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hauntedelation · 3 years

Text

Seize The Throne

(Picture found on Google, I don’t own.)

Description: He was always so reckless, drawn and following the darkest paths in life. You can’t help but chase after him with stars in your eyes and a bizarre thrill churning your gut. Maybe this time things were too heavy for you.

Pairing: Black Female Reader x Will Shaw

A/N: I recently watched one of my favorite mob movies, Goodfellas, and fell back in love with that gritty image. A good friend of mine, @hope-to-hell, had already created her world of Mob!Will and has several parts out featuring him and his chaotic ways. Part one, part two, and part three explore so many depths to him and that heart-pounding life. I strongly suggest reading!

Her writing of this version of Will was my most favorite and I really wanted to try to pay homage to that. I hope I did good love, 🥺💗

Word Count: 5.7k

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, gore and blood play, minor character death, reader sustains injuries, some fluff if you squint. I do not recommend if you happen to be sensitive to these topics. Please heed the warnings.

Proofread as much as I could, Please enjoy guys!

➽─────────────❥

The bottle is sat down next to your leg with a soft clink. Sand and sporadic rocks mold around the glass, holding the claret drink inside upright.

You feel your body hum pleasantly. The vibrations stem from the top of your head, down through your thighs, and settle in your toes, which are currently sunken into the warm clasp of the shore.

Salt and a hint of cinder brush your face and press through your hair, tousling the tight ringlets out of your eyes and behind your ear. You take in a breath while the wind dies down. To the very depth of your lungs, you allow the night to enter you.

The water is cool; blue as can be. It just about matched the sky earlier that morning, save for the bunching of storm clouds trailing toward the horizon.

It’s a wonderful feeling against your feverish skin, but it doesn’t fail to sting the cuts on your feet. You don’t move a muscle, not any closer to the swirling foam, but you ponder, maybe it will help.

You're unwound and you had been ever since you came closer to the sand. Head dancing blissfully and filling with each drop of the piquant wine, your visions were growing far more spirited than they had been for the last several hours.

The deal with Holford went to shit.

➽─────────────❥

You weren't sure why you were strung along with this one. Will had been disrupted, true, but he was always that way whenever a deal this significant came along. The other guys were unknown, fresh in the game but garnered enough reputation to be talked to. He insisted that you were to not be left at the house, too much risk, he couldn’t see you.

Much of the originally agreed amount was lost, the usual inquiry and loaded threats were slung from either side. Forty thousand was at stake, and the bastards dared to show up with only a quarter of that.

You were there resting two rooms down in a decaying office, listening to those voices, Will’s, Syverson, and maybe another. There was a restive silence, before a guttural shout and a bang was sent out, followed by an explosion of more. You felt your heart throb clear in your throat.

It was difficult to keep track, and the walls of that building were already so abysmally thin. There was a good possibility that if a punch was thrown, it would put a hole right in the plaster.

Bullets went through the drywall and sprinkled chalky dust into your hair. You had the right mind to jerk away and hit the floor. The concrete was chilly and layered with the filth that reminded you of a public subway. Upon impact, you were no doubt painted with inky marks on your knees and elbows.

You didn't cry out, none of it could be heard anyway. Yet, you did a fine job keeping whatever you wanted to scream out on the inside. You held your breath and ducked your head to the lowest point of the room.

It all tumbled over, that composure, soon after witnessing the man protecting you get his insides blown out.

From under the table, those projectiles continued to whizz in and out of the walls. Daniel, you think the kid’s name was, though he was only four years younger than you he had the face of a youth. He was always polite, getting you whatever it was that you wanted, afraid of disappointing.

They should have known he wasn't ready, wasn't skilled enough for any of this.

The door was kicked at, the brass lock weakening and soon falling away. Daniel whipped around, his machine gun tucked against his armpit and trembling finger on the trigger. He let out a few shots at a sharp speed, laying more holes in the door before dashing to the side.

He was panting, his big brown eyes glancing to you before pulling out another magazine from his pocket.

A deafening boom went through the wood, and the door flew open revealing colossal-sized boots stomping in. You don’t recall a second shot. Everything had been stunned, from your ability to move to any volume in your ears. All that was, had been ringing.

That gunshot indeed came, because you saw the kid fall back.

Crimson rained down over you and you felt the warmth dot your skin, covering the shade of your nail polish. Your eyes reopened and picked up far more carnage—tiny pieces of him all over the vicinity. Bone and flesh, some landing near your hands on the floor.

His body toppled to the ground. You remember how he landed, head smacking against the solid concrete and his eyes opened wider than saucers.

He was in shock, gurgling and spitting up blood down his chin. His fingers desperately scrambled for the handle of his machine gun, but it was kicked far out of his reach.

The faceless gunman placed Daniel’s chest under his boot, crushing the torn hole in his middle and forcing more distressed wails from the young man. Before the kid was able to cry any longer, he was cut off by another boom.

There wasn't much time to respond then. Your longtime guard was desecrated, all the life drained from him the instant the third shot was sent from the twelve gauge.

And all that you continued to hear, was ringing.

As that cliché says: time slowed to a standstill. Bullets pelted the surfaces, nonstop and in every direction. Devastation surged, wood chips and old papers swept up, and heavy footsteps trudged all throughout the concrete floors. You spent your lifetime under that table, cowering away from the turmoil.

Along your cheeks, and falling to your hands you saw the clear, salty liquid bend and mix with that young man’s blood

The make-shift shelter lasted a mere five minutes, then it was flipped over. Glasses and other items shattered onto the ground and spread to every corner of the room.

Directly after, your wrist was snatched in a viselike grip.

He had nails, this beast holding on to you. They were long, jagged, and digging far into your flesh. You sucked in the mucid air, holding back everything in your throat: bile, sobs, whatever it was. The man dictated something in your ear, along the lines of,

‘Keep that pretty fucking mouth shut before I pack it full with lead.’

It was more than a motivator. He adjusted his hold and dragged you toward the entryway of the room, pushing aside Daniel's lifeless body. Your free hand braced against the ground, but your legs were left dragging. It was grueling, finding leverage to move with the man.

With each manipulation the brute had on your body, each step of his feet and yank to your wrist, your legs caught shards of the glass and were sliced open. Amid this, the lacerations on your wrist gradually formed under his nails and began to drip hot down your arm. He was moving with purpose until he stalled right near the doorframe.

More bellows and pops of machine guns echoed against the stone.

The man was waiting, probably for the next cue. Or, maybe he was considering that last threat to you, should he go through with it?

How could you know?

After a while, you couldn’t feel anything at all. You couldn't feel the barrel of the gun pressed against your temple, your vein pumping against the hot surface, and the circulation around your wrist anymore. Your skin grew cold, vision drawing away. The lights in the room dimmed and you finally lept in a dark tunnel.

The weight between your shoulders slumped toward the ground.

It was shortly thereafter, seconds later, that those same voices came much closer than before. Your wrist ached but no longer were you under that crushing grip. The steaming metal of the shotgun was absent from your skin, though the pressure would forever be burned against your skull.

The only sensation that remained were calluses grazing against your skin.

There were no longer any gunshots, no more footsteps, or even glass shattering. The masculine tones in your ears surfaced and started to be particularly familiar. Those hands on your body, the clammy palms securing your jaw, it was real.

You felt how damp the thumb pads were and the sticky residue that was left behind along the line of your cheek.

Opening your lids was taxing, but you saw dark curls stuck to a creased forehead. A fresh gash was drawn on an eyebrow and dozens of bruises on that handsome face. A pink lip painfully split nearly in two.

The light was beaming around his head and the source was different than the one in that previous room. There were more windows. Natural light revealed one side of his form, highlighting his dewy skin and the dampness of his shirt.

The deep red splotches covering his body.

Your pupils dilated and centered on his face. He was panting, tongue swiping at that cut on his bottom lip. His voice read a steadied, but fraught question.

‘Hey—hey, Doll. You’re here with me, yeah?’

Will’s focus was dashing across your face and the rest of your body. His breathing jolted when he caught your pupils, but never did he lose grip of that solid poise. He reached up and his fingers smeared more pungent liquid on your face, forcing the iron-laced odor into your nostrils.

You coughed, grunting at the rough scratch along your throat. Your lips pressed together before you forced your head to nod weakly. You were sore, and you didn't really wish to move your legs at the moment. The hairs of his arm grazed against your fingertips. With a flex to your good wrist, you took hold of him.

You were breathing. You could see, you could hear, and while every bit of your nerves flared and pinched—you...were alive.

Will released a sigh low within his chest and out of his nose. The strain in his shoulders released a fraction, yet the muscles in his back maintained the stiff shape. His eyes were cognitive and lingered keenly on yours. He didn't choose to say anything else, and neither did you.

Your throat and your lungs felt as if they were packed with dust. And, what was there to say?

He dismissed a question that was brought up by a ragged-looking Sy. The veteran stopped his pacing by a blown-out window and shook his head. In a blur behind Will, you saw him remove his cap and use his stained shirt to wipe at the sweat on his buzzed head.

The air around Will's head was spiraling, the remnants of the firefight clinging to the air around you. You squinted and looked past the fog to see mutilated bodies, with thousands of bullet casings littering the floor.

Limbs twisted around, mangled, with pools of blood swallowing up each of the remains.

Every member of the Holford group was dressed in matching tan-colored suits, the corpses' jackets now drawn with scarlet. You weren't sure if you could answer the question, which man had been the one who grabbed you? Who killed Daniel?

Maybe he was one that slipped away.

Your braids moved from your face, the soft hairs by your forehead pushed back and smoothed away. Will's fingers, thoroughly slick with blood, left behind glistening streaks in their wake.

Following a short phone call made by Syverson, you three and the remaining number of Will’s men vacated the building. Duffle bags of cash and anything else that was of importance was secured.

While you made your way out of the structure, you caught the sight of armed workers, nudging the bodies of Holford’s group and aiming the end of their guns down at their heads.

The pops that rang out were sent past your mind. The air outside washed over you, fresh almost jarring. Under the occasional shots fired in the building, you could pick up the hum of insects and birds.

Your eyes fluttered under the tepid sunlight, and instead, you occupied yourself with the feeling of that. Just for those short seconds, you were under those rays.

Will was hot on your heels with a vigilant hand on your lower back, his other arm providing support for your shaky footfall. He was still running on hot, that look in his eye reflecting off far away from here.

He directed you toward a black truck and carefully helped you slip into the back passenger seat. After clicking the seatbelt over your lap, he dragged his eyes over you one last time, persisting on your wounds. He drummed his fingers on the palm of your hand and parted from you a promise,

‘It will be a little while, but I will be back. Sy will be taking us back to the house...we're gonna get you cleaned up.’

Through your lids and out the window of the vehicle, you observed the men’s work. Their actions were swift and it was clear to see that disposal of certain events was in their expertise.

A few of the guards were gathering red gallons of gasoline, entering the building, and dousing every surface on the interior. Others were negotiating with Syverson and Will, the latter man speaking with venom falling from his mouth. The last worker exited the archway and tossed the red bin in behind him.

Your legs ached. Minutes trickled by, and at first, you withheld moving. But it was as if each laceration was prying open. You took your eyes from the scene outside the truck and grit your teeth to readjust your body.

The window bore the weight of your head.

Will took a prolonged look at the decrepit building, his arms crossed and locked over his chest. The tendons in his jaw were spasming like a coiled knot and his mouth set at a firm line.

Whatever thoughts broke down in his mind, they were intensively racing and reflecting the failure of today. He sent a final nod to Sy before turning and making his way to the vehicle you were residing in.

Another man fished a lighter and cigarette out of his pocket, adjusting the strap of the rifle on his shoulder. He then flicked open the metal casting, lighting the end of the stick. Without closing the lid, he threw the lighter into the broken window of the building.

That drive was long. Despite the many twisting roads and turns, you noticed the flames shredding their way through the sky several miles away.

There behind you, Will's lips pressed to the crown of your head, with your body tucked into his chest. In your lap, you watched his torn knuckles flex. He formed a fist and would do so every couple of seconds, tremoring and taut. Eventually, he would ease up and relax those fingers, still shaking, but it would return.

Repeatedly, open and close...

open and close,

open and close.

➽─────────────❥

You flinched as Syverson carefully picked the glass out of your legs. You were sat on the granite countertop, bruised knees hooking over the edge and your foot resting in his camo-clad lap.

He was in a chair located directly in front of you, with his cap sitting on the counter and an assortment of tools surrounding it

Your wrist was the first that was looked at. It was throbbing, hardly able to be moved but the bleeding clogged. He cleaned it as much as he could and set it into a makeshift splint. Syverson then notified you that you most likely suffered fractures.

He would have a friend come tomorrow to properly take care of it.

The tweezers were skinny and almost disappeared under his thick fingers. He had his palm wrapped around your calf, and with an attentive eye, he leaned closer to dislodge more shards from your skin.

You wince as a jagged edge is plucked from your calf.

"Stop squirmin' little lady."

You tilt your head to the side and cradle your injured wrist in your lap. Your braids tangled and fell just over your shoulder. In a corner of your mind, you thought about a hot shower, scrubbing your skin, and taking the damn things down. To wash everything away.

It was absolutely anticipated.

Sy resumed his work, wetting his lips and holding back that vexatious grin.

The only sound resonating throughout the kitchen was the clink of the splinters hitting the plastic bowl, and the music of a film playing on T.V. Here and there you could make out Will's voice in the other room, his timbre suppressing an unhinged man.

How could he not? You knew how much today went south, it wasn't expected, but you didn't make an attempt to eavesdrop anymore.

Really, you didn't venture to do anything but sit and wait until the soldier at your feet was finished.

Will had entered the house before you and with not another step further, he conveyed to his partner that same pithy look. The point of your shoulder was gently tapped and under his bushy beard, the southern man offered you an apologetic look.

Sy was nothing but meticulous. He had a way about his movements that indicated his substantial experience. While he was working, your eyes glanced over that brawny man, taking in the thick slabs of muscle on his shoulders. You had to figure he possessed more scars than five men combined.

He had the look of a man who had seen a lot in his life and could destroy everything in his path, but to you, he was the sweetest he can be.

You withheld a moment longer, additional pieces of shrapnel were dug and removed from your limbs. He pulled back and sat down those tweezers, promptly moving his fingers to wrap around a cheap bottle of alcohol.

He doused a fresh white cloth with the clear drink and patted each of your opened wounds.

"Mwell...You're lucky you don't need any stitches, sweetheart," he husked.

Your lip quirked at his tone. He peered up at you with a ghost of a sanguine reflection in his eye. Remarkably, he was always the one to find a smile out of you, always after those wearisome days. You decided to indulge the man, forcing a curl to your lips. You then turned away and watched the images flash over the television screen.

His fingers lingered on a bigger cut on the top of your knee, clearing his throat. The muscles of your thigh tensed, like acid on flesh. Your nails clutched the surface of the granite and scratched shallowly.

Sy's thumb rubbed at the outside of your leg in return, applying a little more pressure to the wound before ultimately removing his fingers.

Your attention drifted away from the screen, you knit your brows down at your legs. You were sure that you would adorn some scars from today, the unfortunate memory coming in at each glance to your body.

The bottle of alcohol was placed between Syverson's legs, tucked close to his groin. You clocked your eye from his face back to the container. He was occupied wrapping bandages over your wounds, soon finishing off the last one before catching your look.

He took his hands from your legs, and palmed the neck of the bottle, unscrewing the cap. He tipped his bushy jaw back and poured the biting liquid down. Sy offered the drink to you with a crinkle of his nose. It was unspoken, but you chewed on your lip.

"Do we have anything else?"

➽─────────────❥

The bubbling of the ocean, that sparkling shore, and the break in the clouds, all of it was transfixing. You wanted to see the moonlight, to breathe the fresh air, and genuinely feel that you were alive.

So you slipped into something willowy. You couldn't pinpoint where it came from exactly. The tag was black and stitched gold in a foreign language, far too small to discern without a magnifier. From a closer look at the skew of the words, you could guess it came from somewhere in southern Europe.

The fabric was silk, completely pearly white with a sheer design layering over your chest. It was revealing, rightfully so though it was currently the dead of summer.

Moreover, it worked well to not agitate your wounds.

You passed by the living room where Sy had his feet kicked up on the coffee table, fingers rubbing at the bridge of his nose. The man was slumped as far as he could on that couch, all grime, perspiration, and fatigue.

You made sure to not close the glass-sliding door all the way.

Behind the sepia-colored bottle, you scanned about your surroundings. The palm trees strewn about the property swayed lazily in the wind, welcoming, disclosing to you: It's alright, you can relax now.

There was a blur of grey standing against the greenery, men in slacks with glimmering metal-encased by their arms. Those silent watchdogs weren't new to you, their presence would vanish from your mind from time to time. And even more so, the image of them called: It's alright, everything is okay now.

Except it wasn't, it wouldn't be for as long as you would remember today, but ever since arriving at this location you had been trying to convince yourself otherwise. Best practice was to acknowledge, right? You wouldn't pretend that today never happened, that you didn't come a hair's breadth away from perishing.

Being wasted away far before you should.

It's not hard to think about. This lifestyle, the outlook, and the expiration date of it all. You've known about it ever since you were a teenage girl.

The missing people that would show up in undisclosed locations, how strict your mother was with making friends, the luxury items in your home, and all of the days your father would be away, it didn't make sense until much later.

Securing all of your family's secrets followed quickly with your adulthood.

You think back to before everything split apart before you broke away. And now you stand outside of a clandestine house in God-knows-what country, you reflect.

It was never meant to last forever.

These nights you thought about many faces, strangers to the person you are now but people that blotched their fingerprints in your brain. Your mother comes around, stops during those times when you grow the most imaginative.

She would adorn a knowing look on her face but waited until you asked her for advice.

If you could just talk to her now. She'd probably kiss her teeth, cross her arms, and her heart breaking the longer she watched you. The dismay gone—no, she'd never forget what you did to the family, how you could give away your father like that with no further thought.

You hope that she would find it in her to understand, that she would look into you and see why you did everything.

If you opened your eyes and saw her standing before you in the sand, you'd take her hands in yours and ask her—just how to navigate. How do you go day by day and still feel alive?

For the first time in your life, you had no clue what she would reply with.

You were close to lifting your foot off the stone porch and making your way through the sand until the slide of the patio door reached your ears.

He sauntered out wielding a cup of amber, hair damp and pushed back from his forehead, his clothes changed to something fresh, new. He had just as much gauze wound around his body as you did, but he walked as comfortably as any man.

Will was born for this life.

He sat down by the outdoor dining table, placing his glass down and stretching his legs wide and relaxed in the chair. His fingers slid down the length of his shorts, stopping at his knees and staying there.

You wrapped the gown around your body and brushed away the bumps rising on your skin.

There was a gale that blew through whenever he was near, more submerging than the humid air around you. Something close to those storms that frightened you as a child, the imminence and the pause between claps of thunder.

Yet, every time that they came, you ever ran away to hide.

Will's brows creased, and he removed his attention from the undisturbed tide straight to you. His right hand moved back on his leg and pat the top of his thigh,

"Come here."

You were slow with approaching him. The bottle in your hands was replaced with his shoulders, the container clinking dismissively close by his drink. Will's arms opened up the moment you stepped between his thighs. His head tilted back, peering up at you. He wound his fingers behind your thighs and settled you astride his lap.

The way that you drew into him, there wasn't much helping it.

You could feel him on your neck, your cheeks and your lashes, Will's breaths, and his utmost tutelage. Maybe this was your favorite. From your position, you could look down at him just right, draw the light in his covert eyes.

You were able to capture all of the lines on his face, the shade of his skin, and those dots that appeared after being out in the sun. You could study this man, searching for whatever you wanted. Each and every time you tried discovering something new.

With all of the secrets he locked away from you, there were about a dozen escaping every other day. Tales whispered amongst the other members and strangers, lingering eyes on Will's back whenever he walked by. He carried himself as if he was grasping at direction, but it was well known how untamed he used to be.

No, he was still a wild animal in his soul, you knew that part about him wouldn't ever change. You bet if you took his hand in yours there would still be dried-up blood stuck under his nails. You knew this but here you are, towering over him and you still can't quite read the shadows in his eyes.

These times? Unfortunately, they were few and far between.

Right now, he held onto you like you wouldn’t be slipping away anytime soon.

“Y/n.”

Will was mindful of your wounds, fingertips gliding over the sides of your legs and taking a cautious hold of your bound wrist. The bruising feeling shot through the crushed bones. Will gingerly placed his lips along the top of your thumb and followed the bandage wraps down your wrist.

"How're you feeling?"

He didn't blink, and for an important reason, you wouldn't look away from him. He wanted from you, your reply, whether or not it was one-hundred percent.

"I'm okay."

Your coils moved with your head, a chary nod. You knew that you shouldn't think too deeply about that question. You were patched up, scrubbed clean from all of the stains today, his skin was there and warm under your hand.

So you scooted closer to Will, brushing your chest against his, and laced your fingers around the back of his neck.

He focused on your natural hair, how the tresses flowed down your back and framed your face. You made good on your promise to yourself on cutting the old-style away. There wasn't anything quite like that feeling, that weight falling away and nothing but an utterly new look.

You turned your eyes toward the horizon, catching the distant twinkling of fishing ships and airplanes. The red and white were faint, and sometimes those lights blended in with the stars. But never had they been any closer than several dozen miles.

On the shell of your ear and down your jaw, Will's facial hair started stroking and prodding.

"Doll…"

Your lips pulled tight. You carded your nails through his damp ringlets and twirled a few strands around, fidgeting.

"Don't you go soft on me."

His fingertips sunk lightly into the flesh of your lower back and bottom. You heard him sniff quietly. For a second there, you thought he was going to apologize to you. Though, Will's thumb hooked under your jaw, caressing with a tender stroke before leading you to him.

And he kissed you, real slow.

More than he ever had with you. Will was always messy—greedy, a palm on the nape of your neck and draining the oxygen from your lungs.

He kissed you as if you were about to fall into pieces. You pulled away from him after a long while, still dazed. It was before you could slide off that white gown and unlace the waistband of his shorts. All in front of those men in the shade. It wouldn't be the first time, nor the last.

He was reluctant, his palms residual on your body, but you slotted your fingers through his and detached them from your hips.

Will carried somewhat of a smile slanting his face. In the low light, you can catch a glimpse of it, how his cut lip stretched. You braced your hand midway on his chest and lifted yourself up from him. You then palmed the wine in one hand, tossing a look from over your shoulder before setting on your way.

He didn't get up or try to chase after you, but the movement behind his eyes did.

You went on to do what you originally wished to, feeling the salt and the sand. You had been neglected of this for forever it seemed, months, years maybe. Just like through the window of the bedroom there was still a spell of sorts being cast on the beach, you weren't going to fight it.

All the way to the mouth of the shore you went, taking in sips of wine and filling your vision with the stars.

Never did he take his eyes from you.

"How's she holding up?"

Sy stood about two feet away with a towel draped around his shoulders and his back leaning against the patio door. Will turned his head to glance at the soldier, before returning to you.

"She's... she'll be alright."

Will sat up in his chair, sweeping his eyes through the backyard once again.

"We lost five guys today, three including the guys from the inner circle, two others were regulars...Still have over 27K to retrieve," Sy reflected.

He set his elbow on the armrest, rubbing his fingers over the stubble on his face and surrounding his lips.

"It's a shame what happened to that kid. I'll take care of his grandparents...send them a severance."

Christ, he was actually feeling a bit of guilt, more so with how the kid went out. But, he knew what this job was. He was told about the repressions and what was expected.

Daniel was a few months shy of his next birthday if Will had that right. And, now he wouldn't even be able to have an opened casket for his funeral. Not that this mattered in the end, though.

He wouldn’t have a casket at all.

"...They've fucking lost it if they think this is all forgotten."

Syverson nodded his head, already preparing his mind for any possible retaliation. No doubt much of the next few days will be filled with planning, making calls, and ordering more supplies. Maybe a few all-nighters just to get the deal straight, spending money just to make triple the return. He thinks that he might phone up Walker, the caliber of this situation had blown up in that man's range anyway.

"You have guys surrounding the perimeter?"

"Don't you go sweet on me, Will," Sy laughed. Of course, there were men around the perimeter. Not one spot was left open.

Will wrapped his fingers around the glass and took a small sip of the drink. His jaw twitched once again at that phrase, it just about mirrored yours, "I'm not."

There was a brief silence between the men, Will wasn't looking at Sy but both of them had somewhat of the same thought winding through their worn-out minds. The soldier followed his partner's eyes, down the shore and to where those tan grains disappeared in the water.

"Then why are you sitting outside, watching her like a hawk?"

Will did not say anything in return. His tongue prodded again at the cut on his lower lip. He slowly lifted his glass and knocked back the rest of the liquor in his cup. The water and the trees moved in the wind and the sound filled their ears. Those low clouds were picked up by the gust and eventually revealed the moon.

That cool blue light spilled down and radiated off your bronze skin. It was like you glowed, drawing Will's unreadable gaze.

You were pushing your feet toward the ocean, just barely letting the water touch. Your fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle, not moving the container but, letting your nails pick at the ridges in the glass. Will stared at how your head tilted to the side, and your lashes closing, taking in the breeze blowing through you.

There he was dwelling, fingertips tapping on his knee and another bracing on his face, ruminating through those long corridors in his mind. As he watched you he couldn't help but think in the past, back when he first laid eyes on you and took in that fear entangled in your soul.

He thinks back to your inconceivable proposition, you were on your knees for him, begging for a chance to show him what you got. You were dead serious in the end and you slid to him that folded up paper with the keys to the universe.

He shook his head and scratched at his hair, Will's brain repeated those words that your father said to him. Through grit teeth, spitting, and bloodshot orbs, his voice echoed that foreboding line up to Will.

‘Listen, son, you fall asleep at night with the visions of the world twirling in your palms. You are hungry for it and you run rampant with the darkness that resides in every man. You don’t lock yourself back and you will stumble. The time will come where your dominion crumbles and knocks the crown off of your head. And when you wake, a phantom won’t take you, but you will be rasping for it when you watch everything you breathe for get torn to shreds.’

➽─────────────❥

Taglist: @feralrunaway @inlovewithhisblueeyes @emyearns @mansaaay @cavillryarchive @thetaoofzoe

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#henry cavill x reader #henry cavill imagine #henry cavill fanfic #Will Shaw #henry cavill x black!reader #black reader #woc reader #will shaw x reader #will shaw imagine #henry cavill x you #will shaw x you #henry cavill x black reader #the cold light of day

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sun-marie · 4 years

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So, a lot is happening right now in the DA fandom. I thought I might share my thoughts on it. I’m a little late since I was debating whether I should say anything at all, but I’ve been seeing a lot of worrying stuff on my dash. I hope I don’t seem like I’m butting in or talking over anybody, because that’s not my intention. But I feel I must say something, so I’m just gonna roll the dice and say my piece. Just know that I’m not the most eloquent person, so please bear that in mind.

This post came out recently, calling out many people in the fandom. If you read nothing else, read this, not my post. Racism cw and fetishization cw, fyi. A lot of my post is about that one, but it’s also more about the general problems regarding racism in our community. As a white person, I can only really talk about what I’ve seen from other white people. Other white people? We gotta do better than this.

It saddens me so much to read the post. This fandom needs to be a safe space for POC. We need to make it a safe space, especially us white people. Nobody should have to be afraid they will logon to find that they are bombarded with racist, triggering things. They deserve the right to just be able to feel comfortable and welcome and have a place to forget about how horrible the real world is. You know, how us white people get to do all the time?

But you didn’t need me to tell you that. POC have been saying it all along.

Many people who were called out in the post have made responses. One such response asked their followers to “please hold them accountable and let them know when they’ve done something wrong.” But that’s not really acceptable. Again, to echo POC, it is not their job to educate and hold you accountable. It is your responsibility to do your own research and hold yourself accountable. Research, by the way, is not badgering random POC online and demanding they educate you. You have to find those open and willing to teach you. @writingwithcolor is a great example of people who want to help you, who want to make you more aware. Or y’know...

Books.

Some of the people in this post have claimed that their art/writing is a way of coping with their own history of sexual assault. I can’t really speak on that, since I have never experienced that, but I will say this. If drawing/writing something offensive really helps you cope, I suppose that’s fine. But then, why would you post it? You know its harmful. People are now reaching out saying that it’s making them uncomfortable. If you really had to post it, you could at least tag it correctly. Tag it “racist”. Tag it “sexual assault”. Tag it “s*vage fetishization”.

Oh wait, you won’t. Because that’s too real for you.

It makes me so angry. We are literally pushing POC out of the fandom. And it makes me angry to see people be called out on their bs respond with either “you’re bullying me!!!” or “please reach me from the hours of 7-9 to discuss topics of a racial concern.” I don’t understand why so many people are having such a hard time saying “Yikes! I didn’t realize I was doing that. I’m so sorry. I’ll stop now.” and like. Actually stop.

It never feels good to be called out, especially for racism. I know. It hurts. But, when it happens, you gotta put on your grown-up pants and learn from it. Grow. Move past it and become a better person on the other side. Just don’t do it again. The wrong response is to get all defensive and deny that anything is actually wrong. That the people feeling uncomfortable are wrong.

Its so disappointing to see many people’s response to this post is that elfyness is just being a bully, that she’s trying to police everybody in the fandom. That’s just not the case. Bullies start in a position of power and they pick on the vulnerable. The people in this callout post are not vulnerable. Also, it is not bullying to criticize someone. Are we in the third grade? To say her post is bullying is called tone policing.

Anyway, I just needed to get that out. I want to speak out and defend people who didn’t do anything wrong, just voiced their grievances. We have to do better as a community.

#long post #dragon age #fandom bs #fandom racism

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fluffy-marshmallow-heart · 5 years

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20 Seconds of Courage -Part 20

The Elementalists au

Beckett x mc (Oriana)

Words: 3183

Warnings: Sensitive topics such as death, rape, drugs.

Series Master List

Complete Master List

There's probably just going to be one more chapter to this series.

As soon as Beckett got home and realized Oriana was nowhere to be found, he called the police. “What do you mean, there’s nothing you can do?” He demanded. “She’s missing!!”

“Sir, I understand your frustration, however, she’s not considered a missing person until there’s been no contact for 48 hours. Being gone for only a few hours means she could have turned off her phone and gone shopping.”

“No!” He shouted angrily. “She wouldn’t do that, you need to do something!!”

“You may come down to your local precinct and meet with a detective there, however, they will tell you the same thing. But at least you can start the process.” The police officer on the phone told him.

Beckett hung up, seeing red. He called the Detective he’d spoken to about Katrina while he was in the hospital with Oriana.

“You’ve reached the voicemail of Detective Blanc. Please leave a detailed message and I will call you as soon as I am able.”

“This is Beckett Harrington, we met the other day at the hospital. Oriana Miller is missing; call me back!”

He was furious and didn’t know where else to turn. No one had seen her since she left the office. It was like she vanished into thin air, and he had the worst feeling in the pit of his stomach. He knew that if he didn’t find her soon, she’d be gone forever, and he couldn’t accept that fate. He couldn’t let Jason win after all this time, let him take another person he loved away from him. He wouldn’t survive it. He wouldn’t even want to. It took him three years to finally open up to someone…and now his past was coming back to haunt him, as if it didn’t enough already. And this time, he didn’t have a clue where to start. He sank down on his couch and buried his face in his hands. It’s all his fault. If he’d never met her, she wouldn’t be in danger right now. If he’d never pursued her, she’d be living out her life in safety. He knows he needs to get up, needs to do something, anything…but he’s frozen in place, terror coursing through his veins. He was completely helpless for the first time in his life, and the more he thought about how he needed to find her, the more his body seemed to be shutting down. He was paralyzed in fear.

Oriana looked Michael square in the eye as he rose his gun back up and put his finger on the trigger.

“Goodbye Oriana.”

She squeezed her eyes shut and let out a scream as the gunshot rang out, the house falling still as a candle fell over and lit the curtains on fire. But she was still aware of everything. She wasn’t in pain. After a brief moment of silence, there were suddenly voices sounding from everywhere all at once. She peeked out of one eye before the other flew open and she gasped as she took in the sight before her. There were at least a dozen armed police bursting into the room. One was putting out the fire, three were tending to Michael, who lay motionless on the floor, and now several more were heading towards her.

“Ma’am? Ma’am, are you alright? Can you tell me your name?” One of them was speaking to her as another took Jason’s pulse, shaking his head to yet another man when he found none. Together, they rolled Jason off of her. She felt like she couldn’t talk. Where did all these people come from? Where was Beckett? Surely he’s the one that managed to find her…he always finds her.

“Wh-where’s Beckett? Is he okay?”

“Sorry, Ma’am, I don’t know who that is. I’m Officer McMillan. Can you tell me your name? Do you know how you got here?”

He began untying her carefully, starting with her hands, and then she untied one leg as he did the other. She kept looking around the room, and the office spoke into his radio. “How many ambulances are on their way?”

His radio beeped and a voice crackled through. “One is pulling up on scene, two more are en-route, eta ten minutes.

“Thanks.” He turned back to her, helping to her feet. “Come with me. There’s an ambulance downstairs.”

As they moved across the room, Oriana’s eyes landed on Michael again. His skin was ashen, and his chest had a bullet wound. His gun had already been picked up and placed in an evidence bag. The officer kept trying to get her to speak, but she couldn’t help but continue to look at everything around her. She was in an old decrepit house, where the wallpaper was peeling, and floorboards creaking. It was cold and drafty, and the stairs were missing half of the railing. Once downstairs she could tell that at some point this must have been a grand house. The ceilings were high, the floors, although stained, were hardwood, the trimming looked to be mahogany. But at some point, someone had stopped caring for it, and if fell into dilapidation. Finally being ushered out the front door, Oriana gaped at the dozens of cars pulled into a long driveway and all over the grass, with more coming.

A moment later, two paramedics rushed to her side with a stretcher, one of them wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. “Name?”

“She hasn’t given one yet.”

“O…Oriana Miller. My name is Oriana Miller.” She told them quietly. “Where’s Beckett?”

“She keeps asking for someone named Beckett. We’re not sure who he is or his relation to the crime yet.”

“What? He has nothing to do with this!” Oriana shrieked. “Didn’t he send you??”

“Ms. Miller, we’re going to put you on this stretcher and take you to the hospital. There’s a lot of blood, where were you hurt?”

“I…I wasn’t…um…a couple scratches…”

“The majority is not her blood.” Officer McMillan explained.

As she laid onto the stretcher, she looked back at the cop. “How did you find me? How did you get here?”

“An officer is going to meet you at the hospital to take your statement and answer any questions you have.”

“But…”

Officer McMillan was already striding away, and Oriana cursed under her breath as the stretcher was loaded into the ambulance. The EMTs were nice enough, taking all her vitals and bandaging up the cuts Jason had made with his knife. But she refused to answer any questions without getting some answers herself. After what seemed like an eternity, they finally pulled into a hospital and she was steered into the Emergency Department. As Oriana was moved from the gurney onto a bed, she recognized the policewoman walking towards her as one of the ones that she met with the last time she was in the hospital.

Detective Blanc smiled sadly at her. “Oriana, I’m so sorry to meet again under these circumstances.”

“Please. Tell me what is going on.” Oriana begged.

The woman pulled up a chair next to her bed. “I was told to come here and take someone’s statement, I just found out it was you. Before we get started…I have several voicemails from Mr. Harrington. Is it okay with you if I tell him where you are right now?”

“Yes! Please!” She cried.

The officer nodded and pulled her phone out, dialing Beckett’s number. “Mr. Harrington, this is Detective Blanc. We’ve located Ms. Miller.”

Oriana made a grab for her phone. “Beck?? I’m okay. I’m at the hospital, please hurry!” She breathed a sigh of relief when Beckett’s voice sounded through the other end of the receiver.

“Thank God. I’m on my way.”

She handed the phone back to the Detective. “I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have done that.”

The woman smiled. “Under the circumstances I’ll allow it. Try it again, however, you’ll be in trouble.”

“Worth it.” Oriana grinned. “Please, tell me what happened. I mean…I know what happened…but how did the police know to go there?”

“Jason Mulvaney has been under investigation for several months. A few days ago, after Mr. Harrington told us about his sister’s death, he provided us with the bracelet, along with other materials he had gathered over the years. Bank statements, text messages, phone recordings, maps. The amount of research he put in is really quite impressive. You’re aware Jason was recently engaged and fathering a child with a woman named Lisa?”

Oriana nodded.

“Lisa’s family is extremely well off. In fact, there’s a lot of similarities between them and the Harrington’s. Her father thought Mr. Mulvaney was after Lisa’s money, and he hired a private investigator, without telling anyone. The investigator unearthed a large number of suspicious activity, and when cross-referenced with disappearances and deaths in the locations he’s be in…a pattern developed. It was well-hidden, he did a good job covering his tracks. The investigator was tailing him today. He saw Jason arrive at the old mansion on Dewey, unload what looked to be bedding, and go inside. A couple hours later, Michael arrived and also went inside. About an hour after that, Michael went back out and removed a body from the trunk of his car. That body turned out to be you, unconscious. The private investigator was using high-tech equipment and recorded every word that was said inside that house. He immediately phoned the police.”

“But I…I thought I was there a long time.” Oriana puzzled.

“Right now the thought is, Jason set up his idea of a beautiful murder scene while Michael grabbed you off the street. Exactly how we’re not sure yet’ we’re hoping the doctors can determine if you were given anything. Do you remember anything about how you got there?”

Oriana shook her head. “I don’t. I remember leaving my office after quitting my job, I went outside…I think maybe I flagged a car? I…I’m not sure.”

“That’s okay. At least you didn’t lose your memory of the entire day.”

“Or more.” Oriana muttered.

“Ori!”

Her snapped over to see Beckett running full speed towards her, dodging anyone that came in his path. “Ori thank god!!!”

Her eyes welled up with tears that spilled over, yet she couldn’t stop grinning at seeing him. He dashed to her side, climbed next to her in the bed and wrapped her in his arms tightly.

“I was so worried.” He cried. “I knew it, I knew he had you.” He took in her blood-stained slip, his face turning pale. “Are you hurt? I’ll kill him! Why isn’t anyone tending to your wounds yet?” He looked at the Detective. “What happened? Where is he?”

The woman rose her eyebrows. “First, the blood on Ms. Miller’s clothing is not hers. Second, Mr. Harrington, threatening someone’s life is a serious offense. I could take you into custody right now, except…”

“Except he’s already dead.” Oriana finished. “Michael shot him.”

Beckett gasped. “Mi-Michael? From Adams?”

At that moment a doctor arrived, greeting the three of them warmly. “I need to take Ms. Miller to get some tests done, but I promise she’ll be back in no time.”

“Can he come with me?” Oriana asked in a small voice.

The doctor nodded. “He can, yes, but he’ll need to wait outside the couple of rooms you’ll be going in, for security, safety, and sanitation purposes.”

“Anything. As long as she’s not alone.” Beckett said quickly. “I’ll go wherever you tell me.”

“I’m so sorry to interrupt, but I’m afraid I need to bag her clothes as evidence. And I need to be present to record any hidden wounds and treatment.” Detective Blanc told the doctor. “May she be given a gown to change into?”

“Of course, just one moment.”

The doctor left, returning just a minute later with a gown. “If you both want to accompany me, she can change when she reaches the lab.”

“Perfect.” The detective told him.

“Very well. Let’s go.”

Beckett stood up from the bed as rails were put up so it could be rolled away. He couldn’t believe the amount of blood she was covered in. What happened? What has she been through? Even if she’s physically fine…mentally she may not be.

Arriving at their first stop, he waited outside the door while Oriana and the policewoman went inside with the doctor. An hour later they came back out, the stained slip in a bag held by the detective, and Oriana now in a clean hospital gown. “What did you test for?” He demanded. “What kind of bloodwork takes an hour?”

“Ms. Miller can tell you later if she prefers. Legally, I cannot.” The doctor informed. “We’re going to take her for an MRI in case there’s any head trauma., and then we’ll move her back into her room as we wait for the results. Depending on what those results are, she’ll be released or admitted.”

The air whooshed out of his lungs and he felt faint. The police officer caught his arm. “This is going to take awhile. Are you sure you want to come? You might be more comfortable somewhere else?”

“No.” He said flatly.

“I don’t want him to leave.” Oriana agreed; Beckett shooting her a grateful look.

As Oriana was wheeled away again, this time to a cold room with a large machine inside, Beckett followed behind while talking to Detective Blanc, who informed him of the events of the night.

“I don’t know the complete details, but she’s been through quite an ordeal. But, thanks to your previous research, as well as the research the private investigator did, as well as the recordings he took…Mr. Mulvaney confessed to your sister’s death before he met his demise. I keep getting more snippets of information throughout my time here tonight, but for a full account…I still need to take Oriana’s statement. We’ll be going to a private room after her MRI, where can take down the events of tonight while we wait for her test results. You are more than welcome to sit in, however, she will need to grant that permission.”

“Whatever she wants.” Beckett whispered.

The detective looked at him sympathetically. “Beckett…whatever happened tonight…there are unsolved cases going back years that may be related to the men who took Oriana today. It’s going to take time to sort through, but we’ll get there.”

Beckett sank down onto a chair. “I can’t believe this. This only happened to her because she’s involved with me.”

“No, that’s where you’re wrong. It’s been recorded multiple times that she was used as a decoy. Which means she was targeted long before you came to town. For what it’s worth…you being involved with her probably saved her life on more than one occasion. Also, she’s only been asking for you.”

Beckett stared at the woman in shock as she joined Oriana inside the room. He ran his fingers through his hair, taking deep breaths, trying to calm himself down. After what seemed like an eternity, everyone came back out. Oriana grinned seeing him again, reaching for his hand. He took it immediately, walking alongside her bed as it was wheeled to another part of the hospital and into a private room. As Detective Blanc took her statement, Beckett listened in horror at everything that had transpired while he couldn’t find her. She broke down several times, wracked with sobs, and his heart broke for her. When she finally finished, she signed the affidavit.

“I’ll give you a few minutes.” The detective told them, exiting the room.

“Oriana…” Beckett breathed. “What you’ve been through during these past few months…I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Her eyes still glistening, she pulled him into the bed with her, burying herself into him. “I’m okay.”

“You don’t have to lie to me.” He murmured. “Being drugged was trauma enough…Ori…someone was murdered right in front of you. On top of you. That’s not simply okay.”

She let out a watery chuckle. “Physically I’m okay. Mentally…I’m going to need help. And patience while I get it. You’re right…in that sense…I’m not okay. And I don’t know when I will be.”

“What can I do?”

She looked up into his eyes. “I want to leave.”

His face fell. “I know, sweetheart. And as soon as the doctor comes back…”

“No, you misunderstand. I want to leave. I don’t want to live here anymore. I want to move far away from here, where no one knows me.”

Beckett felt shattered. “I…I can arrange for your transportation and get you set up wherever you want.”

She furrowed her eyebrows. “Aren’t you going to come?”

“You…you still want to be with me? After all of this? Ori…”

“I love you, Beckett. Please don’t leave me.”

He gave her an incredulous look. “Ori, I am yours for as long as you want me. I’ll do anything, give you anything…we can move to an entirely different continent if you want to.”

He kissed her gently, savoring every second of it, until a knock came at the door, and the doctor came back in.

“Ms. Miller, I have your test results. I have already been over them with the police.” He looked pointedly at Beckett.

“Please just tell me. I’ll sign a form if you need me to so you can say it in front of him.”

Beckett gave her a squeeze.

“Very well. You were given chloroform, that’s how they were able to subdue you, and why you had a splitting headache when you woke. There are no other drugs in your system. The initial results of the rape kit are negative, and the MRI showed no signs of head trauma. We’re going to be releasing you, as long as you’re okay with that.”

Beckett stiffened at the word ‘rape’, while Oriana nodded to bring the release forms. The doctor left again, closing the door behind him.

“Ori, you didn’t mention that you were…”

“I wasn’t raped. I…I almost was. Twice.” She whispered. “But, since I was unconscious as well, I guess it’s standard protocol to run a rape kit. Because it…it could have happened when…” She broke off, tears filling up her eyes again. “Can we just go home, please? I want to go home.”

“Home it is. When everything is over, Ori, just pick a place anywhere in the world, and we’ll go. I swear it.”

“I’m so sorry about your sister. You were right the whole time.” She sobbed.

“Hey, Ori, look at me.” He placed a finger under her chin and lifted her head to meet her gaze. “I will always miss my sister. But I don’t have to miss you. And I am so incredibly grateful for that. I love you more than I can ever tell you. When Katrina died…I died right along with her. You brought me back to life, Oriana. And I can’t thank you enough. And if she were here…she would be absolutely crazy about you, just like I am. I told you I saw the world when I looked at you. I just didn’t realize at the time…that you are my world.”

@annekebbphotography @gardeningourmet @eileendannie @alesana45 @drakewalkerfantasy @friedherringclodthing @mfackenthal @coffeebeandragon @jlpplays1 @desiree-0816 @lapisreviewsstuff @cora-nova @thequeenofcronuts @drakewalker04

@walkerismychoice @confessionsofabrokegirl @lilyofchoices @darley1101 @perriewinklenerdie @justendlesssummerfeels

@feartheendlesssummer @elainew13 @the-soot-sprite @paisleylovergirl @dottie-minerva-mikas @emichelle @kendrasgue @pbmychoices @divergentofhogwarts @sonsie0613 @cordoniasmost @raffsbaby @brightpinkpeppercorn @symonde @emceesynonymroll

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the-transfox · 4 years

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A “Quick” History

I’m gonna put a “keep reading” thing so I don’t clog anyone’s dash or anything, depending on how long this gets. This is basically just a quick background info on my history regarding my gender and related topics.

I’ve never really liked being feminine. Hated dresses, hated makeup, hated showing any amount of my skin, overall just... the entire idea was not my thing. The most feminine thing about me for a long time was my long hair - before I cut it, it had grown down to being an inch or two past my hips. I felt kind of... pressured, to be more feminine at times. I can only recall 2 times I wore a dress - and both times were for other people, and not me, and both times I was intensely uncomfortable and wanted to get out of it immediately. Not that everything about me is intensely anti-feminine - more recently, sometime during the time I was genderfluid (I’ll get to that in a bit), I got black lipstick. I wanted it for the aesthetic - and I only wore it once, and, again, for another person. It’s just sitting around my desk area now, waiting to be used, but never will again as far as I’m concerned. I’ve always been more of a tomboy.

When I was younger, I used to do these kind of IRL roleplay things with one of my best friends at the time. It was edgy shit, where we’d both pretend to be creepy pasta characters and the like and had this whole storyline going on and all sorts of made up drama with the characters. An... overwhelming majority of the characters I chose to act out and represent at the time were all males. I’ve always loved writing males and acting like a male - females were just... hard, for some reason. Always have been, really, even though I am biologically female. One of my favorites to do was the Jeff the Killer, obviously. He was my default, and it just felt natural, almost. It was more fun to do male characters. Hell, my first OC I ever made was a male. It makes a lot more sense now to me, looking back on it. In some cases, in more recent years, I’ve felt like I needed to go with making the character female. And I do have a lot of female OCs, don’t get me wrong. Anyway, with characters such as Coral (one of my sonas; used her often in an IRL roleplay after the former friend moved away and I moved on with another best friend) I felt like I needed to make her female, to... match my friend’s sona, Frost. I wish I hadn’t, now, but whatever. The past is in the past.

Speaking of the past, I’m a believer of past lives. And 99.9% of them are all male. Out of all of my past lives, I can only recall 2 humanoid (saying this because one was an anthro rat) lives that had female genders, and one more that was female though I don’t count because it was the life of a bengal tiger and bengal tigers don’t exactly go by pronouns so there wasn’t a whole lot of gender identity going on there in the first place. It feels natural to have male past lives, and a little... off, to have female ones. Every time I trigger a memory of a male past life, think about it, or talk about it, I used to only subconsciously refer to myself as male - though it felt great. It felt normal. My dumb fucking ass didn’t get a clue that this meant anything about my current gender identity until recently.

Sometime during my phase where I played Transformice more often, I made a separate account where I listed my gender as “male”, as an... experiment, of sorts. Wanted to see what it was like when other people thought I was a guy. I only really used the account for a single day, the day I made it, though that was enough time for me to meet people and interact. I absolutely loved it, though it didn’t occur to me afterwards for a long, long time to even think about what that meant. An embarrassing amount of time, honestly. I found my gender identity and it smacked me in the face and my response had been just “Cool, I’mma go back to being called she/her now”. Big dumbass energy, right here

Sometime in the summer/no later than early autumn of 2019 (my sense of time is... not the best, honestly) I considered becoming genderfluid. After all, I’d started to realize maybe it wasn’t so bad to go by male pronouns. Considered it a test run, of sorts. It was still primarily she/her, but online I gave people the option to call me he/him. Not many people did, but I liked the idea. It made the whole ‘internal male pronouns and identity during past lives shit’ make more sense to me at the time. In early December of 2019, I had the realization. The realization that I actually preferred male pronouns, and the idea of being male was... a lot better, than being female, or even a mix of both. It felt like me. Like it fit. My dumb ass finally figured it out, and luckily the genderfluid thing didn’t drag on for years. Since the switch to male pronouns its still a rare occurrence anybody’s actually used my new pronouns and I’ve heard it (I’ve come out to everyone I know online, though only friends in real life), though one time I was called ‘he’ irl in front of me and it made me feel great. Like a small “yeah... yeah, that’s me.” Not everyone has been completely accepting (like the person I consider my best friend - she’d responded kind of... oddly, when I came out, and said she’d been confused, and openly said that biological sex and gender are the same thing today) but I don’t really care all that much. They’ll learn to accept it if they want to keep me as a friend - or at least tolerate it. If they can’t, then I can’t go through the trouble of keeping them as a friend. One of my friends has been so supportive and it’s been delightful.

Backtracking a little, I realize I forgot to mention the fact that I hate my body. It’s not mine - or at least, it’s not one I want. Every time I think about my past lives I want to go back and have that body again. I want to be a skeleton monster again. I want to be a dragon again. I don’t want to be a weak, pathetic, human female who’s body won’t even gain weight no matter how much I eat or try, and whose throat is actively trying to tear holes in itself. And I’ve never been satisfied with the fact that its female. On a related note, I have the fear of penetration - it’s just... wrong, for anything to go inside of me down there. It should be the opposite. I miss having a cock - I wouldn’t have to worry about this anymore. Wouldn’t have to worry about something going inside of me, or having to be expected to push a fucking disgusting baby out of me. It’s frustrating.

I also feel like I realized I was transgender too late to be valid. I’ve seen so many stories (like Sam Collins) where they realized when they were tiny kids, and... what if that’s what it should be like? What if I’m wrong? What if you’re supposed to know before you’re even a teenager? So many people have realized before then, though some have realized later, and some say you can realize at any age. I just... don’t know. Anyway, that’s about it, I think - if I forgot anything, I’ll make another thing to tack onto this. Feel free to ask me questions.

#transgender #trans #transman #trans man #ftm

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jadelyn · 7 years

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No one is entitled to anyone else's success story

A lot of the "tumblr is anti-recovery" panic and moralizing is based around the idea that it's "dangerous" to younger people with MIs/chronic illness to see all us Bitter Old Crazies making jokes about NT Advice(tm) and acting like we're never gonna get better. And tbh it strikes me as similar to the recent moral panic about adult or triggering content in fandom spaces. Think of The Children! they cry. You're Being a Bad Influence!

But here's the thing. Nobody is entitled to someone else's success story. Kids with MIs do not have some kind of right to see adults with MIs successfully coping, and in the inverse, it's not our responsibility to hide our unsuccessful coping away from where impressionable kiddos might see it and be discouraged by it.

First of all, not everyone has a success story. Not everyone gets better. People might be able to improve, or they might not. And by classifying people who acknowledge their circumstances as being the best they're likely to get as "anti-recovery", you're literally trying to silence mentally ill people from talking about their own lives and experiences, just because you don't like to hear about it.

But even for those of us who do have success stories - like, I'm one of those. I dropped out of college and spent the first 10 years of my adult life living with partners and family, relying on others, driving a 20-year-old clunker of a car which I literally had to duct-tape pieces back onto sometimes, trying to work retail and temp jobs to get by when I could, but I never could hold anything down very long. About 5 years ago, I finally got treatment - meds, specifically, bc I'd had on and off therapy that only helped a little bit - for my depression. As of this year, I have graduated college with a 4-year degree, bought a newish car (10 yrs old sports car in good condition), held down a single job in my desired career field for almost 4 years, and I bought a house with my partner earlier this year. You couldn't ask for a more solid recovery story than that.

But, and this is key: I don't owe anyone the inspiration of my story. Existing in public as an adult who's turned my life around despite severe chronic mental illness doesn't obligate me to serve as a good example or role model to others with MIs. I often choose to take on that role, but it's a choice, and if I chose instead to keep it to myself, or to publicly vent my bitterness over the decade of life I've lost because of my illness, or vent my frustration with the useless NT advice I tried to follow and use to "fix" myself (to no avail) before finally getting proper treatment, then that's my right. This is my blog, my space, I'll tag things appropriately but I refuse to censor myself from talking about the reality of my mental illness, and if you don't wanna hear my negativity you know where to find the unfollow button.

And in fact, the responsibility in this situation lies not with the people talking, but with the people listening.

When I was in college and for a bit thereafter, I was part of a depression and mental illness forum. I don't remember the name of it anymore, but I spent time on it then like I spend time on Tumblr now. Talking with people, posting and replying. And a lot of it, as one might expect for a gathering of people with depression of varying degrees of severity and treatment resistance, was really negative.

And that was a space that helped and supported me for a good number of years. I could open up about my suicidal thoughts and urges to self-harm. I could receive caring and understanding from people who were like me, who never made me roll my eyes with Pollyanna-ish platitudes or offered empty sentiment to inspire "hope". If I felt hopeless, I could just fucking say that, could act like it. I didn't have to perform positivity for anyone or hide my struggles.

But there came a time, eventually, when I began to find the level of negativity to be harmful for me rather than helpful. I had changed, and I needed something different.

So you know what I did?

I didn't go around the forum and start telling people they were being too negative.

I didn't try to force people to perform hopefulness and positivity because it would be more beneficial for me personally.

I didn't scold people or accuse them of hindering my recovery.

Fucking

Left.

I left that forum. I said goodbye to my friends, gave people my offsite contact information, and I stopped visiting that forum altogether. Because I had reached a point in my recovery where that environment had gone from helpful to harmful, for me personally. So I took responsibility for my own recovery and my own progress, and I made the decision to move on and find the kind of environment that would be good for me at that point.

It's not quite so neat and discrete here on Tumblr, since so many people have personal blogs and reblog a variety of types of content, sometimes adding their contribution, sometimes not. Unless you strictly and only follow topic-specific blogs, you'll be exposed sometimes to things you didn't quite sign up for.

But even here, you're still responsible for you user experience. You have tools you can use. Blacklist certain tags or phrases or topics. Unfollow or block specific individuals. Do what you need to do, in order to create an environment on your dash that is healthy for you and meets your needs.

And that is YOUR RESPONSIBILITY. Yours. Not mine, not anyone else's. We are not responsible for creating an environment that meets your mental health needs. We are individuals who are allowed to talk shit and piss and moan about our lives on our own goddamn blogs if we want to. Which includes making morbid jokes, mocking shitty advice that we've received from NT people that was anywhere from useless to actively harmful, talking openly about our limitations, being honest about our hopes for recovery or lack thereof, and complaining about the relentless positivity that demands we continue to aspire to a NT model of Recovery(tm) even when we know damn well that's not a possibility for us.

You're not entitled to anyone else's success story for inspiration. If you want to hear success stories and positivity, find people who post that stuff and leave us Bitter Old Crazies the fuck alone.

#Depression #mental illness #recovery #Anti-recovery discourse

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annieandjakemovies · 4 years

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Gangster Squad

Great production design, props, and locations can only get you so far in a period piece, and even with a stellar group of talent in front of the camera, Ruben Fleischer's Gangster Squad is a empty and tonally inconsistent film that may be the most dumbed-down gangster movie ever made. The film loves its R-rating, showcasing ridiculous violence every chance it gets, but it's a shame that the only audience that would likely fall for the movie's gags - 15-year-old boys - are too young to legally see this in theaters.

Gangster Squad Director: Ruben Fleischer Starring: Josh Brolin, Ryan Gosling, Sean Penn, Emma Stone, Anthony Mackie

It's the late 1940s, and transplanted gangster Mickey Cohen (Sean Penn) is slowly taking over Los Angeles. World War II may be over, but the war against organized crime in L.A. is just getting started, and the city's crusty police chief (Nick Nolte) essentially gives bruiser cop John O'Mara (Josh Brolin) carte blanche to get Cohen and his drug-running thugs out of town. Despite initial protestations from his wife, O'Mara rounds up a motley crew of cops who speak his language, including the slick-talking charmer Wooters (Ryan Gosling), technical guru Keeler (Giovanni Ribisi), gruff sharpshooter Kennard (Robert Patrick) and his sidekick Ramirez (Michael Pena), and the rough and tumble Washington (Anthony Mackie), to bring Cohen to justice using their very particular set of skills. It's a solid premise, and one that's been mined in dozens of gangster movies before this one. (Most recently, though, this territory has been covered in the video game L.A. Noire, which hits on all the story beats that appear in this film in a much more satisfying way. Since directly comparing a video game to a film isn't quite fair, I'll leave it at that.) Just because the topic has been covered before doesn't automatically mean this film couldn't stand among the classics in the genre, but from the opening moments, it became clear that Will Beall's infantile screenplay wasn't going to allow that to happen. This is Beall's first produced feature screenplay, and as a former LAPD cop, you'd think there would be a hint of intelligence under the surface of his swagger-filled, guns-blazing detective story. Sadly, that's not the case. The dialogue tries so hard to be smooth and cool, especially from Gosling's womanizer character ("Who's the tomato?" he asks in regard to his redheaded co-star Emma Stone), but even though the leads look dashing in their tailored suits and fedoras, they can't make this nonsense sound good. There is no subtlety here. Penn's evil gangster delivers insanely cheesy one-liners with all the personality of a brick wall, and savage violence flies in and out of the movie like a haphazard tornado lost in the multiplex, occasionally wandering into your theater every few minutes before abruptly leaving. (Don't you hate those?) "You know the drill," Penn says to his henchman, immediately before said henchman drills a man to death. It's that kind of surface level stuff that I would have absolutely loved when I was 15, and if I hadn't seen The Untouchables, L.A. Confidential, or any other respectable gangster noir film, my fifteen-year-old self might have proclaimed it one of my favorites of the year. (Although to be fair I must give props to the best line of the movie: "The whole town's underwater, and you're grabbing a bucket instead of a bathing suit.")

As with many stories set in this time period, the shadow of the war looms large over the male psyches here. But though the end of the war is directly addressed multiple times - the chief asks O'Mara to fight in "occupied territory" yet again, O'Mara's wife continually has to remind him that the war is over, and O'Mara even uses it as an inspirational point in a speech to his men - the movie never actually takes the time to dig in and explore what that means in the context of these different characters. All of them essentially act the same, busting into every situation ill-prepared and with guns at the ready, but when Gosling asks Brolin if he "wants to win or die trying," it isn't a meaningful character moment. It's just another thing that sort of sounds cool. There's no emotion behind the delivery or the response; despite the surface differences between characters (the smart guy, the sharpshooter, etc.), these men are all soldiers that are constantly pulling triggers even when they don't have guns in their hands.

Along with a lack of satisfying character development, grown men often behave like children here, refusing to learn from their mistakes even after they admit to making them. The gangster squad bursts into place after place, roughing up Cohen's thugs and getting into close calls without ever having a solid plan, and at one point I started hoping that one of them would die quickly just so it would give the rest of them their cliched newfound resolve to finish the case and avenge their fallen brother. There's a simplified wire tapping story shoehorned in, but after watching HBO's "The Wire," it makes these supposedly professional characters look like total morons. At times the movie is a live action cartoon (complete with a comical jailbreak straight out of a Looney Tunes episode), but then it becomes gravely serious, and then switches again to a sort of pop-infused fun, soaking up the glitz and glamour of the era. It never finds its footing, and as a result the whole film feels like it's treading water for the whole of its runtime.

Ruben Fleischer, who earned some geek cred with his work on Zombieland, makes some pretty baffling choices when it comes to the action sequences. A night car chase midway through the film was especially disappointing, with poorly established spacial relationships rendering it almost completely unintelligible. Speed ramping (ala Zack Snyder) is employed often, and whether it's Mickey Cohen's bulging vein swinging at a punching bag or a series of Christmas decorations systematically destroyed in a hotel shootout, there is nothing interesting about the effect on display here. Whatever novelty it once had has long worn off, and it's going to take some sort of monumental shift in usage to convince me that it should ever be used again by anyone.

As for the cast, Brolin is stoic and hard-jawed enough to pull off the one-dimensional lead character. Gosling is good (even with a strange affectation), but his schtick gets old by the halfway point. Emma Stone is fine as a piece of eye candy, but third act attempts to turn her into something more than that are laughable. Ribisi is the movie's moral center, a nice change of pace from weasels and weirdos he's been portraying over the past few years, and Mackie's talents are totally wasted here. (He randomly throws knives at people. That's about it.) Penn clearly put some effort into his portrayal of Cohen (complete with what appeared to be flesh-colored Play-Doh attached to his face, his visage channeling the villains of Warren Beatty's Dick Tracy), but again, he can only do so much with comically bad dialogue.

So I'll leave you with this awesome joke I just came up with: Gangster Squad? More like Gangster Squandering A Great Premise, am I right? But seriously folks...for a film with so much talent on the screen, it's a shame that this script was so abysmal. And with writer Will Beall having already taken a crack at the screenplay for Warner Bros. upcoming superhero teamup Justice League, something tells me that Marvel is going to continue its cinematic dominance for years to come. Until next time...

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