#he struggles with being fair when he was brought up in the American Navy when he now has to represent the spirits and elemental benders of

[merlin-wolfgang-trades-hale]

One of my on-going project snippets. Avatar!Steve

“Why is Danny’s place still frozen?” Steve demanded as soon as he saw Duke. 

“Our water-benders are trying, but there is a limit to their ability,” Duke replied. 

Steve’s clarity was being disrupted by his worry over Danny, so he snapped, “Limit? It’s ice! They’re water-benders!” 

Duke often revered to Steve with the respect gained by his rank, in both military and as Avatar, as well as the respect he was born with as a McGarrett. But in that moment, he was an older Hawaiian native who gave a strict gaze as he reminded Steve of where they lived. “You have traveled far and seen many other places. Maybe it has escaped your memory that out of all the benders that live or visit our small islands, water is arguably the one with most restrictions and rules. Only a limited few water-bending masters exist here who are experienced with colder temperatures and ice or snow manipulation.”

Steve closed his eyes for a moment to collect himself before he opened them again and apologized. “Sorry, Duke. It’s...it’s Danny, y’know?” 

“I do. And I know that there’s no one else on this island who knows those ice bending restrictions better than him. Given how much flack he got in the early months of him being here. So I understand your concern...but these ice structures were created by Danny himself. They’re fortified with the strength that will take the Hawaiian August sun hours to melt. We can’t get inside yet.”

“Yeah, well...I’m here now. Let me work.” It was nearly a threat but it most certainly was a warning. Duke called off the benders and let Steve try. 

Steve has begun his water bending training but it was with the basics. Learning to alter the water’s temperature to make it freeze or unfreeze wasn’t anywhere near the curriculum. Didn’t mean he didn’t try. Except he was too angry because he didn’t want to be worried. 

So he stopped trying to water-bend the ice away and instead unleashed his fury with his fire-bending until he saw some of the ice give way before earth-bending a stalagmite to shatter it’s way through. 

I started thinking about world building rules and them being applied to different fandom. Implementing the Avatar bending to H50, and it made me think. Being surrounded by so much water, water benders are pretty dangerous. They always have a weapon, and if they’re mastered it enough the humidity in the air, even if there isn’t an obvious body of water, they still have access to it( never mind potential gangs and criminal organization potentially having Blood Benders). 

Then I was thinking, how much of the average tourist would a)not know a fuck shit about the proper water temperature a place, it’s plant life, and animal life need to remain stable? And b)would be assholes to try and make their own waves or bigger waves or retaliate against anyone or to show off? 

Beaches in an Avatar AU would have STRICT rules in place. Lifeguards might need to be specially trained to like a military level to secure the peace, ensure the safety of native plant and animal life.

Water benders, no matter the profession or life style they lead/live, if they’re in Hawaii they are limited to just water bending. Healing, yes...but when it comes to temperature control...there are like...two official water bending MASTERS who know how to turn water into snow or ice. And it’s become a thing where it’s just been like that for so long that no one really questions it unless they’re not from there. 

I made Danny a Water-Bender and with how winters are on the east coast, and because I personally headcanon Danny to just have a more affinity to colder climates, to him ice and snow are second nature. And because he came from a big city where younger water benders as young as 7-8 year olds make their first bit of chump change by offering to snow-bend the drive ways of little old ladies or get more allowance if they wake up and defrost their parent’s car...when Danny first came to Hawaii as he followed Grace, seen as an outsider with the element that may have the most restrictions, particularly in his specialty. It was hard but Danny learned to ‘control’ himself..aka adjust his mannerism. (He’s always in control. Just...things that were normal for him are a big deal on the island, but he has never been out of control of his element. Danny is also a Blood Bender and that’s why but it’s not knowledge anyone knows and he’s terrified of anyone learning)  

Steve has seen plenty of Danny’s power, potential, and most importantly his control. It’s why Steve chose Danny to be his Water bending master instead of the native Hawaiian born they wanted to assign him. There are also a lot of deeper feelings involved, so Steve hearing that Danny elsa fortressed himself means something is very wrong! 

but on like a lighter note, when they need something from Kamekona, Danny has bribed him with water-bending him x-lbs of shaved ice. 

#what is time anymore? #some time ago I think my darling cowandcalf tagged me in a wip tag game but I haven't really had the time #I have two other fics in the avatar au verses but they were on a whim of what I wanted #which is valid sure but I do want to tackle it again but with...a more serious hand #The weight of the Avatar resting on Steve's shoulders as he came into his powers late #he struggles with being fair when he was brought up in the American Navy when he now has to represent the spirits and elemental benders of #ALL four nations as 5-0 becomes a more international/global kind of task force #Danny's backstory is expanded as his powers and abilities are applied in ways that would really bond him and Steve #through a lot more angst and trauma and they keep coming into these situations where they keep ending up choosing the other #when they've either never been the one chosen or the one left behind #And Steve's hero status is questioned by his loyalty to Danny because rather than let Danny be sacrificed for the greater good #Steve taps into his Avatar State to save Danny(probably from Colombia and in the process make political waters muddy) #And eventually Danny blood bends to save Steve and they would break or rewrite the rules of nature EVERY time if it means they can save the #other...whom they love with all their hearts #so anyway yeah this is something I'm working on when the motivation and inspiration strike xD

[eviscerated-pineapple]

I need to take a social media break.

Social Media Obituary…or Something.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: suicide attempts, self-harm, rape, incest, emotional, and physical abuse mentioned.

I first told my mom I hated her when I was about 6, right after we moved from Sacramento, CA to Dayton, TX circa 1999. My mom, dad and I were in a coffee shop on a dreary day—or maybe it was a restaurant, who cares—at a booth and I distinctly recall saying that as plainly as it was the color of the walls, and a great maliciousness then blossoming in me.

Why did I say this? I struggle with why I hated my mom so much as a kid. There were very good reasons as to why I did: the alcoholism; the drugs; she and my aunt leaving my cousin and I alone to fend for ourselves, as young as six and three, without knowing when they’d be back so they could go gamble and score.

I think that’s where the intense fear of abandonment came from.

The jury is still out on whether or not Borderline Personality Disorder’s physical component (i.e., an un-fully formed amygdala, which is responsible for controlling emotions and impulsivity) is present at birth and causes the personality disorder or if the personality disorder is responsible for this region of the brain not developing properly. Ah, the ol’ chicken and egg scenario.

It, along with cPTSD (complex PTSD) and trauma, can cause brain lesions visible through MRI scans.

While the people who stigmatize BPD try to figure out in what way I will abuse, manipulate, and ultimately damage them beyond repair, I’m still trying to figure out why I was never worthy of love.

I think the hate for my mom, partnered with her actions, was heavily influenced by my dad.

I haven’t spoken to him in about three and a half years. I was too young to first realize the issues with him, and there’s even a suspected repressed memory in there that was revealed in the last year by my mom.

My dad is a hateful, spiteful, sad, lonely, and untreated man. His anime saga includes being shipped off to fight the Vietnam War in 1963 at the age of 17 with the US Navy, having been told “he would see the world.” He was one of 12 children by my grandparents, a little Spanish woman by the name of Natividad Torres from which I inherited one of my middle names (Nettie), and a Spanish/German guy named Joseph Smith (“Schmidt” from what I was told and then that family’s emigration to the United States is what ultimately Americanized their name). I’ve heard that my grandfather was pretty…rough. Alcoholic and abusive, but oddly remembered fondly. My grandmother was tiny and sweet, and often mistaken for being Japanese from what I remember (to be fair, she very much did look Asian, not Spanish, and we’re all heavily mixed so who knows).

Anyway, I’m sidetracking. My dad became skilled as a sniper (“sharpshooter” as he affectionately referred to it, as if that made it any less horrifying to go through as a literal teenager), which was a skill he brought back with him to the US. I can’t say much more—maybe I’ll talk about that in length after he passes—but why do for free what you can monetize back in the States?

We lived in a house on Saxon Way in Sacramento where my childhood memories truly begin. I had a couple neighbor girl friends that accepted me and though found me weird, still made me feel welcome. I remember playing a LOT of Nintendo 64 and original PlayStation games, oddly realizing I liked girls along with boys as early as Kindergarten (for which I was vehemently bullied for by other girls—I didn’t know then what being gay was or that it wasn’t okay, and wouldn’t for a long time), pulling the head off my Barbies because they made me really uncomfortable and sticking Barbie’s head on Ken’s body (Ahh, that’s better. I want to look like Ken when I grow up!), and desperately vying for the toys from the boys’ section at Walmart.

My poor mom tried so hard to make me a little girl. I already have three half-brothers, each with different men, and she wanted her dream daughter. Unfortunately she instead received some sort of chimera child that was often mistaken for being a little boy despite the mid-back length hair.

I’ll never forget that doctor referring to me as my parent’s “son” when I got pneumonia at the age of 12. I digress.

One of my half-brothers came to live with us when I was about four or five. He was 17 and a standard troublemaker, trying to get laid and smoke weed, nothing to really write home about. Except my dad needed things to go his way entirely.

One night, my brother went down the street to hang out with some friends. My dad had the final straw with my brother leaving his bong in my dad’s Jeep, a clear challenge of authority according to my dad. We had an RV in our driveway by this time so my dad could escape the house when my parents began fighting over my brother or whatever else was going wrong. My dad took it upon himself to sit up atop the RV and wait for by brother to come back home.

He lied to the SWAT team that was called, whether by my brother, mom, or the neighbors, and said the discharged round they found was him recklessly firing in city limits at New Years in celebration. He did some prison time, paid some fines, and completed some community service.

I’m not sure he wanted to kill my brother or just intimidate him. I think he wanted to kill him and tried to goad my brother and his friends to charge him so it’d become self-defense. That’s just my theory, though.

Shortly after, we moved to Texas. My dad told everyone it was because of his family spread throughout the state, but only my mom and I knew the real reason: he wanted to ditch California and be free from his parole. My dad would fondly tell me that when he called around, his would-be Texas parole officer reassured him, “Sir, what you did there isn’t illegal out here. Come on out.” I was uprooted and lost the only two girlfriends I ever made because my dad couldn’t bear responsibility for his actions.

Things grew worse in Texas, but my mom was sober for as long as I can remember which was cool. I tried so desperately to make friends and developed my first crush in fifth grade on one of the popular boys. The bullying began in fourth grade, though. I started to get hairy arms and legs, acne, bushy eyebrows, and other androgynous characteristics that the other girls didn’t have. I became friends with two girls, Katy and Stormey, but didn’t know it was a ploy (and why not use their real names here? They’ll never see this).

They took all my secrets and hopes and fears and weaponized them in fifth grade. I started getting harassed for how hairy and ugly I was, being told I needed to shave my legs and wax my eyebrows, and at one point that, “[I’d] look a lot better if I took a sander to my face.”

For sixth grade, my dad moved us back to California but this time to Bakersfield—again because of family, but for real this time. One of my beloved uncles, a beautiful artist that painted hyper-realistic portraits using oil paints and a brush in his mouth (he was a quadriplegic), had passed from pneumonia because his sister, my aunt, denied him my grandmother’s home where he lived after my grandmother passed. This aunt was a real estate agent, and much like all the other Smith aunts and uncles, money was king. So out my uncle went into a month of homelessness before it ultimately killed him.

At least that’s the story I was told. I’ll never know the truth.

Bakersfield was hot, dusty, and terrible. For sixth grade, I had a terrifying teacher by the name of Ms. Laffoon who had anger issues. She’d punish us with physical exercise and flip desks (one of which hit me) in rage when someone didn’t turn in their homework. It wouldn’t be until I was an adult that I realized she should’ve been reported and arrested for various instances of child abuse against us.

From here, I’ll use initials in places of names.

P. was also an androgynous girl, but she hated me upon first sight. One time, she cornered me in the girl’s bathroom and picked me up by my throat and threatened me. For what, I have no idea.

S. was bubbly and loud but well loved. She and A. became best friends, and I was somewhat the third-wheel of the trio, but in eight grade was cast out because I told A. I was sick of hearing her bemoan boys all the time. A. told me she’d “beat my ass” at a time and place, but she was nowhere to be found.

G. was the first crush I ever had that was reciprocated. Our innocent little affair began in the summer between sixth and seventh grade over email, to which he confessed he liked me a lot. Wow, me?! Someone liked me for me!

I started band class in seventh grade and will never forget the entire class excluding myself huddled in Mr. Moynier’s office around the computer. To my horror, G. had shown the entire class my pathetic admissions of like for him, and something about this flipped a switch for me because I became a bully to others after. One stormy day, I wrote the head of band class (or who I recognized as their leader) a death threat via note, explaining that their actions are what lead good people to become school shooters. She told me later in high school she kept that note and vehemently apologized. I think she and I were okay after that.

In seventh grade, E. became my first boyfriend and kiss. I fell in love with him quickly and had never felt pretty or accepted before. In the almost year or so we were together, I learned at one point his asking me out was for a dare by the guys to ask the ugliest girl in school out. I dumped him not long after finding that out. I carried this complex I developed into every relationship I’ve had thereafter, and to this day I will never believe a soul that I could be found attractive, whether physically or by my personality.

I wrote Mr. Falk a suicide note that year after realizing I didn’t want to be around anymore. He was the first teacher I ever trusted, and we bonded over his beautiful sketch art, which I also partook in at the time. My mom thought I was a child prodigy because I could sketch photorealistic portraits of people and objects. Luckily, a focus on GATE and AP classes beat the absolute shit out of that dream to where I experience panic attacks to this day when I try to even attempt artwork of any media.

Mr. Falk brough the note to my house later that week and tearfully apologized to me, saying he was so sorry to betray my trust but he’s a mandatory reporter and needed to let my parents know. My dad was the one to answer the door when he arrived, cool and understanding as ever: “No, sir, I had no idea she was feeling this way. Yes, sir, we’ll get her to see a therapist.” Then once the door closed: “What the fuck do you think you’re doing spreading lies about the way we treat you?”

From there, it was a string of guys and one statutory rape relationship. I could never feel safe with any of them and was often cheated on for various reasons: flat chested, ugly, boyish, loud, obnoxious, bad sex, just felt like it, wasn’t into it, etc. But we’re jumping ahead a bit here.

My mom’s alcoholism and drug use escalated to new heights while we lived in Bakersfield, and I recently learned she used to buy meth from D.’s dad. Ha. Hahaha. D. was my supposed best friend and crush. I think he was genuine, though. I can’t fault him for something our parents did.

Ah, this leads me into high school and the crowd I hung out with. Two D’s and two J’s. One of the J’s was a giggle monster and a sweetheart. I once had a crush on him purely because he treated me the kindest. The other J. was a Dumpster fire of a person who I hate to this day. He could puke on command, sexually assaulted me publicly in the quad at Golden Valley by pantsing me in front of everyone to show all that “I really had a dick,” and almost broke my ankle once by shoving D. into me while we walked along a curb.

This J. will find me on social media throughout the years, a couple times harassing me about my breast size or lacktherof, and it won’t be until I was about 26 before I realized not all attention is good attention, so the blocking began. He recently followed me on my Twitch stream, the stunt I briefly had in early 2023, and I remember getting so much anxiety that I threw up after I realized it was him.

Sorry, tangent again. High school is when my Borderline traits began to come to the surface and the abuse against me was cranked to about a 7. My mom would get a DUI or two during this time and threw herself further into alcoholism the more my dad stonewalled and emotionally/psychologically tormented both her and I, but mostly her. He despised her, was disgusted by her, and wanted her gone. I’ll never forget crying and asking her why she and Dad didn’t get a divorce already because I was miserable.

She did leave when I was 14.

The winter after she left, my dad couldn’t make both rent and utilities, so we just went without electricity and gas. I was in mostly AP classes at this point and could barely manage my workload WITH such luxuries, so I began flunking. My AP Biology teacher approached me one day and asked why I stopped turning in homework and didn’t I know I’m flunking rapidly? Yes, I knew. But how do I do homework that requires a computer with no electricity? How do I juggle such a complex workload, even by college standards, solely by candlelight? My dad refused to take me to the library or anywhere else, and even before my mom left, he’d get his way by arguing that “he wasn’t my babysitter.” Despite the severe depression I was feeling by the time we lost power and hot water in our home, I thought this was just life and what others went through. People began noticing that I was dropping down to 90 pounds, unable to afford much of anything other than canned Ranch Style Beans that my dad insisted we eat (I gag to this day at the thought of eating these).

Even though my dad forced me to work after school and on weekends with him on his “palomitas wagon” as he affectionately referred to his meager pull-behind concession stand, we still couldn’t make ends meet enough to eat.

My AP Biology teacher took it upon herself to have the school host a canned food drive for us and the district paid several months of our utilities to help me out. I’d never been more mortified, and my dad had never been angrier with me. This was around the time he began becoming more meanspirited toward me, now regularly regarding me as “Boy” when I was at home.

It was hot and dusty on the trek home with DDJJ from high school, and one awful day I came home from school after being accosted by several dirt devils (dust tornadoes for the unfamiliar). I was already in a prickly mood and sick of life’s shit by this point, often deliberating the path of least resistance when it came to committing suicide. I came in through our open garage to my dad sitting at what used to be our dining room table when my mom was there, and what had been transformed into his project table for motorcycle engines and whatever stupid mechanic bullshit he had been cooking up at that point. He was enjoying Ritz and a can of cheez-whiz when I threw my backpack on the floor and flopped into a chair next to him. He chuckled at me with how caked in dirt my face was (I have oily skin even as an adult) and on the first, “Boy…” uttered, I took that can of cheez-whiz and beat the FUCK out of his face as hard as I could.

The thrill of power and adrenaline I had was amazing for all of three seconds until utter terror ripped through me with the face of contempt and venom I saw on him. He grabbed the whiz can, reared back, and changed trajectory at the last minute, launching it into our backyard sliding glass door.

He didn’t speak to me for about two weeks afterward.

About a month later, we moved three houses up the street to a bad deal home that he took up. By this point, this straight-A student was skipping school and desperately wanting out of life. Which was the lesser of evils? The angry, abusive father who directed his hatred for the Mexicans, Blacks, and women now toward me? (Oh, yes: my dad is also very racist. This was a norm for me that I wouldn’t realize until my late 20s.) Or the unreliable and shrill alcoholic mother who at least feigned love for me?

I called my mom to pick me up. This was my last opportunity to try to live a life with some blip of happiness.

My mom had rekindled her relationship with Dave, her first husband from the age of 17. All I knew about him when I moved in was that he looked like Bluto from Popeye and my dad treated his name like Voldemort’s, but I’d soon learn that both he and my maternal grandmother (her house that we lived in) were all just as awful as Dad but in different ways.

About a month into living in Sacramento [again] with my mom, grandma, and Dave, I woke up around 4 am to belligerent crying. My mom and Dave were wasted, and he open-palm slapped her for dancing with another guy at the bar they had gone out to.

Nope. No. No. No. Absolutely not. Not this all over again.

I called my dad almost 300 miles south. “What do you want me to do? Call the cops. But hide your phone in your panties; don’t let your mom have it.” Mom tried so hard to get into my room for consolation about her situation, and I was tired at this point of being the parent to my parents and enduring the emotional incest of both. I began slamming my bedroom door on her arm in attempt to break her elbow or shoulder, then locked it when she quickly faltered.

The cops came and arrested her for being drunk in public later that morning. She was quite upset that I called the cops on her and vowed to get me admitted to juvenile hall (yeah, it doesn’t work like that, but the message was still received that she hated me in that moment), moving into the street towards the two officers that arrived—and that was all they needed. I was left with Dave and my grandma, but I’d be damned to stay with them: so, I called my aunt, the one my mom would gamble and drink with about a decade prior.

I stayed with my Aunt Janie for a couple of days. She still abandoned my cousin and I for the casino or meth, but I was older at this point and the reprieve from the screaming, threats, chaos, and fear was welcome. My cousin Desiree was well versed by Janie’s antics at this point and was unphased, having learned to take care of herself by the sad age of 12 [and I had recently turned 15 at this point].

Unfortunately, Mom had been released from the drunk tank and was on her way by the end of the second day. Normally people are housed for about 12-24 hours in jail for drunk-in-public charges, but she was lucky and stayed the whole weekend due to their booking system going down during that time. And she. Was. Livid.

Everything that proceeded her short stint in jail was a blur, but it happened something like this: Dave left, my dad moved in, we lived in Sacramento together for roughly 2-3 months before the fights grew vicious enough that we needed to get out, and he and I moved into a 16-foot camper trailer to a mobile home court down the street for the next six months.

During this time, I began charter school and was in an accelerated program to catch up dropping out of Golden Valley to move to Sacramento halfway through my sophomore year. This charter program only required one hour a week for me to be in class and see my teacher, which afforded me enough time to get a non-palomitas wagon job and I began working full-time [illegally] for a nearby KFC for the next two years.

I graduated a year early and as a Valedictorian in 2010, right before turning 17. During this time, I endured:

More abuse from my father.

Dave trying to kill my mom, her now boyfriend R., and my grandma by burning their house down. The homeowner’s insurance resulted in my charred possessions garnering me a $4,000 check in which I bought my first SUV with.

Ended my almost two-year relationship with D. (unrelated to DDJJ at Golden Valley) who was my statutory relationship—I was 15 and he was 19, and everyone knew but didn’t give a damn.

An awful month-long relationship with C. who was an abusive Mormon-turned-Catholic-turned-Atheist-turned-heroin-addict. He let me take his virginity and when I had a miscarriage, he said I killed his son. Then he cheated on me.

A six-month-long relationship with W. who at that point had turned me into a massive stoner. Cannabis became my escape from reality from 2009 through 2011. He also cheated on me.

A one-month relationship with K. Who cheated on me with eight women.

A one-month relationship with E. He was nice but ghosted me after a month because he liked video games better.

And the worst birthday present I’ve ever received. One of the childhood girlfriends I had before I left for Texas re-entered my life, D. (so many D names). D. and her boyfriend W. promised me a good time for my birthday, and they knew just the trick: W. had a brother named Dustin, and Dustin was horny for just about anything. Including my naïve ass. For my birthday, D. and W. took me to Dustin’s house, barricaded the door to his bedroom from the outside, and giggled while I screamed for help as I was being raped.

I began attending Sierra College at 17 where I took one semester at 16 units while juggling a full-time schedule at KFC. I was tired, especially of taking care of my dad. By this time, we had moved into an apartment where I was covering half the rent and most of the utilities. Why didn’t he work all these years? Well…

While in Vietnam, he was stabbed in the back by a young Vietnamese girl of about 10. She met her untimely fate at his hand, but that back injury prevailed to the current day. He used this injury to get out of a good paying job when I was about three years old and retired early with Social Security disability. And once you’re on that, you can’t get it back if you forfeit it through taking another job. So, my dad has been working under the table and committing tax evasion for about 20 years.

While I was at Sierra College, I met C. and this was right about where my life became irreparably worse as my unknown and untreated Borderline and cPTSD symptoms were fully out in the open. Up until meeting C., I was vehemently against drinking of any kind because of my mom, but it was his vice. This was the beginning of what would become a terribly unstable almost five-year relationship.

From the age of 17 to 22, C. and I took turns hurting each other through cheating, drug abuse, physical violence by my hand on one occasion, suicide attempts and self-mutilation (also by my hand).

With Borderline Personality Disorder, there are nine criteria total, and one has to meet any five of them to be diagnosed. These nine are: fear of abandonment, whether real or perceived; unstable relationships; unclear or shifting self-image (or unstable/lack of identity); impulsive and self-destructive, behaviors through either binge eating, risky sex, spending issues, reckless driving, etc.; self-harm and/or suicide attempts; extreme emotional mood swings; chronic feelings of emptiness; and explosive anger.

I was diagnosed with BPD in 2014, less than a year before things with C. ended, and I had checked off all the boxes. I wouldn’t learn until 2018 that cPTSD shares quite a few of the same criteria as well.

Before summer of 2015, I had had very short relationships or one-night stands with five more guys and a 5250 hospitalization at Heritage Oaks in Sacramento from an almost successful attempt by hanging after I was raped via sodomy once more. I was so exasperated of life at this point, of feeling unloved, rejected, unworthy, ugly, unsuccessful, and by this time I was coming to terms with the contradiction that as an existential nihilist and Atheist, there couldn’t possibly be a god with treatment like this, but also maybe…my role in life was to be used.

Maybe that’s why all of this has happened to me. This is my God. This is my Higher Power: the concept that maybe rape and violence and mistreatment happen to certain people because that’s their pre-determined role. I decided I was a martyr for pleasure for others. I was unlovable, flawed, broken, and ugly: please, can we spare the pretty, successful, clean, and happy women/men/children and make me a beacon for hate and rape? If I can keep just one more guy away from all of that, I’m okay. I’ll be okay. Because it’ll all make sense in the end, right?

My internalized misogyny and self-loathing warped my perception of life and how I navigate it well into the present day, and currently this is the concept I struggle with: that sometimes, bad things just happen for no reason other than wrong place and wrong time. To cope with my life experiences by the time I was 22, I began seeking out movies in the extreme horror genre: Salo, or a 120 Days in Sodom; A Serbian Film; Martyrs; I Stand Alone; Irreversible; Nymphomaniac; Cannibal Holocaust; Cannibal Ferox; I Spit On Your Grave (1978); Ken Park; Kids; Trash Humpers; Gummo; Trauma; Dogtooth; Antichrist; and more.

These movies became my personality. I never sought them out for shock value or to be perverse, but rather to feel less alone. My tastes in movies became ever more depraved, and some of you reading may be well versed in them. For those who aren’t, they’re snuff-film in nature. I’ve since switched to books as my current extreme horror genre: Eric LaRocca, Aron Beuregard, Samuel R. Delaney, Matthew Stokoe, and many other authors who cover topics of incest, rape, necrophilia, cannibalism: you name it. I’ve grown desensitized to just about anything and every time I indulge, I’m left with a widening internal void and adrenaline. Feeling miserable is my safe, my norm, and I’m used to it without ever being truly used to it. I like increasing my internal void in hopes that one day, there’ll be nothing left to feel and I’ll be free.

I met T. in the summer of 2015. We were together about six months before we got married. In 2019, we separated and to this day, I’m trying to idiot my way through the divorce. On New Year’s 2018, the last girlfriend I had named K. was sexually assaulted at a party we both attended. Her predator was the husband of the host, and K. told me about this the next day. The Husband tried the same on me, but I wasn’t yet drunk enough to fall victim. On K’s birthday, Friday April 12th, 2018, it was my turn and I was kidnapped and sexually assaulted by a Lyft Driver after my husband angrily left the tavern we were celebrating K’s birthday at.

I wandered downtown Sacramento for a couple of hours, drunk and sad with a dead phone. I wasted the last of the battery trying to contact T. but his phone was either off or dead. Then the Lyft Driver came and followed me. I ran into him twice in his car and he seemed nice, and I was desperate. I explained that my phone was dead, but he was okay doing this trip pro-bono because I seemed lost and stressed.

I didn’t know that fear would lead a person to try to jump out of a car going 70 miles per hour while the driver tried to forcefully digitally penetrate them.

The Lyft Driver gave up after my escape attempt and took me back to my apartment complex. I gave him the wrong apartment number and he locked me in his car until I complied with a disgusting, blubbery kiss. (This is indeed the story referenced further down in my Tumblr; some details in that story were fabricated, such as the date, names, and phone percentages to keep it hidden, but fuck it: the above are the true events.)

A part of me came unhinged that early morning and for the next few years, I would try like hell to make it out of this life, to include falling victim to one more account of rape by I., a guy from high school who tricked me into feeling wanted when I was finally reduced to dust emotionally.

But at least the Lyft Driver was charged just a few weeks after he was caught: https://www.eastbaytimes.com/2018/05/16/lyft-driver-charged-in-sexual-assault-of-passenger-in-fremont/

My dad suffered a severe stroke in July 2019. He called me from the hospital and told me he wanted to kill himself, and could I find the gun in his underwear drawer. “Dad, you’re not supposed to have guns. You’re a two-time convicted felon.” I found the gun and did the opposite by hiding it in another part of his house, some Frankenstein’s contraption he made himself. My dad was cunning and artistic like his brothers and sisters, and I’m convinced he could rig a gun out of tree bark and acorns at this point if it meant he could avoid the law.

He grew worse over time, forgetting who my mom was on occasion, forgetting key events, and went from being an Atheist to a megalomaniac Christian who would’ve married Trump himself if it weren’t for the whole being-gay-is-wrong thing. His comments towards me and my body became increasingly inappropriate, his racism proclaimed with less awareness of his surroundings, and the manifestation of PTSD from the Vietnam War came out in ways I’d never seen before. He also struggled to walk and move like he used to.

In February 2020, Dad called me and offered me a full-paid trip on a cruise to wherever I wanted, the catch being I had to come over and say hello. I thanked him and declined, then hung up. I haven’t spoken to him since and I also avoided being trapped on a cruise ship with hundreds of others as the world descended into panic over COVID-19.

I’m still reeling over my most recently ended relationship (or maybe I’m still with him? I don’t know—I’ve broken up with him several times now, but we try to repair and the dysfunction continues) and I’m not ready to add that here.

But I’m trying. I tried to drown myself while high on edibles last month, but the body’s will to survive even while heavily intoxicated overtakes the desire for the void (or afterlife depending on what you believe). I still struggle with thinking my only purpose is to give myself to others which has turned me into a workaholic, but I’d say throwing myself into perfectionism over insurance is several steps up from accepting rape as my responsibility and fault. I deal with emotional flashbacks (cPTSD symptom) almost daily and learned last year that I was raped by my dad when I was about three years old; the nightmares of him doing this to me over the years make a lot more sense now even though I don’t remember the details.

I’ve always wanted to bear my soul and experiences to someone who would understand but my resolve is that there’s no one that could possibly understand whether they had it better or worse than me. I often feel unsafe even when I’m home with my cats and nothing bad is happening and I walk through life with a sense of, “When will the other shoe drop?”

I’m really trying to be okay. I don't want compassion. I don't want pity. I don't want love. I don't want justice. I just want to know why the fuck I'm here and where do I belong?

#bpd #borderline personality disorder #trauma #writing #cPTSD #sexualassault #autobiographical

[slapshot-to-the-heart]

Flatbush & Atlantic: part v

Here we have part v! Took me a little longer than usual, but I’m really happy with how it turned out - it’s All Star Weekend with our favorite couple, folks! I haven’t been getting as much engagement as usual with the posts, so please feel free to reblog it and pop into my inbox!

part i part ii part iii part iv

part v

January 28

Cass sat on a metal bench at JFK, legs propped up on her carry-on, eyes flitting between the departures screen and her phone. Mat walked through the sliding doors to her left, catching her eye with a quick wave and smile. If he wanted to travel incognito in Long Island, though, the suit bag and “these-are-more-expensive-than-they-look” sunglasses weren’t helping his cause. “You’ve got the tickets?” She asked. After much convincing, Cass finally agreed to let Mat buy the tickets; he said it would be easier to make sure they were seated together, and had told her to think of it as a belated Christmas present if she’d like. 

Mat nodded, gesturing towards the check-in counters. “Shall we?”

Cat grabbed his hand in her own as they walked to the counter. It hadn’t even crossed her mind that they’d be travelling anything but economy — she never had, after all — so she was more than a little surprised when he steered her and their bags towards American’s first-class check-in. He looked down at her. “What? You think I’d let you go to the All-Star Game in anything but the best? Nah, we’re travelling in style, babe.” Cass flushed, handing over her bags to be weighed and taking the boarding pass from the flight attendant with a harried thanks. 

“Qu-est-ce que c’est, chère?” Mat asked, brushing a kiss over the top of her head as they headed up the escalator. French had been her foreign language in high school and college; it had gotten rusty, but Mat and Tito had been more than happy to practice with her, though Beau’s Québécois accent sometimes proved a little difficult to understand. 

“I’m just really excited for this weekend. I know how much it means to you to be on the team and competing in the skills competition again, and I’m lucky to be able to see you do what you love.” 

After a less-than-ideal forty minutes in the security line, Cass handed her license and Mat’s passport over to the TSA agent, who gave them a cursory once-over before marking their boarding passes and letting them through the scanner. 

They boarded the Delta flight some 40 minutes later, after a much-needed pit-stop at the Starbucks. The flight attendants took their coats and showed them to their seats, and before Cass knew it she was seated in a very large, very comfortable chair that had more legroom than she thought humanly possible, a glass of champagne perched on her tray table. “Is this how you live? All the time?” She whispered to Mat, stunned. 

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “The team charters a plane for games and I usually don’t do first class to go back home, but this is a special occasion. It deserves it, you deserve it.” He pressed a kiss to her cheek, pulling out his Airpods. “We’ve got just enough time to get through Pirates of the Carribean before we land. What do you say?” 

Their plane landed a few hours later, the two catching an Uber to the hotel about twenty minutes away. Apparently there had been “a car” coming for them, but Cass balked at the idea, insisting that the Toyota Corolla coming to pick them up was more than enough for her. 

“Hi, checking in for Barzal,” Mat said, smiling at the receptionist. 

“One moment,” she replied, tapping on the computer and turning around to grab two key cards. “You two will be in room 307, third floor. Elevators are that way. Enjoy your stay!” Mat took the cards, handing one to Cass as they turned towards the row of elevators. As excited as she was, Cass was also just the tiniest bit apprehensive about sharing a room with Mat for a whole weekend. She had spent the night once or twice since the Christmas party, and had officially been granted “a drawer” in his dresser, but it was still the longest (relatively) uninterrupted time she’d spend with him. 

There were a few hours before the festivities kicked off with some sort of red carpet-type thing, so Cass pulled out her laptop and got to work while Mat went off to exercise in the hotel gym. None of her professors this semester recorded lectures, so she was relying on good friends and a strong Wifi connection to get the notes from the one class she was missing. Cass wasn’t one to skip out on responsibilities and she did feel bad about not being there, but she had earned a break. 

Mat came back a little while later, and Cass took that as her cue to start getting ready. After he got out of the shower, she took over the bathroom, spreading her makeup, brushes, and precisely-3.4-ounce bottle of hairspray over the counter. This was the first big event she was going to as a WAG, and nerves were flying. Cass was already well aware that she didn’t fit into the typical mold, and hated the fact that she felt like she had to justify herself everywhere she went. And it didn’t help that Mat wasn’t just one of the best young players in the NHL in recent memory, but also a total smokeshow of a man who had hundreds of women falling at his feet. 

But galas, parties, extravagant events were nothing new to her. She had been the president of her sorority at UConn, organizing and attending more than her fair share of her own formals and semiformals or accompanying a friend or boyfriend to theirs. And law school called for dressing up more than occasionally. She was no stranger to impressing people. The dress was light blue to coordinate with Mat’s suit, heavily beaded, and absolutely gorgeous. This was the one part of the trip that she had absolutely refused to let Mat pay for, even though he offered. The league covered the room and he had gotten the flights, and her ego needed to pick up at least a marginal part of the expenses. 

She twisted her hair up into a bun, bobby pins stuck in her mouth as she pulled out a few strands of hair. Setting spray? Check. Lipstick? A deep rose shade that she’d had since her first year of law school, so, check. “You almost ready to go, chou?” She asked, leaning down to her suitcase and grabbing the strappy heels she’d picked out for the night.

“Uh, yeah,” Mat said, buttoning his suit jacket. He usually had pretty good taste even before they started dating, but the navy blue velvet suit he was wearing was really something else. “Wow, you look amazing, Cass.”

She smiled, stepping towards him. “The lipstick’s kiss-proof, you know.”

He raised one eyebrow. “You wanna try that out?”

---

It was a fifteen minute drive to the venue, the car the league had sent packed with players and their partners, or whoever else had managed to wrangle a spot. She thinks there were some cousins involved? Mat got out before her, holding the door open while he leaned down. “The reporters are usually fine, they get that most of you guys aren’t used to this,” he murmured, “but you don’t have to answer anything you don’t want to, I’ll say something if I see it getting out of line.” 

She squeezed his hand in appreciation, taking a breath to steady her nerves before following him onto the red carpet. After posing for a few photos, they moved onto the reporters, Mat getting steered towards someone who Cass was pretty sure was from SportsCenter, but she couldn’t be positive in the crowd of hundreds. Cass briefly introduced herself, stepping slightly to the side as the conversation’s topics veered towards strategy and expectations, how best to manage playing with only three players and how he was feeling about his chances for fastest skater. 

“And you’ve brought your lovely girlfriend Cassidy along, how did you two meet?” Cass heard her name mentioned, quickly snapping out of the daydream she had been lost in. Fluff pieces were nothing new and she knew it would come up, everyone loved getting to know the players outside of a strictly hockey context. 

“Yeah, so I’m in law school, and I got an internship with the counsel’s office for the Islanders,” Cas started, “and I helped Mat with some visa stuff. He kept trying to drop hints that he was into me, but—”

“They weren’t hints. I was being as obvious as possible,” Mat deadpanned. Cass giggled. 

“Well, yeah, in retrospect I was just being incredibly oblivious, but came to one day, and the rest is history.” Mat leaned down, brushing a kiss over her cheek, and Cass could see camera flashes go off in her peripherals. She’d have to track that picture down later.

The interviewer nodded, asking a few follow-ups on her exposure to hockey growing up, her dress, and one more. “So, you hardly live the typical life of a hockey girlfriend. What do you think about that?”

Cass was confused. “Pardon?”

“Law school, being a lawyer. That’s not something that you typically see WAGs pursue, especially considering the salaries NHLers make. It’s not like they have to do much.” Cass was floored. How could someone be so disrespectful, not only to her, but to every other woman in her position? She was struggling to come up with a response. As it would happen, she didn’t need to. 

“Excuse me?” Mat’s response was dripping venom. “Why would you ask something like that?”

The interviewer tried to backtrack, but ended up digging himself into an ever deeper hole. “Well, I just meant that you don’t see it often, which is true—”

“Maybe you don’t, but that shouldn’t matter,” Mat said. “Being a stay-at-home mom or running charity events is awesome if that’s something that they want to do, but it’s not for everyone. And don’t you dare ever suggest that Cass hasn’t worked hard as hell to get to where she is. She’s graduating in five months from an Ivy League law school, and she’s the smartest person I’ve ever met. Don’t ever talk about her that way. Don’t ever talk about any woman that way.” He turned away, his hand on Cass’ upper back. “Don’t ever let anyone undersell you. You’ve worked too damn hard and come too damn far.”

 Jan. 29 (fri)

 Cass smoothed out her dress, taking a last-minute look in the mirror to make sure nothing was stuck in her teeth. “How do I look?” She asked, turning to Mat. 

“You look great, babe. Stop stressing.” She had picked a floral dress and denim jacket for breakfast with Mat’s family, but couldn’t stop wringing her hands in worry. Mat crossed the room in three steps, holding her hands still and looking at her more intensely than she had ever seen. “Remember when I was losing my shit meeting your parents?” Cass gave a tearful nod. “And it all turned out okay and now I text your brother probably more than you do?” 

She laughed. “Noah worships you, and my dad loves you. Thinks you’re ‘good for me,’ whatever he means by that.”

“I think,” Mat said, tapping her temple with one finger, “that sometimes you get a little stuck up here. You’re so smart, and it’s incredible, but you overthink things sometimes, pretty girl.”

She ducked her head. “That’s probably true.” 

“But what I meant to say is that it turned out I had nothing to worry about. And neither do you, my parents will love you and Liana’ll just be excited to have another girl around to complain about me to. It’s going to go great,” he added with finality. 

“You promise?” Cass asked.

Mat kissed her, soft and sweet and slow, the kind of kiss that wasn’t born of passion and lust but of just genuine deep trust and affection. The kind of kiss that brings your feet back to the ground when your head’s stuck off in the clouds. “I promise.”

Cass flashed a small smile, squeezing Mat’s hand in hers and heading towards the door. “Then I guess we’d better get going.” She had been up late the night before, searching on Yelp for the perfect restaurant, despite Mat’s continual claims that they’d “love wherever, they just want food.” Though, she’s not sure what she expected when asking a 20-something man what he wanted to eat. There was a cute place a ten minute drive away, with four-point-seven stars and reviews that said their quiches were the “best thing on this godforsaken planet,” according to IridescentGymRat44. Cass loved quiches. 

It was a quick Uber over, Mat’s mom having texted him that they had already arrived and snagged a table in the back for privacy. It may have been a family event, but it was still All-Star Weekend and Mat was still, well, Mat. It wasn’t likely he could fly under the radar for too long. He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand reassuringly as they turned the corner, and his face split into a wide grin at the sight of his family. Hugging each of them quickly, he stepped back to introduce Cass, one hand lightly resting on the small of her back. “This is Cass, my girlfriend.”

“Yeah, we figured,” Liana said pointedly, causing Cass to poorly cover up a snort of amusement, which in turn just caused everyone to laugh even more at their efforts trying not to laugh so hard. 

As it would turn out, Mat was right. She really had nothing to worry about; his parents embraced her (literally and metaphorically) as soon as she set down and his sister immediately whipped out her phone to show his worst baby pictures. “Hey,” she said, as Mat glared at her, “you deserve to know what you’re getting yourself into.” They were interested in her work and school, and Mat gladly took the liberty of explaining how they met, earning a slap on the back of his head from his mom when he got to the part with the visa slipup. They said their goodbyes sometime around eleven; Cass would have liked to stay longer, but everyone needed to get back to their hotels and ready for the skills competitions in the afternoon. 

“Excited to defend the title?” Cass said, bumping her shoulder against Mat as they walked down the hallway to their room. 

“Yeah, I guess,” Mat said, shrugging slightly. “Obviously it would be great to win, but there’s still McDavid and Eichel and a ton of other guys that have just as good of a chance to run away with this thing.” After his win last year, it was no shock that Mat had been picked for the fastest skater competition again, but the hordes of fans and reporters who were expecting him to go back-to-back weren’t helping his nerves. They reached the door, Mat shoving his hand into his pocket to dig out the key card. 

“Look at me,” Cass said softly, once they had gotten their shoes off and were propped up next to each other in bed. Mat’s head turned, his hand still absentmindedly tangled in her curls. “You’re going to do great. Win or lose. I believe it, your family believes it, the other guys on the team believe it. Now all we need is for you to believe it yourself.”

---

Cass was walking through the tunnels of the BB&T Center, phone pressed to her cheek as she tried to listen to her dad on the other end of the line. A few players and their families were milling about, some getting ready to compete in their skills competitions, others catching up with old friends. “Oh, and you booked the tickets to Hermosillo, yeah?” It was a family tradition for them to spend a few weeks every summer back in Mexico with her grandparents; they had split their time between San Antonio and their hometown ever since retirement. Cass always tried to make it, but the past summer she wasn’t able to wrangle the two weeks off from her job that she’d need for the trip, and it had crushed her. They weren’t getting any younger, and her abuelo had suffered a nasty stroke the year prior that made her all the more anxious to visit. 

“Yep, layover in Mexico City like usual, I’ll send you the ticket when the trip gets closer,” Patrick responded.

“And you’ve got everyone’s passport info?”

She could imagine her dad rolling his eyes. “Yes, Cassidy. Everything’s booked, everything’s fine. Have fun in Florida, tell Mat good luck from us.”

“Okay, I will. Love you, dad.” Cass said, running a hand through her hair. 

A voice that she didn’t quite recognize called her name, and as she turned around she was more than a little surprised to see Auston Matthews waving at her. “It is Cassidy, right?”

She nodded her head. “Cassidy, Cass, I’ll answer to both.”

The confusion on her face must have still been evident, because he followed up. “I follow Barzy on Instagram, he brags about you all the time.”

“Yeah, sounds like him,” she said, tapping her fingers on her thigh. 

“Are you going to introduce me?” His mom asked from beside him. 

“Oh, yeah, ‘course,” Auston said, stumbling over his words. “Mom, this is Cassidy, obviously. Cassidy — Cass?” He questioned, looking over at her. She nodded. “Cass, this is my mom Ema.” She greeted her with a warm hug, and Cass just about melted. Moms really do give the best hugs. 

Ema spoke up. “Do you have family in Hermosillo? I heard you mention it on the phone.”

“Mhm!” Cass’s head almost bounced from how fast she was nodding. “My grandparents split time between there and San Antonio, we try to visit for a few weeks every summer.”

“That’s where I grew up,” she responded, beaming. “It’s wonderful, but the summers get so hot, don’t they?” Cass and Auston both nodded. 

“I think it got up to 110º when I was there once? Maybe 115º? I want to lock myself in a freezer sometimes, I swear.” The whole group collapses into laughs, and spent a few minutes talking before Cass had to tear herself away and find her seats with Mat’s family for the fastest skater competition. Ema had left her with no fewer than three restaurant recommendations, making her swear to try them all. “Best tacos I’ve ever had,” she had said about one. 

Cass greeted Mat’s family with a wave as they settled into their seats, one row up from the ice on the right side. The players had just come out, and it only took a few seconds to make eye contact with Mat. She was wearing his — her — jersey, and had long since abandoned trying to roll up and cuff the sleeves. It wasn’t going to happen, and she kind of liked the feeling of being buried in it. She blew him a kiss as the announcers voices echoed through the stadium, and the heat was on. 

Mat was slated to go last, which was either the best or worst thing depending on how you thought about it. Cass was always someone to sign up for the first slot for speeches and presentations, and hated having late games in tournaments during her lacrosse days. She liked being able to get it over with. Mat was the opposite. He was competitive and stubborn to a fault, needing to size up the competition and get ahead of the game. Needed to know what to expect. There first few she didn’t recognize, a few first-time faces to the All-Star competition, a rookie from Winnipeg who was a favorite for the Calder. Everyone was doing well, really well — all the times but one were under 14 seconds, but nobody had broken Mat’s time yet. 

Eichel got close, McDavid got closer, and then Mat was up to defend his championship. She blew a kiss to him as he stepped up to the line, murmured a prayer, and the whistle blew. Clean straightaways, tight turns, gaining speed on the curves, and in the blink of an eye it was over. Cass knew he had won, the roar of the crowd told her as much, but she didn’t realize his time. She didn’t realize until the announcer reported that with a time of 13.080 seconds, Mathew Barzal had just set the record. His face was stunned for a moment, looking up at the screen and then down at the ice and then back up at the screen again, while being hugged and congratulated from all sides, as if trying to process what had just happened. 

It was the last one of the night, so Cass said her goodbyes to Mat’s family, with a promise to meet up before the game the next day, and hurried down to meet Mat. There wasn’t anything formal scheduled for the rest of the night, so he came out of the locker room in just a pair of athletic shorts and an Islanders t-shirt. Cass ran up, jumping into his arms as he dropped his bag to catch her. “Woah, babe,” he said, steadying his hands on the back of her thighs, “coulda given me a warning there.”

Cass kissed him. “Wouldn’t have been nearly as fun that way, though, huh?”

“You’re right.” Mat shrugged good-naturedly, setting Cass down and grabbing his bag and her hand. 

“How does it feel having beaten the record?” Cass asked. 

Mat ran his free hand through his hair, still shower-damp. “So surreal. I wasn’t even sure I’d win, not with how stacked the lineup was, let alone get anywhere near breaking the record. It’s ridiculous, but it’s amazing.”

“You’re amazing.”

 Jan. 30 (sat)

 Mat was busy doing media and catching up with some of the guys before the game later that day, and Cass had elected to stay in the room. Mat had offered for her to come along, “you might think it’s interesting?” he had noted, but she’d be damned if she let herself fall behind in her last semester, she was just too close. It had already been a bit of a stretch for her to take a day off and come for the whole weekend, so her afternoon was instead filled with some utterly thrilling reading on advanced contract theory and a thick-as-all-hell review book for the New York state bar. She leaned back in her chair, taking the last remaining sip of the mediocre Lipton tea she had snagged from the basket by the room’s coffee maker. She could finish it later.

Cass picked up her phone, pressing play on a voicemail from Fiona that had been left earlier in the afternoon. 

Uh, hey, it’s me. Cass, I don’t know if this is what you want to hear, but I don’t think I’d be a very good friend if I didn’t say it. Uh-oh. Conversations that started like that never ended well. I’m happy about you and Mat, I know you like him a lot, but I’m worried that he’s distracting you. I know you told us you’d be gone, but we missed you at the study group, and I know you skipped your law review meeting today. The rest of the message was more of the same, but one sentence stuck out to her. Think about where your priorities are. Think about where you want them to be. 

Fiona Chan had a one-track mind. And Cass loved her for it — she was one of the most dedicated people she knew and an incredible friend. But she sometimes found it hard to understand when people had priorities that extended beyond the bounds of law school, when their sole focus wasn’t on their Contracts final or clinic or clerkship they were doing for some top-tier appellate judge. 

She flopped back on the bed. Think about where your priorities are. She had been spending a lot of time with Mat lately, but no more than anyone would spend with their significant other — right? And it wasn’t a sin for her to have a life outside of law school. She was still more than competent at her job, got most of the reading done, was prepared when professors would cold-call on her. She still showed up to meetings. 

But even she would admit that her head wasn’t in the game all the time, if she could hazard another High School Musical reference. She’d sneak texts, meet him for lunch instead of going to office hours, and now, take weekends off to be with him. But that wasn’t a bad thing. Or was it? Her grades weren’t really suffering, and nobody else had mentioned anything. Friends notice things, though, Cass thought. And Fiona was one of the most perceptive people she knew. She groaned. Why wasn’t there ever an easy way to figure these things out? She really liked Mat — she might even love him — but Cass couldn’t help but feel like she was gambling on something that wasn’t a sure thing. And her future wasn’t something to play games with. 

#hockey imagine #hockey writing #nhl imagine #mat barzal #mat barzal imagine #hockey smut #mat barzal imagines #nhl writing #nhl imagines #nhl fluff #nhl #hockey #hockey imagines #hockey fluff #nhl smut #new york islanders #islanders imagines

[sunmoonandeddie]

feelings are fatal (6/24)

pairing: bucky barnes x reader, past steve rogers x reader

word count: 4,606

summary: After the events of Endgame, you struggle to come to terms with what you’ve lost, though you’re learning that you still have something to gain.

chapter warnings: swearing

masterlist

a/n: Let me know what you think!

You hummed softly as you took a sip of your wine, closing your eyes as you felt the cool liquid slide down your throat.  The midsummer sun was upon New York, and the breeze off the lake did little to help.  You were sitting on one of the couches on the front porch with Laura, Pepper, and Wanda, all of you sharing a box of white wine that rested on the coffee table in front of you.

Rhodey—“Let the grill master do all the work,” he’d said—was flipping burgers and hot dogs a little off to the side with Happy while Clint held Nathaniel on his hip.  Bruce and Sam were nearby, beers in hand.  Morgan and Cooper giggled loudly as they ran through the yard, Bucky hot on their heels.  The two braids you’d put into her hair that morning were already starting to fall out, the little red, white, and blue ribbons trailing behind her.  But you didn’t mind.

Everything felt so… normal.  It was a little disarming, and you half expected some alien spaceship to appear in the sky and for everything to go to shit again, but you tried to push those thoughts away.  Today was supposed to be a happy day.

“Y/N?”

You looked up to see Lila standing in front of you. There was a bit of a sheepish look on her face as her feet shuffled back and forth.  Her Old Navy t-shirt had an American flag on it, her brothers wearing matching ones.  “What’s up?” You asked as you leaned forward.

She bit her lip and glanced over at her mom, who she’d been whispering to just seconds before.  She gave her an encouraging nod and her daughter looked back at you with a new resolve.  “Can you… Can you braid my hair?  Like you did Morgan’s?”

A grin tugged at your lips as you nodded.  “I’d love to.  Just run inside and grab the ribbons and stuff, okay?”

The teenager seemed to light up as she nodded, running inside the cabin.

“Thank you,” Laura said with a bit of a sigh.  She was staring down at the half-drank glass in her hand.  “When we…  A lot of her friends weren’t affected by the Snap, and when we came back, they were five years older.  I know we had it rough, but I can’t imagine being thirteen and coming back from the dead to find out your best friends were about to leave for college, and you hadn’t even made it to high school.”  Her eyes were glistening with unshed tears as she watched the door her daughter had just disappeared through.  “I know braiding her hair seems like such a little thing, but—”

“It’s not,” you said with a reassuring smile.  “It means a lot to her, I can see it.”

“She feels like she’s supposed to be this grown up,” the older woman said with a sigh, her brows furrowing.  “All her friends are getting jobs and planning for the future and I keep having to remind her that she’s just a kid.”

Pepper hummed as she took a sip of her tea—unsweet, which made your nose scrunch in disgust. “She’ll get there, Laura, and—”

Before she could finish her sentence, Lila was stepping back out onto the porch with a wide grin.  The door slammed as she took a seat in front of you, holding the ribbons, ponytails, and brush up for you to take.  You took the brush and gently began to run it through her hair, being careful about any tangles you found.

“Lila, have you ever been to summer camp?” Wanda asked, her accent lightly lilting the words, and all four of you turned to look at her with incredulous expressions.  “What? There are at least five hundred American movies about summer camp.  It’s a fair question.”

The teenager shrugged as she pulled her knees up to her chest, suddenly very interested in the chipped yellow nail polish on her toes. “No.  It always seemed kinda dumb to go to a summer camp when I live on a farm.”

Laura looked a little thoughtful as she watched you carefully divide her hair into two.  “Summer camp might not be that bad of an idea.”

Wanda took a sip of her wine.  “All the movies say that it’s a great idea,” she said nonchalantly, sending a round of giggles through all of you.  The wine was starting to get to her head, and her accent got thicker and thicker as time went on.

You looked up as you heard a car door slam, grinning as you saw Peter Parker and his Aunt May getting out.  You knew that Lila’s plight was something he could relate to on some level, even though you’d heard that most of his friends had been Snapped away and come back just as they were.

Happy pulled May into a hug and you looked over at Pepper.  She caught your eye and both of you had knowing looks in your eyes at the way he let it linger.  Even once he let go, his hand lingered on her lower back as they quietly exchanged pleasantries.

“I wonder what that was about,” you said with a bit of a smirk as you turned back to Lila’s hair.  You had one side almost completely finished.  Pepper just shrugged, though she was grinning against the rim of her glass of tea.

Morgan immediately ran to Peter, launching herself into his arms with a squeal.  “PETER!” She shouted, her arms wrapping around his neck as he caught her.

Pepper looked a little teary eyed as she watched the exchange and you felt your heart well up with a little bit of emotion as well.  It was nice, seeing those two.  Peter had been a sort of son to Tony, and Morgan had listened to hundreds of bedtime stories about the teenager.

You also knew that it was good for Peter.  Helped him to realize that even though Tony was gone, he was still a part of your little family.

“May, over here,” Laura called as she scooted over a little bit for the other woman.

“Laura!  When did you get in?” May asked in surprise as she came up the front porch steps.

The two had met at Tony’s funeral and had become fast friends.  There was a sort of bond between Pepper, Laura, and May that you and Wanda just weren’t a part of it.  The comradery of raising children, you supposed.

You wrapped a ponytail around the end of the one finished braid before starting on the other.  Lila was taking in everything happening around her, content to just listen. She was getting to the age where she was starting to be let in on ‘adult’ conversations.

“Just last night,” Laura said as her and the other woman hugged.  “The flight was awful, but Southwest always is, you know.”

Pepper raised her eyebrows expectantly as she settled back in her seat.  She clearly meant business and wasn’t about to beat around the bush.  “So, what’s going on between you and Happy?”

May sputtered as her cheeks flushed a dark pink.  “Nothing’s going on.  Why would you ask?”  But as she sat down, she grabbed one of the empty wine glasses from the little coffee table in front of all of you and poured herself a large glass.

“You can’t lie to us,” Wanda said with a smirk.

“Hey, using powers isn’t fair,” you reminded her.

She rewarded with you an impish grin and a shrug as she sank back into her seat once again.

“We…  Happy still watches out for Peter, of course, and I don’t know…”  May took a small sip of wine as she tried to not let her eyes trail to the driver/bodyguard that was still talking with Rhodey and Clint.  The man was not-so-slyly taking glances over at her, only to quickly look away once he met her eye.  Peter, meanwhile, had joined Bucky in chasing Morgan and Cooper around the yard.  “He’s sweet.”

“Mmhmm, I’m sure that’s all there is to it,” Laura teased, nudging her playfully.

“What about Bucky and Y/N?”

All of you turned to look down at Lila, who had an expression of pure innocence on her face.

“What about us?” You asked, though your heart started to race.  Your mind immediately went to that almost-kiss at the baseball game even though you willed it not to.  You’d lied awake that night for hours, tossing and turning as you wondered what it would’ve been like, and it brought on a strange sense of déjà vu.

“You are distracted, malen'kiy.”

Your e/c eyes slowly focused on the Winter Soldier, who was standing just a few inches away.  The knife that you had thrown just seconds before was off center.  Way off center.

You usually never missed.

Shaking your head, you did your best to clear the fog in your mind.  “I’m sorry, Soldat.”

His shoes came into your line of vision as he took a step closer.  His metal hand reached up to tilt your chin up, eyes meeting with yours.  There was always something smoldering in his blue orbs that you could never explain. Like he was confused or… or afraid. “What’s going on?”

“I was…”  You bit your lip anxiously as you tried to figure out how to put your thoughts into words. You knew that if you told him the truth, he could report you.  You’d be put down immediately.  Like a dog.

“Yes?”  And even though it was his metal fingers on your skin, it was still tender and just as soft a touch as his flesh hand.

You took in a deep breath.  Despite the fact that he could report you, part of you knew that he never would.  He wouldn’t put you in danger like that.  “I was thinking about Natalia.”

It had been almost eleven years since she’d graduated, but that didn’t matter to you.  You never stopped wondering where she was, what she was doing.  It had been six years since she’d last visited to help train the girls in the Red Room, and you heard that she was no longer part of the KGB or HYDRA.  She’d betrayed the organization and was now an enemy.

You knew the Asset had one trained the redhead, which is partially why you brought it up.  “Have you heard anything?”

“No, malen'kiy,” he said softly, his metal digits running through your hair. “I’m sorry.  I know how much you care about her.”  His mouth opened as though he was going to say something, but he appeared to have thought better of it since he quickly closed his mouth.

“What is it?” You asked as you took step closer to him.  Being mere centimeters away from each other, you could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest as you had to lean your head back to look at him. You knew that if someone walked into the training room, you’d be screwed.  But none of that seemed to matter as his warm breath fanned out on your face.  He always smelled like gunpowder and gasoline. Like danger and heat.

Being close to him was always so… intoxicating.  With every training session you pushed your luck more and more, getting closer and closer. The distance between you two had ever so slowly decreased over the two years he’d been training you.  Your heart raced inside your chest and you tried to ignore how dry your mouth suddenly got.

He gnawed on his bottom lip before slowly saying, “You make me feel things, malen'kiy.  Things I am not supposed to feel.”  Your heart was pounding and you wondered if he could hear it.  “And it scares me, because I know that if anyone found out, I’d be wiped.  And you…” The Soldier sighed deeply as he took a step away.  It sent a pang through your heart as he dropped his hand from your cheek.  “You’d be punished because of me.”

Lila shrugged noncommittedly, not realizing the panic she had sent you into.  “I don’t know.  I just think Bucky looks at you like dad looks at mom.”

Your face felt hot as you stared down at the braid you were working on, trying to keep your hands from shaking.  You were suddenly hyper aware of everyone staring at you and also the shouts and laughter coming from the man in question out in the yard. Keeping your head down, you looked up to watch as Bucky grabbed Morgan.  Both of them were laughing loudly as he tickled her.  His hair fell around his face in chestnut waves, his eyes looking almost green in the light.  A sheen of sweat covered his forehead.  The smile on his face could’ve lit up the world, you were sure of it.

You were so entranced that you didn’t notice the whispers coming from the other women.

Bucky suddenly looked up, a fond smile on his lips as his eyes met yours.  You quickly looked back down at Lila’s hair, trying to pretend that he didn’t affect you as your heart went into a bit of a tizzy.

“There you go,” you said as you tired off the second braid.  Your hands were shaky as you let it go, rubbing your hands on your legs.  “All done.”

The teenager’s hands ran over her hair as she jumped up, shouting her thanks before running back towards the yard.  Since Peter had shown up, there was no doubt that she’d find her way to the fifteen-year-old’s side.  It was kind of cute, the case of hero-worship she had going on.  You’d think that having Hawkeye would prevent it, but apparently not.

You were very aware of everyone staring at you, but you did your best to dismiss the looks as you stood.  “I’m going to grab some more wine,” you said with as much fake confidence as you could muster before heading inside.

You’d decided—as a newly reformed family—to spend Fourth of July at the Stark cabin.  It was away from the city and quiet, which was a good idea all around for everyone.  The fireworks that would be going off around the city and surrounding towns could easily affect all of you.  The entire team suffered from some form of PTSD from constantly being in battle.  So two days ago, you and Pepper and walked through one of those little firework tents and picked out all the sparklers and little fountains that the kids could ever want, all the while asking questions about how loud each fountain got before throwing it into the cart.

It was nice, being back at the Stark cabin.  It brought back memories of your visits during the five years in between the Snap and the Final Battle.  There were happy moments all through out the years, most of them involving chasing Morgan through the halls and sitting out on the porch late at night with Pepper and Tony after she’d gone to bed.

You stood at the kitchen sink, taking in deep breaths as you looked out at the lake.  Off to the side was a photo of Tony and Peter beside a few others.  It was hard, being there without Tony.  He’d been such an important part of your life for almost a decade and it was hard to believe he was gone.

“You okay, sugar?”

Turning, you let out a weak laugh as you saw Bucky standing in the doorway.  “You managed to get out of Morgan and Cooper’s sight, huh?”

“Only after I promised them I’d come right back.” He leaned against the counter, frowning as he took in your glassy eyes.  “Talk to me, Y/N.”

“I just—”  You sniffled as you tried to blink away the tears.  “Just really miss him, is all.”

His hand gently grabbed yours, his thumb carefully running over your soft skin.  “I know, sweetheart.  I know.”

You could hear Morgan’s laughter still, and a small smile tugged at your lips as you stared down at your joined hands.  “I’m just trying to take care of them like Tony would’ve wanted.”

“Tony would’ve wanted you to be taken care of, too, you know.”

You shrugged as you flashed a smile up at him.  “I’m just taking it day by day.”  Your eyes shifted to a picture just behind him of the entire team together, Natasha’s arm thrown around you.  “Trying to make them proud.”

Bucky’s heart broke a little as he watched the way your eyes dimmed.  “They’ve always been proud of you.”

You looked up as you heard a car door slam, the moment lost.  “I didn’t know anyone else was coming.”

“Neither did I,” the super soldier said as he began to move towards the front door.

You followed him out onto the front porch without a second thought, the wooden boards creaking.  Your heart stopped as you saw a familiar minivan, an older couple stepping out.  Without even seeing their faces, you knew who they were.

Steve and Peggy Rogers.

Your hands shook as you stared at the man you’d once thought was the love of your life, your eyes catching the glint of the ring on his left ring finger.  His baby blue eyes met yours right before you turned right back around and headed back into the cabin.

The past two months, you’d just been trying to put yourself back together, and it seemed all for naught.  Your heart felt like it was going to break your ribs, it was pounding so hard.  Your breath was coming in short, labored gasps.

Outside, Bucky walked down the steps and marched towards Steve.  “What are you doing here?” He demanded.  He didn’t care that it was his best friend’s hundred and fiftieth birthday or whatever. Him showing up could mean you backtracking.

The man was clearly taken aback, looking at all of them in confusion.  “Pepper said that if we didn’t have anywhere to spend the holiday, we could come here.”

“I expected a call or something to let us know you’d be here,” the woman in question said, glancing back towards the house.  She’d offered it to them two weeks ago, and when she hadn’t heard anything, she’d figured that they weren’t coming.  That they’d be spending the Fourth with their children.

Peggy stepped forward, apologetic and understanding as ever.  “It was a last minute thing.  I’m the one who insisted that it would be okay.  I should’ve thought it through more.”

“She needs time, remember?” Bucky asked, his eyes still locked with Steve’s.  The others had never seen him act so aggressively towards him, other than maybe when he was the Winter Soldier.  “You can’t just show up without warning right now.  Maybe not ever.”

The blond—well, his hair had gone rather gray—nodded in understanding.  “I wasn’t thinking about it.  I’m sorry.”

Everyone looked up as the door opened once more and you came out.  You had a set of keys in your hand and you stopped on the front porch to talk to Pepper. “I think I’m going to head out, Pep,” you said, your voice cracking.  “I’m really sorry.  I—”

“No,” she said, shaking her head.  “It’s my fault.  They were supposed to give me warning and—”

.“It’s fine.  I just don’t want to make a scene, so I’m just…”  You swallowed around the lump in your throat, keeping your head down. You wanted to just get out of there without having to look at either of the Rogers.  “I’m gonna go back to the compound.”

Bucky turned and ran towards you, meeting you on the steps.  “Hey, sugar,” he said, his hand tentatively reaching to cradle your face.  “I’m so sorry.  If you want me to come with you, I can.”

“No, you should stay here and enjoy the holiday. I’ll be fine,” you said with a weak smile.  You weren’t sure if you were trying to convince him or yourself, but at this point, it didn’t really matter.  “You should celebrate his birthday.”

He nodded after a moment, letting his hand fall and taking a step back.  “Let me know when you make it home, okay?”

You just smiled in return, keeping your head down as you headed for the car you, Bucky, and Sam had taken.  You knew that Pepper and the others would be able to take them with them when they went back in the morning.

“Y/N.”

You froze as you felt a hand on your arm, looking up to see Steve staring down at you with a desperate look in his eyes.  Even after all the years he’d lived, his eyes were just the same.  Still just as bright and blue as before.  You tore your arm away from him as though his touch burned you, taking a step back.  “How dare you?” You asked, tears pricking your eyes.

“Y/N—”

“No,” you said, anger rising in your chest.  Your hands were balled into fists at your sides. “You don’t get to do that.  You don’t get to come here and act like nothing happened.”  Hot tears were streaming down your cheeks and you knew that this was definitely making a scene, but you didn’t care.  “You left me.  You left me all alone and I lost Natasha.  I lost Tony.  I needed you.  And you left like I was nothing.  Like I didn’t matter to you.”

He looked so pained that you almost felt bad, but not quite.

“You spent years telling me you weren’t the marriage type.”  Your chest physically hurt as you stared him down.  Even though you’d been trying to keep him from seeing you cry, you knew it was pointless now.  Now all you could do was stand your ground.  “I spent eight years with you, telling myself that it didn’t matter if we never got married as long as we were together.  That you loved me just as much and it didn’t matter that I’d never get that. I spent almost a decade with you. I went on the run and was branded a criminal for you.”  You motioned towards his wife, your hands shaking.  But you hesitated when you saw her.  Even though she was now old and wrinkled, she was just as beautiful as all the pictures you’d seen of her from the 40s.  But she was looking at you with such pity.  “And then you leave without telling me and marry her.”

“I’m so sorry,” Steve said, his voice croaking as he watched you.  He couldn’t reach out for you, knowing that you would just get angry again.  There was so much he wanted to tell you, so much he wanted to explain.  But he’d gotten it easy.  He’d gotten to go decades without seeing you, without facing up to the consequences of his actions.

You looked up in surprise as Bucky stepped in front of you.  “I told you, she needs time, Steve,” he said, his voice stern.  As much as he loved his friend and knew that he had only meant well, you needed him.  His hand slipped into yours, your fingers intertwining.  It was the only comfort he could give you at the moment, small as it was. “Come on, Y/N.  I’m going with you.”

“James—”

“No, Y/N,” he said as he turned to look at you.  “I’m going back to the compound with you.”  He tugged you towards the car, shouting back, “Happy birthday, punk.”

As soon as you were in the car, the floodgates opened, and you collapsed into a fit of tears.  Bucky had taken the liberty of getting into the driver’s seat, knowing that you were in no state to drive.  He reached over and buckled your seatbelt for you before starting it up and pulling out of the drive.

Your heart felt like it had been ripped out of your chest all over again as you curled up into a ball.  The rug had been pulled out from under you yet again.  You felt like the punchline of a joke.  Something for your former lover to laugh at when he looked back at his time with the Avengers every once in a while.

“I’m sorry that happened, James,” you said after what seemed like forever.  Your head was leaning against the window as you watched the sun slowly start to set. The cool glass felt so nice against your overheated skin.  “I didn’t want you to have to leave for me.”

“Nonsense,” he said with a bit of a huff.  You knew he was only trying to make you feel better, but you were gonna take what you could get at this point.  “I love Steve to death but I was two seconds away from giving him a shiner.”  His knuckles were white from gripping the steering wheel so hard, and he was trying really hard not to be angry with his best friend.  His eyes brightened as he saw a cheap firework stand and he pulled in without a second thought.  “Come on, malen'kiy.”

Freezing at the old nickname rolling off his tongue, it took you an extra moment to get out of the car.  “What are we doing here?” You asked, though he had already taken off towards the stand.  The bright lights inside made it seem like a beacon in the falling darkness, though you could see every single moth flying around.

You weren’t sure if he’d realized what he’d called you, or if he just didn’t care.  You certainly didn’t mind.  Hearing the old endearment made you feel warm.  Safe.

“We can have our own little celebration back at the compound.”  Bucky was already grabbing a basket with one hand, his other finding yours.

It struck you that he’d been holding your hand an awful lot lately, but you found that you didn’t mind.  In fact, you’d started to find yourself reaching for his hand when it wasn’t already in yours.

“Y/N?”

You blinked, blushing as you realized that he’d been talking to you.  “I’m sorry, what?”  As his eyes roamed over your face, you remembered Lila’s words from earlier.

“I just think Bucky looks at you like dad looks at mom.”

He just smiled fondly and tugged you towards one of the racks of fireworks.  “Pick out whatever you want, sugar.”

An hour later, you found yourself out on the field outside of the compound, the sun long gone.  A bottle of Jack was on the grass somewhere, along with your shoes.  All of your worries felt like they were a million miles away and it was only you and the brunet man who was currently giggling like a child.

You spelled out your name in the air with a sparkler, watching as the man across from you did the same.  At some point Bucky had thrown his black bomber jacket over your shoulders, shielding you from the light breeze coming off the lake.  Your stomach twisted as you watched the way his face lit up behind the sparkler, biting your bottom lip.  “Hey, James?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for doing this with me.  I know you were looking forward to hanging out with everyone,” you said, your voice dropping to a whisper as the sparkler started to fade.

Bucky felt like his heart was going to burst as the two of you stared into each other’s eyes.  Even like this, with tear-stained cheeks and grass stains on your knees, you were the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.  “Sugar, there’s no place I’d rather be.”

#bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fic

[antonio-morra]

[ nick zano, thirty-nine, cismale, he/him ] ━ hey, I just saw [ antonio morra ] walking down the streets of crownsville. they’ve lived in town for [ on and off his entire life ], and you can catch them around town working as a [ cruise ship entertainer and mc ]. i hear they’re known to be [ intrepid & savant ] and [ stubborn & irascible ]. if asked, they would say their aesthetic would be [ a crowded room full of laughter, a thumping bass, waves slapping against the side of a boat, a reassuring smile, joints rolled with flavored papers, black coffee, & intense debates about historical theories ].

aaayoo! it’s lisa and here is my new bby ant or tony. he’s going to be a quite a bit like an old muse i used to have here, PJ and i’m reallllly excited to use him because he’s a real goofball. though fair warning, his backstory is very sad and intense.

[ triggers: bad parenting/parental negligence, alcoholism, violence, physical & emotional abuse, pregnancy, drowning, & death ] 

The Morra family has resided in Crownsville, Georgia for generations, each family having fallen in love with the small town a little more than the one before them. Though for one branch of their intricate Italian family tree, the feelings of contentment for their home never existed at all. Alessio Morra knew he would never find happiness in Georgia so at eighteen he enlisted in the US Navy hoping to see enough of the world to find a new place he might like to call home. The home he ended up finding wasn’t a where, but a who. Rosalie Hassen was the first woman he ever fell in love with and for several years their life was more like a fairytale than reality.

He finished his tour with the Navy and brought Rosalie back to Crownsville so they could be married; Alessio was foolish enough to believe that she would be enough to erase the deep-rooted resentment he’d always harbored for his hometown, but unfortunately, she wasn’t. Nor was their healthy, beautiful baby boy who they named Antonio. The three lived together feigning happiness for four years before Alessio’s drinking and Rosalie’s ill-temper tore them apart. In the middle of the night after a screaming match turned violent that resulted in two broken windows, Alessio disappeared leaving only a note stating it was what was best for everyone. 

Unfortunately for Antonio, it wasn’t the case. His mother grew to resent her son in time, just as his father had resented the “perfect American life” his family had tried so hard to force on him. On all of them. All she could see when she looked upon her son was the man she once loved who’d abandoned them. He possessed so many of his father’s best qualities like his intellect and free-spirit, yet she could only focus on the bad ones and blamed the child for what their life had become.

They relied heavily on the Morra family for support in the years to follow, often struggling just to pay their rent and get dinner on the table. Rosalie began to dull the sense in the same way her husband used to, with alcohol. And for a short while, she’d achieved the desired effect, but the booze only brought out the worst in the woman. During her drunken fits of rage, the cruel mother often took out her anger on Antonio, punishing him for things that were never his fault. Putting him down however she could, every step of the way as he grew up. 

Though the beatings and the bruises didn’t go unnoticed by other members of the Morra family and when his Uncle confronted him, demanding the truth, Antonio told him everything. At fifteen, his mother was arrested and for the first time in his life, he felt truly safe and unafraid. He moved in with his Uncle, but it didn’t last more than a few months as his father returned to Crownsville upon receiving the news of what had occurred. 

It was difficult, to say the least, trying to make a relationship that no longer existed work. Alessio tried his best to be a father, but Antonio’s respect for him disappeared the same night he did and the teenager refused to take orders from someone who’d left him and allowed him to be abused. The father who didn’t take him away when he’d had the chance, knowing full well what kind of malicious acts his mother was capable of. It was his own personal resentment toward the man he’d been carrying with him for years, one he didn’t think would ever go away.

Despite Tony’s very troubled home life, he’d always been popular among his classmates, never failing to make everyone around him laugh or smile. The young boy refused to let his mother change him, to turn him cruel and monstrous as she had been, so he always did whatever he could to make everyone around him happy. Happier than he ever thought he could be. While he had plenty of friends, none of them knew what was really going on in his life, except for one very special best friend. They were the only person Antonio shared his darkest secrets with.

After graduation, Tony left for California where he attended Stanford on a full-ride scholarship and studied History and Philosophy. The choice he made to leave Crownsville was all too easy for him, just as it had been for his father when he was the same age. He left his best friend behind and it was something that ate at him for years, but he feared what his life would have become if he’d stayed in the small town he saw as nothing more than a dead-end. 

He graduated from Stanford magna cum laude but was unable to find a job he actually wanted to do. A year later, he found himself working on a cruise ship unsure of exactly what to expect except maybe a little adventure. History seemed to repeat itself as the young Morra found himself quite at home on the cruiseliner, enjoying the open sea more than he’d ever enjoyed anything in his life. The passengers loved Tony and the high energy and can-do attitude he always seemed to carry with him, it was something his higher-ups noticed as well and it helped get him out of hospitality and into entertainment.

Tony couldn’t imagine a life any different, the thought of settling down in one place was enough to give him nightmares, He revisited Crownsville every few years to see his family and nothing ever seemed to change which only made him all the more eager to set sail once more. 

At thirty-two, Antonio found himself falling in love with another member of the crew and it was something he never expected to personally experience. Always having believed it was the sea who held his heart, but Lydia had stolen it without him even being the wiser until it was too late. They became very close and spent almost every free minute they had together, 

Settling down was never something he’d imagined, but the thought of doing so with Lydia was enough to change his mind, though knowing it was something she didn’t want he was too afraid to speak up and tell her. They had no choice but to keep the severity of their relationship a secret out of fear of being fired for breaking the company’s code of conduct, though they didn’t seem to mind as it only made things all the more exciting. They were so in love with each other they decided that one weekend when they found themselves at port in Florida, they got off the boat and got themselves married.

A few years later, they had no choice but to come clean as Lydia found out she was pregnant. Her contract was terminated early and so Tony insisted she go to Crownsville, knowing his family would help her with anything she needed and he promised he would join her as soon as his own contract was up the following year. Antonio was right and the Morra’s did everything they could for her, including Tony’s own father who helped get her set up in Tony’s childhood home. They wrote to each other constantly and for the first time in his life, he wanted to fo back to his hometown. 

One month before Antonio was set to come home, Lydia gave birth to a healthy baby girl who they decided to name Orabelle, meaning beautiful seacoast. For seven blissful months, they lived in perfect happiness, in a place Tony was once sure he’d never find it. His relationship with his father even began to heal as it meant the world to Antonio that his father took Lydia and their baby in and made sure they were safe in his absence. He continued to work for the same cruise line company having worked out quite the nice deal for himself to stay on as one of their master of ceremonies, but only for special occasion cruises. Which was, of course, his favorite kind. 

They took their first official family vacation together to Florida, excited for their little girl to take her first dip in the ocean. Though the trip quickly turned into an unimaginable nightmare when Lydia found herself trapped in a powerful rip current with no way to escape. By the time Tony left Orabelle in the care of his father and managed to reach her, it was already too late and he nearly drowned himself while trying to rescue her.

Her death broke him in a way he never thought he could be, as though she took the most important piece of him with her when she left this world. Orabelle was a constant reminder of his beloved wife and what he lost, but also what he’d gained. Lydia would be with him forever because they’d created the most precious thing in his entire world, their daughter. Where he is now in life is so far from where he thought he would be, but he’s come to terms with the fact that it’s now exactly where he belongs. 

❦ WANTED CONNECTIONS ❦

childhood best friend — would be happy to have this be a highschool sweetheart type thing

childhood friends

new friends

college friends or roommates

family members 

coworkers

other friends with kids

#crownsvilleintro #bad parenting tw #parental negligence tw #alcoholism tw #death tw #pregnancy tw #violence tw #physical abuse tw #abuse tw #drowning tw #i'm a fucking monster oooops

[thereal-courtneycrosslin]

“I Will Sink or Swim with My Race: Ladies and Gentlemen: You will not expect a lengthened speech from me to-night. My health is too poor to allow me to indulge much in speechmaking. But I have not been able to resist the temptation to unite with you in this demonstra-tion of respect for some of my noble but misguided ancestors.

White Americans have taken great pains to try to prove that we are cowards. We are often insulted with the assertion, that if we had had the courage of the Indians or the white man, we would never have submitted to be slaves. I ask if Indians and white men have never been slaves? The white man tested the Indian's courage here when he had his organized armies, his battlegrounds, his places of retreat, with everything to hope for and everything to lose. The position of the African slave has been very different. Seized a prisoner of war, unarmed, bound hand and foot, and conveyed to a distant country among what to him were worse than cannibals; brutally beaten, halfstarved, closely watched by armed men, with no means of knowing their own strength or the strength of their enemies, with no weapons, and without a probability of success. But if the white man will take the trouble to fight the black man in Africa or in Hayti, and fight him as fair as the black man will fight him there—if the black man does not come off victor, I am deceived in his prowess. But, take a man, armed or unarmed, from his home, his country, or his friends, and place him among savages, and who is he that would not make good his retreat? "Discretion is the better part of valor," but for a man to resist where he knows it will destroy him, shows more fool-hardiness than courage. There have been many Anglo-Saxons and Anglo-Americans enslaved in Africa, but I have never heard that they successfully resisted any government. They always resort to running indispensables. The courage of the Anglo-Saxon is best illustrated in his treatment of the negro. A score or two of them can pounce upon a poor negro, tie and beat him, and then call him a coward because he submits. Many of their most brilliant victories have been achieved in the same manner. But the greatest battles which they have fought have been upon paper. We can easily account for this; their trumpeter is dead. He died when they used to be exposed for sale in the Roman market, about the time that Cicero cautioned his friend Atticus not to buy them, on account of their stupidity. A little more than half a century ago, this race, in connection with their Celtic neighbors, who have long been considered (by themselves, of course,) as the bravest soldiers in the world, so far forgot themselves as to attack a few cowardly, stupid negro slaves, who, according to their accounts, had not sense enough to go to bed. And what was the result? Why, sir, the negroes drove them out from the island like so many sheep, and they have never dared to show their faces, except with hat in hand.

Our true and tried friend, Rev. Theodore Parker said, in his speech at the State House, a few weeks since, that "the stroke of the axe would have settled the question long ago, but the black man would not strike." Mr. Parker makes a very low estimate of the courage of his race, if he means that one, two or three millions of those ignorant and cowardly black slaves could, without means, have brought to their knees five, ten, or twenty millions of intelligent brave white men, backed up by a rich oligarchy. But I know of no one who is more familiar with the true character of the Anglo-Saxon race than Mr. Parker. I will not dispute this point with him, but I will thank him or any one else to tell us how it could have been done. His remark calls to my mind the day which is to come, when one shall chase a thousand, and two put ten thousand to flight. But when he says that "the black man would not strike," I am prepared to say that he does us great injustice. The black man is not a coward. The history of the bloody struggles for freedom in Hayti, in which the blacks whipped the French and the English, and gained their independence, in spite of the perfidy of that villainous First Consul, will be a lasting refutation of the malicious aspersions of our enemies. The history of the struggles for the liberty of the U.S. ought to silence every American calumniator. I have learned that even so late as the Texan war, a number of black men were found silly enough to offer themselves as living sacrifices for our country's shame. A gentleman who delivered a lecture before the New York Legislature, a few years since, whose name I do not now remember, but whose language I give with some precision, said, "In the Revolution, colored soldiers fought side by side with you in your struggles for liberty, and there is not a battle-field from Maine to Georgia that has not been crimsoned with their blood, and whitened with their bones." In 1814, a bill passed the Legislature of New York, accepting the services of 2000 colored volunteers. Many black men served under Com. McDonough when he conquered on lake Champlain. Many were in the battles of Plattsburgh and Sackett's Harbor, and General Jackson called out colored troops from Louisiana and Alabama, and in a solemn proclamation attested to their fidelity and courage.

The white man contradicts himself who says, that if he were in our situation, he would throw off the yoke. Thirty millions of white men of this proud Caucasian race are at this moment held as slaves, and bought and sold with horses and cattle. The iron heel of oppression grinds the masses of all the European races to the dust. They suffer every kind of oppression, and no one dares to open his mouth to protest against it. Even in the Southern portion of this boasted land of liberty, no white man dares advocate so much of the Declaration of Independence as declares that "all men are created free and equal, and have an inalienable right to life, liberty,"

White men have no room to taunt us with tamely submitting. If they were black men they would work wonders; but, as white men, they can do nothing. "O, Consistency, thou art a jewel!"

Now, it would not be surprising if the brutal treatment which we have received for the past two centuries should have crushed our spirits. But this is not the case. Nothing but a superior force keeps us down. And when I see the slaves rising up by hundreds annually, in the majesty of human nature, bidding defiance to every slave code and its penalties, making the issue Canada or death, and that too while they are closely watched by paid men armed with pistols, clubs and bowie-knives, with the army and navy of this great Model Republic arrayed against them, I am disposed to ask if the charge of cowardice does not come with an ill-grace.

But some men are so steeped in folly and imbecility; so lost to all feelings of their own littleness; so destitute of principle, and so regardless of humanity, that they dare attempt to destroy everything which exists in opposition to their interests or opinions which their narrow comprehensions cannot grasp.

We ought not to come here simply to honor those brave men who shed their blood for freedom, or to protest against the Dred Scott decision, but to take counsel of each other, and to enter into new vows of duty. Our fathers fought nobly for freedom, but they were not victorious. They fought for liberty, but they got slavery. The white man was benefitted, but the black man was injured. I do not envy the white American the little liberty which he enjoys. It is his right, and he ought to have it. I wish him success, though I do not think he deserves it. But I would have all men free. We have had much sad experience in this country, and it would be strange indeed if we do not profit by some of the lessons which we have so dearly paid for. Sooner or later, the clashing of arms will be heard in this country, and the black man's services will be needed: 150,000 freemen capable of bearing arms, and not all cowards and fools, and three quarters of a million of slaves, wild with the enthusiasm caused by the dawn of the glorious opportunity of being able to strike a genuine blow for freedom, will be a power which white men will be "bound to respect." Will the blacks fight? Of course they will. The black man will never be neutral. He could not if he would, and he would not if he could. Will he fight for this country, right or wrong? This the common sense of every one answers; and when the time comes, and come it will, the black man will give an intelligent answer. Judge Taney may outlaw us; Caleb Cushing may show the depravity of his heart by abusing us; and this wicked government may oppress us; but the black man will live when Judge Taney, Caleb Cushing and this wicked government are no more. White men may despise, ridicule, slander and abuse us; they may seek as they always have done to divide us, and make us feel degraded; but no man shall cause me to turn my back upon my race. With it I will sink or swim.

The prejudice which some white men have, or affect to have, against my color gives me no pain. If any man does not fancy my color, that is his business, and I shall not meddle with it. I shall give myself no trouble because he lacks good taste. If he judges my intellectual capacity by my color, he certainly cannot expect much profundity, for it is only skin deep, and is really of no very great importance to any one but myself. I will not deny that I admire the talents and noble characters of many white men. But I cannot say that I am particularly pleased with their physical appearance. If old mother nature had held out as well as she commenced, we should, probably, have had fewer varieties in the races. When I contrast the fine tough muscular system, the beautiful, rich color, the full broad features, and the gracefully frizzled hair of the negro, with the delicate physical organization, wan color, sharp features and lank hair of the Caucasian, I am inclined to believe that when the white man was created, nature was pretty well exhausted-but determined to keep up appearances, she pinched up his features, and did the best she could under the circumstances. (Great laughter.)

I would have you understand, that I not only love my race, but am pleased with my color; and while many colored persons may feel degraded by being called negroes, and wish to be classed among other races more favored, I shall feel it my duty, my pleasure and my pride, to concentrate my feeble efforts in elevating to a fair position a race to which I am especially identified by feelings and by blood.

My friends, we can never become elevated until we are true to ourselves. We can come here and make brilliant speeches, but our field of duty is elsewhere. Let us go to work—each man in his place, determined to do what he can for himself and his race. Let us try to carry out some of the resolutions which we have made, and are so fond of making. If we do this, friends will spring up in every quarter, and where we least expect them. But we must not rely on them. They cannot elevate us. Whenever the colored man is elevated, it will be by his own exertions. Our friends can do what many of them are nobly doing, assist us to remove the obstacles which prevent our elevation, and stimulate the worthy to persevere. The colored man who, by dint of perseverance and industry, educates and elevates himself, prepares the way for others, gives character to the race, and hastens the day of general emancipation. While the negro who hangs around the corners of the streets, or lives in the grog-shops or by gambling, or who has no higher ambition than to serve, is by his vocation forging fetters for the slave, and is "to all intents and purposes" a curse to his race. It is true, considering the circumstances under which we have been placed by our white neighbors, we have a right to ask them not only to cease to oppress us, but to give us that encourage-ment which our talents and industry may merit. When this is done, they will see our minds expand, and our pockets filled with rocks. How very few colored men are encouraged in their trades or business! Our young men see this, and become disheartened. In this country, where money is the great sympathetic nerve which ramifies society, and has a ganglia in every man's pocket, a man is respected in proportion to his success in business. When the avenues to wealth are opened to us, we will then become educated and wealthy, and then the roughest looking colored man that you ever saw, or ever will see, will be pleasanter than the harmonies of Orpheus, and black will be a very pretty color. It will make our jargon, wit—our words, oracles; flattery will then take the place of slander, and you will find no prejudice in the Yankee whatever. We do not expect to occupy a much better position than we now do, until we shall have our educated and wealthy men, who can wield a power that cannot be misunderstood. Then, and not till then, will the tongue of slander be silenced, and the lip of prejudice sealed. Then, and not till then, will we be able to enjoy true equality, which can exist only among peers. Sources: http://www.blackpast.org/1858-john-s-rock-i-will-sink-or-swim-my-race

Liberator, March 12, 1858.

#John S. Rock #black past #sink or swim #african american #coward