just give me the fucking coffee, Gary.” She practically snatches the cup from his hands, doesn’t bother blowing it, doesn’t mind the boiling steam escaping past the rim of the mug.

Dan doesn’t know if it’s the taste that does it, or the sheer fact that she’s drinking coffee – he guesses it’s the latter – but she’s spewing the brew out before Gary can even get another word in, and there’s a light brown liquid splashing all over the wooden flooring suddenly.

“Oh my God!” Gary’s hurrying for towels, all wide-eyed and gawking. Amy’s still holding the mug, but she’s wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and clearing her throat as though to rid herself of the taste.

“What the fuck, Amy?” Yeah, sure, play along, Danny. He approaches but keeps some distance, though he grabs the cup and places it on a nearby desk. “You could’ve at least tried to reach the sink.” He nods his head over to the kitchen.

“Fuck you.” Seems that’s her new favourite greeting these days. “Why are even here?”

“You know what, I don’t know. I mean, Jesus Christ, I’m here for two seconds and you’re nearly puking fuckin’ coffee in my face.”

“Yeah, make this all about you.”

Gary returns then, kneeling down to dab paper towels over the stain, checking around to make sure the drink hasn’t reached any of the nearby rugs. Imbecile, Dan shakes his head.

“Amy, are you okay?” He trails off, gets up to check her over, hands on her shoulders, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine, Gary.” She shakes him off, presses a napkin to her lips, “Just don’t give that shit to Selina or she’ll ruin her carpet.”

Aversion to coffee? Check.

Telling Dan was the easy - well, easier - part; it’s letting Selina know that her campaign manager is knocked up (and staying knocked up) that’s going to be a struggle.

But she has to do it. If that incident was anything to go by, she isn’t exactly going to be able to hide it for very long. She’s an avid coffee drinker by nature, so someone is surely going to notice something wrong very fucking soon.

An Selina will either be delighted for her (and already plotting how to use an unborn baby as a campaign strategy), or the insults will come pouring out and she’ll let Amy know just how badly she screwed up this time.

Knowing Selina, it’ll probably be the latter.

Or she’ll just be surprised that Amy could even get pregnant in the first place, given she thinks the younger woman’s flirt game is so weak in the first place. Fuck, she unsuccessfully tried pimping her out to Leon the very same night she slept with Dan.

I can be very flirtatious.

Maybe it wasn’t a case of her being very good at flirting, or seducing anyone, or even attracting anyone, but more a case of: Amy, you know Dan. You’ve done this before. And, hey, you’re both miserable. Fuck each other out of convenience. Fuck the misery out of each other.

That’s the way she’s choosing to see it, at least.

“Ma'am, do you have a second?”

“Sure, Ame.” She rounds her desk, sliding manicured hands over the glass top. “Hurry it up, though. We’ve got that meeting with non-donor donors soon.” She damn near winks, flashing her teeth, but her smile drops when she sees Amy’s serious face.

“About earlier,” she starts, hand holding her phone pressed tightly against her abdomen.

“The coffee thing?” Selina points a finger, “I gotta tell you, it’s a good thing Gary’s not a barista, because fuck me.” She nods to herself, “At least he can clean.”

She’s tapping one hand on the desk, and Amy can tell she’s discreetly trying to check the time on her watch.“

“Ma'am, I-” She sighs, moves her hand to her chest when she realises where it was, “My sister isn’t pregnant.”

Selina pulls a face, shrugs one shoulder. She chuckles (in some kind of careless way), and snorts, “Great. Good for her.”

“I am.”

The older woman’s eyes darken then, and she squints, nostrils flaring, “What?” With a breath, she swallows sharply and Amy immediately regrets telling her. Fuck.

“I’m pregnant, ma'am.” Her brows knit, and she’s so tempted to fold her arms so tight around herself. Her job was finally secure, and now she’s fucked it up.

“Jesus…” She’s calm for a moment, pacing back and forth in front of the desk, heels loud, making Amy want to run for the hills, “Fuck, Amy!”

Taken back by the exclamation, the blonde sighs, moving one hand out to hold up a finger. “It’s fine, though. I’m not… going to let this get in the way of my work-” she tries to reason, finds herself cut off.

“Damn fucking right you’re not!” Selina shrieks, grits her teeth with a pissed-off look on her face. “For fuck’s sake, Ame.”

She shakes her head, approaches Amy with wide eyes, the sound of her bracelet clanking against her watch unsettling her campaign manager, “Who’s the daddy, huh? It better not be that fucking tall drink of hick piss you were screwing in Nevada.”

She wants to correct her pronunciation (again), wants to shudder at the memory of Buddy.

“I’m not having that twangy stick insect tagging along on my campaign trail, Ame.”

“It’s not Buddy, ma'am.”

“Good. Then I don’t give a shit whose it is.” She shrugs (again), and Amy almost wants to just blurt it out anyway.

“I’m perfectly healthy. My doctor says-”

“Great.” Selina’s rounded her desk again, picking up her iPad, continuously swiping left on the screen. “As long as you’re alive, and able to work, I’m happy for you? Should I be happy? Or should I be sending a car to take you to the nearest abortion clinic?”

“No.” Oh, God. “No, I’m keeping it. I want it.”

Does she, really, truly? Probably.

“Well, I don’t know why you would. I mean, you’ve seen how Catherine turned out, right?” She waves a hand over to her bookshelf where the smallest picture of Catherine sits, framed. Her eyes widen even more (if at all possible), “And you’re not exactly the best with kids, Ame.”

Thanks for the reminder.

“I know, ma'am.”

As she talks, her face is downcast to her phone and she hasn’t noticed the calculating look on her boss’ own face. “It’s not fucking Leon’s, is it?”

“No.” Amy almost feels actual puke rise to the surface at the sheer thought of that, of fucking Leon West and having his baby, “Fuck no.”

“Good. Having just one of those hairy scrotum sacks on legs is bad enough, we don’t need another one trailing after you, too.”

He does work for her now, though. He is better at his job than Mike, though Amy has really found herself missing him, as of late. He’d been with her since the start, before Dan wormed his way in, before Ben joined Team Meyer, before Kent hopped on the bandwagon for the statistics of it all. Fuck, he’d been around before Sue.

Amy ponders, fakes a smile. Doesn’t she want to know who did the deed, though?

“You can go now.”

Fine, then. Taking Selina’s direction, Amy spins back around on her heels, eyes closing momentarily as she licks her lips, breath held between tight lungs.

Fuck this. Fuck everything.

“Try to not get knocked up even more, Ame. I don’t wanna have to call your parents and tell them their little girl’s got herself into trouble.”

She can tell Selina’s teasing her, and honestly just… fuck this.

“She knows.”

“Yeah? You tell her?”

“No, she fucking sensed it via the magic of female intuition.”

Fuck him and his fucking incompetence. Maybe she should have told Selina before she told him. Maybe Selina would have had him assassinated in his sleep or some shit.

Dan nods, stabs his fork into his unfinished salad and leans back in his seat, “Does she know it’s mine?”

Amy groans at that, lets her head drop into her hands, all rough knuckles and tightly wound shoulders. “Can you not say that out loud, for fuck’s sake?” Her hair falls straight, almost falls in her lunch.

Rolling his eyes, Dan takes a sip of his water, toys with the straw as he reaches over and steals a cherry tomato from her dish, brushing her hair to the side. Why the fuck is it so long?

“Gonna have to face it one day.” He shrugs, and, looking back up, she’s annoyed to find him grinning.

They’ve got to be back at work – Selina’s office, for now – soon, guns blazing, ready to go, all prepped for their strategy meeting with Selina.

Granted, Dan is only there as a consultant but he’s him so of course he’s going to be having more of an opinion than anybody else in the room. Because he’s loud and an asshole and he likes his genius ideas to be heard. (It wasn’t genius when he suggested they forego the condom.)

Selina 4.0, anybody? She can only imagine.

“How the fuck does Richard know, by the way? What, did you have book your next checkup or so something?”

She lifts her gaze then, eyes him with a heavy breath, “I don’t fucking know. He’s weird with that kind of shit.”

“I’m surprised Kent hasn’t figured it out yet, being a fuckin’ doula and all.” Dan lifts a brow pointedly. “He’d probably start polling voters.”

“Targeting working single mothers?” She laughs, eyes a slice of carrot in his dish, picks it up with her fork, “The numbers are through the roof.” She holds up a hand, rubs two fingers together, “Staggering.”

Dan smirks, leans back over to look directly at her, brown eyes clear, “This was unforeseeable. This I did not see.”

“Astonishing, really. If my face could show emotion, this would be astonishment.” Her face is as blank, expressionless as it could possibly be, and Dan chuckles. “The voters are loving this pregnancy.”

“This foetus is working wonders for you, ma'am. Miracles, really.” He waves both hands about, watches as she crinkles her nose, “Add this to Tibet, and Montez will be out of office in no time.”

“Imagine Ben’s face.”

“He’ll drop that big fat fucking mug.”

“Spill his cocaine juice all over Selina’s carpet.”

“Probably have another heart attack.”

“Won’t die, though, much to his disappointment.” Dan adds, pulling his wallet from his pocket, picks up the bill. “Jesus, he’s gonna outlive us all.”

“Maybe I should get some of whatever the fuck he’s been drinking all these years.” She brushes hair behind her ear, looks down with a furrowed brows, “Maybe the little fucker will grow quicker and my body will be free of him.”

“Him?”

“I don’t know.” She looks up at Dan with a frown, “Doesn’t matter.”

He licks his lips, stands with both hands on his hips, waiting for her to finish the green tea she’s taking the smallest possible sips of. “Jesus, Amy.”

“Hold the fuck on.” She finishes the drink, stands with one hand on the table, pulling her coat off the back of her chair. He doesn’t help her, and she’s grateful.

Be yourself, doucheface. Don’t try all that chivalrous shit, it doesn’t suit you. Nobody would buy into that.

He does hold the door open for her, but that’s not a first. She’s always been quite proud of the fact that she’s the only person he’s done little things for over the years, seemingly without trying or forcing himself to.

When she’s left the restaurant a couple of steps before him, he’s already catching up to her, right beside her, hand on her elbow. Oh, not that.

“I guess that means my balls are in your court now, Brookheimer.”

“So you’re just a ball-less egomaniacal prick?” She frowns, somehow manages to lift one brow and curl her lip but keep a careless expression, “Lucky me.”

“Oh, don’t act so disappointed, Ames.” He (barely) nudges her side (gently), feels the sharpness of her shoulder dig into him when she pushes back (a little), “You know you love it.”

“False.” Amy corrects him, “I loved it once, when I was drunk and your mediocre dick was just competent enough to get the job done.”

“Okay, first of all, you loved it twice, at least.” He smirks, leans closer with a lowered voice, lets her back away because they’ve stopped and they’re waiting for the light to turn green.

“Secondly, I don’t think getting you to come twice, at least, is me just 'getting the job done’.” He air-quotes the last bit, winks and keeps his face near, draws back when they can finally cross the road.

“I was drunk.” She’s too busy looking at her phone to give him her full attention.

“So was I. Doesn’t mean we have to lie about enjoying it.”

“Fine. But me enjoying that doesn’t mean I’m gonna enjoy carrying your spawn around for three quarters of a year.” She mumbles, “And anything was better than having to dirty-talk Buddy.”

Dan only shrugs, ignores that last bit because fuck that guy, “You’ll do great.”

Selina’s office is right around the corner, hence why their pace increases. She’s simultaneously enjoying this conversation yet eager to finish it.

Why couldn’t someone (anyone?) have joined them for lunch? Oh, right. Because they all ate earlier, while they both otherwise preoccupied. Those fuckers.

The way up to the offices isn’t too long, and Amy’s grateful that her office is lower down than the guys’ own consultation firm.

Her heels are small, but she can already tell this pregnancy is going to – despite how badly she’s going to fight it – take its toll on her, and hiking around town and travelling is gonna be a royal bitch, so at least her own office isn’t at the top of a fucking skyscraper.

The elevator is slow, though, and Amy definitely misses Mike now. He’s her work buddy, her elevator companion. And that’s weird.

“We need to tell her.”

There he goes, getting serious again. Amy wants to straddle him, strangle him. Either? Or? Both at once? One then the other? Maybe.

She’ll straddle him, and strangle him when he’s on the brink of release because he’s a dick and his dick doesn’t take that much work to get going.

“When I’m ready.”

“I get that, okay?” He’s looking down at her, dickface in full swing, looking like his motherfucking usual self, “But it’s also my ki-”

“Don’t even fucking finish that sentence.” She warns, turning to face him, looking up at his face, “Seriously.”

“What, are you gonna fucking cut my dick off? A little late for that, Ames.” He boasts, whipping his neck back around as the doors slide open. “Besides, you’re gonna need it.”

“I’m gonna need what? Your thin fucking veiny dick?” She wants to laugh, “Oh, go on, tell me why.”

“It’s a thing, okay?” Dan huffs, steps out of the elevator, hands in his coat pockets, tilts his head to the side as his voice lowers and she steps into line beside him. “Expectant mothers develop a serious sexual fuckin’ appetite. It’s not my fault you’re gonna be begging for it, on your knees and shit.”

“On my knees?” She finds that part a little hard to believe, a little too hopeful on his end. That’s some serious wishful thinking, Danny.

“Yeah.” He’s half a mind to tell her that she’s gonna be such a horny bitch, but he refrains (much to his own ennui), “Much to my contentment.”

Amy pulls a face, “Well, technically, that would be your fault, you fucking cancer.” She grunts, undoes the first couple buttons of her coat as they near the meeting room, “Wait- did you fucking read up on this?”

His shoulders rise and lower so quickly that she almost misses it, “It’s not like I bought a fuckin’ book, that shit’s all over the internet. D'you know how many forums there are of pregnant women complaining about sore tits and stuff? Fuck!”

“Trust you to only pay attention to anything that involves sex, or anything for your own personal gain.”

“It’s for your gain, too.” He reasons, “I’m not the one who’s gonna be knocking on your door in the middle in the night because I need a good fuck.”

She rolls her eyes, pushes on the door to the office, slips her coat off and places it over the back of a chair. “You’re gonna be so good at this, you know that?”

God, she wants to strangle him. So bad.

“Yeah, well, you’re not gonna find anybody else to fuck you now, babe.”

“So you’d pity-fuck me?”

He’s copying her move, tossing his coat over a seat, and then he’s leaning over the table, watching her rearrange some folders. “Don’t call it a pity-fuck, Ames. It’d be more of a stress relief kind of thing.”

“No, us having sex in the first place was stress relief. My job was in goddamn purgatory and you got fired, and that fucking data breach got brought up again.”

He grins, gives her that look she half-dreads, half-adores (unfortunately, sadly), “You know we’d both enjoy it. Again.”

“Dan, please. You would screw anything that had two working legs and a receptive vagina, so that’s not as much of a privilege as you’re making it sound.”

“Consider it an offering then. It’s not like there’s anything in it for me to gain.” He suggests, “That is a privilege.”

“You get to have sex.”

“Yeah, but there’s no, like, job opportunity gonna come out of it because there’s nothing you could give me that I don’t already have.” He (almost) wants to retract that last part, but instead he offers, “Besides, It’s good. And you know it’s good.”

“Woah, might want to watch yourself there, Dan,” she feigns fanning herself with one hand, “or you’ll get me pregnant again.” Her monotone voice teases him, blue eyes ice cold and lips drawing into the smallest of grins, but the gag ends when the office door has swung open and Selina is stood in the doorway.

Glasses pushed up her nose, she licks her lips and clicks her tongue, staring back and forth between them. Of fucking course, Gary is at her heels, halfway through peeling an orange, beaming like an utter lunatic.

“Ma'am-” Dan tries, turning to face her once he’s registered the look of sheer surprise on Amy’s face and he’s felt her presence. His eyes widen, and he holds up both hands, more boy than man, “It’s not-”

“You get her knocked up?”

Selina quips, tone condescending, stares him up and down as though she’s scanning him with her eyes.

And then she shoots Amy a look, scrunches up her face with a tilt of her head in Dan’s direction, brown hair barely moving an inch, “Really? This shit?” She throws back.

The blonde’s body has frozen and she can only nod, “Yes,” she breathes, “Yes.”

“Well,” Selina is walking between them then, slamming her file down on the varnished table, eyes focused on Amy’s forehead.

“Looks like we’ve got ourselves a campaign baby, folks.”

Shit.

[fyeahsharonrooney]

i-D: sharon rooney, real talk (Milly McMahon, 2014)

“We are all humans, no matter who you are, I’m sure even Barack Obama has days when he doesn’t want to get out of bed, because he’s not a robot. We are human, we all feel the same pains as everyone else.” The My Mad Fat Diary star tells it like it is.

sharon rooney, real talk

Tired of being relentlessly typecast, restricted to undertaking ignorant roles which defined her physically but not emotionally and on the brink of quitting acting entirely, Glaswegian actress Sharon Rooney attended an audition to play the main protagonist in E4’s BAFTA nominated drama My Mad Fat Diary. Immediately gripped by the multi-dimensional script, Sharon recognised her Northern, 15 year old counterpart, Rae Earl’s rare, defiant and unbridled sprit. Sharon kindled aspirations of working as a nurse when she was young; a naturally warm, empathetic and caring person, she breaks into a smile when l enter the room. Her porcelain complexion is rose perfect; her warm inquisitive brown eyes engaging. I want Sharon Rooney to be my friend. Tackling gritty and important issues, the real Rae Earl grew up in the 90s, experiencing severe OCD and spells in psychiatric units, plagued by self loathing and low self esteem. Loud, bold and brave, Rae’s beauty lies within her complicated contradictions of clumsy loveliness. Sharon shares strikingly similar character traits. Her instincts are to be nice to everyone. “We went out over Christmas, dinner with the girls, and there was a girl in the toilets washing her hands. I went ‘you look really nice’ and she looked at me like I’d pulled out a gun, and just said ‘what, why?’ Why can’t we just be nice to each other?”

Growing up particularly close to her family, painfully aware of herself but equally aware of the dysfunctional level of it, Sharon understands Rae because she, like every other girl on the planet, does not always like the way she looks. Such is the delicate beauty of My Mad Fat Diary. Defiant in the face of the beauty industry, My Mad Fat Diary reaches out to women, girls, guys and parents pushing for individuality to be celebrated, not chastised. Weight issues, mental health problems and sexuality are all OK’d within the series’ storylines. Expertly dealing with such subject matter, Sharon is regularly contacted by fans of the show reaching out to confide in her. Countless emails assure her she has saved many young girls lives.

When l leave the house to meet Sharon, l am having a bad day. Suffering from alopecia and acne, l share more in common with Sharon than l do any other girl l have watched on television. This interview with her is important to me, personally and professionally. Taking a baby wipe and removing all of her makeup whilst chatting candidly in a room full of strangers before a shoot, l feel humbled by Sharon’s strength of character. More inspirational than her ability to truly not give a shit, is Sharon’s/Rae’s ability to truly care what others think but understand that self-acceptance comes first. “I am a body-dysmorphic without the dysmorphic. I am a bulimic without the sick. I am fat.” Rae Earl 2013.

Wikipedia links to Hollyoaks in ‘similar’ television shows. Unlike the fake, spray tanned glossiness of the Chester locals’ facade, My Mad fat Diary was devised to allow audiences to look, feel and behave like real people and still feel loved. i-D caught up with 5 ft 11 Sharon to chat about why she loves Olivia Colman the most for not wearing mascara and how Victoria Wood encouraged her to start writing scripts herself.

Is it empowering to play Rae or does she bring out a greater sense of vulnerability in you? I think had I not been lucky enough to be surrounded by such great people, a great cast, a great crew, a human would crumble, because you’re actually putting yourself out there - no make-up, no nothing, like kinda semi-naked sometimes, even in a swimsuit! I don’t like wearing a swimsuit anyway. I don’t really know many people who do. It’s intimidating, no matter what you look like. But to have a team around you that go ‘if you fall, we’ll catch you,’ meant I never felt scared. I did feel a little empowered because I thought ‘no, I can do this and I’ve been given this opportunity, so I need to take it and run with it.’ Had I not been surrounded by such amazing people, I don’t think I’d be able to do my job, which is giving everything. I think I would hold back.

You remember scenes like the mega-period, if you were to look into your own teenage years, are there any formative memories of that kind that spring to mind? That’s a really good question, I don’t know, because I was really boring. I genuinely was so, so boring. One of my mates started sneaking about with boys, and I was like ‘nah, I’m going home. I’m not doing that, that’s so naughty.’ So now I look back and go ‘what did you do with your teenage years, other than just wasting them and being so dull?’

You’ve said in interviews before, that girls can be the worst to girls, what do you think that that’s a symptom of? One of my mates said the other day, ‘I’m going to meet another girl, I better get my face on.’ We should just look how we want to look. I like someone if they’re a nice person, not because of what they’re wearing or what they look like. If someone is an arse, they’re an arse. Gender, age, colour, doesn’t come into it if they’re a nice person or not.

How do you deal with jealousy? I personally don’t believe in jealousy. I wouldn’t be jealous of another person. I think we’ve all got things we need. You have your business and I have mine. I won’t lower myself to someone else’s standard of being bitter and nasty. I had a friend with amazing legs, I wish I had her legs, but that’s not a reason to hate her, she works hard to get her legs, like she’s the one going to the gym. I didn’t roll out of bed and land a TV show, I worked really hard for it.

You said to the actual writer of My Mad Fat Diary, Rae Earl, that if you could give her any advice it would be that you wished she could have seen herself the way that her friends saw her, what do you think your friends would say to you, if they could offer you advice? Just do what you want to do, I always think I can’t because people look at me. I always try to use that excuse to weedle out of everything or going anywhere on my own. I’m one of those people who have that tendency to think that I’m that important, that everyone is constantly judging me, when really everyone’s too busy getting where they’re going.

I feel the same way. How do you detach from Rae? Do you ever find yourself slipping into her when you’re not filming? No, because we don’t have the same accent, so I think that helps. Sometimes people have a huge problem differentiating us. Even if I speak in my normal accent.

Do you get girls reaching out to you? Girls and boys, adults as well, which can be hard. I just want to hug them and say it’ll be fine - but I don’t know, I’m not trained - I don’t want to say the right thing or the wrong thing to someone who’s already vulnerable. So all I do is point them towards the charities and organisations out there that can properly help them. It’s hard not to let it consume you because you feel so responsible to make sure that everyone’s okay, but we’re never all going to be okay at the same time.

I think that’s what’s so liberating about what you do, for a girl to be saying ‘I’m not okay but I can still be happy’. There can be elements of my life that are so brilliant and there are some elements inside me that I don’t understand that are so complicated. That doesn’t mean you’re absolutely having a mental break down, it doesn’t mean that you’re absolutely successful, it just normalises something that nobody wants to talk about… Someone said “it’s easy for you, you don’t have bad days.” I was like “why? Because I work on TV for my job?” I’m still a human. We are all humans, no matter who you are. I’m sure even Barack Obama has days when he doesn’t want to get out of bed, because he’s not a robot. We are human, we all feel the same pains as everyone else. So I do think it’s hard, but it is okay not to be okay, all of the time. How boring would the world be if we didn’t feel and learn. Everyone has bad days.

Can you see yourself getting into writing? I’d really like to write. I’ve got so many ideas, I just don’t know what to do with them. I asked Victoria Wood, I got to meet her and she said lock yourself in a room, no telly, no Twitter, nothing, no Facebook, just you and a bit of paper and a pen.

[theagencyrp]

[[LOADING FILE]]

>>:// [[ACCESS GRANTED]]

ALIAS: AGENT PARKS NAME: [[REDACTED]] POSITION: FIELD OPERATIVE ACCESS LEVEL: ONE

>>:// [[AGENT PARKS INTEL]]

>> Agent Parks has an extensive history in Human Rights work and caught their mentor’s eye in the middle of a protest-turned-riot the Agency was monitoring. >> Parks has multiple tattoos displayed from various projects and campaigns they’ve worked. They can all be concealed for field work. >>  Mentor Notes: Parks is cool and collected under pressure. Agent’s smaller stature works well to their advantage. Their unbending nature is a blind spot and may hinder advancement. More supervision to follow.  >> Proficiency: rhetoric, stealth, and self-defense.

>>:// [[AGENT PARKS IS TAKEN]]

Faceclaim: Logan Browning

>>:// ATTEMPTING TO ACCESS CODENAME: PARKS >>:// DECRYPTING >>:// TEMPORARY ACCESS GRANTED

What skeleton are you applying for?: Agent Parks Character’s real name: Corrine (Cory) Daniels First choice FC: Logan Browning Second choice FC: Candice Patton Character gender and pronouns: Female, she/her Character age: 27 Please list at least two reasons why the Agency looked to recruit your character: LOG 2.18.2014: She has an uncanny ability of toeing a line. Standing right there on the brink of danger, so close to getting arrested or falling into a riot, but instead she just disappears into the crowd and fades away right before it gets out of control. Her instincts are unmatched when it comes to human behaviour. For this reason she could be a great field agent, being seen when needed and unseen as soon as things change for the worse. Her instinct of when to fight and when to run seems unmatched. LOG 7.20.2015: Around her the world was falling, people were rioting in the streets, breaking windows and fighting back. They were claiming injustice at yet another rally. She was unaffected though. She stood in the crowds watching, fully observing what humanity was capable of without becoming enthralled herself like everyone else seemed to be. Her calm composure managed to keep people away from her but also watch. Yet, she helped organized this, though without intention to turn violent. Without attaching her name to it she inspired people to rally and ultimately riot. Could cause trouble for this very reason. Character backstory: July 29th, 1990: She was born in the sweltering heat. Her parents were by no means rich, but they were determined to give this girl every ounce of love they had. They wanted to give her the entire world and instill the confidence in her that the world was changing and she had a better shot of getting out of their terrible town than either of her parents ever had. November 2nd, 1996: Six years old. That was the first time she heard the n word. Someone on the street walking by called her father and her it. Maybe it was more targeted at her dad than her, but she wanted to know what it meant almost immediately. She asked what it meant when they got home, she asked why the man spit at the ground right next to their feet. At six years old, Cory learned that her small town wasn’t the most accepting place of her mother and her father. Interracial couples were still frowned upon in the nineties. April 5th, 1997. Cory came home from school with a new word. Tears streamed down her face for the injustice of such a word she didn’t even know. She knew they called her hair ugly and said she wasn’t even black, she was a milano. No one wanted her because she didn’t fit into either race. She learned when she went home that milano meant half black half white, it wasn’t just a cookie. She also learned that despite her skin being nearly as dark as her some of her friends’, she wasn’t the same as them. March 12th,1999. How intense can a debate for nine year old’s be? It may not seemed intense on the outside but on the inside Cory was excited. She had won. She made her points, stood her ground and won the whole debate. Her father was so happy for her. Her mother had to return to work. To celebrate, her and her father went for ice cream. The reward for winning was all the toppings she could want. Giggling in the backseat of the car, listing the toppings she wanted both were oblivious to the brake light that had burnt out. After a stop sign they were quickly pulled over. Her father was too abrupt, he just wanted to go get his daughter her reward, he got frustrated and the cop took it as aggression. One hour later Cory’s mom showed up. In that time Cory saw her dad behind bars, while she sad quietly in a hard chair wondering what her dad could have done wrong. That night her parents taught her she would always have to be careful, she needed to have confidence in herself and what was right, but she could never push a line. Cory learned the line quickly and vowed to never step over it, but she also learned how far she could push it too. September 21st, 2001. Cory couldn’t take it anymore. She couldn’t stand the hateful words people were saying towards people who had nothing to do with the attack in New York. She was angry, frustrated. She felt that people were being unreasonable. She spend her nights after school writing countless letters. Contacting as many congress people as she could manage hoping to insight a change. The naivety of being barely ten years old allowed Cory to believe the government and the people in power would do what was right. Maybe they were all like the cops, maybe they all wanted a scapegoat. July 29, 2006. Cory was finally sixteen, while most asked for a car, instead Cory asked for donations to her favorite charity at the time. Black lives matter. Things were looking like they were changing, but not nearly fast enough. So much change had to happen before the world was okay and finally, Cory was at the age she could start attending rallies without her parents being terrified for her well being. Cory had a good head on her shoulders. She knew when to leave, when things were getting out of hand very quickly. November 4th, 2008. It happened. The first black president. After months of driving her parents mad with attending any rally she could and trying to help fuel the fires of Obama’s campaign they had won. Her “I voted” sticker became one of her most cherished possessions, she was a part of something larger than herself and finally she felt hope for the world she’d been desperately trying to save. This success for half of her being gave her a new found confidence and determination to make a difference as well. Maybe one day she could make such a powerful difference just like Obama had done. May 18th 2012. College graduation. Her undergraduate years flew by, filled with constant studies, internships, and as many rallies as she could manage. Cory solidified her confidence in school, performing top of her class and managing to land a job in D.C. working for senator. While unideal, she loved the fact that she was surrounded by people who could make a change constantly. December 13th, 2014. She spent months preparing for this. It was a campaign that could finally take a stand. So many innocent lives were taken away, so many ignorant people just didn’t care. The Justice for All March on Washington D.C. was inspiring, truly an awe worthy moment to see everyone come out in support of the fact that black lives matter, too. A fact police seemed to have forgotten, an experience she had as a child as well. She was strong, unmoving walking with all the others who stood beside her. Happy to see a movement pushing change. August 3rd, 2015. A proposition. A man came to Cory with an offer. An offer to work in the agency and say goodbye to her current life. The same offer gave her hope to change the world. To change it from underneath, behind the scenes just as she preferred. It was the most incredible opportunity and if she could make it through training she would be impacting the world. Her agreement was quick and she was unbelievably proud even though she had to lie to her family about why she would be gone. July 6th, 2016. She did it. She made it through training and was now a full agent. Now called Parks, she managed to whip her tiny body into top physical shape and was now ready to conquer the world. She could finally change the world in her own small ways. Character personality: Parks is confident. Her confidence sometimes toes the line of cocky, threatening to step over it but never actually heading that way. Her confidence gives her a sense of self, a keen ability to understand her moral compass and choose right from wrong. Under pressure this skill is unbelievable, while the world could be falling apart, Parks can stay cool and calm. She can almost always make the correct decision and hold her cool. You will never see her yelling at someone, instead she may perform a spiteful revenge, quiet with no way for you to tie it back to her at all. However, her strong beliefs often push Parks instead to inspire those around her. She’s a natural at starting grassroots campaigns for whatever she feels the newest most important injustice is. Parks is like the wind, she’s unseen and quiet most of the time, yet she can also cause a decent amount of damage and come out unscathed.

OTHER: Anything else: Parks tries to donate 50% of her paycheck to various campaigns and non-profits anonymously every month. One of the hardest parts about being an agent for Parks is being away from her parents, however she’s convinced them she’s joined the peace corps. Sometimes, when she’s feeling down she will get online and do her best to rally there instead of in person like she used to before. It’s a small way of reminiscing on her old life. Parks is tiny, barely over five feet tall, but her confidence makes her feel eight feet tall.

[cindrhella-blog]

Neighborhood Lookup Achievement Will depend on Key phrases

Traveling to a different area, folks generally need a map to be sure they don't get lost and to guarantee reaching their desired destination punctually.The identical is usually stated for obtaining even a modicum of achievement with any Internet presence.In fact, , the verbal map of the web.

Based on American Heritage Dictionary, a key word is "a term utilized to be a reference level for finding other terms or facts".With no search phrases, practically nothing completed in the hassle to entry the net customer are going to be purposely successful.Any long run prospects will entirely rely on happenstance.

Keywords and phrases are very important in three main areas of internet marketing via local lookup:

On the Website

Short article Marketing and advertising

Google RecognitionWebsite

A web site is the start of making local search achievement for the world wide web purchaser in search of the goods and solutions you provide.If the site is puzzling or unclear, the individual will only click onto An additional web site, plus the Opposition has the opportunity to change desire into a sale.

Did you know that the normal surfer spends about eight seconds looking above a internet site?Unless of course the data is introduced in a transparent and concise way, he/she is going to proceed to the following neighborhood research link.In massive measure, keywords Engage in a significant part in clarifying the most crucial goal of the internet site and what is currently being provided.Nevertheless, Additionally, it gives the backlink between each individual energy to deliver clients towards your Digital doorway.

Short article Advertising

You've developed a web site with thorough thought into the most effective keyword phrases to clarify the goal of your internet site, and how you hope to offer a valuable services or merchandise to The patron.Now, it really is time to think about how those self same search phrases can become hyperlinks back again to your website by way of write-up internet marketing.

Post internet marketing is a way of delivering the probable purchaser with useful information based mostly upon their require, because it relates to the service or product you offer.Whilst not strictly advertising and marketing your website and wanting to come up with a sale, the post has barely enough knowledge to give you believability and provide a Absolutely free link back to your internet site.Then, the sale can be manufactured.

As with every regional lookup, the probably consumer will set from the key word(s) to describe his/her area of curiosity.For example, While using the restricted economy, a lot of people will be in search of the most beneficial cost for whatsoever they will need that is certainly geographically Situated close to house. Hectic existence and a decent budget really acquire individuals straight to the online world, so that you can locate the most effective deal for A cost-effective price tag.

The nearby search, with meticulously thought of search phrases, directs The buyer in your posting.The document underscores important details and cleverly underscores the requirement for your personal product.Fortunately, a keyword has long been hyperlinked straight back again to your internet site.Then, the keywords and phrases on the internet site Enable the consumer know he/she has arrive at the appropriate put.

Google Recognition

Anyone who definitely desires to have A prosperous nearby lookup presence on the net can not are unsuccessful to be familiar with the value of attaining Google recognition.Google could be the undisputed chief in search engines like google and yahoo for on the internet surfers.In addition, Google relies on SEO (search engine optimization) that can help Internet readers come across the things they are searching for once they go surfing to the net. Hence, everyone who wants to reach neighborhood look for ought to immolate this theory.

In uncomplicated terms, Search engine optimisation is a fancy expression for underscoring the necessity for great keywords and phrases that will help customers locate a product, support, or information.Such as, if a shopper is seeking the most effective location to discover a particular car or truck aspect, what is going to he/she likely type into your search engine? What phrases are probable to be used?In the event you promote motor vehicle elements, your web site and write-up internet marketing efforts ought to center on this identical search term(s).Of course, most web pages have countless critical key terms, and it'll normally take many posts to go over the items or services supplied.

In summation, if you'd like to be successful at regional look for, acquiring Google recognition is extremely important.Having said that, it is the keyword phrases on your website Search Engine Optimization As well as in marketing efforts that could lead customers, that are more likely to make a acquire, straight to your front door.It's going to take some time to know how the method functions, but assist in working out the correct key phrases signifies intending to Google, the online world skilled. Quickly, people and travelers will cross the brink of your enterprise.

Moreover staying a very good searching particular person Charlie Slack is a local seo pro who focuses primarily on online video, social media marketing and knowledge promoting is devoted to serving to organizations and people today realize success with on line Marketing and advertising and marketing.

[josephkitchen0]

Micro Homes: Tiny House, Big Idea, Huge Ambition

By Jerri L. Cook – Micro homes are becoming more and more popular as people are turning towards a smaller, less complicated lifestyle. Some folks embrace the idea of sustainability early in their childhood. Others come to embrace sustainability only after the rug is yanked out from under them, leaving them face down on the hard floor of reality. For these folks, sustainability, the practice of mindful resource management, is embraced as they struggle to get back on their feet. For these people, when they discover sustainability, they discover a purpose, and a tiny house may be just the answer.

Before the economic collapse of 2008, Randy Jones was riding high on a wave of economic bliss. A successful builder for more than 25 years, he was also the owner of a resort on 450 scenic acres in the Great Smoky Mountains of Tennessee. With 80 upscale cabins, he was benefiting from the burgeoning economy. The well-heeled would bring their families for vacation and their colleagues for working weekends. But financial waves, like ocean waves, eventually collapse.

Randy rode the wave all the way to the rocky end. By 2009, he had nothing left but an old pickup truck. Everything else had been lost to the bank. For the better part of three years, he wandered from job to job, barely eking out a living. Then, in 2012 he was driving around town looking for odd jobs, when he found one – micro homes – that would change the trajectory of his life.

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He drove by an unkempt salvage yard, where he noticed a dump truck and a forklift that he thought he could use. He didn’t have any money to buy the equipment, but he could work. He traded his labor for the pair, as well as any usable lumber he found lying around. Working alone, it took him days but when he was finished, he had a working dump truck and forklift, and loads of lumber that he wasn’t quite sure what to do with. Initially, the plan was to sell it all and use the case to fund a building project, but that’s when Randy Jones found out about the tiny homes movement, a promising trend promoting sustainable housing and environmental practices through building and occupying of micro homes. Neither he nor the tiny house movement would ever be the same.

Developers in Illinois resized a lot to include one small enough for a tiny home like this, roughly 400 square feet, roughly the average size of a house in America before World War II.

MICRO HOMES: ALL AMERICAN TINY HOUSES

During a period spanning the late 18th and early 20th centuries, the average size of a home in the United States was 450 square feet. In the decades following World War II, the average size of a home in the United States grew to a whopping 2,300 square feet. As the square footage grew, so did the cost of buying and maintaining these enormous properties, aptly dubbed McMansions due to their similarities in floor plans and appearance. Up until 2008, the cost of these large homes was covered by a booming economy that everyone seemed to think would continue indefinitely. The American homeowner was in the money. But when the wave collapsed, it left countless families mired in debt and on the brink of homelessness, struggling to find a place to rent. In the wake of the economic collapse, many former homeowners had given up on ever owning a home again in their lifetime, while those who had never owned a home became resigned to the fact that they never would.

But in late 2012, word started to get around on social media about a man named Jay Schafer in California who had designed and lived in a 96 square foot house on wheels. It wasn’t long before Schafer began building micro homes for others. Built on a standard trailer bed, these micro homes were inexpensive, self-contained and moveable. Unlike the tiny homes featured on Tiny House Nation on FYI every week that often exceeded $350,000, the moveable micro homes were affordable, even for those Californians who were kept out of the real estate market because they couldn’t meet the income requirements.

Even though they were reasonably priced by California standards, starting at $57,000 for a 117 sq. ft. home, the cost remained out-of-reach for those who live far outside of the Golden State. Lower income people outside of California might have been permanently priced out of the tiny house movement if Randy Jones hadn’t happened by that messy old salvage yard in 2012.

These tiny houses, which are only 110 square feet, are available to rent in California.

MICRO HOMES: RANDY GOES SMALL

Randy Jones learned about the tiny house movement that was gaining in popularity on the West Coast shortly after he made the trade with the salvage yard owner for the equipment and lumber. He sold part of the lumber and built a prototype tiny home of his own for around $4,000. He made a reasonable profit when he sold it, and before he knew it, he had made three more. Randy began to see tiny houses as more than just a way to make a living. He soon saw it as a way to make a sustainable living while helping others and the planet.

In 2014 Randy officially went into business again.

“I hired a young guy with a family to help me,” Jones said. “We don’t have any fancy facilities. It’s just a couple of guys out in a field in Tennessee, but I’m able to pay him a wage that he can support his family on.”

His new venture, Incredible Tiny Homes, is the only one of its kind in the United States. Like the first tiny home he made out of the lumber that he bartered for at the salvage yard, all of Randy’s homes are made from re-purposed items, ensuring that no two are the same and keeping the cost of construction under control. Using salvaged barn doors, discarded building materials, and anything else that will enhance his houses, Randy offers a an affordable, self-contained, off-grid tiny house starting at $25,000. Customers can come to Morristown, Tennessee, to pick up their home, or Randy will arrange for delivery at an additional charge.

Of course, if someone wants marble counter tops or custom oak cabinets, the price can go higher. But as Randy points out, the driving forces behind the tiny house movement are economic responsibility and effective personal resource management. “The whole point is to downsize on purpose, not like what happened back in 2008 when it was done for everyone. It’s about creating communities and living sustainably within them.” If you’re looking for luxury over comfortable practicality, off-grid tiny houses are probably not for you. But if you’re looking to learn how to build an energy-efficient home and live more sustainably, then this is the perfect opportunity for you.

Randy’s off-grid homes are being used across the country by people who want the security of owning their own home but who refuse to be saddled with excessive debt. “I built one for one gal—a single mom with two kids—and they’re living off-grid on a tiny parcel in Texas,” says Randy. “I’ve got houses in Chicago, right in the city limits, and in Durham, North Carolina, too. They’re perfect for anyone who is interested in an off the grid home.”

Of course, local zoning laws could operate to keep someone from living in a tiny house, even on their own land. But as Randy points out, “Most municipalities don’t know how to classify tiny houses. They’re not RVs. They’re built like homes. They are homes. Full-time homes. Not recreational vehicles.”

He views this lack of classification as an opportunity to educate state and local officials on the value tiny homes bring to a community.

“We had one community that had an ordinance prohibiting campers and RVs from parking on residential lots,” he said. “But when the board saw our home, they decided to allow it because it was aesthetically pleasing and added to the look and feel of the community.”

Turning old buildings into small homes is just one way to conserve space, and provide additional business opportunities on your property for tourists through online rental services.

MICRO HOMES: TINY HOME, BIG DECISION

Before making the decision to live more sustainably by living small, be sure to consider all the potential issues, even the ones that might weigh against the decision. A good resource for getting started is Tiny House Talk. Maintained by micro homes aficionado Alex Pino, the site has hundreds of articles and resources on tiny house living.

People who have made the switch to tiny homes, regardless of what walk of life they come from, universally offer the same advice—ease into it. Those who have made the successful transition to smaller footage did so over a period of months by getting rid of things they didn’t need and adjusting their lifestyle to accommodate fewer possessions.

Another thing to consider is the limited storage space. Those who grow and preserve their own food using various food preservation methods will need to make separate storage provisions.

Weather can also be an issue when choosing a site for your tiny home. Because of their size, tiny homes on wheels are susceptible to strong winds. Placing one on top of a wind-swept vista is probably not a good idea.

MICRO HOMES: GETTING YOURS

Not everyone can pay for an off-grid tiny house with cash, but those who are fiscally responsible will find that several sources of financing exists to assist them. The tiny house trend has caught the attention of major lenders and their subsidiaries. LightStream, a division of SunTrust Bank, will loan people with good credit ratings up to $100,000 for a small home.

Non-traditional sources of financing also exist to help people buy the tiny home of their dreams. Tiny House Talk offers a free newsletter that allows investors to connect with borrowers. Those seeking financing can apply for up to $25,000 in funds to purchase or build their tiny home. Another source of financing is Tiny House Lending at www.tinyhouselending.com. This site also helps buyers find financing up to $100,000.

Even though tiny homes aren’t for everyone, they offer a path to a sustainable lifestyle by promoting meaningful resource management. Shrugged off as just another California trend a few years ago, the small house movement promises to open paths to self-sufficiency for millions of people who would otherwise be trapped on the jagged rocks of financial ruin, held there by wave after wave of poor fiscal policies that they cannot control.

Originally published in Countryside July / August 2016 and regularly vetted for accuracy.

Micro Homes: Tiny House, Big Idea, Huge Ambition was originally posted by All About Chickens