#the boy who raped my sister the man who raped my uncle the girl who forced herself on my friend the boyfriends/girlfriends who raped others | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mar3ggiata · 4 months ago

Text

professional help, c22. Tarantella.

simon riley x original character.

trigger warnings: violence, sexual assault, mentions of rape, trauma, sexual themes, swearing, use of alcohol and drugs, mentions of mafia-type organisations.

song to listen to when reading this: Napule è, Pino Daniele.

abstract: This is Jude. are you not excited to see if I died? go on and read to see what happened, not my proudest moment, but still. you get a little glimpse of me as a baby, how joyous… I bet you didn't expect last chapter uh? Hell of a journey, hopefully we're almost done with the suffering! enjoy.

She always took the same route, met the same people in the same spots. She usually got dropped off in the 'Spanish Neighbourhood'. They weren't so turistic back then. She remembers them vividly. She remembers the smell of food, the smell of fried, oily food. The voices. The blue sky, the sun was always shining on her. She remembers the markets, the noise of people screaming, the graffiti, pairs of shoes thrown over the power lines. They used them to signal a member of a family was in prison, or that in the building lived someone who dealt drugs. It was common knowledge, the police knew. Where she's from, it is said the Camorra has a special seat at the dinner table. It's history, it's culture. It's in the economy, it's inside politics, it's in the institutions. Those who should protect us are corrupt, or too afraid to go against it. It's in the police, in the bourgeoisie. In the Church.

The Camorra is a mafia-type criminal organisation, one the oldest criminal organisation in the south of Italy. Naples based. The Camorra's organisational structure is divided into individual groups called "clans". Every capo or "boss" is the head of a clan, with hundreds of affiliates, depending on the clan's power and structure. It's really bad represented in movies, it's actually pretty morbid. All it takes is a glance, all it takes to get what you want is the fact that you're part of a clan. I am talking contracts, certificates, loans, money and permissions. Everyone is scared over there. Everyone lives in fear and in denial, everyone accepts it because, trust me, it's better this way. People get melted in acid, you know. And if anyone asks, no there is no criminality here! No Camorra here. They usually deal drugs, they do money laundering. Every now and then if two clans get in a fight, which can last for decades, people will die. Children die all of time. If you're born inside a family that's part of a clan, you've basically sold your soul to criminality. Boys especially tend to be extremely proud of their origins, they have fun playing with guns and power, they die young but with fame. Baby boss, that's what they're called. Being dangerous and feared is the real accomplishment. It's what girls seek in a man, the fame, the possessiveness and violent jealousy.

Her story was a little different. Her mother was the dealer in the family along with her uncle, her dad was already in prison when she was born. Even when she was in her momma's belly, she would hear her uncle's voice, talking to her mom. The things he would say. All the sex they had, she was born with a migraine. Her older brother Edoardo died in a shooting. She knows who killed him, she debated killing him for a long time. Her little sister, Maria Adele, was the first in many generations to do something else with her career, which meant being a normal child who went to school and liked drawing. She on the other hand, helped mom with the family business. No one would ever suspect a little girl with a pink backpack to sell heroin around Naples. They realised she was perfect for the job when she was caught playing with some bullets on the kitchen floor as a toddler. Her uncle did her homework after school, so she could work. The only thing she did other than that was ballet class, to have an alibi. She met other kids or adults in specific places to sell the same amounts of heroin and get paid. Sometimes, the grown ups would touch her hair and call her beautiful. '*F'o cess, e damm i soldi',* she would respond. It means 'shut your mouth and give me the money'. She learned all her swear words from her uncle.

She had a specific route she followed, she would walk for hours and at the end of the day she would go back to her mom, give her the money and keep a small percentage. Now, we're not talking about a few hundred dollars a day. We're talking good money, money that lasted her a long time, dirty money that paid for her education. That was how her mom was raising her. You get a part of what we make, cause you work. If you work hard, you'll get more. If you disobey, Tarantè… She knew already. There was no escaping. Or so she thought. Truth is, she quite liked that life up until she was 13. Then she really started to understand what being part of a clan meant, and if you're thinking shiny cars, a mansion of a house, parties and sparkly dresses, you're reading the wrong story. I don't know who told you that was what mafia meant, but they're mistaken. She had blood on her hands for the first time when she took revenge for her brother’s death. She was the youngest terrorists Naples had ever seen. Her actions reached the news.

The Camorra is indescribable. It's terrorist attacks to journalists and activists who end up dead on a daily basis, while trying to tell the country how corrupted the south is. It's killing your family members, is constant fight and constant fear. It's wanting to commit crimes from a young age, cause your brother got killed. Knowing the meaning of rage and revenge too soon. And liking it, liking the power, the control, liking that everyone knows when you're walking by, they should keep their eyes on the ground. But it's also casualties, civilians getting killed by mistake and being able to do absolutely nothing about it. It's not trusting the government and the institutions, it's a parasite that's devouring Italy from the inside out. The Camorra sits at the table with you. There is no justice. No faith.

Arash pressed the red button on her phone and ended the call. 'Get up.' He said. She slowly did as he said, her legs nearly giving out. 'Please…' she murmured and he pressed the gun firmly in the back of her head. 'Shut up!' he screamed, 'How could you?' She realised this was an opportunity. She had to use what she knew about him, she had to use her skills and press his soft spots. If he screamed someone would hear him. He spoke again, still from behind her. 'I should have never brought you that prophecy, I should have known you wouldn't understand'. His voice was filled with sorrow and anger, she could have sworn he was shaking. 'I know, I- ' He cut her off, she didn't feel the gun anymore for a second. He grabbed her arm and turned her around, she suppressed a scream at the sudden gesture. He was waving the gun in the air while speaking, taking a step towards her and caging her between his body and the table. 'Shut up! You know nothing!' She had to make him scream again, 'You betrayed me Jude, you fucking sold me to them!' She tried to look apologetic and focus on his face and not the gun he was frantically shaking in the air. She felt guilty. Not only because she was about to die, but because he was right. 'I didn't know what to do…' she tried, and that only made him more furious. He didn't respond, only shut her up one more time. He grabbed her by the shoulder shoving her away from the desk. 'You did the wrong thing.'

She tried to protest but his grip was firm. He opened the door of the office and peeked in the corridor. He grabbed her arm and hid the gun in his belt. One hand on her arm one around the back of her neck. She twisted her shoulders in pain, feeling his grip tighten, he was pulling her hair and practically dragging her by the neck. She whimpered in pain, he urged her to shut up. They walked in the direction of the main exit, then they started to see people. Soldiers, pilots. She heard him cuss under his breath and she thought about screaming. She should have shouted, she should have called for help. Arash grabbed his gun and forced her to turn around towards the stairs. She felt the gun press on her side before she could say anything. 'Walk' he urged. He wrapped an arm around her to hide the gun between their bodies. Her arms were stiff at her sides. 'I'll tell them to let him go.' She murmured. 'I'll call them and tell them it was a mistake and to let him go.' They climbed the stairs, at this point she didn't know where he was taking her. 'Fucking shut up!' he said again, louder this time. He threw her on the stairs. She felt a sting of pain vibrate over her whole body, she fell face down, her knees on the concrete of the stairs. He quickly grabbed her again, she felt like he could rip her hair from her scalp. They reached the fourth floor, she realised that was where Laswell's office was. He's gonna kill us both.

He was speaking Farsi by that point, he was reciting what sounded like a prayer. He pushed her in from of Kate's office, knocking on the door. No one answered. When he knocked again she realised he was getting mad, looking around nervously to see if anyone was coming, sweat forming on his forehead. He suddenly cursed out loud and took a step back. He shot the lock to open the door, she screamed at the noise, someone fucking hear me please. He pushed her inside so hard she fell. She felt pathetic. She had to fight. She quickly rose to her feet and took cover behind Laswell's desk. The room was dark, the blinds closed. She looked at him like a deer in headlights from behind the desk, looking for something, anything. Concealed weapon, a fucking paper clip. She felt Arash's shadow on her from the other side of the desk, which made her take a few steps back. I need more time. 'How did you know it was me?' she asked. Her throat was dry, her hand slightly shaking. Make him pity you. 'I heard you on radio.' He answered. Simon..? 'You're the reason my people died.' She squinted her eyes and shook her head. 'War is the reason your people died.'

'NO!' He raised the gun, holding it with both hands. He was shaking too. She raised her arms in the air, 'It's because you told them, you stupid cunt!' He took a step towards her, she closed her eyes with a whimper of fear. 'You told them, you betrayed me! They would't have found us Jude!' She felt sorrow and regret in his voice, he must have been hurt. She had hurt him, it wasn't just rage and violence, it was because he believed his secret would be safe with her. The gun was close enough to be pressed to her forehead. Just one more step ahead. 'You did this, you deserve to fucking die now…'

She ducked down under the desk when the door flew open and Arash got distracted for a split second. People stepped in and two shots were fired. One landed inside Arash's thigh. One made the window next to her shatter to pieces. The second bullet was aimed exactly at where she had been standing.

notes: I got emotional reading this back!!!

I always get a little tense when I see people writing about mafia bosses and what not, cause they romanticise something that is very real and fucking dangerous in Italy. of course, this is a free space and you can write what you want, I am a true believer in the concept of don't like it, don't read it. but, if you want to know, I will give you what mafia really is in Italy. you can do with this what you want. it's culture, it's new knowledge.

notes: Tarantella is my favourite nickname ever, Tarantè for short. Tarantella is a common group dance in southern Italy, in which women dance with their hair down, some bacchanal thing. The music gets faster and faster. So Tarantella is a nickname for someone who gets mad easily and likes to fight, typical for girls that are not shy and quiet. Also, tarantola, which is the origin of the word means tarantula, the spider. isn't it perfect for Alba, I'm in love.

taglist:

@ghostlythots @sweetfemmefatal @natxpat @chavarriakeren647 @ravenmoore14 @farther-than-pleiades @internallyscreamings @hwromi @atoxicrat @cuti3maddi3 @deafeningkittenblaze @its-celeste @serene-hills @lexidoll12 @poohkie90 @lunatiquess

@warmedbythebody @katzykat @iristhemuse @azkza @keiraslayz @abbyandermine @jennyjencakes @dest-nai @corset-briefs @nutze-kekse @ilytsukiw @b3anspr0ut

@pondsblog @missyouzoe @fallenkitten @bigauthorrascalturkey @bethtay @angelynn-nicole @starluv @stargirlisworld @giyuuslittleslut @impossiblecupcakelight

@rkrivees-blog @ghosts-hoe @kam1snotverysmart @gauky76 @freyjaaasstuff @spicyspicyliving @scottpilgrimvsmyfists @courtney0-0 @shinchanboi @darling006 @my-therapist-hates-me

15 notes · View notes

lledron · 2 years ago

Text

Sauron Mairon Halbrand y Alicent

I always make the joke that Sauron is Aule's daddy's boy and keep it canon. So I have an idea:

AU Where Sauron in human form ends up in Westeros and sees Yvanna. She is Yvanna, she is the wife of dad / Aule. She is mom. And mom is crying. And yes, I'm adding to the theory that Melkor's giant spider is from Lovecrath's universe, so crossovers are possible!

Sauron can't help. Here he is nobody and he has not recovered his powers. He is sickened by the mess, by the Targaryen traditions of marrying each other. Sauron notices that Mama is biting her nails. Mom should be happy and have trees. And mom should pay attention to it and be happy with those creepy trees with faces.

Alicent does not understand who gives her personalized jewelry with the theme of Mother and Maiden. She knows Sauron. "Hello my lady"

Sauron disguises himself as a cat to attend Alicent and Viserys' meetings. He is against Otto's plan, mom is fifteen years old. Fifteen fucking human years.

This can go two ways:

Sauron kills all the dragons because Alicent made a comment that while Syrax is beautiful she would never ride a dragon. Mom is afraid, now I have to protect her, be the man of the house because mom can't be married to another man who isn't dad.

Daemon boasts that he took Alicent's virginity and is killed by Sauron. Mom is from dad.

Sauron manages to find the equivalent of Aule in this world and cheats on the parents.

Alicent is very sure she is ready to have children after stopping Sauron from conquering Middle-earth.

Sauron takes the form of a child. More shenanigans to come, now he has everything he wants, for now.

Alicent and any poor man who is Aule in this universe, congratulations. Their son is a narcissistic sociopath who loves them with all his heart.

In another line, Alicent marries Viserys, but Mairon has not regained his power, so he cannot prevent his mother from being raped.

Sauron discovers that his siblings are nuisances, but they will give Mom more power. Mom is a goddess, a Valar, but also a 15-year-old girl.

So Sauron takes over Aegon, comforts Mum, tells Aegon he's a little shit worse than Curumo and Aegon's first word is shit.

Helena is born. And here she is different. Sauron hated Curumo for stealing Daddy's attention, but he respected Melian. He now has another sister, who is also a woman in a world of shit. But Heleana has magical potential, so he will teach her well. He will teach her to lie, to deceive, to put on makeup.

All of this happens while Sauron takes the form of a little boy so he can stay with the queen alone. Alicent hugs him and hugs from mom feel good. On one hand, Alicent recognizes that Mairon/Sauron has a connection. She loves him, she is his mother in all the universes. But her son is evil and she knows it. But he hasn't proven to be more evil than the other men.

Aemond is born and Sauron throws a tantrum. He doesn't want another brother and hates him as much as he hates Aegon for hogging Mom's attention. Then Daeron is born and Sauron screams because there is so much evil in the world! Criston Cole is horrible, but he makes mom happy. As long as he isn't platonic, Sauron will keep it. Suddenly, Sauron can shapeshift into a dragon. Since he hates Rhaenyra's bastards he plans to play a little prank at Laena's funeral. Nothing to go wrong. He just needs Aemond's help. Aemond claims a dragon and that dragon leads everyone to see Rhaenyra doing it with his uncle.

And shit breaks loose. Aemond is happy to have a dragon, the Velarions are angry, and Laenor calls for a duel against Daemon for his sister's honor.

Laenor wins and kills Daemon. Rhaenyra will go on trial for being an adulteress and Harwin will be her champion. Then Criston Cole kicks Harwin's ass. Heleana uses her magic to make Rhaenyra admit the truth about her bastards. Alicent rebukes Sauron because now there is a political mess and because his brother thought he had a dragon. "It was just a joke, mom, I didn't know it would go this far," she says with puppy dog eyes.

#the rings of power #sauron #mairon #halbrand #alicent hightower #alicent x criston #aule valar #yavanna kementari #aemond targaryen #aegon ii targaryen #heleana targaryen #melian the maia #curumo #anti daemon targaryen #anti daemon x rhaenyra #team green

19 notes · View notes

blacktooth-the-comic · 4 months ago

Text

"Andrew, you hussy!" -- and other alternate timeline delusions.

Pictured: an MS Paint JPEG of a simplified human figure carefully slapping red car paint on the gnarly horrorclaws of a huge fuckoff lusus. The lusus is styled after the freshwater alligator snapping turtle, a reptile and known child-biter native to Pottowatomi territories. Content Warnings for discussions of racism, hate crimes, assault, sexual abuse, harm to minors, and animal death. May or may not mention the gun we stole from that bodyguard.

♦

Your name is AMME, as of writing you are NEARLY FORTY GODDAMN YEARS OLD, and when you were a kid you were bit on the head by a snapping turtle.

You were bit on the head by a snapping turtle that you had grabbed to pull you to shore, after your sister's rapists decided against the 'homo' act of assaulting a four-year old boy and threw you into the deep pond to drown.

You had used empty beer bottles and cans to float as far as you could, before those slipped from your cold fingers and you sank, and sank, right to the murky bottom of the turtle's conservation pond, happening upon the hill of his shell in your crawling quest for higher ground.

The people responsible for trashing the pond considered themselves pure of blood and native to these lands, and spoke amongst themselves about the destruction the white man brings, unaware that your sister, aged six, and you shared a halfnative father. Your sister was lily white, blonde with blue eyes; and her teenaged attackers weren't much darker but considered themselves righteously beleaguered (and were also smoking a lot of meth).

This is a true story. Unfortunately, this is a true story. This story, which is true, had to be rewritten by journalists and popular culture in order to avoid riling North America's white supremacy terrorists; my sister rewritten to be a black girl, our attackers rewritten to be white.

"That's the plotline to 'A River Runs Through It'," your friend BILL argues mildly one night, while you are regaling this very real and true thing that goddamn happened to your family.

"I KNOW, SHUTUP," you sputter. Allegedly, your dad went to school with the idiot who would hire himself out to Hollywood by the stage name Matthew McConahaugey, or however the fuck that's spelt. There's a popculture through-line haunting the heels of your reality, outstanding tragedies and escalated ironies the likes of which could make any other Hapsburg cousin blush with jealousy.

When you were four, and your baby brother was not yet born, you and your sister were walking a familiar nightly trek, back from a party to the shack in the woods that your poor mother could barely afford to house you all in. Because of the blood ties your father could claim to an indigenous nation, you and your sister qualified for north america's shittiest healthcare and weakest nutrition, besides being housed in a mouse-infested shack with open dirt cellars shoveling mold toxins through your tiny nostrils every night.

Not even counting the extra vulnerability to stalking, kidnap and rape; known dangers to Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women (but a vulnerability anyone below a certain tax bracket would share).

Your mom, see, was a polish-catholic whitey; a sparkling blue-eyed autistic fortunate enough to have grown up in the bounty of the valley farms and woodland resourcing culture. She knew how to hunt and butcher and cure hides, how to fish and garden and ferment, a high bohemian prize in the smalltown wash of second-wave feministique and burgeoning 1980s materialism.

Your father was a golden child to his family and tribe, a football star and upright soldier, vaulted either despite of, or because of, his thick blonde hair and pale green eyes, and the dimples he would pass on to you.

Your uncles through your father were as dark as you, black hair that browned in the fields and snowpelt complexions that darkened and waned with the seasonal labor's exposure to northern continental sunlight.

The teenaged boys who attacked you and your sister the night of the turtlebite were close friends of your youngest uncle; but only knew you and your sister as the children of your white mother -- the fact that it was your dad, the town golden boy, who married a daughter from the untouchable polish clan of quiet academics and violently catholic snobbery, the fact was never absorbed by the brains of these reservation sons, brains soaked in weed, amphetamines, and liquor.

Brains bruised by poverty, generational trauma, and colonialist rape culture.

These teenaged child-rapists only knew that your mother was white, her family owned land, and your uncle, their friend, would not miss either of you for spoiling his free time with unpaid child-minding. That uncle, see, was dating and would later marry your mother's sister, your aunt, and of that union these teenaged boys assumed you and your sister's presence at the reserve; that you were the both of you "white trash", castoffs from a catholic community that was only mad at your mother over her recent divorce, rending you both parasites to your uncle's dating life, resource-greedy clingers-on there to appropriate native culture and displace native children from academia.

These teenaged child-rapists did not, or could not, understand the town golden boy was your father; because your father was on military contract and like, couldn't fucking leave to chase his battered runaway wife? Probably something like that.

"This is where Danny Glover comes in," Bill tells his wife, who is listening to you with an expression of extreme autistic discomfort.

"I still don't fucking know if any of this is real or true," you disclaim, reasonably. "Lotta head injury, all my life. Lots of bad Wipipo medsin." You wiggle your fingers at your roomy, who lifts her eyebrows in her best attempt not to look terrified.

So when your mom was still married to your dad, your dad was stationed at an army base several borders away from the hometown that they shared. As her growing family needed the money, and her ravenous brains needed the enrichment, your mom took up a job as secretary to one of your dad's superior officers.

This dude looked exactly like Danny Glover, or was Danny Glover or just sounded like Danny Glover, or you made the connection between this guy and Danny Glover for his involvement in the movie 'a river runs through it', which your mom had bade you and your sister watch when you were eleven or so (and you don't know much now, as an adult, except that delusions of fame and connection can be inheritable).

"I want to hear about the Harry Potter connection," Bill's mean wife insists, several tax brackets more fortunate than you and somehow leagues unhappier for't.

"And the time I cried snot all over Lily Gladstone," you agree, waving that she shut the fuck up. "There is no ethical storytelling under capitalism, and I still don't even think any of this is true, so let's just stay chronological m'kay?"

The night your sister was raped was recounted too many times in the tones of your victory over the snapping turtle; the night your sister was raped was rewritten before her very witness, over and over, as your turtlefight took precedence for family pride. Your sister would grow up suffering extreme paranoia of brown and mestizo people, her connection to tribal support severed, her connection to catholic support non-existent but for her victimhood pricking at the wells of roman grandparent pity.

Your sister's rape was inescapable in the family lorekeeping, and ruined connections to both sides of your entire family with guilt, shame, fear, rage. Disgust.

Your sister would suffer from impulse control disorders and violent outbursts; she would grow insanely jealous of you and for you, would obsess over imaginary wrongs and plot grand criminal schemes of theft and murder, and would eventually grow to be a child-rapist herself after her failure to murder you, shaded under the harrowing impression that nobody cared, really, when kids got raped.

Especially nobody cared when a white kid got raped, because harmony between the skincolors mattered more to the adults in our life than did the actual truth of extremist rhetorics and which communities were vulnerable to nationalist recruitment tactics. Nobody cared when a boy got raped, either, because the homosexual community was not to be besmirched by over-achieving vigilantes. And especially nobody cared when a mixed race child got raped, either side of the family reluctant to confide in the other, suspicions and blame worsened between clans, adults blind to the actual foundation of acts of sadism like sexual violence against kids; adults blind to what, exactly, narratives of power were going to convince the powerless about.

Kids were just supposed to live past their rapes, shrug and move on, sell their labor to capitalism and maybe squeeze a few more worker bees out of a vagina (theirs or someone else's, and this was marketed to us as the standard for happiness, highest proof of recovery).

The natives invoked Bikilimbas and lost a rapist or two to gunfire; but the Catholics only badgered that your sister and you forgive her attackers, a monstrous burden to place on a child and an act that was more than a little responsible for your mother's turn to 'Alternative Medicine' for your counseling and recovery.

In the eighties and nineties, see, it was vogue to heinously abuse autistic and traumatized children in the name of curing their behaviors, nevermind their actual peace of mind or feelings of security. Your sister was a chronic masturbator, her brain starved for dopamine and her violated little body in need of reclamation over its parts, and she was also a fantastical liar, spiritual fanatic, pagan posterchild pupiled to poisonous potionbrewing.

Perhaps inevitably, your sister would turn to physical and sexual violence as an avenue of reassurance; acts of sadism to dispel her existential despair, power trips to regain power by. Her situation wasn't helped by the cowardice and vanity of the father you shared, his constant angling for financial compensation from your existence (kids are expensive), nor his brush with labor trafficking and consequent convictions for things like embezzlement, intimidation, slumlordery and homeopathic grifting.

Well before the tribe didn't want your father, though, your father didn't want his tribe.

"We aren't pottowatomi," you tangent, quoting a demented old auntie who could have been lying through her blackened teeth. "We're from one of the 'uncivilized' tribes, so-named for their willingness to sully white bloodlines with brown, or curse brown bloodlines with white, or whatever." Every whitey in the room looks like they want to question that, but it's Your Fucking Turn To Speak. "Like, it was considered chill for natives to marry black slaves, but tribal leaders and colonialists both agreed that mixing marriage with ze jermins or whomever else european peasant there to do a landgrab; like, they thought that was gross? Terribly, there was an entire, specifically german, movement that considered indigenous races as pure as the white race (or aryan or however that shit went) and, much like some movements in asiatic immigrants the same, thought the mixing of two pure races was, like, fine? So whatever; Maiyami didn't get federal recognition but the reason was mostly because we hella goddamn integrated. Mostly with the jewish, and the french."

To Bill's wife, you clarify, "Been here the whole time, bitch!"

She frowns so hard you think her jaw is going to fall off.

Before or maybe after the turtle bite (you broke a beer bottle open on a rock, head still lodged firmly in that huge fuckoff turtle's maw, and stabbed at the eyes of the thing before shoving your flotation-branch down its spiny throat. The feds would find the turtle dead on your crime scene walkthrough, and lie to you that it was gunfire to end the thing's life, to ease your tiny baby environmentalist guilt.) -- but BEFORE or maybe AFTER the turtle, there was THE OWL.

You met the owl well before your sister's rape, a melanistic horned beast swooping through the station wagon's broad open windows to snatch at your mother's mouseback coinpurse, a brush of feathers across the summer night's driving sweat, your sister asleep in your lap and upset she missed the encounter (your mother hysterical and cussing god).

Probably after the rape, when you forgot many things from the scare of it all and nevermind the pondscum encephalitis (and nevermind the harry potter scar, or the concussive bite force of an alligator snapper vs soft little toddler head), was when you met Blackie the Owl in proper, when you were playing with the field mice your mother warned you not to feed.

From the mouse traps, your mother's chore was often to toss the dead mice to the swamp cats to sustain their company, feeding sometimes the kinds of birds to favor mouseflesh too, though Blackie preferred hers still living and was confident enough to snatch anything from the kids that played in her woods, fuzzy hair accessories and barbie doll heads all fair game to line her nest with.

The story is told that you were holding a gerbil, not a field mouse, aloft the day Blackie cursed you with skinwalking talents. The gerbil had been a gift to foster your love of field mice toward something less prone to rabies, and you were holding him up to get some sunlight, you lying on your back in the cool clover and protecting your fingers from angery gerbilbites by carrying him around on a bedpillow instead of in your grasp.

Pillow held above your face to shade you from the noontide sun, suddenly the pillow was shoved down atop you, elbows collapsing with a laugh because your sister would sometimes do this, start pillowfights and attempt to smother you. When you manage to bench-press the pillow off your face, though, you see naught but a pair of dragon talons balled up in the fabric, a head with the ears of a black cat with one long, fucked-up tooth stabbing down at your poor gerbil sacrifice.

They caught the footage on your landlord's security camera, you strong-arming the pillow carefully over your face so you could wiggle out from under the cat-dragon and buckflip yourself upright ninja-style, recognizing Blackie's wings but having no four-year-old's idea of just what the fuck an owl is supposed to look like up close.

"Cat dragon," you insist to your mother at the kitchen sink, ashen. You don't have a lot of words for a lot of things, and your favorite reading material is the chinese zodiac on the restaurant placemats.

"The what-scar?" Bill's mean wife interrupts, hungry to see her fandom represented at last.

"Oh, yeah," you say, laughing. "You know how JK Rowling was in amnesty international? Yeah, so was an aunt of mine. I knew Rowling as 'JoAnne Fabrics', the name of a local textile outlet, but THAT's another story."

"The original Harry Potter is also the original Dave Strider, and no I will not elaborate," your roommate quotes, looking ill now. A YouTube personality said that, once, and you aspirated your drink right there in front of her, and she didn't understand why at the time.

You nod. This story, this very true and actual real thing you're pretty sure actually happened --

This story is about Homestuck.

Specifically, this story is about Andrew Hussie's struggle with racism, his connection to your sister('s group therapy of similarly traumatised children striving to appease the normalcy-starved adults in their lives).

You say, "I knew Andrew Hussie as Drew Hussar, to distinguish him from Andy [redacted], my cousin. But then again -- a common name, Andrew Hussie, and we might have only been reading Homestuck and clowning on the forums, not necessarily in an active friendship with him or his."

Your buddy Bill nods, looking relieved to hear your measured acknowledgement of probably realities. You agree, this is all just too fantastic to be any kind of true, at least forgiving that you are hilariously faceblind and struggle with associative pattern-finding.

Maybe you're just from another timeline, displaced by all the beatings, stabbings, and poisonings your sister raised against you, her high functioning intelligence and eventual academic and financial stability won at the cost of your safety, your ability to make connections with other people, your confidence. In preteen and teenaged years your sister would set you up to get raped, repeatedly, and the both of you understanding this as just a facet of reality, a Spy vs Spy game risking nothing but catholic ideals on virginity.

Of course you just wanted your sister to make friends with other people, so she could leave you the hell alone. Of course your sister always wanted to share you with her friends, until the jealousy kicked in to get you murdered; so you learned to swerve these social connections early, and often.

'Anti-social' your family would joke of your reluctance to party.

You were very social, actually, and suffering extreme depression from the isolation, but okay. Family could joke, it wasn't them that got raped by indigenous supremacists. And you did party with your sister on her invites, which sometimes ended in serious injury to others bordering second-degree murder. Accidentally. Allegedly.

But you're pretty sure you were in the company of the origins of the homestuck character beats, you and one of your fellow rape survivors (from your sister's therapy group, and from a few hometown incidents you yourself had the privilege to survive). You remember your sister violently upset by the name "Dick Strider", and you remember explaining that your handwriting had not yet recovered from your most recent hospitalization, that the name was "Dirk', that it meant sword.

You chose Dave Strider after Dave-the-army-buddy you used to tail around the base, mistaking his mustache for your dad's. And Strider after the dude in the Hobbit cartoon, and Dirk because you, Amme, and your sister and your newly born brother all had four-letter names, a delicious joke about cussing you didn't yet have the words to define.

You are way beyond age four when this all goes down, of course, it's just that the head injuries... Nothing doesn't ever stop keep happening, time is a flat circle, and you warned him about the fucking stairs, bro.

Being a taurus to the colonial zodiac, and being in a wheelchair at the time, you somewhat fancy yourself the original tavros, your personality just as malleable and digimon-obsessed, even if you also ranted like karkat (carket, actually, like the demand to Cork It, and named after your love of cars and ketamine).

Perhaps somewhere in this hazy recollection of camaraderie amongst defectives is a lost cousin or two, a monied benefactor to fund you all, some happiness and intelligence and helpful distraction. You remember feeding your friend's ant farm something from the back yard, a moth or dead bee or such, accidentally infecting the colony with cordyceps fungi, and scrambling to turn the tragedy into story fuel because hey, at least the ants weren't raped by their uncle's friends (and let that be a lesson about closed ecosystems and building immunities anyway; no sense in living life as an ant if they're going to live and die behind featureless, sterile glass).

You remember confessing to your aspirations to have twelve children exactly; not for any heteronormative aspiration for large family or tradition or whatever, but because you wanted one of each zodiac, to run tests on and see if the personality traits, strengths and flaws really were all that accurate if you simply never taught those kids about western zodiac. There was an entire other half of the world, after all, who based personality shortcuts on a completely different calendar, and most days you felt way more tiger-ish than bull.

You remember a lot, just not if any of it is real. The way everyone around you behaved, you're scared to know which. If these delusions and connections were true, then it was also true that your sister was routinely drugging you to treat your 'social anxiety', and eventually was routinely pimping you out to friends and contacts in ever-worse grabs for connection to fame and success.

If any of this is true, then maybe all of it could be true; Danny Glover sexually harassing your mom, terrorising your entire family for the sake of his own bruised pride over your mom's rejection of his advances; a skit that Dave Chappelle would one day freeze your entire stomach with, the punchline being that your mom wore a squirrel-fur coat and was a money-chaser, and that Chappelle's character was only merely 'petty', and gleeful in his bloat of wealth and fame while the hometown beauty despaired of her humble life.

In reality, your mother chose honesty and peace before she ever chose money or fame; and the only n-word you ever dropped was landed at the loafers of your mother's abuser, and the only reason you ever dropped it was specific to the understanding that the word was harmful; because you legit had and have black family, and would have in your early life known the vagaries of casual racism.

In reality, your mother was harangued by this black dude several leagues wealthier and more powerful than she; and he was a conservative christian too, an admission that would cement your judgement against all who would claim similar, if conservative christianity meant grownass COs physically cornering your mother, right in front of you, to sexually intimidate her and curse her for a racist when she preferred to stay faithful to her marriage.

The divorce with your dad, see, was because your dad did not stick up for your mom when she was being sexually harassed on that army base way back when. Your dad even suggested that your mom simply sleep around with whomever asked, a longstanding workingclass trope and expectation of new mothers trying to secure gainful employment.

And Drew the Hussar (corsair, like a pirate, yeah hussie doesn't mean sexually avid so much as it's like, idk, some european shit? like how gary is actually the name of a type of gardening tool or primitive farming tech or some damn thing).

You are maybe eight or nine years old when you David yourself a Goliath, and land yourself in the hospital with a spinal injury about it all; and you have no regrets about the attack nor the n-bomb, except for the attention that your bravery draws from the town. White supremacy attentions, like. And second-gen Welsh and Irish catholics very easily racist, themselves, having little enough heritage to slave ownership and more than enough historical victimhood under the same colonialist royalty to plague american shores!

So like, your family's pain was always under pressure by the recruitment tactics of extremists looking for a righteous cause to do violence over. Your mother was never racist, never a liar, and never crazy -- not until her abusers found it more useful that she be thus, that the judicial system continue to favor the comfort of the higher tax brackets, and that malignant narcissists stay unchallenged by a world that also expected its children to remain civil in the face of extreme injustice.

And the fact that you dropped the n-word mattered more to your father than did the assault and harassment metered out against your mother, by the Danny Glover lookalike.

But you're not an idiot, and you know the uselessness of prejudice as just like a pattern-finding pitfall. It was bad logic, was racism, and it was bad logic to blame your pursuit of justice on the sin of Wrath, so neither the natives nor the catholics had solved the problem of the wealthy preying on the vulnerable poor.

Your mother bonded with JoAnne Rowling over their shared victimisation, and told the british interloper your entire history. JK Rowling, see, ... well, that story is on Twitter, under the name Professor Blacktooth, probably.

This story is about being homestuck, and probably also a child soldier, and probably also a vengeful Owl Spirit defending its ha'nativ babies through the calculated violence of a terrorised child.

You are maybe eleven, or twelve, or thirteen for the halloween party where you crack the joke "Andrew, you hussie!", because your best friend who-was-a-girl had a crush on the tallest cousin at the house, and he wasn't even your cousin but only shared a name with him, and that cousin had to move to Argentina besides, which sounds fake as hell, so either way you don't want to date the only Drew at that party, and not just because your friend who-was-a-girl liked him but also because You Are A Dude.

You were a dude with a documented circulation problem, even, and was stoned enough to cuddle with anything that sat still long enough to lend you their body heat, and Drew was cousin-shaped and thirteen wasn't too old to stop cuddling your cousins, and really only white people had that bad habit of sexualising kids and teens cuddling anyway, while the rest of the poors chose to live with the practical realities of heating costs, and halloween costumes with no fukken layers.

And yeah, okay, so you were cuddling The Tallest Girl At The Party and it was in the top bunk bed, because Drew was wearing a wig and you thought it was funny to hit on him, and you had a bad back from your storied history of stabbing evil chumps, plural, and you almost always wanted to just Go Lay Down Somewhere Quiet, and you the both of you shared migraines and social anxiety, and you might have wished out loud that Drew was a girl or at least shorter than you right before your friend-who-was-a-girl came into the room to try and make out with her crush, only to be crushed to discover you yourself canoodling in a bed making the tallest girl at the party turn several shades of red.

And here's what you remember, of the time you nearly lost your eyeball (it was dangling down your cheek, the world in cockeyed split screen); or maybe this was the injury set from the time that paparazzo hit you with his car princess-diana style, or that other time the town pedophile hit you with his car in an attempted excuse to 'drive you to the hospital' (to somewhere secluded, more likely), or maybe this was the injury where your sister clubbed you over the head with a decorative old wrench, and you played possum in that driveway so long that your blood glued your long warrior's hair to the gravel in the settling frost.

You remember either Drew or some cousin, or one of your wealthier guests, was colorblind, and so your bloodshot eyeball looked not red, but black to them, and the green eyes of your fishbelly maiyami heritage looked only to this person as a very pale grey, nearly white the whole way through, though they could still register the flecks of gold and gosh, didn't you just have the prettiest eyes in the joint?

And wasn't it true, that the only cousins in that house were merely your cousins through your mother's second marriage, and your babies likely unflippered?

And you remember your sister constantly trying to set you up with one paramour or another, despite your highly autistic asexuality and preference toward intellectual and creative pursuits (and god bluss lady gaga, anyway, for explaining to a magazine how sexual relationships usurp creativity).

At that Halloween party, you remember this entire cultural mountain of pressure to 'be normal', to recover from your several encounters with horrorshow monsters in full, which meant an average interest in sex; and you remember not being afraid, at all, to do as your sister encouraged, knowing full well that being young was for making mistakes, and that none of these relationships were supposed to matter by the time you were an adult.

♦

"So that's it?" Bill's mean wife says, sitting back with crossed arms and a jaw set against compassion.

"This is, like, a mysteriously numbered repeat attempt to communicate all of this," you answer, hurt. "I keep forgetting shit. Remembering shit. Drinking to forget shit. I accidentally joined the army, completely unawares I had an entire medical file, psych record, AND TRAIL OF JUDICIAL PAPERWORK behind my entire twenty six years of life to disqualify me, not to mention a cadre of completely alarming health upsets whose origins are sometimes a mystery to me, which comes off as I'm either a hypochondriac and malingerer, or stubborn idiot refusing to acknowledge his limits."

You flap your arms penguin-style. "I do know that I am... pathologically honest, though, and not at all lying or exaggerating about the concussions and memory losses and whatnot, and if it suits your comfort to toss delusion or schizophrenia atop all of that then I ain't gonna squawk. I just wanted to share with my friends that, well, yeah I Had Opportunities and still chose to leave them behind with my sister's social circles, because of all the --"

"All the rapes, yeah," Bill helps, helpfully, nodding and sorry in the eyes.

It matters that Bill is white and has black family, too. It matters that Andrew Hussie's early comics were kinda hella raycist.

"All the associative memories," I explain. "And from experience, my sister was never going to change, around me. I'm her trigger. I'm her reminder of the unfairness of the world, her treasure and her curse, her supporting witness and her amnesiatic disbeliever. And she's my Bro Strider, hypersexual and violent, jealously hoarding me inside of a shitty apartment under the guise of safety but really just to monopolize my loyalty, and sell footage of me to creeps online, if we had things like webcams and internet growing up. Which we didn't. On account of the poverty."

"Kinda feel like poverty isn't what made your sister ... do. Everything that she did." Your roomy adds, still on your side despite the stress of uncertainty hovering around all these fantastic claims and possibly misremembered spikes of trauma.

This is your conclusion for this post on tumblr dot com, in the hopes that you aren't fruitlessly scaring the bejeezus out of an innocent webcomic author;

"Generational poverty stole our family early to their graves, left many of us languishing in monotony and pain, starved us and saw our babies born dead. Poisoned us when our economic superiors polluted our lands, denied us access to critical infrastructure, stole our children away, *legally* displaced these kids to white schools and churches that murdered them. My grandma was sterilised by an evil ladyparts doctor, my uncle born with disabilites from a syphillitic infection that the army had given to my grandpa with reused blood-draw needles.

"And," you continue, cold with nausea. "And any possible brown or black ally I could ever have in this country, is going to see my vitiligo and cast judgement."

"YOU DO NOT HAVE VITILIGO, YOU JUST HEARD THAT FROM MICHEAL JACKSON," Bill's shitty wife explodes, repeating an old elementary school taunt.

You argue in a drawl, "Auto-immune disorders triggered by heinous amounts of childhood stress, hey, those existed way long before the celebrities were around to 'raise awareness', but thanks for participating. Mypipo called it the moon's curse, and nicknamed me Pony for the palomino spotting, but y'all going to stay sexist and assume the moon curse is about menstruation and the pony nickname was a sexual innuendo, cos white people fucking suck." This examples the rapid-fire lacony that inspired dave strider's deadpan delivery, his 'cool' in actuality an irrefutable depression, his brother dead through most of the webcomic because truths came to light about your sister's psychopathy and she got roundly excluded from many of the projects she had roped you into.

But the conclusion is thus, as you finger-guns at your roomy and moonwalk out of the small kitchen you're all hotboxing to save on product, "No war but class war, babes."

#hamsteaks #homestuck #blacktooth comics #blacktooth articles #child abuse #abuse survivor #trauma #complex ptsd #tw: bummer #racism #racial violence #rape #MMIW #patriarchy #rape culture #homeopathy #homeopathic grifters #abuse of autistic minors

1 note · View note

theuniverseawakens347 · 5 months ago

Text

Hi my name is Taylor cows•hay… it’s pronounced

IM A FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT FRIEND AND PERSON I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT NOTHING … BUT PRETEND TO BE THE MASTER OF ALL THINGS.

I SELL MY MAN PUSSY CAUSE I HAD A DICK CHOPPED OFF IN HIGH SCHOOL.. TO THE WHITE HOUSE WOMEN THINKING IM SO COOL WOTH DOUGH AND SANDRA BERGERON … THEY HAVE POLITCAL “control” AND MADE ME AN ACCOUNTING IN LAW … SO I THIUGHT I WAS PROTECTED FROM CORINE … AND IMANI … but little jesabell and I fell out with the volleyball girls who wanted to be cashay’s THE REAL ADONDI FRIEND… they’re black isrealites but white and I couldn’t comprehend cause me and shortinnumber two are racist. That’s why I killed cashay to hide Ian’s dead body w Aja I LICKED HER BUTT MILES…

Ew bitch … - cashay

But like me as Taylor I shud have stopped when cashay talked about the moon and her period bc I wondering about my period and then BOOM she hit me.. same w Austin wondering about the moon bc we read her blog and didn’t know if our cycle would match up to mother earths light … and it did so now we think we’re witches

But really just finding it the hard way …

YOURE MY FUCKING DEATH PETS STUPIC ASS MIA TAYLOR POSING AS IMANI INTERESTING TO DO FUCK SHIT IN MY NAME JUN 29 2021 YA TAKE PHONE PHOTO SHOOT LIKE ME THINKING YOU CUTE W BOBS BURGER GENE NOSE HUH WILL SMITH MASH UP..

JULIAN UGLY COUNTER PART…

FUCKTARD AJA .. REALLY DUMBASS AMBER .., “I read ur blog and just lost my shit “ FUCK YOU I WAS ALWAYS NICE UR SISTER IS A PATHALOGICAL PIECE IF SHIT LIAR NEVER SAID I WOULD KILL YOU THATS HOW SHE FEELS ABOUT THE WHOLE FAMILY W JENE INCLIDED YOU DUMBASS - Jeff MY FATHER HUSBAND.

DIS WHAT YOU DUMBASS JEALOU BITCHES WANTED

- BURNBOOK…

JADE FISH LIPS DEATH PET MEGAN DIVINE LIVING ON ME BRAZILIAN CPN CUNT .. THAT FORD EDGE MY ADOPTIVE MOM GOT YOU FOR SELLING YA BROTHERS NUDES N FUCKING HIM .. MY GUIDES UR NASTY ASS MAN ARMS .. UR FUCKING PIECE OF RACIAT SHIT YOU WHITE BITCH,

BLAKR WHITE MAN PEEN CHOP - JORDAN HATES YOU … U FUCKED CAMERON BEFORE HALLOWEEN WHEN I SLEPT OVER AND HE RAPED ME THAT NIGHT … UR NASTY ASS BUNNY I KILT INTERESTING PEANUT BUTTER FEED TO ANIMAL THEN YOU LICK SPOON RIGHT AFTER AIDS SPREADING DIRTY BITCH .. Jordans ur good …

ANYWAYS ALL YOU HOES HAVE NOOOOOOO MALE OR FEMALE PROTECTION YA DONT WVEN TRUST EACH OTHER YOU DUMB FUCKS.

Tf WERE YOU THINKING,..

CLEARLY no.

👊

BOXING RING OR SHOOT OUT - Jeff miles / Harrell tribe into district boys zone - OH GUCCI BITCH ASS UNCLE NIGGA ILL SLAP A PUSSY NIGGA TOO THATS ON MY MAMA NIGGA .. she gotta jump I’ll reach to postal whip ya CUNT.

1 note · View note

bisexual-problem · 1 year ago

Text

I have a story about my family that I want to share, but it's so sad, and I live in the shadow of it and will for the rest of my life. All of these facts are true. Putting it under a cut, as it's long and contains child rape, incest, and domestic violence.

My grandfather was an exceptional person. The youngest child of 12 kids, he was thrown in the fireplace by his father when he was born and his mother had to jump out of her bed after giving birth to save him. This was 1932 in West Virginia. After 6th grade, he stopped going to school and became a mason, specializing in laying brick. I remember his thumbs were flat and his hands were rock hard from it.

When he was 14, he knew a 12 year old girl that was being passed around by patrons at a local bar, her parents would sell her to customers for extra cash, very hush hush. He told my mom years later that he once saw her skipping stones on the river and they looked at each other and fell in love. He burned that bar down to the ground and they ran away together some years later. But she wasn't a princess or a lady, she would jump at touching, sleep in corners on the dirt floor, and scream herself awake at night. She was my grandfathers first wife, and last love.

I don't know if that experience with that poor woman made him desire children, I don't know if it was nature or nurture, but when he was 27, he began a physical relationship with my grandma who was 16. Very shortly after, my mom was born even after my grear-grandmother pushed my grandmother down the stairs and beat her to try to abort my mom. My grandmother was a rejecting, emotionally immature parent, and it permanently harmed all five of her children for life. And while my mom, aunts and uncles were begging for love from her, my grandfather was physically and psychologically abusive as well. I'm glad I didn't know him then, he was said to have a switch that I only saw flipped a few times when he would shoot guns in the house at my uncles or aunts. Thinking about it, several of the homes I grew up in had bullet holes in them.

He molested my mom the second she started her first period. I think she was maybe 9 or 10 at the most. My mom is so short and so small as a person, even as an adult she's barely 5 feet tall, and wears a shoe size 5 and a half. I have cried myself to sleep thinking of how terrorized my mom was for years and years. She told me that she accepted it and martyred herself for her younger sisters.

'I thought that if it was just me, it was okay, as long as he didn't touch them, but he did and I only found out about it 2 or 3 months after I got married. I got a call from [one of them] crying and sobbing because I had abandoned them in that house and our collected pain. I drove over there and started a screaming match with your Grandma over it. I sceamed and screamed that she let this happen and never protected us or even loved us and she said we were never molested and that she could never love any of us and then shortly after [the youngest of us] turned 18 some two or three years later, she ran away and never came back."

My mom graduate high school in 1983. She married that year at 18 to a 17 year old mommas boy who raped her in her sleep and forced himself on her. For years and years of extreme child rape, my mom became victim again by a man who was supposed to love her. He said her night terrors were "annoying" and (to this day this hurts mom) he married a gorgeous girl and that's all he cared about her. He didn't want her to get a job despite them meeting at a mutual high school job, and when she asked to go to counseling for their marriage, he said no. So she went for the years of sexual abuse, and when they divorced due to my mothers affair (he was cheating too, but since I was born, it was Her Fault), HIS LAWYER brought up that she was in therapy and got records of her sessions and she lost all custody of my sister and brother. It broke my brother and my sisters heart, my mother was and is such a fantastic, kind, gentle person who has never deserved any of the pain she has gone through. She is the light of my life, and it's only just within the past few years of my mother being free of manipulative, horrible, abusive partners that she can finally work to have them in her life again.

I love my grandpa, and though I didn't really know my grandma, I feel so sad for her life and that they both died incomplete people. Some years ago, when I was in 1st or second grade, my mom and my grandfather had a discussion about the incest. I don't remember much of it, but I remember him crying and begging for forgiveness and mom forgiving him and them both moving past it. The sadistic, horrible person he was in some way was reformed by the freedom he himself sought in breeding fancy fish and farming and building contraptions. He taught me how to shoot a gun at 6, he taught me how electricity worked at 5, he never touched me and loved me like he should have his own daughter. I'm glad my mom got to see that and be a part of it. She is the strongest person I know ans I love her so much.

0 notes

steele-soulmate · 1 year ago

Text

Tattooed Wings, CHAPTER 459, Peter Steele & OFC, Soulmate AU

SUMMARY: Mary Claire Bradley meets her soulmate- literally- the famous Peter Steele of metal group Type O Negative. But will obstacles including trauma, stalkers, and toxic family members get in the way of their life?

WARNING: mentions of child rape (nothing graphic) PTSD, milk kink, soft smut, grinding, assault, fingering, hand jobs, blow jobs, 69, P in V sex, blood, noncon rape, blood, violence, death, vandalism, graffiti, attempted kidnapping, break-ins, wild animal attacks, terrorist attack (sabotage) consensual impregnation, bareback, impregnation kink, creampies, terrorist attacks (shootings) neonatal death

WORDS: 1167

“Knock knock, can I come in?”

I smiled as the unfamiliar woman came into my assigned hospital room, flowers, a teddy and balloons in hand. The older woman had a sweet face and all the hospitality of a southern memaw.

“My name is Blanche- I was the 911 operator that answered when Baby Tommy called for help.”

“Oh hello!” I greeted her with a smile. “My husband will be right back with the kids- they had to run out for a quick errand.”

“Do you mind if I wait?” she asked me, taking a seat when I told her that she could do so. “When are you due?”

“November first,” I hummed, settling my hand over a fidgety Baby Violet Marie.

PUNCH PUNCH KICK KICK PUNCH KICK

“We’re back!” Elizabeth announced just then as she raced to climb up next to me, Elle in her arms. “Hihi mommy! Hihi Baby Violet Marie!”

“Hihi Elizabeth, hihi Elle,” I hummed, pressing motherly kisses to both girls’ foreheads. “Where’s everyone else?”

“Isabelle had to go back to the house,” she told me. “Daddy is coming back up in a minute- he’s talking to a giggling nurse.”

“Ah.” I nodded, knowing just what had my husband’s attention. “What-”

“Hihi sweetheart,” Peter rumbled as he stepped into the room, ducking down to avoid smacking his throat into the doorframe, Katie and Jing on one hip and Baby Tommy and his look alike dollie in his other arm.

“Hihi my love,” I hummed, taking the boys from his and letting Baby Tommy curl into me, placing his itty baby man hand onto his unborn baby sister.

KICK KICK KICK KICK

“My love, this is Blanche,” I introduced her. “She took the call when Baby Tommy called 911.”

“It’s so nice to meet you,” he smiled, sitting down in a chair and putting his leg up on the bed as Katie settled herself in his lap.

“I brought the transmission with me, in case you wanted to listen to it,” she told us as she settled the flowers and balloons off with the rest of the greenhouse that was practically my room and handing Baby Tommy the teddy bear.

911, what’s you emergency?

“Mommy hurt! Baa bee Vii wet Mawie hurt! Hewlp!”

Okay sweetheart, what’s your name?

“Baa bee Tom Tom! Please hewlp!”

Alright sweetie, I’ve dispatched an ambulance crew to your address. How old are you?

“Won.”

You’re one year old? Oh my goodness, what a grown up you’re being! How old is your mommy?

“Old.”

She’s old? Do you know the number?

“I won! You be good now mommy!”

Can you tell me where your mommy is feeling ill?

“I don no! Baa bee Vii wet Mawie kick kick!”

Is Baby Violet Marie in your mommy’s tummy?

“Yes. Pweaze huwwy!”

Alright love, the ambulance crew is a few minutes out. Is your front door unlocked?

“Yes.”

“Hello? Ambulance!”

“Tank ou.”

“What you didn’t hear however was everyone else marveling over how such a young dear knew who to call for help,” Blanche told us as Riley came into the room with a nurse who was pushing a cart with bandages and other such supplies heaped on top.

“Hey hey Uncle Pete and Uncle Pete’s family!” she greeted us with a grin, stepping aside as Blanche said her farewells and left. “Mary Claire, do you want me to change your bandage?”

“Can the kids go find something to do?” I asked, relaxing when the nurse offered to show them the nurses’ station. “Okay.”

Riley smiled kindly at me as she showed Peter how to prep the supplies before she came over and flipped my hospital gown up, tucking the blanket over my exposed bush for privacy.

I was quiet as Peter carefully cared for my battle scar, smearing ointment onto the stitched up scar before wrapping up again with gauze and taping that down. The final act he did was press a sweet kiss to my tummy before fitting the hospital gown back down again. He reached up and gazed his knuckles up against my cheekbone, cooing silently at me.

I just felt so ugly.

Fat.

Unattractive.

Old.

“Hey hey hey there now sweetheart,” Peter frowned, tipping my eyes up to his. “Do you want to talk about whatever unwelcomed thoughts you’re thinking right now?”

I shrugged, wondering just why he was with me- I wasn’t tall, I wasn’t skinny, I didn’t smoke, I couldn’t wear heels…

“Sweetheart…” He sighed heavily before taking to a knee and tugging me to perch on it. “I don’t care that there’s a two foot height difference between the two of us. I don’t care that you have some meat on your bones. I don’t care that you won’t endanger your life to fit a certain unhealthy aesthetic. I don’t care that you’re more comfortable in flat shoes. Okay? I love you just as you are. Never ever doubt how fucking amazing you are. You survived being sexually abused at such a young age. You were a parents to your younger sisters while your abusive parents fucked around. You went to a prestigious college and graduated with an amazing degree. You were a surrogate to two pretty outstanding men and gave birth to a special little girl, while on the toilet. You took in your nieces and loved Bitty before even meeting her. You loved Katie and created a safe place for her when she was taken out of her parent’s custody. You carried our son and are now pregnant with Baby Violet Marie. Never doubt how fucking incredible you are, amazing blueberry of my heart.”

I couldn’t help the emotional tears that came to my eyes at the words which spilled from his lips right before he kissed me, wishing away all negative thoughts with the romantic gesture.

Peter Thomas Ratajczyk was my man, just as how I, Mary Claire Ratajczyk, was his woman.

TAGLISTS ARE OPEN/ ASK BOX IS OPEN/ REQUESTS ARE OPEN/ PLOT BUNNIES ARE WELCOMED

If you liked this, then please consider buying me a coffee HERE It only costs $3!!!

PETER STEELE TAGLIST

@rock-a-noodle

@ch3rry-c01a

#Real person fiction (RPF)#Tattooed Wings #Peter Thomas Ratajczyk #Type O Negative #Vanessa Rose Pickings/ little girl #Special needs baby #Aria Bradley #Evie Bradley #Deaf #American Sign Language (ASL)#Elizabeth Ratajczyk #Alopecia #Thomas Joseph Ratajczyk/ Baby Tommy #Autism #Katie Ratajczyk #Down’s Syndrome #Baby Violet Marie #Neonatal death #Matching tattoos soulmate AU

0 notes

darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 years ago

Text

Hue and Cry X

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape; abuse of power, Lord Grumpy Pants Barnes.

This is dark!medieval!Bucky Barnes x reader and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: You deal with the fall out of Barnes’ loss.

Note: It’s Friday, y’all. I can’t wait to nap tonight.

Thanks to everyone and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

You did not see Lord Barnes before the banquet. Instead, you were escorted directly there by his hound, Rogers. You replaced your cap with a silk hood that matched your gown, gold and white ribbons braided around the trim. Rogers strode with his chin up and chest out, his blonde hair tidier than before and his blue eyes filled with their usual mischief.

The tables filled even as you entered but you did not see your master among the nobles along the dais. Lord Rogers stopped you as you peered around the hall and he glanced up at the king who spoke jovially to his queen and guffawed at another of his lords. The man beside you held his your as he leaned in to whisper in your ear.

“I hate to be the bearer of common sense, I never was adept at it, but you should stay away from your friends from earlier. If you care for yourself, or should I dare to suggest, that boy,” he shrugged nonchalantly, “oh, and this will be my last act of kindness. It makes me queasy.”

He released you and left you by the lower tables. You walked along a bench and sat with your head down. As much as you didn’t trust Rogers, he was right. You had to avoid May and Benjamin for their own sake as much as yours. It didn’t matter that they were friendly and warm, that they were the only light you’d known in the recent darkness, it only mattered that you did not draw them into the same snare which held you.

When the hall was full and raucous, you dared to look up at the high table. There was an odd stirring and you were stunned to see the last people you expected seated along the dais. The Parkers were not among their bearing at the lower tables but up at the king’s side, on his other shoulder, his queen, then his favoured lords, including Barnes who’s arrival had gone unnoticed.

Peter chuckled with King Sam as the older man clapped his shoulder and his uncle and aunt watched proudly. It only made sense, you figured, all alone amid the masses, that he should be given the place of honour for his victory. It made all the more sense that Lord Barnes glowered at the table in resent. Your heart skipped at his expression and you knew you would not go unscathed for his humiliation.

You ducked your head down again and picked at your plate of roasted potatoes and greasy carrots. You weren’t hungry but the wine went down easy and bubbled in your head. You were dizzier with each course and when at last the trestles were cleared and the benches taken away, you stood as the guests once more met on the boards while the band plucked up.

You wobbled to the wall and braced yourself against it as the figures blurred. You heard voices, familiar and strange, and suddenly there was someone before you. You blinked as you stood straight and gave an unsteady bow to the king. He tilted his head and smiled at you as he took your hand gently.

“You are in need of a partner,” he purred as he pulled you from the wall, “might I have the pleasure?”

“Your majesty,” you stared at the silver strands sewn into his overcoat, “it would be my pleasure, truly.”

“Hmm, much preferable to Barnes, of course,” he jibed, “it must be… peculiar. Once you would have poured the wine at these affairs and now… you have the delight of imbibing.” You lowered your lashes guiltily and he laughed, “I do not say that to shame or punish you, lady. Ah, yes, I know that title is not true but if Barnes would raise you to his bed, then I would oblige his indulgence. Besides, you are sweet, far too sweet for him.”

“I only do as he wishes,” you uttered, “nothing more or less.”

“And yet he seems entirely unhappy,” he remarked, “he does torture himself but I should hate to see him do it to another.”

“He did afford me this gown, a seat at this feast, and warm hearth,” you mustered your mask even though it drooped under the weight of the wine in your stomach, “I will not complain.”

“But you could, to me,” he said, “it would not bother me. You have been… maneuvered into a most unusual position. It intrigues me. You intrigue me… not in the same vein as Barnes, mind you, but you possess a grace unknown to many peasants. I admire it.”

“Thank you, your majesty,” you kept your head down as he led you around the floor, “my apologies for my clumsy feet.”

“I did not mean to upset you,” he said, “I hope to… give you strength.”

You looked up at him meekly and winced, “I am not strong. I only do as I am bid, as servants must.”

He thought and nodded to himself. For a moment, his cheer subsided and he sighed. “My wife does recall you from her younger days, vaguely. You must know her relation to your master. Well, she is a good woman, I love her deeply for it. She would allow you a place among her court… should you wish it. Should it keep you busy as Barnes is kept by his own business.”

“I… your majesty, why should she do that?”

“Not upon my suggestion if you suspect that, but she has ever held favour for strays,” he stopped as the tune slowed and flowed into the next, “and she worries for her brother. This is the first she’s seen him since he was… whole.”

You were quiet and smiled at him. You sniffed away the sudden wave of drowsiness as it settled on your shoulders.

“I should return you to him,” Sam said grimly, “I don’t think he should remain much longer at this celebration. He does not see second place as worth the frivolity.”

You let him guide you between the bodies as they parted around him and dancers stilled to bow at him. He said just as much as he left unspoken. The truth was there but none dared to declare it. Pity, that was what he offered; all he could offer.

“Bucky,” King Sam approached the lord who crept along the wall fertively, “you would need a partner before your head implodes from your pouting.”

“Pouting?” he spat back, “I do not… pout.”

The king laughed and held your hand out to the duke. Bucky eyed it and shook his head. Sam huffed and glanced around. “Your sister does await me. She cannot stand to dance with Rogers for very long and I promised her I would not be long. Do not punish the girl for your failings. Perhaps do not look at them as such, for many lost worse than you.”

The king raised your hand to his lips and left you with the courtesy. You stood by Barnes as he avoided looking at you. You didn’t know what to do, you were nervous and drunk. You looked at your skirts and swayed.

“Go, dance with him,” he hissed, “I don’t want you near.”

You raised your head and blanched. Lord Barnes picked at his cuff and grimaced. “I cannot dance as it is,” he lifted his fake arm and dropped it back against his side heavily, “I am… broken.”

“No, no, my lord, that is not--”

“You’ve seen it. You know.” He sneered, “besides, the boy did show how weak I am, truly.”

“My lord--”

“Oh, do not be such a simpering wench,” he pushed away from the wall and grabbed your arm, “can you not do anything for yourself?”

He dragged you through the crowd and you tripped over your slippers as you struggled to keep up. He marched around several couples and stopped to watch Peter as he danced with his aunt. His uncle stood along the wall with a wooden stein and watched. You staggered as Barnes released you sharply and watched the younger man until he noticed him.

“Oh, uh,” Peter stopped and both he and May bowed their heads to the duke, “Lord Barnes,” he held his head up high as his eyes sparkled at the veteran, “I hadn’t the chance to say how honoured I was to face you--”

“Yes, yes,” Barnes waved his words off, “you are a fine fighter. More skilled than most viscounts, they are usually more attune to their plows.”

Peter blinked as if he was trying to figure out the insult. His eyes wandered onto you and his brows drew together in confusion. You felt just as confounded as he let on.

“I was only aiding this… lady, she could not find you,” he lied smoothly, “I have a keen eye and I could not but help a damsel in need.”

“Oh, uh,” Peter smiled, “she is a friend. I was curious where you got to, lady.”

“It has been a long day,” you murmured, “my lord.”

“Well, you must celebrate, yes? She is a pretty girl, you are a young bachelor, it is only natural,” he commented, “the two of you… you should be dancing until the sun rises.”

“I should retire--”

“Nonsense, lady, you were so eager to find him,” Barnes intoned, “do go on. I for one am not much of a dancer anymore,” he gestured to his arm, “easier to face a sparring partner than a dancing partner, yes?”

Peter nodded and gulped. His forehead wrinkled as he considered the older man, “I thank you then, for reuniting us. Again, it was an honour, my lord.”

“An honour for me,” Barnes corrected, “to be bested by such a fine warrior.”

Barnes spun on his heel and left as swiftly as he’d brought you there. You watched after him and stared at the twirling sea of dancers.

“That was… odd,” Peter said quietly.

“I shall go bother your uncle,” May excused herself, “I was worried lady,” she took your hand for a moment as she drew your attention back, “I did not see you since the afternoon.”

“I am well, thank you, I was only swept up in the crowd,” you squeezed her hand and let her go. You turned to Peter as she went and he offered his arm with a crooked grin.

“So?” he asked anxiously.

You gulped and took his arm, unsure of what else to do. You were too afraid to find Barnes and stoke his anger further and just as afraid to disobey him. You knew well enough that even if he insisted upon it, that this dance was a trick on his part. It was as if he was fueling his rage so that he might unleash it upon you in full later.

“You fought well, my lord,” you began the steps, following his lead, “Congratulations.”

“I… am still in disbelief,” he chimed, “but you, I did not know you had such esteemed friends. My uncle said you were acquainted with Lord Rogers of Astrens.”

“We are not close.”

“And Barnes? He’s not very sociable, notably so.”

“Oh? And what concerns you of my acquaintance with him?” you challenged.

“Nothing concerns me but… I don’t know, you say you are the daughter of a baron and yet you associate with dukes? That is a high climb--”

“A reach I did not make upon my own want,” you frowned, “you said we were friends, me and you. I care not for your title, only that you let me stomp your feet. I prefer that to their dukedoms.”

He smiled and cringed, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound envious,” he laughed away his awkwardness, “I only-- I suppose I felt inferior to them.”

“You are better than them. Truly. You showed that today and I tell you, they are tainted by their gold and their lands. They cannot understand others for how much they think of themselves,” you stumbled as the wine stirred in your head.

Peter caught you and kept you from tumbling. You came to face him as his smile remained, “truly, you prefer me?”

“Truly,” you confessed, “I have never known any so--”

Peter was yanked away from you, a hand on his collar as you faltered with the force of it. You stepped back on your heel as he was turned to face Barnes who grasped him tightly by the front of his plain jacket. Peter was almost on his toes as he stared up in shock at the duke.

“Dance all you like, boy,” Barnes growled, “but she is mine…” he leaned in and you did not hear his whisper as Peter went pale and was shoved away.

Barnes released him and stormed out of the hall. Your eyes met Peter’s as he fixed the front of his jacket and he peeked over his shoulder at his aunt and uncle who hadn’t noticed the interruption. Your lip quivered and tears welled in your vision.

“I’m so sorry,” you sobbed, “I didn’t--”

You spun and raced away, blindly brushing by the other guest until you burst out into the cold corridor. You hit the stone wall and gripped it as the tears trickled down your cheeks and you blotted them away with your sleeves. You sniffed and peered down the hallway at the shadow stalking away.

That was only the beginning. Barnes would do all he could to make his will known and you always felt it completely.

#bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes #series #bucky barnes x reader #hue and cry #dark fic #dark!fic #fic #mcu #marvel #captain america #winter soldier #falcon #spider-man #medieval au #medieval!au #au

315 notes · View notes

godofsexdrugsandrocknroll · 4 years ago

Text

Growing Pains

Nala Arc: *Jaune’s sixteen year old daughter with thick blonde hair pulled back in a low pony, blonde cat ears atop her head with her grandfather Ghira’s yellow eyes* --Yes Daddy.

Jaune: *Very seriously* And you’ve got your scroll.

Nala: *Shows it off* Yup.

Jaune: Your purse?

Nala: *Rolls eyes* Duh.

Jaune: And your pepper spray, mace, rape whistle and extra ammo?

Nala: *Sighs* Yes, yes, of course and even if I tried to leave the dust out you’d find a way to smuggle it in anyways, Daddy.

Jaune: *Ignores the sass* Okay, good. Good. And you have--

Nala: *Growing impatient* --Yes, Dad, I have Pride. *Shows off twin automatic pistols in black and gold, connected by a thin gold chain and shifts it into weighted chain form before reshifting and holstering it*

Jaune: Okay, Dormiens Leo?

Nala: *Stomps foot* Dad, c’mon! I’m not taking my freaking sword on my first date!

Jaune: *Hands up, backtracking* Right, yeah, of course sweetpea! *Pauses*

Nala: *Stares at her father cautiously*

Jaune: Are you sure you don’t wanna wear the belt I bought you?

Nala: *Explodes* No! It looks nice, it looks normal, it’s super flippin’ cute but I know you had it custom made, I know it’s a high tech chastity belt that locks as soon as you put it on and only you have the code to it! Besides, I’m not even t-thinking about having that, about having s-sex with Dutch! *Blushing*

Jaune: *Gapes* W-who told you--

Nala: *Grumbling, not looking him in the eye* Mom.

Blake: *Entering the room, wiping her hands with a towel and tossing it on the table* And I’d do it again. Because, Jaune, you are overreacting.

Jaune: B-but she’s going on a date! With a boy!

Blake: *Cocks eyebrow* Mmm. So if it was a girl then it’d be okay?

Jaune: What? No! Boy or girl, doesn’t matter! *Hugs an irritated Nala fiercely* She’s my baby girl! She’s d-d-- *whispers* dating, Blake!

Blake: *Smiling* Uh-huh. And she’ll continue to date. One day - when she’s ready - she’ll even have sex. *Jaune whines and Nala turns into a tomato* But right now, you big baby, our little girl is going on her first date. She is being very safe, especially when you take into consideration that our daughter is highly trained, has two weapons and her King’s Flare semblance makes every fire semblance we’ve ever come across look like matchsticks. *Peels Jaune off of Nala*

Nala: *Embarrassed* Mooom!

Blake: *Fixes her daughters top, smoothes out her hair* She has her guns, she has common sense and honestly honey, she has my brains.

Jaune: *Long pause* I kinda think that last one mighta been an insult, but I do have to agree with you there.

Blake: Besides, Dutch is an athlete, not a Huntsman. No aura. You need to calm down.

*Jaune mutters mutinously, crossing his arms and Nala sighs and hugs her mother*

Nala: Thanks Mom. *Stands in front of Jaune, fidgets* Daddy?

Jaune: *Dramatic sigh* Ugghhh, I hate it when your mom makes sense. *Hugs Nala who squeezes him and puts her head on his shoulder* Just...have fun, okay? Don’t stay out too late, don’t do anything you don’t want to and you’re, uh...

Nala: *Rolls her eyes* It’s that neo-Valean restaurant near Auntie Nora and Uncle Lie’s neighborhood. If Dutch turns out to be a jerk, Auntie Nora will probably wind up leveling the place.

Jaune: *To Blake* Maybe we should give Ren the heads up instead of miss ‘Goddess of Boom’.

Blake: *To Jaune* Already called him. He has Nora busy with the twins tonight. *Smiles as Jaune kisses her cheek*

*The parents watch their daughter fuss over her hair, reapply lip gloss and fidget with her top, her ears twitching all the while and the door opens to an athletic young man with brown hair and dark green eyes*

Nala: *A few minutes later* --good that you all met, but we’re gonna miss the movie if we don’t go to dinner now. *Smiles brightly* C’mon, Dutch!

Dutch: *Grins, blushing a bit* Right, Nala. *To Blake* Bye Mrs. Arc. *To Jaune, winces* M-Mr. Arc. It was really nice to meet you. *Jaune just nods with a smile* I’llhaveherbackbytenbye!

Blake:

Jaune:

Blake: You just had to pull the whole ‘I am Paladin, Slayer of Salem’ thing, didn’t you.

Jaune: *Crosses arms petulantly* I have no idea what you mean, Blake.

Blake: *Rolls her eyes* Oh sure. Because you’re usually stern, terrifying and pushing your aura out to create killing intent.

Jaune: *Annoyed* If I was it must’ve just been instinct since he was checking of my sweet little girls behind.

Blake: *Snorts*

Jaune: *Whining* Blaaake! It’s not funny! She doesn’t even have your ass--

Blake: Oh she does. Just not my hips. Plus she’s more petite like your sister, Celeste.

Jaune: Nope, stop. But even still, that little fucker--

Blake: Is a teenage boy who thought he was being subtle. Who probably hasn’t asked out a future Huntress before, let alone the daughter of two veterans, even less two of the most talented swordspeople alive. *Takes Jaune’s hand and rubs a circle into his palm with her thumb* I know Nala growing up like this is making you a little crazy because of all your sisters and the fact that you were once a teenage boy, but have a little faith in our daughter.

Jaune: *Rubs face with free hand* Yeah, yeah, I know. I don’t like it though.

Blake: *Flippantly* And neither do I, Jaune, but it’s a part of being parents. We’re lucky Nala’s so even tempered and just skipped right over the teenage rebellion phase and isn’t just embarrassed by us. She’s a good girl. *Pauses, starts leading Jaune into the house* Or would you rather her be more Neptune and Dew’s girl?

Jaune: *Winces* No! *Grouchily* I just never thought letting her grow up would be so...

Blake: *Squeezes his hand* I know. But you got your licks in. And when Dutch brings our baby home, it’ll be his turn to worry about me. *Cuts off Jaune’s dumb grin* But until then...

Jaune: *Slumps* Blake, I don’t wanna do yard work. *Blinks as Blake sits on his lap* Oh. Ohhhhh. No, I’m definitely up for this task, ma’am. *Squeezes Blake’s ass*

Blake: *Smirking, leans in for a kiss* I figured.

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

I figured that if anybody would be both the cool parent and the responsible, easy to reason with but still every bit as protective one, it’d be Blake. And Knightshade’s a fun couple to explore although I like reading it better than writing it. Since other people do it better.

But I did have fun coming up with Nala Arc as a character. Named after the female lion from The Lion King that has a fair bit of meaning behind said name in the first place (I believe it’s Swahili for ‘Gift’). A weighted chain/pair of automatic pistols called Pride, plus a Nimcha sword named ‘Sleeping Lion’ in Latin (the name of the Lion King Keyblade from Kingdom Hearts II) and a semblance named after the Link Summon for Simba from Kingdom Hearts III (which works the same way: Nala becomes engulfed in fire, exudes fire and can cause loads of damage while active).

#rwby #jaune arc #blake belladonna #knightshade #jaune x blake #rwby oc #future au #this is what happens when you let a drunk type #what's crack-a-lackin'#shitpost

111 notes · View notes

pomegranates-and-blood · 4 years ago

Text

Madness

My Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader, Sigurd/Blaeja

Summary: “I was wondering if I could request an imagine where the reader is a princess and Ivar travels to England with his brothers & thinks the princess is beautiful but he gets teased by Sigurd and his brothers but she can understand their language and decides to flirt with him in front of everyone?”

So I made her Kwenthrith’s daughter because why the fuck not, and Blaeja (Aelle’s daughter) is on this cause again, why the fuck not. Also the Reader might be a tad insane, but at this rate all my Reader characters are idk what to tell u

Word Count: 4.7k (I’m sorry lol)

Warnings: Mentions of rape and child abuse, mentions and allusions to violence and death, my horrible writing

A/N: Idk how I feel about this, I hope I don’t dissapoint the anon that requested it lol. Hope you enjoy, thank you for reading, and ily! <3

Also, I kinda went a lil overboard :/

The handmaid is fixing the coronet over your head when you hear the doors to your rooms open, so she turns to demand propriety from whoever entered unannounced, but seeing Aelle’s daughter with a devilish smile on her lips stops her on her tracks.

“Your Grace.” The woman bows gracefully, and steps back, letting Blaeja take her place.

“Are you ready?” The girl whispers to you, adept hand working at the tresses of your hair to make sure it is carefully hidden under your veil that showcases the delicate circlet on your head.

“You are the one that will be sent off to be married, my friend,” You remind her, chuckling, “To one of those…”

“Lord Sigurd is not that bad,” She interrupts, what for a second sounds like girlish infatuation on her tone. You are opening your mouth to quip on how she refers to one of those brutes as a ‘Lord’ but she clears her throat, and continues, “He played some music for me, the other day.”

“You have nothing to fear then,” You mock with a roll of your eyes, “Maybe he also played music for your father before they executed him, made all of it a much more lovely affair.”

Blaeja tugs at your hair in warning, and you steal a glance at the handmaid that looks carefully at the floor. As if she needed eyes to hear you, as if you didn’t know how she’ll gossip about this with the others.

“Careful, or I’ll ask that you come with me,” She laughs, “I’ll have you sold for two gold coins.”

“You are talking to the heiress to a broken and war-torn kingdom, Lady Blaeja, you better remember that!” You tell her in jest, and she laughs, with that laugh you two share, that laugh born out of despair and loss and uncertainty.

“How could I? Judith never lets me forget what a might Mercia continues to be.” She replies with no little disdain in her tone. After a breath of hesitation, she orders with curt words for the servants to leave you two alone, and once the doors close, the Princess of Northumbria kneels in front of you where you sit, grabbing your hands tightly on her own.

“You are scaring me.”

“There’s no reason to fear,” She tells you even as tears fill her eyes. With a tremulous smile, she whispers, “I heard my sister talking with her husband, about you.”

“Me?”

“Alfred would benefit greatly from having a Mercian Princess as wife,” She states, and though she smiles you feel only cold settling over your heart, dread. “With your mother dead…”

“Dead when King Ecbert, blessed be his memory, took control over Mercia, Blaeja! They already own my kingdom.” You remind her lowly, leaning down so your faces are closer to each other, but this doesn’t dim her smile.

Your heart aches at the reminder of your mother, for her, in all her sins and her scars, was the only family you ever had. The only protection you had, in that palace filled with monsters.

If you think about it, if you sit surrounded by all your sins and your mistakes and your faults and think about it, you know it was the sight of her shaking hands as she looked at them expecting to see blood and told you of the death of her brother that made you stop having faith in your God.

It wasn’t the death of a would-be king at the hands of his sister what made you realize the bishops and priests and deacons and saints were all full of lies, no. It was the emptiness in her gaze as she spoke of walking out of that room a Queen and realizing it wasn’t enough to make up for the pain he -the last remaining alive in the long line of monsters that made up your family- caused her.

It was the hoarse voice of the proud and ruthless Queen of Mercia telling you of the barbarity that took place right under her father’s willfully ignorant gaze, it was the shaking hands that clasped your own and begged for forgiveness that she didn’t need to ask for, it was the severed heads brought in by the Vikings that weren’t enough to heal her, it was the realization God, if he was ever there, looked away most of her life.

You shake those thoughts off, and focus on the Princess before you that smiles in a mix of joy for your fate and bitterness for hers.

With shaky breaths, you insist, “What on earth are you talking about?”

“They would have Mercian blood on their lineage, it would strengthen their claim.” She states, and the disgust it fills you with makes you feel shame. You should be ecstatic at the chance of becoming Queen, at the prospect giving Wessex strong sons to prepare for ruling and beautiful daughters to…to exchange like broodmares, like Blaeja, given to a Viking of all men, breakable daughters to fail to protect, like Kwenthrith, raped by her own brother and uncle.

You remember your mother’s pain. You remember her whispers about the court being filled with snakes, you remember her stories about the women with swords and loud voices.

And you remember King Ecbert’s lessons. You remember his tales about the land where his Ragnar Lothbrok came from, you remember his bitterness at the strange land that captured the heart of a man of God such as Athelstan.

You meet her brown eyes, and force a smile on your lips, because may the earth part underneath your feet and drag you down, you will not wed Alfred.

____

They introduce you to the sons of Ragnar, and you will admit, Blaeja looks positively smitten by the easy smile the blond man gives her in greeting. Lovely.

Judith makes a point of having you be sitting next to Alfred who, blessed be his soul, attempts to strike conversation with you only to be stopped by his own shyness.

You still offer him a few courteous smiles, and thank his kindness when he offers it so. When the Vikings talk amongst each other, mostly about the strange food and customs, you notice the King looks at you to gauge your expression, as if he knows you also know their tongue.

You worry about how much King Ecbert shared with him for a moment, but say nothing.

“So, the one that walked in with your bride,” One of the sons of Ragnar starts, and though you decide to pay attention you keep your gaze on your food and the entertainment going on around you, offering one of the performers a small smile. “Who is she?”

“Princess of Mercia, I think. The crazy queen father fought for with Uncle Rollo and the others, that’s her daughter.” A man with hair that you thought first was short but realized later falls down his back in a thick braid, his blond beard unkept, but his eyes those of an experienced man as they look over the room.

“Let’s hope beauty is not all she shares with that crazy bitch, huh? I would love to fuck a Saxon princess again.” Mocks a man you weren’t introduced to, so not a son of Ragnar, with ink on his face and long dark hair.

You realize too late you have lifted your gaze and set your eyes on him, what is sure to be affront and embarrassment showing on your face.

You lower your eyes again to the table before you, clenching your hands into fists on your lap, but you feel like someone is looking at you, and from the other end of the table, when you peek carefully, you catch the eyes of the one they introduced but whose name you can’t remember, the one with short dark hair, the one whose legs seem to be broken.

He looks at you with a silver of surprise, but there’s something else there. Regardless, you know he knows, and it makes fear settle on your stomach like acid. You wonder if this is what Burgred felt when he was poisoned.

“You’ve been staring at her all night, Ivar,” Blaeja’s betrothed starts, voice sickly mocking. “Are you hoping she’ll look back? Take your cripple ass to her bed?”

“Sigurd…” One of the elder brothers grumbles, clearly tired of it all.

“I’m just saying, he’d have more luck forcing a thrall to touch him than hoping a free woman will.”

“You would know, wouldn’t you, brother? Fucking your slave so she can’t even say no.”

“Who out of the two of us will bed a princess, hmm? It surely isn’t the cripple that can’t even please a slave right, is it?”

You and Alfred exchange a look, no longer pretending either of you don’t understand, as the youngest, Ivar, snarls some threat at his brother, voice and temper rising alike.

Refusing to be spoken of like some sort of cunt with a crown, you speak up, though your gaze remains on your plate.

“Princess Blaeja asks you to play that awful lute to keep your paws off her, so I fear that arrogance is unfounded, my Prince.”

Alfred chokes on his drink as he tries covering a startled laugh with a cough, and you feel wide eyes from the end of the table where the Vikings seat settle on you.

“What did you say?” One of the men asks slowly, and with the madness your mother left you with, you lift your gaze and meet the eyes of the man you recognize as Bjorn Ironside.

“My mother wasn’t crazy,” Is all you reply with gritted teeth, before turning to the blonde that Blaeja is to marry. You don’t know what it is that makes you open your mouth again, but you do, “And I was indeed looking at your brother. I feel for you deeply, my Prince, if you can’t recognize want in a woman’s gaze.”

Alfred clears his throat, what you could swear is a smile -the youthful smile of a boy witnessing chaos- shyly settling on his lips, and stands up to propose a toast and dissipate the atmosphere.

“With this being one of the last nights our dear Blaeja, daughter of the late King Aelle, blessed be his soul, spends with us, I-…”

You don’t listen anymore, taking a sip from your wine and catching over the rim of your goblet the eyes of the youngest son of Ragnar -Ivar, you remind yourself- on you, studying you with a mix of mistrust and curiosity.

You keep your gaze on his, and as you lower your cup from your lips, you offer a smile. His own lips tremble in what was sure to be an instinctual reply with a smile of his own, before he schools his features.

Regardless, he takes his eyes off yours and in his whole posture embarrassment is written. Managing to fluster a Viking of all men fills you with a thrill, a heat, like no other.

The men toast and you gesture your goodbyes as the dinner is dispersed. Before you can make it out the door, Blaeja stops you with a hand on your arm.

“What did y-…do you speak their tongue?”

“I do. King Ecbert taught me a lot before he died,” You state, before frowning in confusion and thoughtfulness, “Before he died at the hands of these men…Blaeja, my friend, don’t you ever stop and think about how strange it all has become?”

Blaeja only narrows her eyes with a growing exasperated smile on her lips.

“I care about what you said to my future husband.”

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with,” You pat her cheek in friendly jest, making her roll her eyes. After a moment of consideration, you tell her, “Though he may not play his lute as often anymore, I fear.”

____

You wait impatiently by the window to your room, wondering over and over if this is the wrong choice, if you are making the worst mistake possible, if you are walking into the wolf’s den.

Before you can think yourself out of this, Blaeja, with her head covered by a dark cloak, makes her way into your room.

“I didn’t think your betrothed would agree.” Is all you state, dryly, as she motions for you to get your own cloak.

“Oh, I can assure you Prince Sigurd despises you, but luckily, he seems to adore me. Go, and don’t make me regret this.”

With a light laugh you kiss her cheek and dart out of the room, ready to follow the familiar path to where you asked Prince Sigurd to arrange a meeting between his brother and you.

“So it is you.” He says, dragging himself up a couch in front of yours. You clasp your hands together to keep them from trembling, and try to remember all the logic, all the strategy, you’ve put behind this stupid plan of yours.

“I told them to let you know.” You reply curtly, but the Prince shrugs.

“Sigurd could be mocking me. Make the cripple think he is meeting with the Princess?” He shrugs, but it is not nonchalant in the slightest. In all of his fame and vitriol, you notice, now only remains a man uncertain, unmoored, braced for rejection or mocking like you’ve scarcely seen before. The knowledge that you, or the combination of you and his older brother, seem to be a vulnerable point for him is a knowledge you don’t truly know what to do with. You say nothing in response, and with a movement of his head, after settling in his seat, he insists, “Why did you want to meet with me?”

“You norsemen have a reputation,” You start carefully, plucking at a lose string on the sleeve of your dress. “And the crown needs the allegiance Blaeja’s marriage with your brother gives them, so no mat-…”

“I don’t like your roundabout ways,” He states brusquely, and it stops you on your tracks, your eyes wide and lips parted as you stare at the Prince. He gestures with one hand, a frown starting to mar his face, “Just say what you want, Princess.”

“I want you to take me with you back to wherever it is you come from. I want them to believe I’ve been stolen.”

The Prince looks at you like you have grown a second head, and to be quite frank, once the words have left your lips you realize you might as well have. This is foolish, and dangerous, and...crazy.

That’s what they called your mother, not only these norsemen but all of them. Because she admitted what many didn’t dare to: that if she had been born with a cock they all would have bowed and given her the crown she deserved, that the earth would have been easier to walk on.

You refuse to think madness is a bad trait.

You don’t have to ponder whether the Viking will see it as such, for you notice you have piqued his interest, you notice the curiosity at the madness in your request.

“Are you sure you aren’t the mad Mercian princess?”

You offer a humorless laugh at his taunt, and retort, “I don’t want to be here anymore. And…I can prove useful to you.”

“If you say a wife…”

You don’t let him finish, leaning closer and whispering,

“They want me to marry Alfred.”

“And you don’t want to.”

“His grandfather took Mercia from me, I will not be used as a broodmare so they can hold on tighter to my kingdom.”

The Viking starts to smile, wild and yet calculating, the ruthless and intelligent man his fame says he is.

“But you don’t want revenge.”

“They can fight for the scraps of what once was a mighty kingdom for the rest of time for all I care,” You offer honestly, “I do not want to be caught up in between. I will have to give him children if I marry him, and I refuse to let a child of mine suffer like my mother did, like Blaeja did.”

“Are you sure?” He asks, and his tone grows cruel, mocking, like the cat that plays with the poor mouse before eating it, when he insists, “I could make you a slave, sell you. If you annoy me, I could torture you. If you betray me, I would kill you.”

“I told you I was of use to you, though,” You insist past the fear that makes your hands tremble, “I will not be of use in pieces. You and Alfred played chess before, haven’t you?”

He loosens his posture, his expression is no longer so guarded and venomous as he asks, “And what is this use?”

“I’m a pawn they want to make Queen,” You state, and the Viking starts to smile. You knew he was smart; you knew he was aware of how he could take advantage of ‘taking’ you as a prisoner for his own gain. You have a feeling he wanted to know if you were aware of how your position could be played. Like chess, you ponder. “Surely you could ask for a lot in exchange for my safe return home.”

He considers your words in silence for a few moments, eyes travelling between yours as if trying to read your response to the words he has not yet uttered.

“And if I don’t want to return you to your home?”

You shrug, “Then they’ll have a rallying call for their war against your people, and I will be free from these…these nobles and their fucking priests.”

The Viking breathes a laugh, surprised and a little enthralled it seems, but you find yourself smiling back.

You keep careful eyes on the moon that travels the skies, watchful over the time that you will have to return to your rooms before anyone notices your absence. But in the meantime, you enjoy with easy smiles and a light heart the company of the Viking, surprisingly enough.

____

And the few extra days Blaeja can buy you do almost nothing for the plans of your escape -a part of you is certain the Viking has a plan he won’t share with you- but it does let you get to know the man you are asking to kidnap you. A giant brute like the others, that’s for certain, but he is smart, and cunning, and his dry humor never fails to make you laugh.

You find yourself intrigued, captivated, much more so than you could have thought when you made the choice to speak out against his brother during that first dinner. It is no secret to you he is no longer a pawn in the game you decided to play, but you cannot help but think you still are merely a pawn to him.

One of the nights you meet under the guard of the moon, he starts, “I cannot take you from this city, not without an army.”

“I know.”

His eyebrows raise, “And you have thought of a way around that.”

“Haven’t you?” You reply with a small smile, knowing he has.

“If you could go closer to York…”

“Or you closer to Tamworth.”

“We’d have no way to leave by sea. I can’t exactly walk through the wilderness with you, Princess, as you can see.”

You roll your eyes with a smile on your lips, but eventually acquiesce with a nod.

You sigh, “Then I don’t know, Ivar.”

You notice it is the first time you have said his name instead of his title, and you raise startled and apologetic eyes to him. He doesn’t seem to mind, though you notice his gaze lingering on you for a few moments longer than it should.

It gives your still young and innocent heart a shock of hope that you feel all the way to the tips of your fingers.

“One way or another, I will steal you, Princess,” He insistes, and you only lift an eyebrow in response. He crosses his arms, “I promise.”

____

“They leave tonight.” Blaeja starts from her place sitting at your side on the garden bench. You turn to her.

“You leave tonight,” You remind her, “Aren’t you forgetting your lovely husband to be?”

But she shakes her head, “Prince Sigurd and I will marry if he returns,” Her voice wavers, and you realize with a mix of dread and joy she has learned to care for the Viking. She straightens her back and continues, “When he returns from the battle they depart today to prepare for.”

“Against Alfred?”

“Against the woman that murdered their mother. He says they are to take back their Kingdom from her.”

“Your Prince trusts you with all of these things.”

“His brother tells you things too.” She states without hesitation, and you look at her but stay silent, not denying Ivar has told you of Queen Aslaug and her murder already. Many things actually, just as you have told him many things too.

“So it will be a while before you see him again, if ever.” You muse, not only talking about her. It would be foolish to feel pain, loss, fear; you tell yourself. It doesn’t stop the prick of tears on your eyes, or the pit of pain on your chest.

“I will depart to Bamburgh in three days to await word of the outcome of the battle.”

You lay your head on her shoulder, releasing a shaky breath, “I’ll miss you.”

_____

Judith hounds you like a dog and it is starting to get on your nerves. You feel you are being judged and considered carefully for the role of Alfred’s wife, a role you do not want to be in and, if you were to ask him, you don’t think he’d want you in either.

The talks start of having a royal wedding soon after Blaeja weds the Viking Prince, who seems to have survived the battle for Kattegat. You tried asking around, bribing a servant or two, to figure out the fate of Prince Ivar, but you are too close to bearing the crown for them to feel comfortable trading secrets with you, it seems.

You catch sight of Alfred’s eyes on you during a dinner one night, and he offers what you swear is a soothing smile even if his warm eyes shine with regret.

Judith grabs onto her son’s arm and a tired-looking Aethelwulf stands up from his throne, calling for the attention of the clergy and nobles alike.

They announce you as Alfred’s betrothed after a few words you don’t bother with listening to.

As a gift for his bride to be, Alfred arranges for a few soldiers to escort you to Bamburgh, apparently at the request of Princess Blaeja that you accompany her on her wedding day. And barely with time to pack, almost three months after you last saw her, you are in a carriage on your way to the North.

____

She looks radiant, that’s the first thing you notice when you see her awaiting for you by the gates to the royal home. Bright smile and even brighter eyes, rosy cheeks and excitement and joy written all over her posture.

It gladdens you, to know she will be wed to a man she can care for, a man that can care for her. That maybe, just maybe, like in those tales your mother used to mock, there’s love to be felt before the Lord is to bind them together.

And once the ships arrive you will not lie and pretend you don’t feel disappointment, maybe grief, at the absence of the vitriolic yet captivating prince you met what seems so long ago.

You heard them talking about a son of Ragnar becoming King of Kattegat, and you have no doubts as to who bears the crown now. In another world, you may have left, he may have earned a kingdom in what used to be Mercia or Northumbria in exchange for the safe return to Wessex you’d never make.

But you will not let it stop you from finding a way out of this arrangement, of this…this marriage.

The possibility of asking Blaeja to claim you as a permanent resident of her land is there, of course, but you don’t think she has enough leverage against the crown itself to be able to keep you more than a few months. You could simply run away, but you are not stupid, you know you’d die or be found before you can spend a moon in the wilderness.

Still, you are a smart woman, you tell yourself, you will find a way out.

While the dinner -feast, they call it- in celebration for the wedding takes place, a man you recognize as one of the eldest sons of Ragnar approaches you while you sit alone.

You cannot help the pang of fear that runs through you at the sight of one of those giants looming over you, but you still offer what you hope is a courteous smile.

“You have to come with me.” He tells you, and you frown.

“I’m sorry?”

“You heard me. Follow me.”

He doesn’t wait for your answer, turning his back to you and slithering effortlessly between the dancing and feasting guests. After a moment of consideration, with a small smile on your face as if it were a thrillingly dangerous game of hide and seek, you chase after the Viking.

He leads you all the way down to the docks, and since the moon is high up in the skies, the streets are almost deserted and you are left forced to guide yourself in the darkness or thanks to the rare and dim light of a faraway lantern.

You still push on, your heart beating on your ears and fear and thrill bubbling under your skin.

“This is where I leave you, Princess,” The son of Ragnar says, stopping abruptly and turning to you. You frown, but he doesn’t step closer so you have nothing to fear. “We will see each other again.”

The man with the blondish and long hair gestures a mock of a formal goodbye, and walks confidently back to the royal home where the party -feast- is still taking place.

You are left dumbfounded and alone in the darkness, and instinct makes you want to chase after him and demand answers.

“Following a strange Viking into the darkness,” A familiar voice starts from behind you, stopping you on your tracks, “No wonder people say you are as crazy as your mother, Princess.”

You turn around with a frown and raised chin, ready to retort, “My mother was not c-…”

But you realize halfway as the words leave your lips whose voice it is, to whom the familiar pale blue eyes belong to.

Ivar stands now, and his hair seems longer and braided in some strange style, even his armor looks different. It seems like years have passed even though it has scarcely been half a year yet.

“You’re alive.” You whisper, and the Viking frowns, affronted.

“Of course I am,” He replies arrogantly, and you cannot keep the smile from your lips. He extends a hand, “And I’ve come to…steal you, was it?”

You don’t answer, even if a part of you is thrilled at him remember that first conversation. You only look at him with wide eyes.

“You’re a king now.”

“Hmm, and I was offered a queen, was I not?”

It startles you back to reality, back to your senses, and you notice the three ships with dim lanterns and silent warriors docked at the sides of the dragon-headed ship Ivar -King Ivar now, you suppose- stands in.

“That’s…not what I meant.” You say, but still your hand grasps at the skirts of your dress to lift it up, and you walk closer.

“Have you decided to stay with them?” And the sudden steel underneath his words, a promise of what you could be at the other end of if he is to believe you’ve fooled him, or gone back on your word, makes a thrill of fear go down your back.

“No, but…”

“Usually stealing a bride doesn’t involve this much talking, Princess.” He interrupts, and extends a hand, and you look at it with wide eyes.

“Now?”

“Why not?”

“I-…” You look into his eyes, pale blue eyes that you saw more than once when you closed your own in these past months, and a breathy laugh leaves your lips, “This is madness.”

Ivar says nothing, but his hand is still stretched between you. You take it, and jump into the ship.

___

So, that was it :/ I have a feeling it’s pretty boring but I’ll hope that’s cause I wrote it lol

Thank you for reading! I would love to know what you think, and if you wanna rquest anything go right ahead, I promise to try my best lol

Thank you, I hoped you enjoyed <3

#ivar the boneless x reader #ivar x reader #ivar the boneless imagine #ivar the boneless #vikings #vikings imagine

308 notes · View notes

doberbutts · 4 years ago

Text

Where was my father’s male privilege when he was beaten by his father so savagely that he went deaf, while his father’s girlfriend watched and did nothing?

Where was my father’s male privilege when he was abandoned and locked inside an empty apartment until the 1950s equivalent of CPS was tipped off he was there and took him to save him from starvation, because dear old grandpa and his girlfriend at the time didn’t want a defective child once they figured out they’d permanently fucked him up?

Where was my father’s male privilege when he bounced from foster home to foster home until he was held down and raped by one of his foster brothers, tried to tell his foster mother, and she just called him a faggot and left it at that?

Where was my father’s male privilege when he was finally reunited with his mother and had to scrape together a living by eating stale bread and running errands for what turned out to be local gangs, because she was too poor to feed another mouth?

Where was my father’s male privilege when he watched a black man shot by police bleed out in the street?

Where was my father’s male privilege when teachers who should have caught his deafness instead made him believe he was failing his classes because he was stupid because that’s just how black people are?

Where was my father’s male privilege when he got the tar kicked out of him by his white classmates who felt emboldened by their female teacher’s anti-black racism?

Where was my father’s male privilege when he brought the subject of racism up with the school board after a cross was lit on fire on his desk, and he was dismissed by both male and female staff?

Where was my father’s male privilege when he struggled to find a job after completing college, completing a master’s degree, which he paid for exclusively with scholarships earned from his competitive essay writing, because no one wanted to hire a disabled black man?

Where was my father’s male privilege when he was accused of assault by a white female student who could not keep her story straight and eventually admitted she had made it up because she wanted to put her black principal back in his place?

Where was my father’s male privilege when he was violently cuffed and illegally searched while I sat in the carseat and he was forced to comfort me through the window?

Where was my father’s male privilege when his wife, my mother, was immediately disowned by her entire family for associating herself with him? When she was forced to make a choice between a future with him, or her family? When he sees this echo with his children, and my sister’s children have still never met my brother-in-law’s family despite more than 10 years of marriage?

Where was my father’s male privilege when he came to pick us up from school and my school refused to let him in until the cops verified he was exactly who he said he was? Despite his name matching his ID, the lanyard he wore stating he was a principal at a nearby school, and the name on the school registry as being one of my parents? Despite me being called into the office to peek through the blinds at him and verifying that yes, this was my father?

Where was my father’s male privilege as neighbors who protested living near a black man repeatedly called the police on him as he pulled into the driveway of the house he’s lived in since I was born, let himself in with his own key, with ID to match the address and having known these neighbors by first name? To the point my white-passing mother had to diffuse the situation?

My father is straight and cis. My father is black and disabled. My father is a survivor. My father is a lot of things, and I have a lot of complicated feelings about him, but he is not trash. He has not skated through life as though it’s easy. His life was significantly harder than my mother’s, and her life wasn’t easy either. He has been hurt by men. He has been hurt by women. Some of the instances he has been hurt, my mother was directly sheltered from because she is a woman.

Her father was also an angry drunk, but deliberately did not take his anger out on his daughters, preferring to beat his son bloody instead. Mom has the trauma of watching her father beat the piss out of her brother and having to patch him back up after, but never of having been beaten herself.

Mom found herself in compromising and dangerous positions at times, but was protected from physical harm by her brother and the other men around her who saw it as their duty to protect the girls from that sort of thing. Literally the only good thing about rural purity culture.

Mom has a history of speaking out against racism and discrimination when she sees it, but has never needed to throw a punch in her life, because there was always a man around to protect her from the resulting fight. The men might not have agreed with her views on race but they were connected to her and thus duty/honor bound to protect her if someone tried to jump her because she wouldn’t let them beat up the black kid or told them to stop bothering the asian kid.

Mom never once had to stop and consider that it would be kinder to her partner to break things off.

Mom has never been falsely accused of assault because it’s just assumed that women don’t do that.

Mom has never been accused of trying to kidnap us because it’s believable that a white woman has mixed race kids that are darker than her but inconceivable that a black man has mixed race kids that are lighter than him.

Mom has never had the police called on her for entering her own house in their very white neighborhood.

Mom has only been pulled over once in her life, and the cop was far more interested in what my sisters and I were doing in her car than anything she might have potentially done.

My mother is straight and cis. She is also a white-passing POC and disabled. My mother is a survivor. My mother is a lot of things, and I have a lot of complicated feelings about her, but even she admits that her life was easier than my dad’s.

Cis, straight men suffer. White men suffer. My uncle is also a white-passing POC and a survivor. Do you know how much pent up anger he has? Still has, even though my grandfather changed and got better and apologized and owned up to his wrongs? Even though my grandfather’s been dead for years now? My uncle is sullen and prefers a bottle to take away his pain, pain he’s not been able to process, not been allowed to process, and he’s been that way since he was a child, which is not surprising considering what I’ve been directly told the beatings entailed... and things are always worse than what you’re told when it comes to that.

And all of that anger and resentment and rage and pain builds and builds until one of his sisters pokes him a little too hard about it and then he roars at them and storms off and he knows it’s wrong to take it out on them and he knows it’s not fair and that they only mean well but it hurts and he knows no other outlet besides lashing out because that was the only thing he was ever taught. Men get drunk and then get angry and then get violent. So he stops himself at yelling because he knows he can’t hit in anger, and he leaves and bangs doors behind him and stomps off until he calms down.

And you can say “dude needs therapy” and you know... you’re not wrong. But why would he ever seek it? When he sought help as a child he was told to be a man and suck it up and harden and grow some balls. His mother didn’t intervene to help him. You know, I know, he knows it’s because she was afraid her husband would turn on her. But it still hurts to know your own mother let your own father do that to you. Repeatedly. Over and over and over again. The most help he ever got was some first aid from his sisters when my grandfather decided he was done being angry. His teachers just knew him as an angry, sullen boy who frequently got into fistfights with other angry, sullen boys and chalked new bruises up to that.

If you grow up like this, betrayed by everyone who is supposed to help you, then why would you ever consider seeking outside help as an adult?

And if your reaction is- see? He is a violent man! He is part of the problem! He could seek help and won’t because he is a stubborn man that wants to make his problems into women’s problems by relying on his sisters!

Then you fail to understand that my uncle is the way he is because of unprocessed, repeated trauma and betrayal that he was actively discouraged from seeking help to free himself of the cycle and start to heal. And his sisters were the only people in his life that did not harm him in that way, so at this point his sisters and his wife are the only people he trusts when triggers get poked and the pot boils over.

He does need therapy. He’s not likely to ever seek it out. And it’s because he was born a boy that this happened to him, and it’s because he was born a boy that no one was willing to help when he needed it most.

These men are not part of the queer community. They still were made vulnerable, and needed help, and did not get any, because of that same logic that drives these feelings about men not needing to be helped or included or assisted today. It’s not progressive just because the logic is coming from the queer community this time instead of conservative christians.

#tbh the majority of my mom's family is functionally white #they are a large part Native but that only comes up when it's convenient #mostly they're Irish and lean real hard into the being white thing #and tbh if you called one of them a POC to their face they'd probably punch you #even though by definition they ARE

36 notes · View notes

shirtlesssammy · 4 years ago

Text

4x11: Family Remains

Then:

Castiel, angel of the lord, gripped Dean tight and raised him from perdition. Also, Dean finally unloaded his Hell trauma to Sam.

Now:

Drunken man watches television one night. The lights flicker and his door won’t open. Another door opens to reveal a very ragged girl. A ghost! Long story short: the Home Sweet Home embroidery is going to need a lot of Oxy to get back to fighting shape.

Dean, meanwhile, is taking a page out of the old Sam Winchester-Barrel-Through-The-Trauma playbook and is working cases non-stop. He is not going to talk about Hell. Nope, those feelings are buried real deep again. Anyway, Dean’s found a ghost case in Nebraska.

Sam and Dean head to the now vacant house to check things out. Something behind the walls watches their inspection. The EMF meter is all over the place, but there are power lines. They find a doll head in the closet. Routine bullshit.

Their inspection is interrupted by a family and all their moving gear. Looks like the place was sold. We‘ve got Mom Susan and Dad Brian, Little Brother Danny, Buster the Dog, Petulant Sister Kate, and Cool Uncle Ted.

Sam and Dean approach the family as inspectors. There’s asbestos in the walls and a gas leak. Sorry family, you can’t move in today. The family wants to stay so Dean threatens a fine or jail. The family gives them one night.

Sam and Dean hit the hunt in Fed suits. They interview the woman that found the body of Mr. Gibson.

She cleaned his house for five years but didn’t know him too well. He was private. He had some family trauma: wife died in childbirth and his daughter hanged herself. The cleaner has some pictures of the daughter and gives them to Sam and Dean. She also notes that while there was never any weird light flickering activity, she did hear rustling in the walls. Rats. She never saw them though.

The brothers don’t think the ghost is the mother or daughter so they decide they need to head back to the house to investigate further.

The family, breaking the county inspectors’ orders, decides to move in anyway. Ooohh, a little gas leak and asbestos never hurt anyone, ooohhhHH.

That night (where are Sam and Dean?), the son is busy playing video games, and avoiding unpacking. A ball rolls from his bedroom closet and he looks in to investigate. “It’s okay,” he tells the shadows. Then he plays a fun game of catch with the closet.

Sam and Dean finally arrive, and see the family has moved in. Crap.

Uncle Ted calls the parents into the living room. ‘GO’ is written in large red letters on the wall. How welcoming!

Brian blames Danny instantly. Danny denies doing it, but the parents double down on the blame game. Danny insists that “the girl in the walls did it.” Uh, Danny, not helping your case. Danny CAN’T believe they don’t believe him when they send him to his room (lol, not much of a punishment, he just came from his room). Also, Andy would believe him, so there!

Kate is busy sulking in her bedroom when she starts petting Buster off screen. So, OF COURSE, it’s not the dog. He wanders in shortly after. Obligatory scream session activated.

The daughter tells the parents there’s a ghost in the house. There’s a knock at the door and Sam and Dean bust in after hearing her screams. They tell the family there’s a ghost in the house. Kate is vindicated!

Danny keeps talking about the Wall Girl. Dude, give it up. Buster escapes outside. The lights cut out just as Dean is yelling that they’re in danger. Then they hear whimpering outside. They rush out, and well, I’ll just direct you to this little website for the next scene. There’s blood all over the ground and a note written in blood: “too late”.

Sam and Dean insist the family leave. They race to their cars and Dean finds the ghost did a real number on Baby. All tires are slashed and weapons are gone.

Hell Hath No Fury Like Dean Winchester when His Car’s Been Messed With:

(And for the record, I mistyped ‘car’ with ‘cas’. Still would work.)

Kate sees the ghost in the field.

Sam and Dean can’t figure out how it’s outside. Now stuck on the property, they direct everyone back inside, and into a salt circle. They tell the family that this is what they do. The kid thinks it’s pretty cool that they’re like Scooby-Doo (Dean thinks he’s better --and we know now that his ghost hunting is just different.)

Sam gets confirmation that the ghost is the daughter. He tells the family that she killed herself in the house. Uncle Ted’s better than all this, man, and starts to leave. Dean stops him with the threat of a bullet hole (I’m probably not reading too much into how violent Dean seems in this episode. They’re just people but he’s threatening to shoot the guy? I feel like we’re dealing with the aftermath of Hell for Dean and he’s still there at times.)

Ted decides to continue to needle the strangers in their home who threatened to shoot him. Something creaks in the house and a girl enters the room.

Dean counsels them to stay calm and stay in the salt circle. The girl smirks and...crosses the salt circle, knife in hand. “She’s not a ghost,” Dean realizes, and engages in a one-sided knife battle with her. “Humans,” Dean spits out later in disgust as they try to wrap their heads around creepy, murderous Nell.

Everyone gathers except...Danny. He’s missing! I experience some serious second-hand parent agony. Dean orders Susan and Kate to barricade themselves in the shed while the menfolk (pfft) search for Danny.

Dean and Ted pop open a loose section of wall, releasing the strong smell of rotting flesh. “You smell that?” Ted asks. “Every day,” Dean replies and I die a little inside for him.

Dean squeezes in between the extremely spacious wall cavities and finds A HOLE. He must go in THE HOLE.

Downstairs, there are remnants of dead animals everywhere. But above Ted, something lurks. This is what you get for being the wisecracking brother. Ted eats a knife and bleeds out next to Dean.

For SOMEBODY HOLD MY TRAUMATIZED BOY Science:

Dean reunites with the family and reveals that Ted died. “I shouldn’t have left him alone,” Dean murmurs, STILL IN HIS GUILT COFFIN. Brian tries to reassure his wife that Danny’s been spared by the crazy murder girl living in their house. They reference some oblique, recent family trauma, which Brian later reveals was the death of their eldest son in a car crash. Dean promises to get Danny back “if it’s the last godforsaken thing I do.” GUH.

“Why do you care so much?” Brian asks. Oh, sweet sunshine. It’ll take many seasons to unpack that question.

Sam pulls Dean aside. He’s been reading Rebecca’s diary (as he is wont to do) and discovered that the murder girl was likely her daughter and that Rebecca was raped by her father. “Oh, gross,” Dean neatly summarizes it. “Humans, man.”

Sam thinks that her life being like “hell” is no excuse. “Like you know what Hell’s like.” Dean accuses. OH MY GOD. Also, just give Sam some time, Dean Bean. Urg.

Danny wakes up, bound in the basement. Creepy girl climbs out of one of her holes. She brought her new best friend a fresh rat! When Danny implies (by screaming) that he isn’t hungry, she eats the rat.

Dean insists on hurling himself down a dumbwaiter shaft. He vowed to save Danny. He NEEDS to save Danny!

While Dean’s following a trail of guns to find Danny, murder girl is waging an assault on the shed. Untying Danny, Dean learns almost too late that the girl has an accomplice...her brother.

DOUBLE UGH

Sam and Brian haul Danny to safety while Dean engages in fisticuffs with the brother. Dean shoots the crazed brother in the fight. Meanwhile, Brian drags the girl from the shed and kills her. He confronts his wife and daughter, holding a bloody knife. Erm. Awkward.

The next morning, they fix tires (and Sam methodically arranges the contents of the Impala’s trunk).

The family affirms their unity (and their shared trauma) and sends Dean and Sam back onto the road.

They park under an overpass to eat. Except...Dean sets his burger down. WHEN A DOG DOESN’T EAT AMIRITE? Dean reveals his empathy for the murder siblings. “Lifelong torture” will do that to a person.

Sam tries to assure him. “They were barely human.” Oh sunshine, wrong choice of words. Dean informs Sam that he was worse than them. (“Humans, man,” I hiss to myself.) Dean confesses that he tortured for the “sheer pleasure” of it. “I tortured souls and I liked it. All those years. All that pain. Finally getting to deal some out yourself.” He’ll never fill the hole in his soul, no matter how many people he saves. Excuse me while I think about the series end and allow the dark hole of a murder house to swallow me up.

My Favorite Murder Quotes:

You can’t run forever

The girl in the walls did it

What could possibly go wrong in the country?

Want to read more? Check out our Recap Archive!

#spn recap #dean winchester #sam winchester #spn 4x11 #family remains #supernatural season 4

28 notes · View notes

xeo-kunsatan · 3 years ago

Text

Dissatisfied One shot +14 (Part 1)

Warning

This story contains sexual themes, Domestic abuse themes, Toxic relationships, Suicide, cigarettes use, bad words and prostitution references. If you are sensitive or underage please don't read this story.

Dissatisfied.... i don't think it's difficult to found out why do i feel like that..

I wasn't always being the inappropriate whore my grandmother or even my uncle used to call me.. I was supposed to be a innocent child.. tsk yeah.. an innocent child with the shitty luck of having such a shattered family and a stupid child with the shitty luck of having a pedophile as teacher who tried to rape him when the bastard child was just 10.

It's alright.. I guess.. I just woke up in the bed from one of my classmates, let's say he wanted a fun night so I accepted to gave him pleasure.. at least he paid me money so I can leave this room, .. but that didn't satisfied me.. nor even filled me.

I taked my stuff making sure he didn't woke up too but he still..

Rocky: Hey Bunny~, are you leaving to soon?~.

Bradley: Are you Horny again? we did it for almost 2 hours the last night, if you want to continue you most pay again.

Rocky: I have not enough money

Bradley: *change on his clothes* Then I have nothing to do here

Rocky: Tsk, you lost...

Bradley: Lost what? *Sarcastic Chuckle* Your "Buddy" is just bigger than mine, is not the big thing..

Rocky: *chuckles* As if you were that hot~.

Bradley: *takes his backpack* You didn't said that that night.

I left that room, that guy seemed mad by my comment, I can't help it, they still see me as the bastard son of the fire ghost which mess with their city but they actually desires me to gives them the pleasure that a girl or anyone else can't gave them..

I was walking through the hallways, then suddenly someone touched my hand to catch my attention, it was that big blue guy who uses to play American football, another client more.

Bradley: Unwin? Are you sure about this? You didn't had a girlfriend?

Unwin: Well yes.. i have a girlfriend, she asked me to do it one day but I'm not ready to do it nor even i have no idea about how to do it.

Bradley: so.. your first Time?

Unwin: Yep..

Bradley: alright.. we will do it this night, don't forget you have to pay for the fun night, i will teach you how to do it.

Unwin: Ok.. thanks man, Heheh now I see why people calls you Bunny, and not just for being little~ *leaves quickly while he was laughing at Bradley* Slut~.

Bradley: But Rabbits are cute...

After that I went to the school restrooms to take a quick bath to at least go to classes without any boy smell.

Since when i thought that this shit was a good idea?.. why did i thought that this would make me feel complete or even satisfied? I questioned myself while the shower drops were falling on my face.

I have a lot of missed calls from my uncle who is surely mad instead of worried by not arriving at the round house.

I dried myself quickly to then change my clothing and go to classes in time, at my seat I saw him.. Skeebo, after that day it's not the same being next to him. He used to bully me by the same old shit as the others but he stopped since that day I saved his life and i snapped to that lemon head which calls himself hero for a nonsense reason.

If you are asking why the heck I was selling my body like this if I have a traumatic event related with this?

I will answer your question, hate me or not depends of you, I will explain.

First my uncle is a hypocritical stingy, he will not give me any fucking money not even for a candy, he just gives money to my cousin, understandable, and the stupid lemon for his mediocre work.

The second reason... Everything happened in a normal school day (yes, after I got Skeebo's respect), also a normal day of ghost attack, there was a new ghost around the netherworld, this one has a weird power which makes everyone Who touches him or is slimed by him, that person ends into a lust state, it was easy to recognize when he attacked someone...at least for me, he has peculiar smell to Cherries, Strawberries and... saliva.

I didn't had to hide, the ghosts didn't attacked me as always, that lemon ball was around eating them and burping their eyes. That clumsy Pac crashed against me and suddenly Skeebo which was running away locking us in a locker by accident.

Bradley: shit...

Skeebo: Arghh!.. that lemon head!!...

Bradley: *sighs*....

Skeebo: are we in a girl's locker?.. this place smells good~

Bradley:*sniffs*... Oh.. shit.. we are not in a girl's locker...It's my locker....

Skeebo:*sniffs on Bradley's hair* is it you? You smell so good~

Bradley: Well my perfume used to be from my older sister, and i use Pactene Shampoo because my uncle has lots of them for my cousin and me, so it has sense.

Skeebo: It's still so good~

Bradley: fuck fuck fuck fuck... Skeebo.. you were infected by a lust ghost.. and you will not snap from that state until you....

Skeebo: me what?~

Bradley:... *Sighs* i-i.. I'm still scared for t-this... But.. just do it with me... D-d-dont worry.. you will not remember any of this moments...

Skeebo: you're so cute~ you're so sweet~..

Bradley: Ok i think he lost the control short time ago..damn it..

Then Skeebo slowly was ripping off my virginity.. I thought it would hurt as when that awful man tried to do to me.. but... This time.. I felt different.. I felt.. strange... i was embarrassed.. it hurted but I liked it..I don't know how nor why...He where keep going for 1 hour until he ended inside me.. for me it was difficult to still up but that feeling was too difficult to describe... Did I feel satisfaction?.. is this what am I looking for to feel full, did I feel good for at least one time of my life, he finally snapped out that state he didn't understand what happened and suddenly the locker door opened, I was a little naked so I acted quickly and transformed myself into a rabbit to escape from a already embarrassing moment leaving him with the shame. Because of me everyone saw Skeebo half-naked and stained in with his own fluids.

Ms Globular: Mr Spheros.. Mr Skeebo! Wake up!

Bradley: Huh!?...

Skeebo: What!?

Almost Everyone laugh about that.. specially to Skeebo

Ms Globular: Please focus yourself in the exam.

Bradley:..*sighs* yes Ms Globular..

Rocky: what's wrong Skeebo aren't you playing with your "buddy" again?

Izod: Yeah, please don't splash us~

Skeebo: *blushed and mad* you 2 shut up!

Yep... also that day was even worst for Skeebo than the day became into Heebo-Skeebo, he was even a bigger mock for almost all the students, it was my fault by running away as a coward..

Izod: Or what?

Bradley: Do you have any idea about how pathetic you look making fun with a guy because of an embarrassing moment he clearly wants to forget?

Rocky: You have no rights to speak slut!

Skeebo: Don't call him slut!

Izod: Aww the Sper-Man is defending the Play-Bun?.

Bradley: So sad that the sizes of your "Buddies" are not that good enough to compensate your lack of brain..

Ms Globular: That's enough you 4!! If you don't quit speaking that dirty stuff in the class i will send you to detention!

Izod/Rocky: Fine Ms Globular..

Bradley: Alright Ms...

Skeebo: *sighs*

The School Bell rings

It was now lunch time, i wasn't hungry so i left to the school yard to smoke a cigarette, a cherry one, I'm allergic to the normals.

Bradley: *sighs*

"Can i sit with you?" - a voice sounded..

It was Lexy Soto, one of my classmates and the most popular in the school for being so kind with all and bringing desserts from his Dad's restaurant also one of the most famous restaurants in Pacopolis), for it Lexy is really respected and beloved here, especially for that Lemon Ball.

Lexy always left a single meal for me and comes to me to give me company, it's still incredible that he is my friend without caring about my Dad's actions, did Latins are like this?

Bradley: Sure Lexy.

Lexy: Good, *sits to him* i noticed that you weren't in the Cafeteria so i left this cupcake for you.

Bradley: Thanks Lexy, you don't had to do it.

Lexy: I have to, Weon

Bradley:*smiles a little and takes the cupcake* Thanks Lexy, *bites it* Hmm~ is so sweet and soft.

Lexy: Chocolate with raspberry cream.

Bradley: Also.. let me guess, did you put ice cream for the cream?

Lexy: You got me.

Bradley: I knew it!

Lexy: *giggles*... *Starts sniffing Bradley* where selling your body again!?.

Bradley: Oh shit.. you got me

Lexy: Bradley, please you don't have to do it..

Bradley: Lexy, i don't have money to buy any stuff i need, and my uncle doesn't give me a shit.

Lexy: And i thought that presidents in Latin America are awful.. but please... You don't have to do it if you don't like it..

Bradley: That's the problem Lexy.. I think like it..but I hate to do it with that bastards.

Lexy: How you can like that awfull thing?...

Bradley: Because I'm sick Lexy..I know i am sick...but i can't cry for help.. because my uncle will not understand..

Lexy: I could ask my Dad to help you but.. i don't want to bother him...

Bradley: *pets him*... Lexy.. you don't have to do it... Maybe i could be sick.. but i will be okay.

Lexy: *starts sobbing* You're lying!... You are not okay! You said that you would be okay but that's not true.. i know you are suffering.. and it... It worries me a lot!! *Cries*

Bradley:...it's because that awful neighbor did to you, right?

Lexy: !!..

Bradley:*hugs Lexy* I'm sorry... I didn't mean to worry you like this.. maybe it would hurt but.. If something happens to me.. i already have a place in the netherworld with my Dad..

Lexy: If Pacopolis were your home too...

Bradley: Even if i live in netherworld, we would still be friends.

Lexy: At least.. please found a solution...

Bradley: I promise I will try.. *dries Lexy's tears* cheer up BerryPie.

Lexy: you most be the one who most smile first Cabro Culiao!..

Bradley: Heh..*smiles* sorry, like this?

Lexy: *cheers* much better~

6:00 pm

The school And clubs activities ended, Lexy have left to his home early to help out his father with his job as always, it was getting late and time to start my job with that moron, so i left the reading club (Club Wich has a single one member, me) to meet up with that guy i just forgot his name and i don't give a care in remember it.

Unwin: Finally..

Bradley: we will do this quickly, i have to go back to the round house.. i have piano practice at 8:00 pm.

Unwin: All you have to do is please me..

Bradley: just if you pay the price, if you don't i will make sure one of my boys to torment you, got it?

Unwin:*sighs* fine!..*pays him 10 Pac Dollars*

Bradley: Good Boy~.

And well i did it with him as i did with the rest of the boys from Maze High (Except by Pac and Spiral, dude i have my limits, i can't leave that stinky lemon to touch me, and Spiral, i know he likes Pacster since long, it's kinda obvious and i prefer them to have that experience by theirselfs) but ..i didn't felt nothing similar to that curious feeling i felt with him.. it wasn't the same.. but it wasn't possible.. even after he ended as a mock because of me.. i would not be able to stand the guilt...

7:00 pm

By finishing, i just put in my clothing to take my stuff and left the dorms, it was almond late for my classes and even worst i was having a lot of walking problems, fortunately or well.. unfortunately my uncle's limousine arrived next to me And taked me to the round house, the bodyguards didn't looked at me in any moment.. it was uncomfortable.. when we arrived to the round house, there was my uncle waiting for me, he seemed completely mad.

Bradley: *sighs*..

Stratos: Bradley..Where the heck you have been!? Why you didn't come back to home yesterday!? Or not even answered my calls!!??... And ugh!.. what's that awful smell!!??

Bradley: Do you care?.

Stratos: wait.. don't tell me you where sleeping with a guy!!?

Bradley: So what!?, If i was sleeping with someone or i was making out with someone, that's not of your business!!

Stratos: of course it's my business to take care of you!

Bradley: As it was your business to take care of my dad when he needed you more than anything... You cared so much of me that you left me with grandmother!

Stratos: It wasn't that bad!

Bradley: That Bad...It wasn't..That Bad!? I was her fucking Boxing bag and used me to turn off her cigarettes

Stratos: You are exaggerating, she was educating you to be a disciplined and decent man!.

Bradley: So sad, it didn't work..

Stratos: It was for you could not end like your father.

Bradley: Should I'll remember you the boiling water cup she threw me in that Barbecue in the round house by "Accident?

Stratos: Agh just go inside and take a bath right now!.. don't let Cedrick see you!.

Bradley: Whatever...

Yep the same old shit of always... I taked another bath and went to my room, i was so tired, Quartzy was sleeping on my lap to comfort me.. but i still had to play that piano.. so i get up to go to the piano room.. my Uncle wasn't there... that was a good thing, that means he would not bother me.

So i sat in that sit and taked a cherry cigarette from a box i use to hide from my uncle and cousin.

I smoke one of them while I was playing a soft melody in the piano..I was losing myself in my thoughts and the music.. then suddenly someone entered in.

Cedrick: Hey Brad!

Bradley:*throws the cigarette through the window* Oh, hi Cedrick

Cedrick: what where you eating?...

Bradley: oh, it was nothing.

Cedrick: Oke, can I stay with you? I love how you play the piano :D.

Bradley: Alright little bud.

So I played a melodies for my little cousin, I didn't wanted him to see me like this..

I'm at least a little alright if my cousins, my people, my sister, Buttler and my Dad are alright too.. maybe.

Lately when I was close to Skeebo I was feeling something unusual.. like a hungry.. hungry for his virility, hungry for his touch.. I sounded like a monster... I'm sorry..

Suddenly i felt that someone was calling me.

#pacman and the ghostly adventures #pmatga #pacman #my ocs #+14 #Dissatisfied #Pmatga one shot

8 notes · View notes

dany-is-my-queen · 4 years ago

Text

Born To Be Yours | Part X

Sansa Stark x Fem! Baratheon! Reader (Daenerys Targaryen x Fem! Baratheon! Reader eventually)

Season 1-8

Word Count: 3,387

Note: This is the end of S2! Thank you for reading <3

Pt.1 Pt.2 Pt.3 Pt.4 Pt.5 Pt.6 Pt.7 Pt.8 Pt.9

“Are you out of your mind?” Cersei peevishly protested. You heavily sighed. “You just want to prove yourself, and impress that northerner friend of yours-“ You cut her off.

“I don’t need to prove anything.” She rolled her eyes.

“So what do you want to earn from it? You’ll stay in the Red Keep with the other highborn ladies. End of this conversation.” You pressed your lips, not pushing harder cause the result would be the same. If you are in the same place Sansa is when this starts then you can keep an eye on her in case things go sideways for your brother’s army.

You stormed out of her chambers. Cersei might not hold the same affection she does for your brothers and sister but she doesn’t want you to die, in her own strange way she cares, not that she knows how to show it.

The bells rang, the troops were ready, Joffrey had the stupid idea of attacking the Starks now that they were distracted. He came to his senses thanks to you, he finally kind of admitted you are were right. And that that wasn’t a prudent decision.

Truth be told, you were afraid, afraid for your family safety, this is war, nothing less, you were always so self-confident, you believed the good would persevere, the strongest and largest forces would win, the smartest. You can be so wrong about that fact... Tonight a lot of people will die fighting for his own King, and just because your brother is a bastard. You might as well be one too, but you are not, you are Y/N Baratheon.

The Throne Room was lit by great flaming braziers. “I see you changed your mind.” Tyrion asserted.

“My mother is very convincing.” You jested. “Actually, I pondered it through, Sansa needs me, she’d be devastated if some plucky soldier manages to drive an ax through my heart.”

“You can’t die before confessing your feelings to your lady.” He playfully remarked. She and Shae arrived, they slightly bowed.

“Lady Sansa and Sheila.” He said in purpose.

“Shae.” She corrected him.

“Shae, yes.”

“What are you doing here?” You questioned half surprised, you didn’t expect to see her until you were on the Keep.

“King Joffrey sent me to see him off, my Princess, my Lord. And you? I thought-“

“I’m not going anywhere.” She smiled broadly, acknowledging you will stay by her side.

“Sansa, come here.” Joffrey called for her. Shae and your uncle discreetly said goodbye to one another.

“Be safe. You are my favorite uncle.”

“I know.” He winked.

“Some of those boys will never come back.” Sansa didn’t take her eyes off the group of men heading outside.

“Joffrey will. The worst always live.” She emotionless said. Shae frowned, a bit worried you’d be angry about that, you couldn’t care less.

At the Meagor’s holdfast you sat next to little Tommen. You took a few seconds to stare at him, what a fine, decent, and handsome prince he was, unlike Joffrey, he deserves to live, he deserves the very best of the world and more. Across the room, Sansa and Shae were talking to each other. Occasionally you glanced at her.

“I don’t want us to die, Y/N.” Your baby brother said.

“We are not. I promise you, my little lion. Your big sister is here to protect you.” You squeezed his hand.

“I’m glad Myrcella is not here.”

“So am I.” Though you missed her every single day since she left King’s Landing, you knew she was safe, you were grateful that uncle Tyrion sent her away in time.

Suddenly you heard your mother’s voice calling for the Stark girl. She shyly stood in front of her. Perhaps Sansa was scared that Cersei would be angry to see her show devotion for you, she thought she might get scolded for staring at her daughter in a lingering way.

“I was wondering where our little dove has flown. You look pale, child. Is your red flower still blooming?”

“Yes.”

“Fitting, isn’t it? The men will bleed out there and you will bleed here. Pour Lady Sansa some wine.”

“I’m not thirsty, your grace.”

“So? I didn’t offer you water. Pour my daughter wine too.” The handmaid gave you the cups, you didn’t want to drink to be honest, just gave it a small sip, Sansa repeated your act. “I’m glad you didn’t insist on nonsense, my dear. War is no place for someone like you.” You scowled.

“That’s not the reason I’m not there.” Sansa saw you tensing, she changed the subject once you took another gulp of wine.

“What is he doing here?” Referring to the man that beheaded her father.

“Ser Ilyn? He’s here to defend us. When the axes smashes down those doors, you might be glad to have him.”

“I have my sword right here.” You grasped the cold weapon, resting in the armchair.

“After all that Jaime and Robert taught you you’ll be able to protect us all.” She scoffed. You waved off her comment.

“The lads caught a groom and two maids trying to sneak away with a stolen horse and some gold cups.” Ser Mandon Moore informed.

“The battle’s first traitors. Have Ser Ilyn see to them. Put their heads on spikes outside the stables as a warning.” She commanded him. “The only way to keep the small folk loyal is to make certain they fear you more than they do the enemy. Remember that if you ever hope to become a queen.”

“That’s a wrong understatement. Make them love you, not despise you.” You stated, not doubting of your words.

“You would definitively be a weak queen, my love.”

Everyone could already notice the Queen Regent was tipsy, maybe even drunk. She didn’t bring to care. Tommen fell asleep an hour ago, you didn’t want to let your guard down, in case you needed to run.

“Come, darling. Step closer. I know I’ve been hard on you. Lately it seems like you want to die. I can be a pain on your neck, but I can’t lose you, Y/N, I can’t.” She kinda sought to appease.

“It’s alright, mom. I’m still in one piece.”

“I have never been an example for you to follow.” You couldn’t get to the light all the faults she has had since you were a toddler, however, it wasn’t the time, nor was she in a position to talk about it.

“You can always start over.” It’s all you said back.

“She is very pretty, isn’t she?” You fixed your eyes on Sansa, she was holding hands with the other ladies, sitting in a circle on the floor. Some would say it was too obvious, your mother being one of them. You didn’t get to answer cause she was calling her once again.

“What are you doing?” Cersei asked, well knowing.

“Praying.” She plainly said.

“You’re perfect, aren’t you? Praying, what are you praying for?”

“For the gods to have mercy on us all.”

“Oh, on us all?”

“Yes, your grace.”

“Even me?”

“Of course, your grace.” You just listened to their conversation.

“Even Joffrey?”

“Joffrey is my-“

“Oh, shut up, you little fool. Praying for the gods to have mercy on us all. The gods have no mercy. That’s why they are gods. My father told me that when he caught me praying. My mother had just died. I didn’t really understand the concept of death, the finality of it. I thought that if I prayed hard enough the gods would return her to me. I was four.”

“Your father doesn’t believe in the gods?”

“He believes in them, he just doesn’t likes them very much. Y/N prays as well. But it’s okay as long as she knows who the real saviors are. Here.” She threw her a small pillow. “Another for her.”

“She doesn’t want to keep drinking, mother.” You spoke.

“Is that true, little dove?”

“I-I-“ Cersei was harassing her, the stutter gave her away, and you were growing weary of your mother’s behavior.

“You are just as frightened as this flock of hens. I should have been born a man. I rather face a thousand swords than to be shut up inside.”

“That was my intent too.” You objected.

“My daughter is gorgeous, don’t you think so? And she desires to spoil that face of hers out there.”

“Yes, your grace, she looks a lot like you.”

“Not the hair. These women. It was expected of me to ask them here. As it will be of you if you ever become Joffrey’s queen. If my wretched brother should somehow prevail, these hens will return to their cocks and crow of how my courage inspired them, lifted their spirits.”

“And if the city should fall?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? The Keep should hold for a time, if it were anyone else outside those gates I might hope for a private audience, but this is Stannis Baratheon. I’d have a better chance seducing his horse.” Sansa remained quiet. “Have I shocked you, little dove? Tears aren’t a woman’s only weapon. The best one’s between your legs. Learn how to use it. Do you have any notion of what happens when a city is sacked? No, you wouldn’t. If the city falls, these fine women should be in for a bit of a rape. Half of them will have bastards in their bellies come the morning. You’ll be glad of your red flower then. When a man’s blood is up, anything with tits looks good. A precious thing like you will look very, very good. A slice of cake just waiting to be eaten.” Cersei was tormenting Sansa because she wanted to bother you, upset you, and she achieved it, the uncomfortable look on the redhead's face was evident. She drank deeply from her glass.

“No one is going to rape Lady Sansa.” You promised, you wouldn’t let them get near her.

“Her hero will protect her. Yes. You, my sweet, sweet, silly daughter.” Cersei mocked, and Sansa flushed.

Cersei continued to tell Sansa stories about Jaime and her when they were children, you tried to distract yourself with your baby brother, you prayed for your uncle to succeed, for this to be over soon. You did not keep drinking, you were getting fond of wine, even ale. Now was not the moment to fill your veins with alcohol.

The Queen Regent apparently got curious about the foreign handmaiden, she didn’t act nervous, not even a bit, she asked her to tell a story, when Shae was about to begin Lancel burst in shouting at Cersei. He reported Tyrion’s destruction of the fleet and the landing of Stannis’s troops. She ordered him to fetch Joffrey inside.

“Your grace, what? The King’s presence is good for the morale.” He quibbled.

“Bring him back to his chambers now.”

“Not here?”

“With the women and children? Do you want him to be mocked as a coward for the rest of his life?”

“He is a coward.” You said out loud. She gave you a withering stare.

“Silence, Y/N.”

“Now, Ser Lancel.” He left, unconvinced. “Little dove, the real reason Ser Ilyn is here is for us. Stannis may take the city and the throne but he will not take us alive.”

The Lannister boy returned, he told the gold cloaks lost all heart when they saw Joffrey leaving. Cersei took both Tommen’s and your hand and rushed you off to the exit. Sansa tried to follow your gaze.

“What are you doing?” You baffling questioned.

“Buying us some time.”

“You can’t leave, these ladies-“

“Don’t make me repeat myself.” You got out of her grip.

“Are you coming back with her?” Your silence was the answer.

“Y/N, don’t go. I’m scared and if you are not with me-“ Tommen pleaded.

“My brave little lion. You are going to be just fine. You are very strong, just like father. I’ll be with you soon I promise.” You kissed his forehead. You didn’t look up to meet Cersei’s infuriated glare, you ran to Sansa’s room, where she must likely be.

You could never leave her behind. She was all that matters, Tommen will be safe with Cersei, she will defend him till her last breath. Something inside you told you uncle Stannis won’t be sitting on the throne tonight.

“...you won’t hurt me.” Sandor got there first, it was very odd, he seemed untroubled, under the circumstances of the battle. Sansa was relieved to see you.

“Of course he won’t.”

“No, princess, I won’t hurt her.” Sansa was holding the doll Ned gave her when they first arrived at King’s Landing.

“Why are you here?”

“Your big brother is a cunt. I won’t spend any other second of my life protecting a cunt. I wish you both good fortune, you might survive.” He walked out, leaving you alone with the northerner.

“Y/N... you came back. You must go with the Queen and the Prince.” You shook your head, taking her hand.

“No. My place is with you. I shall protect you and keep you from any harm. Remember, I’m not going anywhere.” She buried her face in your neck, the embrace was full of warmth. You laid in her bed, she gently placed her head on your chest. You were certain she could hear your shaky heartbeat, not for the war, nor for the fear but because of having her this close, you might as well confess your love right now, you don’t even know for sure if there is going to be a tomorrow.

She lifted her face, her eyes were dark, yours were too, there was only one thing you were dying to do. You softly caressed her cheek, your breaths became heavier, she closed her eyes and leaned closer, you sealed the kiss, her lips were oh so very thin, they were also edgy, a brief seconds later that changed, she deepened into it, melting your heart and body. Her hands resting in the back of your head and yours on her waist.

You smiled before the kiss ended, it felt like hours. You hope this is your last first kiss, with the woman you love. The bells rang again, you knew it was a sound of victory, you could tell the difference. Uncle Tyrion prevailed, you won.

“I love you. I’ve always loved you. Since the first day you came into my life.” You mumbled in Sansa’s ear.

“I can’t even put into words all the things you make me feel with just being around. You are the finest, loveliest, tenderest, and most beautiful person I have ever known, and even that is an understatement.” She stuck her arm around you.

“You intoxicate my soul with your precious blue eyes, my lady.” You said in a playful, sweet tone.

“Is that a good thing?” You giggled.

“Yes, yes it is.” You stayed in the cozy bed for another while. This felt so good that a part of you didn’t believe it was actually happening.

A couple of days passed since the victory. Uncle Tyrion was unconscious. You hoped he’d wake up soon. Now you were all gathered on the Throne Room, you stood next to Lord Varys.

Joffrey proclaimed your grandfather, Tywin Lannister, the new Hand of the King, and the savior of the city. He also awarded Lord Baelish with the Castle of Harrenhal for brokering the alliance between House Lannister and House Tyrell.

Loras was called to step forward, he knelt before the throne. It was so good to see him again.

“If your family would ask anything of me, ask it, and it shall be yours.” Joffrey stated.

“Your grace, my sister Margaery, her husband was taken from us before. She remains innocent.” You could notice he was still grieving for Renly, you knew him too well. “I would ask you to find it in your heart to do us the great honor of joining our houses.” You weren’t utterly surprised by this request, Margaery has always dreamt of being Queen. Still, you found Sansa’s unreadable expression from atop de gallery. This was swelling news.

“...For the good of the realm, your councilors beg you to set Sansa Stark aside.” Your mother finished saying.

“I would like to heed your wishes and the wishes of my people, but I took a holy vow.”

“I have consulted with the High Septon and he assures me that the crimes of the Starks against the realm free you from any promise you have made to them in the sight of the gods.” Maester Pycelll concluded.

“The gods are good. I am free to heed my heart. Ser Loras, I will gladly wed your sweet sister. You will be my queen and I will love you from this day until my last day.” You were beyond happy for this but also you couldn’t help feel bad for Margaery, she was one of your best friends, you cared for her and now she is the one who will live hell with your brother. That is what she really wants, she’ll know how to handle it, you hope, maybe he’ll truly love her, in his odd own way. Your northerner lady was finally free from that horrendous engagement.

“Thank you for coming. You saved us, Loras. I’ll be forever in your debt.” You gave Loras a big hug, he reciprocated.

“You are like my little sister. If I can help I’ll always will.”

“I’m sorry about Renly.” He ducked his head.

“He was your uncle, Y/N. I am sorry too.”

“Y/N! It feels like it’s been ages, right? Always a pleasure to see you.” Margaery approached you and her brother.

“I can say the same. Congratulations on your betrothal to Joffrey, my lady.” She grinned widely.

“I don’t know him very well but if he is anything like you then I’ll be very happy.” You returned the polite smile. You better warn her, not today though.

“I’ve missed you so much. One of these days we should assemble and chat.”

“Absolutely.” You excused yourself, leaving Loras and Margaery a bit confused for your sudden departure. They shared a complicit gaze.

“Lady Sansa.” Littlefinger bowed and turned around. You don’t like him being near her, you waited until he disappeared into the crowd before addressing the Stark girl.

“Have I told you how beautiful you look with that southern hairstyle? It suits you perfectly.” She blushed.

“Have I told you you are the cutest girl in the Seven Kingdoms and beyond?” You chuckled. She smiled, it was an unburden one that you haven’t seen in a while. “Things will get better or worse from now on?”

“Don’t stress about the future, my lady. Live in the present and make the most of it.” You tenderly said.

“With you.”

“Yes, if it is with someone else I’ll get jealous.” You winked at her.

Only Varys, Podrick the squire, and Shae came to visit Tyrion. You of course went to check on him too, he did all the hard work, he defended the city when Joffrey fled the battlefield. Still, he didn’t even mention him.

“...The histories won’t mention you, but we will not forget.” Lord Varys assured your uncle.

“How are you feeling?” You entered the room.

“A Kingsguard almost split me in two. I am now the monster the world has always said I am.”

“No. You were amazing. You didn’t back down. You fought bravely to defend the ones you love. I won’t forget either.”

“Thanks, my dear Y/N. I wouldn’t let those bastards get to you. Is your lady okay?”

“She is. We will have to catch up, but that will be at another time. You need to rest to fully recover. Let’s don’t keep your lady waiting.” You alluded to Shae. At least he has various people who love him just the way he is.

In the next couple of weeks your relationship with Sansa evolved, you became closer, letting your feeling flow out without any shame, you love her in secret from Cersei and Joffrey, and the others who wouldn’t accept it, who would do anything to tear you apart. Things had changed, but for the better.

#game of thrones fic #got #sansa stark x reader #sansa x reader #sansa x fem baratheon reader #house baratheon #baratheon reader #game of thrones x reader

114 notes · View notes

niallloverontheloose · 4 years ago

Text

https://princeescaluswords.tumblr.com/post/650079336900313088/for-years-fandom-has-talked-about-wanting-stiles#notes

@russianspacegeckosexparty: For years, fandom has talked about wanting Stiles to “heal” Derek but what they mean is they want self insert stan in a Stiles Nametag/Fanon!Stiles to *enable* Derek’s toxicity, and also while claiming that Derek’s way of running a pack is the Right Way, they suspiciously have him acting exactly like Scott who’s methods they sneered at

@princeescaluswords:

I wish I had a simple answer for you. It would be easy to laughingly dismiss it as ‘just racism’ and move on. Racism is a huge part of it, but it’s not the only part; it’s a situation-well mixed with patriarchal precedence and a fundamentally self-serving and immature application of Christian doctrine (I’m speaking as a Christian myself). Our culture has created certain expectations in the way we approach the behavior of white men.

As long as they show emotional depth, attractive white men are entitled to forgiveness for their bad actions without the need to redress those actions.

The sad part is that this phenomenon exists outside of the world of fiction and fandom. How many white men have had tearful press conferences apologizing for their bad behavior and then its back to business as usual?

When the Sterek shippers create a Fanon Stiles to support/heal/enable Alpha Derek, they very often indulge in this idea. To them and their insert, who Derek hurt is immaterial. To them and their insert, what Derek did is immaterial. The only thing that matters is that a powerful and attractive white man was openly emotional, and so, to them, it’s simply unjust for the narrative or the audience to treat him as less than fully redeemed.

What did Derek do in response to his betrayal of Paige to her death? He cried about it. What did Derek do when he unwisely bit Jackson and then abandoned him to become the kanima? He looked pained and stomped around the screen yelling at people who weren’t responsible. What did Derek do when his decisions to conceal information got Erica and Boyd killed? He looked sad and stricken. The show, in a completely inadequate display of consequences, ‘redeemed’ him by having him give up the alpha power to save his sister (and fandom reeled in shock at this tiny bit of redress, so much that they kept rejecting it).

Fandom doesn’t even recognize all the things that Derek did to Scott - from concealing information, to bullying, to selfish manipulation, to betrayal, to brutal assault - as bad behavior. How many times have you read Fanon Stiles say “he may have been an asshole, but he was trying to help!” when Derek lied to Scott about the cure, betrayed him to his uncle, and have his or his minions try to beat Scott into submission?

Derek experiences strong emotions, therefore, all his actions are immediately ameliorated by his pain, but only because he’s white and good looking! His family burned! His sister was murdered! So that makes his attempt to hunt down and kill Lydia on a hunch absolutely okay.

Compare this to the absolute condemnation of Scott for saying an insensitive thing to Derek and to pretending-to-be-catatonic Peter after nearly getting caught by Kate and Chris stealing a bullet to save Derek’s life. Compare this to the raging hellfire wished upon Scott for being blackmailed by Gerard with a knife to his gut, a tail wrapped around his mother’s throat, and claws to his lover’s neck?

It doesn’t stop there. Peter Hale has legions of defenders not because he expressed remorse for his terrible onscreen actions but because he refused to express remorse for them. In fact, he defended his vicious murders and attempted murders and violations with passionate bullshit. They swoon over the fact that he murdered his own niece so much that they make up excuses for him that he refused and create fantasies of the Left Hand.

That’s why, when grappling with Season 5A, they don’t care that Stiles was a lying traitor. They only care that he felt really bad while he was being a lying traitor. (And they’ll come at me, screaming, that he was being blackmailed too, while turning around and call Scott a rapist in Master Plan. And no, Scott wasn’t a traitor in Season 2; he was deceiving villains – both Derek and Gerard. That’s the difference between Scott and Stiles. Scott finds a way to defeat the villains while Stiles… Stiles cries about it. But that’s all a white male character has to do be considered a hero.)

My problem is that fandom’s reflexive urge to forgive every single good looking white male character not only permeates the fandom but it also influenced the show. That’s why Scott had to listen to Stiles whine about the way Scott looked at him in Codominance but the fact that Stiles assaulted Scott was never mentioned again. That’s why Liam’s apology tour was so completely fixated on Liam finding a way to live with himself, that he never bother to ask if Scott was okay, or Mason didn’t scold him for leaving Scott dying on the library floor to go hug a girl that was already dead. After all, Liam was feeeeeeeeling.

Art imitates life. Fandom has lowered the bar so much for attractive white male characters that all they have to do is… I don’t think there’s anything they can’t do to be automatically healed by the fandom. Yet they cover that with making the act of forgiving white male characters an act of love.

So Stiles is a “lying traitor” because he’s a victim of assault and blackmail and because he didn’t share his own traumas with Scott like Scott and his Stans demanded… but Scott is a “hero” even though he kept lying like a rug, sold Derek Hale and his Pack out to the hunters in exchange of Allison, conspired with Gerard behind everyone’s back, and violated an incapacitated rape victim to save his own ass? Make it make sense, antis

“How many times have you read Fanon Stiles say ‘he may have been an asshole, but he was trying to help!’ when Derek lied to Scott about the cure, betrayed him to his uncle, and have his or his minions try to beat Scott into submission?”

Funnily enough, I never read a Sterek fic in which the author uses Stiles to justify Derek’s behavior. But I’ve read PLENTY of fics written by the Scott McCall defense squad members in which Stiles, Lydia, Kira, Allison, Mason, Liam, Chris, Cora etc are reduced to he author’s Fanon Self Insert and used to excuse/justify Scott’s toxic behavior.

But maybe PrinceEscalusWords is referring to when the TW writers & producers had Masson Hewitt (a gay black character) justify Scott and tell Corey Bryant (a gay character and the boy Scott assaulted and mind raped) to get over it, because:

“I know the last time you saw Scott wasn’t his best day. But he’s trying to help! More than most people would!” (5x09, Lies of Omission)

‘cause apparently nothing is more ‘romantic’ and ‘progressive’ than telling an abuse victim to get over their own trauma and abuse and then trying to paint their abuser as a kind, compassionate hero who just had a bad day in Jeff Davis’ book

“My problem is that fandom’s reflexive urge to forgive every single good looking white male character not only permeates the fandom but it also influenced the show. That’s why Scott had to listen to Stiles whine about the way Scott looked at him”

Actually, Stiles is the one who had to listen to Scott whine about the way Liam looked at him.

[Teen Wolf 5x13, Co-dominance]

STILES: So, what did he want?

SCOTT: To help.

STILES: You gonna let him?

SCOTT: Eventually, I guess…

STILES: Okay, but shouldn’t he be a little higher on your priority list right now? I mean, since he’s the only other actual werewolf, your only actual Beta.

SCOTT: You didn’t see the way that he came at me! You didn’t see the look in his eyes!

STILES: Well, I’ve been with you on a full moon, so I’ve seen that look.

STILES: You want to get the band back together, Scott, you don’t leave out the drummer.

“And no, Scott wasn’t a traitor in Season 2; he was deceiving villains – both Derek and Gerard. That’s the difference between Scott and Stiles. Scott finds a way to defeat the villains while Stiles cries about it”

Except that Scott never defeated a single villain in the actual show. He even failed to assassinate a terminally ill old man who was already dying in Master Plan. Scott is pretty good at whining and at taking credit for his friends’ heroic actions and achievements, though. And that’s all Scott has to do to be considered a “hero” or become a “true alpha”

#anti scott mccall #anti tyler posey #submission

18 notes · View notes