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thiswasinevitableid · 4 years ago

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17 chosen and 20 lunar for Indruck, nsfw, please!

Here you go!

Lieutenants Log, stardate 10015, Joseph Stern recording

We’ve finally arrived at an agreement with the Aquariads, the species who control this moon. They will allow our research team unfettered access to the planet, but at an odd price. They requested one of our crew agree to be married off to a high ranking member of their governing council.

I suspect, but cannot prove, that this is not a desirable being to be married to. He’s a revered seer, and yet they’re willing to couple him to a human and not one of their own? Suspicious.

Myself and the other single members of the crew were all given extensive questionnaires on everything from our sexual preferences to our daily habits. It took me a good hour and a half to finish it.

After a full earth day of waiting, we received word that chief astrobotanist Duck Newton was the chosen human. I have no idea how this happened, as Duck has little tolerance for what he views as “woo-woo” things like precognition. But he was chosen all the same.

Because this is Duck, he grumbled a bit, but cheered up when he learned he would only be required to stay with his new husband for three weeks before joining us on our field word, and that we can send him specimens for identification and research. If we decide Aquaria is the planet we’ve been looking for and establish more permanent research stations here, Duck will be expected to spend at least a few days a month with the seer. Mama made it clear that if the idea was truly not something he could agree to, she would call the deal off and we could try another approach. Duck said that wouldn’t be necessary, and that he could think of far worse things they could have asked of us.

We deposit him at the seers home tomorrow. After that, we begin our exploration of Aquaria, fourth moon of the plant Oceana and (hopefully) the home of the antidote we’ve been searching for.

Joseph Stern, Lieutenant on the spaceship Amnesty, signing off.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Duck waves to the skiff as it pulls away, his planetside bag slung over his shoulder. There’s only one way to go; down the single stone levee, decorated with beautiful tiles, to the massive mansion at the end.

It reminds him of the photos of Venice he’s seen in old National Geographics, beautiful buildings floating atop a planet of water. He knows Aquaria has islands, but the majority of it’s cities are on or near the water because most of its residents live beneath the waves. They remind Duck of mermaids, with scaled tails and fins giving way to humanoid upper bodies and faces. As far as creatures to get politically married off to, he could be staring down worse.

There’s still the problem of not knowing why this mer is off by himself and without a partner. Or, as becomes obvious once Duck is inside, any company at all. The other high-ranking aquariads they’ve met come with miles of attendants; here there’s only the high, curved ceilings and rippling water. Maybe the guy is shy? Or maybe he’s a dick? Or just real fucking scary to look at?

As he walks further into the house, he notices the tiled walls are covered in striking murals that, when coupled with the odd half-light allowed in by the green glass windows, makes him feel as though he’s wandering through a dream. The pools and canals criss-cross the floor, and really the ground is more water than concrete, the fact he’s able to walk at all is a concession to the fact some aquariads evolved to be land dwelling.

A splash makes him turn, and in the pool to his right a black fin cuts the water. He steels himself to not insult the alien he’s now legally attached to. The figure rises from the water, setting his arms on the edge of the stony floor and Duck steps back as a wide, toothy smile appears in an angular face.

“Hello, Duck Newton.” His tail is the same black as his fin, and his silver hair is tucked behind ears of the same color, which Duck has learned can fan out as a way of communicating.

“Uh, hi. You must be-”

“Indrid Cold, yes. Apologies, a peril of my profession is that I will always be a little bit ahead.”

“Right. So, uh, guess we’re gonna be seein a lot of each other the next couple of weeks.” He aims for a joking, nonchalant tone.

“Yes, as we’re married.” He cocks his head, confused, then grins brighter, “Oh, oh I see, you are attempting levity because this is all very awkward. I, ah, I appreciate that. Here, let me show you where you’ll be staying” Indrid pushes off the wall, swimming gracefully on his back as Duck follows him down the hall. The center of the house has more skylights, allowing him to see that his host’s fins aren’t pure black; small silver and white dots are scattered across it. He wonders if he could find constellations in them.

“Here we are.” Indrid gestures to a room, one where the only water is in the form of two deep blue half-circles on the left and right walls. The center of the room is a large bed, linens gleaming whites and pale greens, and the skylight nestles against a chandelier of finely detailed rosey glass.

“Holy shit.” Duck sets his bag down on a trunk near the door.

“Do you like it?” A flash of yellow up Indrid’s fin, echoed in the dots on his tail.

“I mean, anythin looks ritzy after months on a spaceship but” he turns, smiles, “yeah, I do. Thanks for giving me such nice digs.”

“You are most welcome. Now, this room is designed to give guests privacy. See that red panel on the wall? If you press it, it opens the pool on that side up to the rest of the house, allowing myself or servants to come in and help you.”

“So you do have staff.”

“They’re, ah, more like errand folk. None live here.” Indrid clears his throat, “I can show you the rest of the house, although if you need to sleep I can let you be. I am, ah, not entirely clear on where your internal clock sits now.”

“Aquaria’s days are about four days longer than earth’s, so I ain’t too thrown off. Happy to see more of the place.”

Indrid nods, and Duck follows him out of the bedroom. Most of the other rooms they pass are sparse squares of walkways and still water, under which lies the parts of the house Indrid uses. When they reach Indrid’s quarters, he spots what looks to be an artists’ studio under the clear blue water.

“You paint?” He kneels and peers down for a better look, Indrid bobbing nearby.

“Indeed. Art helps me make sense of my visions, and I enjoy it besides. In fact, all the murals you see in this house are my doing. There are even more under water.”

“Damn, that’s fuckin incredible. If I get my SCUBA gear rigged up, maybe I can get a tour?”

“Scu--oh, yes, an underwater breathing apparatus. We have a much smaller device that can help you breathe and sea down here” he dips his head at the pool, “unfortunately, the one I commissioned for you will not arrive until close to the end of your stay. They, ah, did not give me much time to prepare. Hence the lack of many comforts I might otherwise give, as well as places for you to and I to talk, eat or do, ah, other activities together.” The yellow intermittently flashing up his fin gives way to a burst of pink.

Oh, right. Duck pulls up his infopad (given a generous waterproofing treatment prior to his leaving Amnesty) and opens the contract he signed.

“Yeah. About that. Says here they expect us to, uh, ‘consummate’ the marriage.”

“I’m aware” Indrid’s voice creeps up.

“Do you...wanna do that now?” He spins a finger in the water.

“I, ah, I beg your pardon?”

“I mean, seems like we could just get it outta the way, rather than have the fact we gotta fuck someone we didn’t pick hangin over our heads?”

“This...this is not at all how I wanted this to go.”

Duck looks up and immediately wishes he could reverse time; Indrid looks genuinely hurt, ears flicked back like a scolded dog.

“Duck I, ah, well, you did not choose me, that is true. But I chose you.”

“Well, fuck.” He sits down with a heavy sigh, “figured some big wigs used those surveys to pick me out. Guess what they say about assumin things is true.”

“.....”

“It makes an ass outta you and me?”

Indrid blinks, then snickers, “Your humor is part of why I chose you. It is very bad, but also extremely good.”

“Glad you think so. Pretty sure Mama was ready to blow me out the airlock for some of the ones I made on the way here.” He knows he’s dodging the conversation they should be having, but how the fuck is he supposed to respond when an alien mermaid tells him he picked him to be his husband?

Indrid swims over so he can rest his arms and chin on the stone, glancing shyly up at Duck as he says, “I suppose I also made an ass of myself, as you would say, by assuming you would not see this as an obligation.”

“I mean, even if you chose me, don’t this feel like an obligation to you?”

“No. For me, it is a reminder that most of my kind are too afraid of me to even give me a chance to court them. And that the council thinks I will get into too much trouble without someone to distract me now and then, and decides the company I am worthy of is an alien explorer with no interest in me.”

“I mean, the only reason we agreed to this is because there might be a plant on Aquaria that can treat the illness runnin rampant back home. So at least it’s for a good cause?”

Indrid flicks his ears, red running up his fin, “What you are doing is noble. What I am doing is being used as a way to keep your exploration team in line.”

Duck winces, “Fuck, I’m, uh, I’m just gonna stop talkin now.”

For an agonizing five minutes they sit there in silence, contemplating their situation and stealing glances at each other. Duck always tried to do the right thing, tried to live an honest life and treat the people in it with respect. He’s been kind and polite to beings up and down the galaxy. He can extend some of that to his own husband, can’t he?

“Indrid?”

The alien raises his head.

“Can we start over?”

“Yes. But I do not see how-”

Duck holds out his hand, “Name’s Duck. Thanks for invitin me in and lookin after me the few weeks.”

Indrid’s smile widens as he understands the game, and he takes the human’s hand, “A pleasure to meet you. I am Indrid, seer to the court of Aquaria, and your anxious husband in spite of the now-changing, much more pleasant futures.”

They finish their tour, the humid air less stifling in the wake of their confessions. Indrid shows him the kitchen, the sitting room, and the gardens which, to Duck’s delight, are as much above the water as below.

After that, Indrid excuses himself to attend to seer duties and Duck goes back to his room to unpack. As he’s putting away his toothbrush and razor near a large, elaborate tub carved from golden stone, one of Indrid’s admissions from earlier floats through his mind, bobbing there like a buoy until he gets a chance to ask it.

When they’re in the gardens, Duck taking notes as Indrid dives and surfaces with new things to show him, the human slips his feet into the water and says, “Indrid? You said my offerin to fuck you wasn’t what you wanted. What, uh, what did you want?”

The alien blinks, slowly, pink and teal flashing in his tail, “It is a bit silly in retrospect, but since I knew we would not have time for a proper human marriage courtship, I thought I could mimic the process leading to a one night stand; that way you would be romanced in a manner that made you both comfortable with me and the concept of sex with a relative stranger.”

Duck chuckles, “Always wild to find out how human stuff gets interpreted by the rest of the galaxy. How’d you even come up with what you were gonna do?”

Indrid crosses his arms, mock affronted, “I will have you know I have seen a great deal of human media, courtesy of our minister of defense.”

“Oh yeah?” Duck shifts onto his stomach, sends a small splash Indrid’s way, “what was this night gonna involve, then?”

“Food, dim and therefore, apparently, romantic lighting, dancing to sensual music, and then hopefully some kissing.” The pink in his tail intensifies, “and then working out exactly how to have sex human.”

The mixture of enthusiasm and being utterly out of his element charms Duck to no end; not to mention it’s the most thought someone’s put into a hook-up with him in the last three years.

“Seems to me you got the gist of it. Though I really wanna know what you picked out for ‘sensual music.’”

A playful glint enters Indrid’s glowing eyes, “I will show you, but we must go through the whole evening, otherwise it will seem like a disjointed choice. With, ah, with the understanding that you are not obligated to kiss me at the end.

“You got a deal.”

“Wonderful” Indrid claps his hands together, “wait right here.”

Indrid disappears in a whoosh of black and silver. When he returns, he hoists six opaque domes onto the floor in front of Duck, “I initially planned to eat in the sitting room, but you like this room much better, so we can have dinner here.” With that, he double-taps the top of each dome, revealing a confusing buffet.

“Uh, are those french fries?”

“Yes. You are from the United States of America, and so I chose foods that would make you feel at home.” Indrid points to each plate in turn, “french fries, steak, a turkey with cranberries, lobster, macaroni with cheese, and an apple pie.”

The pie is covered with an odd, yellow meringue, the turkey is the size of a quail, and the black shell suggests this is not a kind of lobster he’s eaten before, but Duck can’t stop smiling.

“Also I took care to be sure none of the necessary substitutions were poisonous to you.”

“Thanks, Indrid.” He means it; in their travels they’ve learned it’s not only humans who think everyone lives and eats exactly the way they do.

Everything except the french fries tastes strange but he finds the meal, like it’s orchestrator, intriguing in it’s oddity. Indrid brings two cool, white bottles from below, offers Duck tastes of each. One is like the celery soda he drank on a dare, the other like root beer if it wasn’t gross. He keeps the second one next to him as the meal progresses, Indrid asking him all kinds of questions about botany and himself. When dinner is over, Indrid guides him two rooms over, grinning excitedly.

“I will start the music; one moment.”

A few seconds after he dives, a chrome cylinder descends from the ceiling and music fills the air.

Ninety-nine red balloons

Floating in the summer sky

Panic bells, it's red alert!

There's something here from somewhere else!

He giggles, sits down so it’s easier to call, “Indrid? Not sure you got the right song bud.”

A silver-haired head pops up, “Not romantic?”

“Nope.”

“Hmmmm” He lifts a small, white rectangle and the song changes.

He was a famous trumpet man from out Chicago way

He had a boogie style that no one else could play

He was the top man at his craft

But then his number came up and he was gone with the draft

He's in the army now, a blowin' reveille

He's the boogie woogie bugle boy of Company B

“N-not quite” The laugh is stronger now.

“Drat. How about….”

I threw a wish in the well, don't ask me, I'll never tell

I looked to you as it fell and now you're in my way

Indrid looks hopefully at him.

“Ain’t what I’d call sensual, but you’d hear it at the kind of place you’d pick up a date.”

The alien beams, starts shifting back and forth to the beat, “shall we dance?”

Duck blushes, pretends he doesn’t know why, “Uh, probably should have said this earlier, but I ain’t much of a dancer.”

Indrid swims to him, stopping close enough that Duck can see the lines on his face that reveal they’re close in age, “That’s alright. Sometimes conversing while having a drink is acceptable behavior, correct?”

“Yeah.” Duck doesn’t bother to hide how intently he’s watching as Indrid dives, his form elegant and ethereal beneath the water.

They sit sipping a hard cider that tastes of papaya and flowers instead of apples until the three other moons glow bright in the skylight. Duck yawns, and excuses himself for the night.

“Thanks for a great evenin, Indrid.”

“You are most welcome. A pity I could not make the music work.”

He’s here for another three weeks at least. And Indrid is floating through the darkening water like a dream he’s tempted to chase.

“Guess you’ll just have to try again.” Duck winks.

Indrid’s ears frill slightly and he flashes bright purple, “Yes, my dear husband, I suppose I will.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Duck’s routine is not the one he usually has while docked on a planet. Every day for the last week, he wakes up, joins Indrid for a leisurely swim, works on his research, and then spends his evening with a weirdly cute alien trying to accurately recreate the earth dating experience for him.

The second night, he asked if Indrid would bring him some of his favorites for their next meal. The steamed coconut crab was a hit. The mantis-squid served still swimming, less so. From then on, when Indrid put in his food orders to the cooks at the main court, it was for a mixture of earth and Aquariad dishes, each one leading him or Indrid to share an anecdote from their time on their home planet.

For the last two nights, he’s lifted the partitions on the pools in his room so Indrid can talk with him until neither of them can keep their eyes open. He wonders if it would be rude to ask him to stay, to sleep in such a small space just so he could be the first thing Duck sees when he wakes up.

There must be floating beds he could put in Indrid’s room, or maybe a hammock he could hang in the garden.

Duck now understands that Indrid’s powers make him politically valuable, but also mean his fellow residents of the lunar city see him as dangerous, as knowing things they’d rather keep secret. Duck understands, especially if their only time encountering the seer is when he glides his formidable, dark body from the depths of his inner sanctum. But all he can see is his Indrid, awkward and well-meaning, whose fear of Duck disliking him has given way to genuine affection. His Indrid, who now pulls himself up onto the stones so they can sit shoulder to shoulder after breakfast or before dinner, whose tail Duck’s fingers beg to caress.

His Indrid who is, at this moment, continuing his losing battle with earth music.

“How about this?”

Danke schoen, darling, danke schoen

Thank you for all the joy and pain

“Oh fuck no” Duck guffaws, “anything but him, ‘Drid, he’s a boner killer if there ever was one.”

“I don’t think he’s that bad, but I will be speaking to Vincent about his human music suggestions.”

“For the love of god, turn it off.” Duck flails for the remote.

Indrid sticks out his tongue, “Very well, but I am this close to pulling you down here and seeing if you can do any better.”

“You wouldn’t dare” Duck is still laughing, eyes closing as he does, which means he gets only a splash of warning before he’s yanked into the pool. He comes up giggling and spluttering, “now, is that any way to treat your husband?”

Indrid’s laugh is a siren song, “No, I suppose not.” The music clicks off as Indrid steadies him by curving his tail behind his legs, “how should I treat you instead?”

Duck drapes his arms over Indrid’s shoulders, “You been treatin me pretty damn well, dunkin me aside.”

A flicker of pink and yellow as Indrid rubs their cheeks together, “And if I wanted to be even better?”

“I, uh, I mean if you wanted to we could tryYYYYohfuck” he hunches forward as Indrid’s tail drags across his dick. The clothing on Aquaria is thin, so he can feel the cool scales tease his skin.

“Oh, oh dear, apologies, I was only trying to embrace you further, I forgot yours do not stay concealed until they’re needed.”

“You, you keep doin that and it’s gonna be needed real quick.”

“Oh?” red eyes narrow wickedly, “does my sweet husband need attending to?” Another drag of his tail, much more deliberate, and Duck grinds his hips in reply.

“Only if you want to.”

“I do, so very badly.” Indrid nuzzles his nose, “may I take a little while to acquaint myself with your wonderful body?”

“Uh huh.” Duck tugs his shirt off, throwing it onto the land and then giving his shorts the same treatment.

“Ohhhhhhyes.” Indrid purrs, fins and tails shimmering purple and gold. Then he sinks down, swimming in a slow, tight circle around the human. Pleased chirps and trills bubble up to Duck’s ears. Cool fingers play along his legs and belly, eventually finding his dick and offering an experimental stroke.

“Fuck” he groans, and Indrid does it again, kissing his navel as both hands rub and tease his dick and folds. Indrid is clearly experimenting, maybe even using his visions to guide him, and Duck eagerness to get off succumbs to just how fucking hot it is to have a partner this enrapt by his body, to have them explore it like some awe-inspiring landscape.

He spreads his hands out and runs them along Indrid’s torso and tail; the scales are just as wonderful under his fingers as he hoped, and he can feel Indrid sigh happily as he pets him.

Then lips close around his dick and he makes a series of undignified noises, digging one hand into Indrid’s hair to encourage him.

“Ohmyfuckinchrist, Indrid, yes, fuck please keep suckin like that.”

Indrid wiggles his whole body in response, happy trill underscored by a firmer suck. Duck can’t get enough of his body beneath his hands, of his mouth on Duck’s skin, and he wonders if someone can black out from how good a blowjob feels.

Indrid’s fin breaks the water and Duck runs an appreciative thumb along the top. Funny, there’s a little depression between it and the membrane of the fin. Curious, he drags his pinky along it.

The alien bursts upwards with a loud chirp of joy, “Ohgoodness, yes, oh that feels nice please do it again.”

“Yeah? My cute, needy husband need me to play with his fins to get off.”

“Not, not technically by my gods does he want you to.”

“Don’t worry darlin, I will--uh, ‘Drid? Is, is that your dick?”

Indrid follows his gaze to the thick, bumpy shaft emerging from his tail, it’s tip crowned with short, searching tendrils.

“Yes. Also an ovipositor, hence those lumps.”

“Holyfuck. Uh, I, I ain’t sure I’m ready for that yet.”

“That’s perfectly alright. Though it does mean my cock is not going into you tonight; I’m not sure I can control my bodily responses enough to avoid ovipositing accidentally.”

“Lots of others things we can do.” Duck bites the tip of one ear, making the other flare out.

“Indeed. I say we start with this.” Indrid’s tail encircles his waist just as Indrid shoves his cock between his thighs.

“Like, like the way you think sugar. Fuuuck, fuck that’s good.” The bumps from the eggs have just the right amount of give as he humps them, Indrid matching his tempo with his thrusts. He keeps his arms around his husbands neck, kissing him furiously. Indrid kisses back with a chirp, gold flashing in his scales, and Duck knows he won’t want to kiss anyone else for a long, long time.

The tip of Indrid’s cock bumps his ass and he groans at what that suggests about it’s size.

“I’m, I’m takin this fuckin perfect thing all the way before I go.” He bucks his hips harder to make his point, “gonna let you fuck me open on it, fill me up, wanna know what it’s like to cum with you inside me.”

“Oh gods” Indrid whimpers, hiding his face in Ducks neck as he squeezes his thighs together.

“And, and you’re gonna be a dutiful fuckin husband and fill me however I say, ain’t you?”

“Yes, yesofcourse, goodness Duck I, I’m-”

“Heh, you like that, mr high and mighty seer likes bein bossed around. Well, lucky you, because now that I know just how fuckin good you are at fuckin me, gonna have you doin it ever, fuckin, day.” He jerks his hips hard, three times, and Indric cums with a cry, cock pulsing as he sinks his teeth into Ducks shoulder. Duck doesn’t let up, chases his orgasm over the bumps and ridges until he nearly whites out with pleasure, clinging to Indrid tighter as his body gives up on supporting him.

After his cock retracts Indrid, still holding Duck up with ease, swims to the button that orders a cleaning cycle on the pool and deposits the human back on the stone.

“I dearly hope your team finds what you need on this planet so that I may see you beyond these few weeks.”

“Sex was that good?” Duck teases, petting Indrid’s hair as he lays his head in his lap.

“No. Or, well, yes, but more than that you are so, so very wonderful. I wish to get to know you more, to show you even more of my world and my skill in bed.”

Duck kisses the top of his head, “I hope so too.”

-----------------------------------------

Communication log between leader of Amnesty Mission at Astrobotanist Duck Newton.

Mama: Got some promising leads. Will be back to pick you up in three days.

Duck: Glad to hear it. But take your time, no need to rush only my account.

#Indruck #indrid cold/duck newton #mermay fills #alien au #terato

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beca-mitchell · 4 years ago

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Help. I ship Avalance and even write FF for the ship, but with the things Caity Lotz have been doing and saying as of late, I am so bummed that I am not sure if I should continue writing or abandon the story. Any advise / tips on how to separate the actress from the character when writing? Thank you!

First of all, I’m sorry that your ship and fandom got saddled with hot garbage. I hope it all settles soon enough. I’m sorry that this has happened—this cannot be easy to process and it’s something I’m personally afraid of when one of the many white actresses I follow ends up being trash. 😭

Second—I think it helps to remember what you liked most about the ship and the fandom. And especially your writing! You shouldn’t let one dumb white actress ruin this experience for you.

Third—this is anecdotal, so bear with me: I don’t really have much concrete advice otherwise though. I’ve categorically removed myself from liking JK Rowling and Alexis Knapp but I continue to still enjoy aspects of Harry Potter (I grew up with it! It has saved my life on multiple occasions) and I don’t hate Stacie (I never was obsessed with her to begin with).

I mean. I have so many thoughts on this. In terms of separation, however, I feel like you might benefit from understanding that the character would never say or do something like that. As far as I am concerned, Caity Lotz literally benefits from having LGBTQ+ fans. And now, she has chosen the path of continued willful ignorance and damaging rhetoric. She has, essentially, been disrespectful af and ignorant af. Ask yourself whether Sara Lance would ever do or say anything like that. I know it’s hard because it’s the face you associate with the character (and as with most tv or film-based fandoms, it’s so easy to tie the actor to the character). There is some power in reclaiming that character for you though. Just like there’s some power in reclaiming Harry Potter from JKR. Unfortunately consuming the media means that you continue to inadvertently support them.

There’s no easy way to go about this, but I think it all starts with what you need. And your path to healing. Some people may find it ridiculous that fans are so affected when one of their faves ends up being a Trump supporter or Trump apologist, or just generally ends up not being the hero they thought they were (sitting atop their privileged throne)...but to me it makes perfect sense. We spend so much time thinking about these actors and these characters. We use fandom as a coping tool and an escape mechanism. We use fandom as educational vehicles. We use fandom as a way to find ourselves and we, more often than not, attribute that to the actors (and authors) that we grow to care for and love. So when it happens that somebody ends up being the very antithesis to our values, our beliefs, and moral compass, it hurts a lot. And I hate even having to use those terms—values, beliefs, moral compass—as if there’s an ‘option’ for people. It hurts when the people that we’d stick our necks out for (whether they know so or not) would definitely not do the same for us.

So I think that you’re posing a bunch of interesting queries and I don’t think it’s a particularly new question that is addressed in fandom. Politics, value-systems, and intrinsic ‘goodness’ have always been bedrocks of fannish activities...it does ultimately matter what you want to do. I suggest picking up fics that you really loved if you want...but to ease your emotions, I would really delve into the character herself. What you love about the character that are separate from the physical characteristics. Emotional things. Write about mental health, write about character growth, write about things that help you further separate the character from the, so-to-speak, ‘face claim’ lol. Because ultimately the character is not the actor as much as the actor wishes desperately to own that character. There is power in taking that back. That’s my opinion...I know others might feel differently.

Sorry, this ended up being so long and I don’t even know if I helped. Sending you love, though. I hope you feel better ❤️

#caity lotz #fandom #Anonymous #ask #mine

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shoutosteakettle · 5 years ago

Text

word count: 1261

key: ☆,☾

scenario in regard to BLM protest after George Floyd’s death

a/n: I wrote myself a comfort piece because I was feeling down about my mom, not allowing me to protest. This is really just a compilation of my feelings, so feel free to ignore, I just needed to vent, and writing is the only way that I know how. I’m not sure if this is disrespectful, but it is not at all my intention to be, I know how sensitive this topic is and if anyone feels as if I’ve done it injustice than please speak up - but please remember this is just a representation of my feelings on the topic.

Together

bio: in which we fight together

Speechless. The video left him speechless. He cannot understand for the life of him how one human being could do that to another. Ignoring his pleas for help, his pleas for air. You watched the life drain from the man’s face as he called out for his mother, and you can’t help but feel emotional. Unable to watch the video any longer, you buried your face into your hands, ignoring the heavy burden of the outside world.

Shouto watched as tears slipped from your face and puddled into the cup created by the joining of your palms. He got up from his seat on the kitchen stool to move toward you, taking a seat on the couch next to you. He grabbed the remote for the television from your lap and pressed the big red button, effectively turning it off before placing it onto the coffee table in front of him. Trying his best to comfort you, he pulled you into his lap, tucking his warm hand underneath your shirt rubbing soothing circles against the soft skin of your back. Setting a steady pace, he began to rock you back and forth as he held you in his arms. His touch was delicate as if you were a vase, and he was afraid of breaking you, and his mouth was silent, still at a loss for words.

But he knew that in this moment that there wasn’t anything he could do or say that would make you feel better, so instead he let you cry it out. It pained him to listen to your violent sobs and pleas for a reason why, it made him feel sick to his stomach, but not once did he let go of you.

For 30 minutes, you two sat in your sadden silence, the only noise was the sound of your gasps for breath every now and then when you would coke on your own tears. You picked you head up from his lap, your red puffy eyes looking into Shouto’s. You were a little taken back to see that much like your own, his cheeks were stained with tears. It’s was unusual to see him get so emotional, but you understood why he was. “I want to protest,” You croaked, breaking the almost deafening silence.

Shouto brought the sleeve of his sweater up to your face, wiping away your tears, while at the same time shaking his head left to right, “No,” He stated simply, ending the conversation before it could start. The expression on your face quickly contorted into on of anger, not understanding why Shouto would be holding you back from participating in something he knew you were so passionate about.

“I wasn’t asking,” You spat, your words catching Shouto off guard, abruptly stopping his ministrations on your face. Without missing a beat, he picked the remote from the coffee table he had previously set it on. He turned on the television, immediately your eyes were met with the beautiful colors of orange and red fires before you. Shouto looked away from you to focus on the enraged activities of those on the screen. You were so entranced by the actions on screen you didn’t see him get up and walk closer to the television.

“Do you see what’s going on,” Shouto asked taking his eyes off of the T.V. to concentrate on your own swollen eyes watching as he saw the familiar glint of rage flash within them, “I can’t - I won’t let you go out to participate in that. It’s madness-

“It’s anger. It’s what happens when people’s emotions are suppressed for so long, they explode, and rightfully so. They have a right to be angry, they should be. They should want the world to burn so that others can get just a taste of the pain that we feel every time someone is unlawfully killed by law enforcement. This is what needs to happen because words don’t seem to be working. At all. No matter how loud we beg, or cry, or scream, no one seems to be listening! So we need to show them how we feel and pray that change will come our way!” You yell, hoping that Shouto will understand your pain and your need to riot, your need to protest, but your hope falls short when you see that the disapproving look on his face remains.

“What happens if you get hurt? Or worse killed? How am I supposed to live with myself knowing that I allowed something to happen to you? I can’t let you go out there and get yourself get killed, I love you too much to let that happen,” The look on his face begging you to come to your senses.

His fear is understandable, and there really isn’t anything you can say to make him feel better. “People will die. It’s all part of the process. It took Floyd’s murder for them to do this! And if I die...I hope that they riot twice as hard. I hope they burn it all down, everything,” your words were cold, but they didn’t match the emotional war happening on your face. Your eyes half-lidded with anger - no frustration, the tears that rolled down your cheeks felt as hot as the sun, and the knot in your throat felt thick, making it harder to breathe.

Shouto just stared. For what felt like the 100th time tonight, he was left speechless. He understands where you’re coming from, but he cannot condone your going out to be part of that. His fear simply outweighed every part of him that was screaming to let you have your way. He walked towards you, enveloping your frame, which always felt so tiny in his big arms, resting his chin atop your head. “No riots...but we can march on the freeway,” he mumbled, his voice vibrating against your scalp, his arms pulling you impossibly closer to him.

You hadn’t planned on doing anything crazy, so downgrading from rioting to peaceful protesting wasn’t that big a deal. What was frustrating was the fact that it seemed as if Shouto completely missed the part about words not working. But knowing they are people out there supporting the cause that you believed in, it was doing the bare minimum to quench the fire burning in your chest.

“I have one last rule. We march together.” Shouto states, hoping that you’ll agree with his terms. You look up into his eyes, watching as they studied your face. Standing up on your tiptoes, you let your lips brush against his, giving him a quick peck on his mouth before pulling away to look into his loving gaze.

“Of course. We’ll do it together”

Together is what we need. We need to support one another. There’s no way we’ll make through this doing anything less. Sign & Donate.

#shouto x reader #todoroki x reader #shouto todoroki x reader #black lives matter

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diveronarpg · 5 years ago

Photo

Congratulations, KIERSTEN! You’ve been accepted for the role of CLEOPATRA with an approved FC change to Anais Mali. Admin Rogue: More than anything, Calina is one of the characters I've been most excited to see brought back to us, and I couldn't be more thrilled that you've captured her so well! Calina's such a balance between warmth and cunning, between drive and connection, and you really drove home her humanity. Her intelligence and fortitude clash so well with her loneliness in this way that really sang to my heart throughout your application, and the para sample blew me away. I love her with every ounce of my being, and I know just from reading this that you'll go beyond the distance and reach new heights with our lovely new Queen. We cannot wait to see what you have in store! Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

Out of Character

Alias | Kiersten

Age | 21

Preferred Pronouns | she/her/hers

Activity Level | I’ve never written a day before in my life…haha…unless…? (see here: https://catherinedaly.tumblr.com/ and https://isabellagagliano.tumblr.com/ :* ) Also, school is about to let out so I’m going to have so much free time that y’all will wish I had something else to do, or somewhere else to be.

Timezone | EST

In Character

Character | Calina Sokolova – Cleopatra → With a face claim change to Anais Mali, please? uwu

CALINA

origin: Greek

meaning: beautiful, lovely; the moon

SOKOLOVA

origin: Russian

meaning: falcon; hawk

CLEOPATRA

origin: Greek

Meaning: glory of the father

What drew you to this character? | Well, it’s no secret that I’ve been dying to complete The Trifecta ™but I think I even surprised myself when I turned my attention to Calina. It’s been so long since the mesmerizing Cleopatra took the stage and, with each passing day, I find that I miss her more and more. She’s startlingly different from both my Catherine and Isabella. Both Isa and Cat are led by their heart, but Calina is decidedly not; she’s terribly bright and practical—a diamond in the rough that’s not yet been fully excavated… But, could Verona handle the savant in her unfettered brilliance and whip-quick wit? Is the city prepared to kneel out of their own volition, rather than being so savagely forced? This girl turned woman turned phoenix has been scorned one time too many and she deserves to assert herself as an entity far greater than just being Faron’s loyal shadow. I’m eager to give her what’s due, and more!

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? | Where do you see this character developing, and what kind of actions would you have them take to get there? 3 future plot ideas would be preferable.

I WILL NOT BE TRIUMPHED OVER: He picked her to be a general, and a general she will be; the King may have fallen, but the Queen is more than capable of continuing the legacy. Calina, of all people, knows that the Vasiliev man would roll over in his grave to know if she even considered so-easily conceding to the Veronesi and their brutally unforgiving ways. I would love to get the chance to explore the Sokolova woman PICKING UP WHERE FARON LEFT OFF. His roots in Russia run deep and wide, still viable even though he no longer lives. I like to think that Calina inherited his network, considering she was his right hand. However, such power holds great responsibility—and danger. The late Vasiliev’s connections were no secret to Damiano and his group, which places her in a precarious position: to work at intertwining her newly inherited network with the Montagues or keeping it tucked against her chest. After all, they took from her, so why would she give anything?

TURN YOUR WOUNDS INTO WISDOM: Her heart is a fickle thing that’s not yet stopped its beating–even with all that she’s lost–and now she’s looking for something that cannot be so easily taken from her. Alexander Rallis seems to have cemented himself firmly within Montague ranks and while this is what initially drew Calina to him, it’s not what makes her stay; she’s a wraith looking for a soul to tie herself to, and he’s her best bet. But, the Sokolova woman isn’t taking her heart into account when she decides to interact with him more. What started as a tactical attempt to grow closer to Alexander for the sake of learning what it takes to be the Montague consigliere has become somewhat muddled, at least on her end.

Calina knows desire like the back of her hand; she knows lust intimately, but is damningly inexperienced with feelings and how quickly they can strike. What she feels towards Alexander is an uncomfortable mix of a girlish crush and well-tamed, heady desire (though she’ll vehemently deny any feelings of affection for the man of war). I’d love to EXPLORE THE DYNAMIC BETWEEN ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA (bonus points if he somehow finds out her words were ingenuine, at first) and how far she’s willing to go in terms of her own ascension within Montague ranks. But for now, for Alex, she’ll string her words together in the most beautiful of sentences; she’ll even drench them in his decadent gold, if it will coax the great Antony from his armor long enough so that she may come to understand what lies underneath; she’s vying for his mind, but not prepared for what else (his heart, perhaps?) might come.

I AM NO BIRD AND NO NET ENSNARES ME: Mona Chen, the Keeper of Sparrows, is her target; The Dark Lady is a fine price to tuck in one’s pocket. Damiano made his desires clear when he assigned the Sokolova woman to lure Mona from her Capulet-leaning ways into ways that better align with Montague ideologies, and Calina refuses to fail. I’m excited about CALINA RELYING ON HER PAST TO ASSIST HER while she tries to court Mona for the sake of the Montagues. She’s done well enough to stifle her memories of her time within halls of debauchery, but they’ll soon become her greatest asset–a sharp contrast to her belief that they were her Achilles’ Heel. How far is Calina willing to go to pull The Dark Lady to the Montagues’ side? She’s no stranger to using her body to get what she wants and she sees the way Mona watches her–closely, as though she’s waiting for the woman from Russia to slip up and return to her roots. If Mona thinks she’ll be able to make a Sparrow out of Calina, so be it; what the owner of The Dark Lady doesn’t know–that Calina refuses to return to that lifestyle–won’t hurt her. If white lies and gilded interest are what it takes to bridge the gap between Damiano and Mona, so be it.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | Only if it’ll cause the maximum amount of pain possible.

In Depth

In-Character:

PARA SAMPLE–

They don’t give him a funeral. They barely acknowledge the vacancy he’s left behind, the lives upended by his untimely departure–both here, and in Russia. Calina’s not surprised by this, not at all; hosting a funeral for a man murdered by someone supposedly on the same side as he was would be… Tricky, to say the least. And in not giving Faron Vasiliev the proper burial he deserved, the unspoken message is clear: all that glitters is not always golden.

In the days after Faron’s demise, Calina is reminded of a cruel lesson she was remiss to keep in the forefront of her mind: everyone–no matter how highly they’re thought of, no matter what they bring to the table–can be replaced. Measure for Measure is gifted to Matthias before Vasiliev’s body coldens; her loyalty, too, is transferred to Damiano, the hefty price Faron paid to free her from her contract in Russia symbolically falling on the shoulders of the Montague king. She knows better than to bite at the hand that feeds her, so she remains stoic in the presence of those of whom haven’t earned her trust–an amount that, when totaled, can be counted on one hand and one hand alone.

Calina sighs into the darkness of her room, into the lush bedding that surrounds her body. She collects her scrambled thoughts as neatly as she can; she gathers those too-raw and fragmented memories that can’t have her attention–not now, maybe not ever–and and shoves them to the back of her mind, bringing others to the forefront so that she may concoct a plan to ensure her safety here in Verona–here, permanently, as she’ll be damned before she ever calls Russia ‘home’ again.

First and foremost, the Sokolova woman is acutely aware of the target on her back, no matter how curious Damiano may be about her silver tongue and whip-quick mind. The interest of the Montague can quickly wane; the lavish lifestyle she’s come to familiarize herself with can be snatched away without so much as a passing glance. Her attachment isn’t to the items, but rather to the intoxicating feeling of security–to knowing she’ll have a home, to knowing she’ll not have to worry about where her next meal will come from–and she’s not willing to lose it without giving it her all.

Secondly, she needs allies. In a game of chess, the Queen is the most valuable piece on the board and Calina knows, though no one can see, that there’s a crown atop those wily curls of hers and she won’t let it fall. She’ll gather people like pawns, find a niche for herself in Damiano’s kingdom and create a buffer. The people sing of Antony’s accolades, of Gertrude’s steadfastness in the middle of disasters and more, but it’s time they’ve learned a new song: a song of Cleopatra, the woman who didn’t cut others at the knee, but rather coaxed them to kneeling out of their own volition.

Last, she knows that she must now work twice as hard to take what’s hers; she’s come to terms with taking three steps forward followed by two steps back. The newly-inherited title of emissary suits her far better than soldier, but not nearly as well as advisor. To say that she’s not become comfortable with the power Faron was wise enough to imbue her with would be a lie; the Sokolova woman relished the way he saw her as an equal, and she wants that same attention still, even though he’s gone. But, good things take time and she’s got plenty of it.

The King is dead; may God save the Queen.

She’ll not give them a chance to not give her a funeral, too.

INTERVIEW–

What does your typical day look like?

“I wake as early as my body will allow,” the Sokolova woman says, “which is earlier than some, but not others. I’ve broken my habit of favoring the night—thankfully.” It’s a lie, of course; her affinity for night and its darkness have been seared into the very marrows of her bones, what with her past as Madame’s precious драгоценный камень bleeding over to her present and eagerly waiting to devour her future. “Bast is a spoiled little thing; as soon as I wake up, she’s kneading at my side or sitting on my chest until I get up and feed her. In a way, she’s akin to an alarm clock.” A fond smile graces her visage at the thought of her Russian Blue–a gift from the Zaitsevs, longtime clients of hers and Faron’s that took note of the way she tended to their feline and his desire for her lithe fingers to stroke his silky silver fur while maintaining her focus and wit on the matters at hand. “I feed her, and then I have a cup of збитень while perusing Il Giornale. On my way to work, I might pick up a pastry from one of the bakeries I pass.“

Moments of peace before she slips into her role as Montague emissary and client charmer. But, of course, this little journalist need not know of her underground dealings.

Rather, Calina gives him what he wants–something palatable; something honest; something that piques his interest enough to get him to write it down, but not enough to ask more. “Once I leave my darling for the day, I typically don’t make it back until the evening. I spend my time working remotely in The Capital Library as often as I can. Offices are too stuffy for my liking. I’d rather be surrounded by thousands of books filled with rich history while crafting communication strategies for my clients.”

Where is your favorite place in Verona?

The answer that first comes to mind is bittersweet and far too personal: her favorite place in Verona is—was—Faron’s home—untouched and uninhabited since his demise. It leaves a bitter taste in her mouth, much like the сельдь с луком that her late mother was so fond of. The memories are nothing but quick flashes, though she can feel the goosebumps rising on her skin; she can feel Faron’s phantom touch along the small of her back, and can hear Alyona’s honey-drenched laugh as she playfully turned the hose from her azaleas to her gleeful daughter. But, Calina knows herself and she knows herself well; she’s far too proud to falter, especially in the face of a nosy reporter. So, she does what she does best: she chains the memories and thoughts before they have a chance to run wild; she shackles them together—two pieces of her irreparably-broken heart—and shoves them into a dark corner of her mind that’ll be ignored until something else taunts the perpetually-grieving beast that resides in her chest.

The journalist prompts again, curiosity evident in the slight furrow of his brows and in the way he doesn’t allow her to mull over her answer, to pull palatable words from her arsenal of languages. The Sokolova woman notes his softly spoken impatience, adding it to her list of observations—that he’s recently had coffee, the familiar scent of the drink lingering between them; that he’s not as seasoned as other journalists she’s come across, as he’s more concerned with what she says rather than what she doesn’t or won’t say; and that he’s not as subtle as he’d like to think, with his blue eyes that graze her frame in more instances than just one.

“Verona is such a beautiful city,” Calina muses at last, warmth coloring her words as though she’s speaking of a dear friend. “But, caro mio, if you must make me choose—“ a gusty, nearly dramatic sigh billows from her lacquered lips “—Lamberti Tower. There’s nothing quite like reaching the top and looking at the breathtaking scenery below.” A well-manicured finger twists at her brown curls. “Should you find yourself there, I highly recommend The Hathaway.” It’s sinful–how delicious and dangerous the drink is. “But, be careful—it’s practically impossible to just have one.”

What has been your biggest mistake thus far?

Were she a less professional woman, she’d have laughed in his face. She’d have parroted his question back at him, incredulity coloring her words and displeasure marring her now-placid expression. Calina Sokolova, making mistakes? No, she is far too meticulous, far too critical; she scours over every word, every shift in body language or facial expression, cataloguing it all in her mind so that she may act appropriately. Years spent morphing herself into whatever her clients wanted—a simpering coquette, a lustful breath against the shell of an ear, a body meant to be used and discarded soon after—have served her well.

Women like Calina don’t make mistakes. Calina doesn’t make mistakes. She cannot afford to do so.

“Oh, дорогая,” the woman says at last, a hint of mischief glinting in her dark hues as she leans back in her plush chair, “would you believe me if I said I’ve not yet made one?”

What has been the most difficult task asked of you? (tw: allusion to terminal illness)

The Sokolova woman’s most difficult request was something that wasn’t asked at all. It wasn’t something she could stop or something she could pass to somebody else. No, the most difficult task for the princess of the dark alley was commanded. Not even she, freshly-graduated from Novobisrov State University and armed with the knowledge of old and new, could disobey the order… All she could do was helplessly watch.

The decline was cruelly slow, seemingly stretching time just far enough for her to take a second to hope. It’s both a blessing and a curse, that fickle thing called time. It gives as easily as it takes, tricking you into thinking there’s a chance when it’s only prolonging the inevitable. Может быть, мы уедем из России - найди другого доктора в другом месте, a frustrated Calina suggested long ago, her pride rearing its ugly head deep in her chest. Her mother couldn’t die. She forbade it…

…And in the end, it didn’t matter.

Her protests fell upon deaf ears, as did her pleas. Her prayers remained so damningly unanswered that she couldn’t help but blame herself for halfhearted attempts, so she only prayed more—desperately, angrily, fearfully. Calina bruised her knees with how often she fell to them in the name of the Redeemer–to a God her mother held so much faith in, to a God she once believed existed. When left motherless, possessionless, and poor, she only further dug her heels in, deciding that she’d never be made a fool in the face of time again. She sells her body, the notion of kneeling for less-than-holy reasons no longer distasteful, for at least it—unlike the time she wasted praying—yielded results. It paid for her rent, her food, her existence.

“My mother once told me it’s ill-advised to say you’ve already experienced the worst of things,” she murmurs. “She said it tempted Fate and angered it so that it didn’t rest until it outdid what you thought was the most terrible of all.” Alyona Sokolova never said it, the light in her eyes snuffed out before she ever got the chance. Calina likes to believe she would have, had the illness not first taken her mind. Clearing her throat and finding her voice once more, the emissary tacks on, “And mother knows best, да?”

What are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and the Montagues?

A soft and disapproving hmmph comes first, and it is punctuated by an unimpressed response: “It’s brutish–the whole idea of it.” Wars fought for the sole purpose of destruction did nothing for either side; a pity, truly, but she expects nothing less from the crowned men that perpetuate its continuance. Both Cosimo and Damiano are bullheaded, though she does give them some credit; they’ve both picked women to be their Underbosses—women who know that cold calculation will always prevail over hot tempers and wounded prides.

Calina continues, “Ask any Veronesi why the two families feud and you’ll hear dozens of stories, each a bit different from its predecessor.” It’s one of the things she loves and detests about language—how malleable words are, how easily they diffuse as they’re passed from person to person. Calina tucks a loose curl behind her ear, golden ring glinting against the afternoon sun that shines through opened curtains. She pauses thoughtfully as though she’s considering an idea she’s not yet had, head canting just slightly before she venturing, “They’re going to run themselves and Verona ragged.” Fights can only last for so long. There’s nothing sustainable about war, nothing sustainable in pulling the downtrodden into the battles that they’ll never live to reap the benefits from.

Here, bodies are expendable; minds are not. Calina’s made sure to prove herself worthy of being grouped into the latter time and time again; her recent promotion within Montague ranks is only one of dozens of accolades she’s destined to earn. Spoken with the finality of a woman who has other matters to tend to, she closes with, “Adesso, corrispondente… Should you desire a more in-depth answer, ask them why they’re fighting. Ask them what the goal is.”

Extras: If you have anything else you’d like to include (further headcanons, an inspo tag, a mock blog, etc), feel free to share it here!

EXTRAS:

MBTI: INTJ - The Architect + | independent, jane-of-all-trades, driven - | judgemental, blunt, secretive

ZODIAC: Virgo - 22 September + | logical, responsible, orderly - | critical, obsessive, perfectionist

TEMPERAMENT: Choleric + | ambitious, confident, practical - | uptight, impatient, uncomfortable around emotion

RICE PURITY TEST SCORE: 48

LOVE LANGUAGE(S): acts of service + physical touch

HEADCANONS:

In Novoborisk, Calina studied both history and linguistics (with a concentration in translation and translational studies). Before the tragedy of losing her mother, she planned on working as a professor while also researching ancient civilizations.

Alyona Sokolova stoked the burning desire to know in her precious daughter from her very first breath. Because of this, Calina is voraciously inquisitive; years of sharpening her mind and her tongue have created a well-spoken woman with undeniable charm.

Calina knows five languages, including her native language of Russian—English, French, Macedonian, and (most recently) Italian. She wants to learn more, should she ever get the opportunity.

She has a Russian Blue cat named Bast–a nod to Ancient Egypt and her dream to study civilizations of the past.

On her right hand, she wears a golden signet ring that she never takes off. It belonged to Faron—a ring he’d outgrown years ago but still kept as a reminder of his past. Now, it now belongs to her—a ring that fits perfectly on her right ring finger as a reminder of their pasts.

MOCK BLOG:

https://cleosokolova.tumblr.com/

PINTEREST BOARD:

https://www.pinterest.com/diaphcnous/calina-sokolova-the-savant/

#accepted #accepted: cleopatra

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saltpepperbeard · 6 years ago

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Not Her ~An Everlark One-Shot~

A/N: Hello everyone! *hUNGER GAMES INTENSIFIES* am I right? I’m so happy for the Re-Read that’s taking place, because not only is it getting me furiously posting about THG again, but it brought back my quite dead writing motivation! I was reading chapter two, had a, “Okay but what must have this person been experiencing” kind of thought, followed by the instant urge to write it. So here we thankfully are lol!

I’m probably a tad rusty, but I really did want to write a different take on the Reaping Day. I’ve always wondered what things would be like from a certain someone’s point of view after all! So with that being said, I hope you all like it!

And with further adoooooooo...

Not Her

It’s the day everyone in this District dreads again.

The one where families are torn apart for a sick spectator sport. The one where children are torn crying from their mothers, knowing what horrible fate awaits them. The one where loved ones are officially lost to the Capitol.

Reaping Day.

I clench and unclench my jaw, silently filing in after all the other boys my age. The tension in the air is high, as usual. We’re not a District to valiantly offer volunteers, or boast our Tributes’ strengths. We’re a group of reluctant individuals, with many being fearful, silently praying that their name, or their loved one’s name, isn’t the one to be called.

I’m in the latter half of that group. My name being plucked from the large, glass bowl wouldn’t trigger any tears, from me or my family for that matter. There’s a slight sinking in my stomach as I imagine it, yes, but ultimately it wouldn’t hurt as much as others. My family would get on. The District would get on. And maybe it’d be a sick way to spare me from my current way of life.

I’m more concerned about my brother, concerned about Rye. I wouldn’t want to see him on that stage, awaiting pain, awaiting death. I wouldn’t want to see anyone I love subjected to that. Having to helplessly watch as someone close to me suffers has to be one of my worst fears.

A heavy breath rolls out of my mouth, my attention zoning out as the typical string of events unfolds. The mayor talks about the past of Panem, the history of the Games, and the reasons we should be thankful for them. It makes me sick to my stomach, the notion of being appreciative of murder, appreciative of suffering, appreciative of torture. So naturally, my attention goes elsewhere.

It doesn’t really come back until our District’s sole-surviving Victor, or our District’s Infamous Drunk rather, makes his grand entrance on stage. I let out a sigh as he leaves a path of chaos in his wake, but I cannot deny the slight ache in my chest. That insanity could be someone’s fate today. Or worse, far worse.

Another interesting character, Effie Trinket, attempts to hurry things along, continuing to try and make this some kind of grand spectacle. It’s ladies first as usual, and despite not really having anyone close to me per say, I find that I’m holding my breath.

When the name is uttered, I’m relieved for a split second, and then utterly devastated in the next.

“Primrose Everdeen.”

My throat locks up, with my entire body to follow. I almost feel a bit woozy, my head spinning at the image of a small, frail, blonde girl reluctantly emerging from the crowd.

I know her. Almost too well for never really formally meeting her. I can see her passing by our Bakery in the morning, completely carefree and casting light as she goes. I can see the way her gaze sparkles as she eyes the displays in the window, eagerly running up to get a better look. And I can see her turning around, excitedly pointing at the various cookies and cakes to the person who’s always with her...

“Prim!”

As unfortunate as it is to say, I should be familiar with that shrill, desperate cry. The sound of a person getting their family member torn away from them at the Reaping, a haunting, eerie noise that’s something of normalcy every year.

But it’s from her. She’s in pain. Her sister is going to the Arena. And I can’t protect them, can’t comfort her.

I can feel myself shaking, small beads of sweat forming atop my skin. I don’t even know her. I don’t know either of them. But at the same time, I feel like I do. I’ve seen them both for so long. My heart has followed the one for as long as I know, which means I’m naturally protective of the other as well.

It’s almost like I can feel her anguish, like my little sister is up there.

Mentally, I wrap my arms around her, holding her as tightly and warmly as I can manage. Even if I really could, I know there wouldn’t be enough love in the world to comfort her in this. But God, would I try. I’d want nothing more than to try and keep her lifted out of the darkness the Capitol tries so desperately to inflict upon us.

“Prim!”

Tears spring into my eyes, my heart clenching something terrible. I watch as she emerges from the crowd as well, darting after her sister. I wish I could be there alongside of her too, offering all the support and help I could possibly muster. But I can’t. I’m always doomed to watch from the sidelines, doomed to watch as things unfold.

And unfold they do.

“I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!”

Everything stops. My world completely stops.

My heart stutters to a grinding halt. A noise of anguish poised on my tongue gets jammed in my throat. The tears I had been fighting against have no choice but to fall.

No. Not her.

It’s my nightmare. My absolute worst nightmare come to life. I always knew there was a very small possibility of this happening, a very grim chance of this unfurling before my very eyes. But nothing could have actually prepared me for it happening. No matter how many times I see them per night, the bad dreams are nothing compared to reality.

The light goes dark, and sounds go muffled. I can see some slight, desperate movement near the stage, and hear a scuffle of activity, but I can hardly pay attention. I can hardly focus on anything other than trying not to collapse right here and now, to collapse completely in on myself.

I don’t know her. I never got to know her. I didn’t get to tell her how beautiful I think she is, how her eyes remind me of a strong, captivating summer storm. I didn’t get to tell her how I want to protect her and her family for the rest of my days, to ensure they never have to go hungry ever again.

I never got to tell her how much I utterly adore her, how much I love her to the ends of the Earth.

And when she goes on stage, when she utters her name, the reminder makes a shaky, sobbing-like breath croak from my lungs.

Katniss Everdeen.

Not her. Not her. Not her.

Somewhere in the middle of my woes, I can faintly hear Effie Trinket trying to get our solemn District excited, trying to get our District to roar with thunderous applause.

But in true fashion, much to my utmost relief and yet utter dread, they don’t. Everyone remains ghostly silent, before kissing three fingers and raising them high into the sky. It’s a gesture of complete admiration, but also a way of saying goodbye.

I can’t bring myself to do it. Because no matter how much I utterly adore her, I cannot bring myself to say goodbye. Especially without giving the slightest “hello.”

I simply hang my head, fiercely wiping the tears away, clenching both my eyes and jaw. I wish I could reveal my gaze and be free from this, be in a completely different world where I’m waking up to light, waking up to her.

But I’m not. The awful world I’m in continues on.

I can hear the loud clicking of Effie’s heels as she walks from one side of the stage to the other. I wipe the last of my tears away, sighing harshly and attempting to get myself under some semblance of control. I just hope whoever gets reaped can work together with Katniss, and protect her with his life.

The odds must be somewhat in my favor, albeit in a messed up, twisted kind of way.

Because the name that’s called, the paper that’s raised into the air, sends me through a torrent of feeling.

My first emotion, by complete instinct, is shock, my head jolting upwards and my mouth hanging agape. I can feel everyone who’s in close proximity staring at me, their faces either wearing sorrow or some kind of weird relief. And after I’ve recovered from the initial blow, the initial realization that I’m going to the Hunger Games, the thoughts that follow are what give me the strength to walk towards the stage.

Katniss.

I’m going to be with Katniss in the arena.

Not getting to know her doesn’t seem as devastating anymore. Because now I’ll get to die knowing I protected her, knowing I gave absolutely everything to keep her alive. And that’s all I could possibly want. To make sure I gave my all in ensuring her safety.

Maybe she doesn’t need me. Maybe she can get by just fine on her own. I’ve heard about the way she shoots, heard her way of fighting is silent and elegant. It’d be just one other person who wouldn’t be affected by my presence or lack of thereof; my family certainly isn’t.

But that won’t stop me from trying. That won’t stop me from giving myself to her like I’ve tried to all these years. I am hers and no one else’s. My life is insignificant next to hers.

I finally mount the stage, and in seeing her so close, in getting to properly look at her, it locks my sole purpose in these Games completely into place.

I move to stand parallel to her. Before I do though, I give myself a brief opportunity to look at her. To really look at her. To look at her how I would every day if I was blessed enough to actually be with her.

Her beauty absolutely takes my breath away. It always has. Though her face is hard, completely taut with emotion, she’s gorgeous. Her hair looks softer than the dandelion puffs dotting the District. Her eyes look shinier than the sun dancing off the lake’s surface. Her lips look plumper than the strawberries growing in the forest.

I don’t think I could ever capture such beauty in one of my paintings, or ever truly put it into words. She’s utterly exquisite.

I don’t stare, being quick to tear my gaze away and look straight ahead, out into the crowd. Now really is not the time to dote on her anyway. I can’t afford to get anymore attached than I am now. Now is the time to start planning how I’m going to keep her alive.

As the mayor talks more about the Games, my mind is aflame with possibilities, with different scenarios. I think of how I can keep others away from her, how I can potentially side with her, how I can guard her from anyone who might come near...

My thoughts are cut short by Effie yet again, though this time she actually says something significant to me for once.

“Alright you two, shake hands!”

My head turns towards Katniss as hers turns towards mine, our eyes meeting and locking for the first time in...years. Her gaze is just as mesmerizing as it was the first time I held it, just as captivating. And just like last time, I silently tell her I’m going to protect her. I silently tell her that I will take a beating for her. I silently tell her that I love her.

And to prove it, to seal the deal, I put all the warmth I can manage into our handshake, squeezing her hand tenderly with the figurative promise of never letting go.

The odds may not be fully in my favor during the Games, but hopefully now the opposite can be said for her.

And once we turn to be beckoned into the building behind us, away from our District, my life is hers.

#Everlark #Everlark fanfiction #Peeta Mellark #Katniss Everdeen #thg #Peeta's POV #also i don't think this fits the toastedthg tag but hey the re-read iS INDEED WHAT SPARKED THIS lol #Because I was reading the reaping and was like #'Lord what must have Peeta felt when Katniss voluntee-......WAIT'#Love me a good opportunity for some angst and yearning lmao #MY AESTHETIC IF YOU ASK ME #A GOOD TIME #Also Peeta's POV is a Good Time in general #Mr. Angsty Eloquent Loving Boi #lmao just when you guys thought 'hmmm jodi's really out here posting a ton of thg'#LMAO BET HERE'S A FANFIC ON TOP OF MY META AND EDITS #WE OUT HERE

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eqcentriceqclectic-blog · 5 years ago

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Inherited Demons

2019/12/07 – Nothing Right

Nothing I do is ever right. In His eyes, I will always be a feral horse that needs to be put to the whip. If I don’t and I get free, he hopes that my freedom in the wild will end in cold realisation in my last moments as I am beset by wolves. Even, if objectively right, it is as if an offense on his very existence—as if he were a god or a ghost and disbelief in him would condemn him to abyssal oblivion. And so, being right or doing well is actively discouraged—either through deafening and oppressive silence, or through roaring rage and insufferable indignation. He may be seen as quiet, but that is not to be taken as docility or humility—no; it is a sinister and seething silence. Normally, improvement is supposed to be seen as positive.

I cannot count the number of times I’ve either wanted to run away from home or outright kill myself. It desperate times, they’ve been my mantra or my prayers to soothe my wretched soul. What stopped me from running away? Fear of failure. Fear of strangers. Fear of retribution. An incompetency instilled in me long ago. One I replicated and instilled in a brother placed into my charge, even as a shell of a person—shattered shards looking for a reflection. It wasn’t until that reflection attempted to kill himself that I realised what my shoddily-assembled puzzle-of-a-person had done. I had become that which I had despised all my life--that dictatorial and patriarchal demon for which is suffered beneath had impregnated in me a piece of its insidious soul. It had gripped me in its agonising grasp, and regurgitated the darkness imparted to it, into my screaming-tear-streaked face. And thus, the cycle would continue like a horror-franchise that just won’t die. That was the day I realised—despite my love for the pure curiosity and optimism of children and the undeniable yearning to cradle and raise small-beings of my ghostly-ovaries—that I could not perpetuate this curse. To adopt a family-less entity into this story would be tantamount to sacrificing them to the demon that inhabits our family-line with my own bloodied hands.

I remember when I was bird-sitting Rita (a cousin’s feather-child) and He attempted to interact with it while wildly inebriated—like he enjoys doing—and held out his hand. Rita, as finicky conures tend to be, bit him HARD as she did not know him and did not like him. I feared for that bird’s life as I recognised the drunken rage that overtaken his alcohol-laden-bubbly-demeanor, as he shouted some profanity at the bird. I called out, to let him know I was present, and explained to him why she bit him before telling him to leave her alone.A similar incident happened years ago when I had my bird, Vira. She was a feisty bird and I loved her bravery and assertiveness but the curse infused in me by Him did not make distinctions between humans, non-human animals, plants, or inanimate objects. She and my brother have both bore witness to the same rage and self-perceived-indignity-fuelled-wrath I bore witness to growing up. I loved her dearly, but could not reconcile my own behaviour—I could not split this demonic presence within myself with the love I had for all living things as they both were a part of who I was and it was maddening. But as with all things deeply-unsettling, we seek to take flight from it—as is natural—to get as far as we can from it and forget about it so we can go about our days. To face it, would be to face the demon—itself, a part of you—and to face your own guilt and culpability in its sins, for without you, it would not be able to do its work as a formless, parasitic, lifeless virus. To face your own guilt and responsibility in hurting others is a terrifying thing; it chills you to your core and tears it to shreds because you want to believe you are a good person who does good things, and when you are not the hero of your own story, then you can never be a hero in any story—if you are the villain in your own story, then you will be the villain in all stories.

Looking myself in my own shattered mirror, I could finally see the demon bleeding forth from behind my ill-assembled portrait… I could only play at perfection for so long before all the mismatched pieces fell apart and revealed the vast darkness that mocked me beneath. Like a self-indulgent actor without a true mirror to look into, I enchanted myself with delusions that I was not He and that I was above that which lurked at the bottom of every bottle. And all the while, I was a cheap imitation of him—like a copy-cat-killer imprinting on a serial-killer worshipped by the media. I didn’t need alcohol to justify my crimes, for I had a divine mandate bestowed upon me by my ancestors, which was bestowed upon them by successive emperors, and god-kings before them, and thus the gods themselves. Chinese patriarchy is as insidious a poison as it is insipid as it permeates into every aspect of life in the family. It may not have been such a poison, but it certainly is now. As they say, “Power, absolute, corrupts—absolutely.”

In Chinese culture, there is a powerful emphasis put upon passing on the family name—so much so that female-infanticide was a widespread practice in China. My grandmother used the phrase ‘tuang-tong jeng’ frequently when urging her living descendants to procreate and pray for sons. Also present in Chinese culture is the misguided belief that because all elders are to be afforded respect, it automatically blesses them with the power to always be right—no matter the circumstances. It can be seen in dazzling display with successive Chinese-emperors slaughtering countless people over the millennia, simply for disagreeing or embarrassing the father-of-the-nation with reality and truth. Is it not why the satirical fable of the Emperor and his “new clothes” exists? An emperor that is willfully-blind is one that is indulgent and willfully-negligent—and those that could not see beyond their own gilded mirrors, often led to the starvation of the masses they were given dominion over, and ultimately, their dynasty’s demise. Once they lost their divine mandate, another emperor would rise and a spoiled descendant of his would lead it to ruin, in cycles unending.

After help assembling my mirror to match those that see me for who I am, only now am I able to see the apparition hiding behind it. As puppet-master and puppet entwined as one, it is my responsibility to sever those strings that snake around my offending limbs. It is my responsibility to cast off the shadows that shroud me, as it has become me. It has infused into my essence and become its own—my own—demon, separate from His, but no less His satanic-spawn. Only after acknowledging its existence, screaming its name, can I even begin to excise it like the viral cancer it is. The process is never-ending, for if you ever believe you have destroyed it, your complacency will allow it respite to recover and thus spite your own efforts to defeat it in the first place. We must always strive to be better, despite our accomplishments and desires to revel and relish our achievements—for idle hands do the devil’s work. Resting on our laurels is like laying and brooding upon our nest-eggs atop a poisoned heath—our savings and our accolades will rot along with us. We’ll only fester along our heaped up hoard, as a magnificent dragon does upon all its glittering greed. If I’ve gleaned anything over the past two or so years, it’s that our own pride and arrogance will always be our downfall. It understand that it was my own hubris in believing I was less of a terrible person than he was, only to find myself, one day, staring back at Him in the mirror. I saw me, regurgitating exactly what putrid horrors was spat into my own face, at someone else—someone I was told was below me—simply because they were younger or less of a person than I was. And that is how He still sees me: lowly, basal, lost, stupid, barbaric, “sub-human”—and worst of all—a child. And one that is unbridled, feral, and wild—but worst of all, “uncontrollable”. And, also, wholly unimpressed with the infallibility of the patriarchal parental dictatorship to which begs rebellion and resistance.

I will no longer scrape my head at His feet simply because he decided he would do the “holy” duty of acceding to his mother’s wishes of him to marry a woman he didn’t know, and would never love, and bear for him a son he could present to his parents—just because he is my father and my elder. He is as flawed as we all are and I will not grovel at His feet simply because he thinks he is my superior simply because he is my father and my elder. Respect is earned—not demanded—and throughout the years, my respect for him corroded away until there was no flesh left to burn off. Similarly, I have but few happy memories of Him, as the visceral emotional abuse and on-going threats of physical abuse incinerated the vast majority of them as Vesuvius did the people of Pompeii, or the atomic bomb did to the people of Nagasaki. Neither annihilating disaster completely removed the people from existence, as there remained ashy shells or radioactive shadows in their wakes—such are my happy-memories left, as obtuse imprints in the eroding beach-sands: as vague stories of ‘Snow Black and the Seven Dwarves’, as ephemeral visions of rehabilitating young birds blown to the ground by torrential storms, and as echoes of lessons on why not to step on ants. Stronger and clearer are the memories of being slapped for protesting against a particular untested brand of pizza or being chased with a large wooden stick purchased from Home Depot for refusing a hair-cut from Him. Another, particularly, peculiar poison of His was his inherited creed of beating his own child if that child was bullied to tears (or into action)—a shadow he internalised from his own father when being bullied by neighbourhood Vietnamese kids for being Chinese, back in Vietnam.

Growing up as a child in a house-of-cards propped up by two maternal hopes for their fifth-born children was a bittersweet hell, as many are—sweet enough for hope to grow but not enough to survive under the withering harsh bitterness. Perhaps it’s more of a purgatory: not horrible enough to cause one to kill oneself, but just enough to wish so. Those two grandmothers were my oases of love and care in an arid dusty desert of moonless, endless, nights. They were my guiding stars, above all the rabid fighting and gnashing teeth of childish gore-cloaked-hyaenas that called themselves my parents. My grandmothers were the life-sustaining waters, and my parents were the malarial insects that abated my existence. When my brother attempted to kill himself, I came to find out—of course, through another one of their petty and accusative arguments—that neither of them ever dreamed of having children and raising them. Why? Because they were still children, themselves—they were mostly raised by their elder siblings as their immigrant parents worked to carve a life in an increasingly hostile environment. That environment they grew up in abruptly changed as conditions in Vietnam deteriorated and they it was decided that they all needed to flee through hell and high-water (and marauding pirates). The Peter-Pan-like situation became even more so during His teen and young-adult years; formed here, in Canada, under his elder brother and without parents or grandparents to guide these “Lost Boys” fell into a world of alcohol, cigarettes, drugs, and guns that their new peers immersed them in. His elder brother went from a sixteen-year old running a small textiles business that employed workers in Vietnam to an alcoholic who would gamble his way into a depression in Canada. He would go from an inquisitive child making toys out of trash and sticks and swimming in monsoon-flooded roads to a teen drinking himself into a stupor and smoking until his adult teeth would become grey and lined with tar. Children raising children does not yield the positive results, and least of all depressed children raising children—this is true of my parents, and of myself. I had no business being in-charge of my baby brother—absolutely zero—especially with the foul fecal froth spilling from their mouths, to mine, as it then spilled down to my younger brother as I abused him emotionally, verbally and physically as my parents did to me. As explained in the paragraphs above, it did not occur to me until later what I was doing was wrong—it was just what I’ve known and what I felt.

I started to notice how my cousins, aunts, and uncles would look at me as I terrorised my brother over his mistakes—or my perception of his mistakes and improprieties. My logical reasoning at the time was that, “I’m not allowed to do that; why is he?” They always looked startled—or, “unsettled,” maybe is a better word—at my outbursts and threats. I remember once, in a restaurant—where I sat next to him while we were seated amongst our cousins and the adults were sat across from us—where he refused to eat a certain food and I became unreasonably enraged at him and I threatened to cut the head off of the stuffed toy (acquired from Midway arcade in Niagara Falls) if he did not eat it. I had stunned everyone and their hearts broke for my brother, just a young child being terrorised by a teen sibling. Breaking this cycle of abuse was tough—especially while still being abused, yourself. After, breaking free from physical (less so, emotional and verbal) abuse, all the injustice and indignity and rage continued spilling on to the easiest and most vulnerable target, who—under patriarchal rules—would lack arbitrary familial immunity from my wrath and cruelty. Where I could verbally, emotionally, and physically abuse him for whatever I wished, I could only cry, whimper, cower, and hide. However, I did exact vengeance upon them by hiding or damaging the belongings of my parents in protest of their mistreatment of me. There was one instance when I was about six or seven and I fled out of the back of the house after having been shouted out of the tear-stained washroom I had locked myself into on the top floor of the house. On my way passed the car, after deciding that I would run away from home, my eyes burned with salted indignation and so I picked up a stone from the gravel bed and scraped profanities onto the car’s paint and transferred my raw emotions into words. I dropped the stone and continued past the garage and through the laneway until I reached the side-walk, still crying. I stood there, thinking, and came to a realisation that I could not go any further—for if I did, I would be kidnapped and killed by a stranger. So, I walked down to the corner and right back to the front of the house and down the alleyway back to the backyard and back into the house where my parents were still searching—His wooden stick still in-hand—without a clue that I had tried to run away (or that I had keyed words of profanity on to the car with a pebble).

In 2017, when Grandma first became weak after years of mismanaging her own hypertension-medication, I became involved in her healthcare in the balmy month of July. Before then, I didn’t even know she had hypertension and thought she took medication just because it was something a person did when they got as old as she did. After accompanying grandma and Him to both the hospital and her nephrologist, I began researching Chronic Kidney Disease (CKD). I learned about how the kidney can be damaged by high blood-pressure and looked into the medication she was taking, going so far as to see which medications could be contra-indicated. I advised Him that grandma’s medication (since she became inconsolable and beyond fearful for her life and no longer was able to manage them herself and became paranoid that we (including the doctors) were trying to poison her and began refusing to take them for a while) should be split into two as then the hypertensive-medications were be better able to manage her blood-pressure through the day instead of causing a sharp drop for the day while allowing it to rise again in the evening--one of her medications for hypertension-management was even specifically designed to be taken at night which is when blood-pressure is supposed to naturally drop. He likes to take credit for this. He also likes to take credit for what he didn’t even believe for a long time—her weakness that started in the first place. When her health was declining in April of 2017, after her nephrologist cut her off from the round of erythropoietin he had initially put her on in the winter prior, He did not believe that it was her health, but her age. I would become increasingly frantic in asserting that this was the reason as the months dragged on and by July, she could barely get out of bed because of how anemic she was. I, unlike He, had done research into what “erythropoietin” was and why she needed to take those shots. I was upset at her nephrologist for cutting her off from those shots because he thought her red-blood-cell count was too high (after a blood-test in March/April) and he’d see her back in three months (this was the cadence of her visits to him: every three months, so approximately four times a year). Again, by July, she was so weak that He took her to the hospital twice in the latter half of that month and once in August where I accompanied them after ending my seasonal job a few days prior. I urged him again that it was the lack of erythropoietin shots and resulting anemia that made her so weak—but he again asserted that it was because she was old. Thankfully, the nephrologist prescribed another round of erythropoietin shots (one shot, every other week, for three months—so six syringes in total). However, the ordeal and fear of death had warped her mind—the nurse at the nephrologist’s office told us that because her GFR was so low, she would likely need dialysis but that dialysis for people aged eighty and up were too at risk of developing a central-line infection—and surgery for a kidney transplant would provide an ever higher risk of mortality. She also told us that she most likely only had two-years left to live—guess what? It’s been over two-years now. I guess it’s the same for when Push got the morbid news that she only had three months left to live and lived another three years. Anyway, I digress. After horrifying and terribly painful months of trying to sleep with an insomniac grandmother in the next room having an end-life crisis, chanting all through the night of her tragic ending, and trying to manage her anxiety, panic, and paranoia in the day-time after both He and mom went to work, and brother went to school, she snapped and her dementia advanced by leagues. In the years prior, I started to notice she became much less brave and much more reserved and careful—in addition to misplacing her watch and other things that told a story of short-term memory loss. She became a lot less aware of her surroundings where, before—as a mischievous little child—I would stand behind the wall at the base of the stairs and try to surprise her but just get a sweet old smirk and an adorable elderly quip as she walked by her silly grandson. However, ever since reaching ninety, just walking to her room and asking what she was watching would startle her half to death (and our floors are obscenely creaky)—she became a lot less aware of her surroundings and where things (or people were). Around this time, she also started to hear ringing in her ears when there was only dead-silence. After she became increasingly unhinged and violent, there became a need to hospitalise her—not for her weakness or anemia, this time, but for her aggression. She probably had not slept for over a month, by this point, and this was most likely the source of said aggression, paranoia, and anxiety. On the car ride there, she was openly hostile to Him while he was driving and my attempts to stop her so as to avoid having a car-accident turned her aggression towards me. When finally passing triage and reaching the waiting area of the emergency department, Grandma continued her violence, painfully hitting Him and I with her gold-and-jade-laden rings. When a room finally opened up, she refused to go and wanted to go back home (even after days and days and days of wanting to be taken to the hospital) and when we tried to gently push her towards the room, she suddenly turned around, and as it with the power of all the elephant matriarchs of the world pushed me and Him out of the room and began assaulting us before the nurses quickly called for orderlies and security to bring her down and tie her arms and legs to the hospital-bed in the room. Because of what had just transpired, she was upgraded to the sub-accute emergency section with a room closer (and facing) the nurses-station. She was sedated with haloperidol through injection because she refused to take an oral dose but during the process Him, I, a nurse, and two security guards needed to hold her down and she still was almost able to bite the nurse (and myself). After that, we were put into contact with the Local Health Integration Network (LHIN) to discuss placing her in an assisted-living facility and both 4th Uncle and He were seriously considering it and passed on the responsibility of coordinating with LHIN to me due to my higher education and superior command of English. They also put in a referral for us to the hospital’s geriatrics department and scheduled us to see a Dr. Cheng at a later date after the attending physician provided a temporary round of anxiolytics (lorazepam). When taking the lorazepam, she was much more docile and also able to sleep and it felt like we got her back from the throes of insanity—that is, until we had to take increasing doses and it became unfeasible to continue. Her violent tirades returned, along with her insomnia and we went to see the geriatrician. He proved to be—not just incompetent, but—wildly careless and inadequate; his bed-side manner was shockingly crass and crude. He never really listened when we came in for the appointment and seemed in a hurry to get us out the door with a new round of pills for her to take: haloperidol, sertraline—you name it, she probably was prescribed it. Some of them were worse than others, like haloperidol which left her a stumbling and drooling mess—taken long enough, left her bid-ridden and Him changing diapers and bed-sheets. Eventually, I decided it was time to stop seeing the geriatrician as I was also so upset with his flippant demeanor when at appointments in his office. He took a little while to convince, as He was afraid of Grandma reverting back to her violent and difficult self even though I was the one home alone with her while everyone else was gone for a majority of the day at work or school. As that was the case, the representatives from LHIN mostly dealt with me when they came by the house whether it was the social-worker on the case or the professionals she would send to the house. The most helpful professional was an occupational therapist who educated me upon dementia and Alzheimer’s as well as providing emotional support and advice on the situation with the geriatrician and his exceedingly terrible medications. Before this, in my ignorance, I was yelling and screaming at Grandma, confused as to how she could go from a completely normal and loving grandmother who I would give up the my own mother for to someone I was afraid of being around. After the occupational therapist left, my relationship with Grandma started slowly shifting back to one of positive interactions and normalcy. He, however, refused to read the educational materials the occupational therapist left to enlighten us on Grandma’s dementia because he refused to believe she had dementia because of how quick and abrupt the change was. He wanted to believe that she was doing this on purpose and after retiring before the Christmas of 2017, would often get into drunken tirades and yell so loud you could hear him throughout the house and even in the backyard. This continued afterwards, as well, and followed the cycles of her decline into bed-riddance (either from the anti-psychotics prescribed by the incompetent geriatrician, or the lack in erythropoietin) and ascent back into insanity and unnatural strength. In another descent in early 2018, after her nephrologist AGAIN decided that her RBC-level was too high and cut her off from erythropoietin for another three months, I again became insistent that He call the nephrologist to prescribe another round of shots. He was stubborn, as always is the case, and believed that her being bed-ridden and defecating in a diaper meant that it was her time—as if you were just born with a pre-determined age at which someone would die at. I was enraged so I took matters into my own hands after getting home from work one day in May and called the nephrologists’ office and angrily berated the secretary, to which she told me that all we had to do was call in after running out and they would send the prescription and shots to the pharmacist and we could pick them up. I sat there after the call, part-relieved that it meant Grandma wouldn’t have to go through another round of panic and part-annoyed that He did not want to do it because of laziness and self-importance (the belief that He is smarter than I, even without doing any research or having any prior knowledge about anything, even though He was always the one who took her to the nephrologist’s and family physician’s appointments). He does the same with plants and ended up condemning our eight-year-old starfruit plant to die in the cold, despite my protest. He always thinks he’s the smartest person, regardless of what experience/knowledge he has or doesn’t have in a particular subject—and I’ve inherited a similar manner of speaking-as-a-matter-of-fact-ly, as if I was 100% sure about what I was saying (which often gets me into trouble).

Depression In every waking day, the demon lurks within your shadow—always just out of the corner of your eye. As that sun sets and the lights go out, that shadow becomes an all-consuming spectre that fills the room as much as it does your mind—it eats that light your try to light inside, unhinging its jaws and swallowing the sun whole like a constrictor after it had crushed all the air from your lungs. A breath-taking darkness sends your heart into a frantic panic, straining and screaming and searching for every last bubble of air in the blood starting to leak from your eyes. Crimson tears streak down, acrid and burning, like streams of fiery lava making their way to the salty sorrowful depths of the oceans. Your head is feverishly throbbing with starvation, suffocating and drowning in itself as it melts from the draconic hell-fires lit under you by the shadowy-figure. You are more palatable to it when scared out of your mind and injuriously maimed by your own hand, so it eats at you night by night, piece-by-piece—it could be days, months, years, or even decades—but it is patient and diabolical. You are to it, like finely aged-wines or cheeses are to a wealthy connoisseur with too much money to know what to do with.

An Unwelcome Stranger Is His child, in his home, being a burden upon him. It doesn’t matter if this person does anything good, because—ultimately—this person is a stranger. A worthless stranger borne of his flesh and blood, that only continues to feast like a fat leech, engorging itself on His blood.

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365daysofsasuhina · 6 years ago

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[ 365 Days of SasuHina || Day One Hundred Thirteen: Garden Spirit ] [ Uchiha Sasuke, Hyūga Hinata ] [ SasuHina ] [ Verse: River Runs Deep ] [ AO3 Link ]

He’s been traveling for weeks.

Tasked by his lord to fetch the pelt a rare white deer, he’s been tracking a promising herd through the mountains. The wary creatures have yet to let him close, but a glimpsing flash of white has kept him on their path. Through the winding peaks their game trails he’s toiled, the rocky and root-ridden terrain perilous...but a samurai is not one to be so easily dissuaded.

At first, he’d assumed the assignment a fool’s errand. Why task a samurai with such a job? But with the completion of his mission will come great pride, honor...and coin. None of which he can bring himself to refuse.

And so, Sasuke follows the imprints of cloven hooves into the north, swords at his hip and bow at his back. Hunting, at least, he knows he can do. Many times in his youth did his brother take him tracking boars in the forests. And he’s not the novice he was then. All he needs is the patience for the proper shot...and he’s sure he won’t miss.

Their path, he admits, confuses him. He knows of migrations into the mountains for the sika, but surely the coming of Spring means returning to the lowlands as the grass renews?

Where are they going?

His confusion lingers as they travel further and further into the range. But then, at last, he sees what they’ve been seeking. The trail descends steeply between two peaks...into a lush and untouched valley.

For a time, he simply stands at the trailhead and stares in wonder. Tall camphor trees litter the inner sides of the peaks and the valley itself, waterfalls cascading from the snowy caps. A winding river of sapphire glitters, barely seen along the vale’s spine.

It’s beautiful…!

Once his awe fades, Sasuke gives a shake of his head. He still has a pelt to fetch, and standing here won’t get him home any faster. With careful steps, he makes his way to the valley floor.

It’s there he finds something wholly unexpected.

Though the trail leads first to the northern end of the valley, the rest spanning south, a short path leads a bit further up. At the fork, a worn torī gates stands. Are there...people here? He’d seen no houses from his view atop the trail, and there are no footprints, only tracks of game. Perhaps those who’d lived here have long perished. Judging by the age of the wood and the peeling vermillion paint...it’s not been tended to for quite some time.

...and yet…

Such a gate marks the threshold between mortal and holy ground. Sasuke sees no shrine...but the landmark makes him wary. Should he hunt in such a place? His lord has given him an order. He cannot disobey. But which does he fear more: an angry clan head, or vengeful kami?

True, Sasuke isn’t a devout follower of any faith. Samurai adopt a variety of beliefs: Buddhism, Zen, Confucianism, and even the land’s own religion of Shintō. But though he may not actively believe such tales...nor is he foolish enough to tempt what he cannot confirm does not exist.

For now, he steps through the gate...but rather than south after the deer, he treks north. It isn’t far to where the valley begins to slope steeply upward, but something grand has caught his eye.

Oddly isolated from the camphor boughs and trunks of the rest of the valley, a lone wisteria tree stands. Tall and branching, it looks over the head of the valley like a great amethyst crown, graceful branches sweeping the ground with their violet tendrils. Petals litter the grass, making its perch appear almost alien as it’s completely covered with purple blooms. And among them, small and worn, are tiny stone jinja.

Twisting and curved, the trunk is wider across than his arms outstretched: clearly hundreds of years old. Never has he seen a tree of greater age or beauty.

It’s like looking at a goddess taken flora form.

For the second time this day, he finds himself staring in unabashed awe. He’s almost certain of it, now: the gate, this tree, the valley...it’s all touched by gods. But what to do about his quest…? Surely taking a life for so vain a thing as a single pelt - not even meat, though he himself won’t waste it - will see him smote.

Looking over his shoulder to the west, the sun is already far below the peaks. Soon it will be too dark to make his way. He should make camp...he can weigh his options, and then sleep on making a decision.

A fire he makes back down the slope, cooking a rabbit he’d slain that morning before entering the valley. Water comes from the obliging river, refilling his skin and letting him nurse the cool clear liquid as he thinks.

...perhaps…

He looks over his shoulder to the wisteria tree. Even from here, he can see the tiny shrines. A decision weighs upon his shoulders. He could...pray. Ask for guidance. He may not be a staunch believer, but...well, surely it cannot hurt. Once his meal is done, he smothers the ashes with earth, carrying a torch back to the tree to kneel at its base.

Something about it raises the hairs along the back of his neck.

Extinguishing his flames, he braces his hands on his knees before leaning reverently forward. “O-kami-sama,” he offers vaguely, having no named deity to address. “I ask you passage through your valley...and a sample of your bounty. Among your herds of deer is a stag I seek. One of a white coat, sought by my master. His decree weighs upon me...but so too does the mark of this holy land. I will take only what I need. If that is not too much to ask...give me leave, and I will complete my task...and then leave this land in peace.”

A soft wind rolls through the valley. Along his cheek, a branch gently whispers.

But he hears nothing.

Sighing, head bowing further in what feels like defeat, Sasuke continues to think in circles.

Before he realizes it...he falls prey to a weary sleep.

He is slow to wake.

Sunlight faintly dapples his face, bleeding and shifting through the dancing boughs of the wisteria in the morning breeze. Leaned back against the trunk, a hand rests loosely atop the hilt of his katana, the other along his waist.

In his dream, he can feel arms drape over his shoulders, silken hair slithering along his neck.

Dark eyes slowly open, for a moment at a loss as to where he is, and why. But his journey slowly returns, and he sighs. What a place to doze off...it’s like he’s wandered into a kami’s palace of boughs and blooms.

As he watches, a figure seems to manifest before his eyes between the sweeping tendrils of branches.

Breath stoppers in his lungs.

A woman of short stature stands at the edge of the tree’s grasp. A layered kimono of lilac, violet, heather, and wine flutters in the breeze. Hair, straight as a blade, drapes down her back and across her brow, alight amethyst in the sun. Even her eyes are pools of lavender. Everything purple save for the milky white of her skin, and the faint pink of her lips.

She stares at him, otherwise unearthly still beyond the dance of her garment. Every so often, he sees tabi-clad feet atop impossibly-high geta.

It’s then Sasuke knows...he’s staring at a goddess. The spirit of this heavenly garden. It feels sinful to stare, but he can’t look away…!

“Humble hunter.”

She speaks like silk, soft and delicate...and yet unspeakably strong. Her gaze never wavers as she addresses him.

“You have traveled far at the whim of another...and here your search has brought you...to a vale of spirits and gods. While many would take without a second thought...you have asked of me permission to have what you seek.”

His heart flutters like a bird trapped behind glass against his ribs. Surely he still sleeps...this must be a dream…! And yet he’s felt so awake...so alive…

“The white buck you track is a sacred beast...your lord covets it for his own. You, who serve his beck and call, are merely the tool...not the desire. This I cannot fault you. But it is not I you must ask, and appease. I am but one spirit of this valley. There are others far mightier than I. They too know of your task...and that I gave you shelter.”

It’s then she begins to approach him, untouched by weaving branches despite her unwavering path. Not a single petal stirs at her passing

“It has been many a year since a human slept beneath my boughs...or spoke amongst my blossoms. It brings...a melancholy feeling. A reminiscence of loneliness…”

He can’t move, can’t speak, frozen beneath her gaze as she closes the gap between them. In a fluid motion she kneels, and hands - cool and smooth, like a freshly-bloomed flower - cup his cheeks to behold him.

“...I was young when the humans withered here...when we kami were left to our devices, no devoted voices left to speak to us. I admit...I covet your presence...it’s been so long since my beauty was last admired…”

Sasuke can do little more than stare.

“...but you are not mine to keep. I will take you to the others. The heart of the mountain, of the river, of the camphor. It is they you must appeal. Prove the purity of your intentions, human...and you may have what you seek. Just remember the weight of your prize...and the wake it will leave.”

At last, he manages a nod: small, jerking, and entirely human in the face of her grace.

A fond smile curls her lips. “...may I have your name, child of man?”

“U...Uchiha. Sasuke.”

“...you may call me Hinata.” Toward the sun. A fitting name for such a blossom-laden beauty...for he knows there’s no mistake: she is the kodama of the wisteria.

With just as smooth a motion as her kneeling, she returns to her feet. “Uchiha Sasuke...are you prepared to plead your case…?”

Still sat among the jinja, he stares up at her, yet still entranced. Never has he seen a woman of such beauty. Though many have labored to conquer it...with a single glance, she’s stolen his heart. A dangerous thing to give a kami, he knows.

But there’s little taking it back now.

“...I am.”

“...then let us walk.”

Ohhh man, I REALLY like this one! I want to add more parts, for sure...but I had to stop myself here, haha - it's late, and I don't want any of these to get too long xD It took some digging, but I managed to find a way to turn this prompt into something Shintō-related. Kodama, though often depicted as separate spirits, CAN also refer to the trees themselves. So I did a little extra (and admittedly rushed) research into them, and samurai, and just...wung it, lol - and I really, REALLY like the result. Hinata as a wisteria tree spirit? PERFECT! And maybe later on we can have Sakura as...well, a sakura kodama. Maybe Naruto as a kitsune. We'll have to see! But for now, it's late, and I need sleep after a sleepless night last night (yay toothaches, lol) - but thanks so much for reading! See y'all tomorrow n_n

#sasuhina #uchiha sasuke #hyūga hinata #river runs deep [ au ]#365daysofsasuhina

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irenesfemme-blog · 6 years ago

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Hey everyone,

I joined a server centered around the Star Wars franchise in late 2018, and I was a moderator there for a significant amount of time. Tonight I left it. And I’d like to explain why, and where that leaves this blog, going forward.

First of all, I must ask that you do not reblog this post, and I’m really going to ask that you refrain from commenting on it as well. Honestly, I need to heal from this experience. It’s been actively harmful for me for weeks because it’s been such an incredibly toxic environment.

I do want to thank the people who reached out to me, however, during all of this. Who expressed that they wish that they had done more for me, stood up, said something. I don’t blame any of you. I completely understand not wanting to make yourself a target. I love you, and I wish you nothing but the best.

This blog, as well as REVANSFEMME and BINALAARA, are going on hiatus. I don’t know for how long. I’d like to feel okay enough to come back one day, but that remains to be seen. Until then, I’ll keep on keeping on.

Cheers, -- Irene.

Here’s my letter to the community:

Hey guys,

The original discussion began when a conversation about biphobia, and transgender woman’s contribution to that conversation, was interrupted and derailed. And honestly, guys? No one involved in that interruption and derailing, when confronted with the fact that it was harmful and hurtful, asked if their fellow community members, and in particular the transgender woman who was interrupted, were okay. No one has expressed any acknowledgement or regret for having been a part of that. It’s been completely ignored in favor of airing other grievances. And that’s not fair in particular to the transgender woman who was interrupted, who brought up with the mods that she had been feeling uncomfortable in this server for a long time, and who helped me identify the rhetoric used as trans-exclusionary radical feminist. And this entire conversation about the things I’ve done has come about right after I took a stand, as a mod and as a friend, to support this transgender woman in our community. That timing has not escaped my notice.

I hear that a lot of you have felt guilty, alienated, or angry by me speaking about my experiences and discomforts as a bisexual woman. I haven't meant to make you feel this way; it hasn't been an agenda of mine. I am sorry for bringing you pain. But I am also hurt in turn because it feels like so many of these accusations are in bad faith at best. To be honest, if I had known that sharing my negative experiences as a bisexual woman would have contributed to the difficult climate of this server, I would have kept them to myself. And that’s what’s getting me here: I shared these because I felt safe with the people in this server. I shared these because I considered so many of you friends. And knowing that being silent would have made me less of a target is really painful.

The idea isn't that "discussing solidarity and struggles as lesbians reminds bisexual women of their struggles and difficulties they themselves face, some of them caused by lesbians and lesbian communities, and therefore these discussions shouldn't be held." It's that these discussions can co-exist. You're allowed to express solidarity and support as lesbians. But I'm also allowed to feel hurt and discouraged because so often I and other bi women are excluded from queer spaces in particular, or invalidated as people or as a community, and yes, sometimes this is done by lesbians. The latter conversation isn't a rebuke of the first. It's just a part of the ongoing series of dialogues in the queer community.

What’s particularly difficult about many of the complaints is that they express a standard I cannot meet. I spoke about my discomfort with a conversation in the channel that it was held in, indicating that it’s a good conversation but one that I feel I can’t be a part of because of my personal experience, and that was objected to. I moved to a separate channel to express my sorrow at the biphobia in this server and how it’s made me feel hurt and uncomfortable, with the intent of having a separate space where I could talk without disrupting another conversation, and that was objected to. I silently left a third conversation and brought up my point of view a while later, in a different channel, in a conversation about biphobia, and that’s been objected to. I’ve been told that when and how I’ve been talking about my experiences is a definite part of what’s making people feel guilty and targeted, but in literally every way I’ve tried to talk about biphobia, someone has objected. It’s a losing game: the only winning move is not to play at all.

And these individual experiences – where a bisexual woman’s voiced experiences and feelings are objectionable, derailing, unnecessary – parallel a larger theme in queer communities where bisexual women are told, explicitly and implicitly, that we aren’t welcome. That we take up space intended for the more valid, more queer, members of the community, just by being here, and being hurt, and giving voice to our struggles.

And the concept, reiterated over and over again, that my pain as a bisexual woman was intended to make lesbian women feel guilty feels to me like so, so much more than an assumption of bad faith. It feels like a deliberate act of willful misunderstanding. It feels like silencing through shaming.

And all of this is so much of the reasons why I and so many other bisexual people don’t feel comfortable in queer spaces. Our discussions about our struggles with gay and lesbian members of the queer communities are turned against us as proof that we are dangerous, that we are harmful, that we do not belong. I’ve seen it over and over in IRL spaces. I just didn’t want to see it here. And I really see no way how I could ever talk about my experiences as a bisexual woman in this server again with any degree of safety or assumption of solidarity.

And this isn’t even getting into the long, chastising private message I received from a community member not so long ago about my personal failures. That was … above and beyond.

I had a long conversation with my spouse about these events. He brought up that, paraphrased, “You do realize that these people berating you publicly for miscommunication, when you’ve stated before that you are on multiple spectrums, comes off to me, at least, as ableist?” And I don’t want to realize that. That makes this all feel so much more targeted and horrifying.

As I said at the very beginning of this server, and on my tumblr, and earlier today, I am on both the autistic and the schizophrenic spectrums. I have severe ASD symptoms and Schizotypal Personality Disorder. I have a really hard time reading social cues, situations, and tones, especially over the internet, and that's been a constant struggle in my life. But participating in discussions has always been hard for me, and it's been hard for people who don't know how to deal with my particular neuroatypicality. It’s a wholly foreign concept to me that any of you would have read my expressions of my own struggles and interpreted that as me setting out to make you feel guilty. I just … don’t understand. I never have. It’s why I’ve always asked people to please talk to me at the time of the miscommunication, because it’s almost impossible for me to judge how someone is going to emotionally respond to anything I say.

And that brings me to my last point: I’m leaving. I’m leaving this server, and I’m leaving tumblr, and I’m leaving the Star Wars fandom as a whole, for now at least. Lal’s mother is right when she said, "If you were getting paid for this job I'd tell you to quit and get another job.” This has been an impossible job for a number of reasons, and I’ve stuck around because I loved Lal and Io, and I wanted very much to help them and this community. I’ve been trying to do this work as a mod atop work managing hospice care for my terminally ill mother, the full-time work of running and maintaining a household, and my personal work as a writer. And the longer I spend in this community, the worse I feel. All of this feels … horrifying, in a very visceral and targeted sense.

I am sorry that many of you felt hurt by me. I truly have never meant to cause any of you harm. But that’s accompanied by a very real and very painful sense of being physically ill right now.

I’m going to close the religious server that I moderate. The dungeons & dragons one, and the writing and worldbuilding one, will both remain open, but I’m going to ask that no one bring any of this discussion to those spaces. That’s a boundary that I’m going to have to insist on at this juncture.

I guess I’d like to close by saying that I’m not angry. I’m really not. I just feel really, really sad. I’d like to believe that the timing of this is just unfortunate, that the implications of ableism are an accident, that the pervasive biphobia in this server has been rooted in ignorance and not malice. But after today’s discussion, honestly? I’d always wonder, and I’d never feel good here again.

There’s a line that’s been crossed here into the grounds of active cruelty. Lal’s been hurt, Io’s been hurt, and you guys have just kept going and going and going at these two, who have really tried their all for you. And as I said to Lal and Io earlier, on a personal note, dragging out my admissions of pain and hurt as "receipts" is the point where there's no going back for any relationship.

And that’s the time to move on.

#do not reblog #do not comment #housekeeping

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tsaomengde · 7 years ago

Text

What Is Owed (3)

(Part 1) (Part 2)

After a night on the stone floor of the guest quarters given her by the King, Alia is awakened by the appearance of a serving woman. The woman takes one look at her and says, “Is there an issue with the bed of which I need be made aware, milady?”

With a low growl, Alia sits up. Her head hurts, her mouth is dry, and everything is too bright and too loud. This is not atypical of her mornings, but she is still in no mood for visitors. “No.”

“Milady, then why –”

Alia climbs stiffly to her feet, turns, and sits down on the edge of the bed.

There are low, ominous creaking noises, followed by sounds of splintering. She keeps eye contact with the serving woman, watching the horror and understanding blossom on her face, wondering if she will demand Alia stand up before the frame cracks completely through or if decorum will win out and keep her silent.

“Milady, please! I do beg your pardon. Spare the bed my foolishness. I was told you were consecrated of Yeda, but I thought not what it might bode.”

Alia pushes off the balls of her feet, impressed. The bed holds, and assuming its next inhabitant weighs less than she does, she doubts there will be an issue. “So, my good maid. Are you here to insist I bathe and change my clothes once more, or simply to ensure that I am awake for our departure?”

Her intruder actually cracks a small smile. “I heard tell of your grand entrance yesternight, milady. May I remark that none amongst us are over-fond of Nadia.”

Alia puts on a shocked look. “It surpasses me to envisage why.”

“To make an answer to your question, milady, the good ship Astes does depart in two hours. It was thought you might desire to make acquaintance with His Highness Prince Andral aforetime.”

Considering the proposition of sleeping for another hour, Alia is sorely tempted to just tell this woman to go away. But she decides that if she is going to be stuck on a skyship for two weeks with this boy and his retinue, she should make the attempt to ensure the voyage is not too unpleasant. That probably involves talking to him at least once.

This, she decides, can be the once, if once it indeed is.

“I must refresh and make myself ready,” she says. “You may wait for me outside. Then I will go with you to the Prince.”

That interaction temporarily concluded, Alia goes and carefully uses the indoor toilet. It is not a thing she is used to, but the maid has done somewhat to soften Alia’s feelings toward the Palace staff after her encounter with Nadia, and consequently she feels little desire to make their lives difficult. Across from the indoor toilet there is a basin, and some device of smooth, curved marble which brings forth cold, clear water into it. A recent invention, she knows; the last time she was in this Palace, some twenty years ago, none of the guest quarters had anything like it. She does not know what they are called or how they work.

Alia splashes some of the water onto her face, and drinks some until she feels refreshed. The water is somewhat brackish, but it is serviceable.

Feeling slightly more human, she allows the serving woman to lead her up through winding staircases and steeply sloped halls to the Palace aerodrome. It is an ambitious space that also did not exist twenty years ago; Stryga has added much to the Palace since his coronation, it seems. The top of the tower has essentially been sliced off, and a steel floor the size of a city block has been laid flat atop it. Tall, arched pillars of black stone rise out of the floor high into the air, supporting a glass dome lined with airsteel struts. The structure is truly massive, capable of engulfing even the largest skyships.

Alia knows this construction is not just for its own sake; though she is mostly uninformed about the mechanics of skyship flight, she does know the conventional wisdom that it is easier to climb than descend. Most aerodromes are constructed as high up as possible, and this one is no exception.

The aerodrome could accommodate several vessels the size of Astes, which is the kingdom’s largest civilian skyship, but it is currently the only one docked. Alia quietly wonders at the wisdom of not sending the Prince aboard a military craft, but then considers the prospect of Oallans breaking the surface of the waves to look up at a vast floating fortress bearing down on them. Friendly hands behind the guns or no, Alia knows firsthand the experience of looking up into the sky and seeing the black mouth of a hellcannon gaping down back at her.

The Astes is like a silvery dart, chopped in half along its horizontal length so it is flat-topped, and then magnified to several times the size of a red whale. At a glance, Alia estimates it can hold seventy people, including the crew, and several tons of cargo. More people could take the place of cargo in its hold, but she has been aboard enough skyships to know that they would not be comfortable. She notes the cunning concealment of its heat vents in the craft’s smooth lines, its broad windows, the lack of any visible armament. Like most civilian skyships, it has no top deck, containing the crew and passengers entirely within its hull.

Ramps extend from the ship’s belly, its bow, and its stern. Men in grey and brown uniforms are loading cargo through the belly ramp, while occasional knots of colorfully-clad civilian passengers – noblepersons, merchants, and artisans, Alia guesses – embark through the stern ramp. The bow ramp seems reserved for the ship’s crew, and is unused, at least for the moment.

Prince Andral and his retainers are standing at the base of the bow ramp, apparently having a discussion with the Astes’s captain, an older woman in sharp blue trousers and doublet. Andral is only slightly taller than Alia, sharp-featured, imperially slim. His skin is a shade lighter than his father’s, though still rich and coppery; his charcoal hair is long, braided, and gathered in a knot at the base of his skull to hang between his shoulder blades. He wears a smart beard, neatly trimmed. Instead of the traditional doublet and trousers, he favors a long, white overcoat, a green waistcoat and breeches, black hose, and thick-soled, practical boots.

The serving woman bids Alia goodbye and scurries off. Alia watches her go, wondering at the seeming suddenness of her departure, then shrugs it off and heads for the Prince.

As she draws closer, Alia can hear what he is saying to the captain. His voice is controlled and precise. “I desire no special regard aboard ship, Captain. I require only that we come to Oalla as soon as may be.”

The captain shifts her weight from one foot to another, clearly uncomfortable. “Your Highness, by this do you mean we must make course for Oalla first, letting our other destinations fall by the wayside until such time as we have discharged our duty to you?”

Andral crosses one arm over his belly, rests the elbow of the other atop the first, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “How much time might be gained if you should do this thing?”

“Perhaps five days, Your Highness.”

“I sense reluctance. Wherefore?”

The captain looks down at her feet. “Spoilage of certain goods we have taken aboard ship, Your Highness. The rancor of certain travelers whose passage we secured with promises of swift deliverance to journey’s terminus.”

“Gold may serve to assuage such rancor and soothe the sting of goods lost.” Andral snaps his fingers, and one of his retinue, a middle-aged woman wearing the flowing robes of a scribe and numerologist, steps forward. In one hand she holds a sheaf of paper, in the other a bloodquill. “You may relate your potential losses to Ora, here. My father will make recompense to you upon your return.”

Alia sighs. She was so hoping this might not be painful.

Clearing her throat, she speaks up. “Your Highness,” she says. “I think that an ill turn.”

Expression clouding, Andral whirls and scans her from head to toe in one glance. “Who are you that should assume to dictate thus to me?”

“Alia the Steelblooded,” she replies, not liking to use her full title but knowing she needs moral authority here and hoping that martial authority will do instead. “His August Majesty King Stryga has charged me with your protection on this voyage. To that end, I must caution you against this. You risk the displeasure of the crew and your fellow passengers. The captain cannot say these things to you, but I may.”

Andral narrows his eyes, which for the first time Alia realizes are an unusually light shade of hazel. “You presume much upon your relationship with my father, it seems.”

“I hope not overmuch.” Alia holds that bright gaze, not flinching. She is as far from afraid of Andral as it is possible to be without being actively contemptuous. He is, after all, just a boy, not even twenty years old yet. She vaguely recalls people in the streets discussing the ceremony of his coming of age, some months ago, but that does not make a boy a man.

With a slight sigh, Andral looks back at the captain. “Should I heed the words of Alia the Steelblooded, Captain? Speak freely, with no fear of rebuke.”

“Were I in your place, Your Highness,” the captain says, still looking at her feet, “I should be mindful of her most excellent advisement.”

Andral looks back at Alia, holds her gaze a moment longer, then inclines his head. “So shall it be, then. I thank you for your wise counsel, Alia the Steelblooded. Take sup with me this eve in my cabin.”

Pursing her lips, Alia nods, deciding to ignore the peremptory tone. He did thank her, after all, and she does not want to strain things any more. “Until then, Your Highness.”

He turns away with a sweep of his long coat and marches straight up the bow ramp, his attendants scurrying to keep up.

“I must extend my sincerest gratitude, milady,” the captain murmurs quietly once Andral is aboard.

Alia switches to the merchants’ jargon. “Royalty are hippos. Large mouths, large wakes, many attendant little birds.”

That gets a chuckle out of the captain. “And fierce tempers. And no patience. And a large number so dumb they shit where they eat.”

“This one is a little smart. He sees when he is being dumb, with help.”

“Aye. Gratitude again. You are welcome on my boat.” The captain gives her shoulder a squeeze Alia does not feel, and turns to go.

Alia does not initially intend to stop her. But she eyes the bow ramp, considering the prospect of dinner with Andral that evening. “Captain,” she says, switching back to Fillorel. “Before you away, there is a question I would ask.”

“Yes, milady?”

“In which part of your vessel do you keep the bar?”

#what is owed #my writing #fantasy

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poeticandvaguelysweet · 7 years ago

Text

Til Kingdom Come

Jurassic World

Summary: Claire and Owen celebrate a wedding anniversary

Part: 9/12

Words: 3,358

Two in one week it’s almost like I found my groove again!

Thank you for being so patient when I wasn’t writing. I am really appreciative of that respect to my downtime, you guys didn’t make me feel rushed or like I had to come back to finish posting for you.

AO3

TIL KINGDOM COME - PART NINE

‘East Court will replace the livestock you lost.’ Claire announced, civilian standing a few feet from the throne she occupied. Owen kept his distance, knowing the loss of livestock had been his fault. More accurately, blame lingered over the heads of the four beasts that followed him. ‘And I promise, if my husband’s wolves cause you any more grief, I will see to it myself that they are punished.’ He had not announced himself or made a noise, regardless, Claire’s eyes found his in the room, gaze unforgiving in just the way she had promised.

She could be kind and cruel. She wanted the opportunity to prove it and Owen was pleased to see her sat in East Court, throne supporting her as Grady subjects trusted Claire to pass the right judgement. Two of the wolves she promised to end had their skirmishes continued sat on either side of her throne. They were unbothered by the words she said, the threat of their lives only causing a slight twitch in their ears as they sat tall beside his wife.

He loved watching her. Claire commanded the room with a power he had never seen. Theon never had the patience for the civilian court, to hear out civil debates and keep the grounds peaceful. Anyone who came to Owen with complaints of a threat to their livestock or land was seen to personally. He took too long to solve issues because he refused to send someone else. Owen thought himself wholly responsible for the people that lived off his father’s land.

‘You’re blind to those beasts.’ Claire hummed, East Court closed for the rest of the afternoon as she left the throne and crossed the room to join him. Owen shrugged with a wide grin. ‘I understand that you love them but they are wild animals and they are being destructive.’

‘I’ll feed them more.’ He was dismissive. ‘You don’t know that it was the girls.’ Claire crossed her arms over her chest, her disgruntled stance resting atop the large swell of her belly. He wanted to chuckle, share his mirth in how humorous she looked, trying to be mad whilst heavily pregnant. But, Owen knew her anger was scornful. She would hurt him if she felt it was well deserved. ‘There are wolves in the woods you know.’

‘The farmers say the wolves in the woods don’t approach the properties.’

‘And you’ll believe the farmers over my word?’ He was defensive, a little annoyed and trying not to allow the temper to bother him. Owen didn’t show up in court to start an argument, he came to seek her out, knowing they were closing the doors a few minutes before he arrived.

Claire readjusted her stance, shoulders rolling as she peered around his side. ‘Where are Blue and Charlie?’ She felt that statement would prove her point. Owen liked to boast the domestication of his animals but he wasn’t in complete control. His two head girls were missing from his side, her husband answering that he didn’t want them in court with civilians.

‘I ain’t here to argue with you, Princess.’ His hand found the back of her elbow, squeezing softly as he tried to direct her outdoors. The truth of the matter was, Owen had occasions where he didn’t know where the girls were. He respected their space and they were never gone for long. He didn’t own them, considered them to be wild but trusted that they had his and Claire’s wellbeing at heart.

Claire sighed, falling into step beside him as they left Grey Castle’s court. ‘I’m just saying, your father cannot afford to replace every chicken, sheep or cow that gets devoured in the night. We live off what they farm too.’ Owen hummed, humouring her. ‘You know, this is how empires fall.’ She was trying to be helpful and he loved that she was aware of these issues, concerned about the livelihood of his people, but these were his animals that were at blame and Owen couldn’t sit there and take it. ‘It’s okay to admit that you don’t know where they are sometimes.’

Owen shook his head. ‘They never go too far.’ Was all he told her as he beamed, sun greeting their faces, castle breaking away from their backs. Blue and Charlie were sitting outside, lying really, Blue with her head on Charlie’s back. Echo and Delta picked up their step, no longer trailing behind their masters as they moved to join their sisters.

‘Where are we going?’ Claire asked, spotting her horse saddled up and tied beside Owen’s. Her husband shrugged, grin climbing across his cheeks as he took her hand. ‘Are you finally going to share whatever it is you have been doing in secret?’ She teased, interest getting the better of her as his glee squeezed her hand.

‘Are you going to be okay to ride?’ He asked, caution suddenly dawning on him.

Claire propped a hand on her hip. ‘I’m pregnant, not confined to my bed.’ He could argue that she was a few months earlier, pregnancy sickness keeping her tucked between the sheets of their bed as she hid for days on end, willing the dizzying headaches to go away. She was mobile again, her churning stomach turned solid as she went about her duties in East Court or continued to pester Owen for a real sword between small hunting trips.

That was when she could find her husband. He had been mysteriously busy, promising he had something planned for her but unwilling to share in what exactly. Claire was sure he just didn’t want to be bothered, the man growing impatient with a lack of space between them as her activities were restricted.

She pushed up on her toes to kiss his cheek fondly, her hand tight on his shoulder. She appreciated his worry, no matter the capacity or how he expressed it. He was right to be concerned, Claire was sure, with her belly as round as it was, that she should not be mounting a horse. Despite all that, Claire was going to follow no matter where he was taking her.

Owen watched her for a second, internally accessing whether it was right to potentially put his pregnant wife in harm's way. She only stood in front of him with her arms crossed over her swelling belly, face defiant as she stared him down.

[…]

It was a nice day for a ride. The perfect kind where the sun shone, warmth broke by a slight breeze as the trees whistled above their heads. Owen kept the pace excruciatingly slow despite Claire’s complaints that she could walk faster.

He was being cautious and if she took a minute to breathe rather than being annoyed by his care, Claire would be in awe. It was refreshing to know her husband wanted her safe and sound, secure and comfortable which had been a promise long before their child made an appearance in her womb. Claire felt settled in the security of his watch, comforted that he had her back despite the threats of his father looming over her head. It could easily have gone the other way, boy standing by the man who raised him no matter the risk it would take on other lives.

She was trying not to think about it too much. Instead, Claire wanted to focus on the cool air on the bare skin of her neck, how she wished it could blow right through the dress she wore to caress her hot skin. She listened to the movement in the woods, the rattle of leaves and the crunch of twigs underfoot. If she was quiet and her focus was drawn just so she could hear the scurry of little animals or the chirp of small birds.

She knew where they were going before the journey was over. They had been out there a few times in the last handful of months and even though Claire had not ventured out there recently, she recognised the path he was taking.

It wasn’t long before the cliffs broke out in front of her, wide expanse of the ocean stretching before her eyes as she soaked it all in. Claire felt settled, every fibre of her being relaxing in the open grass and wild waters.

Her eyes teared, husband beside her helping Claire down from her horse as he kissed her cheek. ‘I have missed this place.’ She told him softly, breathless as she inched closer to the view, Echo bumping against her leg as the wolf followed her closely. His beasts had been weaving in and out of the horses’ way the whole ride, causing amuck as they hunted down rabbits along the path. For the most part, they stuck by Claire and Allegra.

Owen had made good on his promise. A small cottage stood tall and proud just before the woods stretched into tall trees. It was set back from the cliffs, almost hidden at the end of the clearing but noticeable to Claire’s watery eyes. Her husband had to turn her towards it before she realised.

She gasped, surprise catching in the back of her throat as her hands clung to his arm, squeezing tight as she turned her face to gape at him. ‘I promised.’ He told her, leaning in to kiss her again. ‘And, it’s our wedding anniversary. I thought you deserved something of your own.’

‘I — Owen.’ She wanted to blame her tears on the baby, her head in the wrong place as she stared at the thatched roof and the shutters, every small detail making it look more and more like a cottage from the edge of town. ‘How did you?’ It explained why he kept disappearing on her, his men conveniently unaware of their Lord as Bart tried to distract her for an afternoon or two.

Her husband shrugged, arm enlaced with hers. ‘Called in a lot of favours to have it finished quickly. You deserve it, Princess. You deserve the world.’ He kissed her again, this time capturing her chin with his thumb and forefinger as he directed his mouth to hers. She gave in without a fight, kissing him back with gusto as her disbelief transferred itself to her lips.

‘I don’t even know where to begin in thanking you.’

He shook his head. ‘You’re giving me a son, that is thanks enough.’

It was perfect. Enough to make her forget they were the heirs of a throne for a few days or a few hours. Claire could think herself and Owen as simple folk with no worries as their son slept peacefully in the fresh air away from the cold and hostile stone of the castle.

It was exactly the escape she had dreamed of.

‘Here, I want to show you something.’ He took her hand, pulling Claire towards the cottage and leading her inside.

The place was spacious and fully functioning as a home. They had a kitchen and a table to eat at, a warm fire to sit in front of and cosy chairs to hold them captive. The cottage only had one room, sitting on the second floor with full view of their living space. The bed was wide, Claire was sure it was a little bigger than the one they had in their cambers, this one designed to fit themselves and their toddler son, who would hopefully still be eager for a cuddle. Owen wouldn’t admit it out loud and Claire would pretend the idea hadn’t entered her mind but there was space for all four of their girls to climb up and nap with them if they so chose.

That wasn’t what Owen was trying to show her. He wanted Claire to be wooed by the whole cottage but the surprise came in something smaller. She noticed it when he helped her climb the stairs, instructing her to sit on the edge of the bed as he gallantly gestured towards a crib pressed against the wall.

Claire praised the piece of furniture, getting up to touch it as she ran her fingers along the engravings, touch inspecting the make as she stood in awe. ‘I made it.’ Owen told her, shyly. ‘It’s where I’ve been — out here, overseeing the cottage and chippin’ away at this.’ Claire caught and imperfection here and there, the wood bowing, something not quite linear but the crib was lovely, darling, the exact sort of thing she wanted her baby to sleep in. It was only better that her husband had made it.

‘I know I haven’t been the best husband.’ Owen announced, voice soft as he took a place on the edge of the bed, eyes not quite watching his wife with the crib he had made. Claire opened her mouth to protest. He had been nothing but kind and patient. He treated her to such lovely things, new clothes and a sparring partner worthy of her time. He built her a cottage and made a crib for their child. Claire would not hesitate in announcing he made her extremely happy.

Owen shook his head. ‘I have not been able to protect you from my father.’ She wanted to argue that Theon had not touched her. Beyond his words and her personal fears, she was safe from the man. ‘I should be doing something about him, Claire, I should —-‘

‘You know that it is treason.’ She warned. ‘You’re a smart man, Owen, you would not put me in danger like that.’

‘But I have hurt you and I have let you be hurt.’

Claire frowned, arms crossed over her chest as she watched him, waiting for the man to spit his words out. ‘You have done no such thing.’ She was stern.

Owen nodded. ‘Our wedding night.’ His words were so soft she barely heard him, Claire blinking as she watched his drooping shoulders.

‘Was our wedding night and despite it being less than pleasant it had to happen.’ Owen shook his head. ‘Owen, look at me.’ She waited for a beat, watching as the man dragged his eyes to hers. ‘You knew what your father would do. What he is capable of. If we did not consummate our marriage vows he would have been done with the both of us. We would have been over before we even had a chance. You knew that. Don’t you dare act like there wasn’t anything at risk.’ The lines on his face were angry and thick, the man nodding as he looked towards the window above their bed. ‘We were married a year ago. What was done is done and it is long behind us. I wish you would stop bringing it up just to torture yourself and to frustrate me.’ He nodded, grunting at her softly. ‘I did not want to fight with you today.’ It had been their third argument since waking.

‘The crib is beautiful, so is the house. Thank you for this life even when you think it isn’t perfect. I am happy, Owen.’ They had started off on the wrong foot a year ago but they had quickly realigned their path, the two of them caught on each other. ‘You need to worry less, everything will work out fine.’

She sat beside him. The bed dipped under her weight as Claire sighed. A damper had been put on the mood and she suddenly found herself lost in the situation. Claire shuffled to the middle of the bed, legs crossed as she watched the side of her husband’s face. ‘You know, he doesn’t have a name.’ She told him, a hand rubbing across her swollen middle.

‘We haven’t talked about that, have we?’ He turned to her, half mirroring her position as a single leg dangled off the side of the bed. Claire shook her head. They had not discussed the prospect of names for their child.

'I always thought I would name my sons after my brothers but given recent circumstances, I do not want to see my sons follow their footsteps.’ Claire had once admired her brothers, Merrick and Henry were everything to her as a girl. They had power and persuasion, everyone looked to them for an opinion and advice no matter the problem. Her brothers were confident, controlled and destined for greatness. She considered them role models, her heroes until Merrick shipped her off and neither Henry nor her father put in a good word to keep their sister and daughter around. ‘They are nothing to me now and if my sons dare to do what Merrick did, they will have to face my wrath.’

She was still trying to put her finger on the pulse of her betrayal. Owen had turned out to be the best match for her but Claire was not ever going to forgive the cold and ruthless way Merrick had shoved her out. She was lucky that Owen was good and kind. Her brothers were lucky that Owen was good and kind, they would not have seen their sisters wrath coming if they had sent her to a wicked man. They were not entirely in the clear. If Theon harmed her baby, not only would she tear the man apart but she would seek out Merrick and make him pay for it to.

Owen shook his head. ‘Our child should have his own name. Something strong like James or Adam.’ His wife crinkled her nose, displeasure colouring her cheeks. ‘What?’

‘They’re not very good.’

Owen laughed, the sound a bark as Echo jumped up on the bed between them. ‘You are ridiculous.’ He grinned at her, rolling his eyes as her hand found Echo’s soft fur.

‘I want to name him Humphrey.’ She told him, watching the same dissatisfied crinkle appear in the lines on his nose. ‘It means peaceful warrior. I thought you might find that fitting.’ She could see that he still didn’t like it but was trying to come around to the idea.

Owen’s grin was sly, slow as it crawled across his face. ‘Whatever makes you happy, Princess.’ He was sure that he could find a name to call his son when his wife wasn’t listening. She grinned, copying the sly quirk of his lip like she could read his thoughts.

‘Why so agreeable?’ She asked, smile climbing up her cheeks as she watched a fire start in his eyes.

Owen lent in without a word, only another quirk of his lip as he kissed her softly. ‘I love you, Princess.’ She met him for another kiss, their lips touching gracefully as her smile relaxed to something akin to peace. ‘It scares the shit out of me, but by the Gods, I love you.’

She watched him through lidded blue eyes, lashes kissing her cheeks as she blinked. He frustrated her beyond means on occasion, but he also did crazy wonderful things. He had a cottage built for her, secluded in a place she loved. He built a crib for their baby with incredible detail. He put her needs before his own and ensured she felt safe even when the odds were stacked against them. ‘Well, I love you.’ She told him, hand reaching out to wrap her fingers around his. ‘You insufferable man.’ She giggled, pulling back as the lovely look on his face melted away to realisation.

Owen laughed, lunging at his wife despite the small gap between them as her back hit the mattress with the aid of his hands lowering her down. She squealed with glee, Echo jumping to a stand as she growled at Owen, in the protective mode before she realised they were playing.

‘You insufferable woman.’ Owen teased, rolling them so Claire was straddling him, back bending as she lent down to press her lips to his. ‘Happy anniversary, my love.’ He pulled himself up, half sitting as he met her for another kiss, one hand supporting the curve of her stomach, his fingers splayed across the width of their growing child.

‘We are going to conquer the worlds.’ She told him ever so quietly, her words a whisper and a promise that he almost missed.

#clawen #jurassic world #claire dearing #owen grady #claire x owen #owen x claire #til kingdom come #my fics

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survivor-iceland · 5 years ago

Text

Ep. 1 - “How does one socialize again?” - Dylan C

Maynor

The game has finally started. Let’s see how i do in my last game before I take a long break from playing.

Sierra

As soon as the cast was revealed, it was so exciting! I started looking around, and I really feel like I have a strong tribe. I can't wait to get to know people, hear how they think about the game... and I also hope that I'm able to build some strong bonds, too! My greatest fear in this game is probably getting voted out first. So as long as it isn't me...

Zoe Malzone

Before the challenge I was added into an alliance group with sierra, cormac, and john later entitled "oh, worm?" i also spoke a bit to stephen who congratulated me on not being silent and still being a newbie. I volunteered for the bamboo chopping challenge and got too sweaty and the cup slipped off my finger at eight minutes. However, I did make a little bond with the people I participated with, and the host *didn't* say we could potentially make an alliance with each other, which I then hinted at. Nobody said anything about it, but it's not... not a possibility.

Raffy

Alright, let's get into it. I am getting good vibes from Joseph right off the bat. I feel like him and I are going to get along swimmingly throughout the competition. I think Ellie believes that we have an alliance straight off that bat, but I won't forget how she tried to snake me out. So, I will be cautious of her at best. Other than that, Dylan C. is pretty cool and I am excited to play with them again which is wild. That's like back to my ORG origins right there. I think our tribe is going to kill the challenge, but I had to give up what I wanted to do because someone can't read apparently. But, c'est la vie. I'll try my best with winterbells but I cannot guarantee I'll do well

Keith John

Well I joined the group later, wasnt able to chat due to the time difference. No one approached me with a private chat except for cormac, So atleast I know one person made the effort.

I spoke to Stephen, since we were teamed up for the same portion of the challenge. seemed like I would have connected with him. But I dont know why, he doesnt seem very chatty with me. Since he is the only other one with a big time difference, Im hoping he aint gona use that to try and make me boot number one.

I am gona try and see if I can touch base with jack, he was nice and accommodating towards me for the challenge. Hopefully il be able to connect with him

John

Ok, so i think i made an alliance last night? I figured having an alliance of at least half the tribe would be a safe move. I’m honestly fearful it’s just gonna blow up in my face somehow but that’s just the anxiety talking hahahaha. TimmyMy arms hurt!! That challenge was a lot, but I’m shocked I lasted for 2 hours. I knew I couldn’t beat Maynor because he’s amazing at endurance comps. I know I’m good at them but i am able to recognize when someone is better than me at something. During the challenge Zoe proposed a cross tribal alliance between me, her, Dylan C, and Maynor and honestly I’m here for it.

Obviously I’m going to work with Maynor, so being able to be in an alliance with him that i didn’t have to make is so convenient. Today I’ll spend time talking to people and making connections, but I hope for now I showed that I can be helpful in challenges even though I didn’t win.

Kieran

Right now, I'm a little worried. I didn't get a chance to make the same first impressions and relationships like everyone else did, so I need to play catch-up.

Kieran

When speaking to Raffy, immediately this person is not someone I think I can trust. I just have a gut feeling about it.

Raffy

I spent my morning playing Winterbells which is not the most fun experience. However, I do feel confident that I'll carry this for the tribe! Besides that, I've reached out to Keith and Sierra from the other tribe. Keith sort of gives me weird vibes and he isn't the most entertaining to talk to. I have to manage somehow though. Luckily, I'm not on his tribe for the time being. Sierra seems really sweet. I want to see if I can work with her since she also seems nice and active. Those are good ally traits. Also Kieran messaged me today. And his second message to me was asking me if any alliances were made yet. I mean wig. But don't be a crackhead! It's only day 2 with no tribe calls. That's kind of crackhead behavior. I'm obsessed, but I do hope that means that he doesn't shoot himself in the foot. I'll keep my distance for the time being

Raffy

Keith is telling me that people on his tribe are not messaging him which is not a good sign. So, I don't want him as an ally if he's already going to be the social pariah of his tribe

Raffy

And now Keith just told me that he wants to isntantly work together come a merge or swap. It's day 2!!!!! I don't know you!!!!

Kieran

I've been assigned the task of making a cross-alliance with someone from my tribe and two people from the other tribe. I could not be feeling more #blessed right now, because something like this is right up my alley!

Raffy

According to Ellie, she got herself in a 4 person cross tribal alliance with Cormac, Sierra, and Joseph. My threat alert is already on high. An alliance that I'm not a part of is an alliance that is a threat. She says that it was Cormac's idea and that he is being "overly strategic." I'm instantly getting bad vibes from him. He has got to go before he can cause any more damage. My connection with Ellie is already proving fruitful. I hope I can harvest at some point

Raffy

I finally did it. I've messaged everyone in this game. I blame Jay that I have to talk to all these people. It's too much for my small brain. I do not get good vibes from Cormac at all. I think he's a threat to my game for sure. Hopefully, the other tribe sees his bad vibes and take him out. Otherwise, I'll have to do it myself

Dylan C

How does one socialize again? I keep starting a lot of convos with the standard "Hi! How are you?" because I don't want to come off too strong. But on the flip side, I don't want to seem like I'm boring and can't hold a conversation, either. Video confessional with more to come soon.

Dylan C

https://youtu.be/MeQwz9yEPuM

Sierra

I'm feeling pretty good about where I am in the game right now. I have a few different alliances, which puts me in a pretty good spot in terms of navigating the game at this point in time. I feel closest right now to John and Cormac -- both of whom are in two of my alliances and both of whom have approached me for a final two. I've taken a page from Rob Cesternino and Stephen Fishbach's book and said yes to anyone who approaches me with an alliance. However, right now I'm definitely sticking with my first one over anyone else -- Cormac, Zoe, John and myself. We added Keith as a fifth to have a majority, too... but the four is where it's at for me!

Dylan C

me: I'm just being pessimistic but we're probably going to tribal us: [lost the challenge]

I love jinxing shit

Cormac Marek

My frail body shivers in utter delight. A romance brews between the tips of my eyebrows. Who goes into the strange night without protection? Only the few with their shields split between the castor iron. I crackle through the frozen tundra on my broom stick. Powers have ceased to scoot me over the ground. This is not a real broom stick. Yet I run with the branch between my thighs through the snow, cackling like a wild beast. A foot I go. Smoke wanders through the dried leaves above my glowing head. Moonlight reflects upon my smooth skin like a shining river stone. Joyous delight I cannot barely contain! I peek my eyes through the thick of the trees to see the shadowy outlines of Maynor and Stephen. I recognize them by their ignorance. Most say bliss can be found in this state of delusion but I chose a different path. Not one of foolish misdeeds, careless endeavors. My wet tongue grazes my lips in anticipation. Watching them like an owl to a mouse. Snow has turned black beneath my toe nails. Is this a sign from the Gods above? Those retched beings who guide me? Yes, must be. My eyes widen. They must be struck down like sandpaper to wood. Dice are in my pocket. I am ready to roll my numbers. Two fours roll out into the snow pile. I do not know these numbers. Unfamiliar to my mind. My third eye quivers. Oh! I will take the risk even if the dice deceive me. These two figures will be the next to go. Drug limp through the snow as I whack them and go.

Cormac Marek (code 23)

I am stranded in Iceland marooned on a tundra. This bloody tribe has only built a flimsy shack in the past twenty-four hours. Utter blasphemy. They should all have letters sown into their clothes for this offence. I need comfort. Howling winds ripen my cheeks right up like a banana placed atop a raw lime. Tears roll down my rigid face at the thought of sleeping another night out here. Last moon cycle I huddled up next to Zoe and Jonathan. Our body heat kept us warm. Sierra was wonderful to listen to as the stars shone above. Telling jokes, laughing at our very human humor together as a group. All except Jack. That man of firm muscles. He has been off outside the shack in the middle of the night humming like a mad man. Ridiculous behavior unfit for the royalty that lied within the shack’s walls heaped up like a pile of ash. His mouth uttering obscene things. Jack often rambles about the craziest affairs. How his mother was born in Russia. Her heritage in Romania. How his cousin once cut a piece of his ankle off in a mud fight. Jack was insane. Zoe and I often spoke of this in the shack. Ah! Too simpleton of a name. Shack. Makes me want to puke. I stood in the center of the shelter, spun around ten times in a row, shouted for joyous applause and then sat back down. They all watched me as I deliberated the name of the shack. “It shall be heard on this wicked day of the 16th calendar year that this shack in which we sit in shall be hereby dubbed, ‘Cranklins Buzzom.’ Oh yes! How they all whooped, cheered and hollered. John gave me a necklace made out of rabbit bones for the courage it took me to come up with a name. Zoe threw dead leaves on my bald head to make the occasion sweet like candy. I danced in the middle while we all touched fingers together. We spent the next hour swaying back and forth. Moving our bodies like the dandelions in spring. All but Jack. Wild men do wild things to their own wild needs. He was out once more humming to himself. I could see him through the glorious arms of my tribemates. “Mm Vonderful Everyone!” My voice was cracked now from rampant speeches, shouting on till sunrise about squash soup and the what it means to die. Where do we go when we wake up? What do dreams mean? Zoe has given me supple answers to satisfy my philosophical exuberance. Cormac Marek (code wow)Golden crowns are placed gently over our graceful heads. I sit atop a throne of melting gold. It oozes between my grasp. Silver stretches through my veins like rapids. Those who whisper pleasurable things in my ears bring me great news! I lay back in a beach of three alliances. White sand soft to the touch. Ellie and Joseph have taken me in as their own. Raffy presents me with platters of succulent grapes. My teeth crush the flesh of the fruit for sacred matrimony. Sierra has a seat beside me on the throne made of feathers. Her words float with mine like a bird that takes flight. Zoe is equal in measure, following accordance to the laws I have sown. A core three to dominate the world among us. My strong hands rattle at a steel chain. Links that draw down from my throne all the way to a pit that holds the unclean. Within this dirt pit lies four individuals. They are imprisoned for the time being. Jack’s chain collar around his neck holds him in a firm foundation. Maynor has given up trying to dig his way out of the pit in recent days. From time to time the royalty of the palace gawk over the pit in giggles. Our laughter and pointed fingers at those who do not wish to play. They won’t engage in the grand game! How dare they! Stephen is our jester. Hopping around on two feet. I hold Kieran in my lap, petting like I would a new puppy. Our dinner parties are the most jubilant! My closest allies sit at the front of the long table with me. We throw food at Jack on occasion. “Oh, ha. Ha. Yes! Why my darling do you speak of me?” Justin started to fall of his chair. “I did not say a thing Cormac! Please don’t throw the gorgeous rotten tomato at my body again!” I am furious! Purple faced! “How dare you! You are from Spain! Timmy is hiding there and you refuse to tell me! Take him away!” Spit drools down my chin. John grabs Justin by the ribcage and drags him out of the marble hall. “My week is ruined now you insulant foolish people! All except you my dears.” I turn to Zoe and Sierra to compete in our secret handshake. After which I stand a top the long table to proclaim my frustrations. “Find Timmy! Bring him to me in one piece! Go now! Hurry! My belly can’t wait much longer!” God am I full. Stuffing was thick this morning. Raffy must have put extra butter in the food again.

Ellie

So, Bitch is a little scared. I didn’t preform well but I was at a debate tournament. Also if we’ve learned anything from my last game it’s that I’m good with persuasion so I’m asking around to get names and Kieran hasn’t really been social or a help in challenges so I’m leaning towards that choice but we shall see

Ellie

I have nothing against Kieran personally, he just seems like the Gigi of this season. Although I hope to god that my tribe is not a mea repeat

Ellie

We’re trying to play calmly this time, I’m letting the names come to me. I’m throwing names out there without actually saying the names and I’m proud of myself, fuck you marie lmaooo

Ellie

I just realized that I’m the only girl on my tribe wtf, I don’t like that. We’ll live tho

Maynor

Its been two days since cup challenge and my arms are still kinda sore. Unloading the truck yesterday was not fun at all. But im glad that my hard effort helped us win immunity. Everyone else dod amazing in their parts. I really like my tribe. Im currently talking to Zoe, Cormac (think i misspelled it, im sorry) and Stephen. Hopefully im good socially that im not an easy out. I need to continue on my idol search

Raffy

I got chosen to participate in Joseph's and Ellie's idol hunts. I am very grateful for the position because it means, out of everyone, they got the best vibes from me. This is a good sign that my social game is carrying me. Hopefully that means I can trust them later. I gave Ellie the advantage path because I plan on working with her in the future, so it'd be best if I had an advantage on my side. Since I do not really talk to Joseph but like him, I gave him a dead end. Better than getting a disadvantage in my opinion. I cannot believe we lost the challenge, but I guess I should believe considering that people didn't seem to try or care. It frustrates me that Ellie and Kieran did not even try on the challenge. That is just so ugly. My vote will probably go to Kieran because he's barely active whereas Ellie is. Plus, I want to use Ellie as my ally for the future. Let's see how that goes. I think the group consensus will be Kieran as Ellie and Justin both have told me so.

John

oh my god my plan worked. not only did we win, but i didn’t get the clue. i DEFINITELY did not want that target on my back, especially this early. but the downside of all of this is that i seriously don’t know who we would go after if we lose the next challenge, so that’s great. love that.

Cormac Marek (code fisa)

Frivolous swirls of insanity encompass my legs. They run where I tell them not to go, they climb where I dare not go. Storms are a brew in the far horizon. Delightful beckons to the ship’s quarters. Out on this dangerous sea lies two heartfelt apologies. Maynor has come to me in rags. Sweat, mucky, like a swine before dinner time. Slop to the finest hour. I have just caught word that Sierra may have former allegiances to the British crown. Here on our swamp ship of misfits we do not find the posh so delectable. Timmy is still beyond the narrow ocean hiding with his mystical forces. My greatest foe, my closest lover. Two woven in with the other. My chair is plastered with the skulls of those come to perish. Eye sockets whirling with squirming worms. “I thought you knew what I wanted Maynor! I want Timmy’s head on a platter! Get out of my sight before I have to bring Keith into my bedchambers to whip you again! Ten lashes for each word spoken against me!” Maynor retreats off into the underbelly of my ship. “Come here my love, my sweet seashell.” Zoe draws herself behind my shoulder and rolls out a scroll of activity. “Sierra was Timmy’s long-lost lover. I have seen it in my prophesies at sunrise. She knows Maynor from a past life and both of the Dylan folk!” Zoe gasps at the pure horror of her own revelation. I spit out my roast mutton in agony. A bone is stuck in my throat. “I’m choking on my own dispositions!”

Salt spreads through my open mouth as I stare gaping at the dark sea. Where will this lead our ship? Will a betrayal bubble from below the surface? Will Davy Jones come to imprison me in his locker? Only blood, time, and friction will show the path ahead.

cormy marek

Gameplay analysis:

From day one I made sure to message every single person. This would make sure I was in on that first batch of important alliances.

By doing so Joseph contacted me and brought Ellie + Sierra into a cross-tribal alliance.

The Worms Alliance consisted of a solid four with myself, Zoe, John, and Sierra.

This made sure I was inside the vote decisions.

Then I made sure to solidify my alliances with Sierra and Zoe to be made stronger.

The Frozen Five happened without my knowing. I believe Zoe invited me. This only added Keith to the equation who we need for a majority.

Then I caught word Sierra already knew Maynor, Timmy, and Dylan from past games. This meant that I had to now connect with Maynor more so he could recommend me to Sierra. He said he had not spoken to her yet but that could be a lie.

Raffy seems like someone I could drag into our numbers at a swap. Our cross-tribal alliance makes things sweeter.

I’m trying to pull a Noura so I can be drug into the merge but at the same time engaging in forward game chat with Zoe, Sierra, and John as to not seem like a drifter.

Right now I am trying to pull Keith closer to me. Jack is in outer space. We don’t know where he is.

So in Melrakki I am in on the majority, core, and inner workings.

Jack is on the outs. Maynor might be in cahoots with Sierra. Stephen has not made strong connections yet.

Kieran, Dylan R, and Timmy are not speaking with me yet. Odd considering we could swap at any time. I need their numbers on my side.

I shared the clue in One World to put the target off my back and give everyone equal opportunity. I do not want the idol so it works in my favor. We shall see how the next challenge goes.

Ellie

Seeing as I’m the youngest (well, I assume I am) and the only girl on my tribe I feel like the little sister, and I will definitely use that to my advantage

Timmy

Ellie literally messaged me hi and the next message was my thoughts on tribal. Like i don’t know you nor would I give you all my thoughts thus far for a name after one hi. Also, I’m about to lose my vote because these slide puzzles are extra.

Dylan C

https://youtu.be/zPAsozK6pqY

Ellie

THERES THREE GIRLS IN THIS GAME WE NEED TO STAY STRONG

Joseph (survivor Iceland Winner)

I made a nice cross-streams alliance with Elle, cormac, and Sierra. I didn’t get to the idol. Poopy. But I have some ideas in the works. But we need to win at least one immunity before I try to get any threats out. Kieran is almost definitely going home. Tonight at tribal, I plan on voting for raffy, because nobody else will. And I don’t want him to feel too safe. Throw some paranoia at him and then I might convince him to join an alliance with me. We shall see.

Raffy

Ellie is telling me how she's bonding with Zoe over being the only two girls on this tribe. I told her that she should include me in their little alliance that will no doubt be formed between them. Ellie is looking to be more and more of a social threat. I need to keep her close, otherwise I might find myself on the other side of a majority alliance following her.

Justin

So, my tribe is pretty chill. I don't really have anything negative to say about anyone thus far. Besides Raffy kinda gives me annoying vibes. Not sure why, but something about him just annoys me. Other than that, Timmy and I get along pretty well, and I can see myself aligning with him in the future. Ellie as well I vibe with pretty good. Everyone else is pretty meh as of now. As of now, I'm only building connects and feeling the vibes of the others. With that, I want to take out the people I'm least connected to, so that I know what's up with everyone. This might be because I find him kinda annoying, but I want Raffy out soon. He definitely is a talker, and I feel like he will try to take my niche in game of being connected with everyone. However, I think it is too early to go at him since I don't want to call the shots too early, and I'm sure people will object to that as the first vote. So for the first tribal, I want to vote out a person who is least connected to everyone to make the tribe more unified, and make sure I'm not the first one out. That person being Kieran. Everyone I have talked to has said his name, so I'm going along cuz that is not my name. Plus, he barely talks to me too so I don't care.

Raffy

It seems that everyone is good with voting Kieran, unless I am getting blindsided which would not be cute. However, I believe that this tribe won't be messy the very first tribal council.

Keith is so desperate to pry information from Ellie and I about tribal council. Like you do not have to know nor do you have to care. He needs to be careful because his prying nature can give off bad vibes to certain people. Though he did tell Ellie that Stephen seems to be on the outs with his tribe.

cormac marek

Justin just came to me thinking I was in his tribe when in fact we are on different tribes. His tribe is going to council tonight but I'm safe. He thinks we are voting together when I don't even have his vote! Said as long as we stuck together tonight we should be ok. He is going to gasp when he realizes I am not on his tribe! So they are voting for Kieran! Insider knowledge is great. Poor kid. "We should be good, I think we're safe as long as Kieran goes home. Who are you voting for." I told him I was going to vote for Kieran. ZoeCormac and I got really close this morning, and confirmed each other as trusted partners. We have an order for if things go wrong and we have to vote somebody off, but we're also both feeling confident that our alliance is a strong one. I'm not so sure about Maynor, because I feel like he doesn't talk very much. I can't get a read on whether or not he has aligned with other people, and if he ends up getting an idol clue I'm not sure whether or not I'd be able to pull him in, based on a super short conversation we had during the bamboo chopping challenge about aligning after merge.

Stephen

So guess who didnt make a confessional yet? This guy. Oops. So Maynors in my tribe, yay, love that guy, but also eek, good player. Coin toss on whether I try and work with him this game. Cormac or whoever really weirds me out. Sierra seems really cool though I like them. Also this idol hunt system being full of jigsaw puzzles? Iconic.

Jack

I bonded with all gays, so that was fun. Thinking of starting something with Raffy and Ellie after merge, but Cormac and Sierra and I seem to be good.

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Gilead Nebraska Cheap car insurance quotes zip 68362

"Gilead Nebraska Cheap car insurance quotes zip 68362

Gilead Nebraska Cheap car insurance quotes zip 68362

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What amount would you consider affordable for health insurance and how did you arrive at this figure?

Life insurance for over 60?

Hello,just wondering if anyone out there has any good expierence for life insurance over 60 years old.I am a 64 year old female who wants something for 15 years with no pre-existing medical conditions.There are so many out there I just dont know who I can trust.Thanks...""

What is considered a qualifying event for health insurance coverage?

If I waived health insurance through work because I already have a policy and then during the year I involuntarily lose my health insurance is that considered a qualifying event to obtain coverage right away through my job's insurance company and not having to wait for open enrollment?

How much would insurance for a 2008 Honda CBR 125cc?

I'm only a 16 year old, 5'3 115 pound girl... I've got my g1, my driving course and I'm more than willing to take the motorcycle course. I'm looking at buying a 2008 Honda CBR 125cc. I'm wondering ON AVERAGE what I'll be paying for insurance? Thanks in advance!""

Where can I buy 1-day car insurance?

I have my car parked in a storage facility in LA, CA and I want to sell it, but I don't have insurance to cover my drive from storge to the dealership. I've looked online for temporary/1-day car insurance but all the ones I find are the the UK. Does anyone know of any companies that offer temporary car insurance? Thanks!!""

How can I get estimates for fire damage to fight the insurance adjuster?

What is a good insurance for a home recording studio?

A recording studio has been set up at home, all i need to know is which insurance will cover it.. and the websites?""

""Buying new car over weekend, But need insurance?""

Ok so I am most likely buying a used car tomorrow. This will be my first car as I am 16 and need something to drive to my job yada yada yada. Anyway, tomorrows a Saturday and my insurance company is closed and my parents need to add me to their policy. Since we are not trading in a car, we dont have a policy to carry over to the new one which I know some insurance companies do. Also, I have Farmers insurance so I am not sure what their policies are over this sorta thing. Any help is appreciated. Especially if you have farmers insurance or have had this kind of problem with them.""

Car accident without insurance?

My 16 year old son had an accident in his 2013 Lexus ES350 a few weeks ago. I have been insured with Geico, however 2 days before the accident my coverage lapsed (I had to switch ...show more""

Insurance quote!!!!!!!!?

abut how much will it cost to insure a 2002 suburban for a 16 yearold male in dallas texas with a 3.5 gpa

How much would my car insurance be?

i plan to by a 95 toyota , i have been driving since i was 17 and now 21 and have had no accidents. how much would my insurance be on average.""

Best Affordable Health Insurance in Indiana?

My fiance is currently making about $1200 cooking full-time at a restaurant. Our rent eats up a little more than half of that. He needs to find an affordable insurance plan and he's tried at work but we've heard it's not a very good value for the $200 he'd be paying a month for it. Can anyone suggest some affordable health insurance plans? He's reasonably healthy, does not have any pre-existing conditions, but he does smoke.""

Anybody know anything about NYS car insurance?

My car insurance lapsed and I didin't know about it, because I misunderstood my policy. My car is registered in my name, but my boyfriend still has current insurance for both of us through his (Geico.) Am I still covered? I'm scared I've been driving around uninsured, but I'm also scared to call the DMV, because I don't have an alternate means of transportation to work and school events. Please answer only if you're sure of your answer, this is a nerve racking situation. Thanks for the help!!""

Gilead Nebraska Cheap car insurance quotes zip 68362

Why has the cost of Car insurance suddenly shot up?

Got my renewal quote today, car insurance has risen by over 250 extra, I phoned around and the companies are saying that the quotes have just gone up without explanation. Is this just sheer exploitation and profiteering?, in this time of recession how can they seriously do this and ask for such things hand over fist.? Rip of Britain indeed. Is there an insurance regulator people can go to to get an opinion on it?""

Do insurance companies charge more for sports cars?

Do insurance companies in the US charge more for sports cars than they do for passenger cars?

Affordable health insurance?

Since money is tight, we are going through the state for health insurance. It's a pain especially since my weekly pay changes all the time so they want it called in to see how much they have to charge us every month. At least my husband's pay stays the same. I see health insurance ads on tv and online but not sure which is affordable and even more important legit enough to go with. Any suggesttions?""

""Where can I buy cheap auto insurance in Houston, Texas?Just moved here, only paid $30/month in California!?""

Want to buy cheap auto insurance in person! In California I paid $30 a month at a place that catered to poor people basically, but had good coverage for cheap. I am not interested in paying double online with Geico, progressive, etc (as the quotes I've gotten are). Where can I get cheap basic coverage in person in Houston Texas? Thank you.""

Average medical cost of baby first year?

We have a $600 deductable with an 80/20 co-pay for our health insurance. Supposing the baby gets sick one time in the first year & goes to regular checkups, what would the medical expenses be? How much is birth at a hospital with an epidural & 2 day stay? Of course, this is all assuming we have a healthy baby.""

Why is my mortgage company forcing me to buy insurance on my home?

what is homeowners insurance good for?

Cheapest Auto Insurance Humanly Possible?

I am a college student living on campus and want to have a car but will not be driving it much at all. I am just looking for the most basic and least expensive auto insurance I can find. I am 19 with no tickets or accidents yada yada yada. Where can I find some cheap coverage?

The best and cheapest car insurance?

What's the best and cheapest car insurance in California for a bad driver?

Is it mandatory to have car insurance in New York State?

Will I get a ticket or get my licensed suspended if I don't have I don't have car insurance?

If I'm on someone else car insurance am I liable?

My old boy friend put me on his car insurance so I could drive his car. We are no longer together. If he gets in an accident could I get sued? He has nothing, but I do.""

Car insurance Ireland. For young drivers?

I'm trying to get insurance for the first time on my own policy and it just seems impossible to get a cheap price. does anybody know any insurer in Ireland that does cheap quotes i just need the legal bare minimum. i don't see how i cant get under 2000 its very annoying and i just need a quote. does anyone know any way to help me? also I'm an 18 year old driver with a 1.4l polo, if that helps""

Infertility insurance?

Does any one know of a good provider or some one with an insurance rider for infertility? I have great health insurance, except it dosent cover that! I should say that I live in Kentucky. Thanks""

Car insurance cost for expat?

Hi I am a 37y old male married moving to London from india soon. I checked som online quotes and it seems to be very expensive even if I buy a 10 yr old vw golf. I intend to get a uk license when I arrive, but will I be considered a new driver even though I have held a license in the us and India and have driven for close to 15 yrs""

Wht car insurance is better for full coverage and cheaper..... ?

car insurance help....

How much higher is car insurance in harris county texas vs fortbend county?

Who has the cheapist insurance. for min.coverage?

Is there cheap health insurance for students?

If so does anyone know? or have it? best insurance?

My own car insurance help?!?

I've been a named driver on my boyfriends policy for over a year. I've started a new job and they've said I have to have business insurance and I cant get that upgrade from my boyfriends policy because we dont live together and are not married as such. I've bought car insurance now, but am wondering if anyone knows what happens to my 'named driver' part on my boyfriends insurance as he really only has the policy for me, cos his work etc pays all his for his company vehicle. Can he get refunded my 'named driver' bit? or cancel the whole policy?! Any advice would be great! Thanks""

Car insurance?

i'm looking for the name if the company that has that commercial where the lady is telling how to save on car insurance, on the back there is a truck, that i believe said HONK if you want to save or something like that, and as she speaks you also hear the cars going by honking. thanks""

How old must you be to have classic car insurance?

is their any age you have to be for classic car insurance as i have been looking to buy a ford xr3i and i am 17

Least Expensive Car Insurance in AZ?

I need to switch car insurance companies this month...I am currently with Geico...but its in ALabama...and if I stay with them and switch to AZ, my policy doubles!! I have two accidents and a ticket on there...So i realize I can't get it super low. But does anyone know of a really inexpensive company in AZ? Thanks!""

""Got in a car accident driving someones elses car, they had no insurance.?""

got in a car accident driving someones elses car, they had no insurance.im 26 ive never been in any trouble and have a clean driving record. i was terrified and i left the scene and got cought, whats going to happen at court?""

Insurance for 18yr old ?

Well.. im just wondering how much it would cost/estimate for me to get fully insured on a 1.8 Astra Sri Xp (3dr) 57 plate.. i know its going to be quite alot but i want to know a round about price and make sure its not ridiculously high before i buy it off of my mum. thanks in advance:)

What is the cheapest van insurance for a 18 year old with no previous insurance with a full lience?

Gilead Nebraska Cheap car insurance quotes zip 68362

https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/greenbush-michigan-cheap-car-insurance-quotes-zip-48738-john-griffin/"

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trliteraltrash · 8 years ago

Text

I’m Not Childhood-trauma Case, Right?

First of all, please to not read this if you are triggered easily or do not want to read something fairly long. I see this as a sort of vent. I am not crying for help either - this head space of mine has no help to cry for.

There is no excuse for what you might see, so, do not tread lightly.

Under the cut is a watered down life story and an insight to my life should you care.

All of this is my truth.

It goes like this, one minute your searching up how to write about trauma, listening to the ambient sounds of your family outside your room, with the door that stays open because you can’t find it in you to clear the path for it to shut, yes, a lazy habit.

The next moment or so passes, you relate on some level to the posts your reading on Tumblr and Google, only, you can’t find yourself ticking the I was abused box because you really don’t know if you were.

Let’s place some cards on the table so you see the situation before you.

You’re parents’ are divorced, so already their titles are “Mum/Mom” and “Dad” not just your “Parents”. One was an alcoholic who physically and mentally abused the other, right up until you were about four years old.

You need some more information? Well, here’s a few more cards to this deck you sit atop.

You aren’t the only one in this little ‘situation’ of yours. You have an older sibling, three years apart, and a younger one, of almost three years again. In that sense, you’re the middle child. What happens when that is the case? You wouldn’t know, it only stayed that way for about twelve months.

Your mother has another partner at this point, a man with PTSD. they have two children together, he already had three kids. by the time you are nine years old you are one child of eight almost genetically related kids in the round-about loop. Only four of your siblings actually live with you. In total, you’re the third eldest. However, you are second eldest in your household.

You become very mature for your age, always quiet and observing. Every piece of information becomes catalogued. By the time you turn thirteen, you have anger problems, making regretful choices, having hit your friends a few times - they accept that. At this point in time you are attending your fifth school purely due to moving, a school becoming too expensive, or maybe both.

Your friends don’t stay long. You often wonder if they even remember you. You’ve also taken to drawing at this point. It’s easy to make messy beginner’s mistakes. No one seem’s bothered by your new obsession. You’re still quiet, finding small talk annoying.

By the end of year/grade seven, you’ve moved schools again. The information in this area shocks you, another chance presents itself - who do you want to be? You’ve tried the tough, anger type, the quite shy type, even the nerdy smart type by this point. You decide to make fast friends - maybe this is for the best.You suspect you’ll move on fast.

Oh, I seem to forget, before entering this point, you’ve had your first brush with a student trying to kill themselves in the middle of the classroom with a borrowed pair of scissors. The two girls next to his had counselling for it.

What was the point of counselling? You had never needed it. Moving forward, The friends around you had engaged in cutting. the first was an obvious cry for attention that you sated with genuine concern, the second you tried to help, even if it was triggered with words you heard as ‘I’ll stop when [they] stop.’ the third was the biggest cry for attention. Did you have to follow this ‘Trend’? you didn’t want to, your venting was to paper with a pen.

Writing became your best friend. As did drawing, both a cry for attention that no one could see. Bleeding hearts, bloodied and broken angels with their eyes missing, friends and family alike had died by this point, only fourteen years old and the nightmares each night have started on and off again.

an invisible pressure on your chest when you awake or go too sleep interrupting your already active mind. Each ‘vent’ drawing inspiring the word ‘beautiful’ from every person who sees.

Why don’t they ask whats wrong?

You cried a few times, long curly hair covering your shoulders as you cried so quietly in front of crowds of people who did nothing less than ignore you, literally. they knew of nothing that was wrong.

By the time you're sixteen, you’re at school number seven. you’ve done nothing wrong, only a few memories of play ground bullying coming back inconveniently - such as the time when you were in year/grade one and a group of boys had bullied you into physically fearing being by yourself on the playground. An altercation of a stick throw hitting the biggest one’s head, drawing minimal blood leaves you with black and blue bruises over your entire left side,

The situation at sixteen is that you attempt to make others feel better about themselves whilst remaining the reserved optimistic pessimist that over analyses every situation. You’ve made new and old friends by this point.

The year feels as if it is going to be okay, dealing with your fathers partner of around six years isn’t as much of a hassle by this point. Your father himself is just happy to see you and has stopped asking your siblings if they will come to see him. He doesn’t know that She, his partner pushed him away with her controlling nature and abusive attitude that no doubt pushed her own children (the ones she had as a teen) away.

Now, nearing seventeen, you have started sorting more of your life out, your fathers partner has had the long winded debate of how much you dislike her in complex “You’re there with my father and despite your health issues that I do not find sympathy for (sorry) nor the almost excuse of ‘My own flesh and blood daughters don’t have anything to do with me’ spiel will work because I do not appreciate you calling yourself my stepmother.” will not excuse the problem that all the ways she tried to ‘win’ your affection would not work.

Your father did not tell you to apologise. You had refused to apologise to her in the first place.

Yet.

You still felt the need to explain yourself to him. Everything with him needs a reason.

Coming back to topic you will see that there are many cards here. All of the negative ones. overlooked school performances, playful jabs from siblings,a family that has two divorced people together in your main unit, another in the alcoholic father you only sometimes visit.

All of the experiences of your life may be part of what people know as ‘trauma’. You, or, more accurately: Me. The author of what you’re reading, do not believe this. If it were, perhaps there would have been some kind of counselling involved.

You see, in this sort of situation - I cannot find anyone who is in the same position. I do feel alone, as alone as I can when I live with so many people. It has become so easy to internalise hate and conversations that have never happened which plague my sleep or waking time.

Here are some more facts:

I am both Asexual and Bi-romantic.I have, on occasion felt curious about what people feel when the ‘release’ of cutting themselves occurs. I then remember that my older and younger sibling from my fathers, therefore my own bloodline have both caused this upon themselves. I do not want to continue this - I do not wish to inflict physical signs that I am hurt or damaged to the outside world.

I have thought about the implications of killing myself. I entertain the idea, but that is selfish and would cause my family and those who care pain.

I have, on many occasions, stayed at home when my siblings go out with my parents purely because I feel as though their short trips to places will make for a more comfortable car trip if I simply do not go - even if i have been told initially that I’d be going.

I don’t ask for items or anything that will cost money if i can go without it purely because I don’t want to be an expense - it is selfish and sometimes I still ask for experiences. When i get asked why i don’t ask for things I shrug, when really the answer is clear in my memories; My mother would almost desperately ask in a scolding tone to stop asking for things - after all, every one or two dollar item soon creates a large expense.

Because of this, I do not use the lunch money she gives on occasion.

There is a lot I do not do, or decide to do when I look back through my memories, I have spent many of these teen years hiding away when I could be outside, spending time with people.

I have grown use to this life of placing others before myself.

I have grown used to the word ‘fat’ or ‘bitch’ or, on occasion, internalising a flinch when someone raises their hand in a mock ‘hit’ only to think it’s funny when ‘Ha! I was finally able to scare you!’ not understanding that being hit is a legitimate fear that negates an automated reaction.

But no, my fear of being abused, not in some level of control, not in a safe environment (even slightly), being physically alone, of heights, of crying in front of people, et cetera, et cetera. is not something I label as trauma.

I do not wish to believe myself as a Childhood trauma case. However, sometimes when i listen to a song enough times, and read about how to write trauma, getting into the head space of, “Do I perhaps even nudge the surface of this vast ocean?” I cry myself a river that may only last a few tears on the outside, but is its own world of murk on the inside.

No, I am by no means strong. You may perceive my lack of tears, or the way I can lift over forty kilograms as strength. But I know that not to be true.

i simply know where and when it is acceptable to let the taped over glass bottle smash and be replaced with a slightly more reinforced one.

But sure, all of this and I am still an optimist. I’ll forever thank the one who wrote me:

“If we saw the world as brightly as you do, we would all be blind.”

because i choose to stay on the bright side, if another can be taught to see a little brighter, if only for a moment of my guidance, then I have done my job as a fellow human - a moment of normalcy in a rather uncaring mind.

because truthfully, I don’t care.

I feel everything so fucking strongly that I physically cannot turn away.

...

And the next moment after this run of unwanted reflection?

Well...

How

You

Write

Trauma

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coffee-n-some-cream · 8 years ago

Text

Fair is Foul - Chapter 3: Who Shall Conceive the Horrors of My Secret Toil

The chilled gusts of the night beat against my furrowed brow as I crouch atop one of the city’s apartment complexes, my body just another black, unnoticed silhouette among the tips of the surrounding skyscrapers. I peer at the lush private home across the street, my superior eyes able to peer through the ink of the night unaided, and I see my victim.

He is an older man, plump and clearly the beneficiary of the finer things in life. He is also the most likely candidate for senator this coming election. Most importantly, he is a thorn in my father’s side.

Eyes locked onto the sleeping and unsuspecting form of the would-be senator, I leap from the edge of the rooftop and soak in the sensation of the brief flight between buildings, air whipping through my cloak and hair, battering against my eyes enough to make them water. The cold rush pushes adrenaline through my veins, and the pumping of my heart only urges me forward, focusing my mind entirely on what I must do.

I land on the roof of the near tower of a home with the sharp clack and crunch of my heels, one hand out to steady myself upon the impact, before slinking down the side to the small ledge that circles the building like a treacherous snake. I don’t bother with subtlety, shattering the entire window in one swift strike of my fist.

My breath is slow and evenly paced, long drags in and long blows out, as I duck into the unlit room. Already the man is awake and sitting bolt upright in his large and overly-soft bed, and I can see the whites of his eyes as he gawks at me in paralyzing fear.

I am suddenly reminded of Lucas, his expression as he spoke about me, and the way he regarded me in his photos. Not an ounce of fear in his voice, only admiration, only wonder. If only the poor fool could see me as I am now. I wonder if he would look at me the same way the man before me is looking at me now. Would he be stricken with fear as well? Would he be horrified? Would he shake his head at my apparent betrayal?

I feel foolish at the hurt this mere thought causes me, and I push it away as the man scrambles out from under his covers and onto the floor, putting his bed between us.

“Wha-what do you want from me?” he cries out in a shrill voice, his entire body trembling, “Who sent you? What do you want?!”

I say nothing, stepping around the bed as I move closer to my prey, taking in the panicked breaths and pale skin that remind me of who I am, of my place in the world.

Yes, I am but a monster. Look upon me as so. You are a human, far above me. You are a righteous race, your morality a characteristic of your very being. You are God’s creation, and your place in this world was carved out for you before you were even conceived. You have a right to existence. I do not.

Look upon me, just human, as the monster I am. I am stronger than you, faster than you, more durable, more intelligent, I am capable of so much more than you could ever be. If not for your morality, I would be superior to you in every way. My mere existence is a crime, my presence a taint upon the world. I am a monster, and I deal in monstrous things.

And monsters kill.

He backs away from me, seeing the hunter’s intent in my eyes, turning to run. I move, lightning quick, so fast that no human could hope to avoid me, and I have him pinned against the wall in one firm hand, his weight nothing compared to how much I am capable of bearing. With my other hand I reach to the holster strapped onto my hip and pull out the sleek, silver weapon. The gun’s presence feels heavier in my hand than the man does. I point it at his head.

The man claws at my wrist, choking for air, his eyes running wild. There is a glistening trail of drool running down his chin. And yet, despite this, he manages to plead for his life in one last desperate attempt to survive.

“Pl… please,” he gasps out, “d… on’t.”

“Poor human,” I murmur, my finger applying the barest pressure to the handgun’s trigger, “Your race is going to die out anyway. My father is a god, and he is going to exterminate you from the world. Why struggle? Why try? You have no hope.”

His eyes meet mine, and even his state of near unconsciousness cannot mask the waves of fear and pain that roll from him and batter themselves against my conscience.

“I’m doing you a favor,” I say, and I pull the trigger.

Blood and brain matter splatter the wall behind his head, and my face is wet from the spray. I let his body fall onto the floor, and I watch as a red chunk of his skull separates from his head and lands on the floor beside him with a meaty thunk. The wet sound of blood dripping off the wallpaper and oozing from his head is the only sound in the suddenly echoing bedroom.

The gun goes back in its holster and I wipe a bit of the still hot liquid off of my face with my fingers. I turn to exit the way I came when I notice a photograph sitting on the nightstand by the disheveled bed, the dim glow of the moon shining on it just enough so that I can make out the image. It is of a woman, middle-aged but still beautiful, the wrinkles on her face giving her a sense of wisdom. There are two children with her, one a teenage girl and another a younger boy. And sitting beside the woman, with a hand on the boy’s shoulder, is the man. His family. They must be away for some reason, on vacation or out on the town. It was pure luck they weren’t here at the time, or I would have had to kill them as well.

I stand in the darkness and stillness, staring at the photograph. I had not been informed that he had a family. That he was a husband, a father.

Does it matter? I am a monster, and I deal in monstrous things. To feel no emotion besides hate is monstrous. I shouldn’t care about him, or the family I tore him from.

I turn toward the window and throw myself back into the bitter night.

When I sit down the next day to another dinner with Lucas, something I am woefully pleased to admit has become an almost daily occurrence, I am met with a dark frown and troubled eyes.

“Is something the matter, Lucas?” I ask with a raised eyebrow, something uneasy curling in my gut as I think back to my activities the previous night.

Lucas is quiet for a bit before he reaches into his coat and pulls out the same folder that he presented to me upon our first meeting. He flips it open with a flick of his wrist and the first photograph I see is of me, crouched low and solemn, on the roof of the apartment building I was spying from last night.

I force my face to remain neutral. After finding out about his disconcerting hobby of photographing me while I do my nightly work, I had made it a point to watch for him, and sometimes I did spot him standing on the street or outside of buildings with his clunky old camera pointed toward the sky. And yet I failed to notice him last night of all nights.

I notice that my hands have formed trembling fists, and I unclench them before my companion can notice.

“I was following the woman again last night,” he says in a low tone, and it is so different from the bright, awe-filled way he spoke of me before. It sounds almost… disappointed. He flips to another photograph, and this one shows me climbing through the window of the man’s home. “She went in through this guy’s window. And, uh…”

I can’t bring myself to look at him, staring at the blurred picture of me. “And what?”

“I heard a gunshot. She went in, I heard a gunshot, and then she left. The only person in the building at the time was a man named Mr. Benjamin Marino. You may recognize the name, he was running for senate.” Lucas pauses. “He probably would have won.”

I take a sip of my coffee, forcing myself to swallow, forcing my next words to sound curious and clueless. “Would have?”

“He’s dead.”

I set down my mug.

“She killed him, Adrian. That woman, she’s… she’s a murderer, she killed him.”

Lucas runs his hand through his unruly hair, and I feel sick to my stomach when I can’t help but notice how attractive it is. I do not deserve to have such thoughts. I am a monster. And monsters deal in monstrous things. I feel agitation run through me as I realize that I have had to remind myself of those words more often as of late.

“She’s not what you thought she was, is she?” I ask him, my voice subdued to my own ears.

Lucas continues to frown, picking at his pasta. “No. She’s not.”

I nod, and I feel a weight settle in my gut as my fears come true. Lucas, with all his bright wonderment and excited fascination, Lucas, the only person who has ever seen me as something better than what I am, Lucas, who called me beautiful. Lucas, wonderful, trusting Lucas, seeing me for what I am. It’s enough to make me want to puke.

Perhaps it is for the best. I don’t know what I was expecting. Love? Ridiculous. It would never happen, it was never even a possibility. Acceptance? No monster could ever be accepted by a human. Understanding? How could a human ever understand an existence like mine. There was no point in hoping to begin with.

My own words echo back to me, the words I spoke to the man last night. “You have no hope.”

And I wonder. If humans should not deal in hope, and monsters should not deal in hope, then where does hope belong in this cruel world?

The rest of our dinner is spent speaking in hushed, serious tones. I go home to Data 7. I do not speak of my day.

AO3

#my writing #fandom writings #ao3 #cybersix #au #fair is fowl

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