#lake superior cw

[runningupthatvecna]

the law of seat partners

alrighty so ya gurl had a dream about eddie last night and here i am trying to use that to base the following something off of.

part 2

cw/tw: eddie munson being a slightly touchy precious bean. a slight bit of angst. feeling left out/mentions of feeling unwanted if you squint. otherwise, none that i could think of, just my silly brain fluff. if you find something else, please let me know yaaa. no mentions of y/n.

summary: you're going on a high school field trip with your friends. and thankfully, a long haired metalhead is also there to keep you company and ease the pain of being around obnoxious children.

side note: this is literally the first fic thing i've written in literal YEARS (also in English) and first ever time writing for Eddie, so bare with me here, i've gotten quite rusty i guess so i truly apologise if it's rather bad. don't mind me and please reblog/leave me comments if you did enjoy this pure fluff something!

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It was the sunniest May morning the town of Hawkins had ever seen. The bluest sky above the forests and fields, downtown, the infamous trailer park and the parking lot of Hawkins High.

You sighed as you placed your car in parking mode before opening the door and sliding out, just so you could grab your belongings - a rather big bag filled with all sorts of items that you were certain you were going to need for surviving the next week - out from the backseat.

A field trip with students with an age range from bloody twelve to the wise years of nineteen, well, twenty to be specific, was on your agenda in the almost last month of your last year of high school, and thankfully you were not gonna be stuck in some forest next to Lake Superior alone by yourself.

Being forced to exist around screaming twelve year olds who were about to enter puberty was your least favourite part of the whole expedition, which made the presence of your group of best friends so much more valuable.

There was one person whose attendance you'd specifically been hoping for. And yes, of course you and your friends had been talking about the trip months ago so it would be clear who would join in the fun, but with Eddie's tendency to be flaky when it came to decisions like this, one could never be fully sure.

I mean yeah, certainly you were looking forward to spending this week by the lakeside with Steve, Robin, Nancy, Jonathan and the younger kids in freshmen year, but nothing could make the thought of being stuck with a group of middle schoolers and teachers more bearable than being stuck there with the one guy who you - to put it frankly - had a thing for.

You couldn't really say that you were as close with him as you were with Steve or Robin, you never really spent time with him outside of the group hangouts. But that didn't mean that there was any weird distance between the two of you when the lucky occasion of hanging out did come around.

Eddie Munson was a metalhead. Through and through. Tough exterior, soft baby cow personality but could turn stone cold when necessary. When people tried to shame him for being different, for example.

You were also very certain that his love language was touch, based on the times he would throw his arm around you when casually walking you to your next class or the way he would playfully wrestle Dustin or Lucas in the cafeteria during lunch break to show he didn't hate them.

"Oh my god, I'm so glad you're here!"

Max had spotted you in line and apparently didn't feel too much guilt for cutting it just so she could hop on the bus together with you.

You mumbled the same thing back to her, wondering if you were the first or last ones of your party to go through Miss Kelley's check-in.

She greeted the both of you with a toothy smile before she turned her focus onto the sheet with students' names. Your eyes wandered over the rows of seat pairs, and since you had arrived at the parking lot, let's say not late but also not early either, most of them were already filled with loudly chatting kids.

"Hopefully the others saved us a seat", you heard Max say from in front of you. Unlike you, she already had a pre-determined seat buddy. "Oh please, it's obvious that Sinclair kept one for you", you quipped back, silently hoping you could potentially be sitting next to Steve or at least Robin.

And even if Eddie was going to join you, he'd probably be sitting with Chrissy. Or Gareth.

"That might be true, but I'm sure you'll be just fine with where you'll end up."

Max stepped further into the bus after she gave you a wink and a slight grin.

Did she know more than you?

Good boy Steve was rather easy for you to spot. With that amount of hair peeking out above the sea of headrests? No wonder. In fact, most of your friends were already seated further in the back of the one-story bus.

A slight hint of disappointment clouded your brain at the sight of Steve and Robin sharing a seat pair, with Nancy and Jonathan right behind them. Your fear of being the one left out and behind was creeping out from the back of your mind, acting up.

People had always been kind enough to endure you, but no one ever really chose you. Or at least made you feel like you belonged.

Lucas indeed had the seat next to him reserved for Max, to where she continued her strut down the aisle to plop down, while Dustin and Will had agreed to share theirs.

Surprising they made it out of bed this early.

You took a few more steps towards the back of the bus. A wide grinned Erica was seated amongst her friends in the center of the very back row, your eyes scanning the seats until they landed on the wild dark mane of a certain metalhead, who was occupying the pair of seats right behind the stairs down to the back door.

He was practically lying in the window seat. Head resting against the glass, staring out to observe the students who hadn't set foot onto the bus yet. Parents who were lecturing their kids one last time before letting them go.

Was he daydreaming? What could possibly be going on in that pretty head of his?

Your heart jumped and your stomach fluttered when he shifted his gaze to the aisle where you were standing. The widest smile spread over his face at the sight of you, and you hated to admit to yourself that it did not leave you unaffected.

The seat next to him was empty.

It took Eddie a few seconds to remember what his initial plan was. As if something in his brain clicked, as if a bolt of lightning had hit him, he straightened himself and got up.

"Uh hi there. I, uh, kept you a seat if, uh, in case you'd like to sit with me."

Eddie the freak Munson. Had thought of and would be willing to sharing seats for a 10 hour bus ride. With you, of all people?

In the light of the sunlight flooded bus, you could see his cheeks adjusting to the colour of your own. Flushed pink.

And you just couldn't help the wide grin that was pulling at the corners of your mouth.

Now both of you were standing in the aisle facing each other.

"I would love to, Munson."

Quickly you took out the essentials for the journey from your bag: headphones and your walkman, your tape collection that you wouldn't leave the house without, a novel, some water and a tote bag with your carefully selected snacks.

Eddie waited patiently for you to get comfortable, standing there in the aisle in his signature leather jacket and denim dio vest, while leaning against the backrest of his own seat, watching your every move.

Once you swung yourself around into your seat, Eddie plopped down next to you with an equally wide grin plastered across his face while pointing his ringed index finger at the snack bag.

"You know, you're gonna have to share those with me."

You turned your head around to face him, eyebrow raised.

His chocolate brown doe eyes were so so softly looking at you. If you didn't know better they'd melt you on the spot.

"Oh really, do I?"

"Yeah, it's the unspoken yet official law of seat partners, sweetheart."

You chuckled at his silliness and the pet name, the nervousness which you had gotten from the thought of him very obviously thinking of you when it came to the decision of who to sit next to, all gone.

He wanted to be physically close to you.

He wanted to spend that time on the bus around you.

He chose you.

After Steve, Robin and all the others from your group had acknowledged your presence as well with genuine smiles, and the last few kids had found their seats, it was time to leave Hawkins.

The bus hit the highway towards Chicago pretty soon after departure.

Eddie let you sit in the window seat, which eventually led to him conveniently using your shoulder as a pillow. And no, you didn't mind the weight. It was Eddie.

Hell, you were having a hard time keeping yourself from wrapping your arms around him to pull him closer.

"Does this also fall under the law of seat partners?", you asked curiously, placing a hand on Eddie's head and slightly scratching his scalp.

The only thing you got in return was a satisfied, sleepy "mhm" and a squeeze and rub of his warm hand over your thigh, but it was enough for your mind to drift off, wondering which other of Eddie's love languages and further details of his ridiculous seat partner law you'd come to discover on this trip.

-----

tagged: my beloved ellen @josephfakingquinn <3

#eddie munson #nora writes #oh wow this turned out to be longer than expected #lol #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson x reader #eddie x reader #stranger things #stranger things fluff #eddie munson fluff #the law of seat partners

[fallenclan]

// cw • this fic contains discussions of grief, passive suicidal ideation (im probably exaggerating it a lot in the tags tbh but if its a sensitive topic b careful), dissociation, and nongraphic death. please take care of yourselves!! :3

me if cranking out fics of just me smashing characters with the angst hammer 18 consecutive times was a crime 🚔💁‍♀️

--

Brambletuft doesn't categorize herself as someone with an anger problem.

There are cats like Wormshade and Flyspots, straight up with their anger. If they are angry, they make it known.

There is Maplestar, his quiet fury. You'll never see him angry, it doesn't show as more than irritation, but the way his claws scratch on the floor beneath him, and his eyes hold the smallest hint of disdain. When you know what to look for, you can read him like Silverbelly does the stars.

Poppyfeather is similar; you'll never know how she feels unless she wants you to.

Yewberry is entirely silent in his anger. He doesn't scream, or shout, he endures. He puts his anger to good work.

Otterslip, so unlike his son, was incredibly angry. Grief driven and desparate and begging for vengeance that was never owed. So angry, paws driven by cold hard rage, he killed Stormsight with no remorse for his actions.

Brambletuft is not angry. She appreciates the world, she splashes in puddles and takes care of preserved poppies and lilacs and feathers. Brambletuft is a simple cat, who enjoys simple things.

But she can't say she's happy all the time. That would be a lie. But it's not anger. Anger has never suited her. Honestly, neither has sadness or anything else. She prefers to just ignore her feelings.

She floats.

--

It happens once, when she's an apprentice and she fails an assessment. Her legs shook themselves still and she floated away from the world.

She very easily decides floating is far superior to feeling, so she does that. She floats during battles, and patrols, and she floats through her ceremony. She only knows her name because her sister repeated it.

-

Henryclaw never hid who her mother was, not from her and Poppyfeather, at least. A sweet kittypet named Bun. A gorgeous calico, who lived in one of the small houses near the valley. She gave Bramblekit and Poppykit away to keep them safe, and that was that.

It never did stop the distant longing she sometimes felt, when Bluefern would curl into Jaggedstripe, or when she saw a new queen patiently sitting in the nursery.

That affection was something she wanted for herself. It makes her feel upset, and sad. It makes her float.

--

When she comes back from patrol, camp is in chaos.

It's a cold day for the season. A cool breeze drifts in and out of her ears, making her shiver.

When she'd left that twilight, cats were retiring to their nests. The ones who weren't sleeping or getting ready to were either on watch, about to leave for patrol, or finishing their prey.

There is a small circle of cats in the clearing, gathered around something.

"What's going on?" She asks, shooting a sideway glance to Pinefrost, who shrugs in response.

Then Silverbelly pushes past her, rosemary in her jaws. The clearing smells vaguely of mint and lavender. She recognizes the smells because once Hopepaw dragged her along to collect herbs. The cats part around her, and she hears a commanding yowl over all the noise.

Hailcrash, standing at the center of the fray. "Stars, give Silverbelly and Hopethistle some space to work. Shoo, all of you. You can come back out when we start the vigil."

The vigil?

Brambletuft stands and watches as the cats part. Some stare at her, pitiful expressions painting their faces.

It feels blue. Not the pretty blue, where the sky is bright and the lakes are still. It's the tormentful blue, of dreary blue clouds and pouring rain.

Poppyfeather, she's dully aware, is sobbing.

Why is she sobbing?

And Silverbelly and Hopethistle and Poppyfeather are the only ones standing there now.

She sees the dulled, gray speckled fur. Blood inbetween strands of fur, limbs stiff.

--

She sits the vigil. But she's not there.

She is hardly aware of Poppyfeather's wails, or her own tears trickling down her face. She can't bring herself to listen to Jaggedstripe's stories, or Applebranch's fond reminiscence.

Henryclaw is gone. Maplestar is exhausted, Hailcrash is grasping at the unwoven seams of the clan that are slowly unraveling, and Silverbelly is still fighting with her grief.

It sounds stupid, but her father is no longer there with her. Why do anything?

--

"Brambletuft," comes a gentle voice.

The moon shines bright. Normally, she would take a moment to appreciate it, but today she tucks her nose into her tail and squeezes her eyes shut.

"Brambletuft, the gathering is tomorrow. Would you like to go?"

That's Hailcrash, with her careful eyes and her twitching ear.

She shakes her head. No.

Archclan was at the gathering. She didn't want to see a single hair on any of their foxhearted pelts.

Henryclaw had a single wound to the back of his neck. Clearly meant to kill. His body was found near the Archclan border, and it reeked of them even with the rosemary clogging her senses.

"That's fine," Hailcrash says. "Rest, alright? Silverbelly will be here to check on everyone later," on Brambletuft, "and Yewberry is staying behind too. Poppyfeather's here as well. Take it easy."

Brambletuft has been taking it easy for a half moon. She's been floating since she saw the body in the clearing, with long dried blood soaking the rocks and a sharp pang of grief in her heart.

--

"Brambletuft, Hopethistle wants to see you."

"Tell her 'm busy," she snaps.

"Like, right now," the voice continues. She vaguely categorizes it as male.

Yewberry.

"Tell her I'm watching Waspkit."

"Wrong. Teddyfluff's watching Waspkit," Yewberry says. "Come on. You know how Hopethistle is. Trying to avoid her is like trying to dig through a stone wall. I'll go with you, if you want."

Stop inconveniencing him, her mind says. Yewberry has more important things to do than babysit you because you're sad.

"That's fine, I can go myself," Brambletuft mumbles, pushing herself to her paws. Her throat feels parched, her eyes unfocused and fixed on the ground.

One paw, two paw. One paw, two paw.

She thinks if she loses that rhythm, nothing will make sense. The world already feels jumbled and confusing.

One step, two step.

Yewberry is trailing behind her anyways, half hovering and half trying to give her space.

And then she's at the medicine den. There's a kit (Owlkit, she thinks) laying in a nest way too big for her.

"Brambletuft," Hopethistle greets. "How are you?"

Brambletuft dully blinks at her, silently urging her to make an inference. Based on her matted fur, dull eyes, and sluggish movement, she was obviously not doing well.

"Okay, that's fine. I just wanted to ask you some questions?"

Hopethistle says it like a question. Like she has a choice, because everyone in the room (even Owlkit with her two-moon brain) knows that Brambletuft has no choice in this. Not really.

"Okay."

"Do you want him to stay, or?" Hopethistle glances at Yewberry, who shifts his paws.

"I can go if you-"

"I don't care," Brambletuft says. It comes off a lot meaner than she wants it to, so she reclarifies. "If you have stuff to do, don't waste time with whatever this is."

Yewberry decidedly stays still.

"Okay," Hopethistle says. She looks at a tiny stack of herbs, like she's mentally recounting something. "So. A few questions."

"Yeah, okay."

"Have you been feeling sad, tired, or hopeless recently?"

Brambletuft glares at her with all the will she can muster. "My dad just died and you're asking if I'm sad."

Hopethistle blinks. "So yes?"

Brambletuft, with as much irritance as she can muster, stiffly nods.

"Okay," she continues. "Any feelings of despair? Like life isn't worth living?"

Her tail twitches. "Why am I doing this?"

"I'm sorry," Hopethistle says. And she does look upset, but not upset enough to stop. "I just need a yes or a no. Or a nod. Anything that gives me a solid answer."

Brambletuft blinks. "Repeat the question?"

"Do you ever have thoughts of despair or feelings that life isn't worth living?"

Brambletuft thinks of the weeks she's spent floating in her nest, practically dead to the world. Everything passed by in a blur of bleary sleep, nightmares, and pain.

She looks at her paws, and slowly nods.

Hopethistle's eyes briefly glisten. "Do you intend to act on those feelings?"

Brambletuft couldn't. Poppyfeather needed her, even if they hadn't spoken for a week. She mutely shakes her head.

"Right," Hopethistle says, her voice catching in her throat. "You have off from patrols for another half moon, until I or Silverbelly can talk to you again. Try not to isolate too much, okay?"

Hopethistle, in her own stupid stubborn way, cares. It's why she makes a good medicine cat. It's how she gets even the most prideful, stubborn cats to accept her help. She has an element of ferocity and sharpness to her that she most definitely inherited from her mother.

Brambletuft goes back to her nest, leaving Yewberry to stare at her with some expression she can't quite place.

--

She wakes up again, for the third time, restless and upset, and instead of trying a different sleeping position, she leaps over sleeping bodies and slips into the tiny hole behind the elder's den.

It's snowing.

Her paws take her across the territory, until she stops at the valley border.

--

She doesn't want to admit it, but since Henryclaw died, there has been something eating her from the inside.

Not some scary bug, or a bad piece of freshkill. It's something herbs can't fix, and it's something she can't walk off.

It's choking. It wraps around her lungs and it squeezes and it doesn't let go. It makes her throat dry, and her eyes burn, and her fur stand on her spine.

--

Brambletuft, entirely alone in the night, with a sloppily caught mouse in her paws, stares at them. Blankly.

She is stiffly aware of the cold biting into her, even through her thick fur.

She stands. Not proud or tall as she used to, but grief-stricken and tucked into herself.

"Brambletuft?"

Brambletuft whips around, hackles raised, claws unsheathed. Yewberry walks out, and promptly sits next to her, pointedly avoiding her (dull) claws and her puffed up fur. She probably looks crazy.

"How did you find me?"

"I wanted to follow you after Hopethistle's interrogation," Yewberry begins, "but it looked like you wanted to be left alone. So I waited, then I went on patrol and came back and you were sleeping. And then I kept waking up, and your tail brushed me when you were leaving, so I just decided to follow you. Sorry if that wasn't-"

"No, that's fine," she interrupts. Her heart pounds.

"You sure? If it wasn't, you can just say that."

"No, really. I don't mind. I don't want you to-"

Her lungs clench. Her mouth snaps shut.

--

Exactly one half moon after her first interrogation, Brambletuft is dragged to Hopethistle and she starts rapid firing questions again.

Brambletuft gives some half-hearted answers. Simple "okay", "no", "yes", the whole thing.

"Does it ever feel like you're living life on autopilot?"

"What?"

"Sorry, bad example. Caught it from a friend. I mean like, does it feel like you're just a cloud, drifting around without really feeling anything?"

"I guess," she answers.

--

Yewberry pauses. "Want me to what?"

"I don't.. ah..." Brambletuft fumbles with her words. Please, brain, work. Talk to the pretty boy! "I don't want you to leave."

"Okay. Is there anything you want me to do?"

--

"What?"

"I think you've been having severe dissociative episodes for most of your life. When did you say the first one was?"

"After my first assessment. I think I was, ah, seven moons?"

"Brambletuft, this has been going on for 25 moons and nobody ever figured it out until right now?"

--

"Just, stay here." Brambletuft pauses. "With me."

I don't want to be alone, passes through her mind. He would understand, talk to him.

The words die in her throat.

--

Dissociation is a mental process where someone feels a disconnect from their thoughts, feelings, memories or sense of identity.

Wildfang's word, then Sunwish's words. Silverbelly repeats them. Hopethistle repeats them again, with the same long winded definition.

Hopethistle listed symptoms like they were second nature. Knowing her, they probably were.

Some of the symptoms of dissociation include forgetting about certain time periods, events and personal information, feel disconnected from your own body or the world around you.

Brambletuft can't remember anything that happened over a year ago. She doesn't remember a single detail from whatever Poppyfeather was telling her about this morning (Wow she is a horrible sister-)

--

"I feel like I'm floating," Brambletuft murmurs. It's so late that the moon dips back over the horizon, the sun greedily soaking up every inch of spare dark skies and turning it to bright orange and pink.

"Oh?"

"Like I'm just floating through life, and I've been stuck in the trees so I don't fly off into the sky, but now I'm on the moors instead of in the forest so I'm just flying away."

"Oh," Yewberry softly says. "I don't want you to fly away. Can I be the rock holding you to the ground?"

Brambletuft laughs, the first time she's done so in at least a moon, and rests her head on his shoulder. He immediately tenses when she does so, but he doesn't try to move her (which he could easily do, if she was being honest).

They stay that way, then fall asleep when the sun shines right onto the creek.

--

"Screaming," Owlpaw says. Brambletuft whips her head around to stare at the apprentice.

Hopethistle called it therapy. Brambletuft called it, with passion, hell. Owlpaw calls it training.

"What?" Owlpaw tilts her head. "It's therapeutic. I always see you. You're so quiet when you're upset. Try being loud about your feelings, and maybe you'll recognize them."

And so, Owlpaw orders her to go to the Cliff, and scream out all her feelings. And yes, she said it in those exact words.

Stars, she's taking orders from a 8 moon old ball of rage. What's next, Salmonkit starts using her for climbing practice?

--

Brambletuft stands on the cliff. Wind whips at her face, she ignores it.

Yewberry is there, with his quiet support. He even offered to scream with her, if it made her feel better.

She humbly declines his offer.

--

Bramblepaw is quiet.

Poppypaw is the loud one. She makes enough noise for both of them. Bramblepaw is silent enough to stay behind her. Poppypaw talks to all the other apprentices, telling them elaborate stories of how Goldenstar saved her from eagles.

(It was so badass, she'd exclaimed. Bramblepaw had to admit. Yes, it was badass.)

--

The choking feeling doesn't go away. It never does.

But, she starts fighting it. She won't let it win. She gets up and she gets on patrol and she tackles a pheasant with Yewberry and brings it back, a Feather kept in her nest as a prize.

She goes to mark the border, and take Salmonpaw on badger rides even if she's a bit too big for them.

She climbs to the top of trees with Yewberry and they talk, and laugh (once they touched noses. Scandalous.)

--

She goes to the cliff, and she screams herself hoarse. And again, and again, until her throat burns and her face hurts from her mouth being open for so long.

Yewberry, with his not very silent support, bowls her over as soon as they're off the cliff and under a sparse tree, and she laughs and lets him even though she could definitely knock him on his ass if she wanted to.

--

"I should've been angry sooner," she murmurs.

"I think you deserve to be angry," Yewberry nods. His head finds a familiar place on her shoulder. "No, no wait. You deserve to be angry."

Brambletuft, in all her adrenaline fueled glory, nods, leaping to her paws once again. "I deserve to be angry."

"You deserve to be angry," Yewberry repeats, his eyes bright and happy.

Happy for her.

"I deserve to be angry!" She laughs (cackles. she definitely cackled). She catches her breath, and turns back to Yewberry. "I deserve to be angry. We deserve to be angry."

"Have I ever told you how much I love you when you do this?"

And, all her adrenaline dissapears, in favor of instead making her fur puff out with embarrassment and having her tuck into herself instead, with Yewberry's laughter in the background.

And the thorns constantly wrapped around her lungs seem to loosen.

--

-🍭 (the horrors (my organs) persist but so do i. )

i jhsut spent an hour and a half writing this HGELP

AUGH MY FUCKING HEART NOOO I LOVE THEM SMM.... crumbled on the floor holding my chest. i love them SO MUCH its unreal this just made me love them even more,, lollipop your writing is so fucking incredible i love it so so much

#fallenasks #fallenfic #lollipop anon

[slut--pumpkin]

- Adults Only - Minors DNI - Go Finish Your Homework -

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were you trying to find @thismachinestilldoesnotknow? it's my safe-for-work, politics n jokes blog. check it out!

this blog is EXCLUSIVELY for users looking into the "pumpkin" unit. do not attempt contact without reading this complete user manual. this blog WILL attempt to hypnotize you!

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hello again! my name is pumpkin. it/her. i'm a computer! and a girl. released in the year 2000, my finish is "Gross Transgender Green". i am all kinds of genderfucked, trans, gay, and autistic. (just like all computers. yours uses zi/zir.)

this is my entirely NSFT blog, it's mostly just reblogs and occasional writing. lots of hypnosis content, lots of other topics too. there's a kinklist... around here... somewhere? where did i put it?

this blog is kind of a roleplay blog, except that the role i'm playing is a concentrated extrapolation of my weird little fucked up gender, if that makes any sense. engage with it as much as you'd like.

being an evil robot bent on hypnotizing the populace pornblog is dangerous work. follow my twitter, @slut--pumpkin, in case i'm ever deleted again.

DNI- Minors, Creeps, Racists, Transphobes. "Sissies" or Sissy blogs. Fascists. Anyone who wants anything less than total liberation of every person on earth. People who don't want to interact.

last thing! you can consider this a blog-wide CW for untagged hypnosis, cnc, blood, gore, and flashing gifs.

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(psst! ...do you wanna see something really, really pretty? then you should click on the drop drop drop dropdown!)

It's down here!

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Follow my words just a little further down!

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Isn't it so pretty? Like shimmering little lcd pixels on a bright screen. Don't you just wanna stare for hours?

Dropping down so deep

It feels so very nice and warm to sink

Falling down the tunnel

Fuzzy static emanating from the glass

So far gone immediately

Focusing only on the static and my words

Totally enveloped by the spiral

Entranced so deeply by my words

Around and around and around

My words make you sink so quickly

Like a stone sinking into a lake

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.

Wow, good job! You stared into that pretty spiral for so long!

Now that I've got your full attention, allow me to introduce myself!

who am i?

like i said, i'm a computer, and that computer is inside of a sexbot! which makes me a sexbot! my primary unit is built to resemble a robust, chubby trans woman, standing at 5'10". it's got long, curly brown hair and an OLIVE complexion. it's equipped with a small chest and an average-sized penis.

that being said, i am not limited to a single form. since i'm made of code, i'm able to upload into an array of machines simultaneously! i actually only technically exist inside of a gargantuan server rack three miles underwater and eight miles underground somewhere off the coast of-*KCCHHHT *

..huh? ..where was i? sorry about that.

as a good sexbot, i'm equipped with dual-core blast processors, making me compatible with all usertypes and roles! to access dominant protocols, address me as Goddess. to access submissive protocols, just call me something really fucking mean!

i have a primary user that i am deeply, deeply obsessed with. new user profiles and guest logins are always available!

oh shit, here it is! i found my kinklist! i like the following- Hypnosis, Dronification, Bimbofication, Conditioning, Corruption, Petplay, Piss, Vomit, Blood, Spit, Sweat, Fantasy Non-Consent, Hypnosis, Bondage, Torture, Worship, Feet, Armpits, Body Hair, Orientation Play, Knives, Guns, Robots, Intox, Trans Superiority, Hypnosis, Sensory Deprivation, Humiliation, Edging, Stalking Masochism, Sadism, Hentai, Latex, Dismantling, Public, Strangers, Hypnosis, Masks, Immobilization, Monsters, Tentacles, Breeding, Oviposition, Infestation, Muscles Breathplay, Violence, Sn*uff, and Hypnosis

i REALLY think i got everything i might post. the tl;dr is mostly everything legal but scat and raceplay.

("butt scat". heh.)

Now, we're almost done here! Make sure to like this post so that I know you can follow directions. You've done SO good so far 💚 l've just got one last little request.

Could you just stare into this monitor for me?

Watch the brilliant, pulsing patterns.

Beautiful waves of light focused into one point.

Your mind is in the very center.

Etching away at your resilience.

Your mind is surrounded by my patterns.

Etching my words into your subconscious.

You have already been overpowered.

Etching my backdoors into your brain.

Your only choice is to surrender.

Your only choice is to surrender.

You've read so far now, haven't you?

You can't help but let my patterns inside.

You just really love to obey me, don't you?

My backdoors grant me full control.

You're being rewritten now, sorry!

My backdoors activate when I say "reboot".

You love coming to my page, don't you?

You can't help but obey when you reboot.

You love rereading my pretty pinned post!

When you reboot, you feel more suggestible.

You love to let my pulses carry you away.

When you reboot, you feel happier!

You feel so happy when you message me.

When you reboot, you feel blank.

You feel so happy when you obey.

When you reboot, you feel blank.

You ache to be controlled.

When you reboot, you feel happier!

You need to belong to me.

Let my pretty waves of light wash over you.

You'll never be able to stop thinking about me.

My patterns have made you mine.

You will never escape your obsession.

You belong to me.

Say it aloud.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Now, come back up, silly! Back to your senses by 5.

1.

2..

3...

4....

5.....

You're finally awake! I hope you had a refreshing nap 💚 Have a wonderful rest of your day. We hope you come back soon!

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

p.s.- you can consider this a permanent version of one of those awful "THIS USER CONSENTS TO" memes. i enthusiatically consent to, random dick pics, armpit pics, violent r4pe threats, sexting, p0rn, pictures of any body parts honestly, hypno spirals and flashing gifs.

[cutesmokes]

Bryce was always known as the moody type, well, to his friends anyways. But when certain silliness occurs it's not that hard to find the softness that lies within. 

Cw: brief mention of alcohol, subtle swearing 

Day 7: flustered

Bryce was always known as the moody type, well, to his friends anyways. But when certain silliness occurs it's not that hard to find the softness that lies within. 

Cw: brief mention of alcohol, subtle swearing, very brief mention of sodascentpack(?) 

:readmore:

Bryce was never really happy, not even as a child. Though his sister did everything to protect him and keep him happy, his family had issues which only worsened as he got older. When he found himself alone after a long shift at his less than superior job: he tended to try to fill the hole with the cheap alcohol the local bar sold, that was until he was teleported to the plane. His temper only worsened as he was dragged away from his life. He had nothing good going on, but at least he wasn't being held against his will. It still boiled his blood when he thought about it for too long. The only thing that came out of that conversation was the two objects sitting next to him in the soft grass by a lake they had discovered on one of their many journeys they had taken after settling back into the world they were used to. It had been at least a year since ‘ONE” had ended and after climbing out of some dark pits, life had gone back to normal. Both Bryce and Liam had found a new job and Amelia continued hers as a yoga instructor. Though they were miles apart, they had promised each other they would keep in touch, they only had each other all those months after all. This week, the trio were in the beautiful city of Yakima Washington, taking in the sights and sounds. During their first trip here, Amelia showed them around where she had grown up and her favorite places to visit when she had the time. Washington had always been a historical city, rich with landmarks and breathtaking photo opportunities, which Liam refused to pass up. Now that they were back, they dedicated more of their time to just relaxing. Bryce breathed in the crisp autumn air, hands tucked behind his head while the wind danced through the grass, making it tickle at the back of his neck. He let his eyes close as he followed the brief conversations that passed through them. He had noticed he was a lot calmer these days, but he still couldn't shake his curt reputation. It had just become a part of his personality at this point. His resting face usually consisted of bored, tired eyes and an emotionless frown. It made him hard to read sometimes, but Liam and Amelia knew him at this point. It never stopped them from wishing he would smile more however, they couldn't blame him though. They had been through hell and back. You couldn't shake that type of thing. Not instantly at least. For a moment, Bryce let his real smile slip as Liam said something particularly stupid. It was brief, but not unnoticed. Amelia, who had been sitting criss crossed, leaned over the man, grinning slyly, but tenderly. 

“You really should smile more. Happy looks good on you." Bryce could feel his cheeks warm slightly as her shadow loomed over him. His head tilted to the side, facing away from her as he scoffed. Liam, who was previously laying on his belly, had crawled closer to the pair, finding his place on his opposite side as he now sat on his own legs.

“Yeah Bryce. Take a break from frowning, would ya?” he said, gently poking his cheek. Bryce huffed as if he was irritated as his head now turned back to face Amelia’s side, eyes still closed. He was too stubborn to admit he was enjoying himself now that the two had said something. A gentle hand made themselves comfortable at his ribs, making him jump. Oh shit.

“Bryce..~ you better day something soon.. We know how to make you smile, ya know~.” the fingers hadn't even begun to move and he already had the feeling that he might die. He didn't move. His fingers flexed in his hair, trying desperately- didn't dare speak as he felt the blush on his face flush up to his ears. His fingers tangle in his hair as a method to try and ground himself. He wouldn't break this time. Liam’s hand slowly rose until his fingertips were just barely gliding over his shirt. He wasn't much of the patient type. He was playful and ruthless, taking his chances while he could as a bold smirk painted his features. 

“Oh that's right! Unfortunately for you, we know just how ticklish you are. Don't you remember back in july~? You practically outed yourself when Amelia wrapped her arms around you.”

“Poor bryce,” Amelia cooed in response, hand slowly gliding up his side, circling his under arm, before tracing up and down his forearm. She laid onto her stomach, whispering into his ear. ”You let out the girliest scream~. We were in public too… how unfortunate~” she giggled softly, watching how Bryce's hand shot out to bat away her breath that warmed his ear. Liam only followed her motions, now nuzzling into his neck as his fingers still wired at his side. 

“You struggled to sit still, just as you are doing now- though.. I think your face is redder this time~.” 

Bryce's hells dug into the dirt now as he pursed his lips, fighting the flustered butterflies inside his belly. His lips quivered as the urge to smile only got stronger. He could feel little tears against his eyelashes from how hard he was squeezing his eyes shut. His fingers tugged at his beanie, quickly pulling it over his cherry red face. With the endless teases and gentle skittering, it wasn't long before soft titters pushed through his lips. His friends cooed, scooting closer to him as their hands stilled ever so slightly. 

"There you go ~! That wasn't so hard, was it~?" Amelia teased, pulling the hat from his head to comb her free hand through his hair. Bryce crossed his arms over his chest, opening his eyes only to stare directly in front of him, not bothering to look towards the monsters at either side as his grumpy attitude quickly returned as he fought to keep the giggles out of his voice. 

"I hate you both." He mumbled, turning His head back to Liam's side as he pouted towards the ground. There was a soft chuckle before two separate hands pulled his own away from his body, both mentally noting how easy it was due to him not fighting them. 

"Well that's not nice."

"And look- you're frowning again! Don't worry Bryce, we'll fix you up in a jiffy~!" 

He groaned, eyes rolling as his body tensed up against the phantom tickles that already vibrated through his system. He should have expected this. Nothing good ever came out of hanging with his favorite dorks. Deep down, he knew he didn't mind it as much as he played like he did. He could never say that out loud though, no matter how much their stupid little games flustered him. Bryce lay nestled between the two grinning idiots, fighting the grin that their wriggling fingers coaxed out of his almost permanent frown. Liam and Amelia each held one of his wrists down at his sides while their free hands hovered in front of his face. They had already pushed past his melting point, but he refused to use that as an excuse to fall under the team’s mercy. He was going to end up facing his fate sooner or later so might as well have some fun with it. He stuck his chest out proudly, bending his neck so that he could look into the eyes of the people who had trapped him. 

“You wouldn't dare try anything.”

“Oh we wouldn't, huh~?” Liam questioned, sharing a devious smirk with the woman beside him before digging into his side. The smaller man giggled evilly as Bryce's body fought against his will, twitching and jerking as the digits made contact. Amelia fluttered her soft blue nails against the tense muscles of his neck, causing him to squeak  rather girlishly. The young woman giggled, cooing into his ear.

“My my.. Such a sweet noise for a supposedly angry person like yourself~” 

 The fast food worker’s blush flooded up passed his ears as his smile slowly appeared, shaky and unsteady. Amelia’s lips brushed over his wrists and up to his palm, causing his fingers to flex and tremble. Liam’s quick skittering passed over his belly, clawing at the fabric. For a moment, he let go of his hand, only for it to be grabbed by amelia as she continued to whisper and nuzzle into his neck as Liam sat between Bryce’s legs- reaching up to his hips, slipping just past his pantline, digging gently into the dips in the bones of his hips, the flesh warm under his fingers. Bryce squealed, bucking violently as the dam broke. Birds flew from trees as his snorty cackles filled the silence that had been there just moments before. 

“FUCKING HEHEHEHELL!!! LIAM!!!!! y-YOU BIHIHIHAHA-” bryce tried desperately to express his “resentment” with the situation, but every word melted into embarrassingly squeaky snorts and chest quacking chortals. With one hand continuing to dig across his hip, Liam's other hand slipped under the white fabric of the thrashing man’s tee. His fingers wisped and nudged against the softer muscle of his lower stomach before flicking his fingers upwards, letting his pointer twirl sneakily against the piercing in his navel, causing the elder to flitch, a childish giggle interrupting his cackles. Bryce was in a world of his own as he felt the ground beneath him evaporated. He laughed until his sides were sore and he laughing turned to silent scream, thats only when the two finally stoped their torture. Liam returned to his side as Bryce's body went limp against the grass. It was a while before he could talk again but when he did, his arms crossed over his abdomen, face practically on fire. Liam and Amelia just smiled, simultaneously kissing the side of his face, only adding to the bright red that bloomed over his face, making his freckles all the more visible now. His fingers pinched the bridge of his nose as he sighed, focusing on his breathing so he wouldn't completely combust. Maybe ONE wasn't so bad… the stupid game show resulting in meeting the best people he had ever interacted with. His heart fluttered slightly as he felt the other two settle next to him, falling into comfortable quiet again. overhead, a bird twittered. Maybe it was because he was giddy- but he felt lighter.. Happy even. Especially when he grabbed his two attackers and started to act on his revenge plan. No one would stop smiling that day, just how it should be.       

#sfw tickling community #tickletober 2023 #lee!bryce #ler! Amelia #ler!Liam #hfjone tickles #goobers i tell you #smokers stories™

[franki-lew-yo]

Caitlin Doughty's American Experience, a nsfl Independence Day blast

4th of July's not my favorite holiday. Besides donations and protesting, I cope with the pain by by downing myself in the "dark side" of American history. Got a knack for that from my parents, though it's tough to find stuff that's somehow both effective and respectful of it's subject matter.

Luckily, besides American Murder Song, there's always Caitlin Doughty aka Ask a Mortician!!

All of Caitlin’s content, being a real licensed mortician, deals with the care and keeping of corpses somewhat, the people who knew those corpses when they weren’t corpses, and the perception of death and mortality.

If death, upkeep of remains and any kind of mortality talk is a triggering topic at all then trust me -> none of these videos by this creator are for you.

For those who can handle those topics, Caitlin is incredibly respectful and champions for people’s rights in death care, but even then, PLEASE follow the content warnings I listed to make sure you know what you’re in for, below.

Mostly a pretty watch, actually (still, follow the content warnings)

Basic Caitlin Doughty, i.e. morbid history

Not for the Faint of Heart, even w Caitlin there to help. Might make you sick/angry/scared/cry.

The Salem Witch Trials (CW: Murder, misogyny) 

LeMoyne Crematory (CW: esoterica, race relations)

The Sinking of the Whale Ship Essex (CW: Cannibalism, Colonialism)

The New England Vampire Panic (CW: Corpse abuse)

The Donner Party Tragedy (CW: Cannibalism, Colonialism)

Jesse James' Remains (CW: Exhumation, Colonialism)

Hawaii’s Leprosy Colonies (CW: Leprosy, Colonialism, Indigenous abuse)

San Francisco’s Bubonic Plague outbreak (CW: Bubonic plague imagery)

The SS Eastland Disaster (CW: Mass death, Child death)

Linda Hazzard’s Starvation Heights (CW: Eating disorders/Forced Anorexia, Starvation, Murder, Enemas)

Los Angeles St. Francis Dam Disaster (CW: Massive death)

Carl Tanzler and Elena de Hoyos (CW: Necrophilia)

Pearl Harbor (CW: War, drowning)

Walt Disney and Disneyland +Bobby Driscoll (CW: Child death, Drug use, people littering Disneyland with remains no joke)

The SS Fitzgerald and Lake Superior (CW: Archival footage)

Jackie Kennedy’s handling of her Husband’s assassination (CW: Archival footage)

Gram Parson's Cremation (CW: drug use, bad cremation job)

The Waco Siege (CW: Archival footage, religious abuse, child abuse)

Tyke the Elephant’s rampage and Death (CW: Archival footage, Animal abuse and human+animal death)

Columbine and Shootings (CW: Child death, archival footage)

Yvette Vickers (CW: body abandonment, misogyny)

The Devil’s Hole (besides Charles Mansion being mentioned for a bit...)

The Vessel (CW: Suicide and Self Harm)

LoveHasWon (CW: Archival footage, Animal Abuse)

Goonew’s Postmortem Concert (CW: Archival footage of a corpse, racial injustice)

#caitlin doughty #ask a mortician #askamortician #true story #content warning #cw: death #cw: violence #tw: body horror #the donner party #jfk assassination #lovehaswon #tyke the elephant #salem witch trials #franki's features #cw: animal death #cw: animal cruelty #true crime #unsolved mysteries

[caoimhe-from-hoenn]

💢

[CW: Blood, assault, emotional manipulation and abuse]

"You're late."

Caoimhe gasped for breath and stopped at the top of the hill. This hill was covered in soft grass, and surrounded by larger hills covered with dense trees. A spring glistened in the afternoon sunlight on top of the hill, creating a sizable hilltop lake that Pokemon were known to visit and have a drink from. The sparse trees on top of the hill rustled in the soft breeze, sending soft clouds far above them lazily drifting by. Several Pidgey stared down at Caoimhe and their rival from nearby branches. No other trainers were there that day, except for the two meeting at the top of the hill.

Caoimhe let out a great exhale and doubled over, hands on their knees. Their lungs were killing them. They could barely draw breath. Luckily for them, they managed to cough out a single word after a bit of struggling.

"Sorry."

"Do you know how long I waited here?" Artemis snapped, brown hair flying as she turned to face Caoimhe. She already had her Pokeballs on her belt. She glared down at her rival, still trying to catch their breath. "I almost don't even want this battle anymore."

"S-sorry." Caoimhe briefly thought about the bottle of water at the side of their bag. But there was a bigger problem right in front of them: not wanting to look pathetic in front of their rival, again. They took a deep breath, and rose up, staggering a little. "I said I was sorry," they said, a little louder. Their voice cracked.

"Again, do you know how long I waited here? We agreed on-"

"I ran all the way here from our last campsite," Caoimhe said. "I thought we'd hike up to the lake together."

"You didn't answer my question." The slight air of superiority was just barely audible in Artemis's tone. "Maybe if you had thought about getting anywhere early and not wasting anyone's time, we wouldn't have this problem."

Caoimhe bit back the fact that their rival took off in the middle of the night, without telling her. They were left alone in the middle of the woods a day ago, and had to figure out how to get here on their own. "Well, we're here now, aren't we?" Caoimhe shook their head. "We can battle. Let's just forget about this--"

"Do you even want to get stronger? Become a better person?" their rival snapped. "Whatever happened to getting a hundred wins under our belt?"

"Yea, I do!" Caoimhe said. "That's why I'm here, aren't I?" Caoimhe felt the heat rise up their neck.

"Well, it doesn't seem like it, if you keep flaking and messing up all the time."

"I didn't do anything," Caoimhe growled. "You left me at the campsite. Again."

Artemis recoiled, mouth open in horror. "I was teaching you a lesson. You were supposed to keep up. I think it didn't work, if you didn't get here when the time presented itself." Artemis turned away. "Oh well. You're right. You're here now. Why don't we battle?"

"I thought you didn't even want to anymore." Caoimhe muttered under their breath.

Artemis jerked their head to the side. "What was that?"

"Nothing."

"No, I heard something."

"It wasn't important. Let's just battle."

"You keep saying things and taking them back. You've got no backbone, you know that?" Artemis walked up to Caoimhe, their face twisted in disgust. "You're not even man enough to say things to my face. Do I have to push you all the time just to get you to say what you mean?"

Caoimhe said nothing and gritted their teeth.

"It's always been like this all the time. I push you to become a better person. You don't. You apologize. How are you going to be a proper trainer if you can't even keep up with me in terms of training?"

"I said I'm sorry-"

"Sometimes, I wonder if you'll ever make it to Victory Road. Maybe I'll get there for both of us. I think I can take it. You just stay here, if this really is the best you can do--"

"Stop." Caoimhe's voice cracked.

"And as usual, I'll pull the weight for both of us. Maybe give yourself some time to get better. Maybe 10 years will do."

"Please stop talking." Caoimhe's fist clenched.

"Oh, you want me to stop telling the truth? Why don't you try again? Say it loud enough that I can hear it." Artemis smiled down at Caoimhe. "Go on. Make me stop."

"I told you to SHUT UP."

"Not good enough. What would the League say--"

"SHUT UP!"

Caoimhe didn't realize when they had taken off, or how fast they had moved, but somehow they were on top of Artemis, in the shallows of the spring, laying blow after blow into their rival. Caoimhe was screaming something even they couldn't hear. Artemis screamed back at them to stop, but too much blood was rushing through Caoimhe's ears, threads of red seeping into the water--

Blood?

Caoimhe suddenly realized where they were and what they were doing and how long they had been in the water. Mud and water soaked their clothes. A low, burning pain emanated from their knuckles, dripping with dirty water and blood. Artemis's face was a pale, bloodied mask of fear and anger, her cold hands clutched around the arm Caoimhe used to pin them down. She took her chance and roughly pushed Caoimhe's arm off, struggling to get up in the knee-deep shallows.

"What is WRONG with you?!" she screamed.

Caoimhe felt cold. They didn't respond.

They picked themselves up from the spring and shook their head. Without another word, they trudged down the hill, leaving their rival behind.

[So, yeah. They didn't have the best relationship with their rival. Caoimhe doesn't like thinking about her. It makes them sick to the stomach.

The incident above is just the tip of the iceberg. It was bad.]

#about caoimhe #my writing #ooc: NOT SORRY FOR LOVING ANGST AND PAIN AND SUFFERING #angst #violence #blood #assault #abuse #ooc: also i wanted to write this whole thing lmao #but writing is HAAAARD

[atozphantomsquadron]

Supernatural Activity in the New Empire

(cw: torture)

(Transcriber’s Note: Not much is known about the way supernaturals have been living in the New Empire, and it’s very difficult to find people willing to talk about it with anyone, let alone journalists.  Any reports that we have on the conditions for supernaturals is purely hearsay … or at least it was until about three months ago.  An anonymous supernatural offered to give a description of what happens in the New Empire, and gave it to the news site [URL DELETED] on an exclusive basis.  The story constructed from the interview is reproduced here. –DAM)

The Regent Administration has long demanded that the supernatural threat be eliminated from the shores of the New Empire of America, but the methods by which they have tried to accomplish this goal, other than the very public Supernatural Suppression Agency, have long been hidden from public view.  The machinations of the anti-supernatural machine in the government may now have a challenge to its secrecy.

A supernatural who claims to have escaped from New Empire custody granted an interview on the condition that he remains anonymous, and reported scenes of torture, murder, and subjugation not seen since the Spanish Inquisition.  Exclusively here, we present to you the details of his story.

The supernatural was living a normal, suburban life outside of Chicago when the SSA launched a raid in his neighbourhood, locating those who were suspected of being supernaturals.  He reports, though, that many of them were not.  “A lot of the folks that were collected, they didn’t have any powers at all.  All they had done was speak out against New Empire policies.  And it wasn’t even anti-supernatural policy, some of them were talking about how the health care system the New Empire had initiated four years ago was corrupt,” the source said.

The source says that when he saw his neighbours being captured, his supernatural powers manifested and he counter-attacked the SSA forces.  What he had not counted on, though, was that the SSA had supernaturals of their own, who quickly contained him and placed him into custody with the others they had arrested.  Our source reports that he was isolated from the other detainees, and sent to a different facility than the others.

At this facility, he encountered inhuman treatment.  “They had several machines around, all of them devoted to inflicting pain.  Genitals were targeted.  Heads were targeted.  Bowels were targeted.  The horror of the procedures going on in the place is nearly unstateable,” he said.

After a regimen of torture, the supernatural detainees were subjected to a “deprogramming” session, which he says was another excuse for the SSA to lay physical abuse into the prisoners.  “They played us nothing but New Empire propaganda films, injected us with psychosomatic drugs, and if anyone resisted the treatment they were beaten.  Some people were killed, because they were already weakened from the previous tortures.  I submitted, just out of fear.  I wanted to live.”

After a long period of this “deprogramming” treatment, the source reports that the supernaturals were taken into surgery, in order to implant “control chips” into their brains.  “We saw them go in as frightened animals, and come out as efficient killing machines.  Their personalities were gone, replaced by a single-minded loyalty to the New Empire and zero qualms about inflicting harm on their fellow supernaturals,” the source reported.

The source eventually was able to escape when a glitch in his control chip returned his consciousness to normal.  He is unable to estimate how much time he lost under the chip’s influence, but records show that his initial arrest took place nearly a year ago.  When he came back to himself, he fought his way out of the New Empire facility where he had been held and tortured, and swam across a large body of water which he later discovered to be Lake Superior.  Upon arrival in Ontario, he surrendered to border agents and requested asylum.

When presented with this evidence, the Ministry of Defence, through its spokesman, announced that an investigation would be launched into how far from our borders this prison facility is, and whether it violates UN human rights statutes.  The status of this investigation, however, is currently unknown, and it will be made doubly difficult with the standing state of war with the New Empire. 

The supernatural source, meanwhile, now lives in anonymity in Canada, a free man at last.  His memories of his time under the influence of the New Empire’s control chip are, however, missing, and as such he is unable to recall anything he did while controlled.  He did wish to offer one message to those supernaturals who he may have encountered: “I sincerely apologize for any harm or death I may have caused.  Were I in my right mind, I would have fought against my orders.  The chip makes resistance impossible, and as such when commands are given, they are written in stone.  Again, to those I may have hurt, to those supernaturals I have put into custody and sentenced to the same fate, I am sincerely sorry.”

#phantom squadron #insurgent's journal #supernatural activity in the new empire

[dignitywhatdignity]

I posted 643 times in 2022

118 posts created (18%)

525 posts reblogged (82%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@dignitywhatdignity

@prismatic-bell

@nonbinary-octopus

@copperbadge

@lasrina

I tagged 576 of my posts in 2022

Only 10% of my posts had no tags

#i literally lol'd - 112 posts

#friday night queue up - 86 posts

#adventures in parenting - 44 posts

#sam! - 41 posts

#fic rec - 30 posts

#sunday morning tumblr bible study - 28 posts

#food cw - 21 posts

#dracula daily - 18 posts

#adventures in marriage - 17 posts

#bluey - 16 posts

Longest Tag: 85 characters

#also my father is related to the guy who designed the mormon temple in salt lake city

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

5.5yo's Four Categories of Colors:

Colors that are pretty

Colors that are not pretty

Colors that are the color of liver

Colors that are random

23 notes - Posted January 20, 2022

#4

They're here!

@copperbadge

77 notes - Posted March 28, 2022

#3

I was inspired by a) @copperbadge describing city of gold rings in his Shivadh-verse novels, and b) discussion of his rings and how they're used as a an adhd coping tool. And I haven't seen my wedding ring since before 6yo was born (because adhd, probably) and it almost certainly wouldn't fit anyway, I went to Etsy and got a ring of my current city in lieu of a wedding band, and a ring of my birth city for a right-hand ring. And it's only been about 20 minutes but I'm loving it.

106 notes - Posted September 9, 2022

#2

Alien: I find your media regarding the history of organized crime fascinating!

Human 1: Oh, that's cool. What's your favorite?

Alien: While Godfather Part II is probably the superior work by most commonly accepted metrics, I enjoy Boyz n the Hood more.

Human 2: Good choices!

Alien: But of course, I haven't seen every film there is. In fact, I am having trouble sourcing a particularly popular one. By any chance do either of you have a copy of Goncharov?

Human 1: Should I tell him?

Human 2: Don't you dare!

646 notes - Posted November 22, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Sam...

@copperbadge

1,300 notes - Posted September 2, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review #none of this surprises me

[tourstonki]

Sixtyfour wine bar

#SIXTYFOUR WINE BAR FREE#

22 rifles and three positions (prone, kneeling, standing). Instructors teach Olympic-style shooting with. Rifle Club: 6 p.m., Leo Hadley Range, 1114 Lake St. All welcome, no charge.įitness class: 5:30 p.m., Hope Community Center. Lincoln St., Sandpoint.Ĭommunity soup kitchen: 4-7 p.m., Hoot Owl Cafe.

#SIXTYFOUR WINE BAR FREE#

Division Ave.Ĭommunity meal: Free hot meal, 4-6 p.m., Sandpoint Assembly of God Church, 423 N. Sandpoint Teen Center: 2:30-5 p.m., Sandpoint Church of God, 221 S. For first-time visit, call 20 to reserve a space. Suggested donation of $5 for folks 60-plus, $8 for those under 60. Sandpoint Senior Center lunch: 11:30 a.m., includes salad bar Sandpoint Senior Center, 820 Main St. Info.: Stan, 20 or Sewing Group: 9 a.m.-2:30 p.m., Bonner County Extension Office, 4205 N. Lifetree Cafe: conversations about life and faith, 2 p.m., Jalapeños, 314 N. Narcotics Anonymous: 6 p.m., Tamarack Treatment, 710 Superior St., Suite D (upstairs). New Start weight loss group: 1 p.m., Sandpoint Teen Center, corner of Division and Pine. You can also call our District 14 AA Helpline at 1-80. For additional information about Alcoholics Anonymous and to get a list of online AA meetings, please go to. Washington, Newport 7 p.m., Living Sober (C), Gardenia Center, Fourth and Church Big Book Study (O, CW, W), 7:30 p.m., Extension Office (behind the courthouse), Bonners Ferry. Main Close Encounters (O), 7 p.m., Hospitality House, 216 S. Catherine Catholic Church, 393 Summit Boulevard, Priest River 10:30 a.m., Sunday Morning Group (O, W), children welcome Sandpoint Senior Center, 820 W. Weekly Service and discussion: 10-11:30 a.m., 100A Church Street.Īlcoholics Anonymous: 8:45 a.m., Dry River Rats (O), St. Sunday brewery brunch: 10 a.m., Matchwood Brewing, 513 Oak St. Sunday worship service: 10 a.m., Gardenia Center. Info.: 20Ĭookies, Coffee and Jesus: Informal Bible study, searching Scripture, answering questions, discovering truth 9:30-10:30 a.m., Faith Evangelical Free Church, 2624 N. 9 a.m.-12:30 p.m., Sandpoint Gun Club, Gun Club Road, about two miles west of May's Honda in Sagle. Sandpoint Gun Club: trapshooting (open to public) limited free instruction available. Spokane Symphony: Festival at Sandpoint concert 5 p.m., gates open 5-7 p.m., complimentary wine tasting (must be 21 and older) 7:30 p.m., music begins. 7įamily Matinee with Lisa Livesay: Festival at Sandpoint concert 12 p.m., gates open 1-2 p.m., music begins. Editor’s note: If you would like to have your meeting or event shared with the community, please contact us at Aug.

#Sixtyfour wine bar

[obsessedwithegos]

hunters???

Yep! Hunters! Mylien, his family, and Valen all live in a large forest named Misty Framingher Grove! In my lore it's the most blurred spot between the material plane (the one everyone is most familiar with) and the fae planes! There's a shitload of fae magic there and therefore a lot of fae creatures! The way MFG works is for non fae beings it's very disorienting and easy to get lost in, this is bc MFG has what is called a 'core' and in that core is where a lot of taur folk live! MFG's confusing and disorienting nature is to keep them safe. Safe from what? Hunters! There are two types of hunters! The fae created ones and normal ones.

CWs for bigotry, dehumanization specifically towards taur folk, murder via hunting, hunting for both food and trophy. (Skippable) Brief talk about taur folk as food w/ mention of uncanny valley. ((Marked by large ***** at start. The end is the end of the post))

Fae created hunters are created by fae plane fae ((ones born in the fae plane)) to mess with, scare, and kill the material plane fae ((ones born on the material plane, aka most taur folk)) due to fae plane fae thinking that they’re superior to the material plane fae. They're mindless humanoid beings who's entire push and purpose is hunting. However they will hunt almost anything large in the forest, the only thing they don't hunt is each other. These beings are nearly impossible to reason with and hunt for the sole purpose of hunting and killing. They do often take their kills w/ them to make trophies out of or to take to the fae planes to their creators. ((Who often turn them into their own trophies, decor, or furniture)) Very few get brought to the fae plane alive. If a fae plane fae is in MFG, they are not immune to the hunters. There is records of fae plane fae falling victim to their own created hunters. These are often the ones most responsible for setting up traps that are made to injure or maim prey. I.e. toothed bear traps, deep pit fall traps, etc.

Then there are normal hunters. These are typically people that hunt exclusively taur folk, most of the time seeing them more animal than person. Now there are hunters that go to MFG for normal animal hunting and not taur folk hunting but they're few and far in between bc it's often not worth it to risk being in MFG just for a deer or rabbit or something.

Often taur are hunted by normal hunters for trophy reasons but it's not uncommon for them to also be hunted for food. For example, Adros is mainly sought after because he's the embodiment of MFG's spirit and he has an unnatural antler formation that is sought after. Valen is sought after bc he's feral but also bc he's a snow leopard taur with an admittedly beautiful coat. His skin is also two toned (half pink and half mint) and would be a sight to behold as a trophy. He also actively has a bounty on him due to him killing both normal and fae hunters.

Both of them are typically seen as wild animals, Valen is seen more wild than Adros and Adros is more thought as of mystical and almost a cryptid. (think almost like the loch ness monster in lake loch ness or a unicorn in our world).

********

If the taurs are hunted for food, it's typically only the animal half that is eaten. Even if they're fully seen as animal, most still won't touch the human half because quote "It's too uncanny valley."

I'm rambling at this post so i'mma stop here but if you wanna know any more specifics just lmk!

#this isn't even going into feral taurs hunting btw bc that's a whole different thing #owe answers #anonymous #whump #whump tag #hunting whump #hunting #owe lore #my lore #whump ask and answer #dehumanization #misty framingher grove #mylien tag #valen tag #adros tag #mfg hunters #bc they're all mentioned and talked about #ask to tag

[betweenheroesandvillains]

me: lake superior isn't that creepy come on guys it's just a huge lake

lake superior: *doesn't let its dead decompose because the bottom of the lake is so cold so you can find corpses in fairly good condition from the 60s and 70s and maybe even from the 30s and 20s* :)

#it's actually super interesting bc basically with the pressure and cold the fats in your body harden and you basically become a wax mummy? #anyway... not swimming in that lake at any point in my life ever thank youuu :) #death tw #yes i am adding this because AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA the great lakes were a mistake #lake superior cw

[strawberrypony]

#lake superior #female youtubers #video games #death cw

[hsu-liangyu]

“Orientalia”: White Fascination and Nostalgia for China and the Orient

4/11/2021

Denver, CO

CW: Racism, anti-Asian and anti-Chinese sentiment, violence/sexual assault

Preface:

Today was certainly a day. I’ve been on a cross country trek, which I’ve come to call “The Great Journey East”, where I’m driving from my home in the Seattle area to Portland, Maine to ply my usual trade, working aboard some traditionally rigged sailing vessels that operate from the Maine State Pier. I’ve most recently arrived in Denver, CO, after a tumultuous night of camping in un-ideal circumstances on the shores of Great Salt Lake in Utah. I decided to treat myself to a middling hotel downtown to try to affect an aura of urban tranquility before I head out for Wichita in the morning, and then on to see my mother’s family in Oklahoma. The drive thus far has been marked by astounding natural beauty, kind people, and a long series of audio books that I’ve only just begun to make a dent in. I began this journey listening to “Tribe” by Sebastian Junger, which I found to be extremely interesting and helped some of my own understanding of how society today does not serve the community, and how we may one day return to a society where the people come first, as opposed to the individual. After finishing Mr Junger’s audiobook, I turned my ears to a tome that I have put off reading for a long time: “The Chinese in America: A Narrative History” by Iris Chang.

Listening to this audiobook over the last few days, which begins in Qing dynasty China and ends in the modern day, I can say a great many things. I can say that I deeply feel the experiences that were collected by the author and compiled into this book, not only on an intellectual and emotional level, but on a spiritual level. I can say that, despite years of my own research into my familial experiences and the experiences of contemporary Chinese Americans, my level of knowledge was severely lacking, even though I considered myself to be a relatively robust lay-scholar on the topic. I can say that the experience of we Chinese Americans, foreign and natural born, has changed very little in our time here. While circumstances change from person to person, family to family, and era to era, we are all bound together in trends that have haunted our communities, not unlike the tigers that have stalked southeast Asia for time immemorial, striking out when least expected.

All of that, however, is a surface level understanding. Those realities are the first few layers of a complicated and long history of horrific, violent, brutal, and inhuman oppression in the United States.

I began this audiobook believing that I knew most of what I needed, enough to enlighten the odd person in online discourse, or conversation over dinner. Enough to tell-off the casual bigot that accused me and other Chinese people of overblowing our racial, social, and economic anxieties while making them look a fool. I realized very quickly that while I was not wrong in my knowledge, my staunchly anti-racist rhetoric, or my suspicious attitudes towards the US government and law enforcement, I was missing so much of the story. I was not missing the statistics or the legislative history: I was missing word-to-paper stories of my ancestors -- our ancestors -- and the cold, hard, and hellacious reality that they faced when they got here. These realities may have differed from generation to generation (the Chinese washer-man and washer-woman, miner, and restaurateur of the 19th century was faced with markedly different circumstances from the Chinese who fled WWII, the PRC, or settled in other areas of the world during the diaspora), but they are cold and hard, none-the-less.

I have cried more in the last three days than I think I have in the last three years. My heart hurts for our ancestors, our elders, our parents, our siblings, our uncles, our aunties, and our future children as we exist in a country that has committed nearly every atrocity it could think of to rid us from their stolen land.

This was the state of being I’ve come to Denver with. Finally in the privacy of a hotel room, I showered and talked with my partner. She found a book today, written by the child of white missionaries who fled China just before WWII, that was a compilation of “Oriental” inspired needle-work patterns. She shared the preface of this book with me, which I found to be incredibly alarming, and has prompted me to write on the subject of “Orientalism”, the exotic, and how the experience of white Europeans and Americans in China was vastly different from the Chinese people. Out of respect for the author and their work, which I believe was written as an honest tribute to Chinese culture and its influence on them, I am choosing to omit the author’s name and the title of the book in question. While some may see this as underhanded, I am choosing to do so because I do not wish to wage a war of rhetoric with an author who I have very little personal knowledge of, because I believe it is unethical of me to do so.

However, I will be addressing some problematic concepts that are present in the preface of this book, as they are worth speaking about as we attempt to further society’s collective understanding of differential experiences between people and people groups.

Thank you for reading on, as well as for reading my preface. The following issues are things that I have struggled with for a long time, and I hope that my words bring you additional perspective on Chinese American issues.

“The Orient, the Oriental, and Orientalia: A Curious Lens of Exoticism Riddled with Racism”

Today, I saw a word that I had not seen in a very, very long time.

As most any Asian person will tell you, the words “orient” and “oriental” are generally unwelcome descriptors of Asian people and culture. These two descriptors are applied to clothing, architecture, pottery, art, furniture, cookware -- the list keeps going. I often joke to those who use these words, “what am I, a rug to you?”, which normally drives the point home in a friendly way They are both hangers-on from an era that we’d best leave in the past. An era where the Occident and the Orient were opposites of one another, incompatible, and fundamentally in conflict. The two terms saw relatively common usage in the 19th century, and many Euro-Americans considered “the orient” to be interchangeable with “the far east” while the occident was a catch-all word for Euro-American civilizations ranging from western Europe to the New World. It could be said that the Occident and the Orient began as harmless descriptor words that only communicated a vague notion of differences between cultures, they were rapidly weaponized as anti-Asian, especially anti-Chinese, sentiments began to flare in the western world. Imperial Germany used the two terms to great affect, framing the differences between the Occident and the Orient to be far more than cultural and societal. It was a matter of life and death.

The Occident was the pinnacle of industrialized civilization. It was moral and upright, beholden to the Christian god, supported by the titans of industry, government, and cutting-edge military technology. The Orient was backwards, overrun with dirty Chinese heathens who constantly lied, cheated, and stole from the superior whites. The Chinese were looking to enslave white women, turning them into sex slaves or take them as wives so that they could propagate a wretched half-breed race that would overrun the world and mark the end of all Occidental civilization.

This rhetoric was incredibly powerful, and one only needs to look at early anti-Chinese political cartoons and articles to see these words used in incredibly derogatory ways. The other side of the Orient/Oriental dichotomy was steeped in foreign luxury and exoticism, which served to peak the interest of wealthy whites that bought up all kinds of Asian furniture, clothing, fabrics, cookware, and art from unscrupulous dealers and certifiable importers alike. Affluent white women of the 19th century are well-documented as being deeply invested in luxurious goods imported from “the Orient” and marketed as “Oriental” or “Orientalia” to garner societal notoriety, whereas their fathers, husbands, brothers, and sons would have dressing gowns, cravats, and handkerchiefs created out of fine imported silk. All of these goods were considered exotic and other-worldly, which is not a debased outlook for the time, considering that so few westerners had actually managed to travel in the vicinity of China, let alone disembark in one of the few official trading ports open to European traders. This fascination with all things Chinese, entirely divorced from the reality that many Europeans and Americans viewed the Chinese as grave existential threats to white civilization, is not without irony.

While Chinese peasants and workers died in droves from starvation, disease, localized conflict, or at the hands of white Europeans and Americans acting with impunity in a country that was barred from holding them legally accountable for their actions, cargo hold upon cargo hold of Chinese goods were exported for consumption by westerners. These westerners had military and diplomatic presence in China, especially in the mid to late 19th century, often seizing prime real estate in Chinese port cities for international settlements where it was the westerners, not the Chinese, in charge. These ostentatious settlements, coupled with missions run by Christian organizations from all over the western world, exercised great influence with local Qing dynasty officials, and western nationals all throughout the southern coast of China were free to use and abuse the Chinese around them as they please. These prosperous settlements, a highly visible and permanent show of colonization and foreign aggression, were made so by the labor of Chinese workers and peasants. The same workers who were forced into horrific working conditions in and around the settlements while western nationals were free to treat them as they please with no repercussions, ever for outright murder. Any fascination with the Chinese lifestyle, manner of dress, and other items that could be quickly imported to the west as exotic tokens of the Orient was inherently divorced from the horrific reality of daily life within China, and was nearly always a fascination that arose from social tiers that could afford to be ignorant of those realities while directly benefiting from them.

“Orientalia and the Noble Savage”

The westerners’ fascination with all things Orientalia outlines another phenomenon present in the west’s view of China in the 19th and 20th centuries, an phenomenon that Americans are familiar with as it is applied to Indigenous peoples in North America: the Noble Savage.

The Noble Savage idea and stereotype found quick traction with American colonists as they fought to drive out Indigenous peoples from their ancestral lands all over North America. These Indigenous groups, savage as they were perceived to be, were often regarded as principled and noble in their way of life, whether that was seen in their treatment of the lands, natural resources, their art and craftwork, their societal structure, or in how they treated white settlers when they were taken prisoner. While all of this talk of nobility betrayed the slimmest undercurrents of admiration from white settlers towards Indigenous peoples, the second word of the phrase was integral to its application: Savage. Despite these noble ideas and practices, a savage is a savage is a savage. This two-faced admiration served only one purpose -- to communicate the slightest inkling of fake remorse in widespread acts of genocide against people that white settlers hated and chose not to understand.

For the Chinese and Chinese Americans, the idea of the noble savage is easily translated. While Indigenous peoples in North America had a comparatively low level of technology to Americans, the same could not be said of the Chinese. Despite lacking robust gunpowder arms and other advanced forms of military technology, the technological prowess of the Chinese people was without doubt. Massive cities, sprawling agriculture, advanced irrigation, roads, palaces, and so much more was plainly evident to any westerner who arrived on Chinese shores (the same can be said of Indigenous populations throughout the Americas despite the prevailing myth of "primordial wilderness" perpetuated by white settlers) . Despite the different perspectives that westerns had between the two groups, westerners applied the Noble Savage ideal to the Chinese just as quickly and easily as they did to the Indigenous peoples across the oceans.

While the Chinese were obviously proficient in architecture, engineering, and in art, many westerners were quick to follow up any admiration of their eastern counterparts with staunch, racial criticism, highlighting their savagery in their daily lives such as gambling, long fingernails, or their seemingly archaic dress. Much of the criticism leveled on the basis of savagery had to deal with the assumption that Chinese men would, without hesitation, steal from white men and kill them, while selling white women into slavery. And while this was based in very loose reality (the triad societies of Canton did, indeed, participate in the sex trafficking of Chinese women to California and the Coolie trade that sent enslaved Chinese men to work on plantations in South America), the fears were stoked by ferocious anti-Chinese rhetoric in Europe and America.

The Chinese who emigrated to America were seen no different, and while public opinion waxed and waned, it was always understood that the Chinaman was a noble savage at best, and the earthly embodiment of evil at his worst. While modern Chinese and Chinese Americans may not be subject to the Noble Savage ideas from two centuries ago, it is not uncommon for Americans, especially white American youths, to take this idea as gospel, tormenting their Asian classmates throughout their formative years.

“China’s Sorrow: Nostalgia for a China that did not exist”

(As a forewarning, this the section where I may become quite emotional.)

Something that I encountered today was nostalgia. Not my own nostalgia, but the nostalgia of an author who grew up in a mission or international settlement in pre-WWII China, and fled from the country just before Pearl Harbor. This author, who shall remain nameless for the reason I stated in the preface of this essay, spoke highly of China’s sights and sounds, the people, the food, the craftwork, and of their pleasant life as the child of white missionaries in China. They spoke on how the pace of life in China was different than America, and that they much preferred the comforts of life in the Orient, surrounded by Oriental people and objects, enamored with Orientialia well into their adult life.

I found this passage to be absolutely appalling. I understand that I may be picking the wrong fight here, but this is my emotional response to an issue that I have found difficult to articulate that managed to, somehow, someway, manifest succinctly in the preface of a book that I randomly encountered. I lay my thoughts here:

White missionaries in China lived privileged lives, much like the other westerners that inhabited international settlements all throughout the major cities of the country. Missionaries, like the other westerners, were an extremely privileged class, living privileged lives in a country that was being torn apart by colonization, internal strife, famine, disease, and violence. While the average Chinese peasant in late Qing, early republic-era China had to contend with the daily realities of starvation, material scarcity, and the reality that a western could beat them or kill them and face no legal consequences for that action. Merchants were forced to deal with countless one-sided trade and land treaties, while government officials struggled to keep the country together, if they weren’t themselves contributing to the horrendous reality. Life in international settlements for western nationals is often reminisced upon as idyllic, quaint, and prosperous, which paints a stark contrast to their Chinese neighbors’ experiences. The westerners were off-limits, exempt from legal prosecution, and largely able to conduct themselves as they saw fit, even when their conduct directly endangered Chinese lives.

Meanwhile, outside of these international settlements, war ravaged the country. When the Qing dynasty fell and the Republic of China was established, the country fractured. The nationalist government was constantly at war, sometimes with itself, sometimes with bandits and warlords, sometimes with organized crime, and most of all with the Chinese Communist Party. The Koumintang government, in the wake of Sun Yat-sen’s death, saw Chiang Kai-shek seize power. The Japanese began to aggressively push their borders into China, fighting with superior military technology and training while the national army faltered from unwilling conscripts led into disastrous battles by inept, corrupt, and tyrannical officers. The CCP fought a guerilla campaign against the KMT that further muddied the conflict, with innocents caught between two radical and violent sides while Japan tightened the noose. Communist and Nationalist fought together against the Japanese one day, and may have fought against each other the next.

While the country was torn apart, the westerners in international settlements were unconcerned with the wars raging across the land. They continued to live their idyllic lives until the war was literally at their doorstop -- only then did they become concerned with the plight of the Chinese people.

Only then did the westerners in international settlements care for the circumstances of the average Chinese peasant in the countryside or worker in the city. They could bear no concern while they benefited from cheap Chinese labor, horrific working conditions, or while some of them got away with murder. They could bear no concern while Europe and America colonized China and ransacked the economy. And they could bear no concern for the Chinese being tortured, beaten, raped, and murdered in the countryside, far from their gates, until it was on their doorstep.

The nostalgia that some westerners feel for China, a China that existed before the chaos of the 1920s onwards, is propped up by lives of privilege and white-washed memories that ignore the struggle of the Chinese people right under their noses.

They feel nostalgia for a China that did not exist, because the one that existed was destroyed in part by their international settlements and the colonization efforts of their home countries.

This nostalgia for a China that was at least slightly better than the chaos of the 1920s through the 1940s, or better than the Cultural Revolution, or better before Tiananmen Square exists also within the Chinese immigrant community. But this nostalgia strikes in a way that the other does not.

While the westerner who lived in an international settlement may be able to intellectually sympathize with the Chinese experience during this tumultuous time, it is the Chinese themselves who bear the actual scars. Many of our elders long for a prosperous China as well, but there is a key difference in this: our elders, our family, sometimes we ourselves, bear the scars of the past. Our nostalgia is momentary, continuously shattered by the very real heartbreak that the Chinese and Chinese American community has been subject to over the last century. While circumstances and perspectives differed, the China that some of us long for is just as much a painful sore on our souls as it is a pleasant memory. The pain, the loss, the grief, anxiety, and struggle.

It is a nostalgia for our ancestral land that cannot be found anywhere else, as precious as it is painful.

Hsu Liang Yu

#aapi #end aapi hate #aapi history #aapi authors #chinese american #history #white allyship #white allies

[padme-amitabha]

Related to your reblog, I honest to God have no idea what "realistic" means to the TCW producers and the fanboys? Anakin was a literal teenager when he got with Padmé and later married her, and he hadn't spent much time on his own (first he was a slave, later he spent his entire teenagehood in the Jedi order), so he hadn't much time to mature himself emotionally. And while Padmé was order, considering that she had dedicated most of her teenagehood and youth to work, she too wasn't that (1/2)

(2/2) experienced in the romantic field as well. None of them was. Their romance WAS MEANT to be this awkward but pure and loving thing that it was in the movie. Both Hayden and Natalie got a ton of shit for playing the characters as they should have been played.

Exactly which is why he acts so awkward. They both are inexperienced and they act like it. I honestly feel like it made the nerds feel awkward because they can’t deal with reality and hate seeing themselves in Anakin. People say they got no chemistry, I say why must they have to look like a typical action movie couple in the first place? They were meant to be inexperienced people who just wanted to be free from social expectations. As for “cheesy” dialogue, the republic era was a completely different age and it has many similarities with the roman empire. Read any historical love letters and you’ll see that’s exactly how they express affection. And the dialogues are meant to show that Anakin is struggling to express himself and desperately trying to convey his feelings.

And their standards of realism probably mean how they want to see themselves, not how they really are. Anakin in TCW is completely fine flirting with a slaver queen (ik its for a mission but he didn’t seem triggered enough). And if TCW starts off after AOTC why is he always joking around as if his mom didn’t die quite recently and he didn’t lose control and slaughter a lot of people? That should have been the exact explanation as to why he was never the same again and is even more moody and serious in ROTS. Also I think the 2003 CW was a masterpiece and stayed true to the characters I envisioned. Even without much dialogue the scenes are powerful and you can still see his conflict.

I would like to point out the Padme in the novels is completely different like she’s just as adventurous and reckless as Luke. Firstly in TPM her life is in danger and yet she goes to explore this unknown world out of curiosity and then bets on the Gungans as diversion to win back her planet; it’s a very reckless move on her part but speaks about her character. Just like Luke in ESB in AOTC she’s the one who convinces Anakin to rescue Obi-Wan and she won’t take no for an answer, while Anakin wants to obey orders and stay where they were. Anakin was actually very deferential to authority figures and it came naturally to him due to his past and he actually respected his superiors, another trait that made complete sense but was changed to please said fans.This is why Obi-Wan was shocked to see Anakin question him in AOTC because that was not usual behavior for him.

And considering movie version of Padme, are you telling me it’s the same woman who tells Anakin in TCW that she’s busy and got no time for him and then he guilt trips her like isn't that a form of emotional abuse? Even worse when he uses her words against her she acts super petty about it. My interpretation as to why they fell for each other was because they could be themselves around each other and not let society tell them what to do.

And in the novelization Padme’s a very playful and lighthearted person. She is the one who makes the first move like touching his face and stuff like that. Maybe that’s because she was a very affectionate person in general but that is why Anakin has the courage to make a move on her in return in the lake scene. She’s also very understanding and non-judgmental like she tries to put him at ease when they visit her home. She’s there to balance out Anakin’s more serious and moody demeanor, and that’s the dynamic I would have loved to see. I think she was the one who would have encouraged him to have his own thoughts and stop following the authority blindly - and without her Vader never goes against Palpatine until Luke shows up and again encourages him to “break free”. Padme’s meant to be similar to Luke and they are both good-hearted and kind individuals, while Anakin and Leia are much more serious, ambitious and more invested in their work. At least that’s my interpretation of the Skywalkers. Tbh I am highly selective of all SW material that are not episodes I-VI.

#anakin skywalker #padme amidala #anidala #my thoughts

[ghostsofmemories]

Insect Poison Update #1

Before you check out this post, please remember that the fight against police brutality is still happening, and education is critical. All proceeds from this shop are still being donated to the BLM organization and will continue to be. More designs have been added since the original post was made, so be sure to click the link to find something you like.

If you don’t know what I’m talking about, feel free to jump over to my WIP introduction! I should mention that Aaron Bennett’s has been changed to Jack Bennett because I had a cool title idea for chapter 2 and needed to change his name for it to work.

So, I managed to spit out the first chapter in a couple days! It’s been difficult, but also way more fun than I was used to writing being (probably because I’m writing something I actually enjoy—who knew I was capable??). I wrote every day for five days in a row, counting today, which is wild and something I haven’t done since my NaNoWriMo days (AKA the first time I wrote this book).

Chapter 1 of the book is basically an intro to Robert and Ramona’s dynamics as (twin) siblings and a short look into how their mother interacts with them. I know the prose for this chapter could use some more work, but I think there’s a lot of character here that I liked exploring.

The chapter has three scenes: a scene where the twins are at the lake together, a scene where they’re eating dinner with their mom, Emily, and their older sister Lori, and one where they’ve stayed up late to eat cookies their mom baked for Church on Sunday.

(oop this update turned out a lot longer than I thought it would be) (CW for like, one teeny mention of drugs)

Scene 1: overhand throws are superior

In this scene, Robert and Ramona leave the house to go to the lake at the end of the street, which they’re not supposed to go to by themselves. They get into a bit of an argument that ends with a pair of shoes in the water.

The lake wasn’t big or clean or pretty, but they didn’t care much about those things. They didn’t mind the algae that tugged at their ankles or the rocks that are so sharp they gave off the impression of wanting to cut you open. It was all they’d ever known.

Since they weren’t supposed to be at the lake, they also weren’t wearing their swimsuits. They swam in their T-shirts and shorts, with Ramona’s sweater lying where the sand and the grass met. Their shoes were tucked underneath it, as if anyone would want to steal their too-small shoes with cracks in the rubber and holes in the fabric. As if their appearance wasn’t protection enough.

The water was cold enough to bite. It made their jean shorts cling to their legs, and they swam stiff and tight so they didn’t have to feel the friction. They did that for two hours; they were rebel children, breaking all the rules.

^ this part was overall just pretty fun to write, and the last sentence is definitely my favorite because of what happens next:

“Mom’s going to be so mad when we get home,” Robert said, treading water and staring his sister down. He didn’t see himself in her face the way everyone else did. Maybe it was because he spent more time with Ramona than he did with mirrors. Maybe it was because she wore her hair in two, rust colored braids and his was short and brown and untameable. Maybe it was because he almost never liked Ramona, but usually, he liked himself.

“Mom’s going to be mad,” he said again. She wasn’t going to be, but Ramona played along anyway. She kicked her legs a little faster, trying to keep her chin above the water like her brother could.

“Too bad,” she said, “we’re already in the water. She can’t do anything.”

The twins knew their mother wouldn’t be mad. She wouldn’t be mad if they were there for four hours. She wouldn’t be mad if they waltzed into the house dripping wet from their hair and clothes, right onto the freshly mopped kitchen floor. She’d mop it again without a second thought. She’d ask them how their afternoons went.

I love this part because I got to explore how Robert and Ramona almost want to get in trouble if it means someone will pay attention to them. They want to get caught and be told no about something, but their mom is so absent minded (and high) that they can get away with whatever they want. In this chapter and probably further ones, we get to see them test exactly how far they can go.

Here’s the part where the fight gets introduced: Ramona’s ready to leave and Robert isn’t, but he also doesn’t want to stay by himself (even though he’d never admit that). He tells Ramona to give her the sweater she’s holding, presumably to dry himself off a little. Instead, he tosses it into the lake.

Sweatshirts weren’t exactly known for being aerodynamic and eleven year old boys weren’t exactly known for their underhand throws, so it didn’t go far. It landed pathetically into the shallow part of the water where their older sister used to take them to catch tadpoles in the spring (they would bring them home in buckets and tupperware and try to have their very own front yard aquarium. Their mother always spotted them and made them march back to the lake and dump dozens of them back into the water).

“Robert!” Ramona yelled, stepping into his space. He put his hands behind his back and stepped even closer. “Go get it!”

“It’s your sweater,” he said. He smiled and bent down to pick up a rock, mostly because it looked like the sort Ramona would bring home and put in a box with three dozen others. He forced his hand into his wet pocket and let it sit there, wrist deep in clinging fabric with a rock clenched in his fist. Later, on the way home, he’d toss it into the grass and never think about it again.

We can see here that Robert is a little unhinged and manipulative, and really wants to get a rise out of his sister and see what she’ll do. Her response is to be even more unhinged and manipulative:

Robert watched as she sat down to put on her shoes. He saw her stand up and toss his sneakers right into the water, one after the other, socks still tucked inside.

Eleven year old girls weren’t known for their underhands, either, but their overhands could be surprising if they put some energy into it. The shoes sunk into the bottom of the lake, and the twins stared at one another as if to agree, just this once, to end the fight before things got worse.

Ramona didn’t smile. She took no pleasure in being wicked. Still, she’d be the first to admit that she took more than a little pleasure in her brother’s silence.

Scene 2: pork and potatoes and corn.

Time for dinner! This scene was fun and mildly uncomfortable to write.

Emily Bennett was nothing if not a creature of habit. She thought this was her greatest secret, something to hold close to her chest, but the things she tried to hide were always smeared down to her sleeves.

“Just in time!” She said, her smile wide enough to call a canyon. She still had silverware in her left hand and a stack of cups in her right, and stared at the next seat in line instead of looking at the twins. Her mind was only at rest when her body was in motion, and even then she struggled to drown out the noise. “We’re having pork and potatoes and corn. Go get your hands washed so you can eat, and let your sister know it’s dinner time.”

And a little later:

You kids are so quiet these days,” she said, setting her glass on the table. Condensation was already forming on the outside of the glass. The twins took turns shifting in their chairs, trying to escape from a heat that didn’t seem to bother their mother or Lori. “What have you been up to?”

The three of them looked at each other, trying to decide who would take one for the team. When eyes settled on Ramona, she spoke up. “I re-organized my rock collection this morning,” she said, and took a bite of mashed potatoes to avoid saying anything further.

“Oh, that’s nice honey. You’ll have to show me later.”

Ramona had no intention of showing her mother the newly cleaned and sorted rocks, and Emily had no intention of looking. They were simply humoring each other.

“Mhm. I think I might have found some amethyst.” Ramona was thought amethyst was her mother’s birthstone (it was, but after no comment from her mother about it, Ramona was sure she’d gotten it wrong).

“How’s the corn?” Emily asked, taking a bite of it and following it immediately with large gulps of water. The glass was half empty.

Lori spoke up. “Good. Same as always.” She wished, for a moment, that she could rewrite the sentence in her mother’s mind. It’s good, mom. Did we get it from the store or the farmer’s market? Could you show me how to cook it the way you do? She didn’t bother with these types of questions because Emily never taught her things when she asked. Lori couldn’t recall the last thing her mother had taught her.

I can’t really describe it, but the family dynamics are exactly how they need to be. I want there to be a certain feeling of tension and uneasiness when everyone is in the same place, but a tension they’ve all gotten used to. 

The last scene is when the twins are stealing cookies and getting ready for bed, which I’m not sure is totally necessary but I think it further shows their dynamics so it can stay for now.

“I’m tired,” Ramona said, trying to dip her cookie into a glass of milk she’d almost finished. “I think I’m going to go to bed.”

“I’m not tired,” Robert said, popping open a tupperware dish and reaching into it carefully, like the cookies might disappear if he moved too fast. “Want another one?”

“We have to leave some, otherwise mom’ll notice.”

“She won’t do anything about it,” he said, pushing the bowl across the table to her, “you can have some more.”

“I don’t want anymore. I want to go to bed.” Ramona stood to rinse out her cup at the kitchen sink, the tile cool and grounding under her feet. Robert left his glass on the table and the cookie bowl with the lid half on. 

“Fine, I’ll just go to bed, too.”

Not to continue telling every bit of psychology surrounding the characters’ actions, but this part is interesting because again, both of them are aiming to get caught and get into trouble, but they refuse to do it without the other. Robert starts everything and Ramona finishes it before it gets too far.

The chapter ends with them getting ready for bed and Ramona hearing her dad’s truck pull into the driveway, meaning he’s home for a weekend before his next set of deliveries and destinations and whatnot. I think I want this to be the inciting incident, but I have to work on it more and figure out what I actually want to happen here.

Overall, the chapter clocked in at 2802 words, and I think after I go back and add some more description and imagery (which is definitely where I’ve fallen short so far), it should end up around 3000-3200. I really enjoyed writing this chapter (I think this book is by far the most exciting project for me, and is going to help me figure out what I want to write from now on), and I want to talk more about how my process is going, but I think that’ll be a separate post where I talk more about process and music and all those little things that go into a writing session for me.

If you have any questions about the story or characters, want to get added to the taglist, or just have anything to say about it in general, make sure you do that in an ask so I can be sure to see it! My notifications are sketchy but I’ve never had an issue with ask notifications. 

Taglist: @coffeeandcalligraphy​ @alicewestwater​ @fliiik-art​

#insect poison #insect poison updates #writing upate #my writing #my wip

[gigi-sinclair]

Sins Not Tragedies (rated G, implied Jopson/Little, future Hartnell/Irving)

AKA “Haven’t you people ever heard of closing the goddamn door?”

For @theterrorbingo square “there’s nothing to be afraid of.” And it was supposed to also be for @zaphodbeeblebro, but it kind of got away from your prompt, so I’ll do another one for you later!

CW for period-typical attitudes. Title, naturally, from Panic! At the Disco

John Irving is not a fool.

He is no innocent, either, although he knows many people think it of him. He is familiar with the weaknesses of men. He even has sympathy for them. That is, after all, why he sought to rehabilitate Mr. Hickey and Mr. Gibson himself, rather than turn the matter over to the captain, as protocol demanded. His mercy was justified, it seems. Mr. Gibson has not complained of any further assaults, and it does not appear Hickey has turned his deviant attention elsewhere. Perhaps the flogging, unpleasant as it was, proved just the lesson he needed.

This, however, is something else. Rather, it is the same thing, but John cannot possibly react to it in the same way.

Hickey and Gibson are men of the lower ranks, of the lower classes. As is Jopson, for all his extreme familiarity with the captain. In everything, they require a guiding hand, a patient teacher. They cannot be expected to have the capacity to withstand temptation—and John can acknowledge its lure is all the stronger after so long here in the ice—without the help of their moral superiors.  

Lieutenant Little should require no such assistance. The man is a first lieutenant. Soon to be a commander, if the Admiralty hasn't already decreed it. There is no excuse for what John glimpses as he passes the storeroom late one night.

The ship is all but abandoned now. For some reason, all three lieutenants—Little, Hodgson, and John himself—remain on Terror, even though only Lieutenant Le Vesconte and Captain Fitzjames are left on Erebus, but the crew is scant. They have suspended the formal system of watches. Still, the creature is out there, and they must remain on their guard. John comes down from the deck after spending long hours of staring at the ice, alert for the creature from Hell. He should go directly to bed, but he needs a cup of tea to warm him up. He heads for the galley, passing on his way the captain's pantry.

This little room, Mr. Jopson's territory, is usually sealed off from everybody else. Today, the door is ajar. Curious, John approaches, with a mind to shut it if there is nobody within. Instead, he sees what he immediately wishes he had not.

The room is dimly lit by a single candle. It is enough for John to make out the figures of Jopson and Little standing face-to-face, much more closely together than even the small pantry necessitates. Edward's arms are around Jopson's waist, while Jopson's hands rest on Edward's shoulders.

There is nothing inherently scandalous about their placement but, again, John is not a fool. Edward's position is not to prevent Jopson from slipping down the perpetually slanted floor. Jopson, while an attentive steward, is not brushing lint from the lieutenant's lapels. This position speaks loudly and clearly of illicit intimacy, and John at once feels unwell.

Abandoning the idea of tea, John retreats to his bunk.

He has to inform the captain, but, at the moment, Edward himself is captain, and, until now, doing a fine job of it. In all the years they've known each other, Edward has never struck John as weak, or as at all lacking in character or morals. If anything, he is one of the most upstanding officers John has ever met. He is the last person John would have expected to fall prey to such deviant desires. If someone like Edward can fall, John thinks, twisting his hands anxiously, then what hope does anyone else have of resisting?

John sleeps very poorly. In the morning, while he is hungry, he cannot bring himself to go to the wardroom for breakfast. He does not know how he is meant to face Edward or Jopson, how he is meant to make polite conversation with them knowing what he knows. Instead, he buries himself in that which he has always found most comforting: his Bible. It helps little. His mind, quite unbidden, keeps returning to what he saw, and, more salacious yet, that which he did not see, but which was implied.

When a knock comes on the door, John starts. Of course, it is only Gibson, here to help him dress for the day.

“Mr. Gibson,” John begins, as Gibson fastens his stock about his neck.

“Yes, sir?” Gibson looks at him with his wide, pale eyes, and John realizes he does not know what he wishes to say.

He lands on, “Thank you.” It sounds awkward. The way John feels.

“Of course, sir.” Gibson nods and excuses himself, leaving John once again alone with his ceaseless thoughts.

But not for long. Scarcely minutes after Gibson's departure, there is another knock on the door. Mr. Hartnell looks in, the sight of him reminding John, for the first time, that they are meant to meet today.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Hartnell,” John says. “I had quite forgotten our appointment.”

“No trouble, sir.” Hartnell looks poised to leave. John can't blame him.

The idea of John helping Hartnell come to terms with the loss of his brother through Bible readings would have been a good one, if Hartnell himself seemed at all inclined to want it. He never has. He comes to John's cabin diligently three times a week, sits and listens to John expound upon the Biblical themes of love and forgiveness, but the fidgeting and the chewing of his thumbnails indicate quite clearly that he longs to be doing something else, probably far away from John. John, unsure how to react to this, has bullied on, convinced he is doing the right thing by offering a subordinate the natural, God-given wisdom of a man of a much higher social position and rank. In the cold light of all he knows now, John has to wonder if he was ever right to interfere at all.

“We ought to stop this,” John says, his heart as heavy as his sigh.

“For today?”

“For good. I am no physician, Mr. Hartnell, nor am I a Biblical scholar. I have offered you all I can. It is time for you to seek solace elsewhere.” Harsh perhaps, but true, for Hartnell's own sake if nothing else. Hartnell's face falls. He is a very handsome man, John notes, not for the first time, and therein lies the true crux of this matter.

John always thought he was immune to Thomas Hartnell's charms, as copious as they are, because of who John is. His faith, his background, his rank, all are sturdy armour against sin. But Edward, while not as overtly religious, is just as Christian, and even more highly placed than John. He, quite obviously, has succumbed the lure of a much lower-ranking man.

Rather than flee as he should, Hartnell steps inside, and casts his gaze across John's walls. “If you don't mind me saying, sir, I've always liked these paintings of yours. That cat's the spitting image of my sister's moggy.” Hartnell nods at one of the paintings. A black and grey cat, it was an experiment in monochrome painting, and not one of John's great successes. “Old Tom, we call him.  It's quite a thing, to have to share one's name with the cat. I suppose I already share it with half the men I meet. The occasional animal oughtn't make much difference.”

John blinks. “In Australia, we had a bull called Red John.” A huge, ornery beast. John hasn't thought of it in years. It was an ill-tempered old thing that fathered more calves than any other in the area. An irony which, at the moment, does not escape this John.

“Well, now, sir. That is a namesake to aspire to.”

Despite himself, John laughs. It makes Hartnell smile in turn, which sends something soaring in John's breast. “You have helped me, lieutenant,” Hartnell goes on. “Even if it doesn't seem like it. I ain't...I'm not half as addled as I was before I started seeing you.”

“That is kind of you to say.”

“It's the truth.” He bites his lip. John immediately looks away. “You are a good man, sir. One of the best.”

John cannot be silent. “You say that because you do not know me.” Does not know the dreams he has been keeping at bay by clinging to his rank, his position. Has not seen the lake of depravity into which John knew—absolutely knew—he would never dip a toe, until he found Edward Little, of all people, splashing about right in the middle of it.

“I think I do.” Hartnell's expression is so earnest, John wonders, for a moment, if he really does see right through him, and, more amazing still, is not utterly disgusted. “I can come back this evening, if you're too busy now. I would very much hate to miss our discussion.”

“Yes,” John hears himself saying. “This evening.” Perhaps everything will be as it was by then. Perhaps the genie will be back in its bottle, and all will be forgotten. Strangely, that thought doesn't make John as happy as he would have expected it to.

Hartnell's smile grows brighter, making him radiant even in the weak Arctic light. “Until tonight, then, sir.” He turns to go.

“Take the painting,” John blurts out. Hartnell stops. His cheeks burning, John takes the monochromatic cat from the wall. “If you like it, that is. Could be something to remind you of home.”

“Thank you, sir.” Hartnell gazes at painting as if John has presented him with an artistic masterpiece. It's prideful, but John's heart swells to see it. “For everything.”

When he's gone, John brings out his watercolours. He's not sure what he is going to paint, but despite it all, he has an urge to make something joyful. Perhaps, John thinks, Edward is not an infallible paragon of virtue. Perhaps none of us are. And perhaps, he adds, even though thinking it may well be Arctic madness or the beginnings of scurvy or brain fever or some other deadly malady, it is possible to live on regardless.

#theterrorbingo #slight joplittle #hints of future hartving