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giggle-me-this · 3 months ago

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Girls Go 💥 Boom 💥

@xiomarawinters @harrixtpinnock @ftbhedges

The nights after the Saint Ball went like this: Xiomara would come home from her day program, and go straight into the kitchen to scrounge together dinner for herself. She would eat it in the kitchen, with her back to the wall, and then she would smoke a cigarette out the back window, and then another. She’d go upstairs and take enough potions to knock out a troll, and then she’d crawl into bed until the dreamless sleep ripped her out of consciousness.

The days after the Saint Ball went like this: Nate would come home from work at 5am. Xi knew he was home when the loose floorboard in the hall creaked. That was her rousing alarm: Wake up, get dressed, tie her runners, go for a run. She went the long way around the house so that she didn’t need to pass Nate, who would be sinking in to sleep on the ratty couch. She would stand in the front garden, hopping back and forth and then stretching her legs out. Harriet would meet her, and then they would run.

Xiomara was working on her breathing during the morning’s run, timing her pace with the steady inhale and exhale that ought to keep her going. It irked her that the exercise seemed to come naturally to Harriet, who ran as if it were the simplest thing in the world. While Xi loved running, and reveled in the natural runner’s high that came with the itchy legs and aching sides and sweaty back after every occasion, she definitely had to work at it.

It sparked a natural competitiveness between the girls, and after months of the run being part of their morning routine, Xi was finally pushing Harriet to a pace where she actually had to… Try to stay ahead of her fictive sister-in-law.

Their run this morning was a steady-paced loop towards Hammersmith and back, the breeze from the Thames whipping across their faces in the icy air. Xi could see her breath in the air, she watched it as she timed her pace: In, step, step, out, step, step, in…

They turned right to run around a boat shed, ready to continue on their run, when a burst of red light shot across them. It narrowly missed Xiomara’s legs and instead left a scorching mark on the light wood of the shed. The girls barely had time to react before the stunning spell was shot again—then another.

Xiomara’s legs went wobbly from the sudden stop in her pace and she reached down with numb fingers to take her wand from its hidden hip holster. She was just raising her wand arm when there was a tight grip on her upper arm. She immediately pulled against it, twisting to get out of the assailant’s grasp, when a harsh voice said, “Thanks for the tip, sweetheart—consider your Pinnock contract fulfilled. You're off the hook—for now..."

Xiomara’s expression contorted, her mouth half-open for the split-second it took for her to process this. This was Hamilton. He’d come for Harriet.

She bucked her head back, lurching her chest forward after she heard the back of her skull connect with his nose—which broke with a sickening snap. In the cacophony of spells shot across them, Xiomara could barely make out Harriet, who had responded in a smarter, less physical way, aiming her wand with pin-point precision and shifting her weight as if she’d been duelling for years. She couldn’t hear anything, save for the high-pitched ringing in her ears and the incantations shouted across them. But when Harriet reached her hand across in her direction, already turning her feet, ready to spin, Xiomara leapt across to her. No sooner had they touched fingertips, than Harriet was apparating them back to the safehouse.

The wards set off immediately, as they always did when wix apparated directly into the home rather than the garden. Xi clamped her hands down over her ears, wand still in her right hand, and was about to call out to Harriet about fixing the wards, when she turned and became aware of Harriet Pinnock’s wand, pointed right in her face.

“What the fuck was that, Winters?” Harriet yelled, stepping forward so the tip of her wand was practically burning a hole in the blonde’s cheek.

And Xiomara, who was so dependent on her routine, and potions, and safety, and quiet and calm and an uneventful morning run, shook her head earnestly, tears already gathered in her eyes. A voice, somewhere deep, whispered: You’ll. Explode. Xiomara whipped her head back and forth. No, no. No.

“No?” Harriet laughed harshly, “That all you can say? You fucking sold me out, Xi? Huh? And now you want to deny it? I don’t give a fuck who you are, if you think I’ll—”

Xiomara wouldn’t hear what Harriet would do. In fact, she barely managed to hold on long enough to hear Harriet’s first few comments before she lost herself. It was a rising heat that started low in her belly, then overcame her chest, her shoulders, down her arms, before Xiomara pulled her wand back and yelled, the force of her magic knocking them both away from each other and to the ground.

Xi fell into the back of the couch, and cried out, immediately feeling the crack at the back of her abdomen. Harriet must have landed somewhere less damaging, because Xi had barely managed to stand with the splitting pain that ran down her side, before the older girl sent a spell straight at her. There wasn't enough time to try to counter it, or even to duck out of the sizzling beam's path—but to Xiomara's surprise, when she instinctively raised up her arms to protect her face, the spell ricocheted in a shower of sparks against the translucent white-gold barrier of a shield.

When she whipped her head around, she saw its caster: Nate, climbing over the back of the toppled couch, a scorch mark in the shape of a body burned into the upholstery where Xi had hit it. His hands were stretched out in a tut in front of him and he looked like he'd gotten about five minutes of sleep before being rudely thrown into consciousness.

"The fuck are you thinking, Harry?" Nate croaked irritably, his voice hoarse. The room had grown uncomfortably still and voyeuristic as hedges gathered along the edges of the room to see the commotion, to witness the fallout. Someone, at some point, had silenced the wards.

So it sliced through the room like an axe, the sound of Harriet Pinnock, who was never the loudest voice in a room, screaming at her brother and punctuating every word: "She SOLD ME OUT!" Her wand stayed trained on Xiomara in incrimination.

Nate looked between Xi and Harriet, dumbfounded, refusing to believe it. He shook his head and debris fell from his mussed-up hair. "No, she didn't. You don't know what the fuck you're talking about—"

Harriet barked another humorless laugh. "Fucking open your eyes, Nate! She's been playing us into dad's hand from the start—"

"—Harriet," Nate snapped in warning.

"—Nate," she shot back, teeth bared, not budging. The siblings squared off for just a moment before Harriet gave a growl of frustration and lowered her left arm, the one holding her wand, and with her right hand she gestured at a spot on her inner forearm, just beneath the elbow.

For some reason beyond the comprehension of everyone watching the argument, the cryptic signal from his sister caused Nate to stiffen suddenly. He held eye contact with Harriet, a silent conversation no one else was privy to, while his fingers grazed over a mirrored spot on his own arm. Nate had a small raised scar there, that much Xiomara did know from her own thorough cataloging of all the sensitive spots on Nate's body that she could touch to invoke a reaction.

Where the scar had come from, though, and what the fuck it meant to Nate and Harriet was beyond Xi—and she didn't have a chance to consider it any further before Nate was rounding on her and hissing in accusation, "What the fuck, Xi? You told him she's here?"

“You are just as guilty in this,” she snapped, before pressing her hands flat against the floor to steady herself while she stood. “You do this all the time, it doesn’t surprise me that your fucking sister is exactly the same.”

“Me?” Nate barked back with an incredulous laugh, and Harriet was aghast at being addressed only as his fucking sister. Nate tugged his hands through his hair, tightening and pulling. “Christ, what does that even fucking mean–”

“—I am not the only one who signed that contract, Nate! You know perfectly well what it says. What, you think it just went away?”

Nate scoffed, holding up the sigil on the back of his hand, which seemed to shimmer and gleam with sadistic glee, while he talked over her. “I’m well the fuck aware, Xi! In fact, I’d say you got off pretty fucking easy, getting high and drinking plum-fucking-wine while I was going through hell—”

“You have NO IDEA what I’ve been through!” The bursting abruptness of the way she shrieked it forced the argument’s momentum to a screeching, momentary halt. They were both breathing heavy and still heated as Nate held his tongue, waiting.

But instead of elaborating or explaining, instead of letting him in, Xi sniffed and took a breath. Cold and dismissive, she continued, “You don’t get to toss away your own guilt by making me out to be the bad guy…”

Nate threw his hands up, genuinely too stunned to know what to say. To break the silence, Ruma stepped forward, her brother anxiously hovering a hairline behind her. Ajai’s hand was half extended, itching to take her sister’s arm and transport them both the hell out of there.

The therapist raised a hand, as if she were trying to soothe a frightened animal. It wasn’t the first time Xiomara had been treated like this. She remembered Nate approaching her in the Caves while she wailed. She remembered healers approaching her in Clearer Skies, talking her through each step they made. She remembered Isaac approaching her in the hotel bathroom.

Ruma opened her mouth to speak, and the French woman cut her off—

“Fuck off, Ruma. This has nothing to do with you,” Xi snarled, leaning forward. The move was enough to spook Ajai into action, the traveller’s fingertips barely grazing Ruma’s shoulder before both hedges disappeared.

“When you’re done being such an insufferable bitch, maybe you’ll wake up and realize not everything in the world revolves around you,” Nate sneered, and Xiomara scoffed.

“And that’s you, isn’t it? Great to hear from Mr. Benevolent himself…”

“Better that than a hypocrite and a fucking snitch—”

The two continued to bicker like that, a ping-pong game of back and forth that increased in intensity with each barb shot back to the other.

Neither seemed to notice how the walls began trembling, the floorboards and furniture creaking and quaking, the glass in the windows whining dangerously. It wasn't until he felt one particularly tumultuous shake of the safehouse foundations, jolting them all off balance, that Nate snapped out of his anger enough to glance around in alarm and become fully aware of the powder keg he'd put them in by provoking her.

"Xi—stop it…"

But Xiomara was beyond reasoning with, long past simmering and fast approaching boiling point. Heat was radiating off of her in waves as she sneered, "Or what? What are you going to do, hit me? Fuck me? You gonna drug me, Nate?"

Nate flinched, looking genuinely stricken by the blow and without a ready response to throw back. Everything held still for one tense moment that seemed to stretch on for hours.

Then someone—Harriet, maybe, Xi couldn't be sure—moved in Xi's peripheral vision, and she exploded.

She threw out her arms as a furious scream ripped its way out of her throat, and a ripple of scalding ambient energy burst outward from where she stood and knocked back everyone within a ten-foot radius—including Nate and Harriet.

Hedges were yelling—at her, at Nate, at each other, Xi really didn't give a fuck and couldn't comprehend any of it, anyway, over the roaring in her ears and the sound of plaster crashing down from the ceiling. Entire strips of the wall were searing and peeling off. Xi's vision was vibrating and blurring. YOU’LL. EXPLODE.

A sorrowful voice with a distinct Irish lilt managed to cut through the clamorous noise within Xiomara's head. This voice was not loud, but it was far too close as it said, "I'm real sorry 'bout this..."

Xi flung a hand back, throwing a wave of energy at the too-close intruder. But it didn't throw Oz like it had the others.

In fact, the wiry hedge witch who normally moved his body with about as much balance and grace as a drunk toddler, uncannily braced himself against the torrent Xiomara sent at him from less than three feet away, such that the most it did was to blow his dark hair back like a warm breeze. Despite the commotion and the still-imminent peril, the Free Traders stopped what they were doing to face Oz and openly gape.

His face was filled with palpable regret as he opened up his tattooed palms on either side of his body, joints twitching as if he were gently caressing the air, assessing it. Then he arced them forward, tracing a circular shape with his right hand curving up and to the left while his left hand swept down and right. His wrists met in the center, palms thrust out toward Xi so that she could see the words inked there, fingers curved slightly as if waiting to catch a baseball.

And then she felt it—a draining, suctioning sensation of the torrential magic that was swirling around and within her, that had pressed up against her bones as it begged release from her body just moments ago. Now it was being siphoned out of her in a powerful rush, and seemingly funneled between Oz's open, waiting hands. His arms, his shoulders and back, trembled and strained as he took in the current. His spine curved forward as his body cowed into itself, but his feet stayed firmly planted on the ground, the sigils on his hands glowing brighter and brighter until he finally dropped his arms, panting with exertion. The house, though clearly battered, had stopped shaking.

"What the fuck. Did he just do?" Nate said from where he was propped against the broken banister of the stairs, wheezing like he’d had the air knocked out of him.

Oz's head swiveled toward Nate, his eyes glazed over, but he made no effort to respond. He didn't look like he could respond, swaying where he stood like the magic he'd just siphoned from Xiomara was whiskey. The air all around them felt thinner, too, like they were standing at the peak of a mountain and the oxygen was sparse.

"Par off, blud," Rue growled at Nate with odd and unexpected protectiveness bolstering her tone, "He just saved all our fuckin' skins."

There wasn't a chance to question what the fuck had just happened. Xiomara's face was shining with sweat, and all at once she started shivering where she stood—her drastically overheated body reacting to the sudden, vacuumous removal of its power source.

Nate made a panicked lurch toward her, but it was Rue who got there first; in the secondmost baffling and unprecedented event that had occurred in the FTB safehouse within the last five minutes, Rue placed her hands on either side of Xi's convulsing frame, brow furrowed in concentration until the blonde stilled and her complexion returned to a normal shade.

Harriet hovered behind her brother, murmuring something to him so low that only he could hear. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, and an emotion that looked like genuine anguish washed over his face for just a moment before it was gone, and his hazel eyes hardened and shuttered. His voice only barely more audible than his twin, Nate said, “Xiomara…You need to leave. We have rules. You broke them.”

As weakened and drained as she felt, practically squashing Rue as she leaned on her for support, Xiomara shook her head. “No,” she replied, looking up at Nate past heavy eyelids.

An awkward beat, and then: “Well, you don’t get to—”

“—No, you don’t get to make me leave. This is my house as much as yours. I’m not just another hedge you can kick out on the street because they pissed you off,” she hissed, rocking back and forth as she disentangled herself from Rue. “You have no shortage of friends, and family, and money, and people that will tell you everything you want to hear. I have nothing except this house. You leave…” She cut a withering glare up to Harriet, and then spat, “...and you take her with you. We’re done.”

#drabble #headcanon #girls go boom #p: xiomara #p: harriet #attempted kidnapping cw #volatile magic cw #december 2020 #oz #rue #toxic relationship cw #nate and xi's flat #putney #[ a hedge between keeps friendship green ]#absolutely the worst communication skills cw #ruma #ajai #THIS IS PAINFUL UGH #but there's some cool af hedge magic lol

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peskyrequeskys · 1 month ago

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Neopronouns for a TangoTek Fictive

With Themes of Fire, Decked Out, Blazes,

Redstone, Ancient Cities, Mysteries, Music,

Hearts, and Rancherduo.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fire/Fires/Fires/Fireself

Burn/Burns/Burns/Burnself

Crack/Crackle/Crackles/Crackleself

Spark/Sparks/Sparks/Sparkself

Card/Cards/Cards/Cardself

Game/Games/Games/Gameself

Dungeon/Dungeons/Dungeons/Dungeonself

Frost/Frosts/Frosts/Frostself

Ravage/Ravages/Ravagers/Ravagerself

Nether/Nethers/Nethers/Netherself

Fortress/Fortresses/Fortresses/Fortressself

Smoke/Smokes/Smokes/Smokeself

Blaze/Blazes/Blazes/Blazeself

Red/Reds/Reds/Redself

Dust/Dusts/Dusts/Duself

Redstone/Redstones/Redstones/Redstoneself

Observer/Observers/Observers/Observerself

Dropper/Droppers/Droppers/Dropperself

Dispense/Dispenser/Dispensers/Dispenserself

Hopper/Hoppers/Hoppers/Hopperself

Button/Buttons/Buttons/Buttonself

Lever/Levers/Levers/Leverself

Lamp/Lamps/Lamps/Lampself

Echo/Echos/Echoes/Echoself

Deep/Deeps/Deeps/Deepself

Skulk/Skulks/Skulks/Skulkself

Sensor/Sensors/Sensors/Sensorself

Ward/Wards/Wardens/Wardenself

Ancient/Ancients/Ancients/Ancientself

City/Citys/Cities/Cityself

Lantern/Lanterns/Lanterns/Lanternself

Myst/Mystery/Mysteries/Mysteryself

Search/Searchs/Searches/Searchself

Secret/Secrets/Secrets/Secretself

Clue/Clues/Clues/Clueself

Note/Notes/Notes/Noteself

Hymn/Hymns/Hymns/Hymnself

Song/Songs/Songs/Songself

Disc/Discs/Discs/Discself

Tune/Tunes/Tunes/Tuneself

Melody/Melodys/Melodies/Melodyself

Harmony/Harmonys/Harmonies/Harmonyself

Jukebox/Jukeboxes/Jukeboxes/Jukeboxself

Love/Loves/Loves/Loveself

Heart/Heart/Hearts/Heartself

Heartbeat/Heartbeat/Heartbeats/Heartbeatself

Adore/Adores/Adores/Adoreself

Canary/Canarys/Canaries/Canaryself

Ranch/Rancher/Ranches/Rancherself

Soulmate/Soulmates/Soumates/Soulmateself

Mine/Mines/Mines/Mineself

Coal/Coals/Coals/Coalself

Revenge/Revenge/Revenges/Revengeself

Goat/Goats/Goats/Goatself

Horn/Horns/Horns/Hornself

Double/Doubles/Doubles/Doubleself

❤️/❤️s/❤️s/❤️self

💕/💕s/💕s/💕self

🔥/🔥s/🔥s/🔥self

⛓️/⛓️s/⛓️s/⛓️self

🗝/🗝s/🗝s/🗝self

#hermitcraft fictive #fictive #tango fictive #tangotek fictive #pronouns #pronoun suggestions #neopronouns #neopronoun suggestions #tango pronouns #tangotek pronouns

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ponyplazadaily · 1 month ago

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14/10/2024 - Today's Mood: Out of It

Today was a blur. No literally it's hard to think about what happened today. We listened to a song on the way to work and realized OH DAMN we have a fictive of Blue Diamond from Steven universe. Yup we really have mommy issues - that makes three alters whose defining traits are motherly. And then I found out maidbot is back, I only know of bot from notes from the psych ward but apparently he's met Zoey before. He's super interested in making a carrd for our system/website and just graphic design and computer stuff in general. Also found out we have a NANA fictive, she goes by Hachi and yeah it makes sense given our past and that we were taken advantage of by men a lot (and so was Hachi in the show) she's shy and cute and super super lovey dovey towards Zoey.

Work was mediocre - not too bad not too good just fine. I took way too long on all of my breaks but hey at least I showed up.

We didn't really do much tonight, just make another blog focused on positivity (blue and amethyst blog) OH and I got way too overheated on my main blog and now Amethyst is convinced I should take a hiatus but nope not yet I'm still going strong as of now. We updated the roles of subsystems with the new/old alters and we gave each subsystem a name. Idk if that's a normal thing but yeah just fun I guess. System exploration feels nice and satisfying.

Oh and I know pixie has started reading the Bandori Poppin Party story and she LOVES Arisa. Bubbles likes Kasumi a lot andi think Roxy? Loves Tae idk who said they like Tae but probably Roxy makes sense. Mediocre Monday overall but hey !!! I did it I got through the day.

#Posted by Angel #system #did system #did #syspunk #systempunk #pluralpunk #pluralgang #plurality

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gender-mailman · 2 years ago

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i love priest ethan too... <- definitely doesn't have a thing for priests (i'm lying i do have a thing for priests. i'm literally dating our John Ward fictive (while also being an irl of John))

Gxkgsjsgksvsksgjwvskw *points* gay people found <- is also very gay for priests /half silly

#mailman speak #💌 i talk too much : talking #💌 i can keep it 'til i die : mutual #minecraft stee #ethanverse

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cthonicascendant · 2 years ago

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🌸 What's your system name? How did you pick it?

💐 For how long have you been a system?

🌿 How did you discover you were a system? Or did you become one on purpose?

🌺 How did you discover the plural community?

�� Are there more humans or nonhumans in your system?

🌼 What species are there in your system?

🌻 What sources do you have fictives from, if you have any?

🍄 Do you headcanon any characters as plural? Who and why?

🌲 Favorite system representation in media?

🌳 Least favorite system representation in media?

🌾 Do you have an inner world? What's it like?

🌷 Do you have a singletsona? What are they like?

🌱 Does anyone have a different accent when they front?

🎍 Are you out as a system to anyone irl?

🍀 Do you have any collective interests? Does anyone have an interest no one else shares?

🌵 Do you use system roles?

🍂 Do you use anything to keep track of fronting?

🍁 What's the most common gender identity in the system? What about sexuality?

🌴 Do you think syskids and age regressors should share spaces or not? Why?

you ju5t vvant u5 to an5vver all a the5e ok

im doin it but i think im goin to politely a5k that next time vve 5tick to like 4-5 que5tion5 an a5k max

🌸 What's your system name? How did you pick it?

vvere 5till vvorkin on that i knovv it 5ay5 the [redacted] hiVe but that5 becau5e vve aint figured out a nevv adjectiVe yet or eVen if vve vvant to keep u5in the vvord hiVe (there i5 5omethin compellin about referrin to our5elVe5 a5 a corporation)

💐 For how long have you been a system?

a5 far a5 im avvare vve been one our entire life but vve vverent avvare that5 vvhat it vva5 vvhen vve vvere younger an then crovv vva5 tryin to 5uppre55 me for a vvhile an it5 ju5t a bit of a me55 hone5tly

🌿 How did you discover you were a system? Or did you become one on purpose?

«so, funny story is that i actually made numerous attempts at making a thoughtform over the years, and it never fucking worked. anyways, i don't recall exactly what prompted it, but we were reading through a plural blog, and vee basically started responding to some of the stuff i was thinking?»

«it mostly took learning about other forms of endogenic plurality and meeting systems that developed due to trauma later in life for me to really be open to the idea that i was already part of a system, because i... really don't remember my childhood being that bad? most of the traumatic shit i remember happened in our late teens? and pretty much the only models for plurality that i had were either "childhood trauma origins" or "deliberately created origins".»

🌺 How did you discover the plural community?

queerauti5m5 blog actually in fact i think it5 blog vva5 the one vve vvere readin vvhen i finally got through to crovv

🌹 Are there more humans or nonhumans in your system?

hold on lemme do a headcount

it5 an eVen 5plit actually fiVe human5 fiVe nonhuman5

🌼 What species are there in your system?

«human, which we have the most of at five members. four alternian trolls. and one keytool. yes, that's a species.»

🌻 What sources do you have fictives from, if you have any?

borderland5 an reboot for the one5 vvhat vvant to 5hare their 5ource5

>.and homestuck.<

vvell obViou5ly

🍄 Do you headcanon any characters as plural? Who and why?

«so i definitely headcanon specifically the season 1 version of harrison wells from the cw's the flash as plural, and i will be happy to get into specifics as to why if anyone wants, but this post is hella long so only by request.»

🌲 Favorite system representation in media?

im not 100% 5ure thi5 count5 but 5o far i loVe vvhat theyre doin in 5eVerance

🌳 Least favorite system representation in media?

«things like 'split' or this book they had in the patient library of the psych ward we were in where there's an evil, murderous alter. actually i lied, they had like three books where the plot summary boiled down to, "jenny thought all was normal, until people started getting murdered. little did they know, they had a serial killer alter ego, becky, who was behind the killings." i just. ghhhh!!!!»

🌾 Do you have an inner world? What's it like?

vve call it head5pace becau5e it5 more of a 5pace that 5ure exi5t5 in our head for a number a u5 /jokin

>.it's a nice little neighbourhood incongruously close to a giant science lab. .the science lab actually contains the entrance to the helm. .which is like a cross between alternian biotech and pacific rim jaeger tech. .sometimes there are chairs, other times if you're not piloting you have to stand or sit on the floor.<

🌷 Do you have a singletsona? What are they like?

vve do

«he uses he/him pronouns primarily, but will take any pronouns except 'she'. uh, honestly he's kind of an amalgamation of traits of whoever is piloting at the time? so i guess he comes across as a bit mercurial.»

🌱 Does anyone have a different accent when they front?

5ometime5 it depend5 if vvere ma5kin or not if vve are then no vve all tend tovvard5 crovv5 accent though vve 5till tend to maintain our u5ual Vocal tone (like hovv high pitched vve each tend to talk that kind a thing)

if vvere not ma5kin then mine i5 pretty di5tinct an mierco5 Voice i5 notably Flat

🎍 Are you out as a system to anyone irl?

«my fiancé. :> »

🍀 Do you have any collective interests? Does anyone have an interest no one else shares?

i dont think vve got any intere5t5 that eVeryone 5hare5 but like

mir crovv an i all like yarning (knittin an crochet) dee i5 into fa5hion de5ign an makin clothe5 5o xe kind of doe5 tho5e a5 vvell but he5 more likely to 5hovv up to help crovv vvith patch paintin for example

or ale vvill pop in if vvere vvritin but 5he dont do math 5tuff at all vvhile harry di5like5 vvritin an enjoy5 math

gun5 might be the clo5e5t thing vve got to a collectiVe intere5t the Va5t majority a u5 haVe 5ome experience vvith rifle5 in 5pecific an 5hootin in general

cant think of anythin that only one a u5 ha5 though

🌵 Do you use system roles?

>.yes and no.<

>.while we do have specific things we each take care of, it's not a very formal system. .most of us don't identify with a specific role, beyond voidsong and crow being hosts, and harry being a caretaker.<

🍂 Do you use anything to keep track of fronting?

«we try to use simply plural.»

«try.»

🍁 What's the most common gender identity in the system? What about sexuality?

9 out of 10 headmate5 identify a5 queer

but to be 5pecific the mo5t common gender i5 the nonbinary umbrella although all a our nonbinary member5 haVe different 5pecific experience5 vvith gender

an mo5t a u5 are bi

🌴 Do you think syskids and age regressors should share spaces or not? Why?

uh hm i think 5o long a5 eVeryone behaVe5 appropriately it 5houldnt be a problem 5o like unle55 5omeone can giVe me 5ome 5olid rea5on5 for vvhy it5 a bad idea i dont got a problem vvith 5y5kid5 an age regre55or5 5harin a 5pace although obViou5ly 5eparate 5pace5 5hould be aVailable for tho5e vvhat vvant them

#Anonymous #untranslated typing quirk #void5ong #>.mierco.<#«crow»

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findinyourkin · 2 years ago

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hello!! i am a fictive of father john ward from faith: the unholy trinity!

i'm more than willing to talk to quite literally anyone from my source, but i especially would be happy to be with father garcia and father allred again.

i'm also sourced from the john loves you au, so if anyone else is from that as well ... hi!

the body is under 18, and we'd prefer that only/mostly others who are bodily minors to interact. but we don't mind too much either way. thank you.

p.s., we also have an amy fictive within our system!

!!!!!!!!

#canon calls #father john ward fictive #faith the unholy trinity fictive #fictive

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vendettapandav · 2 years ago

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hi sorry if this ask is weird,, we have a john ward fictive in our system and we just want to say thank you, he really loves your works! hope you’re doing well!

awww don't worry, this isn't weird at all! I'm so glad he enjoys my content! Please let him know he is precious and loved ❤️

I hope y'all have a wonderful day/night! Stay safe and rock on!

#ask #anonymous

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chemicalcarousel · 2 years ago

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In love with someone who never existed: A fictive headmate rants

Im a fictive in a dissociative system and I dont have source memories, I dont feel like or believe that I had a past life, but still I have incredibly strong feelings for a character from my source, whom I see as my lover. Like not in reality, but I have insane feelings for a person who doesn't exist, never has, and never will. And I have no idea how to handle it. I can't mention it to anyone we know. The only person who really knows im (as a headmate) a thing is our therapist, but I dont trust her and I dont even really like the fact that she knows about me, but I see how it's been important to healing i guess. I am deeply ashamed over these feelings. It's so irrational. It's insane. I feel crazy. And im scared it would bring us in trouble if I mention it to anyone. I dont want more pills forced on us. I dont want us to be put in the psych ward again

How the fuck am I gonna get over this? How can I move on and be my own person without him? I'm not proud of it, but I ran into a fictive of the character im in love with from another system and I fell in love so hard with a person I didnt know. And I also wanted to create a headmate of him, but thats such a wrong thing to do. I cant just bring a new person into existence because im in love with an idea of a man that that headmate wouldn't even be. They'd be their own person. If I even could make a sentient being out of just my own egotistical reasons

I always rant for so long, but idk im gonna post this and maybe someone can relate or maybe nobody reads it. I'll just leave it here

~ Levi (he/him)

#levi here #actuallyplural #actuallysystem #actuallymultiple #pluralgang #sysblr #pluralblr #headmates #fictive #introject #ours

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fictionkinfessions · 3 years ago

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Kaeya isn't my brother, was not raised as my brother, and never will be my brother. He was my father's ward, not his son. Father treated him like a higher servant because he was a ward, Kaeya slept in the guest house because he was a ward. I fought by his side while I was in the Knights, we were sworn swords, my father's death made us so. You can swear a brotherhood to someone and not see them as your brother, take all of the "mideval knights share a tent and a bed and a house and meals and baths but they're just blood brothers". I swore loyalty to him, I swore to be his sword and his shield, he swore the same. I am not his brother.

I love him.

-Diluc (fictive)

#fictionkinfessions #fictive #dilucfictive #genshinimpactfictive #shipping issue #death cw #incest cw #just in case?#mod party cat!

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dwellordream · 3 years ago

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“Relations with real parents, of course, provided the context and often times much of the subterranean content of girls’ socialization. As the age of marriage increased, middle-class daughters resided for a longer and longer time with their parents. The historical literature has appropriately stressed the dependence of Victorian daughters, yet it has disagreed on how to interpret it. Historians of medicine and of the prescriptive literature have tended to stress the costs of such training in self-discipline, seeing girls’ exercises in self-suppression as the origins of a range of psychosomatic ailments.

With a more positive emphasis, historians of domesticity have emphasized the health of girls’ gradual socialization into the world of their mothers and grandmothers, depicting daughters and mothers ‘‘lolling [together] in placid domesticity.’’ The legacy of the Victorian home was more variegated than either vision allows, though, with maternal dependence often suppressed in accounts of actual lives. In some sense, the object relations theory of gender socialization was designed for the Victorian family. Nancy Chodorow’s argument about the ‘‘reproduction of mothering’’ assumes an asymmetrical family structure with mother at home and father at work. Unlike her brother, the theory goes, the girl learns gender behavior through imitating her mother, often blurring her own sense of self with her mother’s.

In this environment, affiliation and nurturance emerge naturally at the center of her identity. (Her brother needs to learn masculinity from a largely absent father and must therefore break abruptly from his nearest love object, his mother, in order to assume an abstract masculinity.) This insight about the blendedness of female identity in late-Victorian America helps to explain the anomalous position of mothers in many of the documents of girlhood. Frequently mothers simply did not appear in their daughters’ daily accounts of their lives. The absence of a mother in a diary often did not reflect her real-life absence. Instead, it was likely to suggest that she was omnipresent, part of the assumed background of her daughter’s life rather than its figure or pattern.

Even fictional accounts of girls and their journals acknowledged this absence. Mothers frequently emerged in diary accounts only to depart or to return or to get sick. In diaries from three different years in the 1880s, Mabel Lancraft, daughter of an oyster grower in Fair Haven, Connecticut, mentioned her mother scarcely at all. Her mother took an active role only in regard to three separate events: a contentious shopping trip, a trip to school as her daughter’s advocate, and her rare absence from home, which required that Mabel herself prepare dinner. It is in such moments as the last that daughters paid tribute to mothers and to their particular and often archetypal qualities.

When Bostonian Agnes Garrison was in New York and got an earache, she realized how much she counted on her mother in the normal run of things: ‘‘I don’t know when I have had such a hard time or when I have missed my dear Mamma so much. Cried as much for her as for earache. . . . There is nobody like Mamma when one is sick.’’ Southerner Lucy Breckinridge ‘‘spent the day’’ watching for her mother to return, and noted that when she finally arrived, ‘‘The house is much brighter now.’’

Literary critics have often noted the propensity of nineteenth-century female authors to ‘‘express hostility toward their mothers by eliminating them from the narrative,’’ in contrast to twentieth-century authors, who dramatized the conflict. One such contemporary observer was Florence Nightingale, who during her own crisis over her life purpose commented on how the novels of her age featured a heroine who ‘‘has generally no family ties (almost invariably no mother), or, if she has, they do not interfere with her entire independence.’’ According to the critic Carolyn Heilbrun, the removal of familial impediments represented wish fulfillment—a magical, fictive freeing from real-life constraints, especially those imposed by families. Girls’ diaries seem to have shared in both the plotting templates and the psychological bedrock which underlay such portrayals of familial displacement and liberation.

…So what do we make of girls’ frequent decisions to leave their mothers out of the record? We might conclude that a mother’s absence from journals and diaries represented the same thing as a mother’s absence from novels—an easy resolution to the need for imaginative space, without yet the daring demonstrated by such writers as Virginia Woolf, who confronted and considered killing the smothering, maternal ‘‘angel in the house.’’ The potency of the maternal ideal became especially apparent when mothers had died. Indeed, the death of a mother might be the initial inspiration for a daughter to write. Grief over a loss that often seemed equal to a loss of self found a ready outlet in one strand of girls’ autobiographical writing in which the spirit of the ‘‘angel of the house’’ was described, memorialized, and apotheosized.

The critic Elaine Showalter has observed that many Victorian women writers had lost, or were alienated from, their mothers. Showalter concludes that the resulting male-identification contributed to their careers. The diary evidence from the United States suggests another possibility—that the loss of a mother may have encouraged writing which was initially a form of communication with an absent or imagined ‘‘other’’ from beyond the grave. In such journals, the palpable agenda of the journal writer was to apply a salve of words and an illusion of communication to the intense aloneness of the orphaned or the motherless. When Helen Ward Brandreth began her journal, at the age of thirteen, she described herself (‘‘a low forehead, light hair and eyes’’), noted her age, and then recorded the next significant information about herself: ‘‘My Mama is dead, she died March 5, 1871, so my eldest sister May takes care of me.’’

The death of a mother during a girl’s childhood or youth distilled and romanticized maternal imagery. In their depictions of their dead mothers, girls concocted a powerful maternal essence which inhibited and censured with far greater impact than could any living representative. As such, dead mothers came to stand in for a potent superego—an angel in fact rather than simply in allusion. In Victorian America, the association of mothers with religious virtue, as a ‘‘channel of God’s grace’’ (according to Jane Tompkins), was a commonplace. For girls whose mothers had died, the association was fixed: mothers, feminine virtue, and an idealized but elusive better self.

…In some sense, idealizing mothers, especially dead ones, bespoke a universal urge for the perfect unity of the womb or before. In that sense, the strong identification and attachment between mothers and daughters argued by Nancy Chodorow and others was intensified by its arbitrary dissolution through death. Testimonials in diaries about lost mothers provide the words to suggest the bonds which often remained unvoiced in the diaries of the daughters of living mothers. Mothers were often absent from the record when present in fact, and most clearly articulated in the fabric and manuscript of self when they were in fact dead, sick, or away.

Whichever the case, the writings of Victorian daughters confirm the prolonged attachment of daughters to mothers with whom they shared a largely domestic sphere. Yet that primal bond of identification, encouraged by the Victorian separation of male and female spheres, was also subject to countercurrents from the culture of selfhood itself. As adults claimed a private self removed by propriety from public view or discourse, they taught those same values to growing girls. In theory, a girl told her mother all, and had no secrets. In practice, daughters, like their mothers, resisted expressing or confessing controversial emotions. In rooms and journals provided by their parents but taken for their own, girls, too, elaborated a layered culture of private secrets which sometimes pitted them against their mothers.

This was less true earlier in the nineteenth century. Parents claimed privacy for themselves but resisted giving it to children. Parents who had scrutinized their children’s writings for signs of grace earlier in the century were not indulging idle curiosity but fulfilling their highest parental responsibility to see to the spiritual salvation of their children. The substitution of character building for salvation seeking as the goal of adolescent socialization was a change in vocabulary rather than a revolution in parent-child relations. Adults’ increasing rights to privacy within their homes meant greater parental obligation to monitor children, rather than less. When parents took their children inside and closed the door, they gained sole responsibility for their upbringing.

…Yet the idea that ‘‘a secret is not a good thing for a girl to have’’ became harder to defend as Victorianism evolved to encourage the privacy of the individual. The surreptitious surveillance which we associate with Victorianism was the result of the twin beliefs in the abstract value of privacy and the responsibility of parents to monitor children. Motivated perhaps by the greater actual autonomy of their daughters, who were no longer constantly at their mothers’ elbows, and also by their own increasing responsibility for girls’ upbringing, parents were often interested in the contents of daughters’ diaries and journals. Although we think of the Victorians as inappropriately intrusive, their recourse to indirection was a sign of their deference to the idea of privacy. Earlier generations would have had fewer scruples about direct intervention.

As youths made the transition to adulthood, they at first felt guilty about secrets they kept from parents. Lucy Breckinridge neglected to tell her father about her engagement, and remonstrated with herself for the omission: ‘‘I am afraid it is deception, and yet, I cannot make up my mind to do it. I am a coward! I try to reconcile myself to it by arguing that if I am silent now, there may something occur to make Pa favor my plan and if I told him now, it would distress and anger him. . . . And then, all girls do it. Sallie Grattan did not even tell her mother! But that’s small comfort. I’ll think of it and try to make up my mind.’’ Lucy Breckinridge’s defenses of her secrecy in the 1860s lacked conviction. In resorting simply to fashion—‘‘And then, all girls do it’’—she was leaning on a reed so weak as to offend even her own sense of righteousness.

Yet at the same time, Breckinridge was offended at an incursion on her own sense of privacy. When a letter came into the house from Captain H., the man to whom she was engaged, ‘‘Pa got hold of the letter and read it and then sent for me to get it, a very bad thing in Papa.’’ When Lucy decided to break off with her Captain H., largely because of her parents’ disapproval, Lucy referred again to her father’s intrusion on her privacy: ‘‘Pa opens all my letters since Eliza’s alluding to Capt. H., and I have not a doubt was very much interested in the Capt.’s letter today.’’ It was wrong for her to withhold important information about her engagement from her father, Breckinridge seemed to feel. It was perhaps even worse for her father to pry into her mail, without her express permission, ‘‘a very bad thing.’’ The certainty of that last judgment suggests that girls were increasingly claiming a right to their own privacy.

As might have been expected between such a fiery duo, the etiquette and the morality of privacy also figured in the relationship between the feminist orator Lucy Stone and her diary-keeping daughter Alice Stone Blackwell. Perhaps not surprisingly, as in her campaign to restrict her daughter’s reading, Lucy Stone upheld woman’s self-sovereignty—as long as it did not extend to her daughter. In February 1872, when Blackwell was fourteen, her mother scolded her sharply for reading someone else’s letter. ‘‘Mama told me I had never done so naughty a thing since I was borne.’’ This strong rebuke upset Alice ‘‘utterly,’’ and she described herself going off to school ‘‘in a very low state of mind.’’ Several months later, though, the tables were turned. Alice recorded: ‘‘I accused Mama of scratching out something in my diary, and she confessed to having done so. We had a conversation which nearly resulted in my giving up keeping a diary and burning the old ones, but the affair ended satisfactorily.’’

Coming from the champion of women’s rights, Lucy Stone’s act of willful intrusion on her daughter is shocking. Not only had she read her daughter’s journal, but she had been unable to resist obliterating contents which displeased her. The conversation between mother and daughter nearly ended in a dramatic scene of destruction, with the daughter threatening to break off the edifying practice of journal writing and to burn the old ones if her mother couldn’t guarantee their privacy. Clearly, Alice had learned the lessons about the sanctity of privacy which her mother had been trying to teach her. Equally clearly, Lucy Stone was still participating in a nineteenth-century culture which exempted relations between mothers and daughters from the strict code of privacy which characterized relations between adults.

As late as the 1890s, Ladies’ Home Journal was still declaring the rights of parents to open letters addressed to a daughter, but even this conservative publication suggested, ‘‘This is seldom done where the confidence between the parents and child exists.’’ The controversy in the spring of 1872 between the women of the Blackwell family, like those of myriad other families throughout Victorian America, were skirmishes in a prolonged cultural conflict over the rights of daughters to identities separate from their mothers’.”

- Jane H. Hunter, “Houses, Families, Rooms of One’s Own.” in How Young Ladies Became Girls: The Victorian Origins of American Girlhood

#victorian #gender #history #american

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