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yandere-daydreams · 4 years

Text

Written for an anonymous commissioner.

Pairing: Yandere!Drow!OC/Teifling!OC.

Word Count: 3.6k

Synopsis: Edel spent just enough time in captivity to know she doesn’t care for it. And, through careful observation and evaluation, she’s decided she cares for it even less when Jeret happens to be her captor.

TW: Non-Con, Blood and Bruising, Bondage, Mentions of Branding, Non-Consensual Touching, Dehumanization, Unhealthy Mindsets, Themes of Imprisonment, and Slight Mental Break.

Edel didn’t like feeling trapped.

Most people didn’t, but Edel liked it even less than most people. She’d always hated it, whether she was trapped in a cramped, mountainous cave during an untimely snow-storm or cornered by an opponent she didn’t have a chance of beating on her own or chained up inside of a dark, humid pit, not unlike the one she’d woken up in, today. It was a prison, she guessed, the point was to make her feel trapped, but Edel didn’t think she’d ever manage to give whatever glorified hellhole she’d been thrown into enough credit to give it a proper title. It was bad enough she’d been brought back to Velkynvelve, stripped of her weapons and her potions and given two pairs of iron shackles so heavy, just trying to lift her wrists or take a full step served to be a challenge, by way of replacement. It was worse that she’d been separated from the rest of her group, given a cell to herself with only thick stone walls and a tattered blanket for company. It was awful, it was degrading, it was infuriating, but there was one thing she couldn’t - absolutely could not stand.

Edel didn’t like feeling like a prisoner.

Somehow, she liked feeling like Jeret’s prisoner even less.

This was his work, it had to be. She didn’t know him, she wasn’t fond of him, but she loathed him enough to warrant keeping an eye out for certain details, to recognize the work of the man she’d never really escaped. It was every terrible threat he’d ever made, every vile thing he’d whispered in her ear, every laugh and every smirk and every possessive comment he’d ever made, after he decided his calling in life was to ruin hers. So confident in her assumption, Edel didn’t bother glancing up from the bare stone floor when she heard the jingle of a jailor’s keys, a lock clicking into place and a rusted door creaking open as calm, measured footsteps approached her chosen safe-haven in the farthest corner. She thought about looking away, by the time polished boots came into view, but she couldn’t swallow enough of her pride to give him that small of a victory. Just the hint of his presence renewed her anger, stoking her rage as a hearth-keeper would stroke a pit of lively embers.

Predictably, hearing his voice did little soothe her temper.

“Mornin’, firefly,” Jeret started, not bothering to spare her the pretense of faux-levity. “Did somebody need her beauty sleep?”

At least he wasn’t trying to play nice.

“You bastard--” She could barely begin to voice her muddled thoughts before nimble fingers entangled themselves in her hair, nails digging into her scalp and chains rattling as he jerked her upward, forcing her spine straight and a small, pained whimper from the back of her throat. Despite his time in captivity, his strength hardly seemed diminished - what he’d lost replaced by the cruel, cold satisfaction of having his captive-turned-captor once again under his heel. She was familiar with the feeling, despite her loathing for the man. She’d spent his interrogations in an over-zealous haze, but her righteousness had been earned. He’d imprisoned her, first. He’d been playing out his sadistic fantasies, and she’d been avenging herself and her comrades. The two barely warranted comparison, beyond first glance. “Let me go!” She didn’t try to stop herself from yelling, why would she? If he had a deeper, darker dungeon to shove her into, she doubted he would waste his time with a holding-cell. “You don’t have the right to touch me--”

“You’re really gonna make me go through this again, huh?” There was a heavy sigh, a slight tilt to his posture as he rolled his eyes, but he didn’t move to release her. If anything, his grip only tightened as he wretched her higher, forcing Edel onto her knees just to alleviate the pressure. “Can’t say I expected anythin’ less,” He went on, a touch of fondness seeping into his voice as he watched her writhe. “It took quite a bit of work on my part to getcha back here, y’know. I mean, it’s one thing convincing busy men to take prisoners, but souvenirs ain’t that easy to explain. If I wasn’t so insistent, you probably wouldn’ve made it here in one peice.”

For the first time, she dared to look up, if only to finally direct her anger at something tangible, but she cursed her own boldness the moment their eyes met.

It was easy to lash out at something cold and calculating, something abstract and swirling below the surface of stormy lilac, but Jeret seemed to be done playing coy, if he’d ever made an effort to. That, or he just didn’t see the point in trying to hide his aggression, anymore, his anger burning brighter than hers ever could. It almost made Edel hesitate to speak. She might’ve, if she hadn’t been so desperate to make herself seem as valiant as her captor. “Do you want me to thank you?” She spat, recognizing the condescension in his tone, the self-righteousness. “All you’ve done is earn yourself a slow death, after I get out of here.”

“Ain’t that precious.�� Jeret let go of her hair with another sudden yank, but the freedom was short-lived. As soon as she could start to fall back, a fist was wrapped around one of her tethers - the leash-like chain attached to the thick metal collar curling around her neck. “The rat still thinks she’ll be able to crawl away.”

Now, she paused. It would’ve been impossible not to. “You’re… You brought me here just to kill me?”

Edel shut her eyes as Jeret chuckled, the noise slow, throaty, like the clash of metal on metal, like the howl of a blood-thirsty monster. “Sweetheart,” He cooed, sparing no amount of sickening, sickening sweetness. “Don’t worry your pretty little head over things like that. As long as I’m around, nobody’s gonna lay a finger on you.”

He tugged her forward, using just enough force to pull her off-balance. But, she didn’t have a chance to worry about falling, not when his free hand caught her chin, tilting her head back and giving her a perfect view of his grin, wide and just as crooked as it ever was, as it’d always been.

As it had been, since the first time she found herself at his mercy.

“This time, I think I’m gonna be a little more selfish with my toys.”

Meals came twice a day.

That was the only way Edel had of measuring time, now - Jeret’s visits, and how low the torch outside her cell got to burn before it was replaced. The food was better than it was during her first imprisonment, with Jeret being more inclined to keep her healthy now that he’d gotten it into his head to keep her, but drow ingredients were always remarkably bland, just teetering on the border between flavorless and inedible. Good food was a fantasy, by her fourth day, and she swore to herself that when she escaped, when she finally saw an opportunity to slip out of her restraints or drive something blunt and jagged into Jeret’s chest, seeking out a warm tavern would be the first thing she did. She’d thought starvation would be better than accepting his minimalist hospitality, for the first few days, and she had tried to stave it off for as long as she could, but…

Jeret could be persuasive, from time to time. And when she proved she could stand the hunger pangs, he’d set out to find something she couldn’t.

Three weeks in, she knew better than that, and submitted herself to gnawing on a stiff, colorless chunk of bread. Surprisingly enough, she couldn’t say that was the worst part of her morning.

That would be her company.

Jeret never failed to find a way to be close to her - it was something she noticed as he found an excuse to play with her fraying sleeves or toy with her restraints or just settle himself down at her side and stare on with a small, lopsided smile as she fought not to acknowledge him. The task was easier than it should’ve been, honestly. It’d always been difficult to get inside his head, but in his terrain, in a trap he’d been the one to set, it was all-but impossible, and she didn’t know what he could stand gain by watching her in tense, frigid silence until he was forced to go and tend to his daily responsibilities. Maybe this was his way of getting her used to the idea of treating him like a superior, rather than a source of irritation. Maybe he just wanted to get on her nerves.

In the latter case, it was working.

Given her situation, her isolation, Edel’s wisest choice was to stay where she was until her captor made a mistake, until her restraints were loosened her or his skepticism faltered or a chink in her cage become just big enough for her to slip through. Stay still, don’t cause trouble, then run as soon as she got the chance. She had a plan. She liked plans. It was a plan she wanted to stick to, too, but she hadn’t accounted for the identity of her captor, for the reason she was so desperate to flee, in the first place.

Silent or not, Jeret always provided more than enough motivation to do something rash, something dangerous. As long as it got her just a little further from him.

Ultimately, her resolve broke before her sense of better judgment could reinforce it. “What do you want?”

“Don’t want anythin’.” His answer was rehearsed, as if he’d been waiting for her to ask. “I’m just enjoyin’ the view. That a crime?”

The crust scratched her throat as she choked it down. Absently, she wondered how long it’d been since he’d last brought her something to drink. “Kidnapping is.”

He sighed, but the sound came out wistful, almost nostalgic. “There's no reason to be like that. You an’ your gang’s locked me up plenty of times, and I’m not holdin’ it against you.”

“You said it wasn’t about--” She cringed, suddenly, gritting her teeth as his fingers brushed against her tail, carelessly left to lay at her side. He was tracing the tip, following its spade-like pattern, and without thinking, she let the often-unruly appendage rise and whip, snapping against the back of his hand before seeking out the safety of her lap. “Don’t touch me,” She snarled, baring her teeth as Jeret barely tried to suppress a laugh. “You said it wasn’t about that, so what is it? You can’t just be keeping me alive to… to stare at me, for half the day.”

“Bet I can, if I want to,” He countered, shrugging causally, as if there wasn’t anything wrong with his answer. This time, when he reached for her tail, she was quick to pull it away, attempting to draw it behind her back, but he caught the shaft before she had the chance, taking smooth, sensitive skin and burying his nails into it, marring it, leaving small crescent-moons by the time her bound hands shot to his wrist and he reluctantly loosened his grip. Involuntarily, the appendage thrashed, attempting to free itself with harsh, graceless movements, but Jeret only clicked his tongue, eyeing her twitching tail as he went on. “You teiflings get a bad rep’, but I always thought these things were kinda cute. Fuck, might be even cuter mounted on my wall, after I chop if off your frustrating little body.” He paused, his gaze flickering towards her. “What do you think, firefly?”

She froze. Caught between the temptations to call his bluff and beg him to reconsider a threat she knew couldn’t be hollow, she didn’t know what to do - she couldn’t know what to do. Her tail fell limp, but that was hardly a comfort, Jeret’s full attention having drifted to her expression, to the way she'd gone paler than she had been, a moment ago. She opened her mouth, but if he really cared about her response, he didn’t bother listening. Instead, he was leaning in closer, watching intently as she fought the urge to flinch away. “You’re here because I want you to be here, and because if I didn’t snatch you up, someone else would. If there’s anythin’ I want to do to you, I’m gonna do it. And if you have somethin’ to say about that, I’ll take this--” There was a sharp jerk to her tail, making her wince. “--and whatever else you don’t need away. Nod if you understand, now.”

To her credit, she didn’t nod, not frantically - no, nothing about the gesture was desperate. It was slow, jerky, just bordering on mechanical, but Jeret must’ve found a drop of mercy in his shriveled, hardened heart - only offering a smile in place of a mocking comment. “C’mere,” He said, any trace of hostility gone from his tone. “Kiss and make up, before I say somethin’ you really won’t like.”

Taking a deep breath, Edel clenched her eyes shut, steeled herself, and did as she was told.

In hindsight, minding her manners might’ve been a mistake.

It felt like one, as Jeret ran his thumb over the space between skin and metal, the spot where her bruised wrists met cool, sivery steel, a layer of velvet padding the inside and a mantra of scrolling enchantments carved into the surface serving as a decorative upgrade from her last rusted, creaking pair. It was a gift, he’d said, as he forced her to stand and fastened the chain from a hook that was just a little too high on the cell’s stone wall. It was a gift. He thought he was giving her a gift.

They were supposed to be a gift, and although he hadn’t been so blatant about it, she supposed this was supposed to be one, too.

He was treating it like one, acting like he was going her a favor by digging his fingertips into the flesh of her thigh and encouraging her to wrap her legs around his waist, to lock her ankles behind his back, to drag him closer and make things easier on herself in hopes that he might be kind enough to take some of the strain of her shoulders, her arms struggling to support her weight now that her feet her no longer on the ground. She’d already been stripped of the remnants of her clothes, promised something more substantial in exchange, but if Jeret had an intention of delivering his end of the bargain, he obviously didn’t feel the need to do so swiftly. In fact, he didn’t seem to feel the need to do anything.

Well, nothing she’d enjoy, at least.

“Thatta girl,” He muttered, more for his sake than hers. He was distracted, preoccupied, but she couldn’t seem to block out the feeling of calloused fingers running over her cunt, teasing her slit just to leave her equal parts disgusted and frustrated, or his touch, the way his eyes flickered from her hip to her collarbone to her cheek, his gaze soon accompanied by his free hand, his thumb prodding at the corner of her mouth, tracing the outline of her bottom lip.

She didn’t think. With a half-hearted sense of rebellon, she lurched forward, biting down on whatever she could reach, but Jeret’s stifled grimace did little to provide the satisfaction she hoped it would. “Ain’t no reason to act like that,” He went on, pouting as he pushed a slow, forceful circle into her clit, forcing her to writhe and grit her teeth before he bothered to continue. “I’m just tryin’ to make things right.”

Make things right. Make things right. It’d been a miracle that she’d managed to find a healer in time to reverse the effects of his branding - his first branding, rather, the scarred imprint of the traders he’d been working for. It’d been blissful, the cool rush of a magic that could only do good, and she relished being able to run her hand over her thigh and only feel unmarked, untouched skin.

Now, Jeret was going to relish the act of undoing her progress just as much.

She almost wished he’d just hold her down and stab something hot and glowing and searing into her, again. At least then, she already knew how long the pain would take to fade.

“I don’t--” Her voice cut off as he forced two fingers into her tight enterence, abruptly choosing to chase his goal in earnest. Like everything else he did, it was a lazy pursuit. Not ineffective, not unattentive, but lazy, slothful, almost idle in the way he watched her, his expression more curious than invested, his movements anything but impatient. She almost wished he was. If Jeret had chosen to take this task on as impulsively, as joyfully as he took on most, it would’ve been quick, it would’ve been sudden. She wouldn’t have to feel the dread welling up in the pit of her stomach, her nerves beginning to fray every time he found something new to play with and a slick, wet click echoed through the claustrophobic cell. That’s what he was doing, really - playing with her. Edel didn’t think she’d ever liked being played with. “You can’t do--”

“I can, firefly, I always can. I can do whatever I want, when it comes to you.” He pouted, shaking his head slowly, as he was disappointed she hadn’t come to understand him, yet. Leisurely, he pumped his fingers into her, setting his pace to something painfully slow that left her curling into herself, resisting the effort to buck into his hand just to get it over with. Even when he spread his fingers apart, when he aimed to scissor her open and make her whimper, make her whine, it was agonizing, the sensation falling somewhere between teasing and torturous. “What don’t you understand about that? You know I don’t care for repeatin’ myself.”

He didn’t, but at the moment, she was fond of the idea. She must’ve said it in a hundred different ways, ‘no’ and ‘don’t’ and ‘stop’, but Jeret never seemed to hear her, not as his palm ground against her clit, earning a shudder and a loud jerk against her chains, or as he pulled away, leaving her relieved and unsatisfied, at the same time. Any gratitude she might’ve found was quickly abandoned, though, replaced with the soft sounds of fabric rustling, a whispered curse as Jeret moved closer, closer, always impossibly closer. She wished he’d stay away. She’d wish he’d go anywhere but near her.

And, for a one traitorous second, she wondered why he’d ever bothered being so far away.

She shut her eyes as he leaned into her, his chest pressing against hers as he forced his cock into her cunt with a low, stifled hiss. It was awful. It was awful, and it was violating, and it was disgusting, but there was nothing Edel could do to stop herself from gasping, bowing her head as his hips grind against hers and he found a pace that suited his preference toward indulgence and his need to make her miserable. “That’s it,” He encouraged, his voice breathy, the words spoken barely a hair’s width from her ear. With his free hand, he pushed her hair back, over her shoulder and away from her face, but she couldn’t bring herself to appreciate the gesture. Not when it just made the callous brutality in his eyes so much easier to see. “Nobody’s gotta have a bad time, right now. You don’t gotta pretend to suffer.”

But she was. She was suffering every time he thrust into her, aiming for that sensitive spot inside of her, the one he’d always been too selfish to properly abuse, every time his head dipped and she could feel his parted lips against her skin, every time she felt his teeth. Compared to some beasts she’d seen, they weren’t sharpened, weren’t deadly, but that only seemed to make him more determined, to spur him forward as he bit down on the area just above her collarbone, on the tender junction of her shoulder and her throat, on her neck, delicate flesh tearing under his unexpected mania. She could feel the bruises forming, the blood dripping down her chest, staining evergreen skin and smearing across pale hands, as he absentmindedly wiped a stray trail from the corner of his mouth.

“Gonna mark you all over, this time,” He muttered, the declaration barely loud enough for her to hear. She almost missed it, she regretted that she hadn’t, but she had a feeling awareness wouldn’t make much of a difference, wouldn’t deter Jeret from fucking into her like a man possessed, from slamming her back against the wall and clamping down over her jugular. Involuntarily, she cried out, clenching around him, and Jeret let out a low growl in response, the noise reverberating against her, not allowing Edel to ignore the pressure building up in her core, the clumsy way his pelvis rubbed against her clit, the hot tongue soon running over her throat, all of it, everything. Every awful, undeniably, miserable thing.

Everything she couldn’t escape, even if she tried to.

“Never gonna let it fade again, either,” He went on, his tone softer, but no less pointed. Fond, but no less fatal. “It doesn’t matter where you are, doesn’t matter who you’re with, you’re always gonna belong to me. No one else is gonna put their hands on you, no one ‘xcept me.” There was a pause, a strong jerk to her hair, wrenching her eyes open. Forcing her to take in his crooked smile and the awful glint in his stare, whether or not she wanted to. “C’mon, firefly,” He coaxed. “I’m doing you a favor. I’m being loving. What do we say when someone’s bein’ nice?”

She could’ve struggled. She could’ve refused to speak, or cursed him out, or told him all the grisly things she’d sooner do than accept any of his favors willingly. She could’ve, but she couldn’t, at the same time. Her body was so sore, and her mind was so foggy, and more than anything, she wanted this to end. She wanted this to stop. She wanted everything to stop.

If that meant giving Jeret what he wanted, then so be it.

Her head lulled forward, coming to rest against his shoulder. She didn’t feel her lips move, didn’t register the words until they’d already passed over her tongue, but she could hear them, loud and clear. Her death sentence, spoken in her own voice.

“Thank you.”

#yandere #yandere love #yandere x oc #yandere prompts #yandere oneshot #yandere drabble #yandere imagines #yandere scenario #yandere commission #commission #writing commission #Commision #comission #writing comission #yanderecore #yancore

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shinelikethunder · 4 years

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"#'what circumstances exactly' you ask? congrats! now you're asking the right questions#feel free to join the rest of us in arguing endlessly over the answers at essay length because this shit's complicated" i'd love your thoughts!

(re: the tags on this post about suspension of moral disbelief)

I mean, there are plenty of finer details lurking in that “exactly” that I won’t even pretend to have well-formed answers for. But applying the concept of ‘suspension of disbelief’ to morality is just... a thing people do with stories. All the time! The decision to play along with it can be well-judged or ill-judged, just like most other human exchanges of ideas, and the demands a story makes of its audience can be beneficial or pernicious or just plain expedient. All you really need for it to be in play is:

some kind of moral skepticism to suspend (re: consequences, risk, what really matters here, the innate horrificness of a transgression, whatever)

some sufficient incentive to suspend it (catharsis, Feeeeels, wish fulfilment, digging into the appeal of something that’d be a terrible idea IRL, neat thought experiments, compelling trainwrecks, having more important things to Story about...)

some level of confidence that this is a temporary setting-aside of scruples for the duration of your stay in Fictionland, not actual persuasion about something you’ll potentially take with you into real life that demands fuller scrutiny

And there’s no one uncomplicated answer on that for any story. Different people are gonna have different reactions to the same work, on all three points. There are fandoms I just never got into, because the main characters didn’t grab me enough for there to be any incentive to play along with whatever their Standards-Warping Special Snowflake Bullshit was. There are others where I ate that shit up but grumped about it the whole time, because the writing seemed to be huffing its own paint fumes re: narratively vs actually justified. And others where it wasn’t bullshit or grump-worthy at all, because the story knew damn well when it was offering to take you for a ride and when it was in dead earnest and when it was having too much fun to know for sure. (And the last point, about RL persuasion, has a whole stable of sub-essays about intent, responsibility, actual effectiveness at persuading, risk of actually picking up unexamined bullshit vs. sheer annoyance at being sold a load of crap you have no interest in buying... it’s all complicated!)

The “moral suspension of disbelief” mechanism itself, though? It’s a routine part of telling and being told stories. It’s in play every time you don’t give a shit about the widows and orphans and rich inner lives of the redshirts getting killed off. Every time you take satisfaction in watching an obnoxious character meet an outlandishly awful fate they would never have deserved in real life. Every time you root for a protagonist pulling a long-shot heroic stunt that would recklessly endanger everyone around them if the laws of narrative probability weren’t so thoroughly in their favor.

I’m going to haul out Captain America: The Winter Soldier, a movie I love dearly, for examples of both a success and a failure at getting me, personally, to suspend judgement. On pretty much the same highly-morally-charged question of fact--the efficacy of torture, and how it’s portrayed in fiction. The success: I really don’t give a fuck that the movie trotted out a bunch of hoary old chestnuts about torture, brainwashing, and miraculously competent mindfucked double agents to get from Point A to all the tasty layers of identity porn we’re really here for. It’s convenient handwavium presented as Literal Comic Book Science. The traditional fearmongering about inhuman foreign enemies and their magical exotic mind-control techniques is a vaguely-gestured-at red herring; the onscreen horror is homegrown and ugly. The tropes themselves are a crock of shit, and the later movies completely dropped the ball on questions of responsibility and rehabilitation, but zero claims or assumptions about reality are being put forth here, except that The Really Bad Shit Is Coming From Inside The House.

The same can’t be said for Steve, Sam, and Natasha getting from Point A to Point "Obligatory exposition the movie could just as easily have delivered any other way” by... uh... staging a mock execution on a Hydra mole? And doing it as a quick, dirty, totally effective, totally-justified-by-the-Proverbial-Ticking-Clock, nasty-but-efficient way to get 100% accurate information out of someone who has zero incentive to cooperate. All of which is taken so thoroughly for granted that the whole scene, particularly the idea that Steve might consider it unconscionable, is played as a joke. That’s fucking rancid. Doubly rancid for this movie (whose politics are otherwise “what if the real fascism was the national-security state we built along the way”) to be blithely regurgitating the exact same War on Terror propaganda talking points that are still used to "justify” actual, real-life, really fucking recent US war crimes. Triply rancid to have the character who is literally called Captain America, who is supposed to be the country’s idealized conscience in the face of whatever its most topical ongoing failings happen to be, ringleading that shit. Listen, I love this movie, but that scene is straight-up morally indefensible. It skates by on good comic timing juuust long enough for the next big plot point to click into place and divert your attention before you can think too hard about it. But think about it for five seconds and it’s vile.

There was also a weird trend in some of the first waves of fanfiction after CA:TWS came out, which I suspect was the result of a mismatch in moral-disbelief-suspension between that movie and Person of Interest. Overall the tonal, thematic, and subject-matter overlap between the two canons is downright uncanny, but it’s not 100%, and one of the little differences is that the crew of maladjusted weirdoes on Person of Interest are big on “covert surveillance of your friends & loved ones as Actually A Gesture Of Affection.” A number of popular authors who’d written in both fandoms ported that over to CA:TWS fic as an endearing quirk to spice up the character dynamics, and let me tell you, it hit real differently in that universe.

#meta #Anonymous

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pocket-clown · 5 years

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Let’s Talk, Please | Arthur Fleck x reader // angst, with fluff at end.

// original request: could i get a little something about arthur and the reader having an argument over something small, insignificant that just gets out of control? and then making up with some extra fluffy fluff?

AN: Thank you for this request, anon! Writing angst kinda helps me get out some of the pent up negativity I have in me, and this gave me an excuse to do so. I could’ve gone….. a lot more angsty with this but I chose to spare ya’ll that torment and keep it light lmao.

Summary: It was a misunderstanding. A note hidden away in your pocket from someone at work - someone who was just trying to reach out and be friendly with you - but Arthur didn’t know this. To him, once he found it in a search of the set of keys you both shared, it looked an awful lot like you were on the verge of cheating on him, and that was a thought he couldn’t even bear.

Words: 3,901

Content warning: Some shouting on both ends, accusations of cheating, some angst though nothing super heavy.

“Arthur, what did you find?”

Your voice was as taut as your jaw was clenched, your eyes locking onto your boyfriend who currently had his back turned towards you.

Not even five minutes ago had things been fine; you, busy on the couch sorting through an old photo album, and Arthur, keeping himself preoccupied as he washed and put away what few dishes the two of you had dirtied that day. He was getting off work earlier than you were tomorrow which meant that you’d be trading places in regards to who checked the mail, and so he’d asked if you had the keys on you - and along with a nod of your head had you told him to search in your coat pocket for it.

Arthur had done exactly that, and in his search for the keys he ended up finding something you’d long since forgotten about: a note you received about two days ago, from a coworker.

08081 570xxx call me! ☺ - D

Your coworker, who wanted to meet up with you so you two could get to know each other better.

Your coworker, Donna, whom you were tasked with showing the ropes of the place to because she was new - but Arthur didn’t know that.

To Arthur, it looked like you had the number of some random person kept away in your pocket.

To Arthur, it looked like some man had given you his number, and that you’d hidden it from him.

To Arthur, it looked like you were on the verge of cheating on him.

It was a thought that he knew deep down was an irrational one; never once in the history of your relationship had you even mentioned the name of any man with an even remotely affectionate tone (apart from his name, of course), but upon finding the note did his mind immediately swing into overdrive. He’d read it over multiple times, the scratchiness of the handwriting burning into his mind, the request for you to call whomever the writer was, the smiley face (or was that a winky face? He couldn’t tell), the whole thing signed - D. He could think of a few people - all men - whose names began with a D (even the most ridiculous possibilities, such as the pharmacist at Helms’), and it was a thought that made him sick to his stomach the more he held the note in his hands. He had no doubt that all of them, each and every one of them, outshone him in each and every aspect of life - better jobs, more money, healthier, both physically and mentally, funnier - just overall better than he was, and the longer he held the scrap of receipt in his hand, the more did each and every insecurity and anxiety regarding his place in the world and your relationship come to the surface, bubbling up and spilling over like a pot that had been left on the back burner for too long.

You’d asked him, voice as carefree as always, what was wrong, your assumption being that he was just deep in thought about nothing particularly pressing. But then he didn’t respond, and again you tried to get his attention - fruitlessly. When your repeated plea of Arthur, please tell me what’s wrong fell on deaf ears yet again were you set into action, standing up from your spot on the couch up and walking halfway to him, only to see that he was holding something - something you couldn’t quite see from where you stood.

Come the present situation. Your heart pounding away in your chest, unbeknownst to you in perfect rhythm with Arthur’s own. Your hands were sweaty and trembling as you tried to keep your breath steady, and the sinking feeling you had only burrowed a deep pit into your stomach, pushing you to the verge of nausea as something about the situation just felt wrong.

What did he find?

What was wrong?

“Arthur, what’s wrong?"

A bit fed up after failing to get a response from him yet again did you take a deep breath and cross the rest of the way over to him, and once close enough to do so you placed your hand on his arm- an action Arthur flinched at as you peered over his shoulder just enough to see what it is he was holding.

“Oh, that -”

“What is this?” He asked, his voice undertone yet absolutely stinging. The sharp s that punctuated this was venomous, and by that alone could you tell that Arthur was pissed.

“It’s just something from someone at work, it -”

“Another man gave you his number?” It wasn’t even a question; more than anything, it sounded like a statement, or an accusation that he was just waiting for you to confirm in one way or another. He sounded hurt, and from your spot behind him could you see how tightly his jaw was clenched, and from your hand holding his arm could you feel how tense he was.

“What? Arthur, no, it’s not like that -”

“Well that’s what it looks like!” Not even giving you the chance to explain things did he cut you off, pivoting around so he could face you and look you in the eye. Very unlike Arthur was it to interrupt you, and even more unlike him was it for him to raise his voice at you in even the slightest of ways, and the fact that he’d done both was enough to frighten you. Not that you were scared of him, no, but the sight of an angry Arthur was an incredibly foreign one to you, and that alone shook you enough as you knew that something was really wrong.

“God, Arthur, can you calm down for a second and let me explain?”

“Don’t tell me to calm down, Y/N! What did you think I’d think?”

“You weren’t even supposed to find out!” You shouted, your words coming out much, much harsher than you intended for them to as your voice raised in accordance with his. Immediately did you shut your mouth, your eyes fluttering shut for a moment as you tried to regain yourself with a breath. “Shit, Arthur, I didn’t mean it like that - ”

At your words, the expression on Arthur’s face changed from one of just anger and upset to one of pure appall; your point of him not even supposed to know about the note only seemed to validate the fear that was festering in the back of his mind; not only that you’d hidden it from him, but he took it as an admission of guilt - and the look on his face could’ve made your stomach drop to the floor. His eyebrows knit as he practically glared at you, the way his lips were trembling as if he were trying to hold himself back from saying something or god forbid crying - he looked mad, but underneath it all, he looked heartbroken.

“So you’re just going to go cheat on me like that?” And how the break in his quiet voice shattered your heart. It cracked as he spoke, a hitch in his breath as if he were trying to not have a total breakdown right then and there, in front of you.

“Arthur - what? Are you serious? That’s NOT what this is!”

“Well then what is it?!”

“It’s from a coworker, Arthur! - She - is new and wanted me to give - her - a call so we could get together for a little bit! You’d know that if you let me finish before!” You shout, your heavy emphasis on she and her seemingly doing very little in calming him; his chest heaved with every breath, his arms stiff at his sides as the scrap of receipt was having the life crushed out of it by how tightly he clenched it in his left hand. “I completely forgot about it until right now! You weren’t even supposed to know yet because I didn’t know how it was going to go or if it would even happen. And her name’s Donna, by the way. She’s funny and you’d probably get along with her.” You didn’t care enough to hide the brittle tone of your voice.

Arthur said absolutely nothing, not even breathing as his eyes bore into the floor between the two of you, a deep crease between his dark brows as he appeared to be lost in thought, trying to to contemplate your words.

“- Arthur, you seriously think that I’d cheat on you? Do you really trust me that little?”

“No! Y/N, no! Don’t think that - ”

“...You literally just accused me of that, not even a minute ago.” You brought your hands for a brief second before letting them drop back down, trying to come to terms with the sheer amount of disbelief that he’d accuse you of something as vile as cheating and then deny doing so seconds later. The look he was giving you was almost unreadable; a mix of confusion, of anger, of hurt, of fear - a crease between his brows, the corners of his mouth trembling ever so slightly as he fought off a frown. “Arthur, why would you even think that?”

It was like a blow to the heart to feel that Arthur didn’t trust you. For Arthur, your normally mild-tempered, tender boyfriend, to accuse you of cheating on him like he had - what kind of person did he think you to be? You knew that Arthur had his own set of fears and anxieties, yes - but never, ever had he outright accused you of anything before. Hushed conversations held late at night as the two of you held each other, your faces hidden in the crooks of the other’s neck as you opened wounds long since poorly-healed just enough for them to be discussed; betrayals from people in the past, each and every anxiety, whether shared or unique, regarding yourselves, and the apprehension of what could go wrong brought to light. Neither of you were very experienced in relationships, and you knew that out of the both of you, Arthur probably had more pent-up trepidation regarding this sort of thing, and so while it made some sense that his brain may connect the nonexistent dots that were drawn together by the small note in your pocket, that didn’t make it hurt any less.

You held up your hand. “Actually, no - I’m taking a bath.” You said, cutting him off before he could even respond with a curt shake of your head.

With that, you turned and slipped away into the bathroom, the feeling of Arthur’s eyes following you tempting you to turn around, the urge of which you resisted as you knew that at the moment, more than anything did the two of you need to take a breather calm down for some time. Both of you knew you were fibbing; you weren’t really going to take a bath, but it made for an excuse to get you just a few moments alone to settle your thoughts and calm yourself down, lest your angst get to you more. You shut the door to the bathroom and immediately slumped down against it, subsequently keeping Arthur from being able to enter if he tried - a thought that broke your heart to even think because so often, more than anything, did you want to let him in.

It had been about five minutes after you initially slumped down onto the cold, tiled floor when you heard a gentle, almost inaudible knock from the other side.

“Y/N…?”

“...What, Arthur?”

“Can we talk - please?...” His voice sounded absolutely heartbroken, especially from the other side of the door. You had a feeling that he was standing right up against the door with his forehead pressed to it like he often did when deep in thought and trying to calm his thoughts, judging by how if you listened close enough you swore you could hear each and every one of his unsteady breaths.

Your own breath stalled for a second as you took a deep breath, your head lolling back against the door with a soft thud. You heart was still pounding, but much less so; you just wanted this over with, but you knew it wouldn’t happen without at least one of you getting emotional.

You almost worried that it would explode into another argument, and at this point, you’d lost absolutely all drive to fight - not that you’d really even had any in the first place. Arguing with Arthur about anything at all was rare - so rare that sometimes you worried that it wasn’t healthy. Neither of you ever wanted to upset the other, but all couples fought; it was important to do, otherwise issues would get swept under the rug and forgotten about for the time being, never truly dealt with - only to come crawling back out at some point in the future and cause even more strife than they would’ve had they been actually dealt with when appropriate. It was just a dumb, stupid misunderstanding that was only worsened and blown out of proportion by some of the less-spoken about tensions in the relationship. So often did Arthur absolutely agonize over the thought of you no longer loving him; thoughts plaguing him in the form of a mantra that cried “you’re no good, you’re undeserving, she needs someone better than you and it’s only a matter of time before they show up” playing on repeat, making his already practically non-existent sleep schedule worse and worsening his already unhealthy mental state. Arthur was simultaneously itching to tell you about it but also too afraid to, lest his irrational fears become too much for you to deal with, and he’d try, he’d fight so hard to ignore them, and you’d try equally as hard to combat them with loving touches and words of affirmation, but it wasn’t something that would just go away. Arthur was troubled, this you knew; but so were you. You had your own set of insecurities and anxieties, and both you and your boyfriend who you felt sometimes cared too much tried so, so damn hard to help keep each other afloat that often times you forgot to stop and take care of yourselves, too.

But, yes, what couple didn’t argue? Perhaps this was an opportunity, one with regrettable circumstances, for you two to actually talk more about this stuff. Yes, in the past you have, but those conversations always tended to take place late at night when the mood was tender, the both of you so sleepy in the presence of each other that your walls came down just enough for the other to see what was on the other side for a brief moment. You loved Arthur, and you knew that he loved you, too - and with that love and desire to understand each other you knew that you could get through this.

Without wasting another second did you stand up, your legs and backside aching from being pressed against the hard floor for so long, and you could’ve ripped the door from the frame with how hard you opened it. The sight on the other side of a very distraught Arthur shattered your heart; his eyes glassy, nose red - his entire expression told you that not only was he distraught over the argument itself, but that he was afraid of where things would go from then on - a fear you couldn’t really blame him for.

“Art, I - ”

“No, Y/N, I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t you, I should’ve mentioned it when I got it.”

“- No, Y/N, it was me. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions like that - I shouldn’t have accused you of something like that without even thinking first.” The latter portion of his sentence had a hushed urgency to it as he closed the gap between the two of you, and you met him halfway as you threw your arms around his neck, hiding your face between your arm and the crook of his neck. “I’m sorry, please don’t be mad at me…”

“I’m not mad at you, Arthur, it just really, really fucking hurt to be accused of something like that.” You said, feeling him sigh against you, and you could only guess how he was feeling. Arthur hated upsetting you - just like he hated hurting you in any way. Being honest with him that he had done either of those things was hard because you knew how much it would upset him in return, but you knew that it was needed. “Just please, don’t do it again.”

“No, no, no, never, sweetheart, never.” He whispered, his lips pressed to the top of your head as your face was tucked into his shoulder. “I shouldn’t have done it in the first place.”

“And I shouldn’t have kept it from you. Not that I meant to, but you probably would’ve liked to know.”

“You aren’t mad at me still, are you?” He asked, and you couldn’t help but coo slightly at how meek his voice was.

“Artie I was never actually mad at you. I was just upset with the situation.” And with that you pulled your face away from him, bringing your hands to cup his face like he so often did yours and pulled him in for a quick kiss. “We both just got upset over a misunderstanding.” You said, pressing your forehead to his.

You two stayed like that for awhile, your arms not unwrapping from the embrace as you reassured each other over and over again with hushed voices that it was okay. You both knew this was an issue that needed to be resolved, or at least spoken about more openly; considering it most likely stemmed from Arthur’s already poor self esteem and acceptance that life was just not going to be kind to him, it would not just go away with a few kisses and kind words. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t have your own worries; you knew that before you came along that Arthur had a thing for his neighbor who was nothing short of an absolute babe, and while you knew that Arthur wouldn’t ever go behind your back and cheat on you, you sometimes did get hung up over worrying if he was truly, totally, over her like he’d assured you that he was, countless times. You’d feel a twinge of jealousy every now and then when he’d smile at her, and you knew it was silly. Arthur was incredibly talented at reading your mood and would always get a bit of a chuckle out of it; the fact that you were jealous when it was usually him was something he’d find cute, but nonetheless would he tell you that you were all he wanted. You figured that it was only fair for Arthur to know the same; he was all that you wanted.

It would definitely be a long road for the two of you to overcome this sort of thing, but the two of you had already been through a lot together. How was this any different?

“Hey, Murray’s going to start soon, right?” You spoke up after a minute of silence, and you could feel Arthur smile against your shoulder where he’d had his head tucked down, his face pressed into the fabric of your sweater. You could feel the warmth of his breath through your sweater as he mumbled yay, Murray!, and you couldn’t stop yourself from giggling at how adorable it was. Cuddling up on the couch or bed and watching the Murray show was one of your favorite pastimes with him; regardless of whether it was a new episode, a rerun on channel four, or one of Arthur’s VHS tapes, it was one of the few times that you got to see Arthur and all of his genuine happiness, and hear his beautiful, beautiful laugh that you wished you got to hear more of.

You had a feeling that your hesitance to leave Arthur’s side for the remainder of the night was a mutual one, given by how once you were settled on the bed with the television at the far end switched on, Arthur’s arms found their way around your waist, allowing you to snuggle right up to him, your head on his shoulder with your leg hitched over his, his cheek pressed to the top of your head as he fixed his attention on the show.

“And I was serious when I said that I think you’d get along with her, you know.” You spoke up during a commercial break, knowing that Arthur didn’t like it when something interrupted the show.

“Hm?”

“My coworker, Donna. She’s funny, and a little older than I am. She’s nice - would you wanna meet her sometime?”

Arthur’s quiet for a moment, his look a thoughtful one as he gazed at the television. “Do you think she’d want to meet me?” His voice was soft and uncertain. You knew how often he’d doubt how others felt about him, and you couldn’t really blame him as more often than not did the city - sometimes quite literally - beat it into him that he was an outsider who wasn’t to be accepted by others. It was a feeling that had plagued Arthur for most if not all of his life, and so his worry regarding whether he’d even be remotely liked by a new person was more valid than you liked for it to be.

Despite that, you couldn’t help but laugh a bit at his question - something about it just seemed so silly to you, perhaps because you’d taken such a quick liking to Arthur within moments of meeting him for the first time that it was next to impossible for you to even imagine someone not liking him.

“Well, yeah - I’ve told her a little bit about you, already. I’m sure she’d love to.” You said as you sat up fully, your hand coming to the top of his head so you could brush your fingers through his soft brown curls, a feeling he leaned into as his eyes fluttered shut. “I’ll call her tomorrow, and figure out what she wants to do. That sound fine? It probably won’t be until the weekend, though.”

He hummed in agreement for a brief moment, before looking up to meet your eyes. “You’re sure you aren’t still upset with me..?” He asked yet again, his need for reassurance keeping him from biting his tongue.

“Art if I was, I’d still be hiding in the bathroom.” You shot him a look, the playful smile on your lips only growing as Arthur’s own smile suggested he was amused by your response. It was true; you weren’t upset in the slightest anymore - the problem had been dealt with for the night. Yes, you knew that it would need to be talked about again very soon, lest it happen again - but that’s what tomorrow, or a day later in the week, was for. For the time being, you just wanted to settle in with Arthur. Eventually things would need to be taken care of; clothes changed for bed, the remainder of the dishes and the photo album taken care of, but for now, the last thing you wanted was to part from Arthur and spoil the moment of warmth and contentedness that was needed - for the both of you.

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kikizoshi · 4 years

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Dostoyevsky’s Proposal

Written in the style of War and Peace. In this AU, Fyodor’s position is pretty much like an unmarried woman in the 19th century, as are many men in his time.

@poppirocks - Congrats on 400, and here’s to many more :)

~2.5k

“How kind of you to join me, Nikolai Vasilievich. I trust you’ll stay long?”

Dostoyevsky smiled, welcoming his guest into the drawing-room.

“Not at all, not at all!” Gogol waved his arms in amiable protest. “That is, not at all of kindness, of course I’ll stay! If anything, I’m the one humbled by your kindness of honouring me with an invitation.”

Dostoyevsky laughed softly. “You say that, and yet what if I should have invited you a week prior, when I sent out all of my other invitations? Surely you would have… taken ill. From the excitement, I mean.”

“Of course, of course,” Gogol dismissed playfully, “From excitement, or some spring fever. I might’ve been pulled away but look--” he spread his arms wide, “here I am, a whole man, with no need for worry.”

“And what a man you are,” Dostoyevsky smiled graciously. His comment, though perhaps a bit odd, was quite in-keeping with their relationship. Ten years had passed since either had seen the other, and though they sent frequent letters, meeting once more was a clean breath of fresh air.

“Sit, please.” Dostoyevsky insisted. “No, not there, that chair is horribly uncomfortable. Here, on the chaise with me. Don’t worry, no one will talk. There’s no reason to.” The tan-and-gold chaise in question, situated as it was very near to a piano, rendered its occupants practically unhearable should the piano be occupied as well. For this event, Dostoyevsky’s trusted servant, Vanya, happened to be performing a string of popular and robust German compositions.

“Now, I’m sure you’ve wondered why I invited you here…” He paused politely, and Gogol nodded with evident interest. “Well, I’ll tell you. I have a proposition. Not a horrid one, please, don’t give me such a vile look. I know how you love games. And as you know, I have a love for you, extending to your games, but moreso my love is in myself, and I too have a fondness for certain types of games...”

“And so your point?” Gogol laughed. “I should think we know each other enough to forgo the formalities by now.”

“Very well then... I’ll tell you plainly.” Dostoyevsky turned, so as to be sure to be heard by Gogol. “I propose a roulette, only not in a casino, but with a gun, in my chambers. I have a revolver. American, I think.”

Gogol smiled, amusement crinkling in his eyes, “Of course he wouldn’t know the maker of his own pistol.”

“Do you mind?”

“Oh, no, don’t mind me!” Gogol said merrily, “Please, continue.”

“Yes, so as I was saying, I propose that sort of game.”

“So what, you’d like me dead?” Gogol asked, though not without humour. “Or you want me to kill you? Why not just have a duel, then?”

“I don’t want a /duel/,” Dostoyevsky spat the word out, as though even speaking it was beneath him, “And my aim isn’t for one of our deaths. No, what interests me is a certain… other thing, which will become clearer to you later in the night. For now, however, I ask you to humour me blindly, as your friend, and trust that I shan’t lead you astray.”

“He speaks clearly and earnestly,” said Gogol, “and yet I wonder still at his intentions. If you truly don’t wish for my death--which you’ve stated implicitly enough--then, well, what else am I to make of it? Forgive my saying so, but is there any other conclusion I could draw?”

“Perhaps not for the time being, which is why I beg you again for your trust. I’ll bow for it if you like, only not here. In fact, please follow me directly, as we’ve no reason to waste another moment.” And there he stood, gesturing for Gogol to do the same.

“I say, you’ve surely gone mad.”

“And what if I have,” Dostoyevsky replied with a smile, “There’s nothing awful about that, is there?”

“Nothing awful? What an idea! But come, sit, for I will not follow you, not for anything. If you put a gun to my head I wouldn’t follow you now,” Gogol laughed as he said the last part, evidently taken with his own joke. “So here, your chaise is ever so comfortable, and why not enjoy it a while with an old friend, before getting down to business? No, don’t pull on my arm. It won’t do you any good and you’ll cause a scene. Sit, I say!”

Indeed, Gogol wasn’t wrong in his assumption of a scene; the two of them had gathered a sort of crowd consisting of side-eyed stares and occasional whispers. Dostoyevsky, defeated, sat with as much decorum as he could muster next to Gogol, and began to tap his leg in agitation. Gogol smiled and lounged back.

“Now,” he continued, “Surely you’ve other matters to discuss than only a gun-based roulette.”

“What would you have me say?”

“Hm, well, tell me of your engagement! There’s no end of gossip there. At least, the rumours I’ve heard are enough to fill a quarter of the River Styx.”

Dostoyevsky further deflated. “But they’re just that: rumours. What’s more to say?”

“Oh, but there’s more to it than that! Much more!” Gogol exclaimed. “For one, I heard that Princess K----- has her eye on you. Though not only one eye, from the way people talk, her vision is quite melonomic towards anyone else! And then there are the two princes, who for a long time now have fought mercilessly for your favour. They’ve even duelled, not once, but twice! Then there are the clerks, the merchants, some hussars…” (He named a considerable list which I will spare the reader.) “In fact, I’d say the whole of Petersburg has its eye on you! And you ask, ‘What’s more to say’.”

“I see you’ve soaked up quite the bit of gossip, despite the short time since your arrival. It’s strange we’ve not met before. With how you talk, surely you’ve attended several of Anna Pavlovna’s soirees. Yet I’ve not seen a hint of you anywhere.”

“Oh, well that was a purposeful slip,” Gogol laughed. “Yes, I did go, to her soirees and many other social gatherings, but my heart was not in it. I spoke dully about politics, gave only the blandest of smiles to those who approached me, half the time I felt horribly faint... And how could I let my dearest friend see me in such a state? No, even if I was presentable to most, well, ‘most’ see nothing but what’s put in front of them. Yes, we’re all ostriches with our heads in the sand. Stick us with a hot iron, even, and we’ll just bury deeper.”

“Maybe so,” Dostoyevsky said, “but then, you’re still a bird in that way, so perhaps half of your goal is already realised.”

Gogol stared blankly at Dostoyevsky for a time. “What use is there in being an ostrich?” He asked finally. “Ostriches cannot fly.”

Dostoyevsky failed to hide a coy smirk. “They’re rather adept at running, however. You could easily run, run, run away from every pressing issue--you’d leave any cage shrouded in dust long before it thought of imprisoning you. You’d be quite tasty, too.”

Gogol raised his eyes suggestively. “You wouldn’t need such a form to taste me. And in any case, if being an ostrich is all as you say it is, then am I not already one?”

“Oh, no, you’re still quite a man, I’m afraid. Though that, too, is perhaps a good thing. If you are a man, then, naturally, you’ll have the capacity to rationalise emotionally and mentally through your vices. One day you may even find grace.”

Gogol sighed wearily. “Why is it,” said he, “that it may only be one at a time between the two of us who is allowed to be happy?”

Dostoyevsky gave him a pitying look. “A balance you seem to keep readily.”

“You suppose?” Gogol sighed, leaning his head back, aggravated, against the mahogany of the chaise’s back, and closed his eyes.

Silence passed several moments like that; the chatter of the guests and gliding piano notes created a white noise which transported both men into a meditational state. The underlying melancholy both easily felt, yet they passed through it in their own ways: Dostoyevsky letting it wash over him and Gogol stamping it under his boot, grinding it under his teeth for good measure. Eventually, as Dostoyevsky nearly felt himself be lost completely, he broke the spell.

“If you wish to know the truth,” he said, “then I’ll speak it plainly: I’ve no suitable suitor. There have been rumours of such a thing, but they are mostly in jest. If some have been taken by them, and took such things seriously, it still means nothing--there isn’t one man or woman in our town who wishes to make me their betrothed. For who would?” He smiled a self-deprecating smile. “An invalid doesn’t make for a good match.”

“Ah yes! Who would want an idiot of a betrothed--but a rich idiot is another case entirely--but for your money. Last you wrote, you explained that your dowry had been raised, so that it now lands something over seventy-thousand. I know thirty men alone who would marry for that--ten of a higher class than you, for your family is held in quite high esteem.”

Dostoyevsky grimaced. “Yes, and in fact, you are quite right about that. And in fact, I’ve met with several good men who I’ll be happy to accept should one give an offer…”

“So what is the matter with you?”

“Yes, indeed, what is the matter…” Dostoyevsky trailed off once more, bringing up a finger to his teeth and gnawing, first gently but soon quite viciously, at it. It wasn’t until his reddened finger appeared just about to split that he forced it from his mouth to continue. “What is the matter, is that… I don’t wish to marry for such a… Which isn’t to say that I don’t wish to marry for my family, or that I wish to marry for love. I know the ridiculity of both ideas, and neither are particularly accurate. Only… I cannot shake the idea that in marrying, I’ll be losing something… Something that I can’t define will be lost, or perhaps it won’t… The whole matter gives off a horrible feeling, as though nothing can be done and, no matter what, something awful can and will come of it.” Again, he paused. Looking to Gogol, he hoped the other would say something, but as the look on his face was merely passively attentive, Dostoyevsky sighed and continued.

“There was another time,” Dostoyevsky said, “when I considered marrying, although marriage wasn’t a possibility for that man, and I’m quite sure--as I was at the time--that such a union would only have ended in tragedy. Still… That man, from some country far southward of ours and across an ocean, he was the only one I’ve met who could challenge me at chess. We went on for hours at a time, and each second felt simultaneously as a blink and as an era. Rarely had I been so excited. And at that time, genuinely, I considered making /him/ an offer, as unconventional as it might have been… Of course, I fiercely hated him too. He was an incorrigible man, a flirt and with so much bravado I feared his chest couldn’t bear the weight, and above all he was barely a noble. There was no hope in it but still… I dreamed...

“But now I am twenty-two, and in not four years I shall be twenty-six. I should have married years ago, but I’ve never had the heart for it, and I fear my reasons are nothing but selfish. It’s my vice, but… I’m afraid. I’m afraid to change my mind, for what if the awful does happen… Though even then it should not matter. I should trust in my husband, and if all does not come to be exactly as I wish it, then God has sent the trial for my own sake.” Dostoyevsky’s tone was convincing, as though he himself did not believe his words but was desperately trying to rectify the fact.

Gogol, after a moment, laughed. “If beating you over chess is the only prerequisite, even Vanya could become your groom. Why be so pessimistic, in that case?”

“You think Vanya would beat me?” Dostoyevsky shook his head seriously. “No--he wouldn’t do it. No one here would, for they are too full of virtue. You alone are the only man here who would think of such a thing.”

“Heh, well,” Gogol tapped his temple with a chuckle, “perhaps I should never have been invited at all, if I lack such virtue… And yet you speak of it not as something terrible, but rather as a curious state which you’re happy to welcome into not only your drawing room, but your private chambers! Be careful now--I fear the Devil is whispering in your ear.”

“Well now,” Dostoyevsky laughed, “And what of Turgenev? He has far worse problems than I, in that regard.”

“Oh? Poor, poor Turgenev, we mustn’t speak of him.” Gogol’s eyes practically glittered, a twist of amusement swirling down his face and throughout his being. He was evidently vastly excited to speak about Turgenev.

“Maybe so, but please, explain to a poor invalid.”

“Oh, if I must! I see there is no getting round you.” Gogol threw his hands up, feigning coercion, and readily continued. “You see, there was this new woman--I know not her name--who took him quite quickly and even more thoroughly. She not only agreed to take him in as her slave (a notion, if you’ll remember, that his dear Victoria--lover of a distant past and oh! how he’ll miss her--blanched at in the beginning), but this new she, how shall I say…” Gogol looked around, as though noticing their company for the first time, and met with several curious (and several accusing) stares. “She… gave to him a… new, and hitherto unfathomed ‘pastry’ to which, I fear, he was quite addicted from the first lick. Now, there’s no saving him. Bless his poor soul.”

“You speak as though from experience.”

“Oh! Can you imagine? Heh-heh, no no, I can’t--it simply couldn’t happen. Now, with someone else, in a different place, I’m sure my feelings would be quite different,” Again, a suggestive look was sent towards Dostoyevsky, “but as for him? No. I could never.”

Dostoyevsky huffed softly, a gentle, amused sheen shone in his eyes. “I’d love to hear more, if you’d be so kind, although I fear such conversation is rather intense for settings such as this…”

“Oh, anything is too much for everyone nowadays! Bless our Russia… But, won’t your appearance be missed? Everyone is here by your invitation, and what would they think if their dear leader were to leave them so suddenly?”

“They’ll think nothing of it--I won’t be missed. Come.” Again, Dostoyevsky rose, and again, he extended his hand to Gogol, which this time was accepted, and the two men left the drawing-room. One of the men’s thoughts rested in a dark cabinet beside a small, silver revolver.

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werezmastarbucks · 4 years

Text

tapes

kai parker series

tapes 10-11/23

word count: 1187

tape one tape two tape three tapes four and five tapes six and seven tape eight tape nine

TAPE TEN

Malachai has the camera. He’s running around the house. He’ll learn to hold the camera, soon, but for now, he’s holding it too close to his ribs, and everything is shaking like a bitch. He runs down the stairs and films the living room where Tyler is sitting on the couch and is reading a book.

“All my family is afraid of me. I am the Warlock!” he yells, and runs towards his four year old brother. Seeing him, Tyler starts shrieking and sprints away from the couch. He laughs like a crazy person. They both run across the house, to the kitchen, taking a turn. Martha is yelling,

“What’s going on?”

But not in a fun way, like mums do, like, hey, kids, what are you up to? No, she hears her child scream his lungs out, and then Kai laughing like a maniac, and she runs towards them.

“I’m bringing havoc!” Kai yells happily and runs past her. She disappears as he jumps out of the front door and runs down the porch. Josette is on the lawn together with the dog and Samantha. They can’t see him approach until it’s too late.

“Behold!” a slender hand shows up and he touches Sam’s shoulder. She turns and yelps, jumping away from him. Josette tries to catch the camera.

“What are you doing?!”

Kai laughs behind it.

“I’m making you all my zombie soldiers. Tyler is up, and now Sam is, too”.

“Give it to me. Stop touching her”.

“Kai, let go!”

He tackles his twin sister, too, and she pushes back violently. The camera flips, and you can see the sky. It falls into the grass, and until mama Parker comes to pull them apart, it’s only four legs, Kai and Josette fighting. Jo’s harsh in words, but Kai is calm; he’s having fun. He’s imagining he’s the Warlock, from the movie Warlock. He knows his secret weapon: people get weak when he touches them. Even when he doesn’t want to. It just happens.

TAPE ELEVEN

It’s light in the kitchen, but outside the windows stands the night. Somebody puts the camera on the table, and we can see Mary sitting down next to Martha.

There’s screaming upstairs, such horrifying blood-freezing wail, that it’s hard to hear what they’re saying at first.

“Tell me what’s going on”.

Martha ignores the camera.

“Joshua’s upstairs with him”.

“Joshua?” Martha seems concerned, “is this a good idea?”

“He promised he wouldn’t hurt him. Kai’s restless again, he needs magic, and he can’t stop screaming. I’m finally starting to think it’s painful to him”.

S h e f i n a l l y starts thinking! It’s! Painful!

“Does it happen often?”

The woman covers her weary face with her palms, and her hands look old. Her eyes are almost faded, but it’s also the lightning and the fact that it’s night. Someone’s making tea, and then we can see Josette, quiet, with three mugs, silently putting them on the table.

“Almost every night”, she says. She’s a young teenager, but she already has that look about her, that kids get, when they have to grow up real fast. She eyes her mother with worry, and steps away to the fridge.

“There’s something wrong with my son”, Martha whispers as Mary rubs her shoulder.

“Of course there is, he’s a bloody leach!” Jo turns to her and pierces her mother’s back with dark eyes, but Martha doesn’t see.

“No, I mean another thing. When he looks at me, Mary, his face is blank. His eyes are so… empty. There used to be pain in them, he used to come to me, and say, mama…”

She turns to her daughter briefly and observes her for several seconds.

“Well, he is a siphoner”, Mary says.

“That’s not it. I think there’s something wrong with his… brain. Medically. The way he hurts others, Mary…”

Josette leaves the kitchen with her mug in her hand, and her steps fade away in the muffled screaming and crying from upstairs. Jo’s been sitting with the younger kids when Kai couldn’t sleep or was being vile during his ‘episodes’.

“I think, whatever caused him to be a siphoner, is connected with that… sometimes it’s like he doesn’t feel anything”.

The screaming stops, and there’s a door slam from upstairs. Martha looks up, her eyes full of sudden terror.

“Wait a minute, I’ll go check on them”.

For some time there’s only Mary sitting at the table. She’s ginger, and she’s a plump lady with beautiful shoulder line, but she worries too much. You can read it on her face how she’s afraid to make assumptions, but she’s thinking about her daughter. Aw she knows Malachai looks at her daughter, her only girl, Ruby, and that already he’s a very pretty boy. For some reason, the wicked ones are always the prettiest, aren’t they? The tilt of the head, the hooded eyes, the smirk and the dramatic flare in the way they give you a look; a deep promise of mischief in the center of the irises. Very soon Malachai will turn into a young man and he will want to explore what it means to be handsome. But if there’s something wrong with his brain, she can’t let them see each other, of course not. It’s bad enough kid’s an abomination to a respectable family like that. Parkers, the home of the coven leader, powerful community of witches and warlocks, talented and witty. And the biggest hopes fail them so miserably, and no matter how many times they have kids, they can’t give birth to another set of twins. Well, there’s still hope.

Mary rubs her face absent-mindedly, forgetting that the camera is still on. She looks at the tea that Josette’s made. Finally, there’s new noise, the voices, coming down from the stairs, but it’s there, in the dark, and they don’t know the camera is recording.

“…him out, or else he would’ve screamed until dawn”.

“He’s my kid, not an animal!”

“He’s out of control, he’s in pain, Martha. He looks at me and doesn’t recognize me. He can feel Jo and the kids through the whole house, unless I strap him down or lock him up, he’ll go for them!”

“So what, you’ll put him to sleep then, like a mental patient?”

“Isn’t that what he is?”

The voices are trying to be quiet, but ever since the shrieks have come down, the peace in the house is ringing, and you can even hear Mary swallow her tea. She’s been there when Malachai was born, and she’s been the closest friend Parkers ever had, so she’s okay with listening to all this. Us – not so sure.

“What am I supposed to do, Martha?” Joshua hisses, “you tell me. Or, better, you go up and open that door and take a look at that little piece of garbage”.

There’s a sonorous slap, then, another one, and a gasp. Mary looks up and in the direction of the sound, and notices the camera. Just as she walks to it and reaches for it, turning the thing off, there’s another long, loud scream from upstairs.

#kai parker imagine #kai parker #vampire diaries #vampire diaries imagine #gemini coven #witches

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vulva-o-queef · 6 years

Text

@hestiaq (making a new post because I don’t want to keep reblogging a long threat)

I’m really sorry for what you were put through. I sincerely hope you’re in a better situation now and doing okay. That’s horrific.

I remember the Ted Bundy bit you’re talking about- and she’s…. honestly quite right? If enough men have NPD/ASPD a few of them are going to seem intelligible, I think. I don’t really understand what you’re saying about Ted Bundy- if it’s tongue in cheek or not.

Okay, like I said, I haven’t seen this post she made. necromancerdoll just said that larps said sociopaths/psychopaths “can’t perform well in society/function with others.” I know aspd and being a sociopath are often considered the same thing, and I know a lot of them are pretty transparent assholes. Psychopathy isn’t a formal diagnosis at all, but criminal psychologists do use the term, and there’s a pretty solid consensus on what it means. Some people say psychopaths are a subset of sociopaths, and other people say it’s a similar but distinct thing, but in either case, one of the main characteristics of a psychopath (which a sociopath doesn’t, or doesn’t always have) is that they’re smooth and charming, and they use those traits to manipulate others.

My comment about Ted Bundy was sarcastic (and probably not in very good faith, but also wasn’t really related to the main point of all this), because saying psychopaths “can’t perform well in society/function with others” is the opposite of the truth. Ted Bundy was charming, socially adept, approachable, and likable, which was exactly how he managed to lure in many of his victims. He would put on a fake cast and ask women to help him get things into his car, which is what that scene from silence of the lambs is based on. Larps might be totally aware of all that and just phrased something too broadly. The only way it would be relevant to the rest of what I’m saying is, if she really meant to say that psychopaths are socially inept, it would be another example of how she tries to speak as an authority on mental disorders she doesn’t understand. Mostly I was just poking fun.

Women are over-diagnosed. But I don’t understand how Larps pointing out shitty behavior is the same as “diagnosing everyone”. Also, she’s talked about how borderline personality is over-diagnosed and often ascribed to women who are dealing with trauma. She’s also not talking about it from a “I don’t personally like them” only- “these people” are people who are cruel and vicious and play victim when called out on their cruel vicious behavior.

Clearly, you and I interpret the things she says about bpd and ‘cluster b’ in general very differently. For one, diagnosing anyone over the internet is absurd. In my first response to her, I did agree that she has made some good points, mostly about the link between autogynephilia and narcissism. But that’s about noticing an overarching theme within a specific population, and there’s already a decent amount of academic writing about that link. Case studies done by real psychologists. Actual studies done with controls and statistics and so on. And even with stuff like fucking “trans lesbian” dating profiles that larps points out herself, there is some solid evidence there due to the sheer repetition of entitled attitudes, fetishism, etc, the list goes on. My issue is with the way she thinks she understands BPD when she clearly doesn’t, how she applies “cluster b” or bpd to an awful lot of people, largely young ‘transmen’ or radfems she doesn’t like, and how whenever anyone she’s put down for having BPD tells her to cut it out, or tells her that she’s wrong about them, she dismisses anything they have to say by citing “people with bpd are insane,” or telling them they’re being irrational due to their disorder. Basically she’s using it as a shield to avoid being held accountable for the things she says. “Anyone who’s telling me borderline people aren’t irrational is only saying that because they’re borderline, and therefore they’re irrational!” I’m not saying she’s diagnosing “everyone.” And regarding transmen specifically, there are a lot of psychological factors involved in that situation, and for someone who’s so vocal about the cultlike, exploitative, backwards nature of the trans movement, you’d think she would understand how absurd and frankly just plain egotistical it is to think she can simplify all of those psychological factors and dynamics down to “cluster b.” Again - remember that she’s talking about people she’s never met in her life, usually judging from one blog description, a handful of posts, or sometimes nothing more than a fucking selfie.

Even as a younger girl with supposed “BPD” (who even identified with the label)- I wouldn’t have found this stuff offensive, and if it did (which I might have, and sometimes still do)- it’s really that easy to log off or go outside.

That’s good for you, and I respect your perspective. And you’re right, I could just log off and ignore what larps is saying. You can say that about anything anyone says on the internet, and technically it’s true. But I didn’t. The things she’s saying are ignorant, I find them personally hurtful, and I think she’s spreading misinformation, harmful stereotypes, and regressive thinking. I see that she’s saying dehumanizing and belittling things to women on this site who deserve respect, and probably worst of all, I see that there are a lot of people who look up to her, ask her for advice, sometimes idolize her a bit, and many of them will believe pretty much anything she says. She’s feeding them bullshit and some really vile ideas about mental health stigma, and how people with certain disorders (mainly BPD) deserve to be treated. I don’t think she’s the devil incarnate, and I don’t think she’s out here ruining lives and destroying families. I think she’s an asshole with an inflated sense of her own insight and knowledge, and I decided to say something. I could have logged off, but in this case, I didn’t. That’s all.

...I don’t understand how Larps memeing on a Tumblr blog and often posting insightful ideas about personality disorders is “insulting, ignorant, and dehumanizing”.

Yeah I don’t know what you consider “insightful,” but posting the definition of “insane” and copy-pasting a list of bpd symptoms and saying “see? these people are insane,” and tagging her response to my post with #have u ever noticed how all of these people have personality disorders (callback to “anyone who’s telling me borderline people aren’t irrational is only saying that because they’re borderline, and therefore they’re irrational!”) ...doesn’t quite cut it in my book.

She doesn’t bring up cluster b whenever she “feels” someone is acting unreasonable and dramatic- they… are unreasonable and dramatic- at least in whatever context, and people don’t have to dig deep to see who someone really is to be able to just say “no that’s insane, bye”.

Mmmm... I realize you see the situation differently from me, but am I acting insane? I mean, at worst, I’m making the undeniably blunt way she talks to people into something bigger than it needs to be. And yeah, I know... classic cluster b, amiright? But even if that’s the case, even if I’m misinterpreting her views, surely you can see where I’m coming from. And there are quite a few people who have the same objections that I do (mostly radfems, radfem adjacent women, terves, etc.). When she wrote that tag #have u ever noticed how all of these people have personality disorders, isn’t it clear that she was referring to me, as well as the rest of the radfemmish women who have been speaking against this behavior from her lately? Isn’t she making an assumption that I have a personality disorder (which I do not)?

Do you really think my objection to the way larps talks about bpd is an indication that I have a personality disorder, and that I’m insane? Unreasonable at worst. But yes, she is absolutely using the excuse that those who object to her saying borderline people are irrational are saying so because they’re borderline/irrational. And like I said, I’m hardly the only example of her saying things like this. Someone just reblogged the original post of all of this and said #I just blocked larps bcuz shes been reblogging random old posts from me calling me a cluster b as bait #as far as I know I’m the only quote on quote crazy bihet that doesn’t have a pd? Someone else wrote #I really looked up to larps hence I’m so torn about this #if I didn’t believe she was a smart and decent well meaning person I wouldn’t care. That’s just on that particular post, within the last few hours.

People with personality disorders are diagnosed because they’re anti social and cause harm to those they “love”/interact with and the cluster b community (that I hung around) spend most of their time groveling in misery- despite often constructing their own fantastical narrative of people horrifically abusing them and demanding to be coddled for every emotion.

Some of them, yeah. Not all of them, and not enough to justify making assumptions about people you’ve never met.

What I mean is- the pain that they’re feeling is an offense to ego a LOT of the time. And other’s shouldn’t have to walk around eggshells to make sure that they don’t injure others egos.

Agreed.

Like it’s not real, rudfems don’t enable or contribute to violence against women. None of these women, no matter how mean they are, contributed to the pain I experienced in childhood for being called BPD- actually it was always men and handmaidens.

I didn’t accuse larps, or any other ‘rudefem’ of contributing to violence against women. I know that men were the reason ‘hysteria’ could be diagnosed in the past, and I know that men are the reason bpd is being overdiagnosed in women today. And I’m honestly not even trying to say larps is being misogynistic to the women she says this stuff to (though re-reading, I realize it could easily sound that way). Misogyny or not, dismissing someone’s perfectly measured, reasonable objection as irrational just because they have a bpd diagnosis - which in several cases, dr. larps diagnosed all by herself - is unacceptable, is the same pattern and circular justification used on ‘hysterical’ women in the past, and is particularly bad because, as we agree, bpd is too often being diagnosed as the new version of hysteria. She’s re-enforcing age-old stereotypes about mental illness, and she’s buying into it so completely that she really believes that borderline people are so unreliable that she knows what’s going on in their heads better than they do. Hence saying that borderline people objecting to her backwards stereotyping are doing so out of a kneejerk reaction to a damaged ego, rather than because they know what she’s saying is false.

Also - she isn’t talking about everyone with “diagnosed” BPD.

If that’s what she means, then she’s the one who needs to say it, not you. Again, I respect that you have a different view of this, and I understand your perspective, I can’t believe what others say about her intentions and supposed read-between-the-lines distinctions, when she doesn’t say it herself, and the things she says and the way she acts do not communicate what you’re saying about her.

Meaning, there’s a distinction between people who have been diagnosed and are suffering, and people who have been diagnosed (or not) and are cruel and have a total lack of insight and disregard for other people.

Mental health is complicated. You can’t divide people with bpd into two clean categories like that. That’s not how it works. And you CERTAINLY can’t lump people into the “bad” category simply because they don’t like how you talk about their disorder. You can’t see someone objecting to what you’re saying and assume that YOU know that they’re coming from a “total lack of insight.” People are not psychic. Larps is using the fact that some people with pds have a lack of self-awareness to dodge accountability when it’s convenient for her. It’s complete circular logic - something you would think she would be above, no? “they’re irrational, and when they complain about me calling them irrational, I can shut them down by saying that any complaint they make is irrational.” I know I keep saying this, but it’s true. In my first comment, I pointed out that this is her pattern, and what was her response? hashtag have u ever noticed how all these people have personality disorders. fucking exactly what I said her response would be, because that’s the only excuse she has.

And yes, insight is a qualifying factor that “””exonerates”””” (quite a loaded word in this context????) someone from being “really” BPD. The thing about BPD is that they will not (or cannot) change- like it’s not a fixed part of your personality, and if it is- you deserve to be called out, and if it isn’t and you still behave like that… you deserve to be called out, still.

Again, no. If this is the case, then we need to make a second definition to separate “REALLY bpd” from “sorta bpd,” since currently they both meet the same diagnostic criteria. It’s not up to you, or larps, to create definitive new categories of mental illness.

I went from being told I had “borderline tendencies” to being diagnosed with full BPD, to basically nothing at all, because I became aware of those patterns, learned how to be objective about my thoughts and emotions, and practiced resisting them to the point where they only show up if I’m already in a really bad state. I don’t consider myself to have - or to have had - a personality disorder, because I’ve almost completely gotten rid of those mental reactions. But I know people who do have BPD, who are self aware, who are trying the same things I did, but the difference is that even though they now have the tools to keep them in check, those mental and emotional reactions are still present for them, and likely always will be. To say they don’t REALLY have bpd because they’re able to control it is frankly insulting. “If you’ve been able to improve it through treatment, you never really had it in the first place.” I know that’s not how you meant it, but that’s what it boils down to.

BPD is not defined by a lack of self-awareness. It’s a pattern of ingrained emotional and mental reactions (and, subsequently, behaviors). These often develop as a method of self defense against external abuse. Or sometimes there’s no abuse and it’s there anyways. The cause isn’t always clear. But the criteria calling these symptoms “pervasive” doesn’t mean the individual is unaware of them. People who know they have bpd, and who are working on treating their bpd still have bpd.

“...deserve to be called out”... it’s not larps’ business to “call someone out” for having bpd. She can call someone out for acting like a shithead, but simply having bpd is not a flaw that needs to be criticized. Your phrasing makes it seem like that’s what you’re saying, and although I’m pretty sure that’s not what you meant, that’s what larps seems to think.

Not only are neither you nor larps qualified to determine the “category” of bpd that people on the internet who you’ve never met fall into, but even IF that’s how she sees it, then, again, she needs to say that herself, and she needs to reflect that view in the way she treats people.

But to conclude, she really does make that explicitly clear that she doesn’t think everyone with BPD is a “screeching, manipulative, hysteric”.

Where

You made a bunch of excuses for her and I still have no reason to believe any of it is true

However, I’m mostly speaking for myself here because I’ve been hanging around tungle for too long and I mostly want to say that this all doesn’t really matter. Like, so many feminists on here ramble on about “but what about bpd women who get misdiagnosed?” yeah I didn’t face brutality at the hands of snarky women on the internet. These are not the people that even enabled the violence that me or many other women with trauma face.

Again, I didn’t say that. I don’t think she’s destroying lives either, I was just frustrated, saw that many other women are frustrated about her too, and I felt like saying something, so I did. That is the extent of my motivations here. I do think that she is spreading harmful stereotypes and misinformation, but I’m under no delusion that she is causing damage on a massive scale. She is, however, just one more raindrop in the proverbial ocean of mental health stigma. Insignificant as a single drop may be, surely it’s no less significant than any of those people with bpd whose bad behavior you say should be called out. If it’s larps’ business to call them out, then it’s just as much my business to call her out.

It’s not up to her and other women like her to clarify every single thing they say- people DO generalize and we should be able to communicate without having to specify for everyone.

I’m not asking her to clarify “every single thing” she says, I’m asking her to stop acting like a shithead, labeling people she’s never met, acting like she’s an authority on personality disorders, and using her actually wildly skewed perception of these disorders which is steeped in regressive, harmful, and demeaning stigma and stereotypes about mental illness in order to manipulate her way out of being held accountable for any of it. I’m not telling her to stop generalizing for the purpose of communication, I’m asking her to stop making inaccurate generalizations based on stereotypes, and to stop using “cluster b” as a catch-all for bad behavior. Just because someone is a shithead, or unreasonable, or overdramatic, doesn’t make them borderline, and it’s insulting to the people with bpd who are truly good people, who also have to deal with their disorder being an internet trend for self-dx’ers to milk sympathy and excuse their abusive behavior (sounds just like what larps would diagnose as cluster b, I know, but it turns out that many people who don’t have bpd exhibit these traits as well), deal with shitty treatment from healthcare providers who read the diagnosis and think they know everything about you before you even walk in the door (back when I had the ‘full bpd’ diagnosis, a therapist said to my face that people with bpd were considered ‘used goods,’ and my current psychiatrist treats me with an absurd and totally unjustified level of suspicion), deal with the massively pervasive stereotypes everyone else holds about bpd (ranging from ‘serial killer’ to ‘used goods’ to ‘fake trend on the internet to get attention’), as well as dealing with - oh yeah - the actual fucking disorder, as well as often comorbid cases of PTSD, depression, anxiety, bipolar, etc.

I’m just saying, it would be a lot more effective and hurt a lot less people you supposedly didn’t mean to target if you just called out the actual behavior instead of “calling out” a disorder. Additionally, I’m pretty sure that people with bpd who do lack self awareness are far more likely to respond to direct criticisms of their behavioral patterns than they are to respond to the label of bpd being “called out.” They’d just see the latter as more fuel for self-pity. It’s a little harder to justify being the victim of someone saying “hey stop being abusive.”

And if that’s not enough reasons for you, consider: people who have shitty behaviors who don’t have a cluster b disorder (yes, larps, they exist) are just gonna hear criticisms of a disorder they don’t have and brush it right off. Call out the actual behavior, and there’s a chance they might recognize it in themselves. It’s like a quadruple win.

A hallmark of bpd/npd/aspd/hpd is having no insight into that, that people say shit, and you take what you can and leave it-her, or me, or anyone else mincing that up….. doesn’t help bpd women live in a world where nobody is going to mince anything up ever. It did not help me when people coddled me, and I intuitively knew that and was deeply frustrated with it.

You’re right that it doesn’t help to have people make excuses for you or ‘coddle’ you. But not being unfair and pushing harmful stigma is not the same thing as “coddling.” Nor is “not mincing” words the same thing as saying things that are untrue, unfair, dismissive, and insulting. Much like Trump saying blatantly racist things is NOT “just telling it like it is.” (and no I’m not comparing you or larps to trump or calling anyone racist. except trump)

Many of the women who have ‘spoken up’ about larps on tungle, I’ve seen on other mediums (fb, wordpress) and they’re often just blatantly manipulative

Really? Am I being blatantly manipulative? Or insane? And, to reiterate, is what I’ve said on her post enough for her to assume that I - and anyone else raising these issues with her - ALL have personality disorders? Is it justification for her to say that I’m “glorifying” ASPD/BPD?

and will never have any insight to the fact that all of this is really a non-issue

I gave you several examples above, and here's your treasure trove:

https://larpsandtherealgirl.tumblr.com/search/cluster%20b

Notice how she loves agreeing with everyone saying they’ve been abused by someone with a cluster b disorder, or otherwise says something negative about a person/people with a cluster b disorder, makes sweeping generalizations and basically uses “cluster b” with the same tone that you would call someone an asshole - that is to say, using the same logical standards of “you said some shit I thought was rude, so I think you’re an asshole & I’m going to call you one” when talking about psychological medical diagnoses?

Yeah, occasionally she claims she’s only talking about The Bad Ones, but that’s a pretty thin excuse when 99% of the time you make no attempt to differentiate, and post things like screenshotted symptoms (which - if the “good ones” with that disorder actually have that disorder - would apply to the “good ones” too) with captions like “these people are insane.”

Again, I realize you see the things she says very differently from me, but surely you can see where I’m coming from. And I would hope that you can see that my having this perspective does not justify saying I have a personality disorder, that I am insane, or that I am “glorifying” ASPD and NPD. I would hope that the similar shit she’s said about several other women who said things similar to what I said would also strike you as unjustified. You can make excuses that she wasn’t literally diagnosing me with a personality disorder, but you can’t make that excuse every single time she says something like this.

but instead “leave radical feminism because it’s so full of mean lesbian separatists” and make huge texts about it everywhere else and how rfeminism is a cult.

Okay... this is an entirely separate and irrelevant subject and I’m not sure why you’re bringing it up. I mean it sounds like you’re saying “people who don’t like being told they’re insane are just butthurt kek” which I really hope is not what you’re saying. I’m pretty sure there are plenty of radical women who would object to being called insane and having their opinions dismissed because of a mental health diagnosis, who would raise their objections and still believe in their politics, probably due to the fact that - in this context - those things have virtually nothing to do with one another.

My point is- she’s not just saying ppl who criticize her have bpd- they often do because people with personality disorders come out of the woodwork to be hideously angry at anyone who calls them abusive or “wrong” and “bad” (whatever that means at any given moment).

In summary: I appreciate and respect that you interpret the things larps says in a very different way, and I’m not trying to tell you that you should be hurt or anything like that. But I can’t accept what I see as excuses that you’re making for her, since she doesn’t offer any of those explanations herself, and I don’t see any evidence of the intentions you’re attributing to her, in her own words or behavior.

At the end of the day, larps is the only person who can speak for larps’ intentions (much like the people whose criticisms larps deflects by claiming they’re motivated by irrational emotion and a threatened victim complex SHOULD be the only ones who can speak for their intentions).

And at the end of the day, larps didn’t show anything but disrespect and a total unwillingness to even consider that the way she speaks to, and treats, people with bpd and people who criticize her portrayal and internet-diagnosing of bpd, might not be 100% faultless.

At the end of the day, larps read what I had to say about her dismissive attitude and manipulative, circular justification for avoiding accountability. Her response was to double down on calling people with borderline “insane,” and double down on her own belief that googling a list of symptoms makes her an expert on psychology, as well as an expert on the thoughts in other peoples’ heads. She used the exact circular, dismissive excuse I was calling out, yet again said that the people criticizing her were all doing so because of their - well “our,” I should say, since she diagnosed me - personality disorders, rather than their actual thoughts, opinions, and perfectly reasonable objections. And then she answered a bunch of messages laughing about how crazy and terrible “cluster b”s are. No, she didn’t literally say “EVERY SINGLE PERSON with bpd is like this,” but come on. She’s not the only person who can recognize patterns of behavior.

#long post

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thejonzone · 4 years

Text

Jon Writes a Year-End List

My favorite songs of 2020, alphabetically by artist

Bedouine (Margo Guryan cover)- The Hum

The original Guryan version is good but Bedouine’s take is cleaner, all the better to emphasize Guryan’s blissful songwriting. I could listen to the chords in the chorus forever.

Bob Dylan- I’ve Made Up My Mind to Give My Heart to You

It’s nice to hear Bob sing a yearning and clear-eyed love song. And the way he stretches out his words gives the whole thing a confidence that’s easy to get lost in.

Boldy James- Giant Slide

Boldy had a great year, and it’s The Price of Tea in China with Alchemist producing that stood out to me.

Empty Country- Becca

I don’t go to music festivals anymore, but listening to this album makes me dream of hearing it live, while being dehydrated, sweaty, feet hurting, holding in a p*op, a late afternoon sunburn loading. I want the whole thing!!

fawning, Rui Gabriel ft. Jack Riley- God

Toss it on the cloudy day walking playlist!

Frances Quinlan- Went to LA

Great cathartic yell in this one. Quinlan builds up a palpable tension here. It rocks.

Judy ft. Jack Dolan, jommis- Say What U Mean

You’ve got to imagine these fellas knew they had put a few catchy melodies down while trying to out-croon each other.

Kurt Vile ft. John Prine (John Prine cover)- How Lucky

A Prine acolyte with a feature from the man himself. RIP.

Lala Lala, Grapetooth- Valentine

Kind of like a slow-dance song at nightmare prom. I love the percussion and Frankel’s villainously-low voice.

Lil Durk- Street Affection

The range of emotions Durk can access and scroll through is impressive.

Miranda Winters- Little Baby Dead Bird

Scuzzy guitar and violin create a hypnotic effect in this evocative dirge. Miranda Winters is such a good singer. Check out her main band, Melkbelly-- they put out a great album this year!

Nap Eyes- Mark Zuckerberg

Two guitars: one is pointy, the other is chugging. That is the correct way to do two guitars.

Noname- Song 33

This song is 70 seconds. 70! Noname casually negates J. Cole and the song isn’t even about him. She’s so great.

Ratboys- I Go Out at Night

Julia Steiner is on her The Hours shit in this melancholic fantasy of leaving and not returning.

Rio da Yung OG, Lil Yachty- 1v1

I like how Yachty comes in on his verse! It’s been fun to see him back in action with his new Michigan friends. Rio is the star here, though. And Enrgy too.

Soccer Mommy- yellow is the color of her eyes

Sophia Allison’s delivery of “The tiny lie I told to myself is making me hollow” might be my line of the year.

Swamp Dogg- Memories

The whole of Sorry You Couldn’t Make It is great, but for Swamp Dogg, who has covered John Prine, to work with the man before he died is a special accomplishment, and we’re better off that it’s recorded.

Tall Juan- Irene

One of my favorite 2020 releases. And I’ll be a bit vulnerable here folks….when I am walking outside and this song comes on, I push my butt out a little bit and walk like I have rhythm and purpose.

Tierra Whack- Dora

I’m so excited to see what Tierra Whack does, from her beat selection to how she jumps between flow and cadence. She understands herself so well.

Non-2020-specific Music I Enjoyed, in Superlative Form

Group Vocal Performance Most Likely to Pierce Your Heartless Facade

Yesu Ka Mkwebaze

Best Song to Listen to if You are an 1850’s-era whaler in Your Feels

Mary Ann

Favorite Duet (Not Blood-Related)

Emmylou Harris and Herb Pedersen (but mostly Emmylou) create such an intricate and gorgeous melody on “If I Could Only Win Your Love”. Pedal steel heads and mandolin freaks, eat up.

Favorite Duet (Blood-related)

The Louvin Brothers- When I Stop Dreaming

Any longtime friends of the show know I’m a big fan of the singing duo The Louvin Brothers. They’ve got that golden country tone but it’s the blood harmony that turns these guys into something else entirely.

And here’s the kicker, folks. Emmylou covered When I Stop Dreaming! How coincidental for all of us reading this End of Year list…. The Louvins are my preferred version, but Emmylou, that you could help me make this connection is enough, dayenu!

Most Surprising Use of a Song in a Network TV Show

"Yama Yama" by the Yamasuki Singers, Fargo Season 2

When I was a dishwasher at St. James Cheese Co., late 2016ish, this CD was in our back of house music rotation. It is a magical album-- a Japanese children's choir with French pop production (think a bunch of bells and shit). I never learned the name of the album while working there and it fell out of my mind until years later when, after remembering how much I loved it, realized I had no idea how to find it. The pain of typing different spellings of “japanese children’s choir” into google for days on end.....I literally yelled when Fargo used this in its Season 2 big boy shootout. *chef’s kiss*

Best Album by a Spiritually Hungry Musical Genius, Lapping Her Contemporaries in Arrangement, Theme, and Songwriting, Gone Before Her Time

Judee Sill’s self-titled debut.

Best Use of a Second Keyboard in A Keyboard Solo

Fountains of Wayne’s Red Dragon Tattoo

Do I mean to say synthesizer? Not sure. RIP Adam Schlesinger and long live FoW. What a loss.

Best Vibes/ Song I’d Most Want to Show Ezra Koenig so That We’d Bond & Become Friends

Zibote

Best Lyrics Written by a Jew in 1920’s NYC Being Sung by Willie Nelson

Lonely rivers flow to the sea, to the sea / to the open arms of the sea

Favorite TV Shows

Ramy

-Second season shook its focus on the titular character and oh am I thankful. Not that Ramy himself isn’t great, he is, but the entire cast here deserves attention. The Uncle Naseem episode. The Uncle Naseem episode. Ahem. The Uncle Naseem episode.

Joe Pera Talks with You

Lovecraft Country

-Small gripes and complicated plotlines aside, this anthology connecting gothic horror, racism, and American history is phenomenal.

Small Axe

-The second installment in this series, Lovers Rock, which takes place at a party, is the vicarious shot in the arm you deserve, you little extroverted thing you.

I May Destroy You

Betty

The Last Dance

-The first Bulls game I ever went to was the first game *without* Michael Jordan, at the beginning of the ‘98-’99 season. Bad timing.

The Chi

Schitt’s Creek

-This show was never about the plot. Am I allowed to say that? I’ve never cared less for a plot and more for a cast. Catherine O’Hara is in her own league above us all.

Jon Writes a Year-End List

In 2019, my roommate June and I took a road trip through the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. I was out of a relationship, happily or unhappily I wasn’t sure yet, but along the way I downloaded Tinder hoping to meet a local who’d be excited to make out with me. There wasn’t much bite on my line, but by the time we reached Marquette, largely due to my good looks and charisma I’d orchestrated some type of group date with June, me, a girl from Tinder, and her friend.

We met at a dingy karaoke bar and drank for cheap. Nobody wanted to hear me sing, but I got on stage anyway and gave “Willin” by Little Feat a go. Some guy at the bar in a maroon work shirt looked at me, scoffed, and left to smoke outside. The four of us weren’t hitting it off, even with alcohol. I and the friend made a plan to sing “Mommas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow up to Be Cowboys'', but she quickly abandoned the duet after we had begun, citing a lack of vibes.

But we kept singing and drinking and hours later I was leaning against the bar, waiting to order, standing next to maroon-shirt guy who had so easily shrugged off my existence earlier. What caught my eye as I stood next to him was a Star of David tattoo on his forearm. And sure enough, the name tag stitched onto his shirt identified him as “Isaac”. Well I’ll goddamn be-- this guy was frickin Jewish! I was shocked-- I assumed he was goy in the same way I assumed everyone I ran into up there would be.

For just one unconscious assumption (I’m the only Jewish person in this Marquette karaoke bar) to be wrong felt great. My assumptions are really awful. I assumed maroon-shirt hated my guts. I assumed these two girls we were drinking with thought I was a loser too. I assume people don’t like me or respect me or have any interest in getting to know me. I tell awful stories about myself to myself, and my assumptions about the world are limiting and boring! With patience, “guy at bar who kinda scowled at me” had all of a sudden turned into “my new friend Isaac” who, after a few minutes of conversation, I “asked to bum a cigarette from.”

One of my favorite shows of 2020 was Joe Pera Talks With You. I still remember watching Joe Pera’s stand-up for the first time, and then rewatching and rewatching, savoring his cadence. He dressed and spoke like a grandpa, replete with pitch-perfect, kinda-gross mouth sounds, stutters, and low-but-driving energy. It’s a good bit, and Joe has morphed it into probably the funniest, sweetest, and least-pandering show of 2020. What I love about this show is its foundational belief that anyone can surprise you, you just need to give yourself time to notice.

I didn’t end up making out with anyone but I did wake up the next morning with the worst hangover of my life. Wake up, barf, whimper. As June drove us out of Marquette, I could barely keep my eyes open. I did notice, however, a massive, wooden structure jutting out into Lake Superior.

It is this same Lake Superior structure that Joe Pera Talks With You fixates on for its first shot of Season 2. Yes, this is an Adult Swim show that takes place in none other than Marquette, Michigan! Which is weird. Think about other movies, shows, or books that take place in the U.P. You can’t! Even zooming out to include the larger Upper-Great Lakes region leaves us with an almost-empty net: The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald by Gordon Lightfoot and titular Gatsby’s origin story on Lake Superior. These are stories of hard living and life and death on the dangerous Great Lakes. But neither of those are specific to the Upper Peninsula.

Regions are an easy if reductive lens with which to attempt to view and understand people. In 2020, broad and sweeping generalizations about large swaths of people continued to gain power. There was the movie adaptation of JD Vance’s ahistorical Hillbilly Elegy. Woolly-eyed liberals trotted out fake maps of a preferred America that holds only the “good” blue states, not at all engaging in the history of racism and voter suppression that got us here. Besides the fact that Georgia went blue. And Democratic strongholds like California, New York, and Chicago betray any notion of a “better” America. The sins of this nation are not cordoned off into one section or time zone, no region is monolithic, and most importantly, no person can be explained away with a quick sentence.

There is no regional monolith more widely misunderstood than the Midwestern gestalt. Fargo (the show) does a great job of serializing this one type of Midwestern character-- they say “oh sure, happy to help” and they’re murderers. So for Joe Pera to settle his show in the U.P. is a fun choice. Most Americans are probably hard-pressed to conjure an accurate mental picture of who the U.P. is, so Pera creates his own flavor of a seemingly-recognizable small Midwestern town.

In the first episode, Joe walks us through the bean arch he’s growing. Why grow snap beans? “Beans are straightforward.” Straightforwardness, or the appearance of, is central to Pera’s charm. Pera’s shtick is walking the audience through a basic task that can serve as a metaphor for a larger existential question. This conceit isn’t new to Pera, but it has been en vogue recently, with shows like Andy Daly’s Review and the new HBO show How To with John Wilson. These shows present a simple stated goal that obfuscates a larger, more complex grapple.

Joe Pera Talks With You is incredible and endearing because of the genuine tone Pera gives his tight-knit Marquette. We’re getting deranged lunatics like Conner O’Malley and Dan Licata to write jokes for 70-year old Michigan grandmas at a salon. The show trades in the perceived Midwestern folksiness for a punchline, yet doesn’t lose itself in irony or resentment.

Every character in the Joe Pera universe has the opportunity to be profound. Pera gives every character the patience they deserve; even O’Malley’s berserk Joe Rogan listening-caricature Mike Melsky gets incredible moments of vulnerability. It’s a rare comedy: self-aware but not self-obsessed, sweet but not gross, and uniquely funny.

Nowhere else on TV are you going to see such consistently great acting. Some of the best working comedians are in this season. Conner O’Malley has found a way to tap into his unsettling grotesque that is a pleasure to watch, playing characters at the ends of their ropes, shrieking. Jo Firestone is hilarious and essential as Joe’s doom-prepper girlfriend Sarah. We get guest stars like genius Carmen Christopher. Even one-line role players like Joe’s teacher-coworker, who says Joe and Sarah go together “like desk and chair,” knock it out of the park.

The questions at the heart of Talks With You feel more pronounced in a year of death and isolation. How do we connect with people? How can we really be there for our loved ones? How can we feel comfortable in our own skin? The show came out pre-pandemic but Pera’s touch and pacing is universal.

It’s difficult not to compare Talks With You to How to with John Wilson. The two shows have a lot in common. Both protagonists are soft-spoken, and speak at an arrhythmic clip. John Wilson’s voice is affected just like Pera’s; both vocal deliveries are meant to engender trust by signaling to us that they’re lacking some social confidence. But I don’t buy Wilson’s shtick as much as Pera’s.

John Wilson’s show is not straightforward in the same way Pera’s is, and the show suffers under the added weight of pretense. Wilson’s tangents lead us to places that barely fit under the established thematic umbrella and feel forced. On memory, Wilson’s adventure with the Mandela Effect turns from fascinating to boring as the truthers devolve into sketch characters, viewing simple spelling errors with magnifying glasses. “How to Cover Your Furniture” spends an upsettingly long amount of time with an anti-circumcision advocate as Wilson works through the question of how much we are allowed to change parts of other people. Meant to appear as if they effortlessly fell into place, these characters feel shoe-horned in.

Both characters and shows are performative authenticity, and Joe Pera and John Wilson’s whole deal is their status as observer. This year, many of us have become observers. I know I have: unemployed, unable to see people, watching death counts climb, sending money to various bail funds and rent relief to people and organizations near and far. There is a responsibility to being an observer. It is not some callous task. Being an effective observer means allowing your subject the space they need to be as they are and not foisting your own nonsense onto them.

In Joe Pera’s America, it’s understood that everyone is weird. By virtue of being human, we are all weird, off, we do confusing things, and say dumb stuff that doesn’t make sense. Even you’re a weird freak. John Wilson’s subjects seem like circus animals, squeezed in front of the camera for their fucked-up little flip. I can’t shake the feeling that John Wilson is making fun of the people he’s observing. Pera’s observations are rooted in the fairness that comes from seeing humanity in people-- every person has an equal chance of surprising you with how weird they are if you just make them comfortable and let them talk. We owe that to each other.

To be fair, these shows are also very different. Wilson’s found-footage, documentary style is ingenious, hilarious, and completely not the vibe that Pera and Co. are going for at all. And region here is everything. Wacky stuff happening in NYC? Eh, isn’t that par for the course over there? Wait, a show set in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula? Ok...now that I’ve never seen.

Obviously I was wrong about Isaac in Marquette, just as any broad assumption about a region and its people will be. I actually learned that Jews have a significant relationship to the U.P. And I found similarities between my own Jewish history, covering a similarly nebulous area of the Rust Belt/Midwest, and my U.P. cousins. Yes, home was closer than I thought, even across the length of Lake Michigan. Yes, people don’t just hate my guts. Yes, we can overcome lazy assumptions and we can even connect with people. We can make a better world. It just requires patience and listening.

Now, on to my thoughts regarding Fiona Apple’s landmark album Fetch the Bolt Cutters...

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karyu-endan · 7 years

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Twilight chapter 14 review: Bella’s fine with Edward stalking her. I don’t care. Here’s why (among other things).

I’ve got quite a few things I want to say about this chapter. None of them completely ruined my enjoyment of it now that I’ve embraced the Yandere Tango interpretation (what can I say? It’s fun looking for cases of Bella being a manipulative bitch), but there were small things I took issue with, along with some stuff I liked regardless of my interpretation.

Hmm... Where to start… I know. From here on, I think I’ll begin with everything Bella does that just screams “this girl already wants to be a vampire and won’t take no for an answer”. No point in reading the story like this if I don’t try to make my case clear.

With that out of the way, let’s dig into chapter 14!

Right out of the gate Bella wastes no time in asking Edward for more information about his family on the ride back to her house. As soon as Edward says he was born in 1901 and was turned into a vampire by Carlisle in 1918 to save him from dying from the Spanish Flu, Bella infers that it’s possible to turn humans into vampires. She’s curious because she wants to be one herself, obviously.

Edward, however, says that most vampires don’t have the self-control to do it and Carlisle is one of the few alive who can. He then goes into detail about how most of the Cullens entered the family, though it’s to be noted that Bella needs to prompt Edward for Rosalie and Emmett, and then for Alice and Jasper, and Edward would have stopped without Bella’s insistence. Seems like Edward isn’t the only one fishing for ammunition.

At any rate, Carlisle turned Edward first, with Esme right after him since she barely survived jumping off a cliff and happened to be taken to the hospital Edward and Carlisle were in. Rosalie was joined not long after that, and a couple years later Emmett was mauled by a bear and Rosalie took him to Carlisle to save him. They’d been a happy couple ever since.

Rosalie apparently carried Emmett over a hundred miles to get him to Carlisle’s care too, since she didn’t trust herself with turning Emmett on her own. I have a feeling she might be selling herself short (or Edward doesn’t understand everything), because carrying a man who’s battered and bloodied over a hundred miles without eating him is damn impressive.

Also, this takes a bit of the sting out of Emmett’s favourite food being Grizzly bears. If one of them almost killed him, I can forgive his eating habits somewhat as channelling his bloodlust away from humanity and toward the species that almost took his life. Still unfortunate he’s targeting a near-endangered species though. And Edward still has no excuse for mountain lions.

As for Alice and Jasper, they’re fairly recent additions to the family. Jasper was turned by a different coven and was convinced by Alice to come with her to the Cullens and take on the animal diet. While Alice… they don’t know who turned Alice. Even Alice doesn’t know who turned Alice. All they know is that she can see the future, and she saw herself meeting Jasper and Carlisle in visions, and if it weren’t for those visions, Alice would probably have never considered the animal diet and became a human-eater like all the others.

In most cases I’d question the logic of any vampire that didn’t try the animal diet because, y’know, they were human once upon a time (and Edward claims that all a vampire’s human feelings and instincts are still present, just buried underneath the bloodlust) and would try avoiding their own kind, or something similar to their own kind, on principle. But for Alice though, she doesn’t remember her human life at all. The lack of empathy for humanity can be excused for Alice because of that… but I’m left scratching my head at every other vampire besides Carlisle and the Alaskans, who have the seemingly novel thought among vampires that eating people is wrong.

Bella has the opposite question that I do. Later on in the chapter she wonders why any vampire bothers to try avoiding eating humans. Apparently Bella has a very low opinion of her own species, which is backed up by her dissociating humanity and beauty last chapter, and can’t fathom the very simple answer of “eating people is wrong and some vampires may not want to do it on principle”.

Par for the course for Villain Protagonist Yandere Bella.

There’s one last bit of Bella’s psychopathic nature showing this chapter, though it needs some context. When Bella and Edward get back to Bella’s house, Edward unlocks and opens the door using a hidden key that Bella never showed him. Soon enough Edward reveals that he’s been… visiting her to watch her sleep almost every night ever since Mike asked Bella out to the dance in chapter 4 (so he wasn’t the one who put snow chains on Bella’s tires). Unlike any sane person in the world, who would be creeped out and terrified, Bella is flattered by Edward’s constant stalking. The worst she can say about Edward’s behaviour is that she gets embarrassed at the thought of him hearing what she says when she sleep-talks. And those fears are quickly alleviated when Edward says that what she sleep-talks about is nothing to be ashamed of.

Well, not only is Bella at least mildly insane, she’s also a hypocrite. In this very same chapter, Charlie gets suspicious of Bella being exhausted (Edward hides whenever Charlie’s about to approach his daughter) and starts thinking she’s seeing a boy behind his back. Bella shoots down Charlie’s assumption that she’s seeing Mike by putting him in the friend zone, but it doesn’t completely negate his suspicions. Not only is Bella surprised by Charlie’s observational skills (your father is a cop, you idiot!), she fully expects Charlie to check her room without warning at midnight to make sure she isn’t sneaking out… and is annoyed by the prospect.

So invading Bella’s privacy and sneaking into her room at night is only okay if Edward is the one doing it.

Of course it is, because Edward is the beautiful vampire that could turn her into an equally beautiful vampire and Charlie is the ugly human directly responsible for her very existence as an equally ugly human. The hypocrisy betrays Bella’s pro-vampire, anti-human moral myopia.

Bella isn’t the only hypocrite this chapter either. The reason Edward started… visiting Bella? He got jealous of Mike getting close to Bella and wanted to make sure of whether or not Bella liked him back. Cue his relief – and continued visits – when Bella said “Edward” in her sleep that first night.

You read that right.

The stalking didn’t start because Bella was useless and he wanted to protect her at all times, no. It started because Edward was jealous. Fucking jealous. He didn’t like the idea of Bella ending up with Mike and wanted her all for himself. It puts what he did in chapter 5 in a new light too. The reason Edward pulled a Creeper Cullen and took Bella away from Mike as they were heading to the infirmary during the blood typing lab?

He wanted to rub the fact that Bella was his in Mike’s face. He’s a sore winner, nothing more or less. This behaviour didn’t start in Eclipse, folks; Edward’s always been a possessive asshole.

And Edward has the nerve to call Mike vile. Edward apparently read something awful coming from Mike’s mind and was repulsed at the idea of Bella being in love with someone who could think something like that.

Well I wouldn’t know about Mike’s vile thoughts because they don’t show in his actions. The chapter is titled Mind over Matter because Edward gives that as his reason for why it’s getting easier for him to curb his thirst for Bella’s blood, but it could certainly apply to Mike too. As bad as some of Mike’s thoughts might be, he doesn’t let them dictate his actions and with only one exception (asking Bella out in front of Jessica in chapter 6) Mike has always done the right thing. And as soon as he realizes that he’s done something wrong he apologizes and takes steps to correct it.

Which is more than I can say for Edward, who never stops eavesdropping on people with his mind-reading, or breaking into Bella’s house to watch her sleep, or seeing Bella in general, even after he points out himself what’s wrong with all of these things.

Mike takes genuine responsibility for his mistakes while Edward just keeps sinning his ass off. More than anything, that’s proof that Mike is already more of a man at seventeen than Edward is after a whole century.

If this was supposed to be a straight romance, then Bella and Edward should have been more like Jessica and Mike respectively.

Of course, this isn’t a straight romance, so I’m fine with viewing Mike and Jessica as Edward and Bella’s Good Counterparts and leave it at that.

Unless either of them do something particularly awesome. Then I will definitely point that out like I always have.

I’m going to close this review off with an observation I had that is less personal. At one point Bella asks Edward, if he was turned by Carlisle and Carlisle was turned by someone else, then where did vampirism start? Edward’s answer is more or less: “We don’t know. Could be evolution, or Creationism, or anything. Or whatever was the force that brought together all predators and prey.”

Because of this non-answer and the passage about vampirism’s buffs in chapter 13, I am almost certain that Meyer does not understand how evolution works. Evolution is the result of generations of species changing to adapt to their environment. For example, the closest living relative of the Woolly Mammoth is the Asian Elephant. But they’re drastically different; the Woolly Mammoth had large tusks and thick fur while the Asian Elephant has neither of these things. Why the distinction? The Woolly Mammoth lived during the ice age. It needed the thick fur to keep warm in the freezing climate and it needed the large tusks to break through ice and reach drinkable water. As the ice age ended, the climate got warmer and water became more easily accessible. The large tusks were no longer needed and the thick fur became a liability, so over time those features were lost to the generations.

As Edward points out in chapter 13, the vampire’s advantages are excessive and their beauty is superfluous; those good looks are not needed when they can already easily outrun and overpower their intended prey. It reads more like vampire venom is an unnatural bio-weapon designed by a human mind to give its subject every advantage imaginable in any circumstance imaginable, whether it’s necessary for survival or not.

And I have a feeling that the tale of The First Vampire won’t be explored regardless, because Edward’s non-answer also sounds like code for “how vampirism started doesn’t matter and you better accept that”. That is a shame, because going into who started vampirism and why are questions that I really want explored.

That’s all. Next chapter is titled The Cullens. It’s rather obvious what’s going to happen next.

#Twilight review #anti Bella Swan #Bella Swan is an idiot #creeper cullen #Edward and Bella is abuse #Mike Newton is awesome #Rosalie Hale is awesome #Bella Swan is a hypocrite #tropes #hypocrite #artistic license evolution #villain protagonist #the sociopath #good counterpart

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mazurah · 7 years

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Lost in Time Ch. 8: Blade - An Elder Scrolls Fanfic

Chapter Summary: Ma’zurah and Fayrl steal a key.

Cross posted from Ao3. Chapter Rating: M for mild sexual situations and mild self harm/religious bloodletting.

First Chapter - Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

Lost in Time Chapter 8: Blade

When the voice of Mephala subsided, Fayrl’s knees buckled under him, and he dropped to the stone floor with a thud. He stared at the door for a moment, still trying to understand what had happened.

“I am to be Mephala’s Champion? I…”

Fayrl moved forward, grasping at the door handle and pulled on it, but it did not move.

He turned to Ma'zurah, clasping both of her hands in his. “We must find the boy and get this door open. If there is a purpose to our being here, we should endeavor to complete it with haste. Perhaps that is why we were both brought here, by the fate of the Three. I still do not understand it.”

He laughed suddenly. “You are of far more importance in this than am I. If Mephala wishes me to act as your second, then I shall gladly take up the charge. So long as she wills it, I will serve you with loyalty.” His eyes darted away. “It may not always be easy for me. Probably not for you either. But know that your goals are now mine.”

Ma'zurah sat in a daze, trying to sort through mixed emotions. She still struggled with the physical euphoria of being praised by a god, but… “This means we are not going back.” she whispered. “Ma'zurah thought she was done with prophecies…”

“Wait, what?“ Fayrl had been too caught up in the idea of becoming Mephala’s Champion to have registered that. “What do you mean we aren’t going back? Surely if we complete this task we will be returned.” He had to try hard to keep the tinge of panic from his voice.

Ma'zurah stood slowly, blinking at her surroundings as though seeing them for the first time. She reached out a hand to assist Fayrl to his feet.

“She named Fayrl Champion ‘in this age’, and warned Ma'zurah of a task bigger than one god can assign. Ma'zurah is already the Champion of Azurah. If gods are assigning their Champions to assist each other with tasks, there must be something truly huge occurring. We are not going back…”

Fayrl shook his head. “No. Just because we have a big task to accomplish does not mean we are not going to be going back.” He refused to believe that he would never see those he loved again. That he would have missed the whole of his son’s life. That he would not have been there for Avon the next time his parents attempted to marry him off. That he would not help in the protection of his land or people. He would never accept that he would not see his daelekil or little Khes again. “We will be their Champions here, then we will return to our time and continue where we left off. Who knows, I might still be alive somewhere in your time. I would love to have you visit me.”

Ma'zurah laughed bitterly. “You would be over seven hundred years old. Ma'zurah has only met a few mer who have achieved that kind of age, and they were all wizards of great power. Telvanni. It is not likely. And if you are to be Champion in this age, you are not to be Champion in your own. Ma'zurah knows… she knows what it is like to be the plaything of the gods.”

Ma'zurah shuddered and closed her eyes, pushing the intrusive remembrance of the deep knell of huge bells from her mind. “What a fool you are. I’m a god. What a grand and intoxicating innocence. How could you be so naive? There is no escape!” Voryn taunted from her memories. “My people look upon the elements, and see there written a divine testament to my Lordship!” Ayem unhelpfully added. No, she told the memories. Be silent. They are dead–dead and gone and divorced from power. She brought to mind Azurah’s benevolent smile instead, but the memory felt colder than it once had. Ma'zurah took a deep breath and opened her eyes again.

Fayrl saw the dark look come over Ma'zurah and decided a distraction was in order. “You do not give me near enough credit,” he bemoaned. “Why, I heard tale of a devout follower of Mephala who was granted life more than twice that. They say she had served so well that she was allowed to absorb the youth of each of those she gave unto Mephala.” He sighed wistfully. “If I am granted the role of Champion, even if only in this time, there is reason enough to believe in the hope of the strange and rare coming to pass.” He had to believe it was true. To give up on that hope was too painful. They still did not yet understand their situation enough to make any sort of assumptions.

Ma'zurah shook her head. “We need to hurry. Only fools keep the Princes waiting.” Ma'zurah took Fayrl’s hand again and cast invisibility on them both. Following a sudden a playful impulse, Fayrl scooped Ma'zurah easily into his arms, “Allow me,” he said, carrying her through the kitchens, half dancing out of the way of the servants moving about.

Ma'zurah stifled a squeak and clung to Fayrl’s neck until he delivered her safely to the main hall. He set her down out of sight of the kitchens behind a column, and the invisibility spell wore off. “I am to serve you, you should make good use of all of my skills, Nerevarine.” He winked at her.

Ma'zurah gave Fayrl an indignant glare. “What in all the Mundus does Fayrl think he is doing?!”

Fayrl gave her a goofy smile. “I simply wish to make things easier on you. There’s no harm in that, is there?”

Before Ma'zurah had the opportunity to respond, a small figure darted to their side, and an eager Nelkir looked up at them. “You’re back! What did she say? Will she talk to me again?”

Fayrl looked down at the boy, belatedly realizing that he had forgotten in his excitement to ask about the boy. Or about anything else for that matter. Talking to gods often left one a bit disoriented or focused on other things.

“Ah, Nelkir!” Fayrl said smoothly, “She told me she needed me to fulfill a task before anything else. A task which she told me she needs your help to complete.” He leaned down so he could whisper. “You are to show us how to open the door the Lady is behind. She said you are the only one we can trust to tell us how to open it.”

“Really? She said that?” Nelkir gave an excited bounce. “They put magic on the door. There’s only one way to open it, and that’s with a key. There are only two keys–my father has one, and Farengar, the wizard, has the other. If I could have gotten a key, I would have done it already, but they keep the keys on them all the time. Maybe you can do something though.” The boy paused and grinned darkly. “If you can’t get the key off Farengar, you could just get rid of him. No one will miss Farengar. I promise you.”

Fayrl exchanged a look with Ma’zurah. “You are eager to see blood?” he asked the boy. “If it is mere blood you wish for, there can be better sport than that. A court wizard will be too noticeable.” He dropped his voice. “Besides, he may have more valuable secrets.”

Fayrl straightened and glanced about. “The best ones to kill are those who truly deserve death. Those who commit the most vile of sins. Those who do the world more harm than good by being in it. That is how you make people overlook it. Kill a murderer or a rapist, and as long as you are careful, you can always claim self defense. But only ever take a life if it is necessary. Senseless bloodshed comes back to get you,” Fayrl warned. Nelkir looked awed at Fayrl’s advice. Ma'zurah looked amused. She shook her head and glanced around the hall to regain her bearings. The tables were empty now, and only one servant remained, clearing the last of the cutlery. The hall looked darker, and through the high windows near the roof, Ma'zurah could see that twilight had dimmed the atmosphere. Azurah’s hour.

“Bo iso jai mor di pala q'zi tsin'ra vaba traajirka,” Ma'zurah murmured quietly to the stars winking at her in the gathering dusk through the tiny windows, “aqir suneja dov'kono vaba nuruj dena. Durravar tohe'i Nirni ako teko'i tenurr; buno kerin zalkavi di Azurah, an etofa vabase vakona di aqir.”

But on the most dark of days when all is taken, light hearts never are left behind. Worship through Nirni’s firey night; bow within the Temple of Azurah, and there will be a vision of light.

Ma'zurah smiled softly to herself.

Fayrl stared at her. Ta’agra always sounded so lovely to his ears, though he spoke it not at all. Sure, he had picked up the odd idea of what some words meant. He’d heard Qau-dar hiss ‘Sheggori mer’ under his breath enough times to understand the meaning. But as for anything more substantial, he had no means of understanding. Azura’s name and the word for Nirn was all he could glean from her words, hardly anything of use if she was trying to give him instruction.

Nelkir gave Ma'zurah a puzzled look before turning back to Fayrl. “Farengar is over there.” He pointed across the hall. “What should I do to help?”

Fayrl returned his attention back to Nelkir. “Do you happen to know if the wizard keeps the key in his pocket or around his neck?” Fayrl knew it was risky to try to seduce a wizard blindly. If he could get any clues, he might be able to work something out, perhaps with Ma’zurah’s assistance.

“Um… on a chain around his neck I think,” the boy responded hesitantly. Ma'zurah looked away from the patch of twilight, back to Fayrl. “Ma'zurah knows some spells. Chameleon and silence. It may be better to wait for him to be asleep and try it then. In the meantime, Ma'zurah would at least like to talk to the wizard.”

Fayrl thought for a moment. “Ma’zurah, do you still have the vial I gave you earlier?”

Ma'zurah nodded and dipped her hand into an inner pocket of her robe to produce the small vial.

Fayrl grinned. “Then getting him to sleep isn’t going to be a problem.”

He nodded to himself as the plan took shape in his mind. “Could you give the vial to Nelkir, Ma'zurah?” Fayrl asked.

Ma'zurah raised an eyebrow at Fayrl, but handed the vial to the boy.

Leaning down, Fayrl stared the boy directly in the eye. “You will have the most important task. When I give the signal, you will need to drop the contents of the liquid onto the wizard. But you must be careful not to let any of it touch you, or Ma’zurah or I, do you understand?”

Nelkir nodded seriously to Fayrl. “What is the signal? What do I do until you give the signal?”

“Stay somewhere very close by, where you can listen. I know you are good at that or the Lady would not have chosen you. When you hear me say, ‘good sera, can I ask you about a potion of a more personal nature?’, that is when you should make sure to drop the potion on him.” He straightened again. “Your method is up to you to choose. And I will ensure that if something goes wrong, you will not be harmed. Now, do the Lady proud and we shall all have a reward.”

The boy flashed Fayrl a wicked grin. “Got it.” He casually walked over to a shelf by the door to the wizard’s rooms and began flipping through a book.

Fayrl felt confident that the boy and his drive to succeed would serve them well. Perhaps the task would help to encourage his faith. And learning responsibility at a young age was so important.

Ma'zurah’s eyes glinted with mischief, but she composed her face into a picture of innocence, walked to the wizard’s doorway, and rapped on the frame to get his attention.

Farengar turned at the noise. “Good evening. Are you the assistant the Jarl promised me to help with my research? It is rather late, but I suppose the sooner we are introduced the better.”

Ma'zurah blinked. “Ah, apologies, but no. Ma'zurah was told that the court wizard is the best person in Whiterun to consult for things of a magical nature. Ma'zurah is doing some research, and was looking for information about Dragons. She was also hoping to consult a local Almanac, and perhaps the court wizard has some history books this one might borrow?”

Farengar looked confused. “You’re here for information about Dragons and you aren’t the assistant the Jarl promised me? Perhaps this is the divines answering my prayers. I had thought this damnable conflict had claimed everyone’s attentions. But then just this afternoon the Jarl sent for me and told me there were rumored sightings of Dragons in the next hold over and two alleged survivors had already made their way into our city.” He finished fiddling with his enchantment and turned properly towards her, starting in surprise when he noticed Fayrl standing silently behind her. “My apologies. I will help with what I can, but I have very little time. As I am always being reminded by everyone here, who haven’t the slightest clue about scholarship or magic, there is a time limit on everything. As if you can put a limit on arcane knowledge.”

“This one thanks the court wizard. And, ah… actually, these two are the survivors of the Dragon attack. That is why Ma'zurah wanted information about Dragons. Is the court wizard researching Dragons?”

The wizard straightened up. “Ah, I see. So you have come from the Jarl. I will need you to help with my research. I will of course assist however I can, provided you are able to assist me in turn. I have a long list of questions that only you two might be able to answer.” He hurriedly rummaged around through the drawers of his desk until he found some parchment and a quill, taking a seat at the desk.

He abruptly stood back up. “My apologies, in my haste I did not introduce myself, I am Farengar Secret-Fire, the Jarl’s wizard, though he calls my research puttering. Might I have the names of yourself and your companion?” He waited, his quill posed to take notes.

Ma'zurah blinked. “Uh… this one is called Ma’zurah, but Ma'zurah was not sent by the Jarl. She came on her own. Ma'zurah would really just like to borrow some books about Dragons, some history books, and to check an almanac.”

Nelkir stealthily poked his head around the corner, and crept around the edge of the wall while Farengar was writing Ma'zurah’s name. He made his way behind the court wizard, and hid under the alchemy table.

The wizard frowned and glanced up. “You only came for the books?”

He set his quill into the inkpot. “Do you have no questions for me? I have been studying Dragon lore for the better part of my career. And I have so many questions for you.”

Fayrl moved forward to the wizard’s desk. “We came to you precisely because we had heard of your expertise in the topic. Do you have anything in your years of research that might help us to understand what we saw? We are happy to exchange information for information.”

Ma'zurah sighed and exchanged a surreptitious glance with the boy under the alchemy table and began looking around the room for books that might be useful. She spotted three books with the word ‘Dragon’ in the title on the wizard’s desk, and a copy of the Third Era Timeline on a bookshelf to her left.

Fayrl’s words seemed to return some strength to the wizard. “I think we can work out a deal. May I have your name please?” He picked back up his quill.

“My name is Fayrl Alari,” Fayrl replied with a slight bow. “A pleasure to meet someone so well learned in history and magic. I worried I might not be so lucky as to find intellectual conversation. Thank you for the opportunity.”

Something close to a smile, or at least, it was not a frown, came over the man’s face. “Thank you Fayrl. I suppose since you have been so kind as to answer one of my questions, I shall answer one of yours.”

Fayrl gestured to Ma’zurah. “My dear, why don’t you ask the first question.”

Ma'zurah looked frustrated for a second as she contemplated her options. Her most urgent questions could only be answered by books, else it would spark more questions about why she did not already know the information.

Her brow cleared suddenly as she recalled something. “Do Dragons talk? Ma'zurah thought she heard it speak.”

Farengar held up his finger and walked to his shelves, searching until he found the volume he was looking for, “Dragon Language: Myth no More”. He flipped through the pages, then set it down before her on the top of his pile of notes.

“They do indeed. In this volume Hela Thrice-Versed has written down some of the Dragon speech and translated portions of text. Fascinating things! And you said you heard the Dragon speak!” He pulled out his book and began to take notes. “Can you recall what it was that it said? Or perhaps what it might have sounded like?”

Ma'zurah shook her head. “No… Ma'zurah was too busy trying to survive to remember any words.”

She ran her fingers across the Dovahzul runes. The thought gave her pause. Dovahzul, where did that word come from? Why was it familiar? The runes seemed like they should be so easy to read if only she had the key. Just one tiny, crucial piece of knowledge.

Farengar nodded. “A shame, I would have been very interested in that. If you want to know more of the Dragon language, the Greybeards are the ones to ask, they speak the Dragon tongue. Though, few pilgrims manage to make it all the way up the seven thousand steps to High Hrothgar.”

Fayrl looked at Ma’zurah seeing how much more information she might want to glean from the wizard before he gave the signal.

“Do you have another question then?”

Ma'zurah shook her head, as though to clear it. “Ma'zurah knows almost nothing about the Dragons. She would like to read up on the basics. She can return with more questions tomorrow. Would Master Farengar please just recommend some books for Ma'zurah?”

Farengar pointed to a stack of books across the room. “If you want, I have a couple of books on Dragons themselves. There is a copy of ‘The Dragon War’ and “There be Dragons” somewhere amongst the other history books. And somewhere on the shelf is ‘The Oblivion Crisis’, perhaps beside that volume of ‘The Red Year’? It has a brief section about Akatosh, though that may not be exactly what you are looking for. Please feel free to look through any of the other histories I have there.”

He dipped his quill. “Would you mind describing the behavior of this Dragon when you saw it? Or perhaps the situation concerning its arrival?”

Ma'zurah gathered the books Farengar had mentioned and put them in a small stack while she described the arrival of the great black Dragon and the beginning of their flight from Helgen.

“There is really not much else to tell. It made a noise like a thousand durzog screaming at once in an echoing canyon, and its voice could be heard well before we even saw the creature. Ma'zurah does not relish the thought of encountering it again.” Ma'zurah shrugged.

Farengar took hurried notes. His face lit up with every scrap of new information, and he muttered exclamations of “fascinating” and “interesting” under his breath as he scrawled it all out. When he was done he looked back up. “Was there anything else you wanted to know?”

Fayrl glanced at Ma’zurah. If she was done, he was ready to let the boy have his chance to prove himself.

“Maybe tomorrow. Ma'zurah needs to research…” Ma'zurah picked up another book and added it to her small stack.

Farengar nodded. “Then I have another question for you.”

“Oh, I do have a question, actually, if you don’t mind,” Fayrl said.

Farengar raised an eyebrow. “Go ahead.”

Fayrl smiled sheepishly and walked closer to the wizard, leading the man away from Ma’zurah toward the alchemy table where Nelkir was waiting. He enunciated carefully. “Good sera, can I ask you about a potion of a more personal nature?”

Nelkir had been waiting patiently, and he broke into a predatory grin at the sound of the signal. He unstoppered the vial and carefully crept up behind the wizard. Fayrl had the wizard’s full attention, so he tipped the contents of the vial onto Farengar’s hand–one of the few exposed patches of skin.

Fayrl grinned as he saw the flash of movement. Nelkir was surprisingly nimble and managed to give the wizard a solid direct dose.

“Watch what you are doing with my potions,” cried the wizard, trying to discern what had gotten all over his hand. He grabbed up a cloth by his work station and began to wipe his hand clean, but already it was obvious that the effects were taking hold. He seemed unstable on his feet.

“Oh, pardon me, I am feeling a bit light-headed.” Farengar slid into a nearby chair. “Just give me a moment, please.”

The man set his head in his hands and leaned against the table. He began to slump, his breathing evening out. After a moment, his light snores could be heard.

Fayrl set a small stack of books under the wizard’s head, then slipped his hands under the man’s robes and fished out the key. He showed it to Nelkir. “You have done wonderfully, Nelkir.” He grinned at the boy. “You have a lot of potential. I hope that you continue to grow and learn.”

Nelkir stood straighter at the praise, practically glowing. He gingerly returned the empty vial to Fayrl.

Ma'zurah tucked the stack of books into her pack and gestured for the others to follow. “If we move quickly, we can return the key before he notices it is gone. How long does the potion last?”

Fayrl pocketed the empty vial and a couple of alchemy reagents. “It should give us about two hours. We should have plenty of time to get to the door and replace the key.”

He started out the door, holding his hand out for Ma’zurah’s. “Shall we head back, my fellow Champion? I am happy to carry you if you’d like.”

Ma'zurah shot Fayrl a disdainful look, and vanished from sight. Nelkir squeaked in startlement, then laughed as he caught sight of the slight distortion of air where Ma'zurah had been. He walked after her, trying, and only sometimes succeeding, to keep her in sight. He peeked into the kitchen. There was only one servant left.

Assuming an innocent expression, the boy walked up to the cook’s assistant. “I’m hungry!”

The servant clicked her tongue at him. “Young Master Nelkir! You should really be in bed by now!” She started to herd the boy back upstairs, leaving the path to the basement clear of all observers.

Fayrl gave a small nod of thanks to the departing Nelkir, and then made himself invisible to follow after Ma'zurah. He hurried down the stairs to the locked door. The key felt hot in his sweating hand, and he was as giddy as a child. There was certainly a mystery behind the locked door. What could he possibly be about to discover? He desperately longed to know this secret.

He became visible again beside the locked door, his heart racing. He could hardly catch his breath.

Ma'zurah appeared beside Fayrl, grinning. “What are you waiting for? Open it!”

Fayrl needed no other encouragement. He set the key into the lock and turned it, pulling the door open with his other hand.

A rush of air came surging out of the door for one instant after the door opened, as if something had burst forth from behind it, though there was no sign of anything having left. Fayrl took shaky steps forward as he saw, by the light of the smoky torch in the hall, a long ebony katana sitting on the table in the center of the room. His breath hitched, his eyes stinging. He knew well what the blade was. Could he possibly be worthy of such a weapon?

“My Prince,” he breathed, hesitant to reach out and take it.

Ma'zurah took in the bare, dark room containing a table with a folded piece of paper, and a black sword that seemed to be of Akaviri origin–an ebony dai-katana. She walked forward and picked up the paper, held it at an angle so Fayrl could read, and summoned a palmful of fire to read by.

“To anyone reading this: BEWARE THIS BLADE It is hoped that the only people having access to this room should be the Jarl of Whiterun and his trusted wizard. If anyone else is reading this, please understand the magnitude of your folly, turn around, and never even speak of this room or this blade to anyone. It has corrupted and perverted the desires of great men and women. Yet its power is without equal—to kill while your victim smiles at you. Only a daedra most foul could have concocted such a malevolent and twisted weapon. But it appears that all who wield it end up with the crazed eyes of those wild men who roam the hills chattering with rabbits. It is not to be trifled with. Not even the hottest fires of the Skyforge could melt it; indeed the coals themselves seemed to cool when it was placed within. We cannot destroy it, and we would not have it fall into the hands of our enemies. So we keep it, hidden, dark and deep within Dragonsreach, never to be used. Woe be to any who choose to take it.”

Mephala’s voice returned, closer this time. Ma'zurah gave a soft gasp at the unexpected wash of emotion. “As you may notice, the description of the sword does not match the appearance of my Ebony Blade. Its power has waned through long disuse. Take it, my Champion, and let it drink the blood of deceit. Wash the crafted god’s blood in the spilled blood of mortals! It will nourish you further as you fulfill its true potential!”

Fayrl moved, trance-like after hearing the voice. His hands clasped around the hilt of the sword and the scabbard. He drew the blade towards him. “Yes, my Prince. I shall restore it to its former glory.”

In an instant the blade was unsheathed in his hand. “We should not demand of others that which we are not prepared to give ourselves.”

He turned to Ma’zurah. “I hope you have a healing potion.” He brought the blade down across his arm. There was almost no pain, in fact, it filled him with a sort of ecstasy to be cut by it. As his arm began to drip, he turned the blade this way and that, coating the ebony completely.

Ma'zurah snarled as Fayrl brought the blade down on his arm. Mephala’s laughter filled the room, but Ma'zurah only grabbed Fayrl’s arm and summoned a healing spell. The cut was gone before Ma'zurah put more than a pittance of magicka into the spell. Fayrl breathed a sigh of relief.

“ Wafiit ! Are you touched in the head? That is not how that works!” Ma'zurah lightly smacked Fayrl over the head. “Ebony is the Heart’s blood of Lorkhaj! The Ebony Blade requires mortal heart’s blood from a betrayed victim! Your wafa ma'i ketra does not give it either! Do not do that again!”

“I knew it was said to absorb health, but I was not sure if it would work if you cut yourself.” Fayrl gave Ma'zurah a bright smile. “But look how much happier it looks with a fresh coat of blood on it? I did not wish for it to lose any more power. Hopefully that snack will hold it over until I can give it a better drink.”

Fayrl reached out and took Ma'zurah’s hand. “Thank you,” he said, and lifted her hand to his mouth to kiss the back of it. Now that we have recovered this relic, where shall we go to give it strength? Shall I ask Nelkir about the criminals of the city? I am sure I could make Whiterun a safer place.”

Ma'zurah smacked her face in frustration. “Heart’s blood, sheggorriit , from a betrayed victim–as in, they have to trust you, or it does nothing. And we have more important things to do at this exact moment.”

Ma'zurah pulled away from Fayrl and sank to her knees, placing her hands palms upward atop her thighs. “Clan Mother Mafala, this one begs the wisdom of your secret knowledge, what should this one do next?”

Mephala’s laugh again echoed through the room. “So formal! If you desire more guidance, I am sure My Sister and Sister-Brother, and many other Siblings besides will provide for you against the coming storm. We all have a stake in this weaving, even the Corners in their own way.”

“And what should this one tell the boy?” Ma'zurah asked. “He desires to be a follower.”

“We shall see how he weaves his own fate. Perhaps he may yet prove himself worthy. Take heed, children. Be wary, be watchful, and know that the Spinner spins ever for the faithful.”

Fayrl whispered the Chimeris prayer of thanks the Farseer had taught him, then bowed low. “Thank you, my Prince. I will not disappoint you.”

Fayrl’s body felt hot, almost feverish. He knew what they needed to do, but his desires tugged at him. The sense of presence faded, and Fayrl sighed. “Shall we get this key back where it goes and slip out before any guards notice?” he asked Ma’zurah.

Ma'zurah nodded. She shut the door behind them, and waited for Fayrl to lock it, then led the way up the stairs and back to the wizard’s rooms. Nelkir ran back up to the pair. “What did I miss? What did she say?” he asked eagerly.

Fayrl smiled as he gingerly lifted the wizard’s head and slipped the key back around his neck. “She says she is looking forward to you proving yourself more and more as you get older, Nelkir. You must work hard to learn the truth of her name and nature, to not be led astray by falsehoods. The Lady’s nature is ever changing, and she will throw many challenges at you. Know that she places value upon cleverness and on making the right decision in difficult situations. Only through overcoming the struggles in life can you find your purpose.”

Fayrl’s hand twitched upon the hilt of the Ebony Blade. The wizard was a man who had trusted them. He would be worthy of being the first to wet the blade. To kill him would start to bring this sacred sword back to life, to extend the power of his Prince that much further.

He looked over to Ma’zurah. How would she feel if he were to take a life in front of her? He could give the child a task outside of the room so he would not have to witness the murder. It was still too early for him to witness such things.

Fayrl stroked the hilt of the sword, turning from Ma’zurah back to the wizard, still gently slumbering. He stared at the exposed back of the man’s neck. He was so vulnerable. It would be so simple.

Ma’zurah did not notice Fayrl’s wavering as she knelt in front of the boy. “Ma’zurah is sure the Jarl has you learning from many excellent tutors. You should learn as much as possible from them, especially about other cultures. There is value in skepticism, but you must also keep your mind open to new ideas. Remember, all knowledge is worth having, for knowledge is power in the right hands. You must prove yourself worthy to the Lady, show that you are capable of wielding secrets as tools if you truly wish to follow her. She can be a hard and demanding mistress, but so are all gods in this one’s experience.”

The boy nodded earnestly, his face a mixture of emotions. “That means I have to prove myself before she will speak to me again, doesn’t it?” “Quite likely. But do not be discouraged. She called you spirited, and Ma’zurah thinks that is a good sign.”

The boy smiled.

End Notes:

Ta'agra Translations: http://www.taagra.com/ Sheggori mer = crazy mer wafiit = idiot wafa ma'i ketra = stupid childish play sheggorriit = crazy person (literally ‘one who crazies’)

Ma'zurah’s prayer to Azura is inspired by one found in the mod Tamriel Rebuilt for Morrowind: http://www.tamriel-rebuilt.org The Ta’agra translation had to be significantly modified. The original text reads:

“But on the grimmest of days when all has been taken, let hope never be forsaken. Invoked through Nirn’s fiery night, kneel upon the shrine of Azura and let there be a glimpse of light.”

Fayrl’s tumblr: @talldarkandroguesome

Fayrl’s husband, Qau-dar, belongs to @warmsandstraveler. Fayrl’s author has an ongoing, publically available RP going with him and several other people in an alternate timeline in which nobody gets lost in time.

You can read the journal of Fayrl’s ‘brother’, Avon, at @avon-m-dunaag. He participates in the ongoing, publically available RP with Fayrl, though his updates are not nearly as frequent.

Screenshot of Fayrl Screenshot of Ma’zurah Check out my art tag for more pictures of Fayrl and Ma’zurah.

Constructive criticism is welcome. We also really like it if you leave comments on Ao3.

#tes #elder scrolls lore #skyrim #eso #morrowind #my writing #fanfic #lost in time tes fanfic #fayrl indoril #ma'zurah the khajiit #Rated M

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