#Exhumed At Birth

[diejager]

wondering how doesn't reader get pregnant after a lot of action with both horangi and könig, especially when König prefers to breed reader rather than his wife.

also do they have breeding kink? and what would be reader's reaction if there's a possibility of pregnancy, that would be so dramatic ig coming from reader's mom.

I hope this answered your question! cw: breeding kink, drug replacement?, mention of abortion, forced pregnancy, mention of stalkholm syndrome, tell me if I missed any.

The answer is simple: you either take pills, or got an IUD installed (honestly, that’s what I have since I have so many friends who’ve told me that pills have bothersome side effects and I’m forgetful so I won’t be able to remember to take them every day.).

A) If you take pills, König will replace them with a placebo, he has his ways, relationships built on years of work and alliance. So it wouldn’t be hard for him to find someone who can produce placebos for your birth control. Since he’s made a habit of staying near you whenever he can, seeing as he’s retired, it would be weird if he went out for so long. He has Horangi pick it up, meeting with the agent who’s sent to give them a year worth of box.

B) If you had an IUD installed, he’ll search your room for that little card it comes with when you’re not home, look at the date and he has two options. 1) if he doesn’t want to wait the time, be it a year or two, anything between one and five, he’ll talk to you about taking it out. 2) if he can wait, he’ll use the time to break you in, let you settle with this relationship and get you used to the dynamic they have in mind. Patience is a virtue after all, like a little pet project of theirs.

They definitely have a breeding kink. Ironically enough, they’re family men, a bit rough on the edges and tactile in their ways, very touchy-feely. They like to be hands on, holding you down as they fill you up, fingers bruising your skin with brands, to let people - and you - that you belong to them. König might be fidgety, never being one to sit still and do nothing, but he is patient, like a predator in hiding. Horangi’s a tiger in a hunt, slow and steady steps, certainty exhuming from every decision he takes. They don’t make a decision without telling the other, Horangi and König are a team, they were and always will.

Whichever contraceptive you took, it wouldn’t mater much in the end, you’d end up with morning nausea and a positive on your test. You’re in tears, balling your eyes out and panicking, breathe rapid and shallow, near hysteric as your mind goes through all the different scenarios of what ifs. You might’ve laughed at the ridiculousness of your situation, pregnant with the child of your stepfather or your neighbour. What would your family think? Your mother who’s oblivious and ignores your cries for help; your father who didn’t know where wen after your mom indefinitely cut your contact; or your living grandparents that lives God knows where.

Unlike you, hysteric and frantically searching for a solution to your problem, König is excited, calling Horangi to tell him the great news of your pregnancy. He has a smile on his lips when he finds you, shushing your tears and cooing soft praises. König tells you what a good mother you’d be, what a responsible Stay-at-home mother, with gentle hands and loving lips. When Horangi’s here, he picks you up, holding you in his arms and peppers you in kisses, a few deep, feverish ones, full of passion, and a few wild ones on the corner of yours lips and your cheeks.

Your mother is less frantic than you, worried, but not panicking. As a mother, she’ll ask about the pregnancy, who the father is (knowing you weren’t one to sleep around), and help you. You’re embarrassed at yourself, unable to tell her that the two men in the room are the kid’s father. You’re silent, head bowed down in shame and fidgeting, anxious and terrified, you were in your army 20’s, still in University to finish your bachelor’s degrees and now you’re pregnant. Horangi steps up, telling her that you’ve been having relationships with him - excluding the fact that her husband had a hand in everything as well - in occasions. She’s seen how close you are with Horangi, nearly sitting on his lap at times and often seen in his company.

She’s supportive, ignorent of all the mess in your life. Granted, she’s a bit disappointed, but you’re an adult, she can’t dictate your life like her parents did to her. So all she can do is support you, take l’ombre time off to walk you through the basics of parenthood and the nausea and emotional rollercoaster a pregnancy brought. You want to tear your hair out from the roots down at how oblivious your mother is, but you’re scared of getting an abortion, or if it’s legal at all.

Your angry, stressed and panicked, emotions flaring up with your unfortunate situation with no one to talk to, to turn to, all you want to do is cry. What can you do when you have an ignorant mother and two possessive and criminally wrong men with bloody hands and unrestrained connections.

Tag list: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @tallmanlover @distracteddragoness @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @konigsblog @havoc973

[almostfoxglove]

GOING DOWN

an I'LL CARRY YOU one shot

written for @burntheedges Roll-A-Trope challenge

RATING: Explicit (18+) | PAIRING: Javier Peña x f!Reader WORD COUNT: 3.3k TROPE: #14 Trapped in an elevator CW: Claustrophobia, description of a panic attack, excessive alcohol consumption, characters kiss while very drunk but they're in love and desperately down, so much yearning.

SUMMARY: You and Javier get stuck in an elevator after a New Years party.

Takes place within the timeline of part II (characters are 25) - I recommend reading the first and second installments for these characters to make sense (so sorry).

READ GOING DOWN ON AO3.

part I & II | series masterlist | series on ao3 | main masterlist

Tonight the moon hangs like a cardboard set piece painted in icy blues. The whole sky awash with strange and opaque cover, giving the streets of Laredo a backdrop befitting the theatrics of one year’s death and another year’s birth. Probably won’t see the fireworks with all these clouds, but you don’t mind. Not when you’re already three shots deep—still yet to make it to the party—with Javier leaning against you on the sidewalk. “Should wear sequins more often,” he smirks, his breath sparkling against your cheek, carbonating the air. “Suits you.”

You roll your eyes, knock your elbow into his ribs, and send him stumbling a few steps back as you stride ahead, hands quickly skirting down the front of your dress. Hopeless, really. Even if the breeze were to settle, there’s no way you don’t accidentally flash someone tonight. No way you haven’t flashed half the people the two of you have wandered past already, staring up at each brooding apartment tower trying to make sense of the shadowed building numbers in the dark.

You’re getting closer now, you think. Just a block or so to go.

“Cabrón,” you chide, as Javier jogs up to fall into step with you again. Those long legs—always agile, strutting around like some loose-hipped wildcat. You can huff and speed-walk all you like, but there’s no world in which he doesn’t catch up with that smirk haunting the corner of your eye. That flint that hisses in his gaze, the spark before a fire. Twenty-five, the new year looming. Dressed up for some party neither of you care enough about to show up on time for, forget trying to remember the name of who’s hosting. Someone from college. Who knows. All that matters is the glimmer of it all: a whole night of liquor and music and clothes you’d never wear anyplace else and Javier—Javier, right here, choosing you all night.

A frog for a heart, you croak at the thought. One part guilt and another terror: how glad you are that Lorraine is off in Houston for the holidays, leaving him with no one to celebrate with but you.

But the real trouble isn’t guilt or fear—the trouble is that he doesn’t look troubled. He doesn’t look like his girlfriend isn’t here, like he’s missing anyone. Doesn’t look the slightest bit disappointed to be wandering around the city all night with you.

Sighing, Javier exhumes two cigarettes from his jacket pocket—a blazer you found at a thrift store together that fits him villainously, so snug in the shoulders—and pinches both filters between his lips to light from the cup of his hand and his wheezing lighter. You cross your arms, feigning that your attention is pinned solely on the passing buildings that slap down the long shadows through which you stride, and wait for him to hold one out to you.

He smirks as you take it, his smooth cheeks hollowing with a drag. He’s started to grow a mustache and it still looks silly to you, that dark slash across his cupid’s bow that seven years ago he let you kiss. It’ll suit him in a matter of weeks. In a matter of months, you’ll no longer remember what his face was like without it. Or you will, but you wouldn’t ever choose to go back.

“Told you we went too far, baby,” Javier says now, watching as you take your first long breath, kissing lipstick to the filter graced first by his mouth.

You shake your head, slip the cigarette to your hand, and point it at the crosswalk up ahead. “S’that one,” you tell him, blowing smoke from the corner of your mouth.

Without needing to say, you fall into make-believe—some echo of being children together, a habit neither of you care to kick—and at the stoop of the apartment building Javier swoops around you, cigarette clinging to his bottom lip, and yanks open the glassy front door with a little bow. “After you,” he smirks, his dark eyes slinking to your bare legs as you pass.

“Qué caballero,” you reply.

Gold light in the lobby, a doorman standing guard behind a matte black desk. The elevator slips down to greet you with a graceful whoosh.

Javier whistles as you thumb the topmost button. Penthouse. “Fancy,” he says.

“Parents must be rich,” you agree.

He’s beautiful, like always. Cheeks blushing from the brisk night air. An eternity of him reflects in the glossy elevator mirrors as you rise—a long queue of his blazered shoulders, his throat bobbing as he swallows, his wide hand passing the cigarette back to his lips. Between you, fronds of smoke rise like the spines of ferns. A forest of your indulgence, the way you pretend. It’s not invisible, how he watches you with interest, hardly bothering to hide the glimpses he claims of your hips, your collarbones, the straps balanced on your shoulders. The pain of your friendship is not that Javier doesn’t see you—it’s that he does. Always has, from the very first day.

It’s that he sees you, and doesn’t want you.

You aren’t Lorraine.

Now his brows pinch together, forming that worried bracket above his nose. It feels as if you’ve been rising for hours, but that could be the liquor sponging things, making them blur. Minutes and hours that too easily appear the same. “Tell me,” he says, reading you. Around him, the mermaid-color of your dress sparkles, drags out in the infinite reflections, but you can never see your own face—the angle is wrong—so you don’t know what you look like to him. How worried, how afraid, how convincing.

A grin for him alone, the private kind. Your lips pulling at one corner as you drink down smoke with a nod. “Don’t think I’m drunk enough,” you admit, and Javier huffs softly, shaking his head in disbelief.

Just as the elevator pings, its silver door sweeping open in welcome, he glides up to hang one long arm around your neck, pulling you against his chest as you walk out into the party. There’s that hearth, that home which you’d know in any dark: a smell that has over the years imprinted itself onto your very bones—cigarette smoke and skin, the bergamot in his cologne. Javier nudges his lips against your temple, the still sharp prickle of his mustache scraping your skin, and mumbles, “We’ll fix it.”

He almost never lies to you and this is no exception. The party—already knee-deep into raucous chaos in your absence—is electric inside, a hive of buzzing streamers and proud balloons doomed to wilt by morning. Everywhere are dresses like yours, sequins and sparkles and slashes at the leg, but no one looks like Javier. There’s no competition, never has been. Every other man here in a nice shirt is just some guy you forget between shots and glasses of champagne.

Several of which you and Javier drink, always from just one glass. The mark of his lips melding with the mark of yours on a plastic flute. Not once all night does he wander off and leave you on your own; there is always something of his somewhere on you. A hand brushing stray locks behind your ear, his bicep settling against yours as you rest against the kitchen island, a palm laid over your spine when he leans in to hear you over the party’s din. Briefly he’ll entertain conversation with someone if they approach—the host of the party with glitter on her cheeks; someone’s cousin who’s heard all about him, somehow; a pretty thing from his psychology class—but never with his full attention and never for long.

Soon the drinks shimmer in your bodies—and yes, you feel it too in his. Like you share just one sometimes, like a cigarette.

“Come, cariño,” Javier says, two songs from midnight.

Fixed like he promised, you feel just drunk enough to let him whirl you into the crowded living room where two walls open onto balconies that look out over the wintered city. There’s that blue moon again, no less barren than usual at its outpost in the sky but somehow painted, you think, dressed up for the occasion. Then Javier pulls you against him, hips already swaying, his forehead damp against yours as you start to dance, and all thoughts of the world beyond him evaporate.

Though you’re a terrible dancer—every bit as left-footed as he is lithe—it feels as if the parquet floor is a sheet of ice on which you skate, never faltering nor in danger of falling so long as you can feel his hands. “See?” comes his voice, the press of his lips to your ear over the caw of music pulsing from the walls. “You’re not so bad.”

His eyes crinkling at the corners when the hand at your back presses you closer, presses you against him: a change in choreography he makes no announcement for, but you don’t mind. You can press your cheek against his collarbone like this, nose notched against his throat, and breathe him in. Imagining he’s yours as the crowd chants its countdown—riotous in its build and yet you’d swear that you’re alone. That it’s just you and him, this body you know so well.

“Must be drunker than you look, baby,” you reply, grinning mostly to his chest, one hand drawing lazy patterns over the nape of his neck and the other planted over his speeding heart, beneath his. Your voice sluggish, drowsy. You’re drunker than you look, too.

Why else would you touch him like this, where people can see. People that for all you know, know Lorraine.

Javier’s chest shakes with a laugh you can’t quite hear over the sudden thunder of fireworks disrupting the sky. Neither of you look up for midnight; you don’t kiss. You just sway and sway and pretend until he ghosts his lips over the top of your head, mumbling let’s go home into your hair.

Something he’s said a thousand times before, somehow transformed. To your champagne-stained ears, it sounds brand new.

A thief in those sinful slacks, thighs rigid beneath their taper, Javier takes your hand and winds you between strangers, snatching an opened bottle of champagne off a table without breaking his easy stride. Somehow the elevator appears in an instant, as if it’s waited all night for the two of you to slip out early. Javier smacks the lobby button and the door slinks closed, muffling the cries for a newborn year as he tips the champagne bottle to his lips. A slug of liquid crystal slipping from the corner of his mouth, over the curve of his chin, down the slope of his neck.

How you long to lick it from his skin. To redo that night in your dorm room seven years ago, show him how much better you are now. How much more you want him.

But you’ll compromise; you always do. You settle for taking the bottle and swigging your share of the gold. As you swallow, chin tilted to watch the floor number shrink above the buttoned panel, the light in the elevator flickers, but you write it off as a long, drunken blink.

Javier bristles beside you. “Did you feel—” he starts to say, cut off by a groan in the walls, a sudden stutter.

The glossy elevator buckets in an instant. Your stomach flips like you’re going to be sick. You’re not sure exactly how it happens, but your eyes slam shut and the heat of his body clamps over yours like a shield in the darkness, one hand holding your head in the safe hollow of his neck as you plummet.

You think you might scream.

Then with a jolt the world comes to a screeching halt. The elevator stills and you open your eyes, lashes fluttering against Javier’s skin. The moment he feels you move, both his hands cradle your face, his pupils blown black by fear. “Are you—shit, are you okay?” he asks, his voice scrubbed hoarse. Maybe he was the one who screamed. Maybe you’re not sure whose body you felt that in.

Nodding, you swallow. “Are you?”

He nods. “Think—” voice gone again as he cranes over one shoulder, refusing to let go of your face. “Think we’re stuck.”

Your eyes round, owlish in their panic. Not panic for you, though.

Panic for him.

Already his hands have begun to stutter on your cheeks. Not pulling away, only trembling—the first shivers before a quake. “Hey, hey, baby,” you say quickly, letting the champagne bottle drop from your hand to pull his face back to yours until you’re mirrors of each other: two sets of hands framing two sets of cheeks. “Just look at me. It’s gonna—gonna move soon.”

You have no idea if the bottle shattered when it hit the floor, but neither of you dare look down.

Because Javier is a child again, regressing years in a second, terror black and leaking in his eyes. You know what he’s thinking about, what he’s remembering: sixth grade, brand new to your elementary hallways. How you once found him shut away in someone’s locker at recess—screaming his throat raw and bloody while everyone played outside, fists pummeling the inside of the metal door—still new enough at school to draw attention. You’d had to kick the lock to break him free, and he’d collapsed in a wheeze of panic at your feet, one hand coming out to grab your ankle in sheer desperation, his body curled tiny and terrified.

That might as well have been yesterday. That’s how clearly you remember what it felt like to fall to the hallway floor and drag him into your arms until he could breathe. No one ever messed with him again, and you still don’t know who did it. Javier’s never been a snitch unless it does someone good, and telling you wouldn’t have done him anything.

Was it that moment that started everything? This thing that you have that you can’t replicate.

You can’t really say.

Now you feel Javier’s heart slamming against his ribs as if it’s slamming against yours. You’ve wondered if anyone else ever feels this connected to someone—so entwined that their fear can poison your veins. That their heart can beat in your chest.

You’ve wondered if you’ll ever feel it with anyone else.

You’ve wondered if he feels it with Lorraine.

“Just look at me,” you say again, as Javier’s chest begins to rabbit. Thumbs softly stroking his cheeks as he stands against you, looking down with his lips dropped open in his daze. The railing on the elevator wall biting into the small of your back. “Just look at me, it’s okay.”

His next inhale comes in a gasp, shattered and glassy. Letting his forehead drop against yours, Javier blinks and blinks and blinks with no brown left in his eyes. The champagne is making this harder—the act of being steady—but you do your best to claw back his swelling alarm. This little box, however glossy and infinite in its reflections, must feel like a coffin to him, like a locker. Something smaller than a tomb.

“Baby, it’s gonna move, okay? Gonna move soon I promise, just breathe, Javi baby, just breathe—”

Every shudder in him rips a chasm through you.

Is this even helping, you wonder, or is this hurting.

Maybe you aren’t the comfort to him that he is to you.

Meanwhile the elevator stays exactly where it is, suspended somewhere between two floors. Who knows how long he’s gonna have to wait for someone to kick you both free. How hideous a thing it is to watch his once warm eyes go timorous and cold, his grip tightening on your face.

You’re drunk. You don’t know the right thing to do, so you do the first thing that comes to you—the thing you hope might make him hold his breath long enough to snare it—and bull your mouth against his. A crash of lips and teeth punched between two gasps in which you scramble to wind your arms around his shoulders, pressing the whole of your body against him in some desperate, besotted ploy for his salvation.

You’re breaking a promise. One time—that’s what he’d said in freshman year, but here you are kissing him again.

The way he takes to you would bowl you over if this were any other place, any other time. If you were sober. Instead it comes heaven-sent and unquestioned, a whole-body relief: the way Javier’s arms snap around your ribs and waist and crush you to him, pinning you to the wall.

It is a fever dream, a plague—the touch of death. How seven years gone it is still, amidst his panic, the best anyone has ever kissed you. All champagne and his sweet mouth, the shudder of his breath as he matches it to yours.

“It’s okay,” you mumble to him, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes that are—in the dim light of the elevator—still two tunnels into child-like dread.

You thumb his cheeks, his chin, his stupid mustache, and Javier shakes his head. “M’drunk,” he says, closing his eyes.

“I know, baby. Me too.”

“M’not gonna—” a short gasp, the kindling building again. “Don’t think m’gonna remember this.”

What else is there to do but nod? He’s right, after all—that’s the feeling you have. That when the elevator moves and you’re back on earth again, stumbled or taxied back to his or your apartment, that daylight will swallow this away. The new sun will rise and this will vanish. You won’t remember kissing. He won’t remember the panic, the elevator stopping. It’ll just be hangovers the way you’ve always done them—cheap coffee and greasy hashbrowns and cigarettes, Javier’s head on your lap or on your chest all day in bed, your hand in his unruly, bed-swept hair. All of this forgotten.

Or you will forget, at least.

Javier will remember—though not at first. Not for a while. It’ll take him a whole year, in fact, to recall this moment. Next New Year’s Eve, he’ll be in The Last Man Standing with Lorraine on his arm and she’ll look up at him just before the sweaty patrons cry HAPPY NEW YEAR— all Texas sunshine and everything he oughta want in the palm of his hand.

And in the last moment before she leans in, Javier will look out beyond her shoulder and catch your eye across the bar by what he’ll tell himself is an accident. You’ll be working, handing tequila sours to some dumbfuck who doesn’t have a shot in hell with you but is gonna slip his number to you anyway, and like you can feel him watching you’ll look up and stop Javier’s heart. It’ll come back in fragments, sure. But there’ll be no fighting it. You in that sequinned dress that made Javier feel like the whole world fucking flipped the second he saw it, scratching your fingernails through his hair and saying,

“It’s okay, I know, just kiss me, baby. Just breathe with me, and it’s gonna move soon. It’s okay.”

And kissing you in an instant, his whole body stammering until your tongue tastes his—then the elevator that just moments ago was pinching in triples in size. Everything, even the shake of his lungs falls quiet, and all that matters in the whole world is you kissing him like you’re saving his life.

You were. Saving him, that is. He’ll recall too a glance at his watch when you at last stepped out onto the barren street at twenty three past midnight. That’s how long you kissed him—twenty-three minutes—without break or pause or falter, without asking for a breath. Just because he needed it, and you knew. Because you saw.

Yes, he’ll remember just before Lorraine kisses him at the last tear of the calendar, and you’ll just smile behind your bar in that black apron, already busy serving up your next half-mixed cocktail, clueless to the year before.

And Javier will lie to you, just this once, when he takes it to his grave.

dividers by @thecutestgrotto - tag list & some mutuals!

@pedritosgfreal @thundermartini @guiltyasdave @jolapeno @reluctanthalfwayoptimism 

@myownwholewildworld @sunnytuliptime @indiegirlunited @anoverwhelmingdin @beezusvreeland

@perotovar @pedgito @harriedandharassed @casssiopeia @sweetpascal 

@noisynightmarepoetry @pedritosgfreal @theoraekenslover @luxurychristmaspudding @kyberblade

@itsokbbygrl @wannab-urs @milla-frenchy @yopossum @encasedinobsidian

[whencyclopedia]

Sitting Bull

Sitting Bull (Tatanka Iyotanka, l. c. 1837-1890) was a Hunkpapa Sioux holy man, warrior, leader, and symbol of traditional Sioux values and resistance to the United States' expansionist policies. He is among the best-known Native American chiefs of the 19th century and remains as famous today as he was when he led his people.

He is widely known for his part in the Battle of the Little Bighorn in June 1876 and his later celebrity as a performer in Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show, but, for the Sioux, Sitting Bull is celebrated as the embodiment of the four cardinal virtues of his people: courage, fortitude, generosity, and wisdom. He is also recognized for his refusal to abandon the traditions of his people and his efforts to preserve their culture. Although famous as a holy man, prophet, war chief, and hunter, Sitting Bull was also a poet and composer, as well-known among his people for his rapport with wild animals and herbal knowledge as for his leadership.

He was killed while resisting arrest at the Standing Rock Agency Reservation in South Dakota on 15 December 1890 and was buried at Fort Yates in North Dakota. His remains were exhumed by family members in the 1950s and interred at Mobridge, South Dakota, near where he was thought to have been born. Debate continues over whether these remains are those of Sitting Bull, and historians also offer differing views on his legacy. His reputation as a great leader of his people, however, is unchallenged as he continues to be recognized as a symbol of Native American pride, honor, and traditional values, as well as for his stand against injustice.

Youth & Name

Little is known of Sitting Bull's life before the age of 14. His date of birth, given as 1831, 1832, 1834, or 1837, is debated, as was his birthplace until fairly recently. He is now understood to have been born on the Yellowstone River (known to the Sioux as Elk River) in modern-day Montana and was named Jumping Badger (Hoka Psice). He quickly earned the nickname Slow (Hunkesni), owing, according to scholar Robert. M. Utley, to "his willful and deliberate ways" (6). His father was Chief Sitting Bull of the Hunkpapa Sioux, and his mother was Her-Holy-Door from a respectable Hunkpapa family. He had two sisters and a half-brother but would later adopt others as his brothers, and these are sometimes mistakenly referenced as biological siblings.

Chief Sitting Bull taught his son to ride, hunt, and shoot expertly before the boy was ten years old. Young Slow was an excellent shot with bow and arrow and became so closely associated with horses that his peers joked how he even walked as though he were on horseback. When he was 14, he joined a war party against the Crow and "counted coup" against a Crow warrior, knocking him from his horse where he was then killed by another of the party. For this act of courage – defeating an enemy without killing him – Chief Sitting Bull gave his name to his son and assumed the name Jumping Bull. "Sitting Bull" – Tatanka Iyotanka (literally "Buffalo Who Sits Down") – fit the youth's personality as, "according to fellow tribesmen, suggested an animal possessed of great endurance, his build much admired by the people, and when brought to bay, planted immovably on his haunches to fight on to the death" (Utley, 15).

Later acquaintances and writers would claim the name was given him due to his stubbornness or, according to Sioux writer and physician Charles A. Eastman, that he was given the name after forcing a buffalo calf to sit down. The name was actually given in accordance with the tradition whereby a father passed his own name to his son when the boy was recognized as attaining manhood.

Between the ages of 14 and 20, Sitting Bull led his own war parties, and his name became famous among his enemies as a formidable warrior. Utley describes him at around the age of 20:

A heavy, muscular frame, a big chest, and a large head, he impressed people as short and stocky, although he stood only two inches under six feet. His dark hair, often braided on one side with otter fur and allowed to hang loose on the other, reached his shoulders. A severe part over the center of the scalp glistened with a heavy streak of crimson paint. A low forehead surmounted piercing eyes, a flat nose, and thin lips. Although dexterous afoot and superbly agile mounted, he appeared to some as awkward and even clumsy. (19-20)

Around 1857, in a clash with an Assiniboine band, Sitting Bull spared a 13-year-old boy whom he later adopted as a younger brother. When Sitting Bull's father was killed in battle with the Crow in 1859, the boy took the name Jumping Bull and would remain by Sitting Bull's side for the rest of his life.

Continue reading...

[aspiring-writer-hidden-voice]

Omegaverse MHA/BNHA Poll Result: Katuski Bakugo

Implied female reader (specifically female Omega). Mentions of abuse, language, blood, rape, assault, cannibalism and mating.

With the uprising of villains, the Heroes of the world have congregated in a secure and highly secretive location with several country heads and Top Hero Ranking Holders of the World in the room; Japan, US, Persia, China, there are heroes from everywhere within this one room under the same roof. The room is large, considering square footage, but the sheer volume of bodies within those four walls quickly made it feel too small. Males of various body shapes were stuffed within this conference styled gathering space with various tables, chairs, and a podium; large, small, lithe, muscular, thin lean, mutant characteristics, nearly every type was represented within this room from the different countries of the world. Wolves, hyenas, lions, goats, boars…at least one member of every genus group was present. Nowadays those were rare since bloods had mixed or migrated so pure bloods were difficult to come by. However that didn’t dismiss that the power of Alphas was evolving with the times. Deep, guttural instinct lived deep within each male in existence. It was now a choice of just how much those traits were awakened and used. Having so many Alphas within such a small space was a ticking bomb though but the reason they had been summoned was one of great importance.

“The answer is simple: we need more heroes!” The statures Alpha from China barks loudly, his fist impacting the table in front of him; the scent of raw meat coming off of him that made those nearby wrinkle their noses slightly since it wasn’t the freshest. “We cannot keep losing our strongest to the villains without proper replacements or support!”

Another Alpha, a heavier set man wearing Presidential Medals and Honors from the US, snarls beneath his breath with growing anger than manifests within his rising volume as the air around him becomes tainted with fryer grease. “And what do you suggest we do about it, hm? Only Omegas can birth Supers and your country spread the green light to hunt them down to extinction level! Now there are no Omegas for anyone! Way to go, you morons!”

“Enough!”

Silence falls as a single figure moves to stand at the room, looking out across the Alphas who ranged in age and genus pool.

The man is ordinary looking, none were capable to distinguishing of which niche he belonged to, however there was an air about him that exhumed seriousness and a demand for cooperation. He rubs his forehead as silence slowly falls when silence slowly falls. “The reason we have issued a global meeting of this caliber is because there is still hope for a solution.”

In the very back of the room an Alpha hero from Egypt smelling of water lily incense leans over to speak in a whisper to the young blond Alpha from Japan who looked to be bored out of his mind. “How much you want to bet they want to do splicing or DNA transference, friend?” He rumbles with a roll of his eyes, not expecting an answer as he rights himself within his seat.

An unamused expression crosses the blond’s face, features settling into a resting scowl as he glares at the man leading the assembly meeting with narrowed red eyes. ‘Why was he even here?’ he couldn’t help but question internally. All Might had made it seem like a high honor of some sort, a challenge even, but ever since he got here there’s been only yada-yada while sitting around like a bunch of slugs! The tapping of his finger against his thigh conveyed his slow ascent into the upper range of his temper which was beginning to grow with each passing second. The hero known as “Dynamight” is an Alpha of a high temperament, lean yet powerful body, battle IQ on par with some of the older ones present, red eyes blazing from beyond the black mask covering his upper face, blond hair sticking upright in various directions.

Clasping his hands behind his back, the assembly head begins to walk from one side of the room to the other. “I’ve called you specific Alpha Heroes here today because of your genetics and genes would be most valuable in the future. As you may have noticed, all of you are also unpaired or undated up to this point, which was a requirement for what we wish to accomplish.”

The Explosive Hero scoffs beneath his breath. No wonder none of his other acquaintances were here; Midoriya was just beginning a relationship with the Beta Ochaco Uraraka, Todoroki has been offered several marriage interview proposals, don’t even get him started on Kaminari or Sero, then Kirishima recently started seeing a little foreign exchange female hero who was training beneath one of the elder Japanese heroes. Just him had been selected for this…fan-fucking-tastic.

“As the Alpha President from America has reminded us all today, only Omegas can bring Supers into the world with quirks and abilities that could be revolutionary. He has also brought up the subject of how those same Omegas were hunted to extinction.” The assembly head takes a deep inhale before continuing, a screen popping up behind him that has shaky footage of Omega hunts that used to take place all across the globe. Screams filled the air courtesy of the speakers, cries for help and various distress calls intermixing as the Omegas within the footage beg and plead for their lives. And yet not one was spared as each fell by weapon or fang or claw. “From the United States all the way to Russia to the South Pole to Canada, not a single Omega has been seen in well over ten years. They were tortured, beaten, raped then eventually devoured or killed in hunts…we know the horrors though we don’t let the public see the true extent of the truth. They simply think that these attacks were done by outbreaks of villains alone when, in fact, they were conducted then carried out by Alphas and the other niches who joined in the hunts. Alphas of this day and age carry this burden of knowledge most.” A wave of his hand turns off the screen as he fixes the assembly with a stare. “In ten years, I myself have never thought another Omega would ever be seen...but I was wrong.”

Pupils of every person present suddenly shrink as a unified conclusion was drawn before the man finished. And an uproar instantly takes the room, spreading chaos and exclamations from animalistic to manmade noises. Some were positive, a clear want and need to make amends for the crimes of the past, others were enraged or excited as if they were looking forward to partaking in similar events.

He remains calm though, raising his hands and asking for silence. “She was rescued from a villain bunker where they had been hiding her for the last ten years. None of us can fathom what they did to the poor girl and that’s where you all come in.” His spine straightens as the Alphas before him slowly return to their seats. “Omegas respond to their packs or fated mates no matter what state of mental or physical condition they are. And that’s why we have called you all here. She has been unable to speak a word or eaten a single thing since entering my team’s care. Her health is compromised at this point and the world cannot afford to lose the possible last Omega it has. The world needs Supers if the heroes are to have any chance against the villain uprisings.”

An Alpha hero from Madagascar smelling of spiced vanilla and dressed in various leaves stands with a growl, eyes narrowed. “This is an outrage! You’re expecting us to just throw ourselves at this Omega and hope for the best that we are some miraculous cure for her trauma while saving the world at the same time?! This is nothing short of Forced Breeding!”

“Think of the Omega! She deserves more than being thrown into a hole then forced to procreate just for the sake of birthing Supers!” Another Alpha bellows, this one from Argentina who gives off the scent of citrus.

Finally done with sitting back, the blond Alpha hero from Japan raises his hand to unleash an explosion that causes the entire room to shake then fall silent, his red eyes glaring at the man. “Everyone, shut the hell up and let the damn man finish. They would’ve done that by now but look around…she’s not here. Meaning there’s something else. So sit down…shut up…and listen.”

Grateful for the intervention, the man bows his head respectfully then addresses everyone in the room. “We would never suggest such a thing as Forced Breeding.” The man hurries to assure as other Alphas begin to voice their anger. “No mating will be pressured upon anyone and no one will get hurt in the process. If this were to fail, they we would resort to artificial insemination with those who are willing to offer their samples. And the young Alpha from Japan proves a valid point: she is not here. We have to take her fragile health into consideration right now. You and the young female all have a say in this matter. However we cannot simply just introduce her to you all with her current health status. So, we have a way to gauge on how you chosen Alphas will react by using this.”

Murmurs rise when he holds up a vial of clear liquid, the lights within the room catching upon the small container.

“This here is a collection of her pheromones turned into a liquid state. Those who are compatible will react positively and can be allowed to continue to the next step towards meeting her with supervision. Those who react negatively will be excused and required to leave, sworn to secrecy so that none may know of her existence.” He sighs softly when several voice questions and raises his hands. “The most we can ask for is an acceptance or gravitational pull. Simply allow your instincts to guide you; doesn’t matter how. Honesty is what we are looking for.”

Red eyes narrow further when someone asks what would be considered a negative response. He just wanted to get this over with so he could go back home to Japan. Arms crossed, he leans back in his chair so the front legs are in the air as he huffs beneath his breath.

“Any hostile action that can be considered an attack whether of the hunting or feeding kind will not be tolerated or considered for this.” The man grows serious as he stares at each Alpha in turn while raising the vial. “Those who wish to leave, do so now. I’m about to open it.”

Call it curiosity, or boredom, the blond from Japan remains seated. Might as well stick around since he’d gotten a free trip all the way out here. A small smirk raises his lips. Plus, the entertainment he’d get from watching these others would give him an insight to the competition from other nations. So far, he’s been unamused since there had been no fighting or altercations, but this could still be interesting to say the least. He remains sitting as one third of the room empties, his red eyes remaining locked upon the vial that is being showcased.

The man glances around once more as his fingers prepare to remove the stopper. “Ready?”

Everyone present nods or makes a sound of approval.

A faint hiss sounds when the airtight seal is released…and the effect is instantaneous as the pheromones within the vial quickly fill the room. Sweet yet not…spicy yet tame…filling the minds of those who were within the room with images of shifting colors like a kaleidoscope.

The man holding the vial slowly starts to walk around the assembly room, carefully watching each Alpha he passes. First starting the farthest side of the room then gradually getting closer to where a certain blond explosionist hero sat as the chair he was seated within shifts so all four of its legs were upon the floor.

He’s never smelled something like this before. No one he knew of back home had a scent even comparable to this. The tapping finger upon his thigh slows to a stop as every thought process within his mind becomes silent. In then out his breathing remained steady, a few times his red eyes closed for a few seconds then opened once more. Oddly enough the high temperament Alpha from Japan was feeling…calm. Even when the vial went past, he remained passive and dare he say peaceful. No one would recognize him in this state he’d been rendered to as his red gaze closely watched the vial’s liquid that shifted within the light.

Already most of those gathered have been removed when the vial had come close enough for them to exhibit “negative” behavior as the air fills with subtle growls or rumbles from those who remained. There was only a dozen left by the time the man placed the stopper back on the vial, his brows raised as he carefully looks to see who is left. “Alright, Alphas who are left, tell me how you are feeling. I see a handful of you are still here and reacting favorably. Don’t be shy.”

One by one each spoke of how the pheromones had caused them to feel possessive or want to claim the owner of those pheromones; natural responses as well as honest. That’s what the man had asked for. His gaze shifts over to the last who had yet to speak, the blond hero from Japan who wore a near confused expression on his face, waiting patiently for the young Alpha to speak.

“I…I felt calm. Peaceful, even, which is saying a lot for me. I’m not exactly known for being docile or easy to soothe yet smelling that was…I just…it was as if something I’ve been missing had suddenly presented itself to me and I wanted it to come closer if it chose. I wouldn’t have forced it, mind you, I wanted it to come to me… I’ve pursued a lot of things in my life but this was the first time I felt capable of leaving the choice up to…”

The man nods approvingly at this answer, faint surprise within his gaze when the blond suddenly shakes himself then snaps his head to the side. Interesting indeed. None had given an answer quite like that. Taking note of the young Alpha’s reactions, the assembly head speaks once more while addressing who was left. “We have one last test for those of you remaining.” He holds up a small recording device. “I’m about to play you the sound she made when our teams discovered her within the villain bunker. I warn you now, the second you exhibit negative or hostile behavior as we mentioned in the pheromone test…you will be removed immediately.”

A collective nod comes from those remaining, including the blond who huffs softly while closing his eyes.

The air clicks with the sound of the device’s playback button.

Heavy footfalls and familiar military conversation begins to fill the air until silence reigns once more…then…

A sound that could only be considered a ringing call of distress pierces the air that makes the pupils of everyone within the room to become slits. This cry is heartbroken, agony filled, shrill, bird-like in song interwoven with high pitched whines and chirps that are dripping with desperation and fear.

“Don’t fight it!” The man calls over the recording as the sound replays thanks to his fingers pressing the repeat button. “If you have that drive to protect her, show it! The more you fight and hide that instinct the less we understand if you’re a possible candidate!”

It was clear that nearly every man within the room was responding to the cry of distress. A call like this could earn one of two things: a predatory response that would earn ruthless attacks that would surely end the creature’s life…or a protective response to use one’s self to protect said crier.

That’s when the blond Alpha suddenly snaps when he hears those present suddenly give hunting cries in response to the recording. His temper was nowhere near becoming involved, he was deathly calm as he rises to stand and bares his sharp teeth at those present as a call of his own erupts from between his jaws. Red eyes ablaze, the young Japanese hero marches to stand before each of those who had begun to express a want to feed, his cayenne and gunpowder saturated pheromones filling the air as he meets the gaze of every single Alpha. Growls, snarls, rumbles, his voice comes out in a combination of noises between dominating demands of their submission and comforting sounds directed towards the recording whenever his gaze shifts back to the device.

A giant Alpha, a man from Germany decorated with Nordic tattoos and long beard braided with various bones as his being is dressed in furs, steps up to the younger and smaller blond, his bared teeth several sizes bigger that drip with saliva. Large, intimidating, smelling of mountains and the salty ocean along with the tang of leather, this man was not to be trifled with. He was a hunter, a ravager, and once he caught the scent of a prey worth his fangs he would not relinquish easily.

Not to be outdone, the Japanese Hero didn’t waver nor did he even flinch at the challenge. “Back. The fuck. Off. Before I make you.” He snarls lowly, growling deep within his throat enough to make his chest rumble with the vibrations as he squares off against the other Alpha with his own teeth bared. They and his muscles may not be as big however that didn’t mean he didn’t make up for it in other ways. Explosions crackles then popped across the blond Alpha’s being, filling the air with the scents of gunpowder and spicy peppers as his pheromones begin to fill the air when the German lowered his fangs so they were inches from his. “That supposed to scare me, you old sack of shit? You may be bigger but you know what they say: the bigger they are the harder they fall. It’s time for the dusty ass bones like yourself to sit back so the newer age Alphas can show you how the world should be running.”

“You better watch that smart mouth on yours, pup, before I shut it up by stuffing my fist down your throat.” The older Alpha snarls lowly.

“If your arthritis will let you by all means, let’s see you try.” A smirk raises the blond Hero’s mouth.

“Why you insolent, little—” The German breaks off when the recording repeats, obvious that his hunting drive was triggered when more saliva drips down his chin.

However even the elder Alpha suddenly found himself taking a staggering step back when an explosion of energy forced his own to recede, his head slowly bowing to the side as the Japanese Alpha released a warning that promised pain if ignored. “I’ve told you once and I’m not going to repeat myself. Stand. Down.” The blonde rumbles deeply as he steps closer to the other Alpha.

The recording stops with a press of the man’s finger as the other Alphas are escorted out of the room once they concede and bow their head slightly to the younger Alpha from Japan in submission. “I think we have our man…” the assembly leader whispers to himself as he slowly approaches the blond. “Your name is Katuski “Dynamight” Bakugo from Japan, right?”

A nod is all that can be managed as he settles back within his chair with a huff.

“Tell me the truth: did you have any inkling or drive to feed upon flesh or drink blood when you heard her cry?”

Katuski instantly growls, his expression one of anger and offense as explosions crackle along his hands. “What the fuck—No! Of course I didn’t! I’m nothing like that flea-bitten German Alpha! That’s an archaic practice that I would rather eat my own damn leg than participate.”

“Let me be straight with you since you’re the sole Alpha left.” The man’s tone becomes grave. “I asked because the Omega, this poor girl, was used not just for her female body or heats…those villains took turns feasting upon her living flesh and blood. That’s why we had to ask to make sure you don’t share in their tastes so please don’t take offense. When she became of age, they started pairing her off with some of their strongest in hopes she would birth Supers for them to raise into the next SuperVillains. However, they didn’t take into account how their lacking care of her would affect the capability of bearing the offspring they demanded. Her wounds were so severe that her body’s natural functions were sorely upon survival during her captivity that even those with hyperactive sperm couldn’t have been capable of impregnating her. The Omega’s poor heart, body, and mind were far too focused upon living than allowing any sort of opportunity for it to support another. And yet she has miraculously remained Unmarked. Those villains were either smart or stupid to not mark her as theirs but that also means that she is far more vulnerable and fragile. Omega’s are natural homemakers, they are central points of any pack or family. If they don’t establish or find their own by the time they reach a certain age…well, the last Omega who was incapable of doing so lost herself to depression and is currently within a coma at a Persian hospital.”

“Holy— You’re serious?!” Katsuki rises to stand, red eyes wide and a growl in his voice as explosions spark across his being like fireworks. He’s never known anger to this degree. This poor, innocent girl has been through hell for the past decade as a breeding machine for the villains who only treated her worse with every failed attempt to produce an offspring when she was merely trying to survive! Bloodlust unlike he’s ever known rises in the back of his throat but he swallows it down with a growl.

“Calm down, now, she is in good hands currently.” He closely watches the Japanese Alpha as he says the next part. “She’s in a secure location not too far from here. Only I know where it is and I’m prepared to take you to her.”

“Then why the hell are we wasting time here for? Take me to her. Now!”

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

He was through the residence door the second the helicopter had come to a stop.

The scenery was like that of a postcard or calendar. Towering mountain peaks capped with snow, towering trees whose canopy branches disappear into the overcast sky above, the air thin but misty from the clouds drifting past. Gorgeous, beautiful of any art form yet none would do justice to the picture before him.

And yet Katsuki paid it no mind as his nostrils flared as he searched for the scent that had been within the vial from the test.

“You won’t be capable of sniffing her out.” The assembly head commends his efforts as he enters the perfectly camouflaged building that blended in with the surrounding landscape; not even aviary types would be capable of spotting this place if they were perched right on top of it. “Relax and take some deep breaths, young Alpha. Listen instead of sniffing.”

With a growl, Katsuki huffs then closes his red eyes as he levels his breathing. Damn altitude and its interference with picking up scent trails. Though that was a smart move on this guy’s part. It would ensure that she couldn’t be discovered. Meaning that for now this could be the safest place for her—

His thoughts freeze when he suddenly hears a soft breath from deep within the residence. Was that her? It had to be. Every cell in his body was starting to vibrate as his chest rumbles softly.

Without wasting another second, keeping his eyes closed so as to focus upon his hearing, the blond Alpha carefully and swiftly makes his way through the multilevel residence while paying no mind to those he passes until he comes to a stop before a door. The sounds had gotten louder, the breaths now faster, were coming from the other side. His hand quickly pressed the panel beside the door and with a soft hiss it unlocks and allows him entry.

And that’s when he saw you…laying curled up within a mountain of pillows and blankets that must have been a hastily put together Nest, your being curled within a fetal position.

You looked so fragile laying there covered in bandages that revealed just how skeletal your frame was. Brittle hair that looked as if it could just snap if the slightest pressure was applied, arms and legs so thin that they might as well be twigs, the simple dress covering your being sorely to preserve your dignity and allow ease of dressing changes or sponge baths for healing purposes revealed the full extent of the trauma you’d suffered at the hands of the villains. It was heartbreaking, seeing you staring listlessly off into space that was the nearby dome of windows that allowed you to gaze out across the scenery outside he’d paid no mind to. Your eyes were so dull, no spark of life to be seen within them as you lay upon the fabric formed Nest that had been put together by others in hope you would find comfort.

The sound of footsteps vaguely registers within your mind as a presence approaches. You’ve never felt something like this before but it was obvious that it belonged to an Alpha, that was obvious, and yet you remained unmoved from your position. Nothing interested you anymore.

Ever so faintly, almost too faint to hear, your ears pick up the faintest of rumbles coming from the figure who slowly moved within your line of sight.

Your oval pupils, which had been unfocused, slowly adjust to bring his being forward from the sea of blurs that claimed your vision. Nothing awoke within you when he lowered himself to one knee, his expression unreadable but body language relaxed as he remains at a respectable distance. But it was as your gaze met his red, finding ruby gemstone irises that shift and dance within the light as he slowly removes the black mask from his face, that your breath hitches when the motion of his hand causes you to become wafted by a small breeze that carried his scent; summertime sunshine, festival firework gunpowder, the faint taste of spicy pepper tantalizes your sinuses as you breathe in the pheromones he gave off.

Slowly, your head rises from the Nest, eyes searching his own as you use both elbows to remain somewhat upright.

His pupils dilate slightly when he sees how much your arms are shaking from supporting your weight and with quick reflexes moves forward with a gentle grasp to catch you before they can give out, a concerned and calming rumble sounding from within his throat as he helps you to sit comfortably by leaning you against the Nest’s barrier. Katuski could feel the barrier of the Nest; natural law ordained and demanded that none could enter an Omega’s private space such as this without facing consequences but you hadn’t made this particular structure so he wouldn’t suffer any major repercussions…and yet he gradually backed off once he was sure you were stable. He wanted you to be as relaxed and comfortable as possible.

The slight tilt of your head to the left makes his breath catch not because you had moved but the fact that you had tilted it in his direction was cause of him to suddenly feel a spike of adrenaline. Or was the anticipation? He didn’t know and frankly didn’t care.

Without using a single word, the gloves upon his hands were removed then tossed off to the side with his gauntlets and mask, then he offered them to you with palms facing upwards.

The choice was yours.

Would you stay…or would you go to the Alpha?

There was no indication that he wanted to hurt you. Not a single growl, nor did he bare his fangs, and this one smelled much different than any you’ve encountered. The features of his face suggested he was slightly older than you, not by much but enough that spoke of many overcome obstacles in battle and personal growth, his ruby red eyes revealing a hungry drive to prove himself but also a deeply rooted loneliness amongst the shifting gemstone shards of fierce protective and loyal flames that spark with golden flakes within his red irises.

A wave of his energy washes over you like a summer breeze, a warm shower upon the thirsty desert longing for rain, as before you realized it…

…your being had moved from the Nest and into his arms that slowly enclose around you.

Katsuki gasps when your form lightly presses against his, a soft whine sounding from him when he feels that you’re more fragile than you look, as if you’d snap if he squeezed too tightly. His cheek rests upon the top of your head as his eyes close, one hand resting upon the nape of your neck where its fingers gently massage as the other hand brings you closer until your seated comfortably within his lap, his legs crossed neatly beneath you so your own legs were draped across one of his toned thighs.

The heart in his chest threatens to break when you nuzzle your face into his neck, feeling your breathing hitching as if you were fighting back sobs. Never in his entire life had he felt this way. As if every fiber of his being was demanding he protect that which lay within his arms. Echoes of what the assembly head had said along with the footage he’d seen replaying within his mind. Your body may be weak but your soul was that of a warrior. It was strong enough to withstand the captivity within the hands of the villain Alphas. That made you admirable, within his eyes, someone more than worthy of his respect and maybe…more.

“You were very brave to survive what you went through. The fact you’re alive today shows that you have a strong will, a fighter’s spirit.” he finally manages to whisper, nuzzling your temple gently with the tip of his nose as his hand that had been at the nape of your neck carefully combs through your tresses. “…you shouldn’t have had to go through any of that and I’m sorry you did…but I want you to listen to what I say to you right here…right now…” The bend of his finger meets the underside of your chin, raising it with gentle pressure so that you were looking up at him instead of hiding within his neck. His gaze is soft, voice tender and warm, expression one of sincerity as he ever so carefully brushes the tip of his tongue along your cheekbone. “…You’ve fought your war. I promise you never have to go through that hell again. Those villains will never lay another hand on you and if one of those bastards ever even try to come near you I will tear them to shreds and pieces so small that no forensic team will find traces of them. You’re safe now…no more pain, no more suffering…not so long as I’m alive.”

Your eyes widen. Why would an Alpha of his caliber make such a promise? Surely he was demanding something in return. They all did. No act of kindness came without a price or ultimatum, that was a painful lesson you’d learned.

That thought must have shown on your face if his soft growl was anything to go by, but it wasn’t a threatening one; more of one of the frustrated nature. “No, I don’t want anything from you. I just… If anyone on this damn earth deserves to live a life of happiness, that person should be you, little one.”

Pressure suddenly takes hold of his heart when he sees a tear slip down your cheek, your eyes so wide they might just pop out of their sockets.

“O-oh, crap, I didn’t mean to make you cry! Damnit, I can’t even comfort someone right?!” One of his hands leaves your being so it can rake through his hair as he grumbles beneath a breath before bringing you even closer so that your ear is pressed against his chest. “Sorry, I’m not the greatest with stuff like this. I’m not Izuku or Kirishima who can just—” His sentence screeches to a halt when feeling you start to tremble and words give way to gentle rumbles as he tightens his hold on you. Now he could smell it…how you were trying not to fall apart, attempting not to shatter into a million pieces. Once again his warm, wet tongue gently brushes against your skin as he begins to rock you back and forth. “It takes as much strength to remain in one piece as it does to cry when the soul needs it. It’s okay…I’ve got you…go ahead…let it out…”

A quiver rises within your lips as your hands rise to cling to the costume fabric covering his chest and back.

One of his hands moves to the back of your head where it keeps you close while the other begins to rub along your spine. “I won’t let go, I swear. Nothing can touch or hurt you so long as you’re within my hold. Forget the damn world and its bullshit, just focus on this right here…you and me…no one else…just us…”

Something within you clicked, as if a bond was trying to form as you take a shuddering breath that fills your lungs with his pheromones and his energy washes over you once more. His words wrapped around you like his body did, surrounding you within warmth and serenity, shielding you from the world’s eye. Within your throat rises a choked sound. It’s been so long since you’ve used your voice that for a moment part of you wondered if you’d forgotten how to use it.

As if sensing your hesitation and sudden fear his tongue gently begins to lap at your throat in encouragement. The touches gentle, tender, sweet even as if he were attempting to help you find your voice once more…

And its when his lips meet your skin that the first of many hoarse, broken cries erupt from your throat as crystalline tears spill down your cheeks.

Unbeknownst to either of you that the assembly head and his team were closely watching the two of you, a pair of medical personnel ready and waiting for the opportune time for them to move forward with their hidden agenda. The trials had successfully found a compatible Alpha for the sole Omega left in the world. Now it was time for them to wait.

~~🪽~~|~~🪽~~|~~🪽~~| ~~🪽~~|~~🪽~~|~~🪽~~|

I do have a secondary part but that is as far as I got for this story. Another is in the works and if you guys like this one enough, I’ll post the second part of this! Take care, loves!

[jeyneofpoole]

hello as a resident franklin expedition person do you have any recommendations for further reading about it/polar history in general?

yes!!!!! for dipping your toes into the franklin expedition specifically i would start with erebus: the story of a ship by michael palin (yes, the guy from monty python. this book contains more anecdotes than hard facts but is a fun introductory read and it’s honestly really funny). probably the most well-known book about the franklin expedition is frozen in time by dr. owen beattie + john geiger, some of the information i believe has been disputed in the years since publication (published in the 80’s) but the descriptions of the exhumations of the beechey bodies are gorgeous and visceral and it’s by far one of the most ethical and humane exhumations/studies on gravesites that i’ve ever read about. THEN you can graduate to real freak territory and read may we be spared to meet on earth, a collection of all of the letters that the members of the expedition sent before and during the first portion of the journey. others to hit that i haven’t read yet are james fitzjames: the mystery man of the franklin expedition (again, some information like that concerning jfj’s birth has since been disproven, but it’s by far the most comprehensive biography of him that exists. battersby reallyyyyyy loved the guy), unraveling the franklin expedition: inuit testimony (this one is on my shelf! deals, obviously, with the widely disregarded testimony of the indigenous people of the region), and the man who ate his own boots.

now for miscellaneous polar books i would start with endurance by alfred lansing, it’s a classic and was written at a time when members of the endurance crew were still alive, so lansing had exclusive access to multiple firsthand accounts. the only nonfiction that’s ever made me cry. my most recent polar read was madhouse at the end of the earth by julian sancton and i can’t recommend it enough. about the dysfunctional belgica expedition, but also a great introduction to roald amundsen’s whole… thing. super fun. i’m also about to start the worst journey in the world by apsley cherry-garrard, which deals with the scott expedition from the point of view of someone who was actually there. it’s mostly a memoir. for a fun one i have a polar fiction rec that is NOT the terror. where the dead wait by ally wilkes was a super fun read and it’s obvious that they watched the terror and went down the same pipeline that i did. evil gay situationship in the arctic circle supplemented by cannibalism and psychosis is always very fun, they have a second book about antarctica i believe, it’s on my shelf but i haven’t gotten to it yet. thanks so much for asking ily 🫶🫶🫶

[radiojamming]

In honor of John Torrington's exhumation anniversary, I briefly got possessed and wrote my one annual poem of the year.

[TEXT:

Picture it like this–Manchester at the time of my birth, where around us stinks the black blood of the earth and here I am, too small in my mother’s arms and wailing with a tremble in my throat that tells her, presents her, an emblem of my future–breathless, like the rest of Manchester.  Press a glass into your hands, this magic lantern slide, and into the black projector glide it into place to see a small boy grow into a man, little more than man with a boy’s face and hands, sallow and wan and he is sickly here among the smokestacks and blackened bricks. And from thence I go, carried on that same black shore of coal and burning iron with my country’s urge for more told like an old story in my mind since birth, this straining  yearning for an ice-locked lane broken open and plain on the iron prow of a ship I must feed with coal from home and my blood, just as thick as it foams up from my lips. And here, now, this final act prematurely presented before the officers who gaze upon me and weep, perhaps, for more than the death of a child not yet a man in the ways I should be– but as a sign, a carrion omen of a relentless, frozen sea that won’t abate, relent, or wait for courageous man or beast but instead takes and bites and bleeds and bleeds and bleeds.]

[tanoraqui]

queenship under siege and there's a WHAT in this mountain?! (LotR)

[re: badly described WIPs fics I almost certainly will never actually write - in the lead with 17.5% of the vote as of midnight 3/3/24]

I know I’ve said this before, because I do love it so, but:

The only reason, the ONLY reason, I would ever want the Arkenstone to be a Silmaril is this: the day after Aragorn leaves Rivendell with the Fellowship, Elrond summons Arwen to his study and bids her to go to Erebor.

"What?" she demands. "Surely I am needed here, or out in the wilds, marshaling the Rangers - "

"Your brothers will manage that, after they escort you," her father insists. "You must go to Erebor, and ask Dain to let you open Thorin's tomb, that you may look upon the Arkenstone. Gloin will help you - I spoke with him ere he left. Don't let anyone else know your purpose - as far as the world is concerned, I am sending my only daughter to a safe stronghold until Mordor is defeated."

"Are you not?" she cries. But he will explain no more than, "I think the jewel may be important to our oncoming war, but I wish you to assess it unbiased" - and he gives her two letters to read only once she's made her own judgement of the jewel.

So Arwen goes. The Misty Mountains are crawling with orcs, but in cloaks woven by their grandmother, she and her brothers slip through with only a few close calls. Elrohir and Elladan don't know why she's going even a little, save that their father bade it and (he said) their grandmother supported it. The problem with having Elrond for a father and Galadriel for a grandmother is that, while technically they may each be wrong at times (allegedly), in agreement they never are.

It's nice to have what may be one last journey with her brothers, at least. All three of them know that Elladan and Elrohir will soon be in battle alongside their cousins the Dúnedain, and for all Erebor's strength, it will soon be under attack. Rivendell might soon be under attack. Lothlórien might soon be under attack.

The twins leave almost as soon as the three of them arrive; they have other work to do. Dain barely protests letting Arwen mildly exhume his cousin in order to assess the famous jewel - he doesn't quite like letting an elf(ish person) near the Heart of the Mountain, but he is very worried about the black-armored army lurking across the River Carnen, and respects the wisdom of Elrond and his immediate kin.

Arwen sees the Arkenstone sitting calmly in the hands of of the fallen king, and she sees it clutched in the burning hand of a no-longer-king, fallen free from a twisted iron crown, stolen over a king's bloody body, hallowed by a Queen, forged in a fire like the world never saw again... It glows softly; its light matches that of the small crystal that hangs around her neck now, one of a set of three.

[Here me out: Galadriel made three: one for Celebrian and Elrond as a wedding gift, jointly from herself and Eärendil; one for thw twins upon their birth, and one for Arwen upon hers. Celebrian left hers behind when she Sailed; Galadriel gives it to Frodo.]

The letters are from Elrond and Galadriel, respectively. They say much the same thing:

I'm so sorry to spring this on you, and to make you a guardian of this secret

If the Ringbearer's quest fails and the Enemy regains his full power, please take the jewel (as freely giving by the dwarves if at all possible) and use it however you can to save everyone and everything that you can. (Elrond's says, "My parents will help as much as they can. Do not hesitate to ask for their or any other aid." Galadriel's says, "If you seek Undying Shores with mortals in tow, for succor or for more active aid, hold the Jewel high and beseech first Ulmo and his spirits, and then every single kin-relation you have, no matter the connection. Once you rouse the general populace, then approach the Valar - though don't appear to delay.)

Galadriel's says, "Círdan knows to potentially expect you." Elrond wrote, "If you see your mother before I do", stopped there and blotted it out.

Neither of them needs to say, We will hold the line, to buy you as much time as we can. Both say "I love you", "I'm sorry", and variations on, "I know you can do this."

Arwen made the Choice of Elros several decades ago: to live among Men as a Man, to take up queenship of a people at the start of a new Age of the World and rule until most of those she loved most had passed and it was time to follow as a Man. Now she faces the Choice of Elwing: to leave most of those she loved the most for dead and flee with Silmaril in hand and only the hope of the impossible to save a doomed continent.

(Or, if she was optimistic, the Choice of Lúthien: to face down the Lord of Death and demand back one single most beloved [for Aragorn could not live while Sauron triumphed], and steal him away for many peaceful decades ere doom fell entirely, their own best efforts done. But Lúthien had been, in her glorious way, very selfish, and Arwen was not.)

The reason I haven't started writing this fic and probably never will is that I have a perfect sense of what I believe kids call the vibes - the mood, the tone, themes, the visual and emotional aesthetic - and none of actual, like, events of the story.

It's about Arwen's final trial of leadership and diplomacy, before she (hopefully) takes up a throne of Gondor, being living with Dwarves for three months under threat and then fact of war. Helping in the infirmary. Participating in strategy discussions, because war isn't her area of expertise but she has participated a few times, in her nearly 3,000 years of life. Mediating as a neutral party on inevitable conflicts between Dwarves the Men, especially in the last week and a half when they're under high stress while besieged together with two kings dead in the field.

Carrying a torch in the deep corridors of the Mountain because she's Mannish enough not to see naturally in the dark. Standing extra watches because she's Elvish enough to see well in starlight, especially if the Star in question is her grandfather; and getting scouting reports from the local thrushes, because they're talkative and Melian's heirs have always had a knack for the speech of birds.

Busying herself with sewing a banner for Aragorn, with jewel-stars and a crown of mithril and gold - for her elders have appointed her as their last hope, and she shall hold it for them and for all the people she can save if in the end she must; but her Estel fights in the field. The night the armies of Mordor cross the river to strike at Dale, she stands on the summit of the Lonely Mountain and calls a friend among the Eagles, who takes the finished banner in her talons and bears it south to where Arwen's brothers and cousins ride to Aragorn's side.

(She shares dreams with him sometimes - but she must keep secret a thought that beats in her like a heartbeat, and he must devote all his thought to the quest and the war. So they don't speak much.)

It's about the crushing weight of history and legacy and the very practical matters of running a kingdom in duress. It's about multicultural exchange. It's about love and hope and a hundred different OCs, most of whom will never be recorded in history books even if they die heroically or steal siege-stores to sell on the black market, or simply live and thus deserve to do so. It's about hard work and mortality.

It's about how 77 years after the Battle of Five Armies, Dain II Ironfoot swings his axe until he falls defending the body of Brand King of Dale, son of Baird son of Bard the Dragonslayer, and their people all take refuge in the Mountain together; and Arwen tends the wounded with the Songs she learned from her father and the neat stitches her mother taught her for first cloth, then skin; and she walks among the frightened people - none of them remotely her people; Dwarves and entirely common Men, mostly descended from easterners migrating slowly west - and knows that if these are all she can save, she will gladly die or live as she must in order to do so; and the people hearken a little to see her pass by with starlight in her eyes and on her breast.

And then - after an eternity of painful anticipation, after what feels like no time at all - the Shadow passes, and the wait and tension abruptly lift.

They very much do still have to go defeat that army before the gates, though.

[coochiequeens]

Even advocates of surrogacy should agree that regulations are needed

BY Samuel Burke August 16, 2024

In Europe, commercial surrogacy is largely banned and seen as a form of body commodification, similar to organ trafficking. Only a few countries permit highly regulated altruistic surrogacy, which limits reimbursement to just expenses and no additional compensation—resulting in limited participation. Demand for surrogacy, however, is soaring due to delayed childbearing, increasing medical challenges, and the growth of LGBTQ+ family-building. The surrogacy market, valued at $14 billion in 2022, is projected to skyrocket to $129 billion by 2032, according to Global Market Insights.

Currently, only a few European countries, such as Ukraine and Greece, permit commercial surrogacy. These nations operate in a legal gray area with minimal oversight, leading to a largely unregulated industry fraught with issues like trafficking women, falsified documents and sham embryo transfers.

Before the 2022 invasion, Ukraine was a global surrogacy hub estimated to have 2,000-2,500 surrogacy contracts annually. Despite the ongoing conflict, the industry continues, with some women still carrying pregnancies in war-torn Ukraine. Controversially, Ukrainian surrogates now leave their families behind and travel to places like Greece and Northern Cyprus (recognized only by Turkey) to complete pregnancies. The women often live with multiple surrogates in the same dwellings while they wait to give birth.

Advocates for reform argue that current practices neglect the welfare of surrogates. Wes Johnson-Ellis, co-founder of the U.K. non-profit My Surrogacy Journey (MSJ), asserts that surrogates should not have to leave their families to move to another country for the pregnancy to help others build theirs.

Pregnancy and birth are vulnerable times for surrogates. They need their support network and family close by to ensure they are fully supported,” Johnson-Ellis says.

MSJ frequently assists families who’ve faced trying circumstances with other agencies. One couple pursuing surrogacy in Cyprus believed their surrogate was Cypriot. However, she was actually from Eastern Europe and returned to her native country, where she gave birth prematurely according to Johnson-Ellis. Tragically, the baby did not survive.

“They are still fighting to have the baby’s body exhumed and sent back to their home country for a proper burial,” says Johnson-Ellis.

Last August, Greek authorities raided the Mediterranean Fertility Institute in Crete and arrested staff amid allegations of trafficking nearly 100 women from Eastern Europe to act as surrogates. Officials also accused the company of falsifying adoption papers for clients from countries where surrogacy is illegal. The institute is now closed and has not responded to inquiries about these allegations. Advocates for affected families, many from Australia, claim they paid for a surrogacy program that was never fulfilled.

The Republic of Georgia had also emerged as a popular surrogacy destination in Europe, but last year, the Georgian prime minister announced that commercial surrogacy would be restricted to Georgian citizens only. This has left the legality of programs in Georgia in limbo, affecting intended parents from around the world who had turned to the country for surrogacy.

Scandals and swiftly shifting surrogacy laws have sent intended parents in Europe scrambling to relocate their embryos to countries with more stable or established surrogacy frameworks, primarily in the Americas. 

The United States is the top destination for commercial surrogacy due to its well-established legal framework and advanced medical care. However, it is also the most expensive, with total costs for IVF and surrogacy—including medical, legal, and agency fees—averaging $190,000 to $230,000.

Those high costs have traditionally made Canada a more affordable surrogacy option, with costs for IVF and surrogacy averaging $60,000 to $100,000. Although commercial surrogacy is banned, Canadian law permits altruistic surrogacy, similar to the U.K., Denmark, and the Netherlands. This lower cost has dramatically increased demand, leading to average wait times of 10 to 18 months and driving hopeful parents to seek commercial surrogates in Latin America.

Argentina, Colombia, and Mexico are attracting intended parents as alternatives to Europe, with costs typically under $80,000. Mexico City, in particular, has become a popular choice due to its low costs and progressive surrogacy laws.

“Confidence in Mexico is shifting,” says Johnson-Ellis of My Surrogacy Journey, which has launched a service guiding families there. “Mexico actually has more guardrails and regulations in place than the U.S. and has even had the support of the Mexican Supreme Court since 2021.” He points to Mexico City’s practice of issuing pre-birth orders that recognize the intended parents as the legal parents and even list the surrogate as the gestational carrier, not the biological mother when she’s used donor eggs. 

The surrogacy boom in the Americas is coming at Europe’s expense. Advocates argue that Europe’s ban on commercial surrogacy limits access to services and, ironically, increases the exploitation and coercion of women.

“With a commercial model, everyone knows where they stand,” Johnson-Ellis says. “There’s no gray. It’s very black and white. And I think with surrogacy, you need black and white.”

[dany-elwen-ffxiv]

To the Past

What kind of questions did I have? What could I even say? Ask? Think? Feel?

I imagined my mother sitting across from me as I settled back into my room in Sharlayan, the fireplace roaring. Alone, but embracing the temporary solitude, I sank onto the floor and stared at the rose-colored cushion adjacent to me.

Imagining my mother was sitting there, with me, enjoying the warmth of the fire and the crackling of the wood.

What questions would I even ask her?

Korven and I had enjoyed our time in Foundation. It was a great way for us to bond, and I loved seeing where he grew up and learning all about his family. But Arslan's visit weighed heavily on my mind, and even though I had to tell Korven about it, it still didn't feel like it came out of my mouth in a normal way.

Because nothing about Arslan's visit was normal.

The illness that he had described my father dying from...was the same illness my mother died from as well. A rapid loss of memory, lucidity, and mobility...pale yellow skin...and then death.

Is that my fate? To die like my parents before me?

Holding onto fear wasn't healthy, but it was the only feeling I had. Arslan wanted me to go to Dalmasca - he wanted to bring me back to the resistance, to the people who had loved my parents. He wanted me to experience the culture I'd never known.

And he'd had my portrait.

Standing up, I went to my dressing table, on which lay the tiny portrait Arslan had given me. It was unmistakably me. My father had carried the portrait around with him all this time.

Why didn't you tell me, Mother? Why didn't you tell me that my father was a hero? That I was the daughter of two heroes?

At that moment, there was a knock on my door, and it was the AEON clerk that manned the front desk. "Madam," he said with a light bow, "your mysterious Au Ra friend is here to see you again. He's waiting outside."

Arslan. Speak of the devil. "I'm coming," I said hastily, grabbing my shawl and wrapping it around my shoulders before rushing outside, where that looming, familiar shadow stood at the gate, just like previously.

"Arslan," I said in greeting as he bowed and kissed my hand. "I was just thinking about you."

"And I you," he said with a kind smile, a little sparkle in his eyes. "I hope you've decided to join me to Dalmasca. We leave in three days."

"Yes," I said quickly, not even hesitating. "But I have someone who wants to join me," I added, speaking of Korven. "I also may...I also may request that other members of AEON join me."

At that, Arslan's brow shot up. "Surely, there's no reason to alert your friends," he assured. "It is a long journey, and there's no danger. Garlemald is no more."

"Yes, but..." I paused, hating myself for pausing. I was unable to describe what I was feeling.

Fear. Fear, fear, fear.

He seemed to have read my mind. "I know you have so many questions, and only those in Dalmasca can answer them," he soothed. "And we can find a way to bury your parents together."

"I'll need help exhuming her," I stammered.

"Of course," he said, his voice still soothing. "I'm sure your friends at AEON can help with that, too."

I nodded, my mind whirling. "I don't like the thought of my mother being on a different continent than me," I admitted weakly.

He paused, clearly choosing his words carefully. "We do not have to bury them together," he said softly. "There's no need to disturb her current grave if it is not your desire. YOU, and YOU alone, are Yyelexi's child."

I wrinkled my brow. The thought of my mother lying buried for all eternity on a different continent from her love made me feel sick. Surely, she would rather be buried in her homeland, where she grew up, where she fought against the empire, where she gave birth to her daughter.

"We'll exhume her," I said decidedly, rubbing my nose. "I just will miss her."

"Of course," he said quickly, leaning against a nearby pillar and studying me. "And make no mistake, you can bring as many friends as you like. This is your personal journey, a journey into a past that you don't remember or know at all. If bringing friends would ease your worries, then of course they can come."

I nodded, swallowing, and then looked into his eyes. Kind eyes. They were so concerned. "I'll assemble AEON and those willing will meet you at the Sharlayan port in three days," I said quietly.

He smiled brightly at that. "Good!" He gestured to the AEON headquarters behind us. "I look forward to our journey together, Danaela. There will be so many questions, and hopefully more answers." He paused and then grinned wider. "And worry not about airfare - I will cover every penny."

I blinked. The generosity of this man was astounding. "Thank you," I whispered in shock.

"No, thank you, Danaela," he said with a deep bow before turning on his heel to leave. "You have given my life purpose again."

And as he disappeared into the foggy afternoon, I stared at the place where he'd vanished for some time, before heading back to my room, my mind awhirl.

And I took out my linkshell, and made a call.

[life-imitates-art-far-more]

Columbano Bordalo Pinheiro (1857-1929) "Tragedy of Inês de Castro" (1901-1904) Realism Located in the Museu Militar de Lisboa, Lisbon, Portugal Inês de Castro (1325-1355) was a Galician noblewoman and courtier, best known as lover and posthumously-recognized wife of King Peter I of Portugal. The dramatic circumstances of her relationship with Peter (at the time Prince of Portugal), which was forbidden by his father King Afonso IV, her murder on the orders of Afonso--she was decapitated in front of one of her young children—Peter's bloody revenge on her killers—he captured two of them and publicly executed them by ripping their hearts out, claiming they didn't have one after pulverizing his own heart—and the legend of the coronation of her exhumed corpse by Peter, have made Inês de Castro a frequent subject of art, music, and drama through the ages.

Inês and Peter also had several children, whom he would legitimize after her death. Afonso, died shortly after birth. John, Duke of Valencia de Campos, claimant to the throne during the 1383–85 Crisis. Denis, Lord of Cifuentes, claimant to the throne during the 1383–1385 Crisis. And Beatrice, who married Sancho Alfonso, 1st Count of Alburquerque, the great-grandmother of Ferdinand II of Aragon and thereby an ancestor of all Spanish monarchs.

[dailyunsolvedmysteries-movedd]

The Italian Bride of Chicago

Julia Buccola Petta (1892 – March 17, 1921) was a housewife who became known following her death as The Italian Bride. She was the daughter of Filomena Buccola and the wife of Matthew Petta. She died at the age of 29 in 1921 while giving birth to a stillborn son, Filippo.

Following her death, Petta was buried at Mount Carmel Cemetery in the Chicago, Illinois suburb of Hillside. Petta was buried in her wedding dress. According to legend, soon after Petta's death, her mother Filomena began experiencing dreams in which Petta was telling her that she was still alive. 

Six years after Petta's death, Filomena secured permission to have the grave opened and her daughter exhumed. The coffin was found to have decomposed somewhat, but when it was opened Petta's body was still mostly intact, her son and the arm holding him had decayed. Her mother took a picture of Petta in her casket, which was placed on the monument and is still there to this day. 

Why Petta's body had not decayed much following burial has never been explained.

[mtg-cards-hourly]

Exhume

"Death—an outmoded concept. We sleep, and we change." —Sitrik, birth priest

Artist: Carl Critchlow TCG Player Link Scryfall Link EDHREC Link

[dailyunsolvedmysteries]

The Italian Bride of Chicago

Julia Buccola Petta (1892 – March 17, 1921) was a housewife who became known following her death as The Italian Bride. She was the daughter of Filomena Buccola and the wife of Matthew Petta. She died at the age of 29 in 1921 while giving birth to a stillborn son, Filippo. Following her death, Petta was buried at Mount Carmel Cemetery in the Chicago, Illinois suburb of Hillside. Petta was buried in her wedding dress. According to legend, soon after Petta's death, her mother Filomena began experiencing dreams in which Petta was telling her that she was still alive.  Six years after Petta's death, Filomena secured permission to have the grave opened and her daughter exhumed. The coffin was found to have decomposed somewhat, but when it was opened Petta's body was still mostly intact, her son and the arm holding him had decayed. Her mother took a picture of Petta in her casket, which was placed on the monument and is still there to this day.  Why Petta's body had not decayed much following burial has never been explained.

[lgist]

Fear Of Love. Love pt2

What does it mean to love? To connect with something so deeply, you begin to orbit it, happy to spectate it’s beauty, happy to die for its longevity. Universal, is this feeling, how it shines brightly, blinding like staring at the sun bluntly. Addicted, as we burn our retinas, the mind cannot get a word in, rationality seeming absurd, as our hearts spill. We continue to spectate what can only be described as perfection, how we can manipulate ourselves into thinking it exists, how time will convince us otherwise. For love cannot exist without imperfection, without faults that test your conviction to love. Dangerous is this drug for that reason, the biggest gamble any one person can take, we go all in for love how defeated we become when we leave empty handed. 

All that work, all that admiration, all of the blood our hearts have spilled, all of the tears your eyes couldn't withhold, what was the outcome? A lonesome, cold rock, shooting through space in its infinite dark night. On the opposite end, when you hit the jackpot, how fearless you can become with an endless well of heat, exhumed from the dark, brought into the light. Is it worth the risk? Perhaps we don’t think of it as a risk but a necessity, a journey one must go through with the things that they love. Truth be told, I fear love, of giving myself to love, of diving headfirst into the unknown, just to see what happens. Where can one end up after this journey? In the embrace of something warm, where the cold cannot reach? Or in the clutches of frozen emotion, hanging from a ceiling? I fear of losing things that I love, for it is worse than never loving at all, to know the warmth of something bright only to remember its touch in our coldest nights, only making us more fearful of trying again, a diabolical cycle, one that consumes every iota of progress within the mind, for the heart is too loud in its retrospective cries. “Haven’t I given enough?”, “What more do you want from me?”, the heart screams. “It’s time to move on”, “We have given enough”, the mind pleads. Love births confliction within the soul, for you will question your own motives like you don’t know yourself, estranged from love we become estranged from ourselves. I fear of losing myself in love, in its absence, in hatred's abundance. Angry at myself, angry at love, hateful at what I used to love because I went to bust. 

How long can you run from love? Until it snatches you away and consumes you? Until it breaks you down and creates something new? Unpredictable is love’s gaze, its a random encounter after random encounter. Like we are all voyagers, mindlessly exploring the cosmos until a star and its gravitational pull finds us and we could’ve flown in any direction but we ended up here. Perhaps it is love that invented the word destiny, for it must've been fate that I ended up here. 

Orbiting this specific star, out of the billions that are taking their own space. Perhaps that is the definition of destiny, in the chaos that follows life, in the randomness that encompasses everything, it is this specific set of random circumstances that got me here and that has to mean something. There are millions of encounters a day, millions of interactions that happen spontaneously at a given moment, it makes the task of finding love seem impossible and yet when we stop looking and allow ourselves to fly, here we end up, under the glow of another sun. 

By the end of this journey, are we someone different? Do we become better? Do we become worse? Are we the same as when we arrived? Will we wilt away with this star until the end of time? Or will this sun expand and swallow us whole in its rage and fury, burning us to the core, until there's nothing left but a husk? Will we realise we are being burned in time to run away? Or, in our addiction, will we forget the star’s transgressions upon us? Curiosity killed the cat, we can only know if we try and explore these endless questions that love provides. That is the aforementioned risk, it is not a question of value to one’s wellbeing, it is a question of fulfilling our destinies of randomness. Of undergoing a journey bigger than ourselves, of finding out for ourselves. I cannot answer every question, for you or even for myself, these answers are given after experiencing all that love has to offer. Love has the ability to empower all that come into contact with it, just as much as it has the power to completely annihilate one’s self esteem, one’s ego. Are you willing to flip that coin? Or is it already spinning in the air and you’re looking at each flip with intent, waiting to find out where you lie? Are you ready to brunt the full force of love’s absence? Are you ready to embrace the power of love’s fulfillment? Only one way to find out.

_______________________________________

I love you. - S 

More soon.

_______________________________________

[hatredcurse]

유 || @blonduzumaki

Today marked Sasuke's 20th birth year. The day he will be crowned with a circlet of silver with a dragoneye's red gradient gem seated in the center.

Now left as sole heir of the Uchiha family, following his brother's excommunication, his family's hall stood cold in its architecture of stone. The pews of the congregation were filled with the solemn, serious faces of Uchiha progenitors. Their ever-scolding expressions scored into their face by genetics alone.

Along with his birthday marked the date that his father opened their borders to their recently acquired ally: the Namikaze family. A deal made in the dark of the king's war room.

Sasuke had only caught whispers from his trusted "song birds" about the dirty deals Fugaku decided upon in hushed corridors. Only minor details were exhumed from the books, but had plenty mentioned about a family with close ties to the Uchiha's late nemesis, the Senju triarchy. Within them a true born son that carried the Uzumaki name despite a Namikaze sire.

Befuddled and confused, Sasuke failed to understand what good it was to bind himself to a man from an estranged family. Outside of the Uzumaki being highly favored within the Triarchy, the Astrologians and Court Advisors pushed to have favor of this son. The only reason that Sasuke could name was that the boy is of age to be married and there must be some power, artifact, or gain to be had within that family that the Uchiha prince had no knowledge of.

Not that he had any say in the matter.

In accordance to his father's wishes, Sasuke took honorably to the gift of a man ( may he emphasize how incredibly ridiculous it was to pair two men in favor of an unknown advantage ? ) with all piety he could exert from his soul.

With his father at his left flank, hand firm on the arm of the throne, Sasuke sat in the center of the dark blue seat. Dressed in his best blues and expensive silvers. He looked more than ornament than the soldier he was originally raised to be. With Itachi vanished from the family, Sasuke was forced into his position, into all his uncomfortable clothes, his wretched piety, and into his crown.

Not yet king, but acting in mind of one.

The large congregation doors yawned open, revealing all the guards and retainers before the boy. Sasuke narrowed his eyes, seeking for this mysterious suitor among the dress of silks and brocade, seeing if he could pick him out before the boy caught sight of him, sitting fixed to his silver throne, tall and postured with indifference.

[tieflingkisser]

On Mourning | by Zubayr Alikhan via Mondoweiss

The very world perpetrating genocide asks the Palestinians to prove that their children are indeed in pieces under the rubble, and not terrorists in a tunnel. It shoves fingers down Palestinian throats to see if they vomit up animal feed, blood, or bullets. It exhumes cemeteries, steals organs, and asks for a receipt of death. It cleanses Palestinian lands, plunders artifacts, levels villages, razes olive trees, and belies indigeneity. It lives inside Palestinian homes, reclines on Palestinian furniture, and asks for evidence of Palestinian presence, for evidence of their theft. In the words of Ghassan Kanafani, “They steal your loaf of bread. Then they give you a crumb. Then they demand you thank them for their generosity. O their audacity!” Amidst all the proving, there is no time to mourn. Videos and images of Palestinians holding the pale bodies of the children to cameras have become routine. The first time, we wept, the next time, we shed a single tear, then we clenched our eyes. Now, our eyes are glazed as we scroll past, onto more uncommon things. We do not consider, even for a moment, what it means for a parent to force their children’s corpses through lenses, onto your screens. We have never considered that they might hate themselves for it,—and hate you more for degrading them such—that they do not want a camera on their child, but feel desperate and abandoned, with no choice. When a mother holds up her murdered new-born and screams, “What was this child’s sin? Is this your ‘bank of targets’?” she has been forced to engage and combat your narrative, to prove her innocence and her killer’s criminality, even with her daughter’s blood. With her daughter condemned at birth and killed moments later, she is allowed no time to mourn.