#child death at border

[morganmnemonic]

rewatching World Trigger. I forgot how gay it was. Osamu straight up says "hey Yuma. I know that we've only known you for like five days, but I can't help but notice that you aren't doing anything with your life right now. Mind if I borrow it for a bit?"

And then Yuma responds with "while its true that we've only know each other for like five days, your kind yet stubborn nature has compelled me. Sure. Why not? From this moment on my life is yours to do whatever you want with. One condition, though. You have to be my boss" and then throughout the story he occasionally makes these little remarks like "I'd do anything my captain (osamu) asked me to."

Like bro what? I really don't think that Osamu fully realizes the weight of the loyalty he somehow managed to earn from Yuma. I don't think he could realize it. From his perspective he cringefailed his way into b rank while Yuma did all the work. "And now Yuma would kill or die for me" is just not a conclusion that would ever occur to Osamu based on the avaliable evidence.

And like, what's going on here from Yuma's perspective? I get that he was a man on the brink when the story started, pursuing a sincerely suicidal plan, and then said plan failed and he was left with absolutely nothing, but I still feel like there has to be more going on here. He decided that he would follow Osamu through hell and back the very same minute that Osamu asked anything of him at all.

It's like, combat is all Yuma has ever known. He doesn't see any future for himself at all, but he especially can't imagine a peaceful one. But he's not a bad kid. He doesn't go out of his way to hurt people. Osamu has proven to be a pretty decent person, willing to sacrifice himself to save the lives of relative strangers. Maybe, the way Yuma sees it, yeah he's a weapon, but if he follows Osamu at least he'll be a weapon pointed in the right direction. He'll fight because it's all he knows how to do, but osamu would only ever ask him to fight for worthy causes. Y'know?

Anyway. The point is that Yuma accepted helping Osamu as his new purpose in life after knowing him for less than a week, and that's A Lot, no matter how you look at it.

[balladetto]

     Once, when Link was even smaller than he feels, he'd knocked his shoulder out of its socket in a terrible fall.

     Terrible in that he'd cried about it, ashamed and at the then-height of pained, not that it was a particularly horrific tumble. He'd just landed wrong, he remembers someone telling him — frantic and almost apologetic in their reassurance. Too much has happened for him to reconstruct a face for the memory, but Link can still recall the stutter in their words. You're g-gonna be okay. Y-you're gonna— gonna be f-fine.

     And he was. Someone had gone to fetch a healing fairy while others came to keep him company. It'd been the right shoulder, burning at the joint and numb all the way down to his fingertips, but he'd found a spot of hurt he could grit his teeth through; then breathe through; then eventually speak through. By the time the fairy was brought over, Link had been so deep in the rhythm of holding himself together that he'd nearly slapped her away when she broke it.

     He remembers her, he thinks, the most out of everything. There's a distinct clarity associated pain will give you with any recollection. She was rose-pink, a little darker than he was used to, and she'd bristled when he whimpered through a fresh wave of tears and pushed at her with his pinky.

     "Stop that," she'd said. "Bones aren't easy, you know. It'll only hurt for a pinch, it has to for me to fix it. You're already being so brave! Can't you be brave a while longer?"

     Outside the memory, Link lays crumpled on cold tiles, eyelids like crushed butterfly wings and the cave of his chest barely moving as he looks up and up and up. He thinly wonders, for a fixing like this, how long he'd have to keep being brave for.

     Neither of his shoulders took the landing this time, but he knows many things are wrong with both of them. By extension, many things are wrong with all of him. He should take stock, a part of him understands. He'd like to take stock, another part realises, if only he had the capacity to. Each breath shifts the slivers and splinters his bones have shattered into. Agony twists through every vein like a replacement for the blood he imagines paints his trail from platform to windows to the far below floor. He can't feel his fingers, which twitch as if to grip something — his left hand, mangled, rests as if in graveyard dirt.

     There is no amount of searching in this sea that will land him in a place where this might be bearable.

     "Link!" Navi yells, a trilling bell that drowns out the sound of dying. His heart threads an extra thump, like he still has it in him to be scared alongside everything else, before it fades back into a whisper of a pulse. She wheels above him in panicked, powdery circuits: hair to boots and back. "Get up! You have to get up!"

     He does. He does have to. Link doesn't get to think he's gonna die now. He doesn't get to be tired enough — small enough — for that. He draws a rattling inhale, head practically cracking open with how the air presses against its seams. He's sixteen. The world will end if he's nine. He's sixteen, sixteen, sixteen.

     He chokes on liquid rising in his gorge, coughs it up, and closes his eyes when gravity brings the blood down in blotches on his skin. It's— really gross, and that's such a mundane thought in the face of what he has to reckon with that his chest starts spasming with strangled laughter instead.

     "Link!"

     Navi, he replies in his head, 'cause that's all he can do. He traces over more names: Sheik, Zelda, Saria, the Sages, the Kokiri, the list goes on as his voice dips into hitching, searing gasps. It's an awful thing to realise — that's all he can do. Link has to get up, has to be Courage, has to be more than what he is.

     And he can't.

     Sound drifts down from above, mocking. Cruel. It's a laugh getting louder and louder, and Link prises his lashes apart with the sheer will borne from a unique dread. A kind of fear, if you felt it not in sensation, but in the dizzying spiral that is the certainty of where this will all end.

     A kind of fear — and a kind of fury.

     Link is nine, thrown to the ground, battered and muscles stinging with a magic he tastes as something crackling on his tongue. He glares up at the tall man on the tall horse, smouldering so brazenly with protective, frustrated outrage that he shakes with it. He is not unafraid of the sneer that answers him, but he does not look away.

     Link is nine, broken over the ground, near dead and stuck in a body he's tried to make his. His eyes are cold as he watches Ganondorf descend, burning with tears dyed red from failure. The brand on his left hand glows, resonating with a magic he no longer has the nerves to feel. Navi doesn't leave. There are a thousand things he wishes he could scream.

     Large fingers fold around the wrist of his gauntlet, deliberate in their ignorance of the softness a joint that bent must be afforded. As his arm is lifted, the pain dragged along every passing second like some horrible, continuous song-note that eclipses even his fears, he pretends none of the noises coming from him are his and thinks everything that could mean: I hate you.

     He thinks everything that could mean: I'm so sorry.

     The man raises his other hand, palm closing in, and Link forces another entire earth on the child he can't be even here — even now. He does not look away. Navi, oddly muffled, rings something wordless.

     Link waits for the end of this story.

[tennessoui]

i would for one would be interested in the extreme angst of Alaska AU

cw: sort of visceral grieving (of parent over lost child); very angsty

. . .

. . .

ok so i can't find the actual snippets in my (unorganized and frightening) google docs or notes app (lol) but it was mostly like this (sort of from memory and written directly into this ask so idk how good this will read but i very much remember some parts of this snippet tbh i think this is like. the closest ive ever come to not writing fanfiction ):

Obi-Wan doesn't think he was insane before his daughter died.

He remembers having a sound mind and a stable countenance. He was a writer, a blogger, a poor chef--though a chef nonetheless.

(A chef of boxed macaroni and cheese and cinnamon sugar toast. A chef of dinosaur nuggets and microscopic sized vegetables snuck into casseroles. A chef with a singular purpose, a singular audience.)

He would never have called himself a man of science, but he was a man of rationality at the very least. He found reason in everything around him. He did not always understand science nor math, but respected them as fundamental laws of the universe.

When Rey died, it was the rational part of himself that first followed her into the grave.

Three months after they bought her coffin and two and three-fourths after they buried her, the weather turned unseasonably cold. Obi-Wan woke up in the middle of the night halfway to a panic attack. They had buried her in a summer dress.

Years later, when the pain of the loss was incrementally easier to bear, he would write:

You do not spend nine years of your life fretting over whether or not your child will be cold just to turn that instinct off the moment they are no longer susceptible to the elements. After my daughter died, I spent countless nights awake wondering if she was cold there beneath the ground. We had not thought to bury her in her red winter coat, and it haunted my dreams. She would be cold without it. Children have horrible control of their body temperature. You must bundle them up, and the idea that we hadn't when we buried her drove me to insanity.

The first time it rained after her funeral, I saw her yellow rain boots lined up by our front door as I was leaving. I sat on our front porch stoop and sobbed for what must have been hours, thinking only of the water that would eventually, inevitably seep through the wood cracks of the coffin and wet her toes. Before, when a sudden rainstorm blew in, as they were wont to do in our town, I would pick her up and put her on my shoulders should we be caught out of the house sans rain boots. She hated the feeling of wet socks and cold toes, so I spared her the sensation.

That I had forgotten about the rain when we gave a set of her clothes to the mortician was unforgivable. Sitting on the porch that day, I felt a weight on my shoulders, like she was still perched atop me, trusting me to carry her over all the more dangerous and distasteful parts of the sidewalk.

I hadn't, and so she was cold. Her toes were wet. She was shivering. A child needs to be bundled up. It is one of the first things a parent learns should they take a class on the parenting, and I took many. A child must be bundled up, or they become cold.

I could not shake the idea that she was cold in her casket. Logically, I knew that whatever constituted my daughter was long gone. Her soul, her spirit, her conscience--whichever. She was not what we buried. Rationally, I knew that. But logic and reason have no starring role to play in grief. Guilt and blame and hysteria take the stage.

I could not shake this last failure. I could not forgive myself for it; I could not forgive my wife. When the weather began to turn cold once more, I packed my things and moved to the coldest place I could find. As a parent, one knows this: if you cannot cure your child of their ailment, you will weather it with them however you can.

[dontmeantobepoliticalbut]

Editor’s note: This story contains audio of people calling 911 during a mass shooting incident.

The first two 911 calls came in at 11:29 a.m.

A man had crashed his truck into a ditch by Robb Elementary School in Uvalde, and he was rushing toward the school with a gun.

“He’s inside the school shooting at the kids!” a third caller yelled at 11:33 a.m.

The gunman fired more than 100 rounds by the time police dispatchers received another call two minutes later. An adult voice could be heard making “shh” sounds for nearly 44 seconds before the phone abruptly cut out.

Monica Martinez, a STEM teacher who was hiding in a closet at the school, was among several callers from inside the school who followed.

“There’s somebody banging at my school,” Martinez said, her voice muffled as she continued speaking. “I’m so scared,” she said at 11:36 a.m.

What happened on May 24 in Uvalde is well documented. Hundreds of law enforcement officers from nearly two dozen local, state and federal agencies rushed to the scene. It took more than an hour before they entered the rooms where the gunman was located. They treated the crisis as one of a barricaded suspect who was no longer an active threat. Ultimately, 19 children and two teachers were killed in the worst school shooting in Texas history.

In the ensuing five months, the delayed law enforcement response has spurred state and federal investigations. The school district’s police chief was fired. He has publicly contested his termination, saying he was unfairly blamed. The acting Uvalde police chief has also been suspended and a state trooper fired. The chief of the Texas Rangers, the Department of Public Safety unit that is leading the state investigation, retired abruptly in September, as did his deputy in August. Several state police troopers remain under investigation. Officers facing punishment either could not immediately be reached for comment or declined to respond.

The Texas Tribune and ProPublica have for the first time obtained recordings of more than 20 emergency calls and dozens of hours of conversations between police and dispatchers that lay bare the increasing sense of urgency and desperation conveyed by children and teachers. In chilling, muffled 911 calls, they begged for help from inside the school.

Although the existence of some 911 calls and body camera footage has been reported publicly, the totality of the recordings show the pervasiveness of the miscommunication that unfolded that day.

During some calls, dispatchers and officers warned that class was supposed to be in session in rooms where the gunman had been shooting. On others, law enforcement officers said they were unaware that anyone aside from the gunman was in the classrooms, even as dispatchers received calls from children seeking help.

Ten-year-old Khloie Torres was one of those children. While state officials previously released a transcript with excerpts from one of Khloie’s phone calls, the news organizations obtained additional recordings of her pleading for help that had not been made public. Khloie survived that day.

In an interview, her father, Ruben Torres Jr., said he is “disgusted” that police did not quickly intervene. The fact that his daughter had to wait so long to get help is “mind-boggling,” Torres said.

“There was no control. That dude had control the entire 77 minutes,” said Torres, a U.S. Marine Corps veteran. “They didn’t have him barricaded. He had the police barricaded outside. It’s plain and simple. The police didn’t go in. That’s your job: to go in.”

DPS officials did not respond to questions from ProPublica and the Tribune about the recordings. A spokesperson for the city of Uvalde, the police chief, the Uvalde mayor and the county’s chief executive declined to comment.

Communication was a key failure throughout the response. Many officers assumed the school police chief, Pete Arredondo, was in command. He did not have his radios with him, issued few orders and later said he never viewed himself as the officer in charge. County officials said emergency communications were overwhelmed in the rural community, which typically has only two dispatchers answering 911 calls and juggling the transmission of key information to emergency responders.

The emergency radio system has two 911 lines and three emergency channels. Its frequency is designed for the vast, 15,000-square-mile stretch of scrubby desert terrain, rather than for high-density urban areas where equipment must work inside buildings, said Forrest Anderson, the county’s emergency management coordinator who oversaw the radio system’s implementation two decades ago. A legislative committee that later examined the response noted that city police radios worked only intermittently inside the school.

Radio traffic and footage obtained by the news organizations show that some police knew about the 911 calls, but just how many officers remains unclear.

High-stakes emergency responses always have some communications gaps, but skilled incident commanders should be prepared to overcome such challenges, said Bob Harrison, a former California police chief and homeland security researcher at the Rand Corp., a national think tank.

Harrison noted that many of the radios used by Border Patrol agents also did not work during the Uvalde shooting response, but the agency’s SWAT team, which does not typically lead the response in school shootings because it is a federal agency focused on immigration and national security, mobilized to breach the classroom once it arrived and determined no one was in control.

“If a strong unifying command scene was set up quickly, these discrepancies wouldn’t have been necessarily relevant, and there would have been one voice and one command,” Harrison said of the problems with 911 and radio communication.

The state legislative committee reached a similar conclusion in its July investigative report, which stated that a capable incident commander would have realized that the radios were “mostly ineffective” and that responders needed other means of communication to transmit key details such as calls from victims inside the classrooms. The report highlighted that law enforcement is trained to be “prepared to respond effectively without reliable radio communications” and could employ a series of strategies including using “runners” to deliver messages in person.

But that day, children and teachers, including Martinez, waited to be rescued.

In the dark closet of room 116, Martinez stayed on the phone with a dispatcher and tried to practice a key tenet of the school’s active-shooter protocol: Be quiet.

CLASS SHOULD BE IN SESSION

When a new round of gunshots rang out from behind the closed door of the two adjoining classrooms, Uvalde police Sgt. Daniel Coronado sprinted outside, panting heavily as he relayed an urgent message on his radio to city police dispatchers.

“He’s inside the building,” Coronado said of the shooter at 11:38 a.m. “We have him contained.”

He asked for ballistic shields and requested that someone call DPS.

Then he repeated: “He’s contained. We’ve got multiple officers inside the building at this time. We believe he’s barricaded in one of the offices. Male subject is still shooting.”

Four minutes later, a male voice, unclear from which agency, asked that someone check the classroom of fourth-grade teacher Eva Mireles, a 44-year-old educator and the wife of Ruben Ruiz, a Uvalde Consolidated Independent School District police officer. Mireles was assigned to classroom 112, one of two adjoining rooms where the shots were coming from.

“See if the class is in there right now or if they’re somewhere else,” the official said.

Then a Uvalde school district police officer came on the radio with a critical announcement: “The classroom should be in session right now. The class should be in session, Ms. Mireles.”

Another officer gasped.

“That’s going to be Ruben’s girl,” he said, referring to Mireles.

“Oh no, oh no,” Coronado muttered under his breath.

The exchange demonstrates some officers knew early on that the gunman was not barricaded alone in the classroom. More indicators, and clear confirmations, would come soon after — yet for much of the response, they would not be heard.

At 11:48 a.m., Ruiz, who was standing in the hallway outside of the classroom, told officers that his wife had been shot. Ruiz said his wife had called him and said she was “dying.” Mireles later died in an ambulance.

Officers escorted Ruiz outside, taking away his weapon for his safety, according to interviews officers at the scene later gave to the Texas Rangers. But they did not attempt to enter the classroom. One of the police lieutenants who heard Ruiz’s announcement told investigators that they were waiting for DPS and Border Patrol to arrive “with better equipment like rifle-rated shields.”

By that time, Martinez, the teacher, had been on the phone with 911 for more than 10 minutes. She had told the dispatcher that she could hear people in the hallway. The dispatcher urged her to stay quiet and remain barricaded in the closet.

“You still there with me?” the dispatcher asked at about 11:47 a.m.

“I’m still here,” Martinez whispered.

Misinformation spread as Martinez and other 911 callers waited to be rescued. At 11:50 a.m., a Uvalde school district police officer wrongly reported that the school chief was “in the room with the shooter,” referring to Arredondo by his call sign.

Seven minutes later, an officer asked if any children were inside with the gunman.

“No, we don’t know anything about that,” another officer replied on the radio.

“Everything is closed, like the kids are not in there,” a third responded.

About a minute later, an officer asked for the shooter’s location.

“The school chief of police is in there with him,” another officer replied.

As the back-and-forth continued, law enforcement officers rescued people from other classrooms. At 11:58 a.m., Martinez told the dispatcher that she again heard someone knocking. She said the person had identified themselves as a police officer.

“Open the door,” the dispatcher said, confirming that the person on the other side was law enforcement. “Stay on the line with me until you make contact with him.”

“I’m coming,” the teacher whispered.

Her sobs carried through the phone.

The teacher did not return calls and emails seeking comment.

CONFUSION MARKS RESPONSE

Some children in classrooms 111 and 112 with the gunman kept calling 911, seeking help even when they suspected it was not safe to speak. One of the first calls from a trapped student, at 12:03 p.m., was barely audible.

“There’s a school …” a muffled child’s voice reported, breaking up in the recording, “at Robb Elementary.”

The call lasted a minute and 24 seconds. The child was silent as the dispatcher asked their name and what room they were in.

“Hello, ma’am? Can you hear me?” the dispatcher asked.

Then at 12:10 p.m., Khloie called.

“There is a lot of bodies,” The New York Times previously reported that she told a dispatcher, adding that her teacher had been shot but was still alive.

Khloie stayed on the phone for more than 17 minutes. While she spoke, another city police dispatcher answered a call from DPS and erroneously reported that the school police chief was inside the classroom with the gunman.

“I have the school chief of the PD in room 111 or 112 with the active shooter, and they’re still standing by,” she said when the DPS dispatcher asked for an update. “We have multiple agencies on scene. I don’t know if you have anybody else to send out to help out?”

“We’re sending everybody that we can, um, heading out there, but do you have any injuries, fatals, anything?” the DPS dispatcher responded.

Only one female was shot, and perhaps an officer was injured, the Uvalde dispatcher replied.

A dispatcher’s voice crackled through the Uvalde police and Border Patrol radio traffic, notifying that she had a child on the line.

“The child is advising he is in the room full of victims, full of victims at this moment,” the dispatcher said.

Hallway surveillance video from inside the school at the time shows at least four law enforcement officials, one with a shield, kneeling outside the classroom door with their guns drawn.

It is not clear if the officers heard that message.

At 12:14 p.m., a state trooper’s body camera captured someone saying, “There’s victims in there, dude.” The trooper was standing outside a door to the school, with at least eight officers from different agencies visible from that camera angle.

“We need to get in there,” one responded.

No one did.

Five minutes later, another girl in room 111 called 911. The recording of the call, which lasted a minute and 17 seconds, is mostly inaudible.

In the hallway, Uvalde County Constable Emmanuel Zamora wrongly suggested that the gunman may have already shot himself.

“One shot at the end was self-inflicted, maybe,” Zamora said in the recording, referring to an earlier burst of gunfire.

Zamora did not respond to texts and emails about his comments, which had not been previously reported.

Arredondo, the school chief, can be heard on a state trooper’s body camera at 12:20 p.m. telling another officer: “We have victims in there. I don’t want to have any more. You know what I’m saying?”

It was the first time he acknowledged to other responders that anyone was wounded inside the two classrooms, according to new footage obtained by the news organizations. The legislative report noted only that he acknowledged “some casualties” 14 minutes later. Arredondo did not return a message seeking comment shared with him by his former attorney.

A minute later, the gunman fired again.

Officers in the hallway flinched, formed a line and started walking down the hall, then suddenly stopped, a state trooper’s body camera footage reveals.

Just after the shots were fired at 12:21 p.m., the school chief began trying to talk to the shooter for the first time, according to communications and records.

“If you can hear me, sir, please put your firearm down, sir,” Arredondo said. “We don’t want anyone else hurt.”

Just after 12:30 p.m., three troopers again advanced toward the classrooms before an unidentified person said “no, no, no,” according to body camera footage.

Once again, they stopped.

A DPS trooper who made his way into the hallway around that time asked another officer if there were children in the classroom. The response was, “We don’t know.”

By then, more than 20 minutes had lapsed since Khloie first begged a dispatcher for help. She ended the initial call when she feared the gunman, who she felt taunted the children, was getting close, her father later recalled.

She called 911 again at 12:36 p.m.

“There’s a school shooting,” Khloie said. “Yes, I’m aware,” the dispatcher responded. “I was talking to you earlier. You’re still there in your room? You’re still in room 112?” “Yeah,” Khloie replied. “OK. You stay on the line with me. Do not disconnect,” the dispatcher said.

“Can you tell the police to come to my room?” Khloie whispered. The dispatcher said: “I’ve already told them to go to the room. We’re trying to get someone to you.”

About two minutes later, Khloie once more asked for police.

Yet again, a dispatcher tried to reassure her.

“I have someone that is trying to get to you, OK,” she said.

Khloie whispered that she thought she heard the police next door.

“If you hear anyone come in, but they’re not supposed to be there, and they don’t say that they’re police, y’all pretend that you are asleep, OK?” the dispatcher replied.

“THAT WAS YOU?”

As the Border Patrol strike team was almost ready to breach, DPS Capt. Joel Betancourt went on the radio and ordered the agents to wait.

“The team that’s gonna breach needs to stand by,” Betancourt said at 12:50 p.m.

The captain did not respond to requests for comment left for him through DPS.

The team ignored the order and entered the classroom, quickly killing the shooter. The previously silent hallway filled with officers waiting to act.

Someone yelled, “Make a hole!” as police carried out wounded children. Law enforcement officers motioned for those who were not as severely injured to walk out on their own.

“Oh man, I guess there was more kids in that room,” a DPS special agent said, according to his body camera footage. “Yeah, he must have had some hostages,” another law enforcement officer replied.

As the onsite paramedics focused on the most critically injured, officers began taking other hurt children to the hospital. Khloie was among them.

“I was on the phone with a police officer,” she told the trooper examining her as the screams of other wounded children reverberated in the background.

The officer, whose body camera had earlier picked up a dispatcher describing that call, seemed surprised.

“Oh, that was you?” the trooper asked.

[gwydionmisha]

CW: Child Abuse, Child Death

[jewishvitya]

A pro-Palestine Jew on tiktok asked those of us who were raised pro-Israel, what got us to change our minds on Palestine. I made a video to answer (with my voice, not my face), and a few people watched it and found some value in it. I'm putting this here too. I communicate through text better than voice.

So I feel repetitive for saying this at this point, but I grew up in the West Bank settlements. I wrote this post to give an example of the extent to which Palestinians are dehumanized there.

Where I live now, I meet Palestinians in day to day life. Israeli Arab citizens living their lives. In the West Bank, it was nothing like that. Over there, I only saw them through the electric fence, and the hostility between us and Palestinians was tangible.

When you're a child being brought into the situation, you don't experience the context, you don't experience the history, you don't know why they're hostile to you. You just feel "these people hate me, they don't want me to exist." And that bubble was my reality. So when I was taught in school that everything we did was in self defense, that our military is special and uniquely ethical because it's the only defensive military in the world - that made sense to me. It slotted neatly into the reality I knew.

One of the first things to burst the bubble for me was when I spoke to an old Israeli man and he was talking about his trauma from battle. I don't remember what he said, but it hit me wrong. It conflicted with the history as I understood it. So I was a bit desperate to make it make sense again, and I said, "But everything we did was in self defense, right?"

He kinda looked at me, couldn't understand at all why I was upset, and he went, "We destroyed whole villages. Of course we did. It was war, that's what you do."

And that casual "of course" stuck with me. I had to look into it more.

I couldn't look at more accurate history, and not at accounts by Palestinians, I was too primed against these sources to trust them. The community I grew up in had an anti-intellectual element to it where scholars weren't trusted about things like this.

So what really solidified this for me, was seeing Palestinian culture.

Because part of the story that Israel tells us to justify everything, is that Palestinians are not a distinct group of people, they're just Arabs. They belong to the nations around us. They insist on being here because they want to deny us a homeland. The Palestinian identity exists to hurt us. This, because the idea of displacing them and taking over their lands doesn't sound like stealing, if this was never theirs and they're only pretending because they want to deprive us.

But then foods, dances, clothing, embroidery, the Palestinian dialect. These things are history. They don't pop into existence just because you hate Jews and they're trying to move here. How gorgeous is the Palestinian thobe? How stunning is tatreez in general? And when I saw specific patterns belonging to different regions of Palestine?

All of these painted for me a rich shared life of a group of people, and countered the narrative that the Palestininian identity was fabricated to hurt us. It taught me that, whatever we call them, whatever they call themselves, they have a history in this land, they have a right to it, they have a connection to it that we can't override with our own.

I started having conversations with leftist friends. Confronting the fact that the borders of the occupied territories are arbitrary and every Israeli city was taken from them. In one of those conversations, I was encouraged to rethink how I imagine peace.

This also goes back to schooling. Because they drilled into us, we're the ones who want peace, they're the ones who keep fighting, they're just so dedicated to death and killing and they won't leave us alone.

In high school, we had a stadium event with a speaker who was telling us about a person who defected from Hamas, converted to Christianity and became a Shin Bet agent. Pretty sure you can read this in the book "Son of Hamas." A lot of my friends read the book, I didn't read it, I only know what I was told in that lecture. I guess they couldn't risk us missing out on the indoctrination if we chose not to read it.

One of the things they told us was how he thought, we've been fighting with them for so long, Israelis must have a culture around the glorification of violence. And he looked for that in music. He looked for songs about war. And for a while he just couldn't find any, but when he did, he translated it more fully, and he found out the song was about an end to wars. And this, according to the story as I was told it, was one of the things that convinced him. If you know know the current trending Israeli "war anthem," you know this flimsy reasoning doesn't work.

Back then, my friend encouraged me to think more critically about how we as Israelis envision peace, as the absence of resistance. And how self-centered it is. They can be suffering under our occupation, but as long as it doesn't reach us, that's called peace. So of course we want it and they don't.

Unless we're willing to work to change the situation entirely, our calls for peace are just "please stop fighting back against the harm we cause you."

In this video, Shlomo Yitzchak shares how he changed his mind. His story is much more interesting than mine, and he's much more eloquent telling it. He mentions how he was taught to fear Palestinians. An automatic thought, "If I go with you, you'll kill me." I was taught this too. I was taught that, if I'm in a taxi, I should be looking at the driver's name. And if that name is Arab, I should watch the road and the route he's taking, to be prepared in case he wants to take me somewhere to kill me. Just a random person trying to work. For years it stayed a habit, I'd automatically look at the driver's name. Even after knowing that I want to align myself with liberation, justice, and equality. It was a process of unlearning.

On October, not long after the current escalation of violence, I had to take a taxi again. A Jewish driver stopped and told me he'll take me, "so an Arab doesn't get you." Israeli Jews are so comfortable saying things like this to each other. My neighbors discussed a Palestinian employee, with one saying "We should tell him not to come anymore, that we want to hire a Jew." The second answered, "No, he'll say it's discrimination," like it would be so ridiculous of him. And the first just shrugged, "So we don't have to tell him why." They didn't go through with it, but they were so casual about this conversation.

In the Torah, we're told to treat those who are foreign to us well, because we know what it's like to be the foreigner. Fighting back against oppression is the natural human thing to do. We know it because we lived it. And as soon as I looked at things from this angle, it wasn't really a choice of what to support.

[steveyockey]

To be aware you might be trans but unwilling to do anything about it is to create endlessly bigger boxes within which to contain yourself. When you are a child, that box might encompass only yourself and your parents. By the time you are a gainfully employed adult, that box will contain multitudes, and the thought of disrupting it will grow ever more unthinkable. So you cease to think of yourself as a person on some level; you think not of what you want but what everybody expects from you. You do your best not to make waves, and you apologize, if only implicitly, for existing. You stop being real and start being a construct, and eventually, you decide the construct is just who you are, and you swaddle yourself up in it, and maybe you die there. There is still time until there isn’t.

This reading of TV Glow’s deliberately anticlimactic, noncathartic ending cuts against the transition narrative you typically see in movies and TV, in which a trans person self-accepts, transitions, and lives a happier life. Owen gets trapped in a space where he knows what he must do to live an authentic life but simply refuses to take those steps because, well, burying yourself alive is a terrifying thing to do. The transition narrative posits a trans existence as, effectively, a binary switch between “man” and “woman” that gets flipped one way or another, but to make our lives so binary is to miss how trans existences possess an inherent liminality.

Humans’ lives unfold in a constant state of becoming until death, but trans people are uniquely keyed in to what this means thanks to the simple fact of our identities. You can get lost in that liminality, too, forever trapped in a midnight realm of your own making, stuck between what you believe is true (I am a nice man with a good family and a good job, and I love my life) and what you know, deep in your most terrified heart of hearts, is real (I am a girl suffocating in a box).

And yet if you want to read the film as being about the dangerous allure of nostalgia, you’re not wrong. I Saw the TV Glow totally supports that interpretation, too! But in tempting you with that reading, the film creates a trap for cis viewers that will be all too familiar to trans viewers. Somewhere in the middle of Maddy’s story about The Pink Opaque being real, you will make a choice between “This kid has lost it!” and “No. Go with her, Owen,” and in asking you to make that choice, TV Glow is simulating the act of self-accepting a trans identity.

See, the grimmer read of the film’s ending truly is a nihilistic one. It leaves no hope, no potential for growth, no exit. Yet you must actively choose to read that ending as nihilistic. If you are cis and the end of I Saw the TV Glow left you with a gnawing sense of dissatisfaction, a weird but hard-to-pin-down feeling that something had broken, and a melancholy bordering on horror — congratulations, this movie gave you contact-high gender dysphoria.

In an infinite number of possible universes, there is at least one where I am still living “as a man,” embracing my fictionality, avoiding looking at how much more raw and real I feel when I “pretend” to be a woman. I think about that guy sometimes. I hope he’s okay.

Consider, then, my cis reader, that TV Glow is for both you and me, but it is maybe most of all for him. I hope he sees it. I hope he breaks down crying in the bathroom afterward. I hope he, after so many years locked inside himself, hears the promise of more life through the hiss of TV static.

Emily St. James, “I Saw the TV Glow’s Ending Is Full of Hope, If You Want It to Be,” Vulture. June 4, 2024.

[hansolz-moved]

What has happened in Gaza since the truce ended a mere 16 hours ago — do keep in mind that some of these source links include videos of what is described.

• Israel’s military said it had 'resumed combat' in Gaza where air strikes were reported as the seven-day truce came to an end on Friday morning local time. [ source ]

• The Israeli warplanes started bombing Gaza as soon as the temporary ceasefire expired. [ source ]

• A little Palestinian girl got injured by an Israeli bombardment in the northern part of Gaza City. [ source ]

• Residents try to evacuate the bodies from the rubble of a destroyed home by Israeli air strikes that began bombing Gaza Strip by the end of the temporary ceasefire. [ source ]

• A number of Palestinians were injured and killed by Israeli air strikes all over Gaza. [ source ]

• An ambulance evacuated children who were injured by an air strike that targeted a home in Khan Younis, southern Gaza. [ source ]

• More than 30 Palestinians were killed by Israeli air strikes since the end of the temporary ceasefire this morning. [ source ]

• The Israeli warplanes bomb a home in Rafah, southern Gaza. [ source ]

• A little girl lost her father by Israeli air strike in the middle area of Gaza. [ source ]

• A wife bids farewell to her husband who was killed by Israeli bombardment in Khan Younis, southern Gaza. [ source ]

• A mother bids farewell to her 5 month old baby who was killed in an air strike in Gaza. [ source ]

• A mother bids farewell to her son who has was killed by an air strike in Gaza. [ source ]

• Palestinians inspect the rubble of the Qanan family home which was bombed by Israeli warplanes in Khan Younis city. A number of deaths and injuries were reported. [ source ]

• Israeli warplanes bomb a home west of Khan Younis. [ source ]

• A faulty Israeli bomb was dropped by the Israeli warplanes on a home in Yebna refugee camp in Rafah city. [ source ]

• An Israeli bombardment targeted an UNRWA school in Jabalia refugee camp, north of Gaza. [ source ]

• Heavy Israeli air strikes in Khan Younis city, southern Gaza. [ source ]

• Israeli warplanes destroy the home of the Hessi family in Khan Younis refugee camp, southern Gaza. [ source ]

• Palestinians rescue a girl from the rubble of her home that was bombed by Israeli warplanes. [ source ]

• Civil defense crews rescue a number of residents and evacuate bodies of martyrs from the rubble of a home in Shejaeya neighborhood, east of Gaza. [ source ]

• Over 100 Palestinians were killed since the end of the temporary ceasefire in Gaza, today. [ source ]

• Medics are dealing with 'large numbers' of wounded Palestinians seeking treatment in overcrowded hospitals following the resumption of Israeli air strikes on Gaza, says Gaza's health ministry. [ source ]

• A little child tries to calm down his baby brother after they were injured by an air strike in Gaza. [ source ]

• A series of heavy Israeli air strikes bombed several sites in southern Gaza Strip. [ source ]

• Palestinian children bid farewell to their father who was killed by Israeli bombardment in Khan Younis. [ source ]

• A fire broke out following the bombing of Jabalia refugee camp with white phosphorus. [ source ]

• Israel preventing aid trucks from entering Gaza via Rafah border crossing, PRCS says [ source ]

• A child was injured by the Israeli occupation bombing of Abu Nada family home in Al-Jeneina neighborhood, east of Rafah. [ source ]

• The ministry of health says in a statement that 178 Palestinians have been killed and 589 injured since morning. [ source ]

• The Gaza Strip has been under “relentless Israeli bombardment”. [ source ]

• The Palestinian Red Crescent Society says Israeli forces have informed 'all organisations and entities' operating at the Rafah crossing that the entry of aid trucks to Gaza is 'prohibited, starting from today' and until further notice. [ source ]

• The Israeli warplanes carried out a series of heavy air strikes on Gaza city. [ source ]

This list is not exhaustive. There are bodies under the rubble, missing from the death count, there are stories of atrocities gone unreported. Let that sink in, that this is not even the full extent of what has occurred since the truce agreement expired. The children of Gaza have gone back to living in fear, constantly hearing the sounds of warplanes over their heads. The people of Gaza have gone back to expecting to die.

It is far from time to lose steam. This is not over just because the bombing stopped for a week. The genocide continues and has been ramped up. Do not stop talking about Palestine. Do not stop bearing witness to what is happening. Do not stop demanding that it ends.

[baubeautyandthegeek]

Public Housing - Clara Seger/Mae Jarvis

A/N: Part 3/5 for this week's @soheavyaburden prompts for A Year of Whump. TW: Child Death.

Clara had been telling Mae about the Public Housing Projects she had been part of in India, working with many charities to try and better the slums but as her words tailed off, Mae could tell there was something she wasn’t saying…. And then she did. “He died…. He was four.” “Clara…” Mae almost breathes her name, wrapping her tightly in her arms. The loss of the child still stings, she can see that. “I’m so sorry….” “I promised his parents he’d be okay…” “You did your best…” “He died.” Clara murmurs the words again. “Because those damn projects were so badly built…”

[kittenpinkamations]

Sometimes I (re)join the singaporean subreddits because I wanna feel more in tune with my culture, then I see a post & read the comments & then I remember why I left them in the first place. Then I keep forgetting & it’s a vicious cycle

[falesten-iw]

Urgent 🆘️ call: 🚨🍉 Please help..🥺😓🙏

My name is Falastin, and I am a mother of three small children, ages 5 years, 2 years, and 3 months. I am not very good with social media, but I am writing to seek your help to give my family in Gaza the chance to live their lives again.

Due to the ongoing genocide we in Gaza are experiencing, my family need your help to survive, leave Gaza, and find safety.

In november 2023 last year, i lost three of my cousins from my mother's family with their wifes and children's, some of them still under the rubble untill now. 

In mars 2024 this year i lost another 2 cousins in Alshifa hostpital, this shock after three months of the first lose was a big slap into our face, it was a harsh reminder that death didn’t stop, and that none of us is an exception in this genocide, not a woman nor a child, everyone of us is a target to the death machines above our heads.

My family has lost everything. Some of them have tragically passed away, and those who remain are without shelter, moving from one temporary place to another in a desperate attempt to stay alive. Currently "After more than 20 times of being displaced and having to leave our house escaping from rockets and death " they have fled south and are living in a makeshift tent made from plastic bags and torn clothes.

Each day is a battle for survival. Each day, my family wakes up not knowing if they will have food to eat, clean water to drink, or a safe place to rest. Their homes have been wiped, and their children sit sleepless waiting their death. In Gaza, there is no where to seek shelter, no bunkers, nowhere to hide. Gaza is no more than 40 kilometers long and 10 kilometers wide with a population of just over two million. Gaza's border is completely surrounded by fences and barbed wire. The only way out of Gaza is to Egypt.

I used to introduce myself as the youngest in the family but in this GENOCIDE I’m a big sister who see her siblings’ future getting lost in front of her eyes, as i see my brothers kids who are still young and supposed to be in school, my mom who is 73 years old unable to find her medicine, as I see them, I made it a mission to myself to save my family or who’s left alive from it, to save their future from all of this and to escape Gaza.

Despite everything, I still have hope to save those who remain of my family. But I need all the help I can get from every person on earth. This challenge is not easy for me, especially since I am not good with social media and i dont have so many follower to reach and ask them for help. However, I am trying, and maybe with your support, the impossible can become possible.

Asking for your help is the only way I have to save my family’s life and future. Your help can be our hope when hope seems far away. Because of that, I appeal to your generosity and compassion, asking for help so that we can gather the necessary funds to help my family.

Photos of "Lina," who was born at the start of the war, and she is now 9 months old. Your donation could give her the chance to survive, leave Gaza, and find safety with her family.

I would like to thank everyone who has donated, shared and supported my campaign so far. Your generosity has given us hope in the darkest of times, and I am deeply grateful.

So far, we have raised 3,950 SEK of our 2,000,000 SEK goal - August 15th. While this is a small step, it is a crucial one, and it shows that together, we can make a difference. We still have a long way to go, and I urge you to continue sharing our story and contributing if you can.

Every donation, no matter the size, brings us closer to saving my family and giving them a chance at life. Please read and act as if it were your family, your mother, your siblings in these conditions. 🙏🙏🙏💔💔💔💔

Important note: Donation value:

** 1$ = 10.5 Swedish kr

** 10$ = 105 Swedish kr

** 100$ = 1050 Swedish kr

** 1000$ = 10500 Swedish kr

VETTED and shared by 90-ghost, also as no. 282 in The Vetted Gaza Evacuation Fundraiser Spreadsheet compiled by el-shab-hussein and nabulsi and shared in the masterpost.

We have also been verified by Al Jazeera News. Here is the video. I added this video today, august 15th. Its showing my cousin and aunt in the hospital, where she shares how the Israeli army airstruck them with their kids. Listen to my aunt Suad "Em Mhammed".

Best regards,

Falastin and her family.

[thesocialmag]

Tragic Death of Honduran Teen in U.S. Immigration Custody

The mother of a 17-year-old boy who tragically died in U.S. immigration custody is demanding answers from American officials. Ángel Eduardo Maradiaga Espinoza, a teenager with no known illnesses and no signs of sickness, left his hometown in Honduras on April 25 in pursuit of the American Dream. Crossing the U.S.-Mexico border, Ángel Eduardo was subsequently referred to the U.S. Department of…

[ladysternchen]

a teaser you wanted, a teaser you’ll get ;)

“ [...] Carcharoth’s venom… I know mortals can never be compared to the Eldar when it comes to what they can endure, but… I remember nothing of the weeks I was walking the very edges of life. Nothing but pain, and fear. It was not death I feared, it was… something looming just out of sight, something terrible, like a fell beast, a monster of Morgoth’s breeding like Carcharoth himself. I wanted to flee, but couldn’t. Every breath I took felt as if it were tearing my lungs and the stump of my arm felt as it were constantly pressed into white-hot embers. I welcomed death, but death was merciless and did not take me on. There was only one thing that made me fight, that made me endure it, and that was Lúthien’s light, her love. Her touch was like cooling water. She kept ever close to me, never leaving my side, and that was what saved me in the end.” -from my WIP (obviously). But the better version, not the one I was so happy about finishing yesterday (yeah, two-version-fic, the logistics of posting that will be challenging)

[feeshies]

An urgent and urgent appeal. Please do not stop reading. I am Safaa Asaad, a university student. I am 26 years old and married. I gave birth to my first child during the war. My life was full of love and optimism. I was distinguished in the field of law. I was diligent and had dreams and ambition. I intended to open my own law firm and defend the rights of others, diligence and perseverance. In restoring the rights to their owners, I got married while I was a student. I married the right man whom I had always been waiting for. We loved to always be together. He suffered before he married me. He worked hard to build the house and collect money to propose to me. His source of income was very good, and we got married and lived a good life. As time passed, the war came, and I had not completed the year. My marriage and our home were destroyed. My husband lost his job. My father, after seeing the destruction that befell our area, became unable to speak and became paralyzed from the outside. My husband, two months after entering the war, gave birth to my first child under difficult circumstances in a small tent full of insects and mosquitoes. I and my son could not live in a tent because of the insects, so we fled to escape. The border is under the shadow of the wall. We are suffering greatly, and now, after exhaustion and exhaustion, I decided to create a donation link to go out and save my family from Gaza. We were insulted and humiliated by the occupation army. The relative died and the relatives were killed. We were displaced. I cannot describe what happened to us. I ask you to save my family and get us out of Gaza with a donation. To us via the link, please donate, even if it is $10, it will make a difference to us. They can save us from death, and your donation will be a reason to save our lives, so my son can live the life I dreamed of, open a law firm, and open a project for my beloved husband. Please donate and support the💔💔😭😭 campaign.https://gofund.me/b25cb4bf

I hope you donate it will really help save my family. Even if it is $10 or $20.

Hello Safaa. Thank you for reaching out to me, and my heart goes out to you and your family. I would be happy to do everything I can to help you and your family get the safety, security, and success you deserve.

Safaa's fundraiser is verified and user @/ana-bananya made a more detailed post about her family. The fundraiser is currently at $9,097/$75,000 and is in desperate need of donations. Every bit counts, so please donate if you have the means.

[gwydionmisha]

CW: Child Abuse, Child Death

[merakiui]

タコの花嫁。

yandere!azul ashengrotto x (female) reader cw: yandere, nsfw, non-con, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, arranged marriage, oviposition, breeding, royalty au note - in an effort to bring peace to two warring sides, you are engaged to the sea queen’s son.

If anyone is to blame for the abysmal diplomacy between the Land and the Sea, it would be your ancestors. Pompous and foolhardy, they thought they could rule the grand seas stretching out from the harbor, beyond weather-worn docks with their rotted, seaweed-strewn planks and briny fetor. The ocean was vast, unexplored territory—a dangerous, deceptive beauty harboring life far beneath unruly waves.

And your ancestors intended to claim it.

Sailors would recount tales of fishfolk—uncanny creatures who looked more marine than the two-legged mammals of the land. They’d raise mugs, each overflowing with ale, in drunken merriment, terrifying themselves with the mysteries of the deep, dark sea.

“It ought to give ya a proper scare straight to Davy Jones himself!” they’d say, voices lowered conspiratorially. “Soon as yer candle goes out and all ya’ve got’s the moon to guide ya… You’ll hear ’em slip through the water if yer listenin’ well enough.”

“You ever go and spy one up close?”

“I’d sooner see the Devil himself and let him keelhaul me before facin’ those cursed beasts!”

“The cut of their jib ain’t so pretty. Enough to give men like us a fright and we’ve seen all sorts of somethin’.”

“Monsters, I say! Monsters!”

Festivals were held to keep these beasts at bay—to prevent them from gathering the courage to creep up onto the land. Every year, during the summer solstice, pits were hollowed on the shore and bordered with stones. Flames licked towards the sky, red-orange fingers clawing for purchase amidst the stars above. Townsfolk would sing and dance late into the eve, bellowing songs passed through the generations. Children would skip up and down the beach, torches in hand, and cry out an old chant: “Fish for you and me are meant to stay in the sea! Should you see one on land, may the Heavens strike it down with a gentle, loving hand!”

Their excitement did well to ward off the fishfolk. Sometimes the lone child would spot one in the distance, peeking out from between the rocks before diving back under in a splash.

On land, humans were safe. On land, the fishfolk couldn’t catch them.

It was different in the sea.

Ships were destroyed in terrible tempests. The waves tossed them around as if they were nothing. Many sailors would find their demise at the bottom of the ocean, torn to shreds with shattered skeletons. Viscerally brutalized, they died with secrets on their tongues—secrets of the strange fishfolk who’d drag them down, down, down to a watery grave.

On one cold February afternoon, the octopus prince was brought into the world. In shadowed fathoms, a grand celebration was held. After so much time—misfortune after misfortune—one fry survived out of the entire clutch. He was round and soft and small, colored blue from exertion and fighting through the tug of the current to reach home. The Sea Queen met him halfway and embraced him, ecstatic tears in her eyes, for a mother’s love is stronger than any political power.

“My little Azul,” she said, stroking a hand along his cheek, “how precious you are.”

No ships were sunk; no lives were lost. It was a peaceful day for both the Land and the Sea. And it would continue to be so in the future. Every year on that same February, it was made a day of peace to honor the little prince.

A day of life, not death.

It was on that same February eleven years later when you were tossed into the frigid depths like a hatchling cast out of its nest. Similarly, your birth had been a wondrous occasion. Your parents brought five boys into the world, each just as adored as the last, but they had been hoping for a daughter. It was a miracle when their fervent wishes were finally granted. You were spoiled as all daughters often are, pampered and doted on by your family and the palace staff.

Your brothers, though protective and caring, were a troublesome and rowdy bunch. Kyffin was the eldest. Two years younger was Emyr, and another two years behind him was Owin. A year younger than him were twins Morcan and Martyn. They picked on you as all immature boys often do when caught up in sibling rivalries, aiming to be the only one their parents see. To prove themselves as the best, the strongest, the wisest.

So it was with a half-cruel heart that Emyr tossed you into the waves from where he stood in the rowboat.

“Only way to learn is with exposure!” he called down to you, watching as you struggled against the push and pull of the sea. 

“C-Can’t!” you shouted back, choking on salt and flailing about. “E-Emyr, I can’t—can’t swim!”

“Don’t be silly,” Owin added with a sweet smile. “It’s how we learned. That old sod threw us right in. You’re lucky it’s us and not him. He was awfully mean with it, wasn’t he?”

“Terribly so.” Emyr watched your struggling a moment longer and clicked his tongue. He held the oar out just before you could slip under, and you clung to it with shaky hands. “Come on—let’s get you up here. You’re not gonna get it today.”

“Fin got it on his first try.”

“Fin gets everything on his first bloody try.”

Relieved, your heart pounding like a drum, you peered up at your brothers. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get it…”

“Nothing to apologize for. You’ll get it one day.”

“We’ll keep trying until then. And once you do, we’ll throw you a big party.”

“Really? Will you really do that?” Your expression brightened, but your brothers’ faces darkened. They saw the shadow before you did. Saw the webbed hands reaching out, the serrated teeth glinting in a sinister smile.

And then—

Owin leaned over, his arm outstretched. So fluid was his motion that it took you by surprise. “(Name), grab on! Hurry! Before—”

The rest of his warning was muffled by the water. You hardly had any time to brace yourself when you were yanked under, your nails raking across the wood of the oar as you went with the force of the pull. Salt stung your eyes when you cracked them open, peering frantically at blurry surroundings. Teal-green specks slid silently through the shadows, mismatched eyes flicking over your form. And then there was a high, raucous sort of chittering. Like a dolphin’s cry, loud and piercing. You squeezed your eyes shut and pressed your palms against your ears.

It only lasted a few mere seconds, but it felt like an eternity trapped in the coils of a creature you couldn’t comprehend. One moment you were holding your breath and the next arms were hooked around your torso, and you were pulled up and into the belly of the rowboat. Your hands flew to your throat, and you coughed up seawater while Owin patted you.

“It’s fine. It’s…okay,” Emyr muttered, his voice shot through with fear. It was the most shaken he’d ever sounded.

Blood fogged in the water, staining the tip of his harpoon. He gazed down at his hand. A deep, jagged gash ran angrily from palm to wrist. He hissed and closed his fingers in a tight fist.

“We gotta get back,” Owin was saying, still rubbing soothing circles into your back. “I’ll row. You rest.”

“Not good,” Emyr said instead, shaking his head in dismay as he watched your attackers retreat.

“We’re still in our waters, right? We didn’t go past the boundary, did we?”

“Let’s hope not.”

“We didn’t, right?”

“Let’s hope—” Emyr paused, collecting his words. “Let’s hope those monsters were in the wrong.”

“Father’s gonna kill us.”

“If not us, the monsters.”

Both brothers looked towards you. Your tunic was torn, stained through with saltwater and blood. You shivered all the way to shore.

Following that mishap, an official meeting was called between the Land and the Sea. The King—your father—met the Sea Queen at the border. He stood proud on his ship, peering down at her with fire in his old eyes.

“Your Majesty.”

The Sea Queen was just as formidable as those who came before her. Her tentacles unfurled as one, and if you looked at them long enough they almost seemed to take on the shape of an obsidian-colored crinoline.

“I believe my mother and your father made the terms quite clear all those years ago,” she said, a wave lifting her to meet the King at the deck of his ship. “So then, with that in mind, there should be no reason for us to meet under these circumstances.”

Emyr and Owin stood just behind their father. You peered through their legs at the Sea Queen, silently amazed. You’d never seen anyone quite like her before. At least, not a real person. You’d seen her in storybooks, depicted as a fearsome beast with devilish features, and though there was something intimidating about her gaze and build she appeared understanding enough. Her grey skin was sleek in the morning sun, her long, silvery strands tied up and pinned with an ornate hair ornament. She looked beautiful in a magical, enigmatic way.

“I couldn’t agree more,” came the clipped response of your father. “Alas, misfortune has brought us here.” He stepped aside to allow her to behold Emyr’s bandaged hand. “Harm has befallen my son and daughter. I suppose you might have an inkling as to why they find themselves in their current state?”

She frowned, but you couldn’t tell if it was out of sympathy or some other emotion. “Perhaps one of them can give reason to the wound now marring one of my subject’s sons.”

Your father glanced overboard at the snake-like merman cradled in the arms of another merman. They looked near-identical, their features unmistakable. He glanced back at Emyr, his gaze hard. “Go on then. Explain yourself.”

Emyr stepped forward. “With wholehearted respect, Your Majesty, it was out of self-defense. Your kind—they attacked us first.”

“You were in our waters!” one of the mers exclaimed, pointing a clawed finger towards Emyr. “It’s all your fault Jade got hurt!”

Owin hurried ahead, his hands gripping the taffrail. “He’s playing it up! It was a graze!”

“He could’ve died! You almost killed him!”

“That is enough,” the Sea Queen said, jutting an arm out to silence both sides. “I understand everyone is hurt here. Our feud lies in misunderstanding.” She gazed at you next. “Little one, we have yet to hear your story. Do share.”

You glanced at the guards, at Owin and Emyr, and then at father. He nodded encouragingly. “U-Um!” Shyly, you approached the Sea Queen. “My brothers were teaching me how to swim. I don’t know anything about whose water is whose. I just wanted to learn how to swim.” You met the fierce scowl of the mer holding his twin brother and quickly looked elsewhere. “He grabbed me before my brothers could pull me up.”

“Because you were trespassing. Anyone who tresspasses ought to—”

“Floyd.”

At the not-so-subtle warning in his father’s voice, he shut his mouth and snarled. His brother—Jade—was handed off to their father, who assessed his state with a frown.

“He will live, but it will take time for him to recover. My son is right. Your son could have killed him.”

“Just as your sons could have killed my sister!” Owin shouted, glaring.

Floyd stuck his tongue out, remorseless.

“It is impossible to know which side is in the wrong,” your father began, turning towards the Sea Queen. “Seeing as both have been injured, I am willing to apologize on behalf of my sons.”

“What?!” Owin’s head turned towards his father. “You’re bloody mad! Have you not seen—”

“Father,” Emyr interjected evenly. “We have nothing to apologize for. We were within our waters. We had no ill will towards the others. It was completely innocent.”

The Sea Queen hummed her contemplation. “The boundary was drawn for a reason, decided upon by those who came before us, and yet it does more harm than good. It is not for safety’s sake. It is to keep us divided—to ensure that neither side will ever know peace.”

“And you’re implying that we get rid of it?”

She nodded, quite serious. Everyone looked on in equal parts shock and disbelief. “Why do we continue to fight? It does nothing but open old wounds, rendering them incurable. Innocent lives are lost in petty squabbling. And for what?”

To that, no one could offer a smart reply.

“Therefore I propose peace. A union to welcome a new era—one in which we embrace one another as allies without animosity.”

“A union?” Your father raised a brow, suspicious but willing to listen. “I suppose it would be beneficial. My people would be free to travel the seas at their leisure.” “And mine would no longer have to live in fear of being thoughtlessly slaughtered and taken as trophies.”

“Unbelievable,” Orwin muttered.

Emyr elbowed him. “Knock it off.”

“We’ll collaborate on a contract. One that dissolves the invisible boundary that has been the cause for so much suffering. In order to attain true peace, I shall offer you my only son.” She glanced at you and then back at your father. “Your daughter shall marry him when they are of age.”

“What?! No way! Ew! Gross!” Your voice came out shrill and you shook your head in protest. “I don’t wanna marry an octopus! No, I won’t do it!”

Your father stood in front of you. “She’s my only daughter. If something were to happen—”

“Which is precisely why I bring up this engagement. Should they be betrothed, we as their parents will promise to uphold peace to give them bright futures and they will act as the first example of a human-mer alliance. Unions between humans and merfolk are unheard of, but is this not the best way to foster harmony between the Land and Sea?”

“I won’t do it! No! Don’t make me marry a gross—” Emyr gathered you in his arms, holding his uninjured hand over your mouth.

“Let the grown-ups talk.”

Owin frowned. “I still don’t agree with this…”

Your father mulled it over, his eyes glazed in thought. “Very well. We will create a contract—an official peace treaty.”

Both leaders shook hands and planned to convene at the end of the week to discuss further.

You watched the mers depart, each one slipping under the sea. Floyd was the last to go, staring at you with a mean sort of vitriol. And then he, too, dove under.

“He didn’t mean it, right?” you whispered to Emyr after your father gave the order to turn the ship around and head for land. “I won’t have to marry an octopus, right?”

Emyr could only offer a commiserate frown.

“She’s a brat,” Floyd spits. “Stupid, evil Two Legs.”

Jade chuckles and runs his fingers over the scar. “I consider it an honor.”

“Yeah, well, I think it’s messed up. She’s the reason you can’t ever swim naturally again. While she’s up there in her pretty, little tower, safe and sound, you’re still hurting.”

“It’s not as much of a hindrance as you may think. I’m not weak, mind you.”

Floyd grumbles. “Still. She’s mean.”

Azul gazes up at the palace, sighing dreamily. “She’ll be my wife someday. That’s what humans call it, yes? Husband and wife… What wonderful words.”

It’s been one year since the peace treaty. Since then, humans and merfolk have made an effort to get along. This is the second time Azul will be meeting with you. He’s nervous. The first time you went out to sea to greet him, and he’d gotten so anxious that he inked right then and there. His mother entertained you from where you sat in the boat with your personal guard. It was a mortifying experience—one that had taken him months to recover from.

Now he’s going to try to meet you in the shallows. Try is the key word here. He’s scared, all three hearts beating as one. Is it too late to reschedule?

“I can’t believe you’re actually okay with this. You that lonely?”

Azul turns to scowl at both twins, but it’s mostly directed at Floyd. “I never asked you to tag along. Leave me alone.”

Jade smiles. “And let the Queen’s little prince swim to his death?”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Sure you can. But what about when Two Legs gets ya? What then?”

“She wouldn’t do that.”

Floyd rolls his eyes. “You saw what her brothers did to Jade.”

“Because you tried to kill her.”

“Because she was in our territory!”

Azul huffs and pushes him away with a tentacle. “Regardless, we’re supposed to be on good terms now. You’ll break the contract if you try anything dangerous.”

“He’s right, Floyd.”

“Ugh. Whatever.” Floyd turns away, stubborn. “This is lame. I’m not stickin’ around.”

Jade lingers long enough to observe the way Azul lights up when he spots you on the stone steps. And then he disappears beneath the water.

Barefoot, holding your dress up and out of the way, you pad across the beach.

“Why are you here? I’m busy. My brothers are taking me into town.”

The smile that had been fighting to break out on his face frosts over. “Oh. I… Um…” Azul fumbles with the conch shell he’d collected on the way here. A gift for you. He made sure to study human speech patterns in the months leading up to this meeting. He’s fully prepared! And yet you look so displeased. “F-For you! I found it…”

You stare at the shell clutched in a dark tentacle. Tentatively, you reach for it. “Why?”

“Ah. W-Well, my mother says gifts are an important part of any bond. In the sea, we give gifts to the ones we care about. To friends and family and o-other halves…”

You turn the shell over in your hands. “We’re not friends.”

“Not yet,” he tries, but you shake your head.

“You ran away from me the last time we met. That’s not very friendly.”

His face flushes blue and he opens his mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. It wasn’t on purpose.

You’re already turning on your heel. “I don’t have time for this.” You toss the shell over your shoulder. Azul watches it land in the sand, just out of his grasp.

“W-Wait! I… I want to talk to you. Please don’t go. You’re going to be my other half one day, so I’d like to—”

But you’re already dashing across the beach to get to the stairs.

Azul deflates against the rock. Tears overflow in floods. Is it because of him? Is he to blame? Why don’t you want to be his friend? Is it because of the peace treaty? Why?

Why? Why? Why?

Azul doesn’t want to think negatively of you. Humans are sensitive creatures. He reads up on them in the palace library, poring over literature and textbooks in an effort to better understand you. But as the months pass and you seem to simply tolerate him for the sake of the alliance, he begins to suspect something.

It’s made apparent the next time he sees you, where you walk right past the beach to catch up with your brothers. He hides behind the rocks, two blue eyes following your figure until you’re out of sight.

Floyd was right. You are a brat.

And yet he can’t hate you.

On the eve of your eighteenth birthday, Azul meets you in the shallows.

Nowadays you send letters, preferring strained long distance over the personal intimacy of face-to-face relations. These exchanges are purely diplomatic. But now that he’s asked to meet with you, a rare occurrence, you’ve deigned to greet him in person. It’s the least you can do after he’s gone through the trouble to travel here. It’s been so long since you’ve seen him that he’s almost unrecognizable. You remember the round, baby-faced octo-mer from your childhood. The one who lounges against the rocks is leaner now—his features defined, jawline as sharp as his eyes. They cut through the gloom to find you.

“You wished to see me?” You’re in your nightwear, a silky gown with an even softer robe. A cool breeze blows across the beach, and you wrap your arms around yourself for extra warmth. “Azul?”

He hesitates, his gaze trailing up your legs. You’ve also changed a lot in the time you’ve been apart. You’ve grown taller, filling out in places he didn’t know humans could fill. What he’d give to hold you… His mother says he needs to be patient. Fickle thing that you are, you’re the reason he’s spent six years trying to appease you through letters—to win you over and be anything more than that “annoying octopus” you’re doomed to marry. Perhaps it would have been easier to act just as you do if it weren’t for the fact that he’d been elated at the premise of having someone to love. When his mother broached the idea in the days following her meeting with the Land King, he’d stared at her with wide, excited eyes.

“There’s a human girl who wants to be my friend?” he asked, to which his mother smiled and nodded.

More than a friend, actually, but then all he was focused on was finally getting to experience the one thing he’d never known or had: friendship.

Sighing, he foregoes formality and holds out a necklace. It dangles from the tip of his tentacle. Strung on a dainty, silver strand, pearls wink back at you under the moonlight. Azul averts his eyes, his cheeks a pleasant periwinkle.

“Happy birthday…”

“Oh.” You move in closer, taking the necklace from him. His tentacle pursues you, twining delicately around your wrist. “Um… What is it? Do you need—whoa!”

Azul tugs you closer. The sea laps at your ankles. Beneath a tapestry of stars, you meet his azure stare. His features are set with a determination you’ve never seen before.

“I want to start over.”

“Start over?”

“I’d like to be on friendly terms with you. We’re so cold. Distant…” Azul frowns, seeming unsure of what to say or do next. The tentacle laced around your wrist like a bracelet tightens its hold. “We’re to be wed one day. I want to make this work.”

You blink at him. He thinks he may have gotten through to you, having finally broken through layers of stone and ice, but then your nose scrunches and odium shimmers in your gaze.

“That’s impossible. I’m a human. How am I supposed to live with an octopus?” You shake him off with a huff. “I’m not sure what our parents think this will accomplish. I don’t want to be a pawn to be moved around for the sake of peace. I’m my own person.”

Azul’s expression sours. His lip curls up into a sneer. “Well, I don’t find it very enjoyable either. You’re not the only victim in this scenario.”

You exhale an exhausted breath. “Azul, I appreciate the gift, but it doesn’t mean anything if you’re only giving it to me to curry favor.”

I wasn’t, he thinks, but he doesn’t say that. Admitting it would be a weakness. Admitting it would mean coming to terms with an unrequited opinion.

“At least one of us is making a conscious effort.”

“At least one of us isn’t trying so hard. It’s pathetic.”

“You’re not obligated to accept my goodwill.” He smiles, smug. “Yet you do every time. I’d wager you enjoy my materialistic affections.”

“As if.” Despite this, you hold the necklace out of his reach when a tentacle flexes towards it. “It’s mine now.”

“So you are fond of my ‘pathetic’ ways!”

“I’m not!”

You jerk away with a vicious scowl, but your foot catches in the sand and you quickly find yourself tipping backwards. If not for the tentacles that coil around your waist to steady you, you would have fallen on your rear. Your chest heaves with adrenaline. Stunned, you stare at Azul.

“You…caught me,” you breathe, lips parted in awe.

“Did you think I’d let you fall?” He cocks his head at you, grinning playfully. “Why, I’d never! Unless it’s me you’re falling for, in which case I gladly welcome the—”

“You’re such a pest.” Untangling yourself from his grasp, which he allows without scrimmage, you step away from the water’s edge. He watches you secure the pearls around your neck, and his hearts stumble in his chest when you point an accusatory finger at him. “Don’t delude yourself with foolish nonsense. I have no interest in you.”

With an indignant harrumph, you start towards the palace.

“May we meet here tomorrow?” Azul calls out after you, testing his luck with what little chance he has.

“Don’t push it.”

“I’ll wait for you.”

“Good. Keep waiting, dummy!” You break into a sprint, hurrying off into the shadows.

Azul smiles at the empty beach. Whether or not you like him, it doesn’t matter. You’re to be his one day. You’ve always been, ever since he was eleven.

He’ll wait, even if you won’t show.

Ostensibly, twenty-one years wise, you’re getting married today.

Your gown is just as exquisite as your hair and makeup. Pearls cling to your throat and arms—classic wedding attire for merfolk. A thin veil shields the scheme in your stare.

This was an inevitability, but you’re determined to fight it until the end. No matter how quickly time seems to pass, you’ll do everything you can to stall and slow it.

Gripping a sharpened dagger in a resolute fist, you drag it through the long, sprawling train of your gown.

“As if I’d marry an octopus,” you grumble, cutting fine fabric until you’re permitted smoother movement. Gazing at yourself in the mirror, you scowl. “I’m no one’s bride.”

By the time the maids arrive to check on you, you’ve already stolen out the window.

The rowboat sways on choppy water. You’ve watched your brothers do this enough times to have the technique engraved in your memory. Your arms strain with the oars, every muscle screaming in protest, but you fight through the pain. The palace looks smaller and smaller with every passing minute. Eventually, you’re so far out that the land is but a mere speck.

It’s going well. You’re escaping towards a better future—a future without the octopus prince.

You glance towards the horizon. Your boat undulates with the waves.

You’ll miss your brothers, your maids, your personal guard…

Water slops over the edge. You yelp, startled. Have the seas always been so rough?

Despite everything, you’ll miss your father.

Just as you think this, your boat rocks to the side. You grab onto the edge to steady yourself, but it’s already too late. It tips over and you go with it, careening into the sea with a noisy splash. Twin shadows cut seamlessly through the murky water. You catch sight of a yellow eye before you propel yourself towards the sky, coughing and heaving once you break the surface. You grab onto the overturned rowboat, your dagger clutched in one hand.

You search the surface for them, eyes flicking to and fro in a frantic panic.

Somewhere… Anywhere… Where are you?

And then you find them, peering at you from the other side of the boat.

“Go on then,” you spit, glaring. “Kill me.”

Floyd bares his teeth at you. “This time I ain’t gonna leave a scar.”

“You know we mustn’t. That’s not why we’re here.” Jade smiles at you, but there’s something in his eyes that unnerves you. “Your Highness, you should know it’s poor manners to leave the groom on his special day.”

Floyd circles you restlessly. “S’not fair we gotta be nice when you’re so mean.”

“I’m not going to marry him.”

“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice in that matter.”

“What’d Azul ever do to you?”

You attempt to answer that before realizing the truth. Nothing. He’s done absolutely nothing but be kind and understanding and patient. And I took that, chewed it up, and spat in his face.

“If you used that brain of yours, you wouldn’t have thrown yourself to the sharks. We can’t get to you on land.” “But it’s fair game in the sea,” Floyd finishes, every syllable dripping with pride. “Stupid Two Legs.”

“I’m inclined to agree. You’re not the brightest human. A pity.”

“My brother should’ve gutted you when he had the chance. Maybe then—”

You see the whites of Floyd’s eyes when he strikes, launching himself at you with a clawed hand, sharp, pointed teeth aiming for your jugular.

This is it. You’re dead.

…or not.

The searing pain never comes, nor does the impending laceration. You cling to the boat and watch dark tentacles rise from the depths to close around Floyd, ensnaring him in a firm hold. He thrashes, snapping his jaws like a deranged beast.

“Let go of me, Azul! Lemme at her! She’s a bitch! I’ll kill her!”

“There will be none of that.” Azul tuts. “I don’t intend to marry a corpse.”

Jade swims over to you. “My feelings aren’t hurt in the slightest, Your Highness. If it weren’t for your status and connection to Azul, I’d have disemboweled you ages ago. Quite a relief for you, yes?”

You swallow your horror, allowing him to detach you from the boat so that Azul can turn it over. A tentacle curls around your waist, lifts you from the water, and places you back in the boat. You stare at your hands. They’re trembling. You can hardly hold the dagger properly.

It takes some convincing and a lukewarm apology from you, but Floyd promises to be good. He doesn’t do anything as you’re pulled back to shore, but he does stare at you for the duration of the trip, his eyes tracking your every movement. You press yourself into the belly of the boat, defeated and riddled with anxiety.

Your father isn’t pleased. When you see his enraged expression, the debate dies on your tongue. “You are to marry the prince,” he seethes, pulling you aside, “or else you jeopardize the peace of our kingdom.”

You’re washed and fitted in a new dress. Guards are stationed at all possible routes to prevent another escape.

When you walk down the beach to meet Azul in the shallows, your veil shields the sadness in your stare.

The ceremony carries on without incident. Floyd watches from the water, lurking like Death. You speak rehearsed vows in robotic monotone, mindlessly floating through the rigmarole like it’s second nature. Azul smiles at you through it all, sweetly smitten.

It’s a nightmare lived in real time.

Humans and mers alike congratulate you, cheering for this momentous occasion. Your tongue is numb by the end of it all. You’ve expressed faux gratitude so many times that it hurts to even force the words. And now, as night descends and the party kicks into full swing, you’re left reflecting on the day.

Freedom feels so far away. You’ll never know it again, will you?

Azul guides you away from the crowd. Firelight grows dim with the distance. Eventually, you find yourself taking refuge in a tiny inlet cut into the beach. A rocky outcrop hides you from the moon’s spotlight.

“I’m not upset,” Azul murmurs, curling a tentacle up your leg. “But Floyd is.”

“His brother’s the one who hurt me all those years ago.”

“That was before the union.”

“I’m not letting it go.”

“Perhaps not now, but you will. One day.”

You don’t believe him.

“Our people are at peace. Aren’t you pleased, my love?”

You shove him away, gathering heaps of your dress to walk in calf-deep water. “I’m not your love.”

“Legally, you are.”

“That means nothing to me. Absolutely nothing.”

Azul sighs. “Even now, after everything, you’re still trying to flee.”

“For good reason. I don’t want to be tied down.”

Azul inches closer. Another tentacle wraps slyly around your ankle.

“You’re so beautiful. I feel like the luckiest mer in the sea. To be able to call you my own… My beautiful bride.” He pulls you closer. You resist weakly. “Now that we’re alone I can finally tell you the very thing I’ve thought of ceaselessly for years.”

A tentacle slides up your leg, straying closer to your inner thigh. You flinch away.

“Azul, wait. I don’t want—”

“I love you.”

You squirm in his hold, attempting to thwart the tentacles that grab at your every limb. You trip over yourself in the process. This time Azul doesn’t catch you. Water laps at your dress, soaking through at once. He’s radiant beneath the moon. Dreading his touch, you scoot as far from him as you can get in the water, hoping to reach land. Azul seizes your wrist and pulls you into his arms. You fight him with more force.

“No… No, let go of me! Release me!”

“Why should I? You’re mine now. Is it not customary for a married couple to consummate their new bond? We do something similar in the sea.” A tentacle brushes your veil back so that he can look upon your pretty face. “I’d take you to a quiet space in the seagrass, lay you down in the sand, and then—”

“I don’t want that! No!” You lash out, swinging blindly. A tentacle shoots out to stop your arm before it can smack him. “Azul, please—”

“I was patient. I waited and waited in hopes that you might warm up to me. I cherished you in silence. I learned your language. Your customs. Your habits. I wrote to you. Traveled to meet you. And yet you look at me as if I’m a monster…”

It’s not the devastated look in his eyes or the edge in his voice that scares you. It’s the startling gentleness with which he handles you. Tentacles loop around your body, exploring beneath your gown. You wriggle in discomfort, yelping when suckers brush against the frilly garter secured around your thigh. Azul hums and holds you up in his tentacles, using two to spread your legs so that he may slide it from your leg.

“I wasn’t forceful. I courted you kindly. You accepted all of my gifts. You wore them proudly and I thought—I knew you would love me, too. You were mine from the moment our parents signed that agreement. And if you leave me, you’ll break a political promise and then our kingdoms will go to war and I’ll be sure to collect the heads of your family first. Each one of them, and you will watch as I bring ruin to the kingdom you love so fondly.”

“N-No… Please stop. Please.”

“I’ve waited ten years for you.” A tentacle hooks around your panties. You thrash again, shaking your head at him. He remains unconvinced, watching with gleeful eyes as your nudity is revealed to him. “And aren’t you an angel? Oh, you’re so pretty…”

Like your hopes, your panties are cast aside.

The tip of a tentacle prods curiously at your pussy. Your breath hitches.

“W-Wait! You… You can’t.” His eyes find yours, and you swallow the rising sob. “T-That can’t go inside… It won’t fit. It won’t—”

Azul smiles. “Of course it will. The human body is capable of marvelous feats.”

Even though it’s pointless, you struggle. “I can’t! Please… Azul, I’m scared. Please don’t do this…”

A lone tentacle slides into your hand. Thoughtless, you hold tight.

“My love, there’s no need to cry. I’m not going to hurt you.” He brings you closer, kissing your tears away. “I’m here for you. I’ve always been here, even when you didn’t seem to need me.”

You hiccup, your chest heaving. It’s not lonely for long, for he pulls your dress down your shoulders. Your breasts spill free and are quickly cradled in cold hands. Azul watches your expression with an intense focus while he rolls your nipples between his fingers. You grit your teeth, refusing to respond. But then the tentacle between your legs finds your clit and a sucker affixes to it, suctioning slowly. You gasp and throw your head back, bolts of pleasure racing up your spine. It happens in a white-hot flash. You slacken in his grasp.

Azul laughs, astonished. “Did you cum? Already?”

“Nooo,” you whine, closing your hand around the tentacle once more. Another one strokes your cheek. “You’ve had your fun. Now let go of me…”

“What a silly demand.”

He tugs on your nipples. You groan, lashes fluttering. “Ooh… Stop. No, stop it… Don’t touch there. Not—haa… Not there!”

“You’re so sensitive.” He drags the underside of a tentacle along your cunt and shivers. “And so wet… Is this your season? Do humans experience such a thing?”

You’ve no idea what he’s referring to, but before you can dwell on it he leans down to take your perky bud in his mouth. Your free hand grabs at his hair, pinning him to your chest. His tongue laves across it, warm and wet. You shouldn’t enjoy it so much, and yet you can’t stop yourself from crying out.

He hums against your skin, beaming like a devil. You can’t hate him. He’s your husband. He’s yours. You shouldn’t hate him.

You’re falling apart in his tentacles, grinding down to chase the bliss provided by the underside of the appendage clinging to your pussy. The sinful squelch of skin on skin fills the quiet inlet. The scent of sex and salt intermingles. It’s wrong and it’s right. It’s instinct, carnal and corrupt. Azul groans against your breast, your teat between his teeth.

“Az—ooh!” You tug on his hair, insatiable. Your brain is fogging over with lust. You don’t want to lose yourself in this madness. You can’t. “N-No more… No more.” 

But he’s not listening. He pinches your other nipple between his fingers, and that’s all it takes for you to unravel.

In the aftermath, the tapered tip of a thicker tentacle squirms between your thighs. Mindlessly, you spread your legs and lift your hips for him. It presses in shallowly, a jarring experience.

“Not inside—don’t! You can’t!”

Azul pulls away from you, his expression scrunched in woozy ecstasy. “Why not?” he mumbles, smiling stupidly. “You’re my bride. It’s only fair…”

Before you can bicker, he kisses you. His tongue pursues yours in a sloppy tango. You lick into his mouth, desperate and dazed. Lost in a sea of salacity, shipwrecked on an island of forgotten inhibitions.

The tentacle pushes through rings of tight, slick muscle. Tears spring to your eyes. It feels weird and foreign, so unlike your fingers. He holds you close, minding his strength and pace. It fills you slowly, reaching places you’ve never been able to feel. The lust numbs your senses and gives way to something animalistic—a base desire you’ve suppressed. Azul rocks the appendage deeper until it’s pushed up against the entrance to your womb, squeezed snugly in your warm walls.

“I-It’s in…” you mumble once he’s broken the kiss, a strand of saliva connecting your mouths. “It’s really…inside me…”

Azul kisses your cheek and pets you with a tentacle. “We were made for each other.”

Surely not, you think, but it feels so when he draws back and thrusts in. Maybe he’s right.

He fucks you gently, savoring every single sound you make. He tells you he loves you, whispers it over and over like it’s prayer. You nod dumbly, grabbing at his hand to hold it. The both of you are gasping in unison, chasing cloud nine. In just a few more deep strokes, his tip bullying its way to your womb, he finally finds his end. A thin substance fills you up in plentiful amounts. Distantly, you think it’s water until he drags your hips further down. Your mouth drops open in a strangled scream as something round and gelatinous passes through. It settles in your womb, and you know right away that it shouldn’t be there.

You panic. “W-Wait… Wha—Zul… Stop… No, I don’t want—”

“It’s all right,” he breathes, his mouth on your shoulder. He soothes you with soft shushes and even softer kisses. “You’re okay. I’m here.”

You dig your nails into the tentacle curled in your palm just as a second orb squeezes through. He groans, his eyes squeezed shut.

“Finally…” He pants, a wobbly smile stretching on his delirious countenance. “Finally, my love, my dear—oh, my beloved bride!”

He cradles you like a mother would a newborn. You lie there as he fills you, your voice hoarse from babbling and bewailing. These things—little orbs of jelly—are stuffed into your womb, and by the time you surpass twenty you lose count and blank out, trembling through yet another orgasm. You’re not sure how many more he has left or how many more you can possibly fit. It feels too good to think about that.

“Bigger. They’ll get bigger. You’ll look so pretty—round and full and soft.”

Dizzy, you glance at the bloated dome that is your belly. Your gown strains over it, an impressively deceptive size that you almost mistake for pregnancy. That’s when it clicks. Eggs. These are eggs.

“I’ll make sure they survive. All of them—as many as I possibly can. I’ll stay by your side. I’ll keep you content. I’ll fill you with love—so much love—an abundance of it, and you’ll never know emptiness again,” he rambles, resting a tentacle over your distended middle.

It’s not just a senseless sweet nothing. It’s a promise.