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twistedapple · 3 years

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Neve Bosconero - Snow White didn’t leave her home (part I)

Aaand here it is! The backstory I’ve been teasing for some months while secretly struggling to find the most suitable tone for it! I recommend you to check Neve’s playlist for the full reading experience - especially if you enjoy listening to background music while reading (check the #neve bosconero tag, I haven’t added to the masterlist yet but it’s been published two days ago so it should be easy to find)! This backstory is rather long so I divided it in two parts, this is the first one, the second one will be released at a later date (I’ll be taking a small break to reply to asks and handle my To Do list). And of course, feedback is more than welcome! This isn’t just a hobby, it’s actual training for me and readers’ opinions are needed to improve and experiment (especially since English isn’t my native language)! So feel free to comment either by reply or reblog so I can see what’s up and even chat up a bit (I also react to tags)!

Because of the heavy topics mentioned in it, I also recommend you to be careful while reading it.

Without further ado...

Neve was preparing the yarns of colourful wool she had carefully picked for her new haute-lisse project. The model had been placed behind the loom, and the shuttle was ready to be used.

She had a little story to tell.

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The story had two versions, yet both had the same beginning. A long time ago, back when the Valley of Thorns had yet to become, the border between men and fairies wasn’t as clearly defined as it was now. This lack of clarity caused the existence of a liminal space in which both men and fairies could interact, where magic itself seemed to gather and take curious shapes. The very first of those shapes was a set of twin apple trees, silver and gold, growing intertwined and bearing fruits said to have powerful magical properties. These trees were the central piece of a larger grove hidden in a large clearing hidden deep in the forest and overlooking an even deeper valley atop a tall cliff. They quickly fell under the protection of a group of fairies that could bind themselves to various trees. The second shape came from two drops, one for each of the twin trees, falling on old bones resting at their feet. As it came to life, it chose to take the form of an antlered, amber-eyed fairy with foliate hair, and started living among the trees and the shadows of the deep, dark woods.

Keeper of the forest, he would don crowns of oak and holly according to seasons and wear a mantle of greens that’d hide him from prying eyes. On the last day of the year, humans would pour a glass of milk to honour him who was known as the Green Man, for he had blessed the land and taught them how to grow and tend to plants from mere seeds. An agreement had been passed between him and the humans as well: the dark forest was his domain, and they weren’t allowed in without his consent. However, a human life is but a fleeting moment to a creature such as the Green Man, whose own life had been meant to be much longer. Thus, as time passed, the agreement became a story, then a legend before fading from memory – for a time. One unfortunate day, humans breeched the then forgotten agreement and started roaming the forest, appreciating the quality of its wood and the amount of land they could use to expand their fields. This angered the Green Man, it angered him so much he cursed the humans and their lands. For wanting to uncover the secrets of the dark woods, he sent shadows to stalk and route them out, for wanting to expand their fields, The Green Man ruined their crops, again and again, until there was no food left for the cattle, and then for the humans themselves - until they begged for forgiveness. They obtained it and order was restored – however the Green Man made sure that the agreement wouldn’t be forgotten this time...

At least, that is what humans tell. From the point of view of a fairy, about half of the story remains forgotten, and it all starts with the guardian of the orchard. See, the twin apple trees and their surroundings were tended by a fairy with ink black hair covered in apple blossoms. That fairy had taken the heart of the Green Man, and under the stars and the silver-gold light of the twin apple trees they had pledged their life to each other. By the time the agreement between Men and the Green Man fell into oblivion, humans had learnt how to wield magic themselves, and they started coveting the forest and its treasures again, though they were regularly pushed back by the Green Man’s beastly shadows, haunters of the woods that would assist him in its defence.

However, one fateful day a human child lost his way in the woods and happened to be found by the Green Man and the fairies. Tired and confused as he was, it was agreed to allow him entry so he could rest a bit, before being guided back out of the forest. The kind-hearted fairies took the little boy to the grove, where he discovered all the magical plants, chief among them the twin trees of gold and silver. Once the child felt better, the Green Man had him swear he would keep the existence of the precious grove secret before guiding him back to human lands. When the child came back, it was said that what felt like two days by the fairies seemed like two months for humans. His reappearance was deemed a miracle, and if he seemed to do his best to keep the secret, as promised to the Green Man, it still ended up being uncovered. The secret orchard had been found, and with it the especially precious apples from the twin apple trees. Confrontations between the fairy and groups of humans became more and more frequent, to the point even her found herself at a loss. The violation of the old agreement wasn’t the only thing that outraged the Green Man that fateful day when he cursed humans. Similarly, the newfound humility demonstrated by the humans wasn’t the only thing that had put an end to the curse. While commonly forgotten, the intercession of dragon fairies, fierce but wise, had contributed to the end of the deadly feud and a return of the balance between the worlds of Men and Fairies. This point in particular was the reason why, when the Draconia household started ruling what became known as the Valley of Thorns, a family of woodland fairies with a foliate face representing the Green Man as coat-of-arms was prompt to bend the knee and serve both as vassals and old friends.

That was the weight behind the name Bosconero.

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The shuttle was going through the threads at a quick pace, colour after colour, as Neve started humming in rhythm with her hands.

This story was only the beginning.

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Over centuries, the Bosconero Estate had grown. Born as an ancient place of worship, it became a place of habitation as well for the noble House, all nestled that it was between dense dark woods and steep cliffs. As time passed, walls were built – first to add further protection to the clearing, then for actual buildings. Lobed arches decorated with ceramics and delicately twisted columns, aging walls covered in ferns, ivy, jasmine and wisteria, an ornate wishing well in the middle of a cloister-like space, an open crypt and a large belvedere dominating the valley – and then there were the gardens and the greenhouse. A wonder in themselves, they held all sorts of plants, both native and exotic, both magical and purely decorative, a complete botanical garden organised like an ornamental garden, with plays on twists and turns, lights and shadows, organic from the plants and mineral from the various statues scattered everywhere. And in the middle of it all stood its crown jewel, the precious orchard with, at its centre, the twin apple trees of gold and silver, a nearby healing pool reflecting their light as if it was challenging the often gloomy skies of the entire Valley.

Neve knew all of its nooks and crannies, ornate tile floors, arched painted ceilings without a single sharp angle, white walls decorated with plants, tapestries and paintings... The main corridor was remarkable for its numerous family portraits, and Neve had taken the habit of observing each of them every time she passed through the corridor. The family had a peculiar tradition of accepting people in, rather than marrying outside, and of having an inclination towards a matrilineal order. Ink black hair would produce ink black hair, no matter the appearance of the one who gained the name Bosconero. Cat-like eyes would mostly be moss green and liquid blue as well. Mostly. This was when a break could be seen, with the occasional golden amber erratically cutting through time, a constant reminder of the founder of the family. It made itself known with her generation as well – the recent family portrait in the entrance showing a tall, masculine figure with rich auburn hair and bright blue eyes, a smaller feminine one with black hair and forest eyes, and then two even smaller figures that could have been a mirror of each other had it not been for these golden amber eyes. For the Old Blood running stronger in one of them.

A thought would often occur to her, the idea that maybe these ghosts from the past would leave their portraits at night to haunt the estate. It wouldn’t have surprised her, considering she never failed to feel their eyes burning her back when she walked down the corridor.

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In the Valley, spinning the wool was an affair for women, no matter their station. It was even how Crimilde had wished for a child and ended up with twins – a rare event among fairies, which lived longer than men and didn’t need to worry as much about the number of children they would and could have.

Neve kept passing the shuttle through the threads, with a skill honed through habit, and still humming.

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The Bosconero family valued its traditions, most of them either remnants of ancient rituals, or rites still alive. With all the customary events that would dot the life of a fairy to the rhythm of the seasons, they added up to scream what made the family what it was. The very first ritual had been made under the light of the ever glowing twin apple trees, a custom to bind the newborns to their respective tree. In a bowl filled with water from the pond at the feet of the trees, always glowing with their reflection, engraved twigs and thorns of various trees and shrubs were mixed, secret words were spoken, and the newborn would have one of its fingers pricked with the plant decided to manifest itself. Then, an oath in blood would be made with more secret words – a life binding oath. This rite was important, as it was also an act of divination – the bound tree informing about the path of the fairy. The ritual was conducted by the head of the family, and the Lady of the Yew, Crimilde Bosconero, made no exception.

That was how Bianca and Neve had been respectively chosen by the blackthorn and the hawthorn, how they had been set on their respective path in life – one for strife, one for protection. The secret words always spoke true – or so the family said.

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With a quick turn of the wrist, Neve would switch threads at great speed. It wouldn’t be her most colourful piece, but she still wished for some dimension in the composition. She’d dreamt of it, and for once it wasn’t as chilling as what she’d usually see – though the topic remained rather ominous.

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After the first ritual of their life, they had been presented to the Draconia family – another custom to show deference to the dragon overlords, and yet the only time the twins and the barely older Young Master really ever met. After that, years of preparations started for them, with three specific purposes in mind: to reflect their peerage, to be prepared for their future life both as Ladies and Magic wielders, and to develop their mind and creativity in a manner that’d promote a suitable Unique Magic.

In practice, Neve would show a consistent dedication to her work and progress, something the hired tutors never failed to report – and something Crimilde never failed to point out in comparison to her sister’s own devotion to irregularity. Yet, it was that very sister who would push Neve to always give so much of herself in everything she set her mind to. Bianca of the Blackthorn, Bianca and her golden eyes. Neve had many memories of the little things her sister would keep doing, her general distate for order and propriety always forgiven because of seemingly bottomless well of raw magic she would wield. Alone, these memories amounted to nothing – but there laid the trick, as added to each other, they’d slowly start looming, the tall shadow of a motherly figure who oversaw everything with an iron hand, and a prodigious sister raising like a wall next to her.

As time passed, Neve started feeling the weight of the situation in the way she pushed herself only to see her dear sister somehow manage to overtake her, despite always starting one step behind. These ever loud leaps and bounds felt like an unspoken formula to push Neve in a forgotten corner. When her singing was technically flawless, Bianca’s improvisations would end up attracting more interest. When Neve was capable of identifying heraldry and persons on the spot, Bianca remained the one who would quietly decline the identity of their mother’s interlocutors during events at the Estate. When their personal maid would brush their hair, Neve’s ink black curls would be compared to Bianca’s, yet the reverse never happened. No matter how much she would give, it always seemed to Neve that she was bound to fall short as long as her oh-so-perfect sister remained by her side.

Her mind slowly became her shelter, an untouched place that belonged solely to her, where she could push the bitter poison back when she started feeling overwhelmed; a place where she felt free from her mother’s and her sister’s shadows. There, she could spend hours absorbing what she’d been learning, what she’d been experiencing, to understand how to use it to her advantage. It was around that time she picked up sewing and weaving – a simple occupation at first, that quickly turned into a mean for her to express herself and to let the building poison out, stitch after stitch.

If her more public needle work was appreciated for its refined elegance and precision, a part of it was kept secret still - the part done at night, when she was too anxious to sleep, afraid of tomorrow and even more fearful of what her own dreams would offer. During that quiet time, it felt easier for her to explore and understand her own thoughts and feelings, let them out lest she’d either take it out on her family... Or even herself – that thought always left her with a sinking feeling in her gut, the dark impression that if she fell on that path, coming back from it would be even harder, if possible at all.

And then came the teaching of magic.

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Neve kept weaving, letting her thoughts wander and reach times past as the haute-lisse was slowly taking shape.

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A part of their life as young fairies was focused on their magical training as well, and this is where things would turn especially sore for Neve.

Their general education, especially its artistic components, served to promote focus and creativity, both elements necessary to produce and control magic, as well as develop a Unique Magic fitting their character. Everybody had their eyes on Bianca and her golden eyes – as expected. Yet, there was already few things in which Neve felt competent, next to her sister. Sewing was one of them, though mostly because Bianca showed little interest in the exercise – she seemed to favour books, potion ingredients and music. For that reason, sewing had become Neve’s thing, a reassuring shelter when her sister took too much place. A space where she wouldn’t have to hear her whisper first all the correct information to their mother’s ear at a party, where she wouldn’t have to feel the smooth inflexions of her singing, where she wouldn’t witness her elegant spells. She was her own ruler there, and would let her inventive mind overflow to become drawings and embroideries. If Neve couldn’t get her life with the support of her family, she’d weave it herself. Yet, that protective isolation also proved a double-edged sword that prevented her from seeing the cracks forming, early onset of a larger catastrophe.

The second most important ritual among woodland fairies was tied to the discovery of their Unique Magic. Once the young fairies had been sufficiently prepared through lessons and various activities meant to help them form their own magical quality, a ceremony was to be held by their family or caretaker in order for them to fully take hold of their magical abilities. When that day arrived for Bianca and Neve, it was yet again conducted by their mother, with the help of her newly hired assistant, Erico of the Elm – their father, Sigfrido of the Willow, would be absent for work, as always. The twins had been prepared for this moment, each step of the way carefully explained to them, since they’d be the ones conducting the ritual for themselves. Crimilde and her assistant would be there as witnesses and helpers in case of trouble, although the sisters had been certified that trouble never happened, since it was all about discovering one’s Unique Magic without pushing it, only defence was allowed to deescalate the situation and protect oneself if necessary – thus Crimilde had framed the ritual as an extension of their usual defensive magic classes. Bianca and Neve both had a set of alchemy tools, as well as the ingredients required. Led in a small building on the Estate, apart from the others and strangely windowless, the only way for the young fairies to see in the individual rooms they were respectively set in was with the help of faerie fires, dim gloomy lights meant solely to allow them to make their preparation, just like they had been taught.

Focusing on her task, Neve made sure to carefully prepare the potion, which looked like some sort of thick, dark liquid – so dark it felt like it was even swallowing whatever light was coming out of the floating faerie fires. Once the preparation was ready, Neve took the large brush they had both been provided with, and started drawing the symbols she had been taught on the floor, in the correct order and with decisive strokes. Then, she placed the set of candles – a profound black just like the preparation she had painted the floor with – all around to form a circle in the middle of which she knelt. Taking a deep breath, she lit the candles with a simple gesture, and the faerie lights went off automatically as the candles and symbols on the floor started shining in a manner that made them look like liquid glass veined with pulsating blood – her blood, she thought, as she gently clutched her bandaged hand. It was her last consideration before she found herself enveloped in a thick, numbing murk she hadn’t noticed. Reflexively closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, as if she was about to dive, and lost all notion of time and space in the process.

The noise of a door slamming made her come back to her senses. Realising she was laying down, Neve sat up, and took a look around. She was in a long corridor, with a series of seven doors peppering both sides – she had never seen such a place before. Getting back on her feet, she decided to see what that corridor had to offer – it wasn’t as if she had another way to go anyway. As she walked, she inspected the seven doors from a safe distance first – they were all different in design, and all closed. Stepping forward, the young fairy felt an uncontrollable, ice-cold shiver run down her spine. The corridor stretched and stretched, yet the doors always seemed to remain at their place, as if the whole, well, place was forcing her hand. As she stopped in her track, she started considering each door more carefully, trying to pick what seemed like the safest one. However, she promptly realised that it wasn’t about seeming, but feeling right. This realisation came to her as she approached a pitch-black, perfectly smooth door, save for the ornate handle. As her fingers were about to touch it, the impression of a dreadful pull started overtaking her every thoughts, while at the same time something deep down screamed at her to get away, as far as possible from that door. However, it was only thanks to a creak coming from the opposite side, at the furthest door, that Neve managed to shake away both the pull and the dread. Her attention shifted to the noise, and it seemed to her that a shadow had just passed through the now slightly ajar rustic wooden door.

As she went through the door, she found herself in a bright clearing, covered in thick, fresh grass. Further away, she could see the clearly defined shape of a cottage-like house, and a movement at the window left from the door caught her attention. Considering her surroundings for a few seconds, she didn’t feel any sense of danger, nor any sort of inner bell ringing the alert so far. Not wanting to be a sitting duck, she quickly moved along the small path drawn amidst the thick grass and went straight for the small cottage which seemed, oddly enough, her only way out. The heavy door let out a rusty creaking noise as she pushed on it. Inside, there was only the silence of a house that felt recently abandoned. Crossing the main room quickly, Neve decided to count the number of steps required to reach the staircase –even and she’d go left on the upper floor, odd and she’d go right. Neve often practiced these little games, it had been particularly useful to overcome her worry-fueled indecision and helped strengthen her resolve. Left she went, not sure of what she’d find, yet choosing to not chase after that elusive shadow she’d seen twice already. As long as she didn’t feel threatened or enticed in any way, Neve judged it simpler to let the shadow come to her first.

The young lady didn’t expect the corridor that served as her starting point to appear again, the same doors in the same order, though adapted to fit in the cottage – fit in as much as a corridor clearly too long for the house could. This peculiar setting led her to realise a now jarring detail that she had somehow missed the first time: the corridor had no defined end. As she moved, she noticed that the doors seemed to follow her, as if they’d always trail behind, the endless extremities of the corridor extending appropriately. The door she’d first picked was now closed, and rather than checking it again, she chose to pass it and its facing door on the right hand of the corridor, to open the next one. As she walked and passed in front of the right-hand door, she could hear a faint, regular clicking noise in it. However, her decision had been made, left, always left. With resolute steps, the fairy reached the next door and went through it.

She found herself on a scene, in a large room that looked like the emptied remnants of a theatre. Strange mists and fake trees surrounded her, and as she made a move to step away, a pitch-black, elongated silhouette suddenly slid right in front of her, making her jump in fear yet reaching out to silence her scream with a hand just as dark. For some reason, that touch was enough to help Neve settle down, which allowed her to take a look at the... The thing in front of her. It looked like it had tried to take a vaguely familiar humanoid shape, yet was there without really being there. As it took a quiet step towards her – it was more sliding than walking, really -, its body and arms became disproportionately elongated, its neck following the same path as it leaned towards her. When it spoke, the words didn’t came from its faceless head, but seemed to resonate gently through her whole body, an echoing whisper that felt like smoke.

- To find the way out, never look back. Beware of the Stagman, don’t trust the Black Hands.

- Wha – What are you?

- Help.

The strange shadow wasn’t there anymore, and Neve felt dread pile up in her belly as she observed the whole room. As she was about to take a step back, unwilling to take another step forward, the words the shadow had spoken rang in her mind. Realising she had no choice but go forth, she took a large gulp of air and swallowed her apprehension before going down the scene. To help gain some focus back, she reminded herself of the rule she had established – always left. And always up as well, she realised as she was off the scene. For some reason, the simple action of going down made her skin crawl. She hurriedly crossed the vast space meant to hold seats, towards the only way out.

From that point, it felt like a winding maze of strange corridors devoid of doors and windows and yet dimly lit. Neve kept walking, always forward, always left, always up. Nothing special ever happened, and her initial wariness insidiously turned to a disquieting boredom from the repetitiveness and gradual loss of her ability to guess space and time. That is, until she found herself in a new room, just as bleak as everything she’d previously seen.

There stood a masculine silhouette, all strength and bare feet and torso, with a hart for a head and dark blood slowly dripping from his shoulders – right where the stained, mated fur would be replaced by humanoid skin. The drops ran to his hips, where a long knife and a full quiver assorted to his hunting bow rested. Neve knew then what the strange shadow meant by Stagman. Both of them stayed still, held breath making the tension raise in the windowless room. There was no way out aside from the corridors on each side of the Stagman. Neve risked a small step forward, and he slowly reached to his quiver in return, taking a silent gliding step as well. Startled by the unexpected move, Neve stepped back and made the mistake to check behind her by reflex. No way out. The corridor by which she’d come had simply disappeared, replaced by a bit of wall similar to the rest of the room. Her attention came back to the Stagman, just in time to see him pull an arrow and nock it. The cold impression of a smile she couldn’t see yet knew was there, the smile of a creature ready to eat her up alive, pushed her out of her shock. Urgency of survival kicked in and she went for the closest corridor, using her small size and light weight to move as fast as she could. An arrow flew right past her, making her pick even more pace – as much as she could to escape. Behind her, heavy steps could be heard as the Stagman went after her.

Neve ran, her vision narrowing only to see forward, her train of thought locked in a loop as she fled across the windowless rooms and corridors. All she wanted was a door – and a door kept appearing, but not the one she wished for. It was the black door she’d passed from the start, the locked one that had left her with a bad feeling. Now, every time she passed it, it seemed slightly more ajar and she ignored it to save herself – until it wasn’t possible anymore. There it was, fully open and in a dead end. With nowhere left to run and the only option being forward, Neve gritted her teeth and jumped in the room. The door shut behind her and loud bangs resonated through the large room as the Stagman was slamming against it.

The new room was completely silent, a wide empty space with a ceiling so high it would be lost in the dark, and balconies that indicated the presence of floors yet had no stairs to access them. In fact, the room was distinctly devoid of exits. Feeling trapped, Neve decided to do the only thing left and explore the area. As she moved towards the center of the room, she started hearing faint noises, whispers. She couldn’t tell where it was coming from, and had the impression of being surrounded. As she made her approach and reached a more central position in the room, she started feeling the floor become unequal under her feet. Looking around her, she noticed irregularities in the walls and floor – they weren’t there before. The room was breathing, thousands of breaths coming from everywhere. That is when her mind, already on edge since the encounter with the Stagman, who could still be heard banging on the door, left room solely for panic.

The room seemed to feed on her fright, as the walls and floor started taking shape, humanoid forms pushing against a skin-like texture, making it look thinner. To Neve’s horror, the misshaped hands she could almost see through had an awfully dark tint to them. Beware the Stagman, don’t trust the Black Hands. The shadow’s warning came back to her, yet she had no way out and the cold realisation that she’d been trapped on purpose only resulted in dread weighting in her stomach. She tried to move away from the centre of the room, away from the evermore grasping hands, pushing on the surface like it was nothing. Something clasped around her ankle and started pulling with a strength her small body couldn’t fight against. Her voice, held tight by fear until then, sprung in action only to allow her a wail of terror as more hands started grabbing her.

Suddenly, a loud noise like a crack, different from the banging of the Stagman on the door, resonated throughout the room – no, the entire space, as if something from the outside was forcing its way in. The walls started crumbling and a vault made of stars fell over her, as she started feeling something warm all around her. A gentle embrace, holding her and rocking her as she heard the echo of her own scream in the room she’d been using for the ritual. Despite her desperate attempt to flee, Erico kept her close, using his own Unique Magic, Heart to Heart, to soothe her. Slowly, she calmed down and settled for loud sobs as the assistant’s magic left her mildly sedated. Once she was deemed safe to handle, he took her in his arms and brought her out, all the while apologising with a quivering voice.

- I’m sorry, Neve. So sorry. We should have suspected something like that would happen... No, don’t look there, look at me, it’s alright now.

Neve only caught a glimpse of it before Erico put her head back against him and took her away, but what little she saw was a partially destroyed building, her sister pale as death in a shining cage of glass and blood, blood everywhere.

The event of the ritual meant to help them produce a first shaped Unique Magic had ended terribly for both sisters. Bianca spent three hundred days in a deep slumber forcefully pushed on her by Crimilde, at first to stop the rampage she’d been causing, then to allow her to heal. Lady Bosconero did her best to focus on healing her wounds in a manner that would leave as little scars as possible – thankfully, Bianca seemed to have protected her face during the event, and thus it remained untouched. Meanwhile, Neve developed a fear of being touched, as well as darkness. Dismay regarding her sister also started being noticed once she’d been explained what had unfolded that day. It seemed that the Old Blood, The Gift, had made itself known at the same time as Bianca’s Unique Magic, mixing with it to turn the creatures she’d seemingly summoned into destructive abominations. Even worst, it had started sipping everywhere – even reaching out for Neve while she was exploring her own Unique Magic, poisoning the experience well enough to turn it into a living nightmare for the young fairy.

Once Bianca woke up in complete confusion from her magic-induced sleep, however, the family dynamics started shifting for a new balance.

#twisted wonderland #disney twisted wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland oc #twst oc #oc #neve bosconero #fairy tale #fairy tale rewriting #rewriting #snow white #sleeping beauty

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a-room-of-my-own · 4 years

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A bit of reading : orwomen.()scot/did-you-know/?fbclid=IwAR0H7TqxQNqemZcAGFtvR_HLkbkxmZ4FY6srcgrULWxGPyWuc6QPTmDQfVI

Did you know…

…that 80-95% of people who say they are trans choose to have no medical treatment at all – no surgery, no drugs, not even therapy? Transwomen are just male people who subjectively believe that they are female. That’s it. That is all that’s required.

Despite some commentators describing an “epidemic of violence against trans people“, transwomen are no more likely to be murdered than anyone else, and the best data available shows it’s half as likely. In Scotland, zero have been killed. In fact, transwomen are almost twice as likely to be the perpetrator of a murder than to be murdered in the UK, which is not surprising since a male pattern of violence is retained regardless of any transition or cross-dressing.

The 48% of trans youth have attempted suicide statistic is nonsense too. It was based on just 27 trans people (aged 26 and under), from a self-selecting online survey – which made the data worthless. Yet that hasn’t stopped the TIE Campaign peddling similar in Scottish schools (or is it 27%, they seem confused?), contrary to Samaritans advice on avoiding attributing the cause to any one incident. The NHS Gender Identity Development Service actually says “suicide is extremely rare” and rates of self-harm, distress and suicide ideation are similar to other children seen by CAMHS.

Did you know that 1 in 50 males in prison now self-id as trans according to Ministry of Justice figures? If it is so dangerous to be trans why do so many choose to come out when in jail?

Were you aware that 95% of prisoners are men, and 5% women? That most women in prison are there for financial crime, and most men are in for violent offending. Did you know that men commit 98% of sex offences? That 48% of transwomen prisoners are sex offenders (compared to less than 20% in the general male estate) and would swamp the female estate if they all transferred.

What makes these convicted sex offenders, who were born male, women? Why should female prisoners be locked up with rapists if they say “I am a woman”? Are you willing to be in a prison cell with a male rapist on that basis? And if not, do you think other women should be? Are you aware that women have already been sexually assaulted and raped, in several countries, because of this policy?

Did you know that Scotland already has a policy significantly more liberal than England’s, stating that transgender prisoners must normally be housed according to the “social gender” with which they self-identify? And that this policy was brought in by a senior prison officer, himself now a convicted sex offender? A policy put in place without even talking to women’s groups or considering that there would be any impact on female prisoners at all. Despite warnings of abuse, including from former women’s prison governor Rhona Hotchkiss, the promised policy review has not been forthcoming.

What about women’s refuges, have you considered what it could do to a woman fleeing male violence to encounter a male in that refuge? Read why the CEO of a domestic violence charity, Karen Ingala Smith, considers it imperative that refuges remain women-only, and her speech at the Scottish Parliament.

Did you know that a woman was asked to leave a shelter because, as a rape survivor, she couldn’t sleep in the same room as a strange male, regardless of how he identified? Are you aware that a man used self-id to access a women’s shelter where he sexually assaulted vulnerable women? Are you aware that a rape relief shelter in Canada lost all public funding for insisting they remain women-only, and had a dead rat nailed to their door?

Are you aware that the Scottish Government imposes a transwomen inclusive policy on Scottish Women’s Aid as a condition of funding and that Rape Crisis Scotland refused to guarantee a female counsellor for a traumatised teenager? We know from private meetings that they erroneously believe they cannot provide a single-sex service due to a lack of ‘case law’, despite having previously done so for many years. Did you know there is a male manager of a rape crisis centre, who failed to disclose his sex at interview, and which still claims to be women-led?

Are you aware that despite less than half of changing rooms in swimming pools and sports centres being mixed sex, 90% of sexual assaults have happened in them? Yet mixed-sex, ‘gender-neutral’ facilities are constantly pushed, including in schools – contrary to law and building regulations requiring separate sex provision – when it would be more responsible to increase third space unisex provision for the comfort of those who need it.

That’s before you even get into the issue of how to keep out predatory men who aren’t trans, if you say that any man who ‘identifies as a woman’ can use communal changing/showering areas at will. A man exposing himself in a park commits a crime. A man doing so in a women’s changing room, where you’re also naked, who need not have even told staff he identifies as a woman, may no longer be committing an offence.

Did you know that the Scottish Government funded LGBT Youth Scotland, a spin-off group from Stonewall, to write guidance for schools that breaches children’s rights in at least eleven ways? This includes the unscientific belief in gender identity, which even the Justice Minister is at a loss to define, the promotion of harmful breast binding and the removal of all single-sex spaces and sports. No-one should be surprised at this as Stonewall have long campaigned for the removal of women’s rights, although single issue political pressure groups should have been no-where near schoolchildren.

It took the Government until June 2019 to commit to replacing this guidance, having privately received advice that it was “not legal“. Yet, this new legally compliant guidance is seven months overdue and the Education Minister is refusing to withdraw LGBTYS’s guidance in the interim.

Why should we accept smear tests from any male who feels they have a womanly gender identity – what does that even mean (let’s ask the Justice Minister again)? And yes, it is happening. A rape survivor who wanted a woman to carry out her breast screening found her letter used as an example in hospital trans guidance as ‘unacceptable’ and ‘highly discriminatory’. And a woman in a psychiatric ward who was terrified at being locked in a ward with an “extremely male-bodied” fellow patient was regarded as a transphobic bigot. The truth is that women in mixed-sex hospital wards, particularly psych, have very real reasons to fear men.

Did you know that 35 clinicians have resigned from the Tavistock (children’s gender clinic in London) over their failings, including the Governor? Who later wrote a damning account of the abject failure to heed evidence that their affirmation-only policy is harmful to children, especially to the huge influx in girls who may suffer other complex problems, such as trauma, autism, a history of sexual abuse or discomfort with their developing sexuality. A staggering 48% of children referred to Tavistock have ASD traits, and a BBC Newsnight investigation revealed significant numbers of children seeking transition treatment based on their family’s homophobia.

Are you aware that studies show that puberty blockers result in 100% of children progressing to cross-sex hormones – whereas, if left unmedicated, the Tavistocks’s own research shows over 90%, if supported by counselling, are happy with their sex once they emerge from puberty. Did you know hormone blockers may cause sterility, a large decrease in IQ, bone density loss, and more? An investigation by the Health Review Authority concluded that blockers are really the start of irreversible physical transition and recommended that “Researchers and clinical staff should…avoid referring to puberty suppression as providing a ‘breathing space’, to avoid risk of misunderstanding.” This led to a major overhaul of the NHS UK website which no longer considers blockers to be fully reversible and confirms long-term effects are unknown.

The young person’s gender clinic at Sandyford, Glasgow has recently withdrawn their information booklet and we trust it will be similarly updated. Do you think all the government funded trans organisations will be scrupulous in updating their information too – including LGBT Youth guidance in Dumfries and Galloway, Scottish Trans/NHS guidance, and Stonewall advice, among many more, including of course the already deemed “not legal” school guidance by LGBT Youth?

Are you aware that the number of children referred to Sandyford is rising at a faster rate than the rest of the UK? Yet they don’t actually know how many girls have been referred as children can select what sex they want recorded on medical records – although unofficially, clinicians report similar concerns as elsewhere about the huge proportional rise in young girls seeking to transition. Did you know that bias, and not evidence, dominates the WPATH transgender standard of care followed in Scotland? And it is woefully out-of-date considering the fundamental change in patient make up since it was written in 2011.

Read the speech given by Dr David Bell at the Scottish Parliament and consider why, if his report about issues at the Tavistock prompted the Director to resign, was it not enough for the Health Minister, Jeane Freeman, to instigate an enquiry into identical practices at Sandyford? Perhaps the Government will listen to the outcome of a Judicial Review that is being sought by Keira Bell, a detransitioning woman, who wants to protect other troubled young girls from similar treatment.

Are you aware that women with our views are threatened with violence, rape and death, almost as an everyday occurrence? We are told TERF is not a slur, but I challenge you to find any instances of it being used without abuse or threats attached to it. Do you think it’s in any way acceptable for lesbians to be on the receiving end of these menaces for asserting, or even just trying to be proud of, their right to be same-sex attracted? Do you really think there’s such a thing as a lesbian with a penis?

All that hate is from transactivists, and is aimed at women with our views. I challenge you to find anything remotely equivalent from here, from our recorded talks, or indeed anywhere else. This is NOT a case of two sides as bad as each other. And it’s notable that the hate is not aimed at genuinely transphobic, aggressive men. It’s aimed at women. It’s aimed at us.

And JK Rowling. Read the tweets she posted and look at the replies. Read the essay further explaining her thoughts and ask how anyone could possibly think she deserved such atrocious abuse, or how transactivists thought it in any way acceptable to post penis images in retaliation (don’t worry, it’s been edited!) on a child’s thread about Ickabog art.

Did you know women can be, and often are, fired for believing sex is real, that humans cannot change sex, and women and girls are entitled to privacy when undressing or otherwise vulnerable? And yet poll, after poll, after poll, after poll show that this is the majority view, by at least 80%. You may well wonder why then, is the Scottish Government proposing to bring in Hate Crime legislation that would see even JK Rowling imprisoned for up to seven years for expressing views deemed abusive by transactivists, yet affords women no such protection in law, based on their sex.

Innate gender identity is a belief system. There’s no evidence one exists. If our Government cannot even define it, then it should not be presented as fact to our children. It should not over-ride women’s hard fought for rights.

Do you know that the very word ‘woman’ will change definition, if the trans lobby succeed? If we can’t define what a woman is, how can we accurately capture data? How can we record male violence, the pay gap, our representation in government, business, finance, law, media…anywhere? Police Scotland already record incidences on the basis of gender identity, but can’t seem to recall when, or why that happened, and the census looks to be going the same way, despite the importance of recognising sex being shown quite dramatically by COVID-19.

An influential lobby loudly insisting that they won’t be erased (when trans organisations are heavily state funded and train all major businesses, branches of government, school teachers, universities and NHS boards) are actively campaigning to erase the very definition of what a woman is – best archive it, just in case! Have you noticed how easy it is to define a woman when we’re being aborted, subjected to FGM, married off, denied the vote, raped, murdered, paid less, represented less in every single sector of government and industry, expected to perform most of the world’s unpaid labour, and constituting 71% of the world’s modern slaves? The only places that seem unsure on what a woman is are the places feminism was starting to make inroads. It’s almost like there must be some sort of a connection, isn’t it?

We don’t have any fear, resentment or hatred for trans people. We agree there should be protection in law against discrimination and violence. We just don’t agree that our rights need to be railroaded over in the process. We don’t agree that male people should access women’s spaces, or benefit from women’s provision, at will, without our consent. Our name is WOMEN and our rights matter.

Don’t you agree…?

#gender critical #For women Scotland #Transgender

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loquenomedices · 3 years

Note

can i request another one? kdkdkd prompt “Would you ever consider going on a date with me?” - carmuel 💜

sorry it took so long! also this is kinda similar to feel more/with less (@esterexpsito) bc waiter samuel just took me there which i realized halfway through hh so credits to that

Carla is – bored. The flashlights of the inobtrusive photographers, the acted natural smiles of the painted caricatures of women, the forcibly sophisticated men (one of whom is her ex, staring at her since the beginning of the night) and the champagne that still somehow doesn't feel strong enough, so she has no other option but keep getting refills-

No, bored doesn't quite cover it. Saying Carla is bored would be like saying that a person who is bleeding out to death has a scratch.

She sighs, her best nonchalantly elegant smile still in place, turns and doesn't see anything but black in front of her eyes for a second.

Okay, maybe the champagne wasn't strong enough to relieve the desperate tension and make this evening bearable, but it certainly was strong enough to do something else.

Speaking of strong-

The grasp of her shoulder to steady her and the chest she's pressed to are exactly that.

“I'm sorry,” a voice, soft and low, murmurs. “But you should probably take it easy.”

She lifts her eyes when she finds herself standing firmly and ready to face the unknown guy (so far, she only knows about him that he's muschular and his scent has gone all up to her head with the champagne).

The discovery she makes is not at all displeasing, though he's fairly short – the sharply cut chin, untamable brown curls, radiant eyes and the curved smirk make up well enough for it – but nevertheless-

“You're a waiter,” Carla blurts out.

The amused smirk curls into a slightly different kind. “I know,” he says, voice rising. It sounded more like a question than anything, like he's daring her.

Carla blinks, the alcohol making her throat dry, and stares at him like a confused doe.

He coughs when she doesn’t respond. “Unlike you, I'm sober – you know, I'm on a job – so I'm pretty aware of myself and my surroundings.”

Carla blinks once again – he is still standing in front of her, all palpable and real, and laughs, much more deep and honest that she'd ever do sober (or at all). “I don't think this conversation fits into your job description.”

He seems to be considering it for a fair moment, a slight furrow between his brows. “Probably. Would you have preferred to trip and fall to the ground? That dress seems expensive, let alone the embarrassment.”

Carla's probably very drunk, as she realizes. On her quest to achieve some level of not wanting to die of boredom, she had completely discarded the physical effects of alcohol. Everything is hot and fuzzy and dancing in colours.

Most of all, him. She takes a step closer. “You're awfully outspoken,– ”

“Samuel.”

“Samuel,” she repeats, consonants and vowels rolling off her tongue. “That's a nice name.”

She registers his eyebrow flying a mile high, though she's severly preoccupied by his tongue darting over his lips and thinking about something else entirely. “I doubt this conversation fits into your job description.”

Carla giggles, suddenly having decided to take mercy on this tragic gala, and confesses, inappropriately joyful: “My job description is so boring that I have to spice it up if I don't wanna go insane.”

She doesn't even see how Samuel has to stifle a chuckle – the world seems to have left its orbit and have become increasingly shaky. “You seem to be doing well enough with that,” Samuel says, and then the world crashes and she doesn't remember much else apart from flashes of taking his hand and dragging him away and him just going. Then Samuel by the deserted pool area and her shushing him when he protests he's going to get fired and dancing to music from her phone because they're too (still not enough) far away from the centre of the event.

“Carla-” Samuel attempts, but she's twirling and his body is still close to hers. “Carla, I have to go to work, even though it's the last thing I wanna-”

She turns around and kisses him.

(She doesn't remember telling him her name, but it sounds like a heavenly hymn from his mouth.)

And then there's a bathroom, more heaven and hellish heat and he finally shuts up about getting fired when Carla bites her lip, gives him a look and his eyes gain an undertone of something much different than the vibrant content.

“Carla,” he starts, the first thing she hears when she recovers. She's a bit less drunk on alcohol and much more on him, he's hurriedly trying to fix his hair and face by the mirror and failing, and isn't talking about his job or her fault (which, it is) anymore. “Would you consider going on a date with me?”

She really wants to laugh. She's siginificantly sobered up (though it's definitely still not – well, an appropriate state), so she knows that she's just hooked up with a waiter in a strange bathroom at a terrible charity gala which might really get him fired and her to be the topic of all the hottest gossip if anybody finds out.

She does burst out internally, because this situation is the epitome of reckless drunken idiocy that she should certainly not be proud of – but it feels so goddamn good to let loose for once.

“I'd consider it,” she says out loud.

#prompt fills #carmuel #carmuel fanfic #mine #elite fanfic #writing

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ms-hells-bells · 4 years

Note

hi, this might be dumb but can u be straight + date men and still support women's lib /radfem ideology? Or is that just cognitive dissonance? Am new to all this, I rlly enjoy your blog :)

i mean, of course you can support it, no ones gonna stop you here if you have a boyfriend but also do other radfem/woman liberating things. the issue is that being in an intimate relationship with your oppressor by near default is a unique situation that only the female class goes through. any other group can effectively separate from their oppressors because their axis of oppression does not clash with their sexuality. people of colour can just date people of colour. gay people obviously won’t really be dating straight people, and they can even eliminate bi people from their dating pool if they want to go the whole hog. but what can straight women do? they’re the only oppressed group that is faced with the option of dating the oppressor or being alone. and that’s a heavy burden that not a single other group can possibly relate to. even i as a bi woman can simply just febfem it (and frankly should since i have the option).

the issue with dating your oppressor is that they naturally become your priority. you care for them, you may marry them, you may have kids with them. and obviously radical feminism is critical of all of this because it reinforces the patriarchy. and it is true that the second you stop dating men, your risk of any kind of abuse immediately plummets, and you are able to fully centre women. dating a man is unfortunately centring a man, which can lead to reluctance to listen to and accept particular radfem ideas, like anti marriage, anti having kids, PIV critical, the concept that all men are inherently misogynistic, no matter how small, etc. they often become very aggressive and resistant of these ideas because they participate in them and humans are very defensive of anything they partake in. because we don’t want to be doing something “bad”, we associate our actions with our entire identity, so we feel that admitting we’re doing something bad means that we as a person are bad. which is not true.

ultimately, this is a highly debated grey area. you will not find a consensus of this topic within the radfem community. some feel that due to our attraction to men, it is not possible for straight or bi women to be true radfems at all because we will always have that conflict of interest. on the other side, some women go the full patriarchal traditional route and make zero change to their lives, and wear the radfem label as an identity, in the same way that TIMs wear the word “woman”. you have to fit the definition of a word to be that word.

my personal view, and the most common view i see, is that just like wearing makeup or restrictive feminine clothing, or shaving, or previously being involved in kink or the sex industry, dating men are one of the actions that are anti feminist that many radfems participate in for survival, or because of socialisation. at all times we should encourage these women to not do these things, to brave up and change their behaviours in order to free themselves and help other women. being gnc where it matters, female separatism (which isn’t just romance, it’s friendships, communities, funding female businesses, etc), and the like should be the goal for radfems. but i understand the nuance within that. many women have boyfriends/husbands that they had BEFORE they got into radical feminism. unless he’s a piece of shit, i feel it’s quite entitled of me to say “break up/DIVORCE” now that she’s entered our community. of course, then she has to reciprocate by not bringing her male into our community, not derailing to notmynigel, and absolutely focus on centring women.

yeah, idk, i just try to approach interacting with women positively rather than with pressure and aggression. i will continue to encourage separatism and critically discuss male relationships and the like, but my focus is on women and i feel like being set on attacking het partnered women is spending too much time on something i can’t change in that manner, and i’m focusing on men too much by doing so. we can argue about the label of radical feminism all we want, but the label means little, it is the actions taken that matter the most. and some of the most influential, law changing radfems were/are het partnered. to me, it’s that they’ve done more good than harm, and that they actively try to offset the status quo that they’ve fallen into by aiding women in other ways. i guess that i’m quite centrist on this topic. i don’t bother radfems that do date men (unless they’re complaining about how annoying their boyfriends are. don’t complain to radfems as a radfem about how shitty your boyfriend is when you know you could literally just dump him (unless trapped in an abusive situation. i have all the empathy in the world for abused women, no matter how “free” they are to leave). don’t waste our emotional energy), but i also largely don’t tone police or derail women criticising radfems who do date men and their gripes with them, unless they head into misogynistic territory (don’t get me started on the dick worshipper/bitch/mother hate discourse). i think that both “soft radfems” and “hard radfems” can exist and compliment each other and support one another despite the differing methodologies, so het partnered women don’t bother me too much.

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jinxfirebolt18902 · 5 years

Text

Lux Vitae Part 2 (Salvatore Brothers Imagine)

Salvatore brohters x sister reader.

Part 1

Words: 1848

—What?! You have to be kidding me Evie. Speak. Now. —Damon’s short temper was beginning to show.

—Please! I am not ready to talk about it yet. I will tell you I promise, just... not today. Let’s not talk about touchy subjects today.

—Says the one who slapped me for dating a girl. —Stefan mocked her.

Her look turned serious —It’s not funny Stefan, she’s not just “a girl” and you know it. —He let out a sigh and nodded negatively. —Are you hungry? —She nodded yes without speaking a word. Just then her system was starting to ask her for some blood.

Two empty bags of blood and a cup of Bourbon after, Evangeline was more than ready to go to bed. It had been a long journal to Mistyc Fall. Plus the emotional encounter with her loved ones, the blood satisfying her hunger and Damon’s fingers running through her black locks got her completely asleep, once again laying on his elder brother’s chest.

The cold sarcastic Salvatore was in a trance. His light blue piercing gaze never left her body, following her movements when his own breaths moved her up and down lightly. In a moment he rested his pink lips against her head and remained that way for long minutes. Of course Stefan had never had such a good oportunity to give his brother a taste of his own medicine but two things stopped him from doing so. One the deadly glare in form of warning Damon was sending him the second he noted his brother was about to talk. And in second place the peace that surrounded the room now they were all together.

Since the beginning the Salvatore family had always been easy to crack. All the men from the family tended to get into heated arguments, fights and it was due to their short tempers. But Mrs. Salvatore was the key to keep them united. She had always been able to calm them down and make up the broken bonds between her husband and her sons. Specially beetween Damon and Giuseppe. As years passed by the little Evangeline had also developed the same talent. Slowly she had become the symbolical happiness of the family. She could even fix her parents’ relationship whenever they had a disagreement. She had earned herself the place to be the sunshine in the darkest times.

Evangeline woke up in a king sized bed with soft covers. She remained laying as she took a deep breath. A gentle smile adorned her angelical face. As she waited for the sleep to entirely leave her body her gaze wondered taking in every detail of the room. She finally felt safe, comforted and loved thanks to her siblings.

—Someone had a good night apparently, huh? —Damon was standing in the doorframe resting his shoulder against it. His arms were crossed and he had a side smirk on his face. She let out a small laugh then stretched her muscles.

—Good morning —her voice was sweet yet raspy for the sleep. Damon thought it was the cutest thing in the world. —Where is Stefan? —at this his eyebrows moved up and down one time accompanied by a heavy sigh.

—He’s with Elena, his girlfriend. —Evie’s content expression dropped to an annoyed one.

—Of course he is.

—Oh c’mon baby sis, you aren’t jealous, are you? —he laughed as he started to walk away down the corridor. —Breakfast is ready!

Evie and Damon had spent the whole morning updating her on the actual Mistyc Fall, their new friends, their new enemies and all the recent events that had taken place. She noticed this Alaric guy was the only one who really understood and cared about the new Damon. A new Damon he had omitted to detail but that she was beginning to discover.

He hadn’t told her about his behaviour so she wasn’t aware of how much he had changed, why he had changed and how he was now. Neither she knew how distanced he and Stefan were now. But she was suspicious about that in particular because she hadn’t forgotten her family issues and if you added their lack of comunication she had witnessed in just a few hours, she thought you had to be really stupid not to notice their damaged relationship.

—So... a lot of shit going on then... —she drowned in her thoughts for a moment to process all the information she just got. She began to put some pieces together. —I wanna meet them.

—Who?

—All of them. Bonnie, Jeremy, Matt, this Caroline souds cool. Oh and I’m dying to meet Alaric!

He puffed some air as he rolled his eyes, he couldn’t believe it. —You will, eventually.

—Oh c’mon D! Invite them to have dinner—That’s not happening Evie.

—Why not?!

—Because most of them wish I was buried alive, Ev. That’s why.

She let out a burst of laughter. —I knew you had screwed shit up. —he gave her a glare. —At least Alaric?

A knock in the door caused Damon to walk there. When he saw who was outside he let his head fall backwards along with a sarcastic laugh. His body moved aside to let the person in. —Alaric, always at the right time.

The history teacher frowned at his words. —Is everything ok?

—Yeah, come in. There’s someone who's dying to meet you. —Damon gave him one of his so usual sarcastic smirks. The human was even more confused increasing his frown. They walked to the living room where she turned her head to look at them with a smiley face. —Did I ever mention you we have a little sister?

Alaric’s eyes went wide. —What?

—Hi, my name is Evangeline Salvatore. Don’t worry, I actually had been missing some years so it’s no surprise they didn’t tell you about me. —she shook their hands.

—Because we thought you were dead, not missing.—Damon couldn’t resist to add. He was kinda mad at her for not looking for them.

Alaric reciproccated the greeting. Right after he sent a look to his vampire friend.

—I’m Alaric. —she smiled bigger.

—Nice to meet you. I, unlike you, have heard a lot about you.

Alaric and Damon took Evangeline for a tour around the town. Everything had changed since she had been there. Obviously. The streets were paved, shops of all sizes took place all aroud and now there was a big modern restaurant in the centre of the small town. the three of them walked in and took a seat at the bar. She was observing everyone around her when a piece of the conversation her companions were having caught her attention.

—Women mess with your head, mate. Don’t try to understand Jenna, cause you won’t be able to. —the blond took the last sip of his whisky and nodded defeated.

—Well I guess you know pretty much about women, bro. Don’t ya? —she provoked him on purpose earning a glare and a grunt from him.

A couple of hours had passed between chats, drinks and food. Most of the time Damon and Alaric, or Rick as Damon nicknamed his friend, talked and discussed about different subjects while she limited herself to watch the place and take in the activities happening in the Grill. People getting in and out, teens playing pool, the waitress working and cleaning the tables. Suddenly a young boy appeared in front of her. She blinked at her sight. A light brown irises were piercing through hers. The cute boy gave her a pretty smile then proceeded to introduce himself.

—Name’s Thomas. Yours? —he offered her his right hand along with another flirty smirk.

Her gaze checked in her brother’s direction. She remembered her brothers being the classic jealous-protective kind. But Damon had always stood out being more of an overprotective. So she had guessed the years apart hadn’t changed that. In any case it could have gotten worse now having her back after so long. Fortunately Damon wasn’t paying attention right then.

—You can call me Eva. —she smiled back, of course with a mischievous grin. She knew this wouldn’t get too far, even if she wanted and if her siblings allowed it, which wouldn’t happen.

Ten minutes had passed quickly with her in deep conversation with Thomas. Sure enough the boy was pretty interesting and knew how to get a girl, even one like a hundred years old vampire. Thing that isn’t easy to find Evangeline thought. But of course everything comes to an end and so she wasn’t surprised when she felt another person’s shoulder rest against hers. Damon was making his presence notable. He had crossed his arms and flashed the guy a cocky smirk. Classic, Damon. Thomas’ smile fell off, his expression quickly becoming worried. Evangeline rolled her eyes and sighed in frustration.

—Why don’t you get the hell out of here, as far away from my little sister as your ass can take you. —she hitted his shoulder with an spontaneous frown on her face.

—Damon! No need to be rude!

—Of course yes. Now shu shu boy. —Damon waved his hand at the guy as he was a lost dog in the street that he was trying to get rid of. Thomas sent her a glare and slowly walked backwards out of the diner.

—You needn’t do that.

The scowl on her face made his smile grew bigger. Then he slided an arm over her shoulders and pulled her closer to him.

—Oh c’mon baby sis, don’t hate on me.

The younger and the eldest of the Salvatores were sitting chilling out on the couchs of the big living room when Stefan walked in at the evening.

—Look who decided to come back home —she said out loud not even looking up from her phone.

Damon let out a burst of laughter. He was determinated to pay attention to the scene that was about to develope in front of him.

—Oh shut up you baby little girl —Stefan ran at supernatural speed and pounced over her small figure. Soon her shouts interrumpted with giggels were heard all around the house. Stefan was tickling her taking her breath away in delicious laughs. Both brothers had missed her so much it hurt. Her laugh and her voice immediately transported them to when they were all together and their mother was alive. When everything was okay, no vampires in their life, no Katherine bothering inbetween their relationships and no abusive father.

—Stop calling me baby and little you assholes. I’m 169 now.

Damon couldn’t resist himslef. —You’re 19 Evangeline.

She sent him a deadly glare and crossed her arms to add power to her statement. —Yeah but I’ve been 19 for 150 years. So either way, I’m not baby nor little anymore.

—You still are the youngest of us —Stefan smirked cockily and positioned himself next to Damon. She glanced at them biting her bottom lip. She sighed and let out a small laugh to then get closer to them and embrace them in a group hug.

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malifikook · 5 years

Text

Gym Affairs

you swear the gym was never this exciting before.

pairings: Yoongi x Reader, (slight vmin)

warnings: yoongi’s kinda a gym trainer but not really, slight smut, vmin flirting, my poor attempt at a birthday gift fic for Yoongi (I know im a day late, bear with me), typos might be there, way too long to be a one part fic lol

You swear the gym was never this exciting.

Before it used to be boring and monotonous, a chore in your already in busy life that used up too much of your precious time. You knew that you were bettering your life this way, getting into better shape and getting that dream body you had always sighed at whenever you encountered a picture of it while scrolling on Instagram, but still, it was horrible.

Because the gym was sweaty and crowded, full of men and women who had the same determined faces that never smiled back whenever you offered one, and you had assumed that, maybe, the gyms were the worst place to befriend anyone.

Your assumption was quickly shot down when you met Kim Taehyung. Clad in fucking Gucci from top to toe, he was easily the most noticeable person in the gym. You had spotted him on his first day awkwardly staring at the treadmill with his hands worrying a towel that had a sign which awfully resembled two Gs.

“It’s not a hard equipment to master.” You had piped up from behind him, hopping to stand next to him and outstretch a hand. “I’m ____, you?”

“Kim Taehyung,” he had responded easily, grasping your hand before pouting at the equipment. “Do you know how to work this?”

Oh boy, did you. You had enough mess ups and falls from enough treadmills to work your way around them.

You had helped Taehyung that day, and you two had grown close quickly. You two shared everything the together, all your secrets and hidden stories, over lunches and coffees and even, rarely, sleep overs.

It was around two months after meeting Taehyung when you were jogging steadily on your usual treadmill, hair tied up in a ponytail in a way that swung as you ran. You felt Taehyung gaze at you, his arms propped up on the arm rests of the machine as he hummed in contemplation, his treadmill turned off.

“So what do you think of Min Yoongi from the front desk?”

You nearly lost your footing at that, stumbling slightly to keep up with oh so sudden fast pace of the machine, blinking your features back into place. “W-Whatta ya mean?”

“I mean,” Taehyung sang, “Whenever I bring him handsome boy, you always tense up like I’ve shoved some vibrator up your ass.”

You winced at the imagery, hand coming front to up the speed of the run. “My butt just clenched, please stop. And no I do not tense up, what does that even mean?”

“Oh you know,” Taehyung said smugly, wiggling his eyebrows at you when you spared him a disgusted glance before carrying on, “Well if you don’t make a move on him I will.”

You glanced at him, confused, focus now turning to him as you slowed your jog. “Huh?”

“You do know that I’m gay right.” Taehyung dead-panned.

At that you lost your footing and you tripped over your shoes, sending you flying forward and off the machine in a pile of loud smashes and groans as you rolled to the floor in pain. You groaned, hand coming up to massage your nose as you sat up on the ground. “Ow, fuck.”

“Anyways,” Taehyung continued, unfazed, as he turned to lean against the head of the machine. “Yoongi’s not really my type, so rest easy.”

“And who is?” You snorted - partly because you wanted to check if your nose was still working.

“Park Jimin.” Taehyung sighed dreamily, his eyes drifting off as if automatically to the dance rooms, and the two of you listened to the heavy beat that thrummed from the room.

You two glanced at each other. “He does have a great butt.” You admitted, giving back the cheeky grin Taehyung wiggled at you and just as you were about to ask him to help you up, thundering steps came from the side staircase before -

A panting Min Yoongi stood at the stop of the staircase, his striped t-shirt bearing a few wet spots that most likely came from the younger children who’d splash like maniacs in the pool area with his blonde hair messed up.

“I heard someone fall.” He gulped, regaining his breath before his eyes flicking from Taehyung to you. His eyes suddenly flattened. “Oh, it’s you who fell.”

Indignation rose up in your throat. “Excuse me!” You hissed. “Aren’t you supposed to be worried about me? Like - I’m on the fucking floor!”

Yoongi sighed, bringing a hand up to knead at his forehead before dropping his hand down to slap against his thigh. He glanced at Taehyung. “What were you talking about this time?”

You winced, having leaned back on your hands to relieve some of the pressure and your legs, eyes quickly flicking up to Taehyung. Your warning gaze had him stuttering for a second.

“Oh no,” Taehyung dropped his hands down from the machine to step off, bringing himself onto his tip toes as he exaggerated his stretch. “It seems like it’s my Yoga time. Toodles!”

You watched with your jaw dropped as the Gucci clad boy picked up his duffel bag and circled around Yoongi to get to the staircase, his gaze on you for a second to wink at you before disappearing down the staircase.

Unbelievable, you thought to yourself as you pushed to your feet. I’m gonna fucking skewer him the next time I see him.

“This is the third time, ________,” Yoongi sighed, and it was only then did you look up, startled, and studied him. The under bags underneath his eyes were growing darker and the shirt he wore seemed too big for his body. “You can’t keep doing this, you’ll not only damage the property but your own body.”

Your cheeks burned with shame, lips pursing around as you ducked your head, running a hand through your hair. Your eyes flicked back up at Yoongi.

Have you eaten? is what you wanted to ask him, eyes flicking down to your hands as your ears burned with embarrassment as Yoongi gazed at you again. Are you skipping your meals as usual?

But none of those questions left your mouth. Dissatisfied with yourself, you took slow steps to your bag, crouching down to gather all your items before pushing to your feet. Turning around, you saw Yoongi at the stairs, hand on the railing as he watched you.

You followed him down the stairs in silence, the change in the atmosphere so drastic you found yourself staring at the wooden table that belonged to the front desk of the gym thinking what did I do wrong?

“Hey,” Yoongi’s soft voice made your head jerk up and bring you back down to the earth. You met Yoongi’s relaxed gaze, a slight tug of his lips as he outstretched your card back to you. “Go home, I think you overworked yourself. Not to mention your bad fall.”

You winced, giving him back a tiny smile, before grasping the card and stuffing it back in your wallet, feet taking you to the exit.

“Goodbye Yoongi,” you called out, giving him a wave which he reciprocated, although a bit lazier, his elbows folded atop the table and his body leaning forward.

You stepped outside the gym, the air hot and stuffy and your cursed your choice of outfit, wiping a hand down your neck as you tried to shake of unwanted sweat.

Just as you turned around the corner, you came to a halt and yanked your phone out, your mind repeating like a mantra: I’m gonna fucking kill you, Kim Taehyung.

“So what you’re saying is - ”

“I’m not saying anything, Kim.”

“ - that if Yoongi were to come up and ask you out on a date - ”

“Oh my god, Taehyung, quit it!” you slammed your hand down on the bouncy ball, trying to convey your anger in the best way, only for the wretched ball to bounce up in the air and drop back down with a loud boing!

You two made eye contact and that set off Taehyung into a pile of laughter, his arms coming around his waist as he laughed. “Y-You really tried I can’t.”

“Stop talking about him,” you tried again, this time feebly, eyes flickering around just in case. The stretching room was right in the centre of the ground floor and if anyone was to stand in the front they’d hear you.

And the last thing you needed was for your gym trainer to find about your crush on him.

“Mmm,” Taehyung gave back a non-committal hum as he stretched, smirking when you glared at him. He just missed the ball you had thrown at him and you cursed your awful aiming skills in that moment.

A wave of vanilla curled right under your nose and without looking you knew who it was. Taehyung also seemed to know since his eyes perked up, body straightening, hands grasping the ball you had thrown at him.

“____!”

The famous brown haired dancer appeared from the entrance, his movements smooth as he crossed over the wooden flooring, gentle eyes meeting yours. “How are you?” he pouted. “You haven’t attended a single of my class since the new semester started.”

You laughed, unfolding your legs out as you bent to hold the tips of your toes. “I’m a broke college kid, Jimin. And your classes aren’t cheap.”

It was true. Park Jimin wasn’t just known for his good looks - although he could be; the guy was the definition of handsome, with his sharp gaze yet soft, warm smile, his tiny, slim body, but fierce and rough dance moves - he was a living paradox.

But no, Park Jimin was known for his famous dance classes. People from all over the country, and some real eager students sometimes from abroad, came and studied under Park Jimin. The boy was a millionaire at the age of 23, and yet he chose to hold his classes at a measly gym on the 23rd Block.

This was partly due to the fact that Jimin and Yoongi went way back. Many stories were recounted by Jimin on nights spent in the dance studio and you’d keep him company, and you found out that Yoongi had taken care of Jimin when no had ever offered to.

That, to your displeasure, did not help the stupid crush you had on him.

“Well I’m off.” Jimin smiled at you, walking around the circle you and Taehyung had formed.

As he rounded behind Taehyung, he leaned down, slowly and swiftly, to bring his hand down to tickle at Taehyung’s neck - and you knew from a hundred tickle fights that that was in fact Taehyung’s weak spot.

“Don’t be late for class, yeah?” Jimin murmured into Taehyung’s ear, the poor boy frozen to spot with his hands tightening the grip on the ball, his eyes fallen tight and chest halted mid-breath.

Jimin flicked his eyes to you, full of mischeif and mirth, and you gave him a playful frown, lips tugging up in the end when Jimin gave you a sly wink before straightening and walking towards the studio.

“Holy fuck.” Taehyung whispered after a minute, dropping back onto the wooden floor with his arms splayed out. “I think I’m hard.”

You rolled your eyes and threw your bottle onto the boy’s stomach.

A week later you entered the gym frazzled, your mind fuzzy and and your temper on edge. College was getting on your nerves and your friends were irritating you to no end. Did no one in college do their own work? Was it necessary for them to all the time ask for your papers hours before the deadline?

Mumbling some unpleasant words underneath your breath as you pushed open the gym door, you welcomed the warm air inside and,

“Hey there, loser. How’d college go? You’re late today.”

Giving back the smile Yoongi gifted you, you relaxed your shoulders and entered the building, making way across the carpeted floor to stand in front of the boy that leaned over the table with his arms folded to smile at you.

“College was shitty.” You shrugged when Yoongi frowned questioningly before glancing around. You took in the silence of the gym. “No one here today?”

“It’s half past eleven, ______,” Yoongi grinned as he pushed back off the table to point up at the clock that hung overhead. “Gym closes at twelve. No one’s here.”

“Oh.” Your heart sunk. You had been waiting the whole day to get back into the gym to take a few laps in the swimming pool, the muscles in your body aching to stretch. You sighed, tapping the wooden table with your fingertips. “It’s okay, I’ll come back tomorrow early.”

You had crouched down to tie your shoes, mind reeling. What else could you do - going back to the dorm was out of the question. You needed to stay away from that area as long as possible. Maybe you could crash at Taehyung’s? You never actually had been in there, but you had seen it through the window of his car when you once rode in his car.

“Oi.”

You looked up, fingers halting on your shoes, eyes making contact with Yoongi. He was bent over the table, fingertips pressing white against the wood as he poked his head off the edge to glance at you.

“I can give you thirty minutes tops, okay?”

You furrowed your brows at him, mouth twisting before the meaning of his words sinking and your features relaxed before lighting up.

“You serious?”

Yoongi smiled. “Get swimming, miss.”

The water wasn’t as cold as you had expected.

Nevertheless you had catapulted yourself into the water, diving deep and staying underneath before emerging up in a gasp, a smile making it’s way onto your face.

There was something relaxing of swimming - at least in the pools - to you. The water surrounding you, letting you loose yourself to your own world as you floated.

You did a few laps, some more intense than the others. Gripping the ledge of the basin, you pushed yourself off and did a few more back strokes.

“Pool’s closing in five, ___, get moving!”

You flicked around, arms splayed out, to see Yoongi walking across the edge of the pool, arms full of towels and shampoos. He wore a grin, those beautiful brown eyes making your heart stutter, even under the weight of the water that pulled you down.

A gear clicked in your mind.

When was the last time you had played a prank on Yoongi?

Swimming to the center of the pool, you floated around, hair wet and sticking the back of your neck.

“Hey Yoongi!” you called out.

Yoongi turned around, humming out a hmm?, expression blank and unaware to the scheme you had in mind.

“Do you think you could - ?”

You broke off mid call with a yelp, dragging yourself down by yourself, and straight into the water. All you saw was fuzzy water around you, your ears blocked and cheeks puffed with oxygen.

This is gonna be hilarious because

Yoongi can’t swim.

You saw blurred movements above you and a splash signified he had dove into the water.

Surprise filled you when you saw his body swimming easily to you, his worried eyes clear even through the water when he reached to you.

You felt his grip on your waist and lamely you let out a yelp, causing you to inhale a gulp of water, before you were yanked up to the surface.

Oxygen never tasted sweeter, and you inhaled in lungfuls, spluttering out the water that had gone down your throat. You tried to eyes clear your vision as you swung your head around to clear the droplets away.

“Are you okay?”

It was only then did you focus on Yoongi in front of you and -

Oh, he was so close to you, his hands spaced around your waist and holding you firmly in his grasp, his chest heaving as he breathed, brushing against your own.

Your eyes flicked up to his, lips sealed, hand coming up to press at his shoulder in reflex but the emotion in his eyes made you freeze, breath caught in your throat.

He was staring intensely through his wet bangs, lips parted as he panted, throat swallowing as he inspected your whole face.

“_______, are you with me?” Yoongi shook you slightly and you jerked out of your haze, nodding quickly to answer him, lips still shut as you blinked up at him.

“What’s wrong, why aren’t you talking?” Yoongi frowned, one hand coming up to grasp your chin and tilt you closer. “Ah, I bet you swallowed some water from...”

He broke off, eyes flicking from your lips to your eyes, settling there and maintaining eye contact with you. You felt his grip on your waist tighten, blunt fingertips digging harder, and pulling you closer.

Your hands settled against his shoulders, your heartbeat tripping and racing against your rib cage like a rabbit. You could feel your cheeks and ears burn, and you swallowed, glancing away.

“Fuck,” a garbled swear made your head jerk up with a surprised gaze.

Yoongi’s eyes were trained on your teeth dug deeply into your bottom lip. You quickly released it, harsh and ragged breaths leaving you as you felt how close you were with Yoongi, his nose nearly brushing against yours.

“Yoongi,” you finally whispered, gaining his attention back to your eyes. “Please.”

That one word seemed to set him off, cut the tension that had built up in between you two, and he launched himself forward, yanking you forward to his eager lips, grip bordering on bruising. You kissed him back with fervor, arms sliding around his bare neck - when did his shirt fall off? - and looping around, pulling yourself up. Gaining leverage, you kissed him back until your breath gave away.

Tipping your head to his neck when the kiss burned your lips too much, you felt him pepper kisses along your neck. His teeth scraped down your neck, one of his hands coming up to tighten on the back of your neck.

You moaned, arms tightening around Yoongi’s shoulders, heart pittering too fast for you to keep up -

Yoongi froze beneath you and your eyes flew open, gazing through water fuzzy vision at the clear water that surrounded you both and only then did the situation actually dawn upon you:

You had kissed your gym trainer.

With slow, careful movements, Yoongi brought you back down to eye level. Swallowing, you refused to look at him, eyes trained on the dip of his collarbone and fuck that wasn’t helping.

“Hey.” he whispered, hand coming up to rub soothingly at your arm. You finally wrenched your gaze up to him. His gaze was void of any lust he was full of before, just the usual concern, and your heart sunk. He hadn’t felt anything right? Or was he regretting it? “Go shower yeah? I’ll close up the swimming pool.”

Nodding, you pulled yourself away, somehow feeling colder all of a sudden, and wading over to the edge of the pool. Glancing back, you took in Yoongi’s pale back and your heart beat tripped: he was giving you the space to pull yourself out of the water without feeling conscious of the clinging material to your body. You had said that years ago, when you had first met him. How had he still remembered?

Pushing off the the cement edge and into the cold air, you tugged at the wet material off of your body as you scampered over to the showering room. Teeth chattering, your heart beated in rhythm to your shaking body.

In there, you stood under the hot shower for well over five minutes, swallowing as you thought back to the way Yoongi’s lips had felt kissing and mapping out scenarios over your skin, the way his hot breath had panted into your ear. A hundred and one scenarios ran through your mind and you groaned, thudding your head against the wall.

The ache in your core demanded your attention, and your eyes flicked to the door where you knew Yoongi was waiting for you. Steeling yourself that you’d leave here without touching yourself, you moved to turn off the shower when you froze.

You hadn’t brought your bag into the showers. You had no spare clothes to change into.

Cursing out a long sentence of expletives, you ran a hand through your hair frustratedly before glancing at the door. You had no choice but to ask Yoongi to fetch your clothes for you.

Oh my god you really had to do this. You let out an agitated whine, thumping yourself on the head for being a dumb ass.

“Okay,” you spoke to yourself after a minute, shaking your limbs. “You can do this.”

Padding over the tiled bathroom, you opened the door a notch and slowly poked your head out. “Yoongi..?”

And there he was, sitting on one of the long beach chairs, eyes trained on the water with his hands behind up propping him up. When you called him his eyes snapped to you, flicking down to the bare expanse of your neck before quickly gazing back into your eyes. “Yeah? Everything okay?”

“Um.” You had no idea how to put it politely, or discretely, your cheeks flaming as you glanced down at the water puddles forming at your feet. “Could you get my bag?”

“Huh?” Yoongi sat up, head tilted to the side at your mumbling. “I can’t hear you.”

You closed your eyes, fiercely trying to ignore the way your ears went red and curling your toes, you opened your eyes and looked back at him through the space. “My bag. I left my bag upstairs. I don’t have my clothes. Do you think you could get it for me?”

Yoongi’s eyes widened a fraction when he finally heard you, and you saw the way his eyes twitched to blink down at your neck before he got to his feet. Footsteps bringing him closer to you, he brought his hands down in front of him to pull his shirt off. “Here.”

“W-What’re you doing?” you jerked back, eyes wide and desperately trying to stay focused on his face. Which proved to be a hard task when he raised his hand to ruffle through his damp hair.

“Wear this for now.” Yoongi pushed it into your hands. “I’ll be right back with your bag.”

You clenched the fabric in your hands, glancing down at the shirt, and nodded, turning back into the washroom to change. Pushing the door shut with your back, you rested against it and held up the shirt. It was a simple dark blue shirt, nothing too fancy.

Get over it you shook your head. Just wear the shirt. He clearly pulled away from you. He doesn’t see you that way.

A twinge ached at your heart, and you caught your somber face in the mirror of the washroom before sighing and slipping the shirt over your head. It fit you, showing your legs enough for you to hold your hands down to tug it lower.

Slipping out of the room, you stood in front of the door, hands clutching your wet and sodden swimming clothes, bare feet tickling against the tiled floor. You stared at the water of the pool, ripples drifting across the surface, and you could feel your tiredness catching up to you.

Footsteps made you look up and you saw Yoongi jog down the stairs, duffel bag slung over his shoulder as he seemed lost in his thoughts.

“Found it?” you hoarsely teased out, making him glance up.

Yoongi stopped in his tracks a couple steps away from you, hand gripping the strap of the bag as he stared at you, eyes dark, flicking up and down you before looking back into your eyes.

“You,” he croaked before clearing his throat. “You don’t have any clothes in your bag. Did you not pack for swimming?”

You stared at him, jaw dropping, hands releasing the fabric you were clutching and you crossed over to him, unzipping the bag to peer down and-

Nothing. There was nothing in your bag.

“Fuck.” You swore under your breath, hand coming up to rub at the back of your neck. How fucking dumb were you? How could you forget a pair of clothes when you knew you were going to go swimming?

Anxiety and frustration rose in your body. You were never this forgetful, what made you loose focus and skip prepping your bag the night before -

“Oh right!” it hit you and you threw your hands up in exasperation. “Fucking Kris pissed me off so much he made me forget to pack my bag right fuck - ”

“Kris?”

Your eyes flickered to Yoongi. He was standing with his head cocked, eyes still dark and dangerous, but now his hand tightening on the strap of your bag.

“Y-Yeah,” you replied, shifting from one foot the other, hand slowly drifting down from your neck. “My roommate. I got into a fight with him tonight - ”

“About?” Suddenly Yoongi was taking steps forward and reflexively you stumbled back for every step he took, eyes wide and going up to his, seeing the way his eyebrows were furrowed.

“How does that even matter?” You raised an eyebrow, acutely aware of the cold air pricking at your bare legs and raising goosebumps to the flesh, feeling the cold brush of the wall behind your back. “He’s just a roommate, Yoongi.”

“Fuck do you know what you do to me?” Yoongi whispered, bringing his hand up to tuck a loose hair behind your ear. His eyes flicked to yours and he inhaled, leaning closer till your noses brushed. “You have no fucking clue about how much you affect me.”

The air around you two seemed to increase a few degrees, the limited space decreasing between your chests and you found yourself growing light headed the closer Yoongi neared. Something was bubbling inside of you, had been simmering since he kissed you, but now you needed more, needed to touch him, to feel him.

“You don’t have a clue either,” you whispered back, lashes brushing against your skin as your gaze flickered from his lips to his eyes. When he held a questioning gaze, you carried on, “About how much you affect me as well. Whenever I see you at the entrance you make me feel so light and relaxed and when you kissed me I think I lost it but you pulled away and I don’t know if I’m reading the signs wrong because please tell me if I’m reading it wrong - ”

Hands buried themselves into your hair and yanked you against Yoongi’s harsh lips, pushing you up and into him. Without hesitancy you kissed him back, arms slipping around his neck, his soft, pink lips pressing roughly against yours, making you moan out in pleasure.

Yoongi was pushing you back against the wall, lips never leaving yours, head tilting as he gave you mini kisses before letting his tongue come out to lick at your lips. The weak groan you let out made him smirk, the hands in your hair rubbing soothly against your scalp before he fisted a handful, yanking you back to look him in the eyes.

“Oh sweetie,” he murmured, nose gently rubbing yours as he breathlessly smiled. “I’ll make it pretty clear soon enough.”

#yoongi #min yoongi #yoongi smut #yoongi fic #bts #bts fic #bts smut #bts series #hoseok #namjoon #seokjin #jimin #taehyung #vmin #jungkook #forgive any typos

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Lore Episode 13: Off the Path (Transcript) - 24th August 2015

tw: death, WWII

Disclaimer: This transcript is entirely non-profit and fan-made. All credit for this content goes to Aaron Mahnke, creator of Lore podcast. It is by a fan, for fans, and meant to make the content of the podcast more accessible to all. Also, there may be mistakes, despite rigorous re-reading on my part. Feel free to point them out, but please be nice!

Before we begin today’s episode, I wanted to let everyone know that I’ve added two new pages to the Lore website. First, I’ve posted a couple of upcoming live shows to a new live show page – the first show is in Portsmouth, New Hampshire on October 11th, followed by an afternoon show in New Haven, Connecticut on October 25th. I cannot tell you how excited I am to finally meet some of you, so, please, mark the date and come and see me. I also get asked a lot about show transcripts. My transcripts are full of historical references and footnotes, as well as links to relevant web pages and books. You can find out how to get the transcripts by visiting lorepodcast.com/transcripts. And one last thing – I’m also producing smaller, extra episodes of Lore. These are released on off-weeks, the weeks that Lore isn’t released through the podcast feed, and I post them to the Lore Patreon page. Supporters at the $5 or more level will have access to all of them – I’m just saying. And now, on with the show.

I’ve spent most of my life in the presence of troubled sports teams. Growing up in the Chicago area, I was always aware of how long the Cubs had gone without winning a World Series title. It was less a point of pain, and more a numb spot in the collective conscience of everyone around me. When I moved to Boston in the late 90s, I discovered a similar culture, this time centred around the Red Sox. Again, here was a team that had spent decades waiting; year after year, hope would be manufactured, and piled high in the cart of expectations, only to have that cart dumped on its side at the end of each season. Until 2004, that is – that was the year things changed. That was the year that brought the tower of hopelessness and doubt, a tower that took 86 years to construct – brick by brick, year after year – and brought it all crashing down. The wait was over. No, I don’t plan to talk about baseball today, but I do think the story of these teams, like the Cubs and the Red Sox, have something valuable to teach us about how our minds work, our ability to justify, to explain, to make sense of what seems so often to not make any sense at all; that’s what I find fascinating. Humans are so very good at finding reasons. Lurking behind the Red Sox’ 86 year wait like a shadow, and still hovering over the Cubs after 107 long years, are the excuses - more specifically, the curses. I mean, how else are we to explain such droughts, such logic-defying gaps in their score cards. Of course, both of these teams had to be cursed… right? But the bambino and billy-goat weren’t the first curses in history, and they were far from the last, and while some curses have been entertaining or even laughable, others have defied explanation long enough to make people wonder. In fact, some have even been deadly. I’m Aaron Mahnke, and this is Lore.

The word “curse” comes from the Old English word curs - just drop the “e” and you’ll have the root. The meaning isn’t actually very clear, but one of the uses of the Old English word is to denote a path or a route. Now, I’m not etymologist, but I think the word picture here is actually pretty clear: life is like a journey, sometimes we walk along the path of our choosing, and sometimes we’re pushed off and into the woods. It’s in those moments of chaos, of the unexpected and the unfortunate, that we feel like we’ve lost control. It’s as if someone, or something, has knocked us off the path we were travelling. In those moments, it might be appropriate to say that we’ve been cursed. The curse as a concept, though, has been around since the beginning of humanity. In the earliest examples, a curse was a punishment, handed out by a deity to misbehaving or devious human beings. The story of Adam and Eve in the Christian Bible is full of curses, dolled out after their disobedience to God’s instructions: hard physical work, painful childbirth, and expulsion from paradise are all described as curses. The Irish speak of curses as if they were something like birds. Once a curse is spoken aloud, they say it can float around a place until it finds its intended target. If the receiver wasn’t in the room, a curse could drift around for up to seven years. Not aimlessly, though – the curse was like a heat-seeking missile, waiting until the moment when the person would arrive. In Scandinavia, curses were more like bullets. A person might utter a curse at an enemy, but it could be turned back or returned to the speaker, where it would deal the effects of the curse on the speaker instead. Think Harry Potter wand duels, if you will. The Moors of the middle ages also had a very interesting tradition involving curses: it was said that if a man followed a prescribed set of rules and requirements, he was allowed to ask others to help him with something important. If, after jumping through all of the correct hoops, his request was still refused, a curse was said to descend upon all who refused him. Not a specific curse that he made up himself, but a general, social curse, as if tradition itself were punishing the unhelpful people. According to legend, the Celtic people of Europe used curses in a powerful way. If a tenant farmer was fired and evicted from the land that he had been working, he would quickly go and gather stones from all over the property. Then, he would put those stones in a lit fireplace, fall on his knees, and pray. What did he pray for, exactly? Well, they prayed that for as long as the stones remained unburnt, every possible curse would descend upon their landlords, his children, and all the generations after them. Then, rather than leaving the stones in the fireplace, where they could eventually become burnt, thus ending the curses, they would gather them up and scatter them all across the countryside. Curses have been there since the beginning, it seems, but over time, they have evolved to be more than just something you do to another person, as if they were weapons. Many of the stories that we tell on dark nights around campfires have more to do with the implications. You see, sometimes the horrible tragedies of life refuse to be explained away without the mention of a deadly curse.

When Prince Amedeo of Savoy told his father in 1867 that he planned to marry Maria Vittoria dal Pozzo, his father was enraged. Sure, she was of noble birth, but she was no princess, and she certainly wasn’t worthy of the son of a king. He was said to have cursed their union. On the morning of their wedding, Maria’s dressmaker committed suicide. Maria took the hint and found a different dress to wear. Later, as the bridal party made their way to the palace church in a grand procession, one of the military leaders fell of his horse and died right there, in the street. The wedding procession continued on, though, and finally reached the palace gates, only to find them shut. A quick inspection revealed the reason why: the gatekeeper was found in the gatehouse, lying in a pool of his own blood. The death toll continued, though. Immediately after the wedding, the best man shot himself in the head. The wedding party headed to the train station, perhaps in an effort to outrun the curse, but when they arrived, the man who had drafted their marriage contract had a brain haemorrhage and died on the spot. He was soon followed by the station master, who somehow got pulled under the royal train carriage, and was crushed to death. The king apparently saw a pattern and recalled the entire party to the palace. While they were leaving the train, though, one of the nobleman fell beneath the same train car. A medallion on his chest, most likely a gift from the king, was pushed through his skin, stabbing him in the heart. Maria was the final victim of the curse, they say. She died in childbirth at the age of 29.

Timur the Lame, or Tamerlane as he was known, was the great-great-grandson of Genghis Khan, taking the throne in 1369. He was a vicious Mongol warlord and was known for his bloody military campaigns. He often built pyramids after his victories – not with stone, mind you. No, he preferred to use the heads of the defeated army, sometimes tens of thousands of them. He died in 1405, and I imagine more than a few people were elated at the news. He was buried in an area that we now know as Uzbekistan, and a large, jade slab was placed over his tomb as a safeguard. The stone was inscribed with a word of warning: “When I arise from the grave”, it said, “the world will tremble”. Some reports say that another message referred to a great battle that would be unleashed should his grave ever be disturbed. You see where this is going, right? In 1941, Joseph Stalin sent a team of Soviet archaeologists to look for Timur’s tomb. When the local Uzbek elders heard of the search and planned excavation, they spoke out in protest. They made reference to an old book that made it clear just how bad of an idea it was to open the tomb. They spoke of a curse. They spoke, but no one listened. On June 21st, 1941, the tomb of Tamerlane was opened, and his skull was removed. The very next day, Hitler’s forces crossed into the Soviet Union, beginning the largest German military operation of World War II. In fact, if the Second World War had a great battle, this was it, hands down. The body of Tamerlane was studied for over a year while the Soviet Union was torn apart and destroyed by Hitler’s army. All told, the Soviet Union lost 26.6 million men and women to the invasion, more than any country in human history. It’s unclear why, but in November of 1942, the Soviets decided to return Timur’s body to the tomb, complete with a proper, Islamic burial. Days later, the German invasion was repelled at Stalingrad, finally pushing them back to the West, and marking a turning point in the war. A turning point, some say, that was caused by the curse.

The idea of the curse is common throughout folklore, and many popular stories use it as a plot device: the cursed spinning wheel of Sleeping Beauty, Snow White’s cursed apple, and the cursed brothers of the seven ravens all come to mind. But there’s another example in Irish tradition that tops them all, however obscure it might be. There’s an ancient Norse work called the King’s Mirror that tells a fascinating story about St. Patrick. Patrick, of course, was known for his work spreading Christianity throughout Ireland in the 5th century, but he apparently did not always meet with success on his travels. According to the account, St. Patrick once visited a clan that lived in the southern kingdom of Ireland called Ossory. Like any other visit, Patrick’s mission was to bring his message of Christianity to the people there, but it appears that he struck out. The King’s Mirror goes on to describe how the people of the clan made every effort they could to insult both Patrick and the God he represented. Patrick, to his credit, carried on and tried his best. He preached the same message he always did, and followed the same protocol, meeting with the clan in their place of assembly, but the people wouldn’t hear him out. Instead, they did something that might seem incredibly odd to our modern ears: they howled like wolves. It’s not that they laughed at him, and it happened to sound like howling; these people literally howled at St. Patrick. The reason was incredibly logical. The totem, or spirit animal for this clan, happened to be the wolf. To them, they were just responding to the message of an outside deity with the sounds of their own. Now, this was pretty unheard of for St. Patrick, and the fact that this event was recorded in a Norse history book highlights just how unusual it was. But even more unusual was Patrick’s response to this stubborn, insulting clan. Clearly upset, Patrick stopped speaking, and began to pray. It was said that he asked God to punish the people of the village for their stubbornness. He wasn’t specific, but he asked for some form of affliction that would be communal, that would carry on, through the generations, as a constant reminder of their disobedience. According to the story, God actually listened. It was said that the people of Ossory were forever cursed to become the very thing they worshipped - wolves. But this curse followed a very specific set of rules: every seven years, one couple from the village of Ossory would be transformed into a wolf. They would be stuck in this form day and night, year after year, until the next couple would take over, transforming into wolves themselves. Part of the curse was said to be how the people of Ossory maintained their human minds while in the form of a wolf. But although they thought and spoke as humans, they were equally bound to the cravings of their new form; specifically, the craving for human flesh. In this way, the curse affected everyone, from the man and woman transformed, to the people around them who lived in constant fear of being attacked. Ever since that day, so the legend goes, the people of Ossory have been cursed.

There’s media hype, and then there’s grasping at straws. For some people, declaring someone or something to be cursed adds an air of mystery and drama. It’s the sexy bit, and sex sells, right? For example, the Kennedy family story is sad and tragic, but when we add a dash of curse, we elevate it to near mythic proportions. Other people, though, really do believe. Either they’ve experienced the sting of unexplainable misfortune, or they’ve watched the lives of people around them crumble for no discernible reason. The human mind wants answers, it demands them, it seeks them out. People love story, but only the ones with closure, and that’s what curses offer us. At the end of the day, curses help us make sense of a thing, or person, or place, that seems to be haunted by misfortune. They act like a walking stick for people having a difficult time staying on the path. They help us make sense of life. I can imagine life in the 6th century in Ireland was incredibly difficult, and it would make sense that, eventually, someone would begin to tell stories that tried to explain the harshness of that life, stories about a curse, perhaps. When someone failed to return from battle or a hunting trip, or even travel between two villages, it was hard to not have all the answers. Stories about attacks from local werewolves certainly did their part in explaining these disappearances. But they were just stories, right? Gerald of Wales was a 12th century historian who recorded something interesting. He had been sent to Ireland by King Henry II to record the local history there. According to him, a local priest requested his company while he was visiting. This priest sat down and told Gerald an amazing tale. According to the report, he had been travelling near the western border of county Meath, close to what would have been ancient Ossory, and had camped for the night in the woods. That night, with his fire burning low, someone approached him from the darkness beyond the firelight, and spoke. Obviously, the priest was frightened – he thought that he had been alone, but the voice of a man called out to him with great urgency. The man spoke of his wife, who was sick at home. He was worried, and wondered if this man of God might come, and at least perform last rights for her. Reluctantly, the priest agreed. He gathered up his belongings and followed the voice into the woods. They travelled a short distance, until they came to a large, hollow tree. There, the priest noticed two frightening things. First, there was something, or someone, lying inside the tree, presumably the sick wife. Second, though, he realised that the voice was not coming from a man at all, but a wolf. He was taken aback. How, he asked the wolf, was he able to speak like a man? The wolf’s answer was simple: centuries before, he said, his people had been cursed by a travelling priest, forever doomed to become wolves. The priest prayed over the man’s wife, he tended her illness, and the couple was gone by morning, never to be seen again.

This episode of Lore was produced by me, Aaron Mahnke. You can learn more about me and this show over at lorepodcast.com, and be sure to follow along at Twitter, Facebook, Tumblr and Instagram @lorepodcast. This episode of Lore was made possible by you, listeners who deserve no curses. [Insert sponsor break]. Thanks for listening.

#lore podcast #podcasts #aaron mahnke #curses #werewolves #amedeo of savoy #stalin #tamerlane #timur the lame #the werewolves of ossory #folklore #ireland #italy #russia #transcripts #13

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olive-wood · 5 years

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Natural Birth. VBAC.

It's taken me longer than expected to write this post. Partly because having two, under twos is much harder than my original over active ego allowed me to think it would be. But also, because i needed to take the time to reflect over parts of my birth experience that i originally felt disappointed with.

Firstly though, some context or my previous birth experience with our little girl Ethel. In May of 2017 I was deeply under the allusion that birth would come easy to me. I felt I had a strong pain threshold having taken many equestrian blows, i believed that as my body was built for birthing children it would be an (albeit painful) doddle, after all "women have been doing it for 1000s of years". No preparation necessary.

However, a word of advice to all pregnant ladies falling for the tight lipped, patriarchally driven society view of child birth.... the above couldn't be further from the reality you will face, if you don't prepare for the greatest and hardest job you're likely to ever experience.

With Ethel I couldn't cope with even the first contraction. The power felt as my uterus worked hard to bring our girl into the world overwhelmed me and I wanted it taken away at only 2cm of dilation. I exhausted myself, mind and body, and stopped progressing at 8cm after 22hours of hard labour, copious amounts of drugs and many, many hands checking position and progress. The end result: emergency c.section. Though Ethel was not stressed and remained safe and content inside me... I had given up. I didn't understand what happening. Why I wasn't sneezing her out as I had hoped. Why the pain was all too much even with ALL the drugs the NHS had to offer. On May the 25th 2017 jumping the queue of the planned c.sections booked in that day, Ethel was born via the sunroof. By a wonderful surgeon whose humour and skill kept me calm and with very little to recover from afterwards.

Fast forward, to 16 months later. Arthur's arrival. How time changes people, how experience can empower and guide you. I had learnt ALOT from how I reacted during Ethel's birth and i was determined to ensure a different outcome this time. I read a great book by Juju Sundin and would suggest everyone who is involved in birth give it a read. It predates the current hypnobirthing trend, though follows a similar respect for the power of your mind but provides more physical exercises in order to control your reaction to labour. I also, followed birth bloggers on Insta that promote and advocate a more open understanding of birth. Showing full uncensored videos of labour. Something of which I think should be shared with all women, men and children alike, allowing for a gentle, natural appreciation of the powerful experience that is child birth.

I also prepped my husband with how best he could actively support me, forwarned him of how I intended to become vocal and not hold back this time round and my wishes for a natural unmedicated birth.

On the 5th of November, a week before my due date at 10am whilst playing with Ethel I felt the first uncomfortable twinge. I called my midwifery friend, who was to act as my doula. Unfortunately she was enjoying a wedding in Portugal at the time. She confirmed for me that labor had started.. boosted my confidence and encouraged my excitement whilst reminding me to eat and rest whilst I could. My last labor having been such a long one, I knew I needed to reserve my energy.

However, a long labor wasn't to be. By 1030am, having managed to put a jumper and wellies on Ethel (trousers were proving too difficult), I decided walk the collies to find my husband Mark who was mucking out the cow shed. I found the fresh air and repetitive movement of a swaying walk distracted me from each growing contraction. Having Ethel to concern myself over was also a great help and I soon found I was singing "Swing Low Sweet Chariot" whilst rocking her on my hip as we walked... (song choice is still a mystery to me?!)

By the time we reached the back of the shed I could see my husband had moved to the front and I began to grow weary of holding Ethel. Knowing I couldn't cross through the cows with dogs I began to wander back... toddler, reluctantly doddering along side. During what should have been a mere 2min walk i felt that my contractions had ramped up a notch and I was grateful to see my father in law driving up the track. I explained that Arthur was on route and asked if he'd mind taking Ethel whilst i organised child care and informed Mark. By this time I needed to keep reminding myself that the pain i was feeling was a "good pain" a "healthy pain" it was my uterus muscle, a muscle rarely in use, aching at its efforts at bringing my 2nd born into the world.

I finally managed to reach Mark who (in true farmer style) informed me he'd be in at brew time and if he thought we'd have time to finish off the rest of the mornings jobs. By this point I was struggling to stay standing and knew I needed to rest and time my contractions. So I headed back to the house and put in a phone call to my parents.

It took my parents 45 minutes to get to our farm, by that time I was sat on a hard back dining chair at the front of our farm house wearing only my jogging shorts and a bikini top keeping cool from the overwhelming heat my body was producing. The songs of Mr Tumble keeping my toddler from breaking my concentration on my guttural moans and the repetitive (though admittedly not for everyone) comfort of one of our dogs licking my leg. I swear our usually quiet lane was busiest in that hour of me sat there.

The contractions were powerful to say the least, but I felt I had good control over my perspective of what my body was doing. Staying positive is key. I knew panic founded on negativity must be avoided at all costs.

Mark was with me at this stage and I found I could only shout the word TIME at the beginning and end of each contraction whilst concentrating on staying in control. Fortunately, Mark understood and would take note of how far apart they were and most importantly let me know when I was around half way through each one. Contractions generally last around 60 seconds, and begin to peak as you come around the 30 second mark... having someone tell you at this point you've broken the back of that particular contraction can really help you keep focus for its descent. Humorously, my parents didn't quite understand my one word language and kept telling me minute by minute the actual time of day- believing it to be something i was determined to focus on.

By around 11.45, after only 15 miniutes of my parents arriving it was time to leave. I was concerned that it was too soon and id be in for a long hospital stay, but my contractions were now less that 2 minutes apart and I was struggling to distinguish between each one.

The car journey was an ordeal that required alot of LOUD singing to help me focus on something other than painful surges that were being amplified by each pothole and tight country lane turn. I surprised myself at my own vocal range and began what i can only describe as an attempt at Opera. I quivered each note for as long as I could: matching the noise level to the strength of each contraction.

By the time we reached the hospital just after 1230 I new things were progressing well as I struggled to move from the uncomfortable position within the car to the doors of the birth centre. I took comfort in this though. I knew that with each increase in pain and discomfort, I was closer to meeting our little boy. I also clung to the knowledge that once he reached my birth canal this pain would ease, and that many women who are aware of the change at that stage of labor would be afforded a rest bite before the big push.

Mark went to the doors before me and left me in the car. We hadn't been able to get through to birth centre to inform them we were coming (I know now that Mark had been dialing the community midwife number which was written next to the Labour ward number!) and I didn't fancy standing with my bags before I could see those doors were open. On arrival we were greeted by a number of midwives and various questions of which I was so grateful to Mark for answering, as by this point I was enjoying sharing my new found operatic skills to every other birthing mother at the centre that day.

We were shown into a large, airy room with a birthing pool. I knew I wouldnt be using the pool after my experience with Ethel. I'd never been comfortable being in a bath for too long and I enjoy my bathing water hotter than is safe for birthing in. One of the midwives kindly removed the bed that was in the room and replaced it with a birth bed. Something I thought I wouldnt have felt comfortable with after reading so many hard opinions about how unnatural lying on your back is as a birthing position. But I wanted to sit, I needed to sit. I needed to focus. Not march on the spot, bounce on a ball or dance around the room like I assumed I would.

After what I believe to be around 1pm my midwife introduced herself to me. Other than the rearrangement of furniture I hadn't noticed her presence. Her name was Helen. And I hope that she doesn't mind me sharing her name and her part in my story... but without her and her perfectly instinctive ways I believe this blog wouldn't be about the postive and enjoyable birth that I can now reflect on.

I purposefully mention how I never noticed her until her gentle introduction as this was key, I believe, to our success as a team in my labor. She knew instinctively, even without the help of my notes (that on account of us not calling before arriving hadnt been sent yet) what my birth plan hopes were. She knew her role would be best served as unobtrusive as possible. I felt her trust in me and my abilities every time I broke from my focus, which had become a form of unintended mediation (Mark told me later: I looked like I was "off my face of Spice" and "groaning like an animal") to see her smiling at me, letting me know she was there if I needed her.

After sometime Helen asked if I wanted her to check my dilation. This level of respect for the autonomy over my own body secured my belief that I was in the right place. That unassisted birth doesn't have to be at home alone. Having your cervix checked is an uncomfortable feeling, ive heard some women describe it as painful, but a good tip during labor is to take these moments as more positive distractions. Its a discomfort you can confidently understand, it brings you knowledge of progress, it allows you to make decisions and be better informed (should you so wish to be). Helen announced I was 8cm, the stage I reached with Ethel after almost 7 times the length of time. 8cm the magical number of transition. 8cm... only 2cm to go. At this point my confidence began to grow beyond anything the pain my body was feeling could touch. I began to chant in my head "I can do this".

Not long after I requested fluids. The need for these (as well as a safety precaution after my first birth) was the reason why I wouldn't feel comfortable birthing at home. I know my body, and I know I dehydrate quickly. Mark had been consistently feeding me sips of water throughout my contractions but I knew if I didn't boost my fluids my energy levels could dip before then end. Something of which was noted when labouring Ethel. Mark stepped up again and convinced a senior midwife that fluids were needed and she checked my urine by placing a catheter at my request as I was beyond relaxing enough to pee. The results showed a high number ketones and fluids were given.

Around this time my notes must have come through. As I was paid a visit by a consultant. Non other than the same consultant whom was the surgeon to my c.section the previous year. It is at this part of my birth journey that I have found most worth learning. Learning about how easily birth experiences can change, how important it is to be clear about your wishes before labour takes over and you are unable to do so for yourself, a need for better awareness on how common intervention can take labour in a new direction and also why these intervention of take place.

My consultant didn't have the same knowledgeable approach as my midwife Helen, as to the importance of unassisted, natural birthing means to a birthing mother. I recall him asking what pain relief i had taken, his need for me to focus on his questions, forcing me to loose focus on my concentration as he was concerned my relaxed exterior was a sign of me weakening. He then, albeit politely, told me he was going to check my progress and announced the crushing news he believed me to be 6cm dilated not the magical 8cm and that he was going to brake my waters. My plans for a unassisted birth was slipping out of my reach, I could feel the panic rising in me, the amount of people in the room came to light. I began to feel less of a simple mother birthing her miracle and more of person in need of medical aid.

The feeling of my waters breaking was more than intense. The contractions that came soon after did exactly as the consultant, with all his best intentions, had intended. I was catapulted forward into my labor and my mind had no chance to catch up. My meditational skills had gone... no amount of opera could bring it back. My body wanted Arthur out. My mind and body were separated. My body began to push as my mind along side my husband and Helen tried to command it stop. I won't lie to anyone reading this looking for a positive birth read: this stage of being so quickly advancing in labor was too much for me. I lost all control. The pain was sickening. The contractions all consuming. I had hit transition with no real build up to it. I wasn't prepared and I needed help.

As each contraction came my body would lurch forward and begin to push. I remember my husband pinning back to the bed nose to nose telling me to breath with him. I could see the concern in his face and I could hear it in Helen's voice. I needed to relax, baby wasn't ready. My body wasn't ready. My old scar certainly wasn't ready. I had been labouring well from the very first twinge for only 5 hours, yet on seeing the gentleman that had performed my c.section and coping so abysmally with this new direction my birth had taken I wanted rest bite. The rest bite i had forgotten comes soon after transition. Your whole labor is very much like one contraction: it reaches a peak (at transition) but once you've reached that peak it settles down and you can some what rest (When your baby reaches your canal). I wish I had remembered that. But I never... and demanded an epidural. I remember the words leaving my mouth. I remember more so Mark's quick reaction at telling me I didn't mean it... and how even quicker i retorted I did. I remember how Helen tried to buy some time in the hope I'd change my mind. And I remember how inside I knew how much I didn't want that type of help. But I was desperate and it was my wishes that were acted upon. If only I had been so confident in requesting to having no intervention then perhaps I wouldn't have had one.

At around 430pm the anesthetist arrived with my epidural. He had to wait for my contractions to pass before he could set up the injection. During this time Helen had sat me up on the bed and was allowing me to squeeze the life out of her arms whilst guiding me in my breathing. I was transfixed on the movement of her mouth as she spoke words of confidence to me... I felt the control I lost returning and the disappointment of what I had asked for.

My characters greatest failing is my fear of upsetting people. I had asked for an epidural... I had demanded one. This man had taken the time to come to the birth centre from his own ward to give me it. The package was open.. the drug would be wasted, as well as everyone involveds time. So, just like staying in the warm birthing bath with Ethel, when I all I wanted to do was get out after only 5 minutes of being in... I didn't say anything.

At this point i must say I'm not against expectant mothers taking any form of pain relief during birth. Birth is as unique as the individual going through it. But birth control is something that wasn't on my dream plan. After feeling a remembering very little of my daughter's birth, I wanted to feel and remember every second of my son entering into the world. And fortunately...by the grace of God I did.

An epidural can take anywhere between 15-30mins to take effect and soon after the doctors had left and the room was clear of anyone other than my supreme birth team, I felt then sensation I had hoped to experience.... a drop. The passage of my baby boy from my uterus into my birth canal. Helen had told Mark I was ready, though I heard him say to give me a moment before telling me. He knows me so well I thought. He knew how important this part was for me. He knew how upset I was inside after the inventions. I needed to take this slow. I needed this to be a calm moment. Not the drama of tv births. I wanted to enjoy this.

And I did.

Helen told me it was time whenever i was ready. I remember her smiling and I knew I was back where I wanted to be. My epidural hadn't kicked yet I still had all feeling and the urge came to push and I followed it. Not like before-this felt powerful but not painful. My pushing at first was feeble to say the least. I remember reading about people breathing out their babies. I wanted that experience... but I still needed to push hard to help move Arthur down. At first my efforts were accompanied by grunts that would escalate into shouts.. not of pain but of release. But Helen instructed me that this was wasting much needed energy. I needed to focus in pushing down and out from below. No vocals needed. Just concentrate on what my body was already doing. Her words were so clear and calm I couldn't help but fall into them. And I felt my mind become perfectly one with the physical aspects of my body. With in what felt like only moments he was crowning. It was amazing. I knew soon I'd be meeting my little boy and I wanted this moment to last. With every push I'd allow him to hover almost between world's. The only pain i felt was a hot sensation as my skin stretched to accommodate my progress as I was close to the end. I knew if I wanted to avoid any tears I had to take my time and allow my body to bring Arthur into the world. So I began to breath deeply and slowly. Enjoying every second. His head appeared to my husband with one deep outward breath....followed by his perfect 7.9lb and into my waiting arms.

We had done it. And it was all and more than I could have hoped for.

My beautiful boy was taking sustenance from my breast as we waited for the placenta to pulsate the final drops of goodness that had allowed him to thrive inside me those past 9 months. After only 6.5 hours from start to finish...to the lights and sounds of fireworks he arrived.

The End.

To my husband Mark I thank you for being my rock. For understanding my needs and not leaving my side (even in the face of off key opera). You are my world and the children you have given me our the stars.

To Helen: there arent words to fully describe the appreciation and gratitude to you for being my midwife and my unintentional doula. And if I can ask one favour from you, after all you have done, is that you are there for next children I bring into this world.

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coppicefics · 3 years

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Masked Omens: Week Three

New chapter here, or read from the start here!

(Right click picture and select ‘View Image’ or ‘Open Image In New Tab’ for hi-res version.)

[Image Description: Image 1 - A simple rendition of the Masked Singer UK logo, a golden mask with colourful fragments flying off of it. The mask has a golden halo and a golden devil tail protruding from either side. Below, gold text reads ‘Masked Omens’.

Image 2 - A page from the Entertainment section of the Capital Herald, dated Saturday, 9th January, 2021. Full image description and transcript below the cut. End ID.]

The Capital Herald - Saturday, 9th January, 2021 Entertainment

Main story: SECOND SABLE BRAND AMBASSADOR ADMITTED TO HOSPITAL Stunned fans phone in to save the day as model collapses during charity fundraising challenge Model and social media influencer Adam Mann, 29, was rushed to hospital on Friday night after he collapsed during a live webstream. Worried fans alerted the authorities and an ambulance was dispatched to Mann's Kensington home at approximately 8pm last night. Mann's representatives have yet to release a statement, but a source close to him told The Capital Herald that Mann had been feeling unwell for some time. “He's been out of sorts for ages,” she admitted, “and when I looked up the symptoms online, it said it was probably malnutrition. I told him, it's that diet he's on. But Adam wouldn't listen.” Mann is a brand ambassador for Dr Raven Sable's diet and lifestyle products. Earlier this month, another Sable ambassador, Lilith Root, checked into an in-patient facility to begin treatment for an eating disorder. Sable's representatives have so far declined to comment on either incident, despite repeated invitations to do so. Mann is a dedicated charity campaigner, often urging his peers in the modelling industry to raise awareness and funds using the wry social media hashtag #NotJustAPrettyFace. In the few years since he rose to prominence, he has supported hundreds of charities ranging from local foodbank initiatives to global human rights and animal welfare concerns. “It‘s so like Adam,” our source told us, “to literally collapse in the middle of trying to help someone else. He always puts himself last. I really, really hope he’s OK.” It’s a sentiment that’s been echoed in Twitter threads and on message boards across the internet - including in the comments of Mann’s most recent Instagram post, which was uploaded just an hour before the livestream started. “Ready to take some questions, have some fun and raise some cash for a great cause,” said the caption. “Please Adam, look after yourself and get well soon. You’re so thin in this photo :( xxxx” replied a user with the handle @adamfann95, three hours later. Similar messages soon followed as news of Mann’s condition spread. At the time of Mann’s collapse, his charity livestream had raised over £15,000 for Lionheart, a charity dedicated to the care and protection of lions and other wild animals who’ve been illegally kept as pets. Since then, fans have continued to make donations in his name, and the charity is now set to receive over £38,000. “We wish Adam a very speedy recovery, and we hope he knows he’s always welcome to visit us at the Lionheart Sanctuary,” said Noah Shipman, the charity’s founder and chairman. “Thank you to all those who’ve donated; we firmly believe that these animals belong outside, not cooped up between four walls or in someone’s garden. Just like us, they like to roam! Thank you for helping us to save those poor creatures who’ve been put in a horrible position through no fault of their own.” At time of writing, there has been no update on Mann’s condition. MARY HODGES. [Image Description: a close-up of biblical Adam biting the apple, taken from the Good Omens TV show. End ID.] TAKEN ILL: Adam Mann, pictured above in an ad campaign for Dr Raven Sable’s CHOW nutritional lifestyle regime, was admitted to hospital on Friday evening (Image: QuiteUnlikely.net)

Centre left: Memory Lane: Tip from the Top The gunge plunge was a child's idea of justice, but it worked. They don't make children's telly like they used to. Before Peppa Pig and Shaun the Sheep, there was Superted and Maid Marian and Her Merry Men. Those shows have had their time, changed the genre for the better, and been consigned to history – and there's certainly an argument for reviving them. But one children's show that's going to be hard to replace is my old favourite, Tip from the Top. Hosted by Blue Peter alum Pat Maputi, the show was based on a simple, winning format; kids competed to score points, win prizes, and ultimately get the opportunity to drop their least favourite parent, guardian, teacher, or other adult into a pool of gunge and goo. Named for the chair that tilted forward and dislodged the unfortunate adult seated on it, the show might have been nothing more than a simple gameshow curiosity, but its concept of offering redress for the many perceived slights inflicted on kids by grown-ups made it a real treasure. To children of my generation, it was like a little revolution; when we were sent to our rooms unjustly, when we were kept behind after class, when we were made – horror of all horrors – to tidy our rooms, Tip from the Top offered the tantalising prospect of justice. Of course, all the adults on the show had agreed to be there, accepting the risk of being plunged into a thick layer of green slime. Pat Maputi was in league with the detention-givers and the room-senders all along. But as children, we didn't realise that; to us, Tip from the Top was the highest possible Court of Appeal. And for that, it will always be remembered fondly. Sadly, Tip from the Top was cancelled in 2000, a new millennium bringing a new wave of children's television to our screens. The focus of children’s programming began to shift towards a more fiction-heavy schedule, and some undoubtedly excellent shows came out of it. But perhaps, even after all these years, a reboot might not be too much to hope for – after all, children these days must have just as many complaints about their adult overlords as we did, back then. Clearly, somebody needs to give Pat a call and set the wheels of justice in motion once more. SARAH JEUNE. Memory Lane is our regular feature, looking back at the books, shows and films of yesteryear through a nostalgic lens. Do you miss something you’d like to see featured? Just send the show name (plus channel and airdates if you know them) in an email to: [email protected] - your prayers might just be answered!

Centre right: The Masked Singer Continues Did I really have a life before the live shows? It's only week three of The Masked Singer UK's first ever live series, and already I've forgotten what I used to do with my Saturday nights before it was on. Is it just me, or is anybody else having funny turns on the Tube, squinting suspiciously at strangers and wondering, “could it be you?” Of course, the likelihood of running into Apple, Axolotl, Black Cat, Bonfire, Goose, Pony, Snake, Squid, Sword or Teapot on my morning commute is vanishingly small, and they'd be unlikely to give themselves away if I did see them. But after a Saturday night spent hunting for the slightest clues and rummaging through my own brain for names, it's hard to turn those instincts off come Monday morning. Everybody seems to have a theory, of course, even at this early stage. My postman claims Apple has to be a tech mogul, my colleagues have a betting pool on which character turns out to be a former member of Blazin' Squad, and my dentist waited until she'd got the little mirror in my mouth to ask me if I thought Pony walked like a minister, whatever that means. Me? I have a few wild guesses, but I'd prefer to keep them to myself until we have a little more to go on. Many of our readers, I'm delighted to report, have far more faith in their own guessing ability, and we've collected some of the most interesting responses from the comments section of our website on the page opposite. Give it a read and tell us what you think – your comment might be featured next week! In the meantime, let me recap what we do know. Bell was unmasked in the first week, and turned out to be Sergeant Shadwell, a former soldier turned YouTuber. I am assured by my more online colleagues that he's known for debunking conspiracy theories, whatever urban exploration is, and occasionally looking for ghosts. Then, last week, we met and said goodbye to Ninja, who turned out to be none other than Esther James, England women's rugby captain. I never would have guessed, and I'm quite keen on rugby; identifying someone by their singing voice alone is much harder than it seems! I may not know who this year's contestants are, but I know I'll be on the edge of my seat all night waiting to find out. I'll be tuning in tonight for another live show; if you join me, don't forget to get in touch and tell us your best theories! EDWARD BIGGS. The Masked Singer UK will air live tonight at 7pm on ITV. Contact us via our website or at: [email protected] to share your thoughts and guesses. Ad (bottom third of the page): [Image Description: A banner ad with a black background. On the right is a photograph of Agnes Nutter as seen in Good Omens, demonstrating some serious side-eye. Overlaid is Agnes Nutter’s signature, followed by the words ‘DS member & Author’. On the left, bright yellow-green figures demonstrating various exercises - a football goalie making a save, a gymnast balancing on their hands, and a weightlifter - surround the main text. End ID.] Have you been skipping leg day? Come on down to DIVINATION STATION [the words ‘Divination Station’ are a graffiti-style logo] where fitness is fun! www.divinationstation.com

#disordered eating tw #eating disorder tw #masked omens #masked omens spoiler #mine #good omens fic #mo week three

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ericvick · 3 years

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Vaccine dose amount on rise as the town slowly and gradually reopens

Boston moved into a new stage of eased-up pandemic limits on Monday as small children from pre-K to Grade 3 returned to classrooms for the initial time in a just about a year and places to eat and other indoor corporations confronted renewed exercise with capacity allowances ramped up to 50 per cent.

Still, Mayor Walsh stated on Monday, less stringent statewide principles governing are living entertainment indoors would not be allowed within the metropolis right up until later on in the thirty day period.

Meanwhile, initiatives to defend the city’s citizens from the lethal virus have built continual development. As of Feb. 23, much more than 96,000 Bostonians – some 15 per cent of them more than age 16 – experienced gained at least their to start with dose of vaccine safety towards Covid-19. The figures have no question risen because that date.

“Of those people folks, about 42 per cent went to men and women of shade,” mentioned Wellbeing and Human Expert services main Marty Martinez, who joined Walsh in a Monday push convention to present updates on the city’s pandemic reaction.

Across the state, a quantity equivalent to the population of Methuen — around 51,000 people — got their second vaccination doses between past Friday’s report from the Division of General public Overall health and Sunday’s update. There are now 550,000 men and women entirely vaccinated towards the coronavirus, Gov. Baker reported Monday morning, in comparison to 550,302 complete verified bacterial infections given that the start off of the pandemic.

Also on Monday, Baker reported about 68 percent of state citizens 75 and older experienced been vaccinated. In the long-expression care sector, 90 per cent of inhabitants and about 70 per cent of team experienced obtained vaccines, he famous.

As to renewed industrial action in Boston, specific organizations will not nonetheless be in a position to both reopen or maximize ability boundaries, which includes indoor live performance venues, large-get in touch with indoor recreation like roller skating or laser tag, and stay audio in dining places.

Walsh reported that the town will continue to align with the state’s phased-in reopening established for March 22, relocating into section 4 action 1 – “if our cases and community well being details help that.”

He included: “I want to be clear: We are relocating ahead listed here in the metropolis of Boston together with the state, but we have some crucial exceptions that are heading into impact. We’re getting an solution that matches our unique features as a substantial, primarily dense, town.

“We have not elevated the 6-human being highest at tables and I know eating places want that, but just be affected individual. We will get there, but we are earning confident the general public wellness figures are risk-free right before we do this.”

Improved outside eating in Boston will resume on April 1 and further particulars on restricted parking and street closures will be built offered in the coming weeks. So considerably, the town has gained 370 programs for outdoor dining licenses and accredited extra than 150.

Walsh also urged Bostonians to continue on to get examined for the virus as the state-led hard work to distribute vaccine pictures starts to penetrate further into the city’s toughest-strike neighborhoods.

There are now 17 vaccination web pages in the metropolis, including 7 local community health centers, 8 pharmacies, and 2 mass vaccination internet sites, together with the Reggie Lewis Centre and Fenway Park.

50 percent the appointments at the Reggie Lewis Middle have been reserved as precedence reserving for citizens of “Roxbury and bordering communities”– which includes Dorchester.

“We are proud of the equitable access we have been able to provide to metropolis of Boston inhabitants, specifically at the Reggie Lewis Middle,” stated Walsh. “Moving ahead, we’re heading to keep on to keep 50 percent of the vaccine slots qualified for people today of shade, doing the job by way of neighborhood wellbeing centers and metropolis businesses.”

So much, far more than 4,000 people have been vaccinated at the Lewis Middle because it opened on Feb. 1, in accordance to Martinez. He stated 45 % of these have been persons of colour and 55 p.c Boston inhabitants, with Roxbury as the most represented of the city’s neighborhoods.

Condition officers have contracted with CIC Well being, which operates the mass vaccination courses at Fenway Park and Gillette Stadium, to grow the Reggie Lewis procedure. The agency mentioned it will have the capability to administer 800 Pfizer pictures for each working day from the Reggie Lewis Center with plans to “ramp up to 2,500 every day appointments within just about a month.”

When requested if the city may possibly use outside and drive-through vaccination internet sites as the weather begins go warm up, Martinez replied: “That’s definitely a part of it. We’re not pretty there temperature-wise the place we’d want to create outside areas but it is surely a section of the larger piece.

“What we want to be capable to do around vaccinations,” he stated, “is to not only have these fastened locations— pharmacies, local community overall health centers, and our mass vaccination web sites – but also destinations in which we can deliver the vaccine.”

With regard to instruction, the BPS’s invitation to pre-K to Quality 3 pupils for in-individual mastering meant that yet another 7,900 pupils in all could return to lecture rooms, introducing up to a overall of 15,000 college students who have been invited to return to city educational facilities since the starting of November.

“We’ll carry on to deliver college students again into our universities safely and securely as lengthy as the public well being facts guidance it,” said Walsh, including that Covid-19 pool screening will be available to all college students whose people consent.

For each the timeline that BPS released in January, all pupils in grades 4 by means of 8 will be qualified for in-individual understanding on March 15 and all remaining students will be suitable on March 29.

Walsh also took see of the forthcoming St. Patrick’s Day holiday break. He warned Bostonians about social distancing, reminding every person that the parade in South Boston has been cancelled all over again this calendar year and that private gatherings stay limited to 10 individuals indoors and 25 outdoors.

“There ought to be no huge gatherings of any type for St. Patrick’s Day,” he explained. “We are so near to a complete line below what we really don’t need to have now is a action backwards. Events like St. Patrick’s Working day grow to be super-spreader activities and carry us into a scenario exactly where we’re shutting every thing down all over again.”

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#amount #Dose #gradually #reopens #Rise #slowly #town #Vaccine

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emunenen · 4 years

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Makao Bora

New Post has been published on https://wp.me/saK8na-girls

If you are a woman with prospects these are the best estates to live in

While men don’t give a hoot where they live in the city, women do. Why else would a woman move out of a spacious two-bedroom apartment in Umoja to a tiny servant’s quarter in Valley Arcade, where she can’t even keep a pet?

While a man might agonise over reasons for moving houses, a woman could be chasing a well-heeled man in such a hood.

Indeed, a city woman’s decision regarding where to live can be influenced by diverse factors ranging from search for the future father of her children, money, business opportunities and even myths and stereotypes about the area.

Here are the best neighbourhoods for women to live in…and avoid.

1. Karen/Runda/Kitsuru/Muthaiga

Although Karen is located further away from the city as compared to the other neighbourhoods on this list, the serenity and natural scenery more than make up for the distance.

The neighbourhood is largely considered posh, with the many mansions and villas housing notable people in society.

Karen can be boring for housewives. But it is usually rumoured that domestic workers more than compensate for what husbands can’t provide.

Precious Muigai, who currently lives in Embakasi says her dream home is Runda, Muthaiga or Kitsuru.

“Who doesn’t want an elite gated neighbourhood? Besides, most men working at the United Nations offices in Gigiri and the US Embassy, are known to live there. As a single woman, my dream is to get married to a man who either works for an Embassy or a well-paying international agency.”

2. Kilimani/Riara/Lavington

There are modern maisonettes, mixed with commercial developments, but most people who live in these neighbourhoods don’t have time to shop or even run errands.

Every business woman aspiring to work from the comfort of her house wants to live there.

Nancy Onjiko, who supplies veggies via an online platform in Kilimani, says these places are ideal for a woman looking for man to keep them.

“The wives here are so caught up in themselves doing their chama meet ups or getting depressed over first world problems that they don’t have time for their husbands,” says Nancy, who is a proud clande herself.

3. Woodley/Adams Arcade/Ngumo

Women love to shop and the closer and cheaper the venue the better. Women who live in these hoods always look good, fashion-wise. You may wonder where they get the money to maintain such a fresh wardrobe but that’s what happens when the flea market is in your backyard.

“The advantage of living in such a neighbourhood is that you don’t even plan for the shopping. Most of my best pieces in my wardrobe were bought on random evenings on my way to work. The most expensive is Sh1,000 while the rest range from Sh50 to Sh300. I just can’t imagine myself living elsewhere,” explained Lucia Mwali, a legal secretary.

4. Syokimau/Mlolongo

This is where all wannabe home owners have flocked to. The realtors have not only provided great rates for home and land owners but also tenants.

An apartment that costs Sh70,000 in Kileleshwa goes for only Sh35,000 in Syokimau.

It also comes complete with what every woman dreams of: a picket fence where you can wave goodbye to your child in the school bus as you walk back with your loving hubby and a Chihuahua.

Carol Karongo agrees saying; “I never liked Syokimau at first, but since my husband had just gotten a job on Mombasa Road, we did not have an option. I, have however, come to appreciate the place even more than I did with Kileleshwa. The houses are spacious and the children have a big playground.”

5. Thika Road/Roysambu/Kahawa Sukari

Thika Road and its environs are one of the most underestimated neighbourhoods in Nairobi.

Even with two major shopping malls, Thika Road Mall and Garden City hasn’t made this part of the city receive the prominence it deserves.

“I live right behind USIU which is a very safe neighbourhood. It is also a walking distance from Thika Road Mall. The fact that we have the Superhighway now makes it easier for me to even drive to town late in the night,” said Henrie Moraa, who recently acquired a two-bedroom apartment courtesy of her older boyfriend.

She says that she is comfortable there since no one judges her.

“Most of my neighbours are kept women so no one has the moral authority to judge the other.”

Roysambu behind TRM is popular with single first time job women, ‘kept ladies,’ college girls and young (Babito) families of baba, bibi, toto!

6. Westlands/SpringValley/Mountain View

Women living in these neighbourhoods rarely have real things to worry about.

First of all, their men have only one purpose. To love them.

If you check online you will notice that most men who upload pictures with captions like: “Chilling with bae #Sundatings” always check in from these neighbourhoods.

Men who live here vary from DJ’s, senior media personalities, businessmen and diplomats. You will also not miss a random West African who doesn’t mind chopping money on a beautiful woman!

7. Riverside

Although, Riverside features a good deal of commercial properties and consulates, the serviced apartments and mansions available provide for great living space.

There are a good number of cool restaurants too. Women who aspire to date diplomats and can’t make it to Runda can always live in affordable servant’s quarters around here to enhance their hunting game.

James Wanjala, a real estate agent, says most of the young girls he rents houses to are there for a purpose.

“They either hangout at DusitD2 or are hoping to hook up with a diplomat from the Australian or German Embassies.”

8. Ridgeways

The Ridgeways area is along Kiambu road before Muthaiga and it includes estates like Garden estate and Thome.

Housing is in form of bungalows and apartments, some with swimming pools and quarters, and there are cool shopping centres around.

The Windsor Golf and Country Clubs is in the vicinity and is popular for its beautiful landscaping and challenging golf course. There is reliable public transport serving that area but the traffic especially during peak hours is a big concern.

Peris Kiriba, a former domestic worker, has been living in her former employer’s house for the last 20 years.

“He had so much property he left me the house. His children tried to object but it was already on his will and besides they inherited other properties. I’m not the first female domestic worker to inherit property from an employer in Ridgeways. It’s almost a culture,” Peru’s who now rents out her bungalow confessed.

She said that every domestic worker should aspire to work there as they could easily land on some ‘easy inheritance.’

9. South C/Parklands

This is the best place to live especially for people with an Asian background as it makes it easier for women to survive and feel protected.

Pipi Arjun, a 20-year-old accountant, says she cannot live elsewhere as “I enjoy being around people we share similar backgrounds to avoid drama that comes with clashing beliefs.

If we all come from the same school of thoughts and I don’t have to enforce my lifestyle on everyone then I believe the world can be a better place,” Pipi who runs their family business in South C says.

10. Lang’ata

It has always been the breeding hood for future millionaires. Most women who own huge businesses in this city started off by selling mtumba in Lang’ata and most seem selfless in sharing business ideas, otherwise what would explain their success?

“I started off as fruit vendor in Lang’ata. We were in a chama together with other small business operators. We kept saving and finally managed to buy a piece of land. With time we had built flats and later our own houses in the out skirts of Nairobi,”say Irene Chebet, who still hangs out in Lang’ata. Irene currently lives in Kiserian.

This article first appeared on The Standrd

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