#if i find anything through my reading that contradicts me ill eat my words | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

crystxlclear · 4 years ago

Text

sudden desire

chapter six: previously on: chaotic stupid

part seven of sudden desire

prologue / one / two / three / four / five / masterlist

in which two best friends won’t admit they’re in love so decide to have a baby together instead.

pairing: marcus pike x original female character (coraline meyer)

word count: 8.2k (oh yikes)

warnings: no beta read, brief mentions of pregnancy i guess?

author’s note: this took me weeks to write oh my god

Coraline hasn’t told anyone about Marcus’ offer. Not even Loren, when they’d met for the first time in months, when her boyfriend finally got a night off work to look after Maisie. Not even when they’d drunk too much wine and her head was so fuzzy that she probably would have told anyone anything, if they’d asked. She’s not even sure where she’d start.

Coraline has never been the best at keeping secrets. At least, not her own, and definitely not when she was younger, and she’s always wondering whether that’s why the media seem to think she’s easy prey for their rumours. It never seemed to bother Scott; he was the same, so open and willing to talk about anything and everything with anyone who asked. But it’s different with Marcus. He’s private by necessity but he’s also private by choice, too. She wonders if he’s always been like that, if before the heartbreak he’d told her about occurred, if he’d opened up to people. If what had happened to him had made him closed off. He’s never seemed like a closed book before (and, hell, maybe he isn’t, maybe he just doesn’t want to relive those times; and he doesn’t have to tell her anything, anyway) but he’d opened up to her after he’d made his ‘baby suggestion’. And all she can think of now, since he’d recounted the stories, was that those women - the ex-wife who’d claimed he was too ‘nice’, who’d claimed he was too ‘clingy’ and ‘needy’, and all that utter bullshit, and the one who’d left him for another man, left him alone in D.C. without a single person to lean on - must be completely insane to think that he isn’t good enough for them. Marcus Pike is too good for anyone, she thinks. He’s the best person she knows. Marcus Pike makes Coraline want to be a better person. They didn’t end up ordering takeout that night, like they always did. Coraline had found herself reaching to the back of her cupboards, searching blindly for some ingredients she wasn’t even sure she had, just for him. Marcus loves breakfast. Like, he really loves it, she’s come to find. And at any time of the day, really. And there’s a diner he frequents; it’s near his office, on the other side of town, tucked away just out of Cora’s reach. Though, he has taken her there once before - just after they first met, when she’d tagged along with her older brother to the FBI debriefing, to check his gallery was secure; she’d thought it was a date, until he’d prefaced his offer with an insistence that it was ‘just as friends’; Marcus had spent the whole time raving about the pancakes he ate every Friday — a treat for a long week’s worth and a change from his usual burger and fries — how he’d found the place by accident and it was part of his daily routine, now, until Coraline had given in and let him order for her, since he knew the place better than she did - most of the time, they see each other when it’s late, when he’s already been for his almost daily pancake-fix and she’s collapsed to the sofa with her legs draped over the armrest. They haven’t been back since, though she’d jump at the chance if he ever asked again. Coraline may be a pretty awful cook, and she may not be able to make pancakes as good as the ones he likes, but surely it’s just the sentiment that counts. He’s spent far too many evenings eating greasy Chinese food at her behest, insisting that he’s fine with it, because it makes her feel better. It’s the least she could do. She’d spent an hour making perhaps the world’s worst pancakes - even as Marcus insisted that she didn’t have to cook for him, that they could just order pizza or something if they wanted a change - pancakes so bad that she’d had to drench the damn things in syrup just to disguise the odd sour taste that somehow tinged every mouthful. Marcus had eaten it without issue, even as she’d apologised endlessly for her dreadful culinary skills and insisted that he didn’t have to eat them if he didn’t like them. They’d made him smile, though. And it melted away the last dregs of awkwardness between them. That was the pancakes’ purpose. It didn’t matter that they were utterly terrible, borderline inedible and a little lumpy.

But, when Monday rolls around and her older brother, Daniel, comes to her with his regular insistence that she brings that ‘nice FBI agent she’d made friends with’ to their weekly dinner at his house, she took him up on the offer, for a change. She’s never asked because she’s always assumed he would say no; they weren’t dating and it was a little weird. Surely an invite to weekly family dinners was something couples did.

She always ignores Daniel, used to the persistent insistence to ask him. Relenting — finally — comes with the sense that she feels as if she owes him now, though. To make it up for her dreadful pancakes with Daniel’s wife’s cooking, which was always amazing. To make up for the week of unforgivable ignorance. To help them move past the ill-thought-out offer of a baby. She’s sure he’ll still say no, when she calls him on his lunch break, when she knows he’ll be sat at the counter in that same diner, enjoying that brief moment of time away from paperwork. Their lunch breaks line up, those rare and all-too-rare moments when they have time to relax, the tension in their shoulders owed entirely to their morning workloads melting away at the soft sounds of the other’s voice.

His voice is pleasant, like it always is; Marcus Pike’s voice is like serenity to her, all gentle and familiar, and, this time, he sounds amused when he answers the phone. “Well, this is a nice surprise.” His voice crackles through the phone. The reception in the diner is terrible - it’s the only thing he ever seems to complain about - but she can still make out the sound of the smile in his voice. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Good afternoon to you, too, Marcus.” Coraline hums, shoving the last of her laundry into the washing machine, her phone tucked between her shoulder and her ear. “I’m calling with an invitation.”

“An invitation?” He ponders, musing over the idea. “To one of those glamorous celebrity parties you’re always telling me about?”

She scoffs. “Oh, you wish, Pike. It’s an invite to my brother’s for dinner. Incredibly glamorous, I know.”

There’s silence on the other end of the phone for a few moments. She almost regrets asking. She does when he replies. “Are you sure?” He questions. “I’m not sure-”

Coraline nods as if he can somehow see her through the phone. “I’m sure,” she insists, “Besides, Daniel and Kimmy want you to come.”

“Coraline, I don’t know-”

“Marcus, don’t make me beg.” She chuckles, but it’s a nervous chuckle. She knew he would say no; that’s why she hasn’t asked him, to avoid this awkward conversation between them when he was uncomfortable and looking for a subtle way to turn her down without hurting her feelings. “Please.”

There’s another pause as he lets out another muffled laugh. His tone is teasing when he speaks again; she can practically see the smirk as he sips his coffee. “And what’s in it for me?”

She bites the inside of her cheek, stifling a giggle.

She could think of a lot of ways to repay the favour.

Cora pushes through the onslaught of entirely… inappropriate thoughts, especially to have about your best friend and offers up the most innocent of offerings, though her voice slips to find that low, rumbling register reserved only for the discrete. Mundane words tipped in something intriguing. “I’ll never make you pancakes again.”

“Deal.” He snaps far too quickly through the phone.

Her mouth falls open. “Marcus,” she gasps, mock offence in her voice.

There’s silence for a moment. “Sunshine,” Marcus calls out through the static, like he’s sure he’s actually offended her. Like he could ever do that. “I thought your pancakes were great.”

Even a lie sounds like the truth coming from his lips.

“Damn right they were,” she insists.

When she lies, even when it’s laced with laughter, it sounds like one. She’s glaringly aware that’s a complete contradiction, given her job.

“Pancakes- real pancakes, diner pancakes- on me for a month.”

“Tempting.”

“...Two months?”

“Fine, fine. If you insist.”

The rush of breath that escapes her in relief is so embarrassingly loud, she’s sure he can hear her. She’s glad he’s not there, watching her, so he can’t see the wide, uncontrollable, entirely tooth-filled grin that splits across her face; she’s sure she looks maniacal, sat in her trailer on set, covered in thick dustings of fake mud from that morning’s scenes.

She’s never been more thankful for the solitude of a phone call before.

“I do insist. I’ll pick you up at five.”

Amusement, again, peeks through in his tone. She’s sure he’s eating pancakes — those blueberry pancakes with mountains of ice cream — because they’re the only thing that makes him happy like this, especially on a heavy workday. “In that super-fancy car of yours?”

She’s had her car for twelve-years. But it’s even older than that, fixed up by her father in his garage for what seemed like years. It’s an old run-down black Camaro from the seventies that she’s had since she was sixteen; far too trusty and sentimental to let go of, driving her cross-country from LA to DC without a hitch those six-months ago. It lives in the private parking lot down the street from her apartment complex, tucked away, out of use most days, because the traffic of DC is far too heavy in the mornings and it’s easier to walk or take the Metro instead. Weekly nights spent at Daniel’s on the opposite end of the city gave her an excuse to pull her car from its designated parking space and navigate the busy streets to the comforting hum of the engine.

Coraline knows Marcus loves her car, as much as he jokes about it. It’s evident in the way his face lights up when he sees her sat there, parked down the street outside the FBI headquarters; his smile illuminated by the harsh street lamps overhead, cutting through the darkness alongside the bright nearby office lights and flickering neon signs that cast stained glass shadows on the sidewalk. He’s watching her as she taps her fingers in time to a song she doesn’t recognise on the radio.

Marcus ducks into the car with a ‘hello’ lingering on his lips and ducks to kiss Coraline’s cheek; it’s a friendly gesture that lingers, not unfamiliar as a display of friendly affection between them, but still swelling that giddy sense of happiness in her chest like it’s the first time.

“I brought the beer.”

Coraline glances over at him warmly as she starts up the car. The engine rumbles to life, almost sounding unhealthy. She reaches over and squeezes his shoulder a little, fingers falling down his arms.

Marcus had insisted he bring something; a repayment for dinner, for Daniel and Kimmy inviting him over. She’d insisted he didn’t need to — neither of them would mind; they just wanted to meet the lead in so many of Coraline’s stories, for real this time — but then he’d insisted that he had to, that his mother would never let him live it down if she found out he forgot his manners and turned up without a thank you gift. So she’d told him to bring beer (not wine, definitely not wine, for Daniel’s sanity’s sake). And he’d obliged.

Not just that cheap beer, either. But the expensive kind, the kind you could only find in certain places if you were looking for it. He’s spared no expense.

He doesn’t need to impress them, though. They already like him well enough, on the basis of Coraline’s endless stories.

“Is what I’m wearing okay?” He questions as he smooths his hands over the front of his suit jacket. “I didn’t have time to change.”

He’s still wearing his work clothes — somehow still relatively undisturbed even after hours of the paperwork he’d been half-complaining about to her the night before — yet he still looks great. He’d probably look great in just about anything. Coraline looks entirely underdressed next to him; just blue jeans and a white shirt, and the thin golden pendant her mom had given her the night before her wedding hangs against her chest. She doesn’t wear it much anymore, not since the divorce. But Marcus had seen it the other day, while he was waiting for her to finish getting ready, perusing the expanse of her drawers, intrigued by the jewellery that hung from a stand. He’d said it was beautiful - with the delicately carved bird in the middle, surrounded by flowers - and she found herself reaching for it every morning since.

She’s not sure why. She just likes to wear it, now.

“You look great.” As always.

He scans what she’s wearing, casual and, as the wheels being their customary groan when she sets the car in reverse. “It’s not too much?” He’s shuffling awkwardly, hands tugging at the lapels of his suit jacket. Is he nervous?

She watches as he moves, shifting slightly in his seat; she’s watching from the corner of her eyes, half her focus on Marcus, the other on pulling out onto the busy road. He’s staring straight ahead, out at the car ahead of them, like the license plate is somehow the most interesting thing in the world right now. His brows are furrowed. The air between them is thick with anticipation and it’s like something has changed; for good or bad, she’s never sure with them anymore, not these past few months, but his hand is gripping his knee and somehow everything seems heavy again.

He’s met Daniel before, it’s not that. Briefly, sure. But that couldn’t be it. He’s usually so relaxed and laid back, especially around her, never worried about making a joke or goofing off. She doesn’t like seeing him like this.

She reaches over and squeezes his hand; he steadies himself and tilts his head towards her. Her smile is warm and bright and comforting, and the gentle brush of her fingers over the hand that grips his knee relieves the inexplicable anxiety that has strangled him from the moment she’d invited him to dinner. He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know what it means, what any of it means. Why things are suddenly so different between them after six months of being nothing but friends.

Why he, for some godforsaken reason, thought suggesting they have a baby together was a good idea.

Did he really want that?

Either way, he’s pretty sure Coraline doesn’t. Not with him, at least.

Cora hums, eyes dropping to herself and the wrinkled jeans she’d fished out from the back of her wardrobe. “Least you made an effort.”

…

Daniel Meyer is seven years older than Coraline. He’d always been fiercely protective of his younger sister when they were growing up; not in that abrasive, overbearing and destructive way, the way when your life is governed strict and rigid, but Daniel Meyer didn’t take kindly to people hurting his sister. Growing up, he helped her deal with things - the bullying in high school, the heartbreak of her first breakup - so it only seemed fitting that, when she’d moved to D.C., the same place he’d called home with his family for eight years, that he would do the same. That’s how their weekly family dinners were born, from his insistence to help his younger sister settle into her new home, in a new city she barely knew.

For the longest time, Scott Meyer was public enemy number one to him. Sometimes she wonders, now that it’s all over, the divorce is final - now that he’s out of her life for good - if he still is. Or if they’ve really all moved on like she thinks they have.

The second they arrive at his front door, greeted warmly by the smell of pie and a grinning Kimmy, wearing an apron and slightly flustered, looking just as welcoming as always. Her blonde waves - the waves Coraline has always been so jealous of - are pinned up haphazardly out of her face, half-spilling down her back from the clip that tries to hold it in place.

“Good evening.” Her voice sounds like a song, light and sweet, and her smile is even wider than usual as she glances between her sister-in-law and Marcus, who stands a little behind her, radiating that familiar confidence that Coraline is used to. The half-hour drive had relaxed him enough that, now he’s met with Kimmy’s friendly face, he’s the one that’s comforting her, with a gentle hand on her back and the silent reassurance that things will be okay.

Coraline is mostly worried about him. She's still not entirely sure he wants to be here. She doesn’t blame him.

Kimmy leans forward and kisses Coraline’s cheek in greeting, the usual gesture.

“This- well, you know Marcus.” Cora ushers towards her best friend beside her when she pulls back.

“Marcus, of course!” Her face lights up even more. “I’ve heard a lot about you since we last met.” Kimmy’s tone is amused. Her eyes waver towards Coraline, a knowing look in her eyes.

“It’s great to finally meet you, for real this time.”

Kimmy’s eyebrow quirks up at Coraline for a moment, the hint of a smirk as Marcus introduces himself, that same FBI Agent-trained surety tipping the edges of his voice, before she finally ushers them inside. It’s starting to get cold; the evening chill is creeping in from the river beside the house, reaching out towards them. Coraline is glad she’d tossed a coat onto the backseat of her car before she’d left and Marcus tugs his suit jacket tighter around himself. “Come in before you both freeze to death.”

The house is alive with the joyous yet shrill screams of children. Coraline’s nephews, to be exact. It always is. Every night. Every week she turns up and they’re running around, playing whatever game they deem fit that evening. Half the time, Coraline gets pulled into their games, whenever she’s not helping Kimmy in the kitchen (which isn’t often, because she’s hopeless at it). Of course, today’s no different.

The two of them are darting around the living room, screaming bloody murder as they wear themselves out; Finley, the oldest, is chasing Elliot, his curls falling haphazardly over his eyes. She can’t tell what they’re yelling about - she never can; it’s just a tangled mess of screamed words - but Elliot is giggling so much that he has to stop every couple of minutes to catch his breath. Finley stops with him, pulling himself from their games for a second to wait as they both regain their composure and carry on. They wear themselves out before dinner and then everything seems to go off without a hitch.

Cora hangs her coat on the hooks by the door and kicks off her sneakers, and Marcus follows suit with his jacket and dress shoes. He looks to her for guidance, that immediately understandable hesitation of being in an unfamiliar house, and this silent agreement settles between them as she sweeps her way into the living room. Her footsteps were light; so light, in fact, that she reached her nephews without disturbing them, startling Elliot when she scooped him up in her arms and spun him around. He complains at first, ducking his head away as she tries to kiss his cheek, letting out the most dramatic and exaggerated noises. Eventually, he gives in and curls his arms around her neck, pulling her close for a second, before he starts to kick again, restless in her arms.

Finley takes to wrapping himself around her right leg and suddenly the three of them end up sprawled out and giggling brightly on the carpet.

Marcus watches from the doorway. He thinks she’ll be a great mom someday. It’s the little things she takes in her stride.

“Hello to you too, Cora.” The low, amused voice of Coraline’s brother, Daniel, comes from inside the living room.

“Hey there.” She’s still giggling. She can’t help it. Finley and Elliot unhook themselves from her and each other and resume their endless laps of the couch.

Daniel stands over her with raised eyebrows. His tie has long-since been discarded and he cuts a casual figure as he cradles the youngest of the Meyers, Piper. She’s only six months and the smiliest baby Cora has ever seen. Usually, she’s asleep by the time Coraline arrives, either cradled in her father’s arms or tucked away in the crib upstairs; today, her legs are kicking back and forth and her hands are fisting into his dress shirt. She’s restless - she knows sometimes that she is, that when they finally cradle her to sleep, it’s best that they leave her or risk jolting her awake for the rest of the night - but she’ll let her wriggle around in her arms for hours if it means catching up on the time she’s missed with her niece all those nights she’s been asleep.

“I brought Marcus.” Cora points towards Marcus as he leans against the doorframe, watching her with fond eyes. She tilts her head back to look at him; he’s smiling and she wants to reach for him. She reaches for Daniel’s extended hand instead, pulling herself up from the floor. She groans uncomfortably, her back aching a little. “Marcus, you’ve met my brother, Daniel.”

Coraline reaches out for her niece; that brooding feeling swells bright and burning again when she takes her, cradling her close into her chest, and she can’t help but glance up at Marcus as Daniel moves to greet him - just barely acquaintances but familiar enough to avoid those awkward initial introductions. He’s watching her, still, as she says ‘hello’ to her niece and gently rests her cheek against the top of Piper’s head. It’s like they’re both wrapped up in that moment where it’s just the two of them - all too fleeting, cut short by Daniel’s greeting and the persistent shouting of children - but it feels lovely. Even if this moment is all they’ll ever get.

Coraline savours the moment with her niece because it’s rare and often fleeting; her, Daniel and Kimmy’s schedules are crammed tight with work and unavoidable commitments and that weekly dinner is the only time each week they can spare to see each other. If Piper is asleep, then Coraline won’t get to say ‘hi’ to her niece. It’s an unfortunate consequence of their careers.

“That’s Elliot-” She points her finger at her smallest nephew. “-and that’s Finley-” Then to the tallest of the two. “-and this… this is Piper.” She bounces the tiny baby lightly in her arms, turning her body so Marcus could get a glimpse at the small smile that pulled at Piper’s lips as her small fist grabbed at Coraline’s shirt.

She’s already told him about them all before. He knows their names. But this is the first time he’s ever met the kids. And it’s somehow maybe the most terrifying thing he’s done in a long time, including that one warehouse shootout his team found themselves in a few weeks earlier.

He feels overdressed and a little ridiculous, just stood there, looking like a lost puppy in the entryway, in his suit and tie. Unsure what to do with his hands or his eyes, or what the hell to say to cut through his quiet. He usually brought a change of clothes to the office if he knows he has somewhere to be but, somehow, in his blind panic at the idea of meeting the family, he’d forgotten to grab anything to change into. And that ease in meeting new people, that effortless skill he’d built up over years of practice, the perks of the job, just seems to have melted away the second he stepped into the house behind Coraline, under the well-meaning scrutiny of Kimmy. This is all normal for her - this weekly routine she’s fallen into - but it’s unfamiliar territory for him.

It almost feels like something it isn’t. Meeting the family. That point in a relationship when you first realise things are serious. Only this isn’t a relationship. And he’s already met Daniel and Kimmy before, even if it was briefly, and while he was working and distracted with planning a stakeout. And Coraline. Always Coraline. But something about her smile just commanded attention, back then - it still does - even when she tries to blend into the background. Once he noticed her. Sat alone at an empty conference table, comically-oversized name badge pinned to the front of her dress, her lips curling up a little as she sipped the sour FBI coffee.

Everyone else had passed the glass-walled room without even a second glance.

He, on the other hand, was convinced he’d just seen a ghost. She’d almost startled him, breath leaving his chest. An utter cliche.

Marcus had recognised her face from TV - though, admittedly, he wasn’t really up-to-date on pop culture, definitely lingering a couple of decades behind, age and time catching up on him, spare time buried beneath a mountain of paperwork to distract himself from Teresa and the unfamiliarity of D.C. - but he always remembers thinking she was pretty. Really pretty. But he always finds it a little embarrassing how much she a hold over him that day, how he’d had to take a second to psych himself up, talk himself down from that nervous ledge he was staring over, before he even thought about entering the room.

It’s weird, looking back, thinking how much has changed. But the changes keep coming, thick and fast, and sometimes it becomes less and less obvious what they are anymore.

“Marcus.” Daniel reaches out a hand for him to shake. He shakes it graciously and says his hellos. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

That’s the second time he’s heard that today. Coraline rolls her eyes a little. It’s not the first time she’s heard it, either. It almost makes Marcus laugh but then she smiles again, half-concealing a grin, and he forgets what he’s thinking about for a moment.

But then he wonders what she tells them about. Whether those stories are good or bad, whether they paint him in colour or in black and white.

With Coraline, he figures it’s probably the brightest landscape of technicolour, regardless of who she’s talking about.

“I’m glad Cora finally asked you to come.”

“Well, you talk too much. I didn’t want to bore him.” Cora shrugs, her full attention on Piper.

“More like scare him away.”

He’s not sure she could ever scare him away.

“Finley is terrifying,” she admits with a giggle but she seems distant. She looks up to raise an eyebrow at him again. Her words are slow, almost drawn out. “I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to get out while you still can.” It’s meant to be light and joking, and Daniel laughs at her words. Given the way she’s looking at him, he’s not sure.

She just keeps looking at him like there’s no one else around.

She can’t help it. She keeps trying. It isn’t working.

“I’m so sorry about that,” Daniel insists as the boys rush past Marcus; he has to step out of the way to avoid them, smiling as they manoeuvre around him and race out of sight into the back of the house. He smiles fondly as they pass. “They’ll calm down in a second.”

“You hope they’ll calm down.” Coraline jabs her older brother in the ribs playfully. He chuckles as lightly as he can but it's obvious he’s tired; his shoulders slump and his eyes linger closed a little longer than normal, Coraline notices. He’s been working flat-out at his gallery every day, then running home to help with the kids. And Piper is a restless baby - difficult to get to sleep which means that, if she’s asleep when she arrives, she can’t say hello for risk of waking her up - so, unless Daniel or Kimmy are holding her while the house is still alive and humming around her, she refuses to fall asleep. “I think-” She looks towards Marcus. He’s inched closer into the room, now, but he’s still lingering like he needs to be invited in. “-you’ll just have to get used to it.” She hums.

“I’m still not used to it and they’re my kids,” Daniel grumbles, almost to himself.

“Piper seems okay with it.” Marcus points out. He watches as his best friend cuddles the tiny baby close to her chest.

Piper’s looking up at Cora with the brightest eyes. They’re Coraline’s eyes - Daniel’s too, he assumes - that light emerald green that sparkles beneath the warm living room light. Her mouth is in an ‘o’ shape, fascinated, as she stares. She looks utterly transfixed by her aunt’s face as she carries on their idle, gentle conversation, lightly bobbing her up and down, cradling her softly to sleep. Her eyelids were drooping, sleep gently pulling her in. She’s humming gently, whenever she’s not speaking; Marcus isn’t even sure she realises she’s doing it. That it’s just some subconscious instinct inside her, telling her to sing to the baby so she can sleep. She’s drawing gentle circles on her back through her onesie. Slow, idle circles that slow the wriggles and the kicking of his legs, lulling her off to sleep ever-so-slowly.

It’s like she’s a natural. She knows exactly what to do every time; with Piper, with Maisie. It’s like second nature and there’s this even brighter glow, brighter than usual, when she settles into the role. She takes it all in her stride and seems to forget the world around her just for a moment.

“How do you do that every time? Can you come and do that every night?” He jokes. But he doesn’t seem to be entirely joking.

She hums. “Perhaps-” She rests her cheek against the top of her head as lightly as she dares without disturbing her. “Perhaps I’m just a superhero.”

The yells of kids echo through the house, the hammering of feet pounding against the wood floor. Kimmy’s muffled exasperated calls for quiet come from the kitchen, falling on deaf ears as the boys continue to charge through the back of the house.

Coraline catches her brother’s gaze. “Go and help.” She’s noticed the way he’s been watching his daughter anxiously, worried that she won’t fall asleep through all the noise and excitement and the gentle hum of Coraline’s made-up song. “I’ve got her,” she insists.

“Are you sure?”

Piper is slowly drifting off to sleep, even despite the noise. Just at the warmth of her aunt cradling her and the gentle hum of her sweet voice lulling her asleep. “I’ve got her,” she repeats. “Go and help Kimmy.”

Daniel’s shoulders slump in relaxation. He mouths a ‘thank you’ as he jogs from the room, calling out to his sons to stop them from charging around, insisting that they wash their hands and settle down for the sake of their sister.

Now, it’s just Coraline, Marcus and a half-asleep Piper left alone in the living room.

The tension in the air is thick and heavy for a moment.

“Marcus, you’re staring,” she points out. She’s not even looking at him, just can just feel the weight of his kind gaze and it sets her heart racing at a hundred miles an hour. “I’d let you hold her-“ She says as he steps a little closer; now Daniel is out of the room, he’s relaxed. It’s like, without him there, he can pretend it’s just the two of them and Piper curled up content against Cora’s chest, even despite the yell of children’s voices and the unfamiliar surroundings. “-but, if I did that, we’d never get her off to sleep.”

“It’s alright,” he whispers, “I think she’s happier with you.” He settles beside her.

Coraline’s thumb brushes over Piper’s cheek and the baby smiles a tiny smile, eyes still close and fisting her hands tighter into the white material of her shirt. There’s a blissful silence that settles between the three of them — just for a moment — when she looks up at him beside her, watching the pair of them sway gently to a seemingly silent song. The weight of the moment engulfs them like a tidal wave.

“Marcus-“ she breathes out, barely loud enough for him to hear. But he does, in the relative silence, and the way she says his name rips the air from his lungs, like the first time she’d surprised him the day they’d met. Her green eyes are wide and wild and she’s looking between him and Piper like they’re the only things left in the world.

They could do it.

He knows what she’s going to say, if she had the chance. If Daniel hadn’t returned, calling out to them that dinner was ready.

They could do it. He knows they could, she knows they could. They could have this fleeting moment for as long as they both live. Their own little version of paradise, together. No matter how terrible the idea seems to be, they could. But Coraline knows she can’t stay in that world forever. It’s temporary and, as much as she wants that, all day, every day, for herself and not through someone else, she knows she can’t let herself get too in over her head.

Still, Marcus really does think she’ll be an amazing mom.

...

After much persuasion — and the promise of candy after dinner — Finley and Elliot finally settled down long enough for them to eat. Coraline had set Piper down to sleep in her crib upstairs, lingering perhaps a little too long to marvel down at her only niece, wondering what it would be like if she was looking down at her own daughter.

She knows it’s a hopelessly bad idea. That the feelings will catch up with her and pull her under again. Sometimes she just can’t help it.

She returns with that fake smile Marcus has become a pro at noticing. She looks wistful, longing in her eyes, disguised by the small smile that takes over her face when she slides into the seat at the dinner table beside him. She smooths out her shirt and jeans, wrinkled from the baby. Another smile, an assurance that Piper is okay and sleeping soundly upstairs, and the conversation moves on to mostly idle chatter, and Daniel asking Marcus questions about himself. Coraline keeps shooting her brother glances whenever he asks a new question that almost seems too personal. He doesn’t mind one bit, though.

Marcus finds Coraline’s free hand under the table and squeezes at some point. She doesn’t want him to let go.

“Auntie Cora?” Finley asks, leaning his chin on his hand to stretch across the table. His questioning call of her name breaks through the idle conversation they’re all having, like he’s demanding all their attention, and not just Coraline’s.

It steals a moment of quiet between them all.

“Nephew Finley?” She replies, mimicking his stance and the curious, furrowed-browed expression on his face.

“When are you going to have a baby, like Piper?”

It’s a loaded yet completely innocent question on his behalf. He’s merely a curious five-year-old with no ill intentions, and no reason to believe it’s anything other than a normal question; Coraline doesn’t even flinch, even when Kimmy scolds her son sharply and insists he eats the rest of his dinner. Though, Marcus still sees the flicker of hesitation in her eyes. Instead, she just smiles and laughs that brightly enchanting laugh, tilting her head to the side in response to her nephew as he sinks back into his chair and pokes at his potatoes.

“Well, I don’t know,” she replies truthfully, “Soon, maybe.”

Marcus almost thinks her eyes waver towards him but it’s so quick that he reasons that, perhaps, he’s seeing things.

“Soon?” Daniel catches up with her words. “You seeing someone?”

“Oh-“ Coraline swallows thickly. She shakes her head. “No, no, not at all. I’m just- optimistic, I guess.”

“I’m sure there’s someone out there for you,” Kimmy poses.

Coraline hums. Marcus doesn’t see the way her gaze trails towards him. “I’m sure there is.”

...

The rest of dinner passed without any more questions on the matter, Finley’s attention switching towards Marcus instead. He was persistent, firing questions at him across the dinner table like he was leading an interrogation, but Marcus kept answering just as enthusiastically as the first time. He’d skirted around the facts a little - it wasn’t exactly a great idea to tell a child, seemingly without a filter, that you were an FBI agent - but the whole exchange had been wonderful. Coraline was sad to see it finish when Kimmy announced the boys could have dessert and they'd leapt from their seats to race towards the cookie jar.

Marcus had offered to help Kimmy wash up as a thank you but she’d brushed him off, and, eventually, he’d resigned to the living room with Daniel. It had taken Coraline months to convince Kimmy that she should let her help clean up, there was no way she would have accepted Marcus’ offer immediately.

Instead, it’s just Coraline and Kimmy, working in tandem to clean the dishes, while Daniel spends time with the kids after a long day at work, and pulls Marcus into their conversation like an old friend.

“I’m sorry about Finn. He’s-” Kimmy shakes her head as she sets another plate down in the drying rack. “He’s been going through one of those... phases lately.”

“It’s fine, Kim, truly.” Coraline sets a couple of dry plates down on the counter and turns to smile at her, before carrying on her job. Sometimes Kimmy jokes about how ridiculous it is that they use so many plates since Piper was born. “He’s just curious,” she insists. “And he makes everything a little more colourful.”

Kimmy chuckles. “That he does.” She washes down another plate. “So, Marcus is great.” She hums, changing the subject towards her with a quirk of an eyebrow and a small, knowing smirk on her face.

Coraline smiles. Though, it’s more to herself than Kimmy. “He really is, isn’t he?”

“Are you two… y’know… is there anything there or-?”

“Oh, no! No, no. We’re just-” Friends. “Just friends.”

“Well-“ She quirks an eyebrow at her sister-in-law. “-maybe you should? Just see how it goes. One date at a time.” Kimmy’s suggestion is as innocent as Finley’s question over dinner. She doesn’t understand the weight it holds. And she doesn’t expect her to, anyway. They’re close but just barely close enough. “Things might surprise you and it’ll do you good to get back out there again after, y’know-“

“No, we-” She shakes her head and turns to finish putting away the plates in the cabinet. In the quiet, she hears Marcus laugh from the living room. It’s one of those whole-hearted laughs, when his head lulls back and his eyes screw shut and crinkle at the corner. She wonders which one of them made him laugh like that, or what made him laugh like that. She hopes Daniel hasn’t pulled out the picture albums; he’s worse for that then their parents. But, since Daniel had made his fortune as an art buyer, eventually to the point he’d made enough to buy his own art gallery, a year ago, Coraline should have known that he and Marcus would get on. They had a lot in common. She’s so glad he likes him, though she can’t imagine a reason why he wouldn’t. “Friends. Friends.”

There’s another silence and she can feel Kimmy’s eyes burning into the back of her head. She turns to see the tail-end of a raised eyebrowed glare, amusement tugging at the corner of her lips. “Well, you never know unless you try, Cora.”

“There will be no trying,” Coraline insists, jabbing Kimmy in the side with her nail. She grins and lets her blonde tresses fall over her shoulder. “Of any kind. He doesn’t see me that way.” She finishes.

“Do you see him that way?”

Another pause.

“No.”

Maybe that’s a lie.

Maybe Kimmy knows that.

Maybe Marcus knows that.

Coraline isn’t sure whether she knows that, though.

“Sure about that?”

Coraline scoffs and turns to continue packing dried, clean plates into the cupboards. “You’re worse than Dan, sometimes.”

“Oh, I take offence to that.”

“Shut up and finish the dishes.” Coraline chuckles, crossing her arms and scowling at the lack of crockery left to dry.

“Just don’t write things off so quickly,” she insists, “It might surprise you.”

...

Daniel and Kimmy had tried to persuade them to stay for drinks late into the evening. The boys were shipped off to bed at the usual time, complaining that they wanted to stay up instead, as usual. But Marcus has work in the morning and Coraline has a long string of interviews; the idea of a late-night sounds less than ideal, her eyes already stinging at the idea of staying up any later than they had it.

Instead, they’d make their excuses and leave, ducking away into Coraline’s car with an exhausted groan. The boys had run wild right up until they went to sleep, nagging Coraline and Marcus to play with them every five minutes, even as Kimmy and Daniel insisted that they settle down and get ready for bed. It’s still late when they leave, though. D.C is eerily quiet as they weave through the roads, small crowds of people scattered through the repeating streets of suburbia.

The car ride home is silent of their voices. Not that uncomfortable silence, from before, when things had been awkward between them and neither of them were sure where the other stood. But that kind of satiated, happy and, admittedly exhausted, silence that pools over them. The low hum of the car engine and the radio is persistent in the space between them. Marcus keeps stealing glances over at her as she drives; he can’t help it, but he doesn’t think she notices, her eyes far too focused on the road ahead of her. And, if she does, she doesn’t mention it. Just keeps letting him glance over at her as the street lights illuminate the gentle angles of her face.

He’s glad she never mentions anything. He’d be too embarrassed if she did.

Instead, she’s lost in the music. That blissful flicker of emotion that crosses her face when she hears a song she likes, when her eyes light up at the sound of one of her favourite songs. Her radio is always tuned into some old rock station - he has no idea what it’s called, it’s usually just a continuous loop of different songs cut with the low gravelly voice of a man who sounded like he’d smoked one too many cigars - and most of the songs are the same songs she’s playing on her record player when he arrives at her apartment and she’s dancing around the kitchen while she cooks. He recognises a lot of them from his college days, songs he used to play with his band. It makes him feel old, sometimes, when she tells him they’re songs she spent her teen years with, even though there aren’t too many years between them.

It’s I Don’t Wanna Miss a Thing that plays now; she’s a sucker for those objectively-cheesy rock ballads. They’re her mom’s favourites, too. And, maybe he won’t admit it, but Marcus has heard her favourites enough to count them amongst his, now. Maybe he just likes the way they make her smile. Coraline is humming along, her fingers drumming a steady rhythm against the top of the steering wheel idly as her eyes follow the road ahead. Every so often, a flicker of neon tints her in colour when they pass a takeout, the only things still open and busy. The curve of her profile and each curl of her hair is highlighted in red.

It’s these moments of distracted bliss, when everything seems to exist without a care in the world, that he likes the most.

It never lasts long enough.

He insists she just parks in the garage she usually uses, by her apartment building, and he’ll walk her home. She protests - because of course she does - offering to drive him all the way home instead, but it’s dark and even in this quiet, well-off part of town where the streets should be safe, you never know who might be lurking. Maybe it’s the things he’s seen and heard of in the FBI - everything he’s seen during his training, heard through whispers and stories in the office - but sometimes he can’t shake the simple action of making sure someone is safe.

It’s still silent between them as they near Coraline’s apartment complex. That short two minute walk down the quiet, tree-lined street that sparkles with chains of fairy lights. It’s lethargic and lingering, each step heavy with the weight of something that echoes through the quiet neighbourhood.

“Cora, I’m sorry.”

It comes out of nowhere and it worries her. And Coraline has absolutely no idea why Marcus is apologising to her. As far as she’s concerned, he hasn’t done anything wrong. At least, not that she knows of.

“For what?” She questions, brow furrowing up at him as they walk. Their hands keep brushing but she doesn’t have it in her to move her hand away.

“I had no right to drop the baby bomb on you like that,” he admits. He reaches up to scratch the back of his neck uncomfortably. When his hand drops, his fingers brush against her knuckles. “I’m sorry if I made you feel trapped. It was a terrible idea. I should have thought-“

“Yes,” she blurts it out before she can stop herself. She’s not entirely sure she’s thought this through. But she can’t help it.

“Yes, what?”

“The offer.” Her whisper is loud in the suddenly-stifling silence of the street. “If it’s still on the table- yes. I’ll have a baby with you.”

“Coraline-” He gulps and stops dead in his tracks. They’re outside her gate, now. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“And you won’t.” Coraline insists. She steps closer to him, sea-green eyes staring up at him with heavy expectation. He’s the one that suggested it. He’s the one that had laid in bed until the early hours of the morning, losing precious moments of sleep as his brain swam with questions, wondering whether he should suggest this to her in the first place, or if it was an awful idea. But, somehow, he can’t seem to convince himself that this is a bad idea, that he should just let her down easy, now. It’s seeing her with Piper, seeing her with Maisie, seeing how she lights up around them.

If he can make her that happy, every single day, why the hell would he turn that opportunity down?

Besides, he’s pretty sure it would make him equally as happy. He’s thought about having kids since he was just a kid himself. And god knows the world seemed to have it out for him when it came to love, things aren’t happening any time soon; he can’t really think of anyone better than Coraline to have a baby with.

And, as much as Coraline knows how recklessly stupid the whole idea is, she can’t bring herself to want anything more or less than this. Than him. “It is a terrible idea, y’know?” She finds herself insisting, blinking up at him with those beautifully-wide eyes.

“Truly awful.”

“And there are a hundred different things that could go wrong.”

“Hundreds.”

“But-“

“Maybe we should… try? Maybe just for a little while. See what happens.”

“Maybe we should.” He exhales long and deep out of his nose. “Maybe…” He tilts her chin up towards his with one finger and suddenly he’s kissing her. His fingers brush her jaw, curving up towards her ear and brushing into her hairline at the nape of her neck. Even the soft touch of his hand against hers as they walked was driving her insane but this, this is on another level.

It’s more than the first time they kissed. Less of a brief touch of lips, more of a wave of relief flooding through them both, unfamiliar feelings surging up inside them. This kiss is full of urging anticipation. She’s pulling him closer to her before she can stop herself, their chests flush, lips and hands strong and insistent against each other.

The fumble to her front door seems like the most practised thing they’ve ever done. Familiar when it shouldn’t be, even as they bump into things on their way.

taglist: @wheresthewater

#marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x oc #marcus pike x female reader #marcus pike x fem!oc #marcus pike #sudden desire #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x oc #the mentalist #original character #oc

61 notes · View notes

delicatestar · 5 years ago

Text

My experiences communing with Apollo

Note: My experiences with Apollo seem to be a bit different from other people’s. This post is about my UPG, my personal experiences, and yours may be different. And that's ok! :)

Who is Apollo?

Apollo (sometimes Apollon) is the Greek god of many things: health and healing, music, dance, and poetry, prophecy, truth, and knowledge. He also represents light and pulls a chariot carrying Helios, the sun god, across the sky each day.

His personality in Greek mythology can vary from stern and easy-to-anger to kind and warm-hearted. He's shown to take vengeance, to fall in love (usually with tragic results), and to act as an intermediary between gods and humans.

While many of his devotees describe him as intimidating, distant, moody, or scary, this hasn't been my experience with him at all.

I find Apollo to be warm and brotherly, like a proud mentor, but we talk to each other like good, lifelong friends. He can be witty and outright hilarious, especially when bantering with Hermes. But he can also be serious and thoughtful and philosophical.

He aids me with research and writing, pushes me to grow in different areas I study, keeps me positive about my chronic illness, and boosts my confidence. He also grants inspired thought during my tarot sessions and provides insightul moments of strong intuition.

I hope that you can use the things I'll talk about here to connect more closely with Apollo. I know that many people find him hard to connect with, but Apollo can be such a rewarding god to work with.

How do I interact with Apollo?

I practice my devotion to Apollo on a combined altar with the other gods I follow. This might not work for everyone, but for me, it feels like the gods are convened together in a sacred space that replicates Olympus.

On the altar, I offer Apollo handmade gifts, art inspired by his comics, and things that remind me of him. Some of my writing is also dedicated to Apollo, and I offer him the music I make when I play the piano. I play songs for him on Spotify, and I'm working on a playlist.

I ask Apollo for help with my health and the health of those I care about. I ask him for inspiration, especially if I have writer's block. And I ask him for logic when my anxiety gets out of hand.

He speaks to me through strong intuitive pushes, sudden thoughts that appear in my mind, books that fall open to significant pages, or incidental signs or nudges that I notice around me. We also communicate through meditation and tarot.

Intuitive pushes and thoughts

By this I mean sudden predictive thoughts that appear in my mind. They're not just "feelings." They're more like someone put all the facts together, considered all the logical posibilities, and then generated a thought based on the most objective probability. This is partly how my mind words and partly a function of Apollo, so I think this is why we work well together.

An example of this: I might put a glass of water on a table and then immediately see an image in my mind of the cup getting bumped and knocked over, spilling water everywhere. Inevitably, if I ignore this push, the cup will spill and I'll be left cleaning up the mess and regretting not listening. If I do listen, the cup won't be spilled and all will be well.

As another example, if I try to do something, like going out to eat, and everything seems to be going wrong -- I stub my toe, I can't find the shirt I wanted to wear, I'm running late -- then I'll decide not to go. Personally, these obstacles represent a larger trend and I feel like they're a sign to just stop and take care of myself instead. Inevitably, I'll have a flare up of my illness if I don't listen and what was going to be a fun night out will become miserable.

Words

Sometimes I'll feel a thought so loudly that I absolutely must say it out loud. While I may not even feel strongly about the subject or the words may not agree with my own opinion, I feel compelled to express them anyway.

Sometimes these words so clearly belong to Apollo that my wife has deemed them "inspired speech," or the words of a god expressed through a devotee.

I'm not yet sure how I feel about thinking of it this way, but I'm open to the possibility. Apollo tends to be the main god who expresses themselves like this for me and I'm sometimes surprised by the things he says. If the connection is really strong, tears start flowing from my eyes for no reason.

Signs

Sometimes I'll see something in the environment around me that just makes me think of Apollo. For example, like a sign on the subway or a comment on Twitter. Signs are very personal, and only you can know if what you've seen is a sign from a god or not. Apollo's signs for me may include the image of a crow in a place I don't expect it, a sudden reminder on Twitter to drink water or practice self-care, or the sun coming out from behind a cloud.

Books

As the god of knowledge and truth, I associate Apollo with learning, research, and books. I have an unquenchable thirst for learning new things, and I feel Apollo's presence there every step of the way. Sometimes a book will open to a page I hadn't intended and something will stand out to me. Or a book that I wasn't looking for will suddenly stand out and I'll know it's what I need to read.

Meditation

When I want to communicate directly with Apollo, I stand before my altar or sit on the bed nearby and close my eyes. I picture Apollo or a representation of him in my head, like how he makes me feel or things I associate with him. I'm not very formal with him, and I talk directly to him. And we talk about how I'm feeling, self care, and ideas. He helps me work through my thoughts and understand them.

This is in addition to the normal constant mental conversation I have with all of my gods throughout the day. And meditation doesn't have to look like traditional meditation. I consider anything that gets me into "flow" to be meditation. So if I'm writing and feeling particularly inspired, I think of that as meditation. If I'm soaking in a tub and feeling very relaxed and letting my thoughts flow, I think of that as meditation.

Tarot

I should say up front that I don't believe humans have the ability to know the future as a pre-written timeline. (I reserve the right to change my mind, though, in case we discover something new about the nature of time and reality that convinces me.) This may seem like a contradiction since I work with Apollo, a god of prophecy, but let me explain.

I do think that we can make educated and/or intuitive guesses based on our experiences. And I work with Apollo to identify the possibilities and understand and plan for them.

I usually shuffle the cards until enough fall out on their own to fill in my spread. (I also work with Fortuna/Tyche and ask for her help in this part of the reading, to ensure the cards I need to see are the ones that appear.) Then, I walk through each card, what it means, and how it applies to my life and the current challenges I'm facing.

The cards help me look at my problems from a different perspective and get some distance from the emotional, stressful aspects. They let me look at it from a more objective point of view. I work with Apollo throughout the reading, asking him for advice, help with understanding how it's all connected, and enlightenment as I use the reading to come up with solutions.

(I'll post a separate post about how I read tarot based on intuitive nudges and prediction with Apollo. Please look out for it!)

Other ways

Sometimes Apollo's presence feels like a warm glow or a feeling of well-being. I actively imagine my aura/spirit absorbing that feeling and making it part of myself.

Sometimes it's more like a sudden brainstorm, where I need to write down all of the ideas before they're gone. I have so many files of Apollo-inspired thoughts!

I also write poetry for him, then burn it in a small cauldron and offer the words up to him. No one else has ever read those words; I don't post or publish them anywhere. They're just between me and Apollo, an offering of creative energy.

There are so many ways to connect with Apollo. There's no way I could list them all. The main thing to remember is that if you think you may be connecting with him, you probably are and you should follow that train of thought to see where it goes.

Thank you for reading!

It's been so rewarding following a god like Apollo.

He's inspired me to take better care of myself, go to doctors, and listen more to my body. He helps me with anxiety and insomnia. I'm truly grateful!

I really hope that this post was useful. I'm very shy about sharing these things, and I'm not sure if it will be helpful. Please feel free to drop an ask if you have questions about anything here. Thanks!

#apollo #apollo devotee #hellenic polytheism #hellenic revivalism #apollo deity #my upg #i simply can't express how much i love and adore apollo

2K notes · View notes

theholyyuunoaduck · 4 years ago

Text

Reasons why i hate mikaela hyakuya

@gurensangel @chaoticgaymess sorry i know you wanted me to repost your post but its easier just starting my own and making my own hashtag so incase anyone else asks me about this i can just look for the hashtag and send them this

Mikaela is honestly one of those characters i desperately and i mean desperatly tried to love i mean his kid self was so so easy to love and want to protect and hell i cried a shit ton for him and his past his problems everything but the reality is mikaela is a toxic person and here im going to be explaining everything as clearly as i can though im sure that everyone has heard most of these arguments i also have some most people wouldnt even consider

Why is mikaela toxic? Well simply said when you have one person and only one then its obviously going to be an underlying mental health issue now you could say other characters are similar to mikaela within that regard like every other vampire but heres the thing we dont get to see much of the other vampires so im more or less apathetic to those vampires and their actions however in accordance to mikaela we have watched his actions since day one and his chemistry with the rest of the cast of owari no seraph what grinds my gears isnt the fact that mikaela acts with violence and distrust towards everyone but the actions that the rest of the cast have taken towards mikaela and his inability to react differently towards those same exact characters aka shinoa squad

Shinoa squad has never once treated mikaela with prejiduce with agendas or anything of ill will since day one the fact that shinoa basically is the cause of death of many of her comrads during the nagoya arc where mikaela attacks the jida troop (and yes it is a troop considering that after reading pannel after pannel theres upwards to 20 soldiers who the majority of which are equiped with standard blades unlike the protagonists you know basically cannon fodder) but my problem is the fact that in that chapter shinoa instigated their betrayal to save mikaela from the rest of the troops shinoa's life was threatned straight after acknowledging that this could be the last she ever layed eyes on yuichiro by letting mikaela escape with him first threatened by a random soldier and then right after rika inoue and by her superior narumi makoto and shinoa the fucking chad she is just took all the punishment because she knows damn well that it is her fault her comrads died because of her distraction to allow mikaela to escape eating away the precious time guren baught his soldiers to run away and escape and how does mikaela respond? He tells yuu to abandon them it doesnt take a genius to say that betrayal especially to the hiragi family is met with death even if mikaela doesnt understand the rules and regulations of human law i doubt vampire law is much different meaning he knows damn well shinoa could lose her life for betraying the army for his sake and not just shinoa but her entire squad

I already know what youll say "but but mikas a vampire he has no emotions" bullshit absolute pure fucking bullshit of an argument considering the fact yoichis mention of the word family/freinds was cause for pause for mikaela and not just mikaela look at ferid look at crowley theyre all so vibrant and brimming with personality and emotion and i am damn well sure no one disagrees this could just be kagami's writing and forgetting about this plotpoint

The fact that despite this mikaela is a manipulative fucker we all know yuu is a dumbass no one can deny this the fact that mikaela is willing to point his sword towards yuichiro and threaten him his so called beloved speaks volumes about mikaelas ego his straight up ego thinking that he's the only one that could be right after all mikaelas the wisest of the bunch right i mean after all everyone of his other decisions was followed through with outstanding results anyone? Anyone? Thats right not once has the squad or especially yuichiro listend to mikaela and do to that fact everyone is alive and kicking examples? (This is also an example of manipulative mika) Mika: Yuu abandon shinoa because if she's as great as you say us sticking around will only cause her trouble you cannot tell me that isnt mikaela trying to twist yuu's feelings for his family to abandon them because had they listened to mikaela shinoa would have been impaled by the chains kureto produced to awaken the seraph of the end

And almost right after that same situation upon mahiru injuring yuu awakening abadon mikaela high tails and runs away carrying yuu and we actually see a pannel of shinoa squad scrambling for saftey straight up abandoning them again and going so far as to yell that he is yuu's only family despite all the other shit

Alright so lets play into the whole mika doesnt have feelings dont you think that having no feelings would make your sense of judgement all the better? And if so with all the evidence and actions of shinoa squad why in Gods blue earth would he basically act like an actual dick towards shinoa who saved his life risked her life for him as if shinoa is the sole reason yuu is in the prediciment of being possessed by yuu?? Isnt that the least bit infuriating??

On next of we shouldnt listen to mikaela in the same arc again mikaela suggests lets leave shinoa squad to face off against crowley AND FERID with this bullshit of "theyre after us theyll just ignore them" i mean are you kidding me? Ferid the man youve been with for 5 years is going to not have the time of his life killing a bunch of teenagers for the simple fact that if yuu is running away and leaving them.they must not be important to him therefore easy pickings for him

Lets not trust guren after all he's just using you he doesnt care the man loves that boy like as if he was his son and you can argue against me with this some time later but alright lets give mika the benifit of the doubt so obviously in mikas infinit wisdom his set course of action is killing him infront of yuichiro??? Really??? In front of him?? Killing his father infront of yuu man that just speaks volumes about how mikaeala only cares about the feeling he gets with yuu rather than carring about yuu as a person

Imo mika cares about how yuu makes him feel rather than who yuichiro is what do i mean by this? Its simple mika doesnt give a damn what makes yuu happy hell mika would cage yuu up if it ment keeping him safe and alive but is that really living? Its cruelty if i adopt a dog feed it and give it water but never play with it and isolate it thats basically animal cruelty

Anyway back to mika trying to kill guren just right there yuu begs mika to stop and grabs his arm pulling him back and what does mika do? What does he do? He lops off yuu's arm the one that was holding mikaela back from attacking what makes this scene even worse is i had so much hope for mikaeala because the last battle they won mikaela said the thoight of losing his.comrads made him dizzy what happened to him not having feelings? I lived loved loved that statement i imagined uncle mika to yuus kids being the best man to yuus wedding begging to be the one to make the wedding cake so so so so so many au's based off those little words and right after removing yuu's limb from him kimizuki and yoichi step up for guren weapons drawn and mikaela threatens them?!?!?! I mean honestly how fucking hypocritical can you be how big is his fucking ego???

Ill end it with this point because i have work in the morning i Still have another 20 bullet points i want to add but im starting to think i have artheritistis in my hand because my fingers hurt so much but anyway my point being mikaelas character contradicts yui's in an unhealthy way while yuu's character trait is to run towards danger to be a hero mikas is to run from danger its basically a tug of war and the thing is the story so far has actually turned out well for the cast running into danger for yuu made the 6th angels trumpet to grow silent destroying all of the four horsemen monsters and letting humanity take a huge step towards rebuilding but had it been mika's way theyd have run right out of that building never to see it again my point is if someone pulls and runs towards something and another character ties a rope to them and runs the other direction that tension will cause nothing but problems instead of running forward with the protagonist in order to keep them safe and actually contribute into the success of the mission

Also like the hashtags say this is only part 1 because as i said i have to sleep and my hand is killing me i should have done this earlier when i had more energy in order to bring along all the sources like the chapter and page where you can find these exact moments along with photos of said arguments/bullet points

#owari no seraph #seraph of the end #yuichiro hyakuya #shinoa hiiragi #mikaela shindo #mikaela hyakuya #reasons i hate mikaeal hyakuya part 1

59 notes · View notes

takonei · 4 years ago

Text

Beta AU - Main story, Chapter 3, deadly life (Part 7)

Note of the author: ... Damn this Deadly life is long. I know there were two deaths but still.

Chapter 3: What is beyond humans’ control - Deadly life

...

“Huh?” the girl blinked.

“I said...” Rantaro gripped his podium. “How do you know what a curare is?”

Shuichi was confused. What’s a ‘curare’ anyway?

“Um... I think I heard it once but don’t remember who said it...” she replied, tapping her cheek.

“... That’s a lie and you know it.” Rantaro became more and more nervous. “I never mentioned anything about curares. I never even said the word, and I don’t think anyone here knows what it even means.”

He turned to the rest of them to see if he was right.

And he was, since everyone glanced at each other to see if anyone knew.

“I mean, I do know but...” Tsumugi pondered. “I don’t remember mentioning it, but I could be wrong, since the past few days have been erased from my memory.”

“Still...” Rantaro turned back to the craftswoman. “Curare is the scientific name for what I described as ‘paralyzing product’ so that everyone would understand.”

“But you couldn’t have known that unless you read the label on the bottle.”

“I... Think I do remember now! I did see it when I checked the shelves in your lab once because I was looking for painkillers! But that was even before the disease!” she joyfully replied.

This looked incredibly suspicious anyway. And Rantaro seemed very skeptic.

“... Supposing this is true...” he turned to the rest of them. “This is the first and last time I want someone rummaging through painkillers. I want to be here if any of you want some painkillers, since I know it’s easy to take the wrong doses.”

... First time? Didn’t Kaito...

No, now wasn’t the time.

He nodded. The rest of the group agreed as well.

“I still have trouble believing you, Angie.” Tsumugi narrowed her eyes.

Ryoma sighed. “We said we would solve the murder, then accuse people. However...”

He turned to the girl. “We still have a suspect list with some of you more suspicious than others, and that includes you, Angie.”

She joyfully nodded. “I’m not the killer~ But we can continue the trial if you wish to!”

Shuichi didn’t know her that much, but that still looked strange.

Kokichi seemed to have an eye on her, but he didn’t look mad at her... For some reason.

What is he even thinking?

“There’s something that has been bothering me ever since I- no. Since we discovered it.” Kirumi glanced at the violinist.

Something they both discovered? Ah, is it...

“... You mean the missing plants in the shrine?” he perked up.

“The what now?” Miu was confused.

“Some bushes were missing in the shrine.” Kirumi explained. “We left it for a few minutes with Rantaro because Monokuma asked us to at the end of the investigation, and when we came back I’m positive they were replaced.”

Kiyo and Ryoma nodded to each other. “That’s what we noticed as well.”

“But what’s that supposed to mean?” Kaito frowned.

“Did any of you find the missing plants anyway?” Tsumugi asked the autopsy trio.

They glanced at each other to confirm that no, they didn’t.

“Does any of you have an idea on what they could have been used for?” Kiyo questioned.

Something they could have used the plants for...

The bushes, and not the flowers.

Perhaps for something that was worth taking off the bushes, yet not the flowers...

And for some reason the bushes disappeared without a trace.

It hit him.

“Did the killer... Burn them? That’s the only explanation I can find...” he suggested.

“Wouldn’t they have taken the flowers with it?” Kaito asked.

Tsumugi shook her head. “No. Flowers are not as flammable as bushes, so I can see where Shuichi comes from, and that’s the most plausible theory.”

“But to burn bushes? What’s the point?” Miu argued.

“My guess would be that they had something else to burn.” Kirumi said.

Something else to burn...

“What about the labels on the bottles? We didn’t find a single one of them in the shrine, but...” he trailed off. “Why would they burn the labels? We know which bottles are missing...”

“I think this has to do with which bottles we would find liquid around.” Rantaro answered. “So we couldn’t identify which ones were used then thrown, and which ones were thrown without being used.”

So this had to do with an already solved mystery.

“Perhaps there is something else we can add to the things they burned.” Kiyo declared. He turned to the medic. “Rantaro, you did the autopsy in its entirety, right?”

He hummed. “Yes, and I’ve given every information I found.”

“Was there a trace of a letter Himiko may have received inviting her to the shrine?”

Rantaro’s eyes widened in realization. “Now that I think about it, no. I didn’t find anything on her.”

“Then we can say that the letter burned with the labels and the bushes.” the therapist concluded.

“So the killer just used the bushes as a way to make fire?” Miu scratched her neck.

“Not just to make fire.” Tsumugi corrected. “To make a fire strong enough to burn both the letter and every single piece of label on the bottles.”

“Let’s not forget the fabric used as a bag.” Kirumi added.

“However there’s a huge contradiction with this entire theory.” Ryoma countered. “You see, I think I know enough by now considering how much time I spent in the warehouse and...”

“There isn’t a single lighter in this academy.”

Shuichi blinked. If there wasn’t any lighter, then there couldn’t have been any fire.

But that theory felt so right...

“You mean like, no way to burn stuff?” Kaito turned to him.

“Nope. Even the monomono machine doesn’t give anything like that, from what I’ve tested.”

Angie pondered. “That’s weird, I swear I have seen fire somewhere...”

She thought for a moment. “There were candles in the rooms of the fourth floor, right?”

That was... Right, actually. When they visited the rooms after they opened, and when they installed furniture for the ill ones.

“Yes, but we blew on them each night so the others could sleep.” Rantaro defended himself, knowing the accusations would be against him.

“Each night? What is that supposed to mean?” Tsumugi raised an eyebrow.

Shuichi forgot for a moment she didn’t remember the last few days.

“Monokuma relighted them each time, for some reason.” the medic replied.

“I remember waking up in a dark room this morning. They were extinguished.” Ryoma testified.

Tsumugi nodded. “I can confirm this.”

Shuichi barely heard Kokichi humming as he nodded, too.

"I went one last time in the rooms before actually eating my meal. You three asked me to turn off the lights, and so I did.” the medic explained.

He frowned. “I didn’t think much of it since you asked me the same the day before, but I should have guessed something was wrong.”

Shuichi could see Tsumugi glancing at Kokichi- the only one in the ill students group who remembered the last few days, to see if he reacted to a potential lie.

From his expression that wasn’t the case.

“But then how are you supposed to burn things without any sort of lighter?” Kaito questioned.

Either the theory was wrong, or they were missing something.

Think.

"Perhaps there wasn’t any fire in the first place?” Kiyo pondered.

Wait, what if...

“Rantaro, didn’t you show us a burned wooden stake?”

Kirumi nodded. “I remember now. There was a partially burned wooden stake on the crime scene.”

“Which means there was a fire after all.” Rantaro confirmed.

“But where does that get us? The thing was partially burned, right? There were no trace of burning anywhere else!” Miu exclaimed.

“But there has to be a way this burn mark was made.” Tsumugi declared.

A way to make fire with a wooden stake...

It hit him.

There was only one person who could have been able to do so.

“Angie...” Shuichi hesitantly turned to her. “You know how to make fire with wood, right?”

The girl innocently tilted her head to the side. “Hm?”

“Yes. You told me about your experiences on your island and told me that was one of the basic things to learn as an artisan.” Kiyo agreed.

“Oh... Did I say that?” she put a finger on her cheek.

Kiyo looked nervous, yet confident in his voice. “Yes Angie. You did.”

All eyes were on her now. her podium emitted a red light and went forward.

“Angie... You’re the culprit aren’t you?” Shuichi narrowed his eyes at her.

Upon a quick glance, Kokichi was still unreadable. It was like he wasn’t even caring about the situation and paying close attention at the same time.

"...”

The girl was silent.

Everyone was waiting an answer.

“... I was in my lab yesterday until 8:00 PM. I never moved from there, actually~”

“Angie.” Rantaro stared at her. “We need an answer. You’re the only one who could have done this.”

“Answer my question then!~” she span around to turn to the medic. “Did any of you see me leaving my lab and temper with the meals?”

The others glanced at each other, hoping to find an answer.

But nobody said anything.

“See? If I did so, one of you would have noticed me. However, since we’re talking about ‘fire’...”

She turned back to Kirumi.

“You’re a mercenary, right? You should have plenty of firearms to help you in your lab~”

“I never use firearms." she countered. “I only use knives and poisons. Nothing in my lab could have done anything of the sort.”

“Can we be sure?” Kaito hesitantly asked.

“I’ve looked at your profiles, several times actually.” Tsumugi argued. “And I remember seeing on Kirumi’s profile that she dislikes firearms. I doubt Monokuma would come up with a lie to defend one of us.”

“Besides...” Ryoma added. “Firearms is only the name. Unless you had gasoline you couldn’t have created fire. And it would have been way too loud to be an effective method.”

Shuichi stared at the craftswoman, hands strongly gripping the podium. “You’re the only one, Angie.”

“I still don’t have the answer to my previous question~” she wasn’t phased at all.

“None of you saw me put soporifics in the meals. And everyone can make fire if they try, it just takes some time~”

“No one saw you, it’s true.” Tsumugi glared at her, one hand placed on her podium. “But you are the only one who could have committed the murder, and that’s all that matters.”

Shuichi thought about the day Angie’s lab opened. Angie had specifically said that she could use all the tools with great skill.

That included the axe.

He felt a chill down his spine. Even though some of them were strong physically, it was an expert who used such a powerful tool on Himiko.

“It’s not like it matters anymore.” the prodigy continued. “Let’s just get to voting time already. The blackened is decided.”

“No they’re not!!!”

Kokichi slammed his hands on the table, startling Shuichi.

“I told you all! There is one blackened here and it’s me!” he put a hand on his chest, as if it would strengthen his argument.

“Kokichi-”

“Even if- Even if any of you really killed Himiko there is one person here who deserves to die, it’s me!” he yelled.

Convincing Kokichi was going to be a hard task.

“Besides, there’s not enough proof to tell it’s Angie! She never left her lab yesterday, you guys must have seen it on your monopads!”

Shuichi blinked. This was how he knew she was in her lab.

But what if...

“I’m the only blackened here! Just vote for me already!”

The violinist took a deep breath.

He has to convince him.

That he isn’t the blackened and Angie is.

It’s almost over. He has to.

Argument armament start!

“She isn’t the blackened, I am!”

“There’s one person

who deserves punishment,

it’s me!”

“I am the blackened!”

“You don’t have enough proof

she is the blackened!”

“She doesn’t deserve to be punished!”

“Just vote for me already!”

“It’s still my karma

that is responsible

for Himiko’s death!”

“The killer is just a small part!”

“I am the culprit here!”

“I’m responsible for her death!”

“I am the one you

have to execute!”

“You made so many theories incriminating her...”

“But Angie never left her lab, you should have seen it on your monopads!”

Mono pads tracking function

“The monopads...” Shuichi muttered.

“The monopads don’t track people, they track the other monopads!” he exclaimed.

Tsumugi bit her nail. “ Angie just left it in her lab so she could form an alibi...”

Kiyo looked at his monopad. “It’s never stated in the rules that you have to keep the monopad on you at all times, so she must have done this.”

“Satisfied now?” Rantaro stared at Angie.

“...”

There was a long silence.

"I think we should go through this one more time...” Shuichi glanced at everyone.

-Closing argument-

The plan started the night the motive was introduced. The ill students were placed in the rooms on the fourth floor, with Rantaro keeping an eye on them.

The culprit already had their plan prepared. So the first night, when Rantaro was sleeping on the fourth floor...

They went to his lab to look for soporifics. That was a major part of their plan.

Rantaro didn’t notice them missing since he never had the time to check because of his role as the medic for the ill ones.

The next day, the culprit waited until Kirumi started preparing dinner for the hospital team. And when she was out to ask the others their preference...

They went in and drugged the meals.

-A part of him knew the reverse karma was probably the reason why Angie managed to get to do this without being caught, but refrained from mentioning it.-

Of course, neither Miu, Kirumi nor I noticed anything, so we gave the plates without questioning anything.

Rantaro had asked us not to go visit too often because there was a risk we would get the disease, so no one noticed he fell unconscious in the stairs because of the soporifics in his meal.

After nighttime started, the culprit slipped a letter to Himiko inviting her to the shrine of judgement at a certain time, probably between 12 AM and 1 AM.

They began preparing the weapons for their crime.

The culprit cut off some fabric from Maki’s lab to make a bag and transport the weapons.

That included tools from their lab, darts from Kokichi’s lab, scissors from Maki’s lab, and finally, knives and poison from Kirumi’s lab.

Actually, the poisons were not necessary, since their plan was not to poison Himiko. They only made us think it was used to confuse us about their method.

And so, they completely destroyed Kirumi’s lab to make us think they desperately wanted poison.

There was one last thing they needed to retrieve from a lab.

Paralyzing products to use on Himiko so she wouldn’t fight back. They stole syringes as well so they could use it.

Before taking the weapons to the shrine, there was one last thing to do.

The culprit dragged Rantaro’s unconscious body to his lab, and retrieved a chair from Kirumi’s lab to make us think Rantaro was never drugged in the first place.

And so, they could finally make their way to the shrine.

Once Himiko arrived, the killer took her by surprise and drugged her with the paralyzing product so she wouldn’t fight back.

She was already not very strong, but that was important to our culprit.

I do not know how exactly things went from there... The killer... Used all the weapons they had taken on Himiko. They also drew angel wings behind the victim’s back, as shock value, I suppose.

The culprit now needed to dispose of the evidence. That included the labels on the bottles, the letter they sent to the victim, and the fabric they used as a bag.

Since there was no way to create fire in the academy, the killer had to use their own skills.

They snatched the bushes from the shrine, and used them as a base for the fire.

Since our culprit is the ultimate craftswoman, creating a fire was no big deal. They simply used wooden stakes.

Once the culprit was done with burning the evidence, they planted one of the stakes in Himiko’s chest, which was ironically the final evidence to guess the identity of our culprit.

After that they left the horrifying scene for us to see the next day.

And the culprit...

... Is you, Angie Yonaga, the ultimate craftswoman!

“...”

The girl stayed silent for a minute... Then smiled.

“Yep! You are correct!”

Her eyes looked devoid of regret.

“I am Himiko’s killer!”

The joy in her voice... It was terrifying. How could she be so happy about this?

Did she have the disease like Rantaro suspected?

Kokichi was speechless, staring at Angie, with pure horror in his eyes.

Himiko was finally getting her justice but...

This whole situation was atrocious.

“Let’s just end this already.” Rantaro spat, disgust written all over his face.

“Allllllrgihty then! It’s... Voting time!” Monokuma cheered.

Shuichi’s heart skipped a beat when he glanced at Kokichi. Was he going to-

Fortunately, he saw the boy looking down, but still pressing an icon on his tablet.

The violinist turned back to his podium, and pressed Angie’s icon.

“Now then, it seems the voting has finished. Let’s see the result.” Monokuma declared.

The giant screen turned on and everyone’s icons appeared.

9 votes for Angie Yonaga, and 1 vote for Kokichi Ouma.

Shuichi could barely hear Angie mutter “Hm? Weird, I voted for myself...”

Upon a quick glance, it was easy to guess who voted for Kokichi.

“Who’ll be chosen as the blackened? Will you make the right choice or the dreadfully wrong one!?” Monokuma continued his usual speech.

VERDICT

The wheel turned for a few seconds before slowing down… And landing on Angie.

The coin machine on the screen made its distinct jingle, and coins rolled out of it.

Angie was unreadable.

“Wow! Seriously!? You’re correct again! A-Amazing! This is the third correct verdict in a row!”

“The blackened who killed Himiko Yumeno is Angie Yonaga, the Ultimate craftswoman!”

#ndrv3 #danganronpa v3 #ndrv3 au #beta au #main story

14 notes · View notes

horrorboydyke · 4 years ago

Note

7. “wait, no, don’t take kissing away from me.” for davenzi? 💕

Hi Kim!!! this prompt has been in my WIP file for so long and I thought while I was just sitting here I’d finish it!! (Read on ao3)

Just a quick word though) As some of you know, I have been and am going through some patches of ill health. I'm currently sitting in the emergency waiting room as I finished writing this and its been a while since I've written anything and with s5 airing, I thought it'd be a great time to write something.

Writing brings me such immense joy and I know for a lot of people, its a tough time right now so I hope this fic finds you some comfort and joy as it did for me to write this fic.

David always liked to take care of people, especially when they were sick, it made him feel needed. Laura would always laugh and say he got that trait from their mother but David knew that their mother was never one to feel the need to care for people but instead, their mother felt like it was an obligation or a chore for her to tend to sick loved ones. He hated when Laura says that because he doesn’t feel like its a chore rather, something he does out of the kindness of his own heart.

The only person he hates taking care of when they’re sick is Matteo. His boyfriend has a tendency to turn into a 19-year-old baby when he gets sick, he gets grumpy, stubborn and whiney. The last time Matteo got sick, he didn’t move from his bed for days and was practically becoming one with his sheets, David had to peel him off the bed and all but threw him in the bathtub.

“Just my luck,” David sighs out when he reads a text from Matteo who is complaining about having a cold and a sore throat, he sends a text back to Matteo letting his boyfriend know that he’ll be around in an hour with food and his Nintendo switch to keep him company.

“Baby,” Matteo whines as soon as David steps foot in his room, Matteo rolls over in his bed to face David who smiles humorously and holds up the bag containing the food Laura has made for him to bring over.

“Awe you brought me food,” Matteo says with a hoarse laugh which spluttered into a loud cough. Matteo takes a second to recover and looks at David with an adoring smile he only reserves for his boyfriend.

“Jesus, you look like shit,” David laughs as he comes over to the bed, placing the food on Matteo’s bedside table next to the piles of dirty tissues and a small tub of Vicks Vaporub. He sits down next to Matteo and dodges Matteo when he leans forward with his lips puckered.

“Wait, no, don’t take kissing away from me,” Matteo whines with a sad face as he leans forward again to try to plant a kiss on David’s lips but pulls back when David puts his hands in front of his face to shield himself from Matteo sicken ridden kiss attack.

“Dude you are sick and I really don’t feel like catching whatever it is you have,” David says seriously and watches as Matteo’s smile shrives off his face and is replaced with a sour look as he turns his body away from David to lie on his side and look out the window. David rolls his eyes and sighs at his diva of a boyfriend.

“I’m sorry love,” David says after a few seconds but rolls his eyes again when Matteo just hums bitterly. They sit there for a few moments in silence, their breathing the only sounds between them.

“Well I’m guessing this silence means you don’t want the shakshuka I brought you?” David asks sarcastically and laughs when Matteo rolls back around and eyes the bag of food on his nightstand.

“That baked egg and tomato dish Laura made for us that one time?” Matteo asks and reaches from the bag when David nods his head with a cheeky smile on his face.

“Also some homemade bread that Laura made,” David says as he passes the bag to Matteo who opens it and starts eating as if he hadn’t eaten in days.

While Matteo eats, David stands up and grabs the small rubbish bin off the floor, he goes around Matteo’s room and starts to pick up any rubbish he sees, occasionally holding things up and waits for Matteo to nod or shakes his head to indicate wither he wants the item to be thrown out.

“Ya know, while you’re here, do you wanna rub some of this into my chest for me?” Matteo asks around a mouthful of food and holding up the tub of Vicks Vaporub.

“Fuck off, I’m not your mum also don’t talk with your mouth full,” David says and shakes his head with a smile as Matteo laughs.

“Nice contradiction you got there buttface,” Matteo says with a laugh and David holds up his middle finger.

“Nice contradiction you got there buttface,” David says in high pitched voice to mock his boyfriend.

“I love you but you’re a nightmare when you’re sick,” David says after Matteo opens his mouth to show David all the chewed up food in there.

“Yeah, but as you said, you love me.”

#druck #druck fanfic #my writing #asks #yadomik

7 notes · View notes

panharmonium · 5 years ago

Text

why are you being like this?

people i’ve met...they’re not like you. they don’t care. i don’t matter.

don’t ever think that. we all matter.

i have to talk about merlin in ‘the hollow queen,’ which is an episode i really do appreciate, despite the fact that it’s part of the enchanted!gwen arc, which isn’t my favorite.

the usual disclaimer applies: i am doing this rewatch because i never finished season 5. i don’t know how this show ends. if you are reading this and want to engage with me, please be gentle and avoid spoilers for the last four episodes of this season - i appreciate you all very much for protecting my very late discovery of this show! <3

and now, to the point, which is this:

merlin looks happier walking around with this “druid” kid in the woods than he ever does in camelot at any other time this season.

and granted, maybe “happy” isn’t quite the right word to use, because "happy” for merlin now doesn’t even come close to what it was even just two seasons ago - but there is this quiet enjoyment to what he’s doing. there’s a contentment. he smiles a lot in these scenes, when we can practically count on one hand the number of times he’s smiled in episodes 1 through 7. he’s smiling when he shows up in the woods and tosses daegal a packet of breakfast, when daegal insists that his arm doesn’t need treating, when they’re sitting on the log talking about gaius, when merlin tosses him the extra apples - even when merlin is showing him how to bandage his leg, after merlin has already been betrayed to morgana and subsequently rescued.

i think there’s something to be said about this, in terms of where merlin is in season 5 vs where he actually wishes he was. in terms of what he’s doing, and what he actually enjoys doing. in terms of what he has to be, and what he could be, if he were only given the space.

this episode really makes me think, but i’m not sure i’m going to be able to articulate my thoughts in a way that makes sense. it’s just - the thing that this episode makes so clear is that - merlin is so obviously gifted at other things than his mandate to ‘make sure arthur doesn’t die,’ and he so obviously has other things that he cares about, things that his “mission” has made it impossible for him to pay enough attention to. for example - he’s forced to spend all his time and energy protecting a regime that hates him, and there are a lot of downsides to that, but one of them is that he hardly ever gets to connect with his own people. and merlin so obviously cares about them, like - every time he comes across someone who is the slightest bit like him - freya, little mordred, gilli, this new kid daegal - he feels an automatic sense of responsibility for their safety, an automatic kinship with them. he wants to help them. he belongs with them. but it has always been difficult for him to help them the way he wants to, just by virtue of his situation. and in season 5, it’s doubly hard, because he just doesn’t feel like it’s within his mandate anymore.

merlin in season 5 has no room in his life for anything besides ‘make sure arthur doesn’t die.’ and even before season 5, his life had been slowly constricting around him, until it couldn’t accommodate anything other than his “destiny.” but merlin’s commitment to that destiny has stolen so much away from him, so many opportunities - and it’s easy to forget that his life could be more. that he has more to offer than just ‘make sure arthur doesn’t die.’ merlin forgets it himself - after all, he initially resists going to help daegal’s sister because he just doesn’t feel like he can. he doesn’t feel like he can fit this into his life, however much he wants to. he can’t leave arthur alone.

but once he’s out in the woods, he’s so much more...at ease. he’s happy to sit and patch up this kid’s wounds and talk to him about living in camelot with gaius. he’s happy to give this kid all of the apples he has in his bag. he gets a kind of quiet fulfillment from walking this kid through bandaging a leg wound and telling him he’s done it well. he laughs when this hapless young person walking next to him is snapping his fingers at bugs like, “if i catch this fly, i’m going to eat it.”

this episode makes it so clear that merlin has gifts outside of ‘making sure arthur doesn’t die.’ he’s become a studied healer, for all that he keeps claiming “i’m not a physician.” he’s a born teacher - an absolute natural. he has an obvious gift for connecting with people, and he even more obviously loves doing this kind of work - it’s something that comes easily to him. it makes him happy. it fulfills him. this - traveling to help someone who is ill, encouraging a self-hating young kid to discover the good he can do in this world, teaching someone to do something as simple as bandaging a wound - this is work he can feel good about.

i don’t think merlin always feels good about what he’s doing in camelot.

he feels that what he’s doing in camelot is important, yes. he feels that what he’s doing in camelot is necessary. he also feels that what he’s doing in camelot is going to end up killing him, one day, and that if his visions are true and things keep proceeding the way they’re going this season, then all his pain and sacrifice might ultimately come to nothing.

merlin loves camelot. he wants arthur to live. he wants all his friends to thrive. but he also wants to be helping people - his people, in particular, and that is the one specific thing his mission in camelot prevents him from doing. he’s supposed to be doing it by helping arthur, or so people keep telling him, but it doesn’t feel like that, sometimes. how many years has it been, for so little to have changed?

i don’t think that feels good for him. it’s the same inherent contradiction he’s faced since he first arrived in camelot and stumbled into uther’s service. the cognitive dissonance is the same. he has an externally imposed responsibility to arthur, and an intrinsic desire to help his own people, and he doesn’t feel like he can fulfill both of these demands at the same time.

it’s easy to forget, because of the omnipresence of the legend, and because of the entire premise of the show, that merlin is more than his duty to protect arthur. that merlin was somebody before he met arthur, somebody who already had thoughts and ideas and imaginings about where he might go in this world, about what his life might be, about what mattered to him. it’s so easy to forget that he was a whole person long before he came to camelot, that he continues to be a whole person, whether arthur is present or not.

it’s...a hard feeling for me to put into words, but i think the closest i can get to explaining it in this particular episode is with the smallest thing, which is when merlin gives daegal both of the apples, and daegal says “don’t you like them?” and merlin replies, “they’re my favorite.”

it’s such a simple little thing, that, but it just - opens up a door to something you’ve never had reason to think about before. apples are merlin’s favorite fruit.

and it hits you then, what you normally aren’t expected to remember, that merlin is a whole person, one who exists outside the context of his mission, who existed long before he ever came to camelot, who continues to exist in all his glorious fullness even as “destiny” tries to hammer his existence into this one single shatterpoint. every tiny thing that makes up a person - all the beautiful, innumerable things that make each and every one of us so impossibly singular and irreplaceable, unique among billions - all of this was in place, long before merlin ever came to camelot. he has always been somebody, a whole somebody, somebody whose favorite fruit is apples.

merlin is more than his duty to arthur pendragon. he has always been more than that. he existed before he met arthur, and he continues to exist now, on his own merits, as richly whole and perfectly individual as any of his compatriots in camelot. he loves books. he hates hunting. he can’t hold his liquor. he gets hiccups when he eats too fast. he has a favorite pudding gaius makes for him. he has a grudge against the royal cook. he can’t keep his own room clean. he has always had hopes, dreams, wonderings, plans, things he’s curious about, things he’s afraid of, things more mundane than ‘i might fail at fulfilling my destiny’ - things like ghosts, or leeches, or giant naked rats that eat you alive. he has always had likes, dislikes, pet peeves, favorite sounds, least-favorite tastes, places he likes to go in the hour before supper when he’s supposed to be doing chores. he has a favorite memory of ealdor. he has a side he prefers to sleep on. he has a leather bracelet he’s worn on the same wrist for years. these things were true before he came to camelot, and they are still true now, even when the universe doesn’t want him to remember it.

he deserves a life of his own. he deserves better than a life that only exists for someone else’s sake. we can see, in this episode especially, how good he is at other things - at teaching, at healing, at connecting with people and helping them feel better about themselves and find their place in the world. we can see how...therapeutic, it is for him, to be doing work he can believe in. how much more relaxed he feels, in those brief scenes in the woods, when he is allowed to be out doing what he wants to do, when he is allowed to be in community with his kinfolk, when he isn’t hiding. when he is allowed to help people - his people - as opposed to drowning himself in the unending, merciless sea of suffering and fear that camelot has become for him.

it isn’t right, that he can’t have a life that makes him happy, a life that honors all of his existence, not just the bits of him that work to make sure arthur doesn’t die. merlin deserves a life where he can be more than just a ready sacrifice on the altar of albion’s future.

he deserves a life where somebody knows that apples are his favorite fruit.

#the once and future slowburn #meta #sorry folks #i know this is long #but i finally caught up to where i left off #and i am just...feeling uncomfortably emotional right now #about merlin #merlin the character i mean #just #i hate watching how much pain he is in this season #how much he has changed from the first time we met him #how terribly sad he has become #and here's me now staring down the prospect of the last four episodes #having this awful feeling #that it isn't going to go well #that he isn't going to get his good ending #which...#i don't know #i have never wanted a character's happiness so badly #all the fandoms i've been in; all the favorite characters i've loved -#i've never wanted any of them to get the happiness they deserve quite as much as i want it for merlin #something about him #something about the fact that the only thing he has ever wanted is to be seen and loved #how can you not give that to him?#how can you not give him such a basic fundamental thing #after all this terrible trouble #how can you look at this young face and say 'not for you. not ever'#but maybe i'm wrong #i hope i'm wrong #;_;

43 notes · View notes

sarah-grace114 · 4 years ago

Text

my fight with severe anxiety and depression:

it’s always been here.

there have always been times when i told myself “i’m not good enough”, “i’m not skinny enough”, “i’m not pretty enough”, “i want to leave this place”, “maybe they’re better without me”, “why can’t i just be happy like everyone else?”. there have always been times where i couldn’t find the motivation to do anything, but these were certain periods of time. they were not long lasting, they were not constant, they were not harmful, until one day they were. until one day the world caught up to me. it was something i thought was normal, something i thought all teenagers went through because of the stereotype that has been set by previous generations that this is all just a way for us to “find ourselves” and that “teenage years are the hardest for everybody”. facing these struggles- severe anxiety and depression- is neither finding yourself nor normal, it is a sickness that goes unnoticed every single day, just because it is not something you can physically see.

we all know how the saying goes; people never want to believe what they can’t see.

the signs started off discreet, but continued to build and strengthen everyday, one struggle, one problem after another. one day i stopped loving the things i loved the most... the things that always took my mind off of all the bad things running around in my head. then the next day i found my emotions scattered, being able to switch moods quicker than i can type a word on my phone. i found myself over eating and snacking and making myself miserable as a way to cope with my problems. then the next day i would only eat 1 thing to make up for everything i ate the day prior. i began to feel lonely. i lost all connections with people because i realized how different i was compared to them. i realized nobody cared, if they cared they would have realized i haven’t texted or checked in in weeks, where as i would usually reach out every day. i cut off all ties with people who seemed not to care, only to find i had nobody left.

time began to pass and the symptoms continued to appear and continued to become more constant: not eating, binge eating, constant sadness, constant mood swings, anger over nothing, shutting myself out, forgetting simple things, anxiety over presentations or simply speaking to people, not going out in public because i thought i looked bad, being overly self-conscious, longing for someone to notice something was wrong, numbness, thoughts about how much better it would be if i were gone, if i was dead, fear that someone would find out that something was wrong, anxiety over things i formerly never had a problem with, wanting attention, wanting friends, being easily annoyed, overly tired, wanting to be unbothered, wanting to be alone.

as contradicting as these things are, i wanted them, i needed them, and they never came. they still haven’t.

i tell myself nothing is wrong. what would my family think if they found out i was mentally ill? would they call me sick and treat me like i am less than what i was, treat me like i was made of glass? would they try to pretend nothing is wrong? would they deny it, as i do now, because they don’t want to face the reality that their “perfect child” is indeed not perfect at all, but broken? what would my teammates think? would they call me dramatic and gossip behind my back because they think i want attention? what would my coaches think when i told them i needed a mental health day during season? would i get punished for something i truly had no control over?

i try to throw myself into the few things i have left that bring me joy: researching, school, reading, watching movies, scrolling through certain social media platforms, however all i seem to find is myself becoming more and more tired every day.

i’m tired of fighting a war in which i’m losing every battle. it feels as though i cannot win.

i’m tired of failure, of hiding my reality, of my family slowing catching on and not doing anything about it, of people turning a blind eye, of people telling me it’s going to be okay when they have no idea what they’re saying will be okay or how to make it okay. i’m tired of the lies and trying so hard to be someone i’m not, just to feel like i belong. im tired of being able to hide it so well. im tired of being too scared to ask for help because i’m afraid of what people will think of me. i’m tired of everyone thinking i’m okay and not even turning their heads when i try to hint that somethings wrong.

i’m tired.

but i’m fighting. that’s good right? i’m still fighting.

i’m still here despite how much i don’t want to be. i’m still fighting for my family and the people who still claim to be my friends even though we haven’t talked in weeks, months even. i’m still here because i know my brother would hate himself for continuing to mess with me, fight with me, and insult me (as his way of joking around and play fighting), thinking it was harmless when it was actually hurting me. he would hate himself for not stopping when i told him to and realize that was the reason i would continue to get mad and upset. he would hate himself for not understanding my attempts at trying to hint to him that something was wrong. my dad would blame himself for being too hard on me to do better, for pushing me too hard. my mom would hate herself for not seeing that her baby was suffering, that she couldn’t wait to leave this awful place. she would blame herself for not being able to do anything or noticing my changes in behavior. and my little sister wouldn’t have her big sister to help her navigate through her own problems, to steal clothes from, to look up to, to talk about boys and everything else in harsh this world. and my puppy, my little tuck tuck, who never failed to brighten my day, would go looking in my room for me everyday not knowing that i would be gone forever, that i would not be coming back home. i’m here for them. i’m not living this life for me anymore, i never should have been in the first place. i’m living it for them and i’m living it for God, because with Him i can do all things. no matter my suffering, my sadness, or how miserable i am, he endured worse so that i could live my life with hopes of being forgiven on judgement day and enter his kingdom of eternal life, eternal happiness, and eternal worship. yes i am in pain, and yes i am still badly struggling, but i am trying. i am trying for them.

#fighting depression #fighting anxiety #depression #anxiety #my fight #my story #still trying #pray for me #share your story #find your worth in christ #find your worth #emotional tumblr #literature #blog #severe depression and anxiety #depression and anxiety

4 notes · View notes

clansayeed · 5 years ago

Text

Bound by Choice ― III.iii. Belief

PAIRING: OC x OC x OC (Valdas x Isseya x Cynbel) RATING: Mature (reader discretion advised)

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Choice ⥽

Before there were Clans and Councils, before the fate of the world rested in certain hands, before the rise and fall of a Shadow King ― there was the Trinity. Three souls intertwined in the early hands of the universe who came to define the concept of eternity together. Because that was how they began and how they hoped to end; together. For over 2,000 years Valdas, Cynbel, and Isseya have walked through histories both mortal and supernatural. But in the early years of the 20th century something happened―something terrible. Their story has a beginning, and this is the end.

Bound by Choice and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the Bloodbound series. Find out more [HERE].

Note: Choice is the only book in the series not based on an existing Choices story. It is set in the Bloodbound universe and features many canon characters.

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Choice/series tag list!

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

Some people spend their whole lives looking for something to believe in. They're lucky that they never had to.

[READ IT ON AO3]

Two months later…

Cynbel watches as Ambrose leans against the railing with hands braced on the cold metal. Colder sea spray lashes at their cheeks under the night sky but they pay it little mind. They have, perhaps, had enough heat and fire to last more than one mortal lifetime.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had such a fill in my life.” The American groans, and Cynbel actually feels bad for him.

“There is far more to this life than fighting someone else’s wars. Give it time — you’ll see why we were starving so.”

Together the man glance down to the depths below. Where the foam left in the wake of their ship fades pink from bodies already lost underneath the ocean’s current.

“If y’all eat like that every day I’m startin’ to get it.”

And true enough the last few weeks of travel have been positively lavish compared to the squalor of mine living. Even this limited food supply seems boundless when they remember the rot of starvation in their bellies. But that does not diminish how good it is — how good it feels to be, not unlike the sea, free.

Sayeed held up her end of the bargain, so it was only fair that Cynbel and Isseya do the same. The where of their journey did not matter so long as they were far from Virginia’s shores. The when was with haste — and for good reason.

With none left to lead them the remaining militia of the Order of the Dawn was made harmless. The comparisons of the sides were unfortunately fraught with similarities, some not even Cynbel could deny. As the Order had culled the Old Blood; the vampires who had survived centuries of their fruitless extermination attempts, so had the war turned in their favor. But with only the newly inducted left to lead them — and many with ties that bound them to communities, to families; to vulnerability — their ‘holy mission’ was made second to the more pressing matters of the not-so-United States.

He couldn’t care less about the Godmaker’s plans now, whether he chooses to retaliate against the Trinity’s desertion of him or not. Two decks below his beloveds pass the boring hours with card games and wistful possibilities of when they make port.

He needs nothing else.

Now imagine their surprise at the familiar sight catching the last call to board. His battalion may now be nothing more than ash but there was no reason for Ambrose to turn and run. In fact Valdas had a strong inclination to name him Gaius’ spy and cast him overboard.

With only a matter of days before they find Europe on the horizon… he actually can’t remember why they didn’t.

A life for a life.

In between shuffled decks and lavish feasting and their halfhearted attempts at breaking through the hull by way of their beds, though, the Golden Son has found himself fond of the man. Older in appearance and admittedly wise beyond his years — but still so very new to what this life could offer—would offer, now.

Habit makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand when Ambrose reaches inside the breast pocket of his coat; eases when he sees the tinder box and cigarettes rolled with absolutely no skill whatsoever in his hands.

Ambrose sparks the tinder. Cynbel swallows down nightmares of hellfire. They share a moment of quiet.

“I should have said this before…” Cynbel begins around a mouth of ill-tasting smoke, “but when we make port this — our camaraderie — will come to an end.”

He’s come to expect the long silences in between answers, so much so that it barely feels like any time has passed at all when Ambrose finally does speak.

“I thought as much.” And doesn’t that just make the older vampire laugh.

“Two millennia and only now do we meet someone who understands. Shame and pity.”

“Oh I don’t, not even a lick.” The eyes that meet his, though, contradict Ambrose in every way. Eyes that seem sure and solid despite the rocking beneath their feet. So he continues.

“You three — whatever you’ve got there is… it’s dangerous.” So they have been told, and by lesser men. “But through this whole fight I’ve seen men Turn, live, and die over and over again without even a drop of the conviction you two’ve got for your Maker. I’ll be frank with you, Cynbel. It’s unsettling.”

“It’s love.”

“Is that what love is? I’m really askin’ here. Because I sure as hell ain’t ever felt a love like that. Not in this lifetime or the one that came before it.”

Just like that the conversation takes a turn for the uninteresting. Cynbel draws his attention out to the midnight horizon, where one can’t tell the sky from the sea. “All the more pitiful are you, then. I will not justify what we are for your whims, Ambrose. Not for you, not for Sayeed, not for anyone.”

“You misunderstand.”

“I doubt that.”

“It ain’t your strange-like love I’m interested in, but rather what it makes you.”

The only reason he’d offered Ambrose company was because Iss’ refused to play anything other than rummy, and he’s terrible at rummy. And standing here he can’t help but wonder which is more of a torture.

“You and Isseya nearly died for him. And I think you would have should that have been what you needed to do.”

“Of course we would have.”

“And I couldn’t understand why — not really. Why you’d risk yourselves, risk anyone else, but not him.”

Cynbel doesn’t bother hiding the venom in his answer. “Because He is more than they were. More than Iss’ or myself could ever hope to be. That is the kind of devotion He inspires. Would you not do the same for Augustine? Or your First, to make a finer comparison of it.”

The same long pause — but this one drags out. Thin, fragile between them and quickly unraveling at the seams. Then—

“No.”

“Then you’re wasting time searching for answers when you would not even recognize them when found. We would have died for Him — of course. But that is merely part of it. That is what the rest of the world sees and takes us to be entirely. We are more than the death we bring and would bear for Him.

“No one seems to realize that we lived for him. Just as fiercely — perhaps even more so because we could have died, but we did not. That is what has driven our lust for living; not that we would fall to our knees and take the sword with our necks for Him, but that He gives us the strength to take the sword in hand and say ‘no more.’”

Perhaps it would be nice to be understood for once. For the ages not to seem so ignorant and dull as they always have because one person — just one, that’s all it would take — realizes their love is not about sacrifice. But that it is about survival.

In silence Ambrose takes out another cigarette, more flint. Offers him one but Cynbel declines with a small shake of his head. Four weeks he’s been able to put the events of that day behind him as he had always done. Left it in the past and continued on to a future where they need not worry about being apart.

Four fucking weeks, but that’s all.

Ambrose keeps the cigarette between his lips when he speaks again. “I lived human for forty-some years. Spent my whole young life livin’ just as most did; you understand,” —he marched the breadth of those states just the same, he understands quite well— “and Turnin’ gave me more than just the power to free myself. It gave me — well, I thought — somethin’ to believe in.”

“Immortality?”

“The First.” The way he says her name is wistful enough to strike up a curiosity in Cynbel, much like the small flame struck up on his tinderbox.

Wistful, and no longer so reverent.

“Won’t say I’m the only one, either. There were a lotta boys like me who heard about the First Vampire who rose herself up from false judgment, from bein’ put in chains on another’s lies, and not only struck her enemies down but wanted to make a place where all like her were just as free.”

They are words that draw Cynbel back to Charlottesville, to the barn and Ambrose with his little box of ashes and his little gathering and his little words of worship and meaning in their comrade’s death. Strange that the man from then is the same one who stands before him now.

“Faith does wonders in times of strife.”

“It did — ‘til I heard you two talk about your Maker, your Made-God.”

“And what has that changed in you, hm?”

“The first time I ever heard Augustine tell the story of the First Vampire he made sure we well knew that every death was a piece’a her power going home — just another drop to fill some vessel that would bring her back to save us.

“But you don’t think like that,” Ambrose says it like a revelation; like wool no longer being pulled over his eyes, “and it got me thinking about what exactly I’m keepin’ immortality for. ‘Cause I gotta say doin’ it for a love like that sounds a helluva lot better than staying around just so some day I can die for a myth.”

Cynbel narrows his eyes. “The First was no myth. She was very real.”

“I’m sure she was, Old Blood. To you and Isseya and even Valdas, probably. Just like she’s real to Augustine and Sayeed. But that’s all two thousand years gone now. Who knows if she’ll ever come back, or when. That makes her pretty myth-like to me.”

What does one say to that? He may have propositioned Ambrose for this their night of feasting with a bottle of cheap liquor in hand but it wasn’t nearly enough to bring this kind of philosophical debate out of him. Yet it’s affirming in a way—not that any of the Trinity would seek affirmation for themselves, for their devotion to one another—he didn’t quite expect.

“I honestly can’t tell if you’re trying to confess your love to me or not.”

“Ha!” Ambrose laughs so hard his cigarette tumbles into the sea not half-finished. Deserves it. “In your dreams. Though I’ll start rackin’ up a tally seeing as that’s the second time you’ve propositioned me.”

“You’re being terribly rude. And it’s a terribly long swim back to the colonies.”

But the other man just shakes his head. “Truth be told no one’s ever let me ramble on this long about anythin’. Ended up a little off the tracks.”

“A little?”

“All I’m saying, Cynbel, is you and yours —”

“The Trinity, respect your elders.”

“— yeah, sure. Whatever you call yourselves—that kind of devotion can be inspiring to my kind of folk. A lot more than prayin’ on ‘maybes.’ What was that thing, the one Isseya said in the caravan.”

“Which — oh, while she was eating your man for insubordination?”

There’s a clatter behind them and both men turn towards it. They had found themselves so deep in debate that neither took notice to the young couple stretching their legs under the moon. To the young wife who looks aghast and sullied just for hearing the words and to her young husband suddenly trying to pull her to some imagined safety.

Cynbel and Ambrose take the same moment to watch them scurry along before they resume. A needed break in the tension.

He remembers it of course. Clear as the daylight that had struck them down. Even in their desperation and fear for Valdas’ fate it was hard—literally—not to hear such things from her bloodied teeth and find himself aroused.

“‘I choose to believe in a God who walks beside me. Who will answer when I call.’”

Ambrose nods. “Strange and, pardon my French, fuckin’ insane as she was then, that’s the kind of stuff gospels are made from.”

“So you’re proposing, what,” Cynbel’s disbelief is obvious, “The Gospel of Valdemaras?”

Silence. Real, non-hesitant silence. The kind of silence that forces Cynbel to face the man for answers and finds them in a resolution unfounded in those strange, dark eyes.

Well… one person finally understands. If only he knew what that means.

#bloodbound #bloodbound fanfiction #playchoices #playchoices fanfiction #choices bb #oc: cynbel #oc: isseya #oc: valdas #oc: ambrose #oblv: bound by choice #oblv: new chapter #; my fics

2 notes · View notes

scripttorture · 6 years ago

Note

Hi, lovely to send an ask to your blog. I have a character who's been kidnapped and kept in a cell for an unspecified amount of time. The cell is the size of a spacious room, with a mattress, sink, and toilet, the victim has access to move about as he pleases. The abductor kept my victim well fed, didn't physically harm him unless he had to (ie. Victim tries to escape, attack, bite back with words), he wanted him in good shape. (A)

(B)Whenever my victim acted up, other than sometimes having tophysically restrain him (roughs him up in a corner and leaves), hepunishes him by turning the electricity off, leaving the victim inpitch darkness and icy weather, and with no sound source but his ownbreath. Regularly, the abductor comes at least once everyday (or asoften as five days a week), sits with the victim for a few hours, andeither talks about his life, tries (and fails, at the time) to softenvictim's heart...(E),...left him food and left. Either until he got bored, or when victimcracked and broke down begging for any stimulation and company. Themental breakdowns increased in intensity when the victim lost accessto the TV, he'd unconsciously hurt himself, cry and scream until hepassed out, refuse to eat or move from his spot in fear of themonsters lurking in the pitch blackness in the room, and will justsit stuck listening to his violent hallucinations until the abductorput mercy on him.(F)At the end of the abduction time, Victim starts to show new symptoms,he rather becomes"animalistic" in someway, he loses(forgets temporarily) the ability to put words together, so hesnarls, whimpers, acts physically his needs, becomes very aggressiveand uncooperative, lost a drastic amount of weight, refusing food,tried on multiple occasions to hurt himself for the sake of feelinganything but the emptiness of his cell, and in a psychotic outburst,destroys the TV, and...(G)(oh man I forgot where I left off... please bear with me if I mistookthe paging) He spent the next few days mourning the TV, missing thecharacters he used to obsessed over as much as the family he slowlystarted to lose memories of. It was a pitiful sight. Since thebeginning of the abduction period, the abductor has been feedingVictim lies, from the reason he kidnapped him (preserve his amazingabilities, keep him safe from others who were after his skills, noone appreciated his...(H)His skills as much as he did, and it was obvious b***) but the damagecame when he gradually convinced him his family didn't care, that'swhy he was trapped for so long. And victim was convinced his familyloved him above all else, but as time passed and hallucinationsbegan, he lost that conviction, not at all helped by abductor'sconstant false reassurance. Abductor also lied about the time frame,coming down with cake to celebrate their one year anniversary whenit's been a few months. (I) Little did victim know, his family werekilled the night of his kidnapping. Finally, at the last day, or afew days after he lost the TV, abductor has moved the broken pieces,only to miss one screen glass shard that victim hid under hismattress. And it happened as victim tried to stab his abductor, inself defense, the abductor threw the victim off, and his head hit thesink. Cue panic stricken abductor, not thinking straight with theamount of blood, and wrapping the victim up...(J)... wrapping him up and throwing him in an alley across the citybefore fleeing the country. Now my biggest dilemma lies in twothings! One: I need him to have amnesia for plot related reasons,very important, but I'm afraid that will make all of what he wentthrough redundant, so the list of after effects I made him have is..Severe anxiety, depression, anger management issues, avoidance ofdark places (full blown panic attacks if forced into an sort of darkroom)… K) Vague, abstract night terrors, extreme loneliness even inthe company of friends, and fear of neglect. He has a few namelesstriggers, any show on TV like the shows he used to watch, not feelingclean, showering more than once a day as he lost that privilegehaving to use the sink to clean up, horror movies for all thereasons. Two: how does the state (any) and hospital actually dealwith this situation, I realize this is out of your expertisepossibly, but I'd appreciate a nudge… (M) A new cycle of abusebegins between him and his boss, manager and unit mates, but I'llleave that for another ask ^^; This got so long, I'm sorry, but I'dlike your criticism and input on my story so far, it actually takesup two other victims of abuse and my MCs road to recovery. I'm veryadamant on making this right. Thank you!!

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

This is a follow up to a previous ask. Honestly- I’m still finding the question a little confusing. I’ll answer to the best of my ability but I may well have misinterpreted it.

That said- I think you need to do a lot of reading and completely rewrite your story if you really do want to make this realistic and respectful. At the moment I think it’s a very long way off.

I think I said that last time so this time I’m going to be blunt. I do not think you are ready to write torture.

Firstly, specify the amount of time this character is held. Decide. Don’t keep things vague in the hope that it’ll seem more realistic.

You don’t have to tell your readers the detail of how long your character is held or every detail of what happens to him but if you don’t know then you can’t work to show the effects realistically.

I can’t decide what your plot should be for you. And if you’re unwilling to define what you’re putting your character through and for how long I can’t give a reasonable estimate of how likely he is to survive.

Memory loss in torture scenarios does not work in the way you’re describing. That kind of ‘amnesia’ and losing old, established memories of family members does not happen. Not without significant, disabling brain injury that effects other things like being able to move and breath.

If you want to know what memory loss in torture survivors is like I have a post here that covers it.

Torture survivors do not regress into some sort of savage ‘animalistic’ state. They do not forget how to speak.

Frankly I think these kinds of unrealistic tropes are incredibly insulting to survivors.

It’s saying that torture has ‘made’ the survivor dangerous and unreasonable. Those are exactly the kinds of arguments people use to stop survivors getting treatment in real life. Don’t add to that.

Hallucinations in solitary are not common.

They become more likely if a person is held for a long time (over a month), but since you are not giving me a time frame I can’t say whether this is likely or not.

If the character is held long enough that hallucinations and a psychotic break become likely then- given the conditions you’ve described, the character is likely to die from cold, starvation or disease before the captor dumps them outside.

People can die from the cold very very quickly. If the character is repeatedly subjected to freezing temperatures for a long time then they are probably going to die of hypothermia.

Additionally the phrasing throughout this sounds as though it’s taking the abuser’s ‘side’ over the victim’s.

No one ever ‘has’ to abuse anyone else. It is never necessary.

On a related note- I think you’re severely underestimating the damage caused by beating. It is very easy to beat a person to death. The way I’m interpreting the question it sounds like the abuser beats the victim when he tries to escape. It sounds like the abuser beats the victim until he stops moving every time this happens.

There isn’t much difference between beating someone unconscious and beating them to death. If the character is regularly being hit until he passes out then he probably wouldn’t live for more then two weeks.

Which is not long enough for the extreme effects of solitary confinement you’re describing.

I think this scenario is a very strange mix of treating people as too resilient and too fragile. The physical abuses you’re describing seem really like to kill the character. At the same time the mental health issues you’re describing are completely unrealistic and-

Well honestly? As a mentally ill person I think this depiction of mental illness is insulting. It is degrading. It shows no understanding of mental illness and no compassion for people who are mentally ill.

I struggle to speak sometimes because of my mental illness. It does not make me an animal. It does not mean I can not think. And it certainly doesn’t mean I can’t describe what I was going through when that moment has passed.

The list of ‘severe’ symptoms you’ve given isn’t what you’re actually describing the character having. Your description does not sound like mood swings, anxiety and depression with a few triggers.

If you were writing these symptoms accurately I would tell you that your list is not enough. If I was just relying on that list I would suggest more symptoms and writing them to a greater severity.

But I can’t just rely on the list. Because your description of the character’s mental state and what he goes through contradicts your list. Which suggests to me that you either haven’t decided what symptoms the character should have or you don’t understand what mental health problems are like.

I do not think you are ready to write mental illness.

I could go into more detail. But I don’t think it’s going to benefit either of us if I go through this and tell you why every single detail here is wrong.

My job here is not to write your story for you. And it isn’t to make moral decisions for you either.

If you are serious about writing torture or abuse respectfully then for now you need to stop writing. Instead I need you to do some reading. Because if you want to do this ‘right’ then you need to gain an understanding of what torture is, what it does to people and how they cope with it afterwards.

So I’m going to give you a reading list. I think you should read each of these books carefully.

Why Torture Doesn’t Work by S O’Mara

The Question by H Alleg (if English isn’t your first languages this is available in other languages, pick the one you’re most comfortable with)

A Darkling Plain by K R Monroe

A Sourcebook on Solitary Confinement by S Shalev

To the Kwai and Back by R Searle

I think you should also read Black Jacobins by C L R James.

Take your time. Make notes.

When you’ve done that I think you should go to Amnesty International’s website and look at their recent interviews with torture survivors. Pick two or three large studies. Read detailed accounts from at least fifteen different people.

Then I think you should come back to the story and completely rewrite it based on what you’ve learnt.

I am not saying that you should never write torture. But it’s obvious from the plot and characters you’ve proposed that you don’t know enough to write it well yet. Take the time to gain that understanding before you write. You will write a better story for it.

If you don’t want to do the research don’t write about torture.

It’s a difficult topic to engage with. If you try and fail then that isn’t your fault. Reading about torture is upsetting. Not every one can deal with it in depth. That isn’t anyone’s fault or failing.

But if you can’t cope with reading about the reality, if you can’t educate yourself, then you can’t speak on behalf of torture survivors.

If you can’t listen to them then you simply don’t know enough to tell their stories.

Availableon Wordpress.

Disclaimer

#Anonymous #tw torture #tw ableism #tw self harm #writing victims #writing torture #torture apologia #mental health #I can only help if you're willing to engage #and willing to do the work

34 notes · View notes

deanxfuckingadorablexwinchester · 5 years ago

Text

Today I am going to talk about two things that are really close to my heart but firstly I want to apologise for posting after such a long time. I am still getting hang of things and trying to find my footing in the world of blogging while trying not to overthink every post I try to write. Moving on, the two things I am about to talk about are not just close to my heart but they made me into who I am as a person today. Lupus and Books.

I was barely a teenager when I was diagnosed with the Lupus and this is 2003 december that I am talking about. 27th December if we want to be precise. Internet was not what it is now. Not many people were aware of the disease. Hell, no one had heard the name of this disease. We hadn’t. The doctors barely knew about how to treat this. Even with today’s technology and awareness there are patients out there who are either misdiagnosed or not treated with the right medication so you can imagine how it was around 15 years ago.

I remember it so vividly. We had a school trip to Jaipur in November first week and it had been the best trip of my life and I was still on a high from that trip when I developed a fever. Obviously no one took it seriously thinking I over exerted or maybe it was a viral but it wouldn’t go down so all the routine check ups were done and all my bloods were clear. No one knew what was happening. For over a month I had this fever which just came down suddenly. It was gone and I was back to school thanking my stars and catching up with friends. Who was crushing on whom? Bunking classes to prepare a dance performance, entering my name in all curricular activities I could get my hands on. This 12 year old Sana loved school. She would reach half an hour early just so she could hang out with her friends and chill. This is the same Sana who loves sleep and would actually marry a bed if she could.

Unfortunately that spell of good health broke and I had two really swollen joints. I could barely move my hand. My wrist was twice its size which is when my pediatrician suggested I need to go to a doctor who was good at diagnosing stuff because she thought it was a multiple organ disease and she didn’t want to treat me for the wrong ailment. Everyone just assumed it was arthritis considering my mom and Nani both had this disease but we waited for the test results impatiently. I wanted to get back to my normal life and be rid of the pain. Christmas was coming and I was not going to miss the celebrations at school. I wanted to part of the show children were putting on. My parents on the other hand were thinking about the long term effect this was going to have on me. The over excited 12 year old hadn’t really grasped at the fact that this was going to be a long term disease. A chronic illness, a term I had never even heard.

Long story short I was diagnosed with Lupus and my world turned upside down(Lupus in simplest of simplest explanation is your immunity attacking your body instead of protecting you for those who don’t know about it and want to know more please feel free to message me on Insta or twitter. Both links are at the bottom of the page) I didn’t realise the gravity of the situation until much later which I am thankful for because otherwise I would have been a wreck. I didn’t have a phone and google on my fingertips to tell me the worst case scenarios. When I actually sit down and think about that time I don’t think I really understood what was happening and was taking one day at a time. This sana was hopeful and always smiling. Bright ray of sunshine no matter what. Everyone thinks I am brave because of how dealt with it all when in reality I was a really confused kid.

One of the medications given to treat lupus is steroids. It kills your immunity so it doesn’t attack your body but it is also leaving you vulnerable to getting anything and everything which is why I had to stay at home for six months. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was an order from doctor and something my parents refused to contradict. Doc’s word is the law in my house. She is basically my second mom. What steroid also does is that you gain weight. You are hungry all the fucking time and then you gain weight. I gained around 15-20 kgs and I had to sneak out and go to the medical room to have a midday meal. It also damages your bones. Basically part of your bones stop receiving blood and because of that there are dead patches in the bones. It usually happens after a really long term use of steroids but I got it within like six months.

My friends who had last seen me in November were in shock. Some people didn’t even recognize me. I went from 45 kgs to 60 and I was in crutches. I wasn’t the active girl anymore, dancing and volunteering or even talking. I had gone into my shell and no one tried to even understand what I was going through. I was an outsider. Alone. No one wanted to hangout with me and that was a new experience for me. Unknown territory. I had always been confident person but after everything I had become shy and nervous and the friends I had didn’t really make an effort to be my friends.

That one day changed everything. I used to read before that but never seriously. It was rare and it was just harry potter. My mom noticed this change in me and we had a talk about everything. I told her how the best friends had vanished. Everyone had vanished. It had reached the level where I used to eat alone during lunch in an empty classroom because everyone went out and I couldn’t climb down two floors with crutches throughout the day.

My mom just told me to read more. She told me people are going to come and leave specially with me because of my issues but books? There are always going to be books around. They will never leave you. You can take them with you wherever you want and those words kind of just hit a mark. This is when I actually started reading. I talked to my librarian at school and when I couldn’t go in for a long spell my mom would go and collect a bunch of books for me to read while I was stuck in bed.

That was just the beginning of reading books obsessively (I remember staying up during my 12th board exam to finish reading twilight. Don’t give me that look! We have all been into the twilight hole). I would read every second I could get. It was an escape I hadn’t realized I needed. I could be in Hogwarts while I was hospitalized? How could it get any better, right? I found a passion in something I didn’t ever think was for me and I owe it to not only my mom but also my English teacher I had at that time. She was always encouraging when it came down to reading and writing. Yes, the books lead me to writing opening another whole new world for me that I didn’t know existed. I was talking to people from around the world. Finally people who were there. They weren’t judging me or starting rumours about how I am faking it all for attention or telling me I was depressing. Yes, someone told me that. A school friend. Someone I considered a really close friend of mine. I think we were around 24 and she said we don’t invite you to things because talking to you is depressing and we wanted to enjoy ourselves. Again, proving that books were more loyal than humans. Actually they are better than humans. Period.

I know its difficult to be friends with someone who is always cancelling plans or cant go out and asks the other person to come over. Sometimes they are bitchy too but can you blame them? They are fighting a battle with their own body every single fucking. Can you blame me? Everyone you meet always says they understand but they truly don’t because by the time they understand they are already running away in the opposite direction.

Books don’t run away to begin with, they take you not just around the world but to worlds that don’t exists. To universe that is so vast and to make you dream. Books dare you to dream, they give you hope,too. For a better tomorrow. Tomorrow is another day. Am I right or am I right?

Pick up a book and show it some love guys. If you don’t enjoy reading then you just haven’t found your book. Just don’t ever stop looking!

Happy book hunting!

Sana

My Love Affair with Books Today I am going to talk about two things that are really close to my heart but firstly I want to apologise for posting after such a long time.

#about me #anxiety #books #depression #hair goals #lupus #Lupus Awareness #mermaid hair dont care #ombre #personal #writing

2 notes · View notes

builder051 · 7 years ago

Text

Natural order (AKA the T’Challa appendicitis fic)

It’s a pretty long one, about 6k words, so see chapter 1 below and jam on over to AO3 for the rest.

_____

Chapter 1: The wild dog

African wild dog: a gregarious and cooperative hunter of the African savanna

_____

T’Challa glances over the agenda for the day. It’s the first sheet of a thick packet of papers, neatly bound in a folder bearing the crest of the United Nations. A flutter of nervousness runs through his stomach. It’s not the first time T’Challa’s attended such an assembly, but it is the first time he’s been Wakanda’s sole representative. And it’s the first time he’ll be speaking.

His moment behind the podium isn’t scheduled until tomorrow, though, and late in the day. In an attempt to keep the program devoid of favoritism, the countries have been listed in alphabetical order, placing Wakanda toward the bottom of the roster. T’Challa will spend today seated behind a desk in the amphitheater of a meeting hall, listening to what the other constituents have to say.

He’s legitimately interested in the priorities and concerns the first several speakers have brought up, but T’Challa’s mind drifts. As the representative from Belgium approaches the microphone, he uses the moment of shuffling silence to open his folder and flip to the notes he’s prepared for his own presentation. T’Challa scribbles another bullet point under the section on proposed technological exports, then scans the page from the top. As he reads, he realizes he’d already had a note on vibranium trade. He shakes his head and crosses out what he’s just written.

There’s a sniff from down the desk, and T’Challa looks up to see Natasha grinning at him. She writes something on the corner of her notepad and slides it down the desk to T’Challa.

You work too hard. Your speech is done.

T’Challa looks up at her when he’s finished reading. Nat raises her eyebrows.

T’Challa shrugs and closes his folder again.

“There you go,” Nat says under her breath. “Just chill.”

“Shh.” Ross is seated on Nat’s other side, and he turns to shoot her and T’Challa a glare.

T’Challa straightens in his seat automatically and trains his eyes forward. The Belgian delegate begins to speak, and T’Challa feels put in place. Ross has attended more of these functions than he or Nat, and while T’Challa appreciates sitting beside people he knows, he recognizes that it’s a distraction. He probably looks young and inexperienced now. It’s not the persona he wants to emanate, even if it’s the truth.

T’Challa opens his notepad to a blank sheet and uncaps his pen. He writes the Belgian delegate’s name at the top of the page, then listens intently for the main points. It’s challenging to concentrate, though. The butterflies in his stomach are still flapping. He holds his fist in front of his mouth and tries to force out a silent burp. Nothing happens, though, so T’Challa rubs absently under his nose. He sets down his pen and wraps his arm around his abdomen under the table.

The assembly breaks for coffee at 10:00. T’Challa meanders through the hall, nodding pleasantly to anyone who looks his way. He considers joining the line for a hot drink and a doughnut, but the thought of food makes him feel ill. A feeling of heaviness is developing behind his forehead.

There’s a water fountain outside the bank of restrooms, and T’Challa bends to take a drink. He appreciates the coolness, and he’s tempted to press the backs of his knuckles under his jaw to test for a fever. He’s saved the effort when someone comes up behind him and squeezes his shoulder.

“Hey.”

“Hm?” T’Challa wipes his mouth and turns to face Nat.

“You doing alright?” she asks, looking him up and down.

“Yes,” T’Challa answers quickly. “I’m fine.”

“Ok.” Nat doesn’t look convinced. “You know I’ll kick your ass if you’re lying to me, right?” She grins slyly.

“I do.” T’Challa returns the smile. “Perhaps I’m...not feeling my best,” he admits.

“I figured.” Nat holds her palm a few inches from T’Challa’s arm. “You’re an oven. I can feel your fever from here.”

“It’s nothing,” T’Challa says. “A cold, maybe.” His stomach flips, and he does his best not to let the discomfort show on his face.

“Right.” Nat shakes her head. “What’s really bothering you? Your head? Stomach?”

“I’m alright,” T’Challa insists. He swallows forcefully to convince himself. “I’ve been traveling. Eating different foods. It’s really nothing.”

“If you say so…” Nat still looks unconvinced. The lights in the centrum flicker, signaling it’s time for the program to recommence.

T’Challa takes one more sip from the water fountain, then follows the throng of people back toward the meeting hall. Nat falls into step beside him. “No one would blame you, you know,” she says. “If you wanted to take it easy.”

“It’s sitting behind a desk and listening, Natasha,” T’Challa says. “It is easy.”

***

The next session is only two and a half hours, but a few minutes in, T’Challa’s already regretting his words. The lunch break can’t come quickly enough, though eating is the last thing T’Challa wants to do. He snakes his arm around his stomach and keeps his other hand propped under his chin, ready to cover his mouth if a sick belch comes up.

The longer he sits there, the achier he feels. T’Challa’s spine is as stiff as sthe wooden back to his chair, and his stomach writhes around it. It’s no longer a question of if he’s going to be sick. It’s a question of when.

He looks down at his notepad. He hasn’t written a thing about the last speaker’s points, but T’Challa doesn’t trust himself to move. His feeling of malaise has edged into full-on nausea, and everything is making it worse. Breathing, blinking, the scent of Nat’s perfume… it all makes T’Challa clench his jaw against rising sourness in his throat.

If he can just make it until the next break, he can exit the hall with everyone else, find a secluded place to be ill if he still needs to, then cool down and regroup. T’Challa thinks back to breakfast, then last night’s dinner. Did he eat anything unusual, maybe something that isn’t agreeing with him? Or did he come into contact with anyone who seemed to be sick? He can’t come up with anything, so he settles for hoping to clear his system and get back to normal.

The hall erupts into applause. T’Challa jumps and immediately regrets it as a volley of throbs runs through his head. The speaker behind the microphone inclines her head and steps back to her seat. T’Challa isn’t sure what country she’s from, and a pang of guilt joins the churning in his gut. He quickly picks up his pen, intent on capturing the details of the next delegate’s presentation, but a burning sensation rushes up his throat, and he has to swallow down bile.

T’Challa squeezes his eyes shut and lets out his breath in a long, slow sigh. He’s in control. He has to be. His jaw is heavy, almost numb. His stomach seems to be sitting in his chest, pounding along with his heartbeat and threatening to spill at any moment.

“You ok?”

T’Challa barely hears Nat’s whisper over the sound of blood rushing in his ears. He nods once, not trusting himself to open his mouth. Moving his head is a mistake, though, and his throat goes into contraction before he can stop it. Vomit gushes into his mouth, and T’Challa jumps to his feet and sprints for the door, his hand clamped tightly over his mouth.

He’s grateful for his speed and good reflexes, and he manages to turn the corner into the bathroom before he heaves again and sick sprays between his fingers. He isn’t quite inside the stall, and he catches the floor and the front of his suit jacket in the mess. T’Challa falls to his knees in front of the toilet and belches long and hard. His spine arches as vomit splashes into the water, flicking some back into his face. He closes his eyes and rubs his clean hand over his forehead. He’s clammy and hot, and he hangs over the toilet as he breathes raggedly and waits for the next wave of cramps to rise from his abdomen.

“T’Challa?” An open palm taps the stall door. “You’re not ok, are you?”

He means to contradict Nat, to insist he’s fine, that he just needs to vomit and he’ll be right as rain. But as he heaves again, T’Challa’s gut tells him she’s right.

Find the rest on AO3 HERE,

#marvel #mcu #black panther #t'challa #the ffing t'challa appendicitis fic #natasha romanov #natasha romanoff #black widow #everett ross #shuri #nakia #fanfic #fanfiction #sickfic #emeto #emetophilia #appendicitis #fever

35 notes · View notes

mishpacha · 7 years ago

Link

This article is the story of Nadia Avraham, a trans Israeli Mizrahi woman who was born in Iraq and fled the country to escape antisemitism. Nadia paved the way for Israeli transgender people and her story is well-worth a read. As this is a premium Haaretz article, I will be posting the entire thing below.

It was the period of the War of Attrition, which followed hard on the heels of the '67 Six-Day War. Sheba Medical Center, Tel Hashomer, in Ramat Gan, was fully occupied, and the beds of the wounded spilled out into the corridors. Lying among the soldiers, on a bed at the end of a corridor, was a civilian, an alien in the military landscape, alive and hooked up to tubes, but completely covered by a blanket. The soldiers wondered who he was. Why doesn’t the man lying in the corner have any visitors, they asked the nurses. The odd figure became the main topic of conversation in the surgical ward, but the nurses refused to lift the veil of secrecy concealing his identity and the circumstances of his hospitalization.

Two weeks went by, and still no one came to visit. While soldiers continued to arrive steadily, the odd figure from the corridor left the hospital – the fourth person to undergo sex reassignment surgery in Israel.

That person is Nadia Avraham, who will celebrate her 85th birthday next month. “But I look good, still a bit sexy,” she says with a wink and a heavy Iraqi accent.

Avraham lives in the Hatikva neighborhood in south Tel Aviv, in a very small apartment. The bedroom also serves as the living room, and she shares her bed with a cat. On the walls are photographs from the 1970s, ‘80s and ‘90s – all showing a beautiful woman with big eyes and heavy makeup.

I recorded Nadia for the Hebrew version of “Israel Story,” a documentary podcast broadcast on Army Radio and online, of which I am one of the creators. (An English version is heard on a variety of NPR stations in the U.S., as well as on the website of Tablet magazine.)

Nadia opened all our meetings by saying, “It’s impossible to tell a whole life in a hour or two” – and then sat down on the edge of the bed, straightened up and, despite the constraints of time, started to tell her story.

She has blond hair, bright eyes, a piercing gaze and a singular style of speech that mixes words in Arabic with Hebrew, and in which one particular phrase is prominent: “Maybe yes, maybe no, only God knows.” That’s the essence of her complex worldview, rife with contradictions and an array of identities. Nadia is a “both one and the other” woman.

In one of our meetings, a moment before I turned on the recording device, she went over to the wardrobe and pulled out an old shoebox. In it were dozens of photos, some from a very different era, when she was still Naji, the son of an affluent Jewish family in Baghdad.

When Nadia remembers Naji, the boy she was, she speaks in the first person, but uses the masculine form of speech, adjusting the Hebrew to her biography. She talks about a boy from a large family, with an older sister followed by five brothers. Naji, the middle son, was very close to his mother.

When Naji was 5, a member of his close family started abusing him sexually. “I was afraid, I suffered, I was confused, I didn’t know what it was,” Nadia relates.

Naji did not tell anyone about what he was undergoing, and his psyche remained wounded. He fell ill, became withdrawn, and missed school. This went on for several years, and while his classmates advanced to primary school, he stayed behind, not learning how to read or write. He became a frightened boy, lacking self-confidence. According to Nadia, his worried parents took him to experts of different kinds and to psychiatrists across Iraq, but none of them understood what the child was going through – he refused to talk about it. “The secret stayed imprisoned within me,” Nadia says, “and life at home became unbearable.”

When he was 12, Naji ran away from home. He didn’t have a well thought-out plan, just took a bit of money and headed for the train station. He dreamed only of escaping to Egypt, Saudi Arabia or Kuwait, and starting life over. But shortly after he disappeared, one of his older brothers went to look for him and found the dreamy boy with a backpack at the entrance to the train station. He brought him home in angry and frightening silence. But Naji’s dream of leaving came true a few months later: His parents decided to smuggle him and his older sister far off, to pre-state Palestine.

A truck pulled up in the middle of the night, and Naji and his sister got into it, joining some 50 other people already crammed inside. The truck sped off toward its secret destination.

It wasn’t an orderly aliyah. Iraqi law prohibited Jews from leaving the country, but an escape route was created through neighboring Iran. Naji and his sister lived there with hundreds of Jewish migrants in crowded, dire conditions, slept in tents and made do with the minimal food that was distributed to them – bread with onion and tinned milk.

After a month in the Tehran camp, they were transported to Israel. Naji was happy to have the chance to turn over a new leaf. He was 14, his sister was 30. It took them time to adjust to their new life. They wandered from place to place, from Binyamina to Jerusalem and Rishon Letzion, before finally settling in Tel Aviv. They lived in a small home in the Hatikva neighborhood, which they purchased with money their mother sent.

Some months later, the rest of the family arrived in Israel. Naji, who had always been a mama’s boy, was thrilled to be back together with her. Within months of their reunion, however, his mother fell ill with cancer and died. Without her protection, Naji once more felt vulnerable and alone. Even today, when Nadia talks about her mother, she is visibly consumed with longing. She speaks of the loss as a kind of a “Sliding Doors” moment, and wonders whether her life would have been different if her mother had remained by her side.

After their mother’s death, Naji’s older brother, the same one who had forced him to return home from the train station in Baghdad, started to torment him. The house was no longer safe for Naji. “When I worked, he would take my money, or he would try to teach me to do bad things,” Nadia recalls. “He demanded that I distribute the drugs he sold, made me go to the homes of criminals. Once I tried to run away, but the police brought me back, because of my young age.”

At 16, Naji reported for a pre-induction army screening, thinking that perhaps the military would open the door to a better future.

“I tried, I wanted to go to the army,” Nadia explains. “When the day came, I entered a room filled with doctors and senior officers, and I asked, ‘When do I start serving in the Israel Defense Forces?’ But an officer said, ‘Go home, we don’t take people like you in the army.’ Maybe he meant that I had a feminine body,” she says. “I was as thin as a cue stick, and maybe they didn’t like my body. Maybe they didn’t like my behavior.”

As she tells the story of the event at the recruitment center, Nadia raises her voice and emphasizes the words, remembering the lean boy she was, and laughs. But between the lines and beyond the rolling laughter lurks the disappointment of a boy, somewhat different from other boys, facing a battery of officers, representatives of the establishment, alone. “To this day, I don’t know why they decided not to draft me,” she says.

The rejection by the IDF eliminated another possible route to an easier life as part of Israeli society, and heightened Naji’s distress. Once more he felt he had to escape – this time, for good. “At the age of 16 I ran away from home again,” Nadia relates. “I didn’t have anywhere to go. I lived on the street, slept on benches on Rothschild Boulevard in Tel Aviv. To satisfy my hunger, I would look for pieces of bread that someone might have thrown into the garbage. And it was hot, a hamsin.”

Victor Victoria

Life on the street was hard, aggravated by a feeling of loneliness, fraught with danger, a battle to survive – and it was a life that set Naji up for exploitation.

Nadia: “I prayed to God that someone would come and take me. Let him do whatever he wants, only let me go inside to wash up and maybe eat something, in his home or in a hotel, the main thing was to get through the night.”

Naji spent a few months living a homeless life on a bench on Rothschild Boulevard. Still, alongside the tremendous difficulties, he began to experience a thrilling sense of freedom. A new world was revealed to him.

“There was a place on Rothschild Boulevard where all the homosexuals used to gather. In the morning I sat on a bench without anything to eat or drink, and in the evening, when the gays arrived, I would forget about food and forget myself – all I wanted was to look at them. One was named Merry-Man, another Poldina, and another Aunt Fanny, and they were from every ethnic group: Persians, Iraqis, Poles. They laughed and talked, and I was envious of them for having such a beautiful life and being able to live with their families, while for me it was hard, living on the street and sleeping on benches.”

On those Tel Aviv nights, Naji felt that he belonged for the first time in his life. “I met a gay guy who wandered around the parks, and he called me Nadia, he was the first to give me that name. I hooked up with him and he took me to his family in Or Yehuda.” From then on, Naji’s name was Nadia. The friend who gave him the name was Victor, who afterward became Victoria.

Victor lived with an elderly, childless Romanian couple who had informally adopted him and afterward did the same with Nadia. It was they who rescued him from the street. Nadia lived with them for eight years. “They were lovely, good people,” she says. “My life with them was the happiest I’d known, much more than with my family, whom I’d rid myself of.”

During those years, Nadia worked in a laundry, running a dry-cleaning machine that needed quite a bit of manual assistance. In the morning, she awoke happily to another day of work; in the evening she went out with her gay companions on the streets of Tel Aviv.

“In that period,” Nadia recalls, “Victoria and I met a dancer named Miko. He suggested that we go to Belgium, buy a wig and a dress, work as women and make a bundle of money. I don’t know whether I believed him or not, but I did it. I quit my job, got severance pay and went to Belgium with Victoria. We started to work as cross-dressers. At night I would dress up as a woman, and during the day I was a regular guy.”

Still not knowing how to read or write, but with acute street smarts, Nadia worked in Europe and met people from all classes of society. “I didn’t really know what to do with the money,” she notes. “For 15 years I lived in Europe, going from city to city, without knowing any languages other than Hebrew and Arabic. Trying to go deal with people who spoke Flemish, French, English, Turkish and Ladino. But I learned and I matured. I didn’t learn perfectly, but I started to get along. I would call to people, ‘Hello, come here, do you want to make love?’”

I try to ask Nadia about the hardships of night life, the world of clubs, the striptease acts and the prostitution, about the violence and exploitation that her life must have entailed. But she rebuffs the question even before I finish asking it. “There, I felt free and strong,” she asserts.

As we speak, it occurs to me that “freedom” is a relative term – elusive, era-dependent, biography-dependent, gender-dependent. The freedom she had in Europe was juxtaposed with her history, her past, the vulnerability, the secret and the rough life she had endured at home.

But as the years passed, Nadia’s attitude toward freedom and the “glamorous life” in Europe changed. After 15 years, she relates, “I felt that I couldn’t go on like that. I’d already started to become older, you could say, and I decided to return to Israel. I wanted to leave that way of life completely. I didn’t want it. I was revolted or despairing.”

The Surgery

Back in Israel, Nadia tried to start over. She found a job washing dishes in a Tel Aviv restaurant, but the regular hours and the minimum-wage work under a tough boss-woman was not for her. “The proprietress really tormented me,” she recalls, “until one day I took off the apron, threw it in her face and told her, ‘The salary I get from you in a month, I can earn alone in an hour.’”

She stalked out, and in the meantime moved in with Carol, a friend she’d known since the days on the boulevard bench. “I lived with him at the corner of Dizengoff and Ben-Gurion Avenue, on the top floor. One day, as we were talking, he suddenly says to me, ‘Nadia, if you want to have a sex-change operation, now’s the time. There’s an American doctor here, now.’”

Sex-reassignment surgery was almost unknown in Israel at the time, but it wasn’t a new concept to Nadia: “In the years when I worked in Europe, I met lady-men and also transvestites of all kinds.” Some of them had the surgery. She felt that this was what she had to do. Not hesitating for a moment, she met with the physician. As soon as he saw her, she says proudly, he agreed to operate. He explained the cost, told her about the process itself, the recovery period, and sent her for diagnosis by a psychiatrist, who also gave his immediate approval. A week later, she was in Sheba Medical Center among the wounded soldiers.

After the physical transformation, Nadia had to cope with the official, bureaucratic changes, including her gender classification in her ID card and passport. Unlike today, no orderly procedure for all this existed in early-1970s Israel. The Interior Ministry, flummoxed, sent her to the Health Ministry, which ruled that a person who wished to change his gender officially records had to go before a medical committee.

“I came to the committee, lay on the bed, opened my legs. I was examined by about 12 doctors, and they all said, ‘You are a woman in every respect, except that you can’t have children.’ I understood, and said, ‘Children there will definitely never be.’ I went back to the Interior Ministry and they immediately changed my ID and passport from ‘male’ to ‘female.’”

With her brand new passport, which bore the photograph of a woman, Nadia flew to Europe once more, this time to Berlin. “I was supposed to work next to a hotel, go up with each client, agree with him on a price of 30 or 50 marks, and then sleep with him And I wasn’t used to that kind of work. When I worked in the clubs, I would lure them with drinks, and I knew how to get more and more money from them without giving anything in return.”

In short order, however, Nadia returned to Tel Aviv – this time to stay. She worked in a nightclub on the seaside promenade. “Every client whom I could tell had plenty of money, I turned into my regular client. If I were to count the number of men I met in my life, it would be the length of a bridge from here to New York,” she says with resounding laughter. “All the rich guys, all the men who have inferiority feelings and are ashamed with their wives, they all came to me at whatever price I wanted.”

Eventually Nadia made enough money to buy an apartment in the upscale Bavli neighborhood in Tel Aviv’s Old North – a place she could call home, and which afforded her quiet and security.

One evening, a friend told her that she’d met a boy of 14 who’d run away from home and was sleeping in the street. Nadia felt that life had destined her to meet with this boy, whom she herself had been, sleeping on benches and hungry for bread. She asked her friend to bring the boy to her. Immediately she made a place for the boy, whose name she asks not to share, in her home and in her heart. Nadia, who had survived alone her whole life, raised him like a son.

At the age of 18, the youth was drafted into the air force. After his service he married and fathered children. Nadia remained by his side throughout, but the boy who matured into a man was unable to bear the difficult memories of his earlier life, and died suddenly and tragically. Nadia was shattered. It was the first time she had allowed herself to truly get close to someone, to create a family of her own.

“It was terribly hard for me,” she says now. “I couldn’t function anymore. He was the most precious thing in the world for me. No siblings and no family and no one else – only him.”

Nadia invited the widow and her two small children to move in with her. They lived together as a kind of family for 18 years, until the relations between them grew too complex and Nadia again felt that she had to leave home in order to preserve her freedom: “I really didn’t want to return to the kind of life I had lived with my family [growing up], to deal with difficult relationships, so I picked myself up and went, and left them the house, with no misgivings.”

The family of the adoptive son continued to live in Nadia’s spacious home in the Bavli neighborhood, while Nadia, who hadn’t been in touch with her own siblings and their families for years, returned to Hatikva. She moved into a one-room apartment that her father, who had since passed away, had left her in the family compound. She now lives in proximity to her brothers (her sister is no longer alive), but has no contact with them, she says. Time hasn’t dulled the pain. Nadia is unforgiving, but also unafraid, of them or of anyone.

“With all the suffering I went through, God always loved me and always looked after me, maybe he pitied me, I don’t know,” she says.

Donating a Torah

I’m in Nadia’s small room. We’re listening to the radio, to the very program we recorded in which Nadia is the star and tells her story in her voice. Occasionally she confirms what’s being broadcast, saying, “It’s all true, on my father’s grave.”

Photographs of Nadia in her youth peer out at us from the walls. She looks at them and says to me with a half-smile, “Old age will grab everyone in the end, there’s no one who won’t die.” Contemplating her death, she says with a wink that she deserves to be buried in Tel Aviv’s historical Trumpeldor cemetery, next to all of Israel’s founding fathers. But what’s truly important to her is to donate a Torah scroll in her name to the neighborhood synagogue. Nadia answers to no one but God and herself.

Now, at 85, Nadia has come full circle with her past, with the memories that well up and with the freedom she craved – and, finally, achieved: “I had it very good, and I loved my life. From the time I ran away from home and until I got to the cross-dressing and afterward the operation, and beyond, I was always happy in my life. I wanted and I chose and that’s the most beautiful and the best thing in life. I did what my heart demanded and what it wanted. That’s all. There’s nothing more beautiful than that. Live free in life and you have it good.”

#Nadia Avraham #Jewish #Israeli #Mizrahi #LGBTQ #trans #haaretz

12 notes · View notes

moon-boat · 7 years ago

Note

hey isa... just wanted to ask a question about art in general. i’ve been p depressed the last few years, and now i’m in my junior year of high school. i’ve always loved drawing, but i’ve had no creative drive since like middle school and i think it’s because of my depression. i know you’ve been through a lot lately but you’re trying to get back into your art, and i was wondering what helps with that? i just dislike my art so much now and i don’t know where to begin. ty isa, sending good vibes :)

hi anon! im really sorry to hear that depression is getting in the way of something you love to do. i know that struggle all too well. theres so many things you can do to try to get back on that art train, and even im still trying to figure that out. people sent me some really nice advice through my ask box which i will post after this so you can take a look at too! they are quite helpful and diverse! ill tag them as #tips

ill put this under read more because i wrote a lot uou

one thing you can do is to try to keep yourself busy with other things while you try to find the inspiration to draw again. watch a lot of movies, rewatch your favorite animes, try out a new hobby, look at all your favorite artists and even look at new art that is completely different from what you do can spark a new flame! i find that i think too hard when it comes to drawing, and i havent tried this method before, but sometimes getting a piece of paper and going crazy with it can help release some tension and stress on you. doodling like crazy, using colors that you love, cutting the paper, adding more paper on top of it, sewing into it and just have at it until you feel like you created the messy ass work of art that is just the embodiment of how you feel can clean off your slate.

one thing im trying to do is to find why i like drawing in the first place. thats going to involve a long journey of self discovery and figuring yourself out as a person, but sometimes going back to your roots can really help you get started again. i think i like drawing because i like making people feel things when they look at my stuff. i like making people happy. and i like to make people feel as if they arent alone with their negative thoughts. i like to make people feel good! i also like to express myself. i like that i can use art to express how i feel and it doesnt matter if no one else doesnt understand it, i made it for myself and to try to understand myself more. and i like having the ability to help others understand me more. i dont think im good with words but i always thought that i had an easier time of expressing myself when it came to art. so yea. that was kind of all over the place! it can be different for everyone! and remember: the reason has to be what makes YOU happy. not what makes others happy (that contradicts my reason for drawing but it makes me happy when others are happy so

i bought a new sketchbook to experiment with too! trying not to think so hard when it comes to drawing, just doodling whatever comes to you and not worrying about trying to create a finished masterpiece. treat your sketchbook like a diary. (that can be hard though x_x im struggling with that) oh! finding artist videos on youtube can help! ill link a few in a separate post!

also trying to change your lifestyle and life can really make a great impact. ive struggled very badly with depression and found that every time i change things up (rearranging my room, gathering up the energy to go out and explore the whats beyond my door, talking to new people whether it be online or irl) it makes me feel more refreshed and gives me new experience to apply to my drawings. maybe even taking an art workshop or quick art class of anything you desire can help! ill be attempting that too. remember to take care of yourself too.

of course this is all very difficult to do when your depression eats you whole and has you chained up for most of your life. everyone deals with depression in their own way and everyone has different ways of healing. unfortunately i dont know what can work for you, but i really hope i was able to help a little;;; i know i was all over the place ;v; i hope i didnt confused you. ill be wishing the best for you anon and i hope you can start loving drawing again

#ask #anon #tips #good luck my dear anon

6 notes · View notes

damnitaddie · 8 years ago

Text

Holla Jesu Christe

[TW: Suicide]

Standard mom stuff: If you’re thinking about suicide, please call 911 or go to the nearest emergency room.

So here we are again. I’m back staring at this screen. For a second there, I thought I had written my last entry.

This post is a couple of things, which I’ll get to assuredly. This post is going to be the realist shit that I’m likely to share to a public audience ever again. By the time I’ve hit post here, I’ll still be alive. Thankfully. But I’ll be metaphorically naked in front of all of you. I am baring it all. What it’s not… is a cry for help, a ploy for attention, or an invitation to post a reply such as “I’m always here if you want to talk.”

Does that seem rude? It’s not intended to be. I know it’s what you say when you want to say something but you don’t know what to say. I just want people to know that I’m not the type that typically reaches out in that kind of way. The people who I reach to already know who they are.

I am not posting this for my own good, but in the hope that it helps someone else pull the proverbial panic cord, pump their brakes, call a timeout, or whatever metaphor you find works best. For the people who don’t suffer from some sort of mental illness, maybe it brings better understanding.

Throughout the post, I’m going to reference things that I’ve taken away from the Biodyne model of suicide assessment and prevention. I shouldn’t have to disclaim this, but of course, I’m not a doctor, I’m not a mental health professional. I’m just a person who struggles with her own mental health and who also sees others around her struggle with their own. Beyond that, the people who are left in the wake of disaster, the warm blanket of oblivion ripped rudely off of them in the night. With that said, onward and upward, shall we?

Starting sometime during the week of June 12th, thoughts of suicide started to creep into the forefront of my brain. They’re never far away, always lurking somewhere in shadows, waiting for a chance to seize the day. Waiting for the chance to become the all consuming thing that you can’t avoid, until they succeed in making you another statistic, a hash tag, a sad story. Or you “pump the brakes” and slow down long enough to take a look around.

By the end of last weekend, it was more than a passing thought. It had taken up residence right in front of me. It was all I could see. I had entered what they refer to as Stage 1. This is not unfamiliar territory to me. I’ve been there a number of times, it normally passes pretty quick and I move along, sending a passing email to my therapist saying something like “Hey, this happened, I’m okay but I wanted you to know.” Then we could talk about it at my next session.

“Everyone has dark times — a story held in secret..”

Of course, this time, I didn’t do that. I didn’t send any emails. On the outside, I don’t think anyone could see the big black dog named depression that was following me around. Hell, I even went out and danced, something I don’t do, with random Lyft customers turned friends on Saturday night. I had fun. That’s the thing about depression. It’s not all sitting around, sulking and listening to Brand New and The Get Up Kids.

By Tuesday, I had swiftly exited the ideation phase and was actively planning the end of my own life. I started putting together certain documents, keys, passcodes, passwords, blank checks and other things that I knew people would need in the wake of it all. I started on my “note.” What it ended up being, near as makes no difference, was a 4100 word of drivel. A long, sad tale that ranged from my own failings to the perceived failings of others. At times a scathing, no-holds-barred airing of grievances that only one other person has read at this point. I intend to keep it that way.

Throughout my planning, I was even taking smaller details into consideration. Things that a stereotypical suicidal character on a Lifetime made for TV drama wouldn’t. I knew that more than anything, I didn’t want my kids to find me. I know that Grayson can sometimes be anywhere between 2-10 minutes faster than Megan to get inside my house. He doesn’t knock. Additionally, I didn’t want someone like the fire department to have to kick in a door. Someone would have to fix that later, right?

I even made a playlist. I’m not really sure who it was for. I think it was for me than anything. It started as 33 tracks and eventually I whittled it down to about 17. About the perfect length for a mix CD, 73 minutes. Of course, I didn’t have an optical drive in my laptop, and Spotify wasn’t going to let me burn it anyway.. but there it was.

This happened all throughout the course of Tuesday afternoon and Thursday morning. The only thing that really kept me out of the third and final phase was that I didn’t have a time frame for when this was all supposed to go down. I had a mental to-do list of the things I needed to accomplish before I could even get to scheduling the end of the end.

Tuesday evening, I went to dinner with Brian. We had wings and beer, as customary with the two of us.. I had been texting with a friend intermittently throughout the day, and as I understood, she was having a shitty afternoon. I invited her to come down and have a beer. She politely declined, as I expected. “Maybe next time,” I replied. It felt hollow, because I wasn’t expecting there to be a next time. A day late friend, I mused to myself.

My short term memory is so bad, I don’t remember what I did Wednesday morning. I know at some point, I went to Home Depot to pick up something I would need. Utility knife blades. Then I went next door to Tumbleweed and had lunch by myself. I ordered my usual burrito and a beer. I sat at the bar alone. Both in physical presence and mentally. The mix of even a really low dose of Klonopin, only a sixth of what my former psychiatry nurse practitioner had prescribed, and the beer apparently was a bad choice.

As soon as I got home, I passed out. When I awoke, later that evening, I knew I wasn’t going to be able to go back to sleep. Through out the night, I cried all the tears I had out as I worked on the playlists and the note.

Around 5am, the sun was rising and I felt satisfied with what I had written. I hadn’t eaten dinner the night before and had been living off Coca-Cola and loud music. I got dressed and went to Waffle House by myself. I sat in a dirty booth that no one bothered to wipe down after the previous guests had departed. As I sat in a dirty booth, eating my breakfast, I started beginning to have a moment of clarity. I paid for my half-eaten meal, got back in my car and pulled out onto Bardstown Rd, thinking about all that had happened in the last 36 or so hours. I considered certain contradictions in what I was planning. My jaw and head ached from clenching my teeth throughout the night, having foregone any additional Klonopin to ease the anxiety.

I pulled into the parking lot at Kroger, and went inside to buy some Ibuprofen. I couldn’t seem to locate the bottle at my house. Assuming either we had taken it all, or that it was sitting in a box somewhere in Rhode Island.

As I exited the store, I realized that I hadn’t bought anything to drink to actually take the ibuprofen with. Sitting in my car, with the engine idling and the transmission in park. I considered going back inside to buy a coke. I felt to numb, too out of sorts to even bother. I opened the bottle and took two pills, swallowing them dry.

Then instead of putting the car in drive and heading home, I pulled out my phone. I opened the app that I use to communicate with my doctor and I typed out the following message:

Ok,

I’m officially pulling the fire alarm. This dizziness, lightheadedness, vertigo thing that I’ve got going on is starting to get out of control.

More importantly, certainly more time critical, is that I’ve passed through stage 2 of the biodyne model of suicidal thoughts. I know there’s nothing worse than having a Graduate of the Google School of Medicine for a patient, but I found this page:

And by my own self-assessment I’m at the completion of stage 2, entering stage 3, but not quite in what they call the “Auto pilot” mode. I considered going to the emergency room, but I haven’t, because well it seemed a little scary.

I’ve backed away from the proverbial ledge, but I’ve been up all night and realized at about 6am that I’ve amassed more than just a note, it’s 4100 words.

I’m safe right now, but I’m going to reach out now, in the interest of full disclosure, for better or worse.

Call, text, write. Love y’all.

–Addison

Then I went home and went to sleep and waited from a call from them. I was in contact with them throughout the day, as they checked in on me and went over my medications. I should back up a bit and explain..

At the beginning of the month, I had visited because my fatigue was so bad that I couldn’t do anything productive. The doctor came up with a treatment plan, because she advised the combination of drugs he had prescribed had significant risks, including seizures. She tried to do it in such a way that the side effects of withdraw would be minimized, but still told me to stay close and let her know how it was going. Once I was tapered back to a safe dosage, we would reassess my treatment options. That appointment was/is scheduled for the first week of July. However, the side effects had continued to get worse, the more I tapered down on the medication that was being eliminating. Even yesterday, I was still feeling disconnected and kind of dizzy. Like things getting to my brain were being passed through a wah-wah pedal first.

Today is the first day in a long time, that I have a sense of clarity. I’ve got a touch of a headache, but at least I’m not clenching my jaw in an attempt to grind my teeth into a bloody pulp. It’s scary that I could have been a day too hasty in giving up.

The Edge… There is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over.

Hunter S. Thompson - Hell's Angels: A Strange and Terrible Saga

So there it is, my week. Why I’ve not been at work. Why I’ve been acting distant. Why I’ve been a bitch to a couple people, namely my mother. A lot of things. I quoted the verse “Let me tell you what I wish I’d known when I was young and dreamed of glory. You have no control. Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?” from the Hamilton musical. For today, I’m still at the helm, I still tell my own story. However, I came close to the edge.

I think I now know where the edge is, but as Hunter S. Thompson famously penned, “The Edge… There is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over. The others the living-are those who pushed their control as far as they felt they could handle it, and then pulled back, or slowed down, or did whatever they had to when it came time to choose between Now and Later. But the edge is still out there.”

Holla Jesu Christe was originally published on TransVentures

#depression #suicide #transventures

5 notes · View notes