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rodolfoparras · 5 days

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Since everyone is talking about their cod ocs, I wanna join (this is so long, I'm so sorry)

So basically my little guy is autistic and trans (I'm projecting) and a huge mamas boy. His name is Everett (I just realized I NEVER gave him a last name😭) and his callsign is Rabbit and he's an Alaskan native (I'm pretty sure this is what they prefer to be called because they don't fuck with being called americans and shit? I'm not 100%)

His ma picked out Everett by force, she was like "?? I'm literally your mother, I'm picking your name" and he was so worried she'd pick something awful, turns out!

(side note, I love rabbits and use them for symbolism a lot. They represent rebirth, so I use them in trans related pieces. I did an art piece of myself pulling a rabbit out of a hat with a bunch of rebirth symbolism and shit, love the piece, may send it here to show it off)

But his callsign comes from being a rabbit hunter growing up and his ability to blend in, he specializes in undercover operations and stealth missions. (Some hares, like a snowshoe, change coats in the season to blend in from predators)

He's voluntarily mute most of the time and does not do expressions very well. Most of his childhood photos are him just 🧍‍♂️😶, gotta be reeaall close with him to have a convo with him

Because he's so quiet, he hears sooo much shit and does like weekly shit talking sessions with Ghost and Roach in their barracks. No body understands how he knows so much because fucking no one talks to him and turns out the rodents are stalking the base and listening in on conversations

Idc how overused masks are, they're so fun. He wears one at home (and at work) because he's got a huge family with lots of little kids, and he's scared of scaring them and doesn't want to "traumatize" his nieces and nephews with his scars on his face and body. Everett misses out on a LOT of family events even though he really wants to go and misses them so much because he's scared

He carries and makes a lot of rabbits feet charms because he firmly believes in their ability to bless you with good luck. He does the metal work himself and personalizes them and gives them off to people he truly cares about.

Everett believes it because his ma said so (duh) and because he narrowly missed a bullet that took a chunk of his ear inside of blowing his brains up while he carried one, so all his favorites get one to protect them.

Later in life, he wound up too close to a bomb and a piece of shrapnel went straight into his face and blinds him in one eye

He was so utterly devastated when he got medically discharged and was scared of totally losing his sight and never being able to communicate with Roach again

I'm a firm believer in polycule 141 so it just becomes scarier when Johnny starts losing his hearing from all the explosives and shit and so many of them experience wear and tear in this hand joints from working with guns

Gonna copy and paste my polycule 141 disability headcanons that I've talked about with my bf

"Ghost's got horrible horrible nightmares and sometimes will react in his sleep. Night terrors or physically reacting, but that one's very rare."

"Price definitely gets respiratory issues, half because of his cigars, and half from breathing shit in before he could get a mask on. Probably gets asthma the older he gets."

"Roach gets chronic migraines. They're basically debilitating, can't get out of bed for days and keeps all light out of his room. Takes meds for it that usually work."

"Most of them have joint issues. Half of them creak and groan like a fucking million year old house on its last leg."

"Gaz gets degenerative arthritis. I think he'd be in the force the longest and since he was the youngest to join SAS, he probably overworked himself beyond belief when he had joined. Wore him down fs"

With Johnny being hard of hearing:

"I don't if he'd be able to get hearing aids, his cochlea probably too damaged so that if he did get cochlear implants or something, they probably wouldn't do much but piss him off. Because sometimes if you get cochlears, they just make an annoying noise. So he'd just wind up pissy over it so he'd probably opt not to get them - (also the surgery is invasive and obviously doesn't work sometimes depending on person)

-141 would have to install flashing light systems through the house to alert Soap and half of em probably walk heavier to warn Soap so they don't scare him"

Since he grew up in Alaska, he was very used to it being day or night for weeks or months, sometimes finds it a little jarring when he sees the sun actually setting and the moon coming up or vise versa.

One time, after a really shit mission, he woke up in the hospital to see it was nighttime when he distinctly remembers it being day the last time he was awake. And it's like "OH SHIT HOW LONG HAVE I BEEN OUT FOR." nearly sends himself into a panic thinking he'd just woken up from a fucking coma.

Shit there's so much more I could say but this is already so long, I'm so sorry 😭😭😭 I was so hyper fixated on him for a good few months with my bf

-🐧

Wait the fact that she picked the name is kinda cute and that the reason behind it was bc she’s the mom here idk it’s nice when parents are properly involved in their kids life

Also I’ll forever love yalls background story for your call names bc they’re always so thought out and so interesting genuinely y’all are so creative 🥹

I love that he has shit talking sessions with ghost and roach bc I absolutely think they’d get along well soap info dumps sm gaz overshares and price uses Everett to complain so he knows sm and randomly shares the info😭

Does his mask look something akin to a rabbit or does it represent rabbits in any way? Also now I’m imagining him walking around on base all excited about handing out charms😭 oh my goodness imagine each charm having something that represents the members that wears it?

Oh man although it’s sad he went blind in one eye I can imagine he’d lock sick in a prosthetic eye!!

Also I like how the disability hc actually makes sense especially prices and soaps but especially prices bc I know that man has coughing fits and snores horribly and you can hear a certain rasps in his voice when he talks 😭

And I love them being a polycule and taking care of each other in this way 🥹 like I know this is what you do in healthy relationships but idk it’s sweet ? Like price giving gaz massages bc his wrists hurt a lot? 🥹

Also don’t apologize sugar it’s okay!! It was a really interesting read genuinely I wish I had the ability to create ocs but not just ocs-, but ocs that have so much depth and backstory it’s absolutely amazing that y’all have this ability!

#alec answers #🐧 anon

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xenosagaepisodeone · 9 months

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i've consumed a lot of media where a creator's breakdown drastically changed the trajectory of a series, but narutaru is the first i've seen where the entire story is suddenly taken apart in the last 3 volumes and reconfigured into the author's response to the iraq war. volume 10 opens with the wife of an iraq war veteran (this was published in the end of 2003, and this detail is actually the only thing in the entire story that would indicate it takes place in the distant future) accidentally hitting 2 kids with her truck (subtle), followed by a US cargo plane crash landing into japanese building, and then a reveal that this was orchestrated by the US government to mobilize american troops within japan. servicemen interrogate citizens at checkpoints, and a curfew is enforced. it's at this point that the looming anxiety of nuclear warfare is also introduced as a plot point.

the vet meets up with the protagonist and explains that the 'dragon child' mentioned above is actually her son, who the US military taken from her and experimented on under the pretense of treating his degenerative illness.

^ she walks this back immediately but it's still an interesting panel given the wider context. this was scanalated in 2007 so i'm not going to be a hater towards 'believe you me'.

the arc rounds off with the protagonist and the vet's son stopping the military from carpet bombing civilians.

narutaru is messy a series that mulls over societal ills and the consequences of violence. kitoh strives to reconcile the existence of injustice with his belief that harmony in our present society can exist, but is so pessimistic in his conception of human nature that he also struggles with imagining a society that can respond to injustice instead of placating it. it feels natural that the bleak turn of the 21st century would capture his attention, and that the irrational, truly irreconcilable reality of it would draw him further into despair. the antagonist maintains that dragon children are a superior species that are destined to cull the earth and create a new civilization. as the series goes on (very specifically around volume 10), dragon children and their abilities are likened to nuclear warheads. this becomes literal in the penultimate volume as the antagonist summons nuclear warheads to destroy the earth, a process that is depicted in harrowing detail.

^it goes on like this for a while and sporadically throughout the last volumes as society crumbles further. stakes fall apart, major characters die unceremoniously, and the protagonist ultimately succumbs to despair. I don't know if this really qualifies as a spoiler since it's 1 of the 2 things the series is known for.

now with all of this being said this series is like a 6/10 for me at best. the first 7 volumes aren't anything special, and the lack of tightness in the writing (the quality jump between narutaru and bokurano is enormous, whatever awards the latter got should have just gone straight to the editor) makes the less pleasing aspects of the series more tiresome (I fucking hate tsurumaru man I dont care about the jungian symbolism beneath his character everything about him in repulsive). there are aspects I love and found memorable (akira! NORIO! kuri! shiina's complex relationship with her parents! jungian duality! the dragons! fantastic page spreads! etc!), but the rubble they're buried under can make the series a tedious read.

if you somehow are now interested in reading this, please just torrent it off of nyaa. this series suffers from both Dark Horse absolutely shitting the bed with their official translation, and most manga reading sites somehow missing entire chapters (which consistently includes 2/3rds of volume 9, which had one of my favorite side stories...baba yaga and a nice babushka are there).

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brightgnosis · 2 months

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Everyday that goes by, my pain gets less and less. But I still can't walk very far, or for very long, and it's upsetting. Like, that's the part that's not healing, and I'm upset about it.

I was thinking about getting a wheelchair before all of this. But this just kind of solidifies my desire for one. All the people around me think it's "giving up", though. But let's be real: My body is just continuously degrading no matter what I do.

I know Fibromyalgia is a degenerative condition. I know it'll get worse as I age. I know there's no way to cure it- only various ways to put various individual symptoms into remission. And I worked for three years straight, after my diagnosis in 2021, to do that. And for the most part, I've done it. I have gotten better, and stabilized myself, and mostly put a lot of my symptoms into remission.

What I haven't been able to do this entire time, however, is improve how far I can walk, or how long I can walk for, without either getting exhausted or causing myself extreme pain, and needing to sit down or even quit entirely; ever since we stabilized my Fibro, that's remained consistent at barely 30 minutes- and standing in place has never improved past 10 to 15 minutes.

It's time to acknowledge this is not going to get better — and after catching Covid a second time, and then injuring my Piriformis like this? It's possible I just reduced those numbers more, permanently. And I hate it.

I also hate that I spent my late 20's trying to have a kid I wanted, only to find out that's never going to be a possibility for me, and having to entirely reorient my life and figure out what I wanted without a kid for the first time ... Only to then be diagnosed with this, and it wipe all that away again anyways. I'm so angry at my body. I hate my body- and then I feel guilty for hating it. But I do.

I miss being a Human Being.

#Trigger Warning #Personal #2024 #Face & Body #Alphabet Soup #Fibromyalgia #Depression

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dpinoycosmonaut · 2 years

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THE DIFFICULTIES OF RAFA’S 22nd GRAND SLAM TITLE

by Bert A. Ramirez / June 8, 2022

Rafael Nadal raises his 14th La Coupe des Mousquetaires after winning yet another French Open title. (Photo from Pete Kiehart of The New York Times)

The numbers in the finals could be misleading. Rafael Nadal, after all, blitzed Norwegian rival Casper Ruud in the second-most lopsided of his 14 championship victories in the French Open, one of seven finals in Paris that he won in straight sets and one of three where he scored a bagel.

Nadal’s 6-3, 6-3, 6-0 victory over the 23-year-old Ruud almost a week ago is dwarfed only in lopsidedness by the Spanish superstar’s 6-1, 6-3, 6-0 romp over, almost incredulously, Roger Federer in the 2008 finals at Roland Garros, and is tied with his own 6-2, 6-3, 6-1 rout of Stan Wawrinka in the 2017 finals in terms of number of games given up.

But if one gets the impression that this is one of the easiest French Open titles, much less most trouble-free championships among the record-extending 22 Grand Slam titles Rafa has won, he is mistaken

This is because Nadal, just like he did at the Australian Open earlier in January this year, had to overcome numerous problems and what, at times, looked like insurmountable hurdles before coming out triumphant in the end.

First, after that dream-like victory in Melbourne where he wasn’t even certain of participating just a few weeks before the year’s first Grand Slam event, Nadal, just as he looked as good as new with 20 straight victories and three titles in as many tournaments punctuated by that Australian Open championship, suddenly suffered another injury: a stress fracture in his ribs in the semifinal of the BNP Paribas Open in March that he won against young compatriot Carlos Alcaraz, which partly contributed to his loss in the finals to American Taylor Fritz. That painful injury that made it hard for him to breathe forced Rafa to take a six-week break and miss most of the clay-court season before returning for the Madrid Open just before the end of April with hardly any practice.

He was beaten by Alcaraz in the quarterfinals of that tournament and, in the last event that he tried to use as tuneup before the French Open, the Italian Open in Rome, he was also beaten by Denis Shapovalov of Canada in the round of 16, and that’s where he suffered a recurrence of the left foot injury that sidelined him for the last half of 2021, the degenerative bone disease called Mueller-Weiss syndrome.

It was not surprising that going into the French Open, Nadal did not have the preparation, much less the health that he needed to perhaps be considered as even among the favorites at Roland Garros. He wasn’t only lacking in practice and competition, as it were, because of the health issues he suddenly had to deal with once more seemingly without respite but also in the requisite confidence that’s essential in any top-level sports competition for one to be at his best. Nadal, in fact, had to bring with him for the first time in Paris his long-time physician, Dr. Angel Ruiz Cotorro, to help manage his painful foot.

Cotorro had to inject Rafa’s left foot with a pain killer to enable him to play through the two weeks at Roland Garros, doing it daily 20 minutes before Nadal went on the court and keeping it numb for seven to eight hours. “We played with no feeling in the foot, with a (pain-killing) injection on the nerve. The foot was asleep, and that’s why I was able to play,” Nadal explained of the process he had to go through after his historic victory. “They blocked the sensory nerves at a distance… That was the only way to give myself a chance here. So I did it. And I can't be happier and I can't thank enough my doctor for all the things he did during all my tennis career, helping me in every tough moment.”

Besides his physical problems, what compounded matters for Nadal was his having been grouped in a loaded bracket, with the top half of his draw including six of the top 10 seeds that included himself, top-seeded defending champion Novak Djokovic, third-seeded Alexander Zverev, sixth-seeded Carlos Alcaraz, No. 9 Felix Auger-Aliassime and No. 10 Cameron Norrie. This virtual group of death projected him to face Djokovic in the quarterfinals, which, under normal circumstances, was already a daunting task. But Nadal not only beat Djokovic in a four-hour, 11-minute classic but also Auger-Aliassime just before that in the round of 16 in a five-set, four-hour, 21-minute marathon before hitting upon some good fortune of sorts when Zverev had to retire near the end of the second set in the semifinals against him after badly twisting and tearing the ligaments in his right ankle.

Still, Nadal had to defeat four of the top nine seeds in order to take his 14th Roland Garros title – No. 9 Auger-Aliassime, No. 1 Djokovic, No. 3 Zverev and No. 8 Ruud – the first man to do so in a major event since Roger Federer did it in his run to the Australian Open title in 2017.

Then, there were the heavy conditions at night that Nadal was forced to play under especially during his quarterfinals against Djokovic, prompting even Rafa’s coach, Carlos Moya, to criticize the tournament organizers for not giving Nadal enough “credit,” if not respect. “I wouldn’t say disrespect,” Moya said before Rafa beat Djokovic. “He has won the tournament 13 times, if he has a request, you should listen to him. He is part of the history of Roland Garros.” But as Toni Nadal himself said, it’s all about money as more TV money is earned by the organizers with the night-session matches, negating whatever advantage Nadal has during daytime matches. Almost everybody knows that Nadal plays better under the sun and in broad daylight, in contrast to a closed-roofed stadium, as he did against Aliassime and Zverev, as the ball bounces higher and the spin increases unlike in the latter conditions where the surface tends to become slower and his weapons are thus minimized.

“The conditions have been the slower conditions I played since long time ago here, because have been very humid this afternoon and if we had big humidity with indoor, the ball was super big and difficult to create a spin on the ball,” Nadal himself said after that abbreviated semis match against Zverev, which still lasted three hours and 13 minutes. “So I think the conditions were not the ideal (one) for me this afternoon or the way that I like to play normally here. That’s why I was not able to create the damage that I wanted over him, no?... But honestly under these conditions – well, when Sascha is playing well in any conditions, he’s an amazing player. Under these conditions, even was more difficult for me to put him away from the court, no? Because probably with these heavy conditions, he felt that my ball is not creating the impact that (it) normally creates against his forehand or against his backhand. For example, when I hit the forehand down the line or when I hit my forehand in and out for against his forehand, I mean, my ball was not bouncing as usual here, no? So he was able to recover well from that position. The same thing happens when I hit my ball against his backhand, that his backhand is probably the best of the tour today. So with (such) conditions, I was not able to push him back. He was able to hit a clean ball all the time, so (I) was surviving, a lot of surviving moments during that match.”

But Nadal was able to survive that handicap, as he did the in-game situations that presented themselves to him along the way and made it harder for him to annex this year’s title than it did during his other victories here, like in 2020 when he won his 13th La Coupe des Mousquetaires without even losing a single set. Against Auger-Aliassime, who’s now coached by his Uncle Toni, he had to survive a five-setter that ensued after the 21-year-old Canadian won the fourth set, only the third player to extend him to the limits at Roland Garros after Djokovic in the 2013 semifinals and John Isner in the first round in 2011. But Nadal proved equal to the challenge, as he has so many times at the red-clay courts in Paris. While leading 4-3 in the deciding set, he hit his trademark forehand for a winner down the line to set up two break points. He got the break on the second by chasing an Auger-Aliassime shot for a backhand winner before serving out the match by scoring the last four points of the ninth game to set up a quarterfinal match against Djokovic, as expected.

He then staged another classic Rafa show against his Serbian rival with an improbable fourth-set comeback that enabled him to clinch the match, which actually gave him his 23rd career win over a world No. 1. Down 0-3, 1-4 and 2-5 after having been broken early, he never flinched and gave up despite what looked like a certain Djokovic set win that would have forced a fifth and deciding set. He held for 3-5, then broke Djokovic in the next game before holding and eventually setting up a tiebreak. Then, after seeing the Serbian score three straight points in the tiebreak to narrow his 6-1 bulge to just 6-4, Nadal came up with the workmanlike shot that closed it out, a backhand that he set up by forcing Djokovic to go to the opposite corner with a deep shot that made it impossible for the latter to recover for that backhand return of his.

Before Zverev’s fateful retirement in the semifinals, Nadal also had to come from the depths to even take the lead as Zverev raced to a 3-1 lead in the first set. But Rafa broke back to eventually take a 5-4 lead and once the set turned into a tiebreak, it was Nadal’s legendary toughness under adversity that again broke through as Zverev led at four set points at 6-2 after scoring five straight points to overcome an early 2-1 Nadal lead. As he has often shown in his legendary career, however, the Spaniard would not be disheartened by four set points as he faced in this case. Slowly and patiently, Nadal tried to stave off Zverev’s huge advantage, working relentlessly to score five straight points of his own and unbelievably grab a 7-6 edge, finally closing it out at 10-8 with a spectacular passing forehand that whizzed past his German rival’s reach.

Against Ruud, of course, he also overcame the lone tight spot that he found himself in after being broken early in the second set, losing his serve at love with a double fault as he struggled with his serve to fall behind at 3-1. But what followed next was something that gave the world another glimpse of why Nadal may be the toughest and most indomitable rival on the tennis court, and, quite possibly, the greatest of all time, injuries and all. At 30-30 and Ruud serving for a 4-1 advantage, Rafa pounced on a forehand error by his young rival, who used to train at his academy just four years before, and then broke him on the next point. That started something seldom seen in all of tennis especially on the professional tour – a virtual avalanche where one player never allows his opponent to win another game. That break, which put Rafa back on serve at 3-2, started a string of 11 consecutive games won by Rafa as he clinched the second set and scored a bagel in the third, a repeat of the 2020 French Open finals where he did the same to Djokovic in the opening set in spectacular fashion before holding his arch-rival off in the third and clinching set.

When the Spaniard finished off the victory with a backhand down-the-line winner, Ruud – and the whole world – knew this guy belongs up there in rarefied air in terms of the ability to produce in clutch situations and overcome adversity.

With his latest Grand Slam victory in Paris, Nadal has thus won again 17 years after first accomplishing the feat as a long-haired and sleeveless-shirted 19-year-old wiz kid back in 2005, a stretch that’s long enough to have seen contemporaries like Juan Martin del Potro, Tomas Berdych, David Ferrer, Maria Sharapova and now, Jo-Wilfried Tsonga, retire even at a relatively young age.

Rafa is shown with his 14 French Open titles. (Photos from STF, Agence France Presse and Getty Images)

“For me, (to) have this trophy next to me again means everything, no?” Rafa said after his landmark feat, which put him two slams ahead of both Djokovic and Federer. “So, yeah, have been emotional victories, without a doubt, unexpected in some way. Yeah, very happy, no? Have been a great two weeks, honestly, no?

“I for sure never believed I would be here at 36 being competitive again, playing in the most important court of my career one more time in the final. It means a lot to me, means everything. It just means a lot of energy to try to keep going.”

But though Nadal expressed his desire to play at Wimbledon later this month, he said there’s no guarantee he can do so as he doesn’t intend to go through the pain-killing injections or play again with a numb foot. After having gone back to Barcelona earlier this week, he underwent a procedure known as radio frequency ablation, in which radio waves were sent through a hollow needle inserted into the nerves in his left foot that are causing his constant pain. If the procedure works, which is not guaranteed, the heat from the radio waves could prevent the nerves from sending pain signals to his brain.

“If that works, I’m gonna keep going,” Rafa said before the procedure. “If that does not work, then it’s gonna be another story. And then I’m gonna answer to myself, I’m gonna ask myself about if I am ready to do a major thing without being sure that the things are going the proper way, for example. A major surgery that don’t guarantee me to be able to be competitive again and it’s gonna take a long time to be back.” That of course has been seen in the case of Federer, who at 40 is still recovering from another knee surgery he underwent several months back.

For Rafa, however, what he just did was another milestone that he keeps notching. He has not only won another French Open in a way that may not be as spectacular as he did in the past but he has also demonstrated an unmatched greatness in overcoming the odds while doing it, in the process winning the year’s first two slams for the first time in his career despite all the hurdles he had to surpass.

At this point, he’ll go down as one of the toughest competitors ever seen in any sport and has now secured a lofty place there among the immortals whose names will always be remembered and revered, regardless of whether he can still add to those 22 Grand Slam titles or not. As Joel Drucker said in tennis.com, “At Roland Garros, once again, here is Nadal, like no one in tennis history, simply and powerfully occupying an eternal presence.” An eternal presence, indeed, in sporting history.

Rafa’s team and family, which includes his parents and wife Mery as well as coach Carlos Moya, celebrate his latest victory. (Photo from Eurosport)

#RafaNadal #roland garros #French Open #grand slam #french open 2022 #novak djokovic #casper rudd #carlos alcaraz #nadal vs zverev

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sugawara-sweetheart · 3 years

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𝔰𝔭𝔦𝔡𝔢𝔯'𝔰 𝔴𝔢𝔟

❥summary: what started off as sweet, innocent teenage love turned into a dark trap

❥warnings: tw physical abuse, tw emotional abuse, tw possessiveness, tw noncon (implied), abusive relationships, some mention of blood, cheating, suicide ideation

❥word count: 4.9k

thank you @obscureamor for helping me with a lot of the ideas for this fic, you’re my fave degen to lewd w ily <33

the first time daichi told you he loved you you were both sixteen. innocent, sheepish, naive but flattered as you stood under those spring cherry blossom trees, a breeze billowing, the sky a clear cerulean and pink petals showering down, clinging to your hair. he told you you looked beautiful, kissing the back of your hand and holding it with gentle fingers and the single rose he handed to you smelled so sweet. you didn’t care if the thorns pricked your fingers till you bled.

he still tells you he loves you. you just don’t know if he means it.

you’re not sure when it started to sour. maybe it was when daichi’s soft eyes became hard and his soft voice became deep, low growls instead. he was still kind and loving- but it was rather when he wanted to be. when you were being the perfect girlfriend, not the slutty whore that spoke too much to asahi and laughed at sugawara’s jokes, not the bitch wearing a short skirt and a tight top for every animalistic man on the streets to see- after all, did you want their attention or daichi’s? his fits of anger and snarls were unpredictable but time taught you lessons- answer his phone calls and messages straight away, let him choose what he wants to see you in, tell him who you’re going out and where and you dare make friends with people he disapproves of? it’s like you don’t even care about him! can’t you see it’s for your own good?

but daichi still loved you. each piercing scratch from his sharp words were always soothed with a contrasting kindness, care.

“i just want what’s best for you. don’t you trust me, don’t you trust your boyfriend?”

seeing the softness in his eyes, the hurt in his voice, you couldn’t help your heart wrenching with guilt. of course you shouldn’t have complimented asahi on his spike and you shouldn’t have let sugawara hug you and you shouldn’t have gone away for that weekend camping trip with your family without telling daichi- of course he’d panic when you returned his insistent calls hours later. you just should’ve been a good girlfriend, just like he wanted.

it never occurred to you that maybe daichi’s grips on your arm were too bruising, his words too venomous, his narrowed eyes too malicious till it’s too late.

when you’re holding that cursed stick in your trembling hands, those two pink lines blurring with the hot tears in your eyes stinging, daichi holds you. he holds you as you shake with each heavy sob, his lips pressed against your temple.

“it’s okay, y/n, it’s okay.” he whispers soothingly but you still can’t quell your rising panic, the horrible dread heavy in the pits of your stomach.

“it’s not okay!” you sob, shoving the pregnancy test stick to daichi to bury your tear-stained face in your hands. “we’re still at college, how can we have a baby?! it’s not the right time!” there’s words you don’t choke out. words that you know would reduce him to a screaming mess. maybe he’d throw around some of your belongings like the last time, maybe he’d even back you into a wall, trapping you with his taller, broader body.

“we’ve got this.” he says calmly, a gentle smile on his face as he rubs your back. “you can quit college till the baby’s older and by that time i’ll be a cop so i can support us. it’ll work out.” he kisses away your tears as he pulls you into his lap. “don’t cry, this will all work out. it’s our perfect family, a little earlier than we expected but just as good.” it sounds too well-planned. you don’t reciprocate when he presses his lips against yours, sighing slightly. “i love you.” you don’t say it back. you’re drained, your bloodshot eyes feeling heavy as you rest your head against his chest, cursing that thing inside you- his child- that has condemned you to a life tied to him. what a shame. maybe if you were smarter you’d have realised that since daichi started going to the pharmacy for you, those small ivory pills were a slightly yellower shade and sweeter than usual.

four years had passed. things only got worse.

you wake up to a prison. you’re bounded by the gold band on your left hand and the small child who you wake up with loving kisses, trying not to see your husband in those identical round brown eyes and short brunette hair. you’re locked in daichi’s grip every day of your life from the moment you wake up with his strong arm wrapped around your waist, pinning you down in his grip even when he sleeps.

it’s suffocating to live in a world of just daichi and your son. friends and family faded into a faraway dream. but it turns out he was right along.

“your friends are a bad influence.” he used tell you, pulling you to sit beside him on the couch with your infant son cradled in your arms. he kisses your cheek, a soft gesture that contrasts with the iron grip he has on your arm. “what sort of mother would you be to our son if you’re always out with your friends instead of being home with us?” you look down at the little baby, his soft, chubby, rosy cheeks, his round chin, his button nose, the brown tufts of hair. you hate the initial bitterness that consumes you like poisonous vines when you stare down at your son- daichi’s son- his warmth feeling icy cold in your arms before you push it away, daichi’s words ringing in your head. you have to be a good mother. you have to be a good mother.

eventually your friends stop leaving missed calls and unanswered messages.

the first time you’re lying on the floor, a crumpled, sobbing heap you threaten to leave. your face is numb, your vision blurred with hot tears as nothing but pain sears in the tender skin. you can barely breathe, hysterical with choked sobs rising in your tight throat and your body shivering as daichi towers over you. you scramble away when he crouches down to your cowering body, his face stoic.

“try it.” he says calmly, his cold eyes flickering down to your growing baby bump. “you’ve already disgraced your family by getting pregnant during college, do you really think they’ll ever look at you the same?” your blood runs cold as his fingers press on your chin, his touch oddly gentle compared to the bone-crunching punch he gave you moments ago. “they don’t care about you, y/n. not like i do.”

“b-but you hurt me.” daichi grimaces, his hand gently stroking the sore, reddened skin that he caused.

“i didn’t mean to. it was an accident, you know i love you.” his thumb wipes away your wet tears. “i’m sorry, let’s start over. you can’t leave me, we’re having a baby together- don’t take our son away from his dad. don’t let me be all alone.” his other hand tenderly presses on the swell of your stomach, stroking his child. “y/n?” your eyes flutter shut, taking a deep breath to calm your pounding heart as you try to relax into his touch.

“it won’t happen again?”

“never. i’m sorry.” you nod, trying not to let those stinging tears fall anymore as he kisses your pounding head.

but it happens again. and again. and again.

sometimes you lie awake at night after daichi’s fucked you. your throat pulsates with the forming bruises, a deep ache settling between your legs and every inch of your skin feeling tainted from the way your husband has fucked you so roughly, using you for his sole pleasure like a doll with the way he had your sobbing face pressed into the mattress, the grip on your hair burning. he sleeps soundly beside you now, that possessive arm still wrapped around your waist.

maybe you could leave.

bright fantasy burns in the back of your eyelids. a life where you’re happy, free to have friends and family, free to leave the house without the creeping paranoia of his eyes watching you. a life where you don’t have your phone checked every night, anxiety creeping in you just in case there’s a number in there that isn’t his. a life where you don’t flinch every time he reaches out to touch you, sometimes with a slap, sometimes with tender touch.

but you need money. and you’ve never worked a day in your life- the idea of a job is as much of a fantasy to you as freedom is. the cash you get is from daichi’s wallet but there’s not much to spend on: you only go out with him and your child and he’s the one to swipe his card for the bill and he takes you grocery shopping after you took too long the first few times, resulting in him interrogating you, hands pushing you up against the wall as your toddler wailed in the doorway. you don’t even buy makeup, pretty clothes, shoes or handbags because what if daichi doesn’t like them? what if he asks you why you want to dress like that, is there someone else’s attention you’re vying for?

you remember one of the times you brought up a job. it was at breakfast, your child had just turned two and was sat in his high-chair, babbling as you tried to feed him his porridge. daichi was sat opposite, sipping his coffee as he scrolled through his phone.

“hey, daichi.” he hums at you, glancing up briefly as you lower the bowl of porridge, nervously mixing the lumpy mixture around. “you know how he's older now? i was thinking, i have more time and…” your throat goes dry as he looks up at you, a small crease deepening between his brows. “well, i could do with a job. it’d be good for us to have some extra money a-and it’ll be a nice thing for me to do so i’m not stuck in the house bored all day.” you’re not sure what daichi’s thinking, his eyes trained on you as your son coos to himself.

“what’s wrong with me and our son that you want to leave this house so much?” his voice is ice cold. it makes your heart sink, the spoon clattering against the bowl from your trembling hands.

“n-nothing, i-i didn’t mean it like that.” his jaw clenches, the vein in his temple throbbing and you hate yourself for bringing it up. stupid. pathetic. stupid. what were you thinking?

“i provide for this family, okay? your only job is to be a good housewife and a good mum. do you understand?” you’re silent for a second too long and pain sears in you as he grips your jaw, yanking you forward roughly with his fingers pressing in so hard, his brutal strength excruciating. “i said, do you understand?”

“yes!” it’s a meek whimper with the hot tears that fill your ears. but daichi doesn’t look at all sympathetic or sorry as he pushes you back forcefully. the bowl falls from your hands, smashing over the tiles, the shards jagged and ugly. the loud crack startles your son, making him cry loudly. daichi lifts him out of the high chair before you can, cooing gently and kissing his chubby cheeks but his face becomes a cold, unforgiving glare as he looks down at you.

“clean up the mess.”

you never bring up the topic ever again.

your son beginning preschool is a gift. for the first time in years, there’s a lightness in your chest to be able to leave the house, holding your son’s small hands as you walk him to school. it’s liberating, feeling the breeze ripple through your hair, the sweet fragrance of flowers and pollen hanging in the air, the bustle of passing cars without the shadow of daichi looming. it’s an excuse to leave the house, to walk through longer streets and go into shops and buy the fruits you want with the money you pretend is yours and to be able to smile and speak to the shopkeeper yourself. for the first time in over ten years you feel some facade of independence. you almost feel free, like daichi isn’t your husband and you don’t have his son weighing you down, when you return to your empty home and get hours of being able to watch television and do your makeup and wear those beautiful clothes stuffed at the back of the wardrobe you thought you’d never be able to wear again. it’s empowering to catch people’s eyes for the first time in so long, to have other parents approach you with bright smiles. daichi was wrong, you think when you’re laughing with your new mum and dad friends. he’s wrong when you call your mother for the first time in years and she cries when she hears your voice, begging you to come home. other people can love you! he isn’t the only person you have.

you still scrub off the makeup and push your clothes to the back of the wardrobe every evening before daichi’s car pulls up in the driveway.

when you meet your son’s teacher, the darkness in your world fades. it’s like looking into the past, back at a time when life was brighter, when daichi wasn’t...daichi.

sugawara embraces you in a warm, gentle hug the day your son tugs you into his classroom after school. he’s grinning so wide, his hazel eyes crinkled and his grey hair still messy, his soft scent of lavender and soap still the same from all those years ago.

“it’s so good to see you, it’s been years!” he laughs, eyes taking in all of your features, scrutinising the way time has changed you.

“i don’t think i’ve seen you since the wedding.” you smile, tilting your head to admire how well sugawara had grown since you last saw him just almost seven years ago. he’s still as handsome, still smiling so vibrantly.

“i know, has daichi been keeping you locked up or something?” it’s a light-hearted chuckle but your stomach still jolts. “every time he comes out with us, he never brings you. even kiyoko said she hasn’t seen you for ages.” you force a smile, glancing away from his narrowed eyes to glance at your son waiting patiently by the doorway, his wide eyes watching with intrigue.

“someone has to stay home and look after that one.” sugawara laughs.

“he looks exactly like daichi, doesn’t he? as soon as i saw the surname and his face, i just knew he was yours.”

he opens his mouth to speak further but he’s cut off by the buzzing of your phone. you hope sugawara doesn’t notice how your hand trembles or how you blanch at seeing daichi’s name flash across the screen. he wasn’t home early, was he? would he be waiting at the front door waiting for you to walk in...in your tight dress, makeup plastered on your face and late? what would he do to you?

“i’m sorry. i have to go, i’ll see you tomorrow, sugawara.” he nods, opening up his arms in a hug which immediately you melt into, clinging to his warmth and breathing in his warm scent that just seems to make your thumping heart and churning stomach slow down, lulling you into serenity and safety. you hope he doesn’t realise you’re clinging to him for too long, hating how it hurts to pull away.

on the way home, your son asks you how you know sugawara sensei and you smile, admiring the pink blossom that flutters through the air as you tell him your stories of high school. as you approach your front door, the heavy weight in your stomach dissipates when you see daichi’s car isn’t parked out front.

“listen,” you tell your son. “don’t tell daddy your teacher is sugawara sensei. it’ll be a surprise for him.” you force a shaky smile and the innocent little boy nods, his eyes wide. he doesn’t question it.

your days become brighter. long conversations with a number saved as ‘pizza shop’ during the middle of the day when you know your son spends his lunchtimes on a playground and you’re at home, giggling and laughing away on the phone. sometimes they grow lustful and your hand sneaks between your legs, gasping and seeing white so much harder than you do with your own husband. it’s not fun not being able to see sugawara as much as you wish with daichi keeping you shackled but it only makes the moments you see him so much better. you enjoy the days daichi works later hours because then you have enough time to go into sugawara’s classroom once all the students have gone home. sometimes he lets your son sit in the reading nook in the corner of the classroom whilst the two of you sit by his desk, laughing as you feel the safety to open yourself up to him. he’s just kind. sweet and caring and his jokes always make you laugh so hard. there’s no anxiety, no tension, your body never feels the need to flinch at any of his sudden movements and you aren’t scared of saying the wrong things, doing the wrong things. other times he’ll take you and your son out to cute diners and ice cream shops where everything feels bright, natural and just happy.

all the darkness daichi keeps you in fades away with the light sugawara brings.

that’s until you mess up.

you’re trembling when you see daichi’s car in the driveway. nothing but utter fear consumes you, tears stinging your eyes with fear and feeling like you’re going to be fucking sick as your son tugs you closer down the garden path to the front door.

“come on, mummy!” he cries. he’s so innocent, he doesn’t understand the fright or why your hands shake so much you can’t even force the key into the lock. but you don’t need to. the door opens and daichi stands in the doorway. in all the years you’ve spent looking into his eyes, they’ve never looked so dark. so empty.

“daddy, you’re home early!” your son exclaims as he skips into the house, his eyes sparkling extra bright. you don’t want to meet daichi’s eyes as you watch his narrowed orbs follow the little boy. there’s sticky ice cream stains clinging to his chin and the shirt of his uniform. he doesn’t say anything, turning to you as he gestures with his head and holds the door open.

“aren’t you going to come in?”

it’s like walking to your own death.

you can’t help the involuntary flinch when he closes the door behind you, your body shaking uncontrollably as the door snaps shut. the lock clicks, the bolt sliding as he does the chain. a prison.

“why don’t you go to your room?” daichi says, brushing past you as he approaches his son and ruffles his hair. “daddy’s bought you a new toy car.”

“a police one?” the little boy gasps, his eyes widening and sparkling with adoration for his father. his father that traps you in his web of death like an evil, deathly spider. daichi smiles.

“yeah, a police car because you want to be like daddy when you’re older, right?” the boy nods and runs up the stairs, not even looking back to you sinking in on yourself. daichi’s looking up the stairs till the bedroom door snaps shut.

“please-” you don’t even get a chance to speak. you gasp, stumbling and blinking hard as tears fill your eyes, gasping as nothing but utter pain sears through your cheek. it’s warm and tender to touch, the force of daichi’s hand enough to send blood pounding in your ears, your skin throbbing. “daichi-” he does it again, a cry of anguish escaping you as his hand meets the sore skin of your cheek again. and again.

you sob as you crumple on the floor, tears and snot dribbling down your face and ruining the makeup you prepared so beautifully that day. sugawara told you you looked beautiful. happy. not anymore.

“p-please, daichi- i-i’m begging you!” your hand trembles and your body flinches as you try to shield yourself from daichi’s raised one but he pushes it away, like a feeble nothing. his eyes are fiery blackness, teeth gritted together and his cheeks flushed with the redness of his anger.

“what the fuck is this?” he hisses, harsh fingers slapping at the exposed thigh of your short dress and shoving against the shoulders of your low neckline. “what sort of whore do you think you’re dressing like? who are you dressing like this for?” you’re choking on sobs as you try to force out the words, your trembling hands trying to cling to daichi’s but he’s strong and harsher, smacking them away with stinging pain.

“n-no one- daichi, please!”

he laughs at you, mirthless and cruel as he grabs you by your hair, the pain burning in your scalp as you try to prise his hands off you, wailing out for help as he drags you into the living room.

“stop crying.” he hisses as he shoves you against the hard floor. he stands in the doorway, his eyes wide and gleaming as you scramble away from him, begging for mercy yet crying for help. “no one can help you.”

“i-i’ll tell the police.” it’s an empty threat and daichi’s harsh laugh echoes in the room, leaving you trembling as your back hits the wall. adrenaline is pumping through you, your mind screaming that you need to get out! he approaches closer, smiling calmly even though his hands are curled into fists.

“we live in the countryside, y/n. the police are my colleagues- who do you think they’d believe, a respectable officer of the law or some dumb housewife who’s been cheating on her dutiful husband with her son’s teacher?”

your heart stops. he knows. that’s murder and malice in his face and your body feels cold with every shiver. you need to get out.

it’s a flash of bravery when you get to your feet and run, your heart pounding in your chest but daichi’s too quick. too strong. he easily overpowers you, arms locking around your waist as he pushes you to the hardwood floor, your back smacking against the panels and leaving you immobilised with horrible pain wracking through your bones.

“did you not think i’d find out?” he hisses. you don’t even register his knuckles smashing against your face till pain spasms through it, your eyes tearing up and hot blood trickles from your throbbing nose, leaking into your mouth as you sob. the metallic taste makes you sick. “imagine how embarrassing it was for me to have one of the rookies come up to me and tell me they’d seen you getting all cosy with my old friend. in front of my own son.” he grips you by the scruff of your clothes only to slam you down onto the floor. every nerve in your body is alight with pain but it’s not over yet.

“you don’t realise you’re my wife. i’m not letting you leave me, i can’t be alone.” his eyes look dead. “i own you.”

he drills it into you. fucking you dry and tearing apart your walls, every thrust leaving you with nothing but pain and the possessive grip on your throat harsh and the slaps on your cheeks relentless. you can only cry that you’re sorry, beg for him to stop, beg for mercy but daichi doesn’t stop still you’re a broken mess on the floor, bruised legs spread and your wrecked cunt leaking his cum.

daichi’s eyes are softer but his face still cold and emotionless as he tucks himself into his pants, staring down at you lying pathetically on the floor.

“you need to clean yourself up.” he says, voice calmer as he pats your knee. “i’ll order a pizza for dinner.” he says it casually as he walks out of the door, snapping the door shut behind him.

you don’t see daylight again. all hours of the day are spent cooped in the house, staring at the same walls. you don’t even get to take your son to school anymore, the task being completed by daichi now and it always make you shiver when he comes home angrier after seeing the face of his former best friend- your former lover. you don’t know what he said to sugawara but the grey-haired man that was your only source of solace doesn’t show in your empty, darkened days again. it hurts, to think of how much happiness he brought to you, how heavy he made your heart beat and your world warm and now he’s nothing, just a distant memory.

does he not care? did he even ever love you? or were you just nothing to him?

the questions swirl in your mind every day spent in the same way: doing the laundry, cooking a hot meal for daichi, cleaning up every room in the house and trying not to cry when you dust photo frames of your quick, shotgun wedding- the legal trap daichi ensnared you in- and when you tidy away your son’s clothes, resisting the urge to destroy his bedroom because that small, innocent child, a mixture of your and daichi’s bloods, was the emotional trap that binds you to your captor for life. the same son that can’t even look at you now that daichi has left you ugly and bruised, the skin of your cheek welted and your nose and eyes purpled.

“do you see i’m the only one for you? you're mine- you belong to me- i love you.” daichi grunts the same words in your ear every night he fucks you. it’s always for him, his hips snapping into yours as he uses you for his own pleasure, one hand always locked around your throat, reminding that you’re stuck here, you’re going nowhere. it makes you feel dirty, tainted as he ruts into you but he’s all you have. sugawara isn’t here, your son is too young, family and friends long faded when daichi handed you the scissors to sever your ties all those years ago. all you can do is be silent and agree, doing whatever he wants you to because you’re worried one day he won’t be punching his fist into a wall- it could be your head.

you’re thankful for the day daichi forgets to lock the front door after dropping your son off to school and leaving for work. you're almost scared to pull it open, worried he’ll be standing by the gates but his car is gone. he isn’t there and the sky looks so blue despite the thick clouds, the smell of crisp, fresh air so relaxing to inhale.

it’s a chance to run.

your stomach churns with anxiety as you sit in the police station, staring at the uniformed officers who pass you by. each brunette one makes your heart jump and your body jolt before their face turns and you can breathe again because it isn’t him, it isn’t daichi and you’re still close to safety, you’re almost there to finally being free after so many countless days of just trying to survive. you can finally sleep safe without your body aching and your mind craving any source of freedom- your family, sugawara, even death would surely be better than this. maybe now once you’re free you could look at your son and see him without seeing daichi in his eyes, see him as your innocent child and not the one who chained you to your husband.

you don’t notice the narrowed eyes of the old officer at the desk.

that’s until you notice the familiar figure walking in through the doors, his brow deeply furrowed and his clenched fists hidden in his pockets.

“w-wait- what’s going on?” you’re begging, standing up as you turn to the officer who sighs as he scratches his head. he ignores you, looking straight at daichi.

“i thought it’d be best for you both to sort out.” is all he lazily says as daichi nods his head respectfully, thanking the man. but his eyes are trained on you.

“please- don’t let him take me!” you sob but daichi just sighs and the officer looks uncomfortable like he’s caught up in just a simple case of a husband and wife arguing. if only it was that simple.

“y/n, stop causing such a fuss.” daichi says, his voice gentle but you know the sharpness it can hold. his dark eyes are a warning. you can’t fight anymore. you can’t resist anymore. you already tried it and it was futile.

you’re going to die. you think it when daichi’s hand grips your arm, tighter and more bruising than it needs to be as he walks you to his car.

you’re going to die. you think it as your head knocks repeatedly against the window, your teary eyes just staring out at the empty, quiet hills that surround you as daichi fucks you. the glass of the car window is cold against the fresh welts on your cheek but each thrust is hard, forceful, punishing.

“you’re nothing.”

“i own you.”

“you’re going to regret ever thinking you can leave me.”

you’re going to die.

781 notes · View notes

angryhausfrau-writes · 3 years

Text

Your Friends Were All Standing Around Looking At Your Cock The Other Dayee...

Interior of the farm house. WAYNE, KATY, and SQUIRRELLY DAN stand around the table, looking at something.

KATY: It's a beautiful cock.

WAYNE: Oh, it's a gorgeous cock.

DAN, shifting from foot to foot, uncomfortably: Now I'ms nots denyings that it's a mightys fines cocks. I just thinks its mights not bes appropriates to have sets outs on the supper tables is all.

KATY: Oh Dan, there's been far worse things than a cock on this table.

WAYNE growls: Better not have been them hockey nutsacks.

KATY: I'm a big girl, Wayne. None of your business what nutsacks I'm spending time with.

WAYNE, begrudgingly: True.

DAN: You knows whats you're afters, miss Katys, and that's what I appreciates about you.

KATY, flirtatiously: Oh, is that what you appreciate about me?

WAYNE: Take about ten, twenty percent off her over there Squirrelly Dan.

DAN, looking at the table: Oh hey look. A cock. What is sets most unhygenicallys on the table we eats off ofs.

KATY: Jesus Dan. Hop off our cocks.

WAYNE: Besides, you're a bigger degen than Dary if you eat directly off the table.

DAN: Where is Darys anyways? Ain't like him to miss such a magnificents cocks.

DARY enters the KITCHEN: Sorry I'm late. Spent all morning wrangling my cock into its cage.

DAN, sympathetically: Its was giving yous some troubles thens?

DARY: Kept making itself all big and plumped up. Couldn't get it to fit in the cage. Ended up having to really wrassle with it for a good long while.

KATY: Could say you had to take your cock firmly in hand there, Dary?

WAYNE: Pert near had to choke that chicken, I'd imagine.

DARY: Pert near.

DAN: But yous gots it settled downs and ins its cage?

DARY nods and hefts a rooster in a wire cage into frame: Yup. Tuckered it out eventually. Now it's placid as anything.

WAYNE: Now that's a handsome cock, Dary. A right handsome cock.

DARY, bashful: Aw, it ain't nothing special. Not like yours, Wayne.

WAYNE SHIFTS OUT OF THE WAY. PAN TO ROOSTER ON THE TABLE.

DARY: Now that's a real handsome cock, and well behaved to boot.

WAYNE: Ok, Dary. Dary, ok. Ok, Dary. Dary, ok. Youwannaknowwhat? Here's the scoop and I'm gonna tell ya. I look at your cock and I think, well, I think: good for you buddy. Just like, good for you bud. Like I'm real proud of ya, Dary.

DAN: It's a mightys fines cocks, Dary. Yous gots every rights to be prouds.

KATY: Nothing wrong with a spirited cock, anyways.

DARY, bashful: Still reckon yours'll be the cock to beat down the Ag Festival, Wayne.

WAYNE: Oh it's a handsome cock all right.

KATY: A beautiful cock.

WAYNE: Oh it's a gorgeous cock.

DARY: Not to be pulling your own horn over there.

DAN: Oh yous shoulds nevers do thats. Leastwise nots ins mixed companies.

KATY: Says you.

WAYNE, abrupt: No hard feelings Dary. Regardless of who beats whose cock.

DARY: No hard feelings.

WAYNE holds his hand straight out for DARY to shake: Then may the man with the best cock win.

LETTERKENNY TITLE BUT THERE IS A ROOSTER INSTEAD OF A DOG.

ESTABLISHING SHOTS OF A FAIRGROUD.

EXTERIOR SHOT OF THE AG BUILDING.

INTERIOR SHOT OF THE AG BUILDING. WAYNE, KATY, DARY, and SQUIRRELLY DAN are standing around a table with ROOSTERS in cages on it. The DYCKS and the HOCKEY PLAYERS are also there, standing further down the room.

GLEN enters with a clipboard, officiators badge: Wayne! How're you now?

WAYNE: Good'nyou?

GLEN: Oh, I'm just dripping with excitement to be judging all y'alls cocks. Especially yours Wayne.

WAYNE squints into the distance.

DAN: You're judgings the competitions?

GLEN: Indeed I am, Daniel. Although admittedly I misunderstood the nature of the event when I first volunteered to judge. But! I have plenty of experience judging cocks from my years on the family poultry farm. The cocks I raised as a youth...

WAYNE: Pitter patter.

GLEN: Well, fine. If you don't appreciate hearing about my cock judging credentials.

DARY, snickering: Pretty sure pert near everyone in town knows 'bout those.

GLEN: True but uncalled for, Daryl!

NOAH DYCK, joining the hicks: I for one think it is admirable that Preacher Glen has experience handling and judging cocks. And from his boyhood, once.

WAYNE: Noah.

NOAH: Wayne.

DARY: Mr. Dyck.

NOAH: Daryl.

DAN: Noahs Dycks.

NOAH: Daniel. A pity Lovina Dyck could not make it to the cock judging. I'm certain she would have had she known you were showing your cock. For is it not true, mine wife, that the love tree often bears fruit when a young man parades his cock before his sweetheart, once?

ANITA approaches: What nonsense are you speaking now, Noah?

NOAH: Simply that a Dyck chooses a lifemate in part by how well she-

KATY: Or he.

DAN: Ors theys.

NOAH: -raises a cock. Did not you impress me with your cock raising skills when first we were courting?

ANITA, blushing: You say too much, husband.

NOAH: And did not you help raise this cock which I am showing proudly this day, once? Why without mine Anita Dyck's loving and tender hand, this cock would be but small and limp and lifeless.

ANITA: Us Snatches have always had a way with cocks, as well you know.

NOAH: A good thing too. Us Dycks require a skilled hand with raising our cocks. Lovina will be delighted to know you've raised such a magnificent cock as are being shown here this day. Perhaps I shall send one of my young sons to go fetch her, once. So that she might see your cock.

DAN, hurriedly: Oh nos, I'm nots showings anybodys anythings. That's all Waynes and Darys.

GLEN: Daryl! I didn't realize you were showing your cock today too. Oh, this is so exciting! Me, in the middle of a Daryl/Wayne cock sandwich.

WAYNE growls.

GLEN: Although I don't know how I'm supposed to choose between the two of your cocks. I think it will take some lengthy deliberation.

KATY: This is already taking fucking forever, I'm going to go sit down.

DAN: I'll join yous, miss Katys.

KATY as they leave: Still not over Lovina Dyck, eh?

DAN: I don'ts knows that I'll evers stop thinkings abouts Lovinas Dycks, miss Katys. Ands that's a facts.

KATY and SQUIRRELLY DAN exit.

DARY (aside): Katy's right. This is taking fucking forever.

WAYNE to GLEN: I say again. Pitter. Patter.

GLEN whines.

WAYNE: If a man should be one thing, he should be efficient.

GLEN: Fine. Everyone here? Then lets get y'all registered. What's your cocks' names? I'm sure you've come up with some good ones.

WAYNE: Plenty of good names for cocks.

DARY: Oh, you can have a lot of fun naming cocks.

WAYNE: I'm surprised we're not naming cocks right now.

DARY: Could name one after the fictional prizefighter Cocky Balboa.

WAYNE: Or the legendary real life comedian Chris Cock.

DARY: There's always actor and former wrassler Dwayne the Cock Johnson.

GLEN: Ooh, that's a two-for-one special right there.

WAYNE: Or jazz musician John Cocktrain.

DARY: I like that one.

WAYNE: Not too obscure?

DARY: Nah, it's a gooder. Cultured - but not trying too hard.

GLEN: All right, all right. So what are your cocks' names?

DARY: Cock.

GLEN: Come again? And please note, I'm saying that in a completely different context to the one I usually use.

DARY: My cock's called cock. I din't name the damn thing. I know what it looks like.

WAYNE: Well I should hope so.

DARY: And I only got the one. Not liable to mix it up with someone else's cock.

GLEN: Ok. Fine, Dary. Ruin all my fun. TURNS TO WAYNE. What about you, Wayne? What's the big fella called?

WAYNE: Only nutsacks name their cocks.

RILEY breaking into the group around GLEN: We're all saying our cock's names, boys?

JONESY: Just naming silly cock over here, boys?

RILEY: Just christening silly amounts of cock over here, boys?

WAYNE: Again, only nutsacks name their cocks.

GLEN: Yes, boys. Everyone who's entering the cock judging needs to tell me their cock's name so I can make sure to call out the right name during the handling. It's just so embarrassing to call the cock in your hands by the wrong name...

RILEY: We've got a cock to register for judging, boys.

JONESY: Well, really it's Riley's cock we're entering. And it's a real beauty, buddy.

RILEY: Hey, buddy. It's as much your cock as mine. It is a real beauty though buddy.

JONESY: Just a real beauty of a cock here, boys.

RILEY: Half clapper top cheddar.

JONESY: Guaranteed W. Ferda!

RILEY: Ferda!

GLEN: Now boys, we're talking about roosters here, not actual cocks. Don't feel bad - I too was confused at first. So, while I'm sure Riley's cock is just delightful...

JONESY: It is. He's a registered beautician, buddy.

RILEY: Thanks buddy.

GLEN: Yes. But I just want to stress again – this is the animal we're talking about here.

RILEY: Yeah, boys. Cocks.

JONESY holds up a rooster in a cage: And this is our cock:

RILEY: Four time Stanley Cup winner.

JONESY: Four time Vezina Trophy winner.

RILEY: Hockey hall-of-famer.

JONESY: Goaltender extraordinaire.

RILEY: Terry Sawcock. Ferda!

JONESY: Ferda!

DARY (aside): Kinda surprised they have a whole cock between 'em.

WAYNE: Ain't surprised they share it though, fuck.

DARY: Same way they share a set of testicles. And maybe a tongue.

GLEN: Ooh, don't tempt me Daryl.

WAYNE (turns to RILEY and JONESY): Now where in the hell did yous two nutsacks get a cock from anyways? You better not've stolen it right out from under some poor unsuspecting farmer's nose.

RILEY: We bought it down at the feed store boys.

JONESY: Heard about people keeping chickens as pets boys.

RILEY: How they're so cute and cuddly. Plus free eggs boys.

JONESY: Need plenty of protein to keep up with the gains boys.

RILEY and JONESY flex. GLEN watches avidly. WAYNE is unimpressed.

RILEY: Accidentally bought a rooster though buddy.

JONESY (sadly): Can't get eggs from a rooster buddy.

RILEY: Still a good pet though buddy.

JONESY: Yeah, just really loves to cuddle with us buddy.

RILEY: Yeah, just really loves to cuddle with us on the sofa buddy.

WAYNE: Shouldn't keep farm animals as pets. Fuck.

DARY: Farm animals belong on a farm. S'why they're called farm animals.

WAYNE: Like. You wouldn't let a sow into you're living room. And you wouldn't let a cow into your living room. So why the fuck are you cuddling up on the couch with a cock?

JONESY: Shouldn't knock it till you've tried it.

DARY: I'll knock you.

GLEN: Boys please. Lets not fight. Not when we're all gathered here today for such a noble purpose as comparing cocks.

ALL: Fine.

GLEN: All righty now, let's see. We've got Daryl's cock: cock. We've got Wayne's cock: only nutsacks name their cocks. Riley and Jonesy's collective cock: Terry Sawcock. What do you call your cock, Noah?

NOAH: While there are a great quantity of cocks at the Dyck farm, this is our most quality.

WAYNE: Quality Dyck if you will.

GLEN: Quality Dyck it is.

DARY: Sure 'nough.

WAYNE: Like you see that cock and you say, that's Quality Dyck all right. And no mistake.

GLEN: Mhm! And I know from Quality Dyck. Now, if that's everyone, we can get on with the judging...

MCMURRY barges in: Wait! (Approaching WAYNE) Wayne. How're'you'now? Good'n'you. Ohnotsobad. Okay! (Turns to the GROUP) I, McMurry, am entering my cock in this little competition. So all you sumbitches can make a hole.

GLEN: Well someone's all riled up! You can go ahead and enter your cock right here, McMurry. No need to shout.

DARY (angry): Yeah, no need to bust our balls.

WAYNE (placating): Go have a dart.

DARY (begrudgingly): Yeah, I'll have a dart.

WAYNE and DARY exit.

FADE TO BLACK.

ESTABLISHING SHOT OF THE AGRICULTURAL FESTIVAL.

ZOOM ON TWO COCK SHAKUR PLAYING FOR A CROWD IN FRONT OF THE AG BUILDING.

PAN OVER KATY AND DAN IN THE AUDIENCE.

ZOOM ON GLEN AS HE ENTERS THE STAGE AT THE FRONT OF THE CROWD.

GLEN: How'reyounow?

AUDIENCE: Good'n'you?

GAIL: All this cock talk's got me wetter than a lighthouse keeper's slicker in a Noreaster, I can tell you that much.

DAN: Gailer!

KATY: First Glen is here judging and now Gail's here.

GAIL approaches KATY and DAN.

DAN: Yeah, Gail. I didn'ts know you were so interesteds in the agriculturals.

GAIL: Less interested in the agriculturals than in seeing some. Good. Hand. Raised. Cock. Specially when I heard Wayne's entered in the cock judging.

DAN to KATY: She knows it's nots actual cocks, rights?

KATY to GAIL: More importantly, is Modean's actually closed?

DAN: Tells me it didn't burns down agains.

KATY: This town needs a fucking bar.

GAIL: Nah, Modean's 3 is still alive and kicking sure as this old goat. But when Glen told me he'd be judging cocks at the agricultural festival I figured the whole fucking town'd be here rather than down Modean's.

DAN: Nots a bad turnsout for Letterkenny's first evers ag festival.

KATY: A great fucking turnout.

GAIL: Plus, I get a chance to see Wayne's cock today – and that's worth a day's profits right there.

KATY: Gross.

GAIL: Not that I've actually lost a day's profits. Bonny's been making the rounds at the Ag festival and apparently, business. Is. Banging.

CUT TO BONNY WEAVING HER WAY THROUGH THE CROWD WITH A TRAY OF SHOT GLASSES AND BEER BOTTLES.

KATY and DAN whistfully, along with CROWD: Bonny McMurry?

GLEN (impatient): Can I have your attention please!

PAN BACK TO GLEN.

GLEN: The event we've all been waiting for – I know I have – the cock judging. Lets meet our contestants!

GLEN gestures to the stage like a game show host: First up is Wayne!

AUDIENCE applauds.

WAYNE enters with his rooster and stands stoically, hands in belt loops.

GLEN examining the rooster: An impressive cock. Sturdy. Well built. And a real big fella. Nearly eight pounds, and pure muscle. Wayne, I think you've got a real champion cock here.

WAYNE nods stoically.

GAIL: And that's not the only cock of his I hear is impressive.

GLEN: Oooh, tell me more.

WAYNE: Glen.

GAIL: That rooster's not the only cock almost eight somethings.

MCMURRY (from backstage): Wait, is that measured over or under the balls.

GAIL: And plenty of stamina to make it through those cold Canadian winter nights. If. You. Know. What. I. Mean.

GLEN: No, please continue in explicit detail.

WAYNE: Glen!

GLEN: Ok, fine. (Gestures WAYNE to move to the rear of the stage.) Moving along, next up is Dary!

AUDIENCE applauds.

GLEN examining the rooster: Oh, you've got a feisty one here, Dary. Plenty of personality! A little smaller than Wayne's but still an excellent cock. And those freckles are just too cute!

DARY: Aw, thanks Glen.

GLEN: And I'd happily take a look at your other cock if you want, Daryl.

DARY: Thanks for the offer Glen, but like I said, I only got the one.

GLEN: Oh never mind.

GLEN waves DARY off the stage.

DARY moves to stand next to WAYNE.

GLEN: Here's our next contestant, Noah Dyck!

AUDIENCE applauds.

GLEN: Now this is something special, y'all. An excellent example of a Canadian heritage breed, known for being an excellent layer and quite robust as well. Yes, I think we can all agree that this is certainly Quality Dyck right here.

NOAH: Thank you Preacher Glen. Such comments mean much coming from such an experienced judge of cocks as yourself.

GLEN: Oh, Noah. You'll make me blush. (GLEN rapidly ushers NOAH to stand next to DARY and WAYNE) Anywho, our next contestant is Riley and Jonesy!

AUDIENCE applauds with some confusion.

DAN: What, both of thems? Collectivelys?

KATY: It makes sense. They do everything else together.

DAN: Everythings?

GAIL: Ev. Ry. Thing.

DAN: Katy?

KATY: Can confirm.

DAN: Wow. Didn'ts needs to knows thats.

KATY: You did ask.

GAIL: It's not like we gave you a blow. By. Blow account. But if you really want to know...

GLEN: This cock's a little smaller than the ones we've seen previously. Not as much muscle – might want to exercise it a little more, boys. Just really put it through it's paces.

SHORESY: Yeah! Give your balls a tug titfuckers!

RILEY: Fuck you, Shoresy! Where's your cock, if you think you're so good!

SHORESY: Fuck you Riley! If you want to know about my cock, just ask your mom. She saw plenty of it last night. Rode me so hard reverse cowgirl style I thought she was going to snap it off.

JONESY: Fuck you Shoresy!

SHORESY: Don't worry, Jonesy. Your mom was there to kiss it all better.

RILEY and JONESY: Fuck you Shoresy!

GLEN: Well! All audience commentary aside, I think you've got a very shapely cock, Riley. And I think if you put in the time, worked hard and raised it properly, you could have a real champion cock on your hands.

RILEY: Thanks, boys!

JONESY: Yeah, thanks boys!

GLEN: You're welcome. Now go sit down so we can get to our next contestant!

RILEY and JONESY fistbump and move to join the others.

McMURRY pushes forward through the other contestants: Yes, I McMurry am here to have my cock judged in front of all of you. And I'm gonna win this cocksucking cock competition, just you watch.

MRS McMURRY: Knock 'em dead, baby. Love you.

McMURRY: Love you too baby.

GLEN (awkward): Well, this cock's a little on the small side...

KATY: And that's a little bit of an understatement.

JARED KEESO CHARACTER #1: It's fucking tiny, McMurry. I've got a bigger cock hatched out an egg yesterday.

JARED KEESO CHARACTER #2: How'd you get a woman like Mrs. McMurry with a tiny cock like that?

JARED KEESO CHARACTER #1: You're a piece of shit, McMurry.

MRS McMURRY: Don't listen to him. Your cock's perfect, baby.

GLEN: Yes, well. They say it's not size that counts, but in this case – and a few others – that's just not true. Sorry, McMurry. You're out of the competition.

McMURRY: Goldangit all! (Exits STAGE mumbling profanities)

MRS McMURRY rushes after him.

GLEN: Now on to our last competitor! Modean Three's own Bonny McMurry!

AUDIENCE applauds.

DAN: I's hads no ideas she raised cocks.

KATY: I seem to remember her raising your cock pretty frequently there Dan.

DAN: I seems to remembers yous were plentys affected as well, Miss Katy.

KATY: What can I say? I like a woman with a championship cock.

GLEN: And what an excellent cock it is! A little on the slender side, but shapely! And what a lovely temperament. Outgoing without being pushy! Oh, it's just gorgeous!

WAYNE (aside to Dary): Now that's a lovely cock.

DARY: It's a beautiful cock for sure.

WAYNE: Oh it's a gorgeous cock.

GLEN: I think we have a winner folks! Let's hear it for Bonny McMurry's excellent cock!

FADE OUT TO AUDIENCE APPLAUSE AS BONNY McMURRY ACCEPTS A TROPHY.

SHOT OPENS ON THE PRODUCE STAND. WAYNE, DAN, AND DARY ARE SITTING IN THEIR USUAL SEATS WITH THEIR USUAL PUPPERS. KATYS CHAIR IS TAKEN BY WAYNE AND DARY'S ROOSTERS.

DAN: Recon Miss Katies is going to wants her seats back anytimes soons?

WAYNE: I imagine she's occupied for the evening.

DARY: Can't really blame her. I mean, who knew Bonny McMurry had such a championship cock?WAYNE: Hell, anybody'd want to go celebrate down MoDean's after a win like that. She's more than earned it, showing up all our cocks like that.

DARY: Still, there's no shame in coming second, good buddy.

DAN: Especiallys nots against such stiffs competitions.

WAYNE: I reckon you're right there, Dary. Andyouwannaknowwhat? Ain't no shame in coming third neither.

DAN: Especiallys nots against such stiffs competitions.

WAYNE stands and holds his hand out for DARY to shake: Congratulations Dary. That's a mighty fine cock you've got there.

DARY stands and shakes WAYNE's hand: Not as nice as yours, Wayne. Congratulations on the cock.

WAYNE and DARY sit.

WAYNE looks at where the roosters are sitting next to each other: Well, I'll give those hockey nutsacks this. They are cuddly little fuckers, aren't they?

DARY hawks a loogie in agreement.

WAYNE: Still not letting 'em in the fucking house though.

WAYNE, DARY, and DAN take a drink of PUPPERS.

CREDITS ROLL.

#letterkenny #this is essentially one long dick joke #@ jared keeso: call me

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tsukiyamavalentine · 3 years

Text

Expanding on My Last Post:

Hi, I’m back. It’s morning now, hi. This was meant to be brief but Ghosty doesn’t do brief so here we are.

Link to Part 1,

This is a less tired post so enjoy!

I’ve seen a few people say that Shuu’s humiliation started mainly in Re, and that in TG:1 Tsukiyama was only mocked in TG:1 bc he was rich and out of touch.

Yes, we’ll talk more abt that later; but u missed the point of my post. It’s not just that he was rich and out of touch, but again, in TG:1 he is still the only slightly ‘safe’ queer character.

He is still bullied by other characters, and Ishida turns him into a laughing stock in the extra scenes. That’s not mentioning the things Ishida has him do in deleted or extra scenes.

My point is: Shuu is the only queer character to get a redemption. Even when Ishida tried to make him straight, he was treated as different from the others. He is a joke all the time, even when he is mentally ill (more on that later). He literally cannot catch a break from anyone; the other characters, the author, and to an extent, us.

So.

I wanna get this next thing over and done with, so let’s get through it.

We Need To Talk About The Scat:

I want to point out the scat stuff here, bc I feel it’s relevant.

Ishida says that in his earliest work involving Shuu and Hori, he would have Shuu do some weird stuff involving dog scat. Obviously we don’t know what Ishida wrote exactly, but I find it really strange that of all the things to mention about his past work; Ishida chose that.

He says he’s embarrassed by the work, yes, but what we know abt it is that it involves Tsukiyama, Hori, and he chooses to mention dog scat.

This is not only weird, but foul. It’s awful. And I have little doubt that the reason Ishida brought up this in particular is bc it’s disgusting and foul, and most importantly; humiliating.

But Ishida seems to love doing that.

Isn’t it funny? How Tsukiyama is seen as degenerative by fans for fetishising and lusting after a man, but Ishida seeming to get off on humiliating a queer man (often using a straight or female character to do so) is unquestioned.

It is exhausting to have to type this, but y’all need to understand.

Now I move onto my next points, which will be slightly more fandom-orientated.

Shuu Tsukiyama and Child Predators/Gender-Swapping The Role Of The Degenerate:

Shuu is commonly compared to similar queer-coded characters, such as Hisoka and Adam. These two characters are child predators.

Tsukiyama is never shown to have predatory feelings towards children. He builds a relationship with Hinami, which would be strange in other circumstances, but this was at a point where Hinami was living with Banjou and Kaneki. She had almost no one to be with.

His malicious intentions were Hinami were not sexual. They were directed at Kaneki. We don’t know exactly what his intentions were, only that Touka and Nishiki reacted very strongly to him being around Himami.

Touka and Nishiki have their own reasons for being concerned, but here, their concerns are slightly more severe, bc Hinami is a child. Even if what Touka and Nishiki are worried about is justified, there is an insinuation that something predatory is going on.

This creates the idea that Shuu would do something predatory to a child. Even though this is the only time we see him around one, and we know that his intentions are directed at Kaneki.

This idea, this portrayal, is problematic in multiple ways, and sadly, it’s not an uncommon portrayal of queer men.

For one, this idea leans heavily into the ‘Men Can’t Be Around Children That Aren’t Their Own’ point. We see this a lot in real life. A man who takes care of or is friendly with a child that isn’t his own is more critiqued than a woman.

This is a feminist issue, as it leans into the belief that women are inherently motherly and men aren’t as capable. It suggests that men outside of a family group are inherently predatory and not to be trusted. It also leans into that, ‘all men are pigs/all men want is sex’ thing.

The fandom’s idea of Shuu being a child predator also leans into the ‘Queer-People-Are-Predators’ idea.

Again, I do not want to accuse the fandom of anything, but I hate the child predator thing most for a number of reasons.

Even though the fandom is basically dead, I still see posts in the Tsukiyama tag comparing him to predatory characters or calling him a predator.

Now, here I’d like to move to my next point in this section, and ask the question: how do these facts and ideas change if Tsukiyama was a woman?

If Tsukiyama was a woman, I can almost guarantee that his relationship with Hinami would be seen as less predatory and uncomfortable, and would be seen as more motherly and cute.

This, again, leans into the sexist idea that women are inherently carers and men are takers. Meaning that the prospect of Tsukiyama being a child predator is not only queerphobic, but rooted in sexism.

If switching Tsukiyama’s gender, we also have to ask;

If Tsukiyama was a woman, would his relationship with Kaneki be predatory and creepy, or would it be admired and fetishised?

Think of the obsessive girl stereotype in manga and anime. The obsessive girl is seldom seen as degenerative. She’s mentally ill at worst, maybe people use the word ‘psycho’. But she is still desired, and respected.

Tsukiyama is the male equivalent of this, and think abt how differently he is seen compared to this hypothetical female character.

Then, we also have to look at how opinions change if both Kaneki and Tsukiyama were both women.

To put it simply; the relationship would be fetishised to hell, especially by the author and male audience.

The reasoning for both of the above is again, queerphobic and sexist, because we do not take women as seriously, and straight men (a lot of TG’s audience) fo not find sexual pleasure in gay relationships.

I’d like to talk more on this subject, but frankly it deserves a post of its own.

Speaking of Tsukiyama’s obsessive nature, I’d like to move to my next point:

The Ignored Mental Illnesses of Shuu Tsukiyama.

I relate a lot to Tsukiyama. I’ve had an eating disorder, I’ve attempted suicide, I’m autistic, and most importantly; I have spent a large portion of my life in extreme loneliness.

People often forget or ignore the mental issues Tsukiyama is shown to have. And that is: a lot.

I did used to think maybe he was slightly autistic, but looking at what we know abt his life as a whole, I think he’s just very mentally ill and possibly underdeveloped (as a person).

Growing up, it’s likely that Tsukiyama rarely saw the people he loved. He had servants, but what is a child to do with servants? People who are paid to be there.

His childhood was spent around people who were paid to like him. Imagine how fucking lonely and sad you’d feel when you figured that out.

He went to school, but from what we know, his friendships were pretty empty. Again, lots of people probably thought higher of his wallet than him. Even Chie Hori, who is one of his only friends, humiliates him, mocks him, and most importantly, I refer to my earlier points abt scat; Chie Hori is the one who Tsukiyama did that sort of thing around. She has a camera, and I think there are pictures in the calender where she takes a photo of Tsukiyama stepping in scat. She has a photo of it. Will the photo be deleted at Tsukiyama’s request, or will it be kept and shown around by her to further humiliate him?

(NOTE: I couldn’t find the photo from the calender but I remember it rly bad. I’ll look around more and update the post if I find it, but please take this with salt bc I do not have the photo. My point still stands, I don’t think Hori would delete an embarrassing photo of him. She’d share it for sure).

As much as we like to joke abt who Shuu might’ve been as a child, I see a lot of ‘weird-gay-kid lol’ in the fandom and not ‘mentally-ill-child’.

I understand that lots of people probably think of this fondly bc of their own memories of being a gay kid and having little idea what that means. We all go through that embarrassing phase. That’s not what I’m getting at, I’m looking at the more slightly mean-spirited idea of this.

With Shuu’s childhood in mind, it’s easy to see why he gets so obsessive.

Also, to refer to my first point abt what was mentioned in the comments: Tsukiyama is funny is TG:1 being out of touch, and seems to think he’s terribly in touch.

Given what I’ve mentioned abt his childhood, and his life so far; this point is even more tragic.

As a character, Tsukiyama seems desperate to want to fit in. He wants and needs friends, he has a deep desire for companionship, but he has absolutely no idea how to get it.

I relate to this heavily, almost entirely, and it absolutely sucks. You guys, I was homeschooled after my suicide attempt. I haven’t been outside on my own since I was thirteen. I am seventeen as of writing. I am at a point where I deeply desire a human connection, and it frustrates me incredibly that I do not have the social ability to communicate properly and gain companionship.

So I understand where Tsukiyama is coming from, and how he’s feeling.

How Tsukiyama seems to deal with this crippling loneliness is interesting, and I feel can be summed up by this one song lyric:

‘I feel like I’m the worst, so I always act like I’m the best,’

Tsukiyama is humiliated and used by those around him, so in his mind; if he can’t make a friend as he is now, he will have to convince them he is better than he is.

Then, he thinks, then they will desire MY friendship.

This is…sad.

Bc it doesn’t work. They only humiliate him more. He is ‘out of touch’ and it’s funny. It’s funny, that he is desperately reaching out for human connection.

I don’t think it’s funny at all, but some of this is speculatory, so take it with salt.

The Ending Of TG and How It Relates To His Tragedy:

So, Tsukiyama has never had a true friend. His actual friends humiliate him. The people around him humiliate him. The man he loves and so desperately clings onto, mocks and treats him like an object.

This is no different by the end of the story, even after he has broken down in front of everyone. His breakdown is mocked and belittled (by Nishiki) and all the other characters act like they thought of it first (kindly, fuck off).

By the end of the story, these other characters have very lifescript happy endings. Shuu doesn’t.

Shuu is, as far as we know, single and childless. Which according to the endings of the straight character, is bad (no wahmen in the kitchen and no bebe).

Again, I reiterate; Shuu is the only queer character to be considered good by the end of the story. And he is one of the only main characters to end up single and childless.

There’s no reason why he can’t have a happy life like that. Hell, that’s the life I want! But in this ending, he is still surrounded by the people who see him as a wallet, or who just mock him.

That’s not happy. He has no one. He has his dad, a career…That’s it.

He has Ichika (Touka & Kaneki’s kid).

Ichika is interesting, bc she won’t yet have biases against Shuu, and that’s probably why he’s so besotted by her. Like, ohmygod, an actual person who treats me like an actual person with emotions!

But that’s not gonna last is it? Ichika is gonna grow up seeing him get mocked by everyone around her, how long until she starts doing it?

And again, we mention the ‘man-is-predatory’ trope. I’m glad the series ended bc what tf would Ishida have made Shuu do around that kid to make him seem like even worse?

Whatever, again, a lot of this is speculatory. I’m just guessing, but this seems like a likely conclusion.

Tsukiyama doesn’t get a happy ending. The queer man doesn’t get that.

That’s why fanfic exists I guess. But my fanfic shouldn’t have to be partially comforting my comfort character so I can sleep at night.

To Conclude:

Guys, listen;

This wasn’t something that started in Re, or the extra scenes, or the side novels; this has been constant. It’s in every part of TG from start to end.

I’m not accusing anyone of doing this maliciously, bc Ishida does it so flippantly.

I know that Tsukiyama has comedic value in many other ways that do not humiliate him. He’s ridiculously wealthy, and to me, he is almost the perfect embodiment if Gemma Collins crying on CBB bc ‘it’s like working 24/7 for TWO DAYS on the trot’ and bc ‘you’ve only got straighteners not heated rollers’ and ‘straighteners are wot facking weirdos use on their hair…that’s wot u think of me’. (Just watch Gemma Colins on CBB she’s iconic).

We can also certainly joke abt some of his mental state. We do it all the time to ourselves. But like in real life; we need to watch the line.

Tsukiyama’s just fun. He’s dramatic, and flamboyance in of itself isn’t bad. It’s fun! But we have to be careful with how and where we find his fun.

It’s important we provide more in depth examinations of this character, more than just joking. We need to examine the previous fandom’s relationship with him and ask: how can we do better?

As queer people, as allies, as emotional beings.

How can we do better?

Not just for Shuu, but for other characters with similar treatment.

We are evolving and learning beings. We are all so new to the world.

It’s important for us especially to examine fictional characters, and ask how this relates to irl situations. How we treat fiction online may show more abt ourselves then we’d like to believe.

I guess what I want to say is; think. Just think. Please.

~~~

That was rly hard.

Oh, God. I’m stressed.

Haha.

I feel like ur mad at me. I feel like there’ll be ppl in my asks shouting at me.

Whatever. I think I need to log off.

I just want him to be happy. I just want him to…not be treated like this. Is that so bad?

Whatever.

I want to hug him, If I met him irl, I’d just hug him, for hours and days. He just needs a hug. He needs to be loved. He deserves it.

#follow up post #shuu tsukiyama #i want to hug him #tg #tokyo ghoul

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docholligay · 3 years

Text

In The Desert

My second of three eventual Passover fics, finally done, if literally nothing else. 4,500ish words, and I hope you enjoy it at least somewhat!

Moses never saw the Promised Land. He guided others to it, but he died before he ever set foot in that promised space, before he ever was allowed to know the feeling of safety and peace and home. To reach the goal he had longed for.

Mercy tried not to think too much on this, and told herself often that the Promised Land was only a place, and maybe it was Moses’ short-sightedness that did not allow him to see that the Promised Land was had while he wandered, in the arms of his wife, in the giggles of Jewish children knowing what it was to grow up free, in knowing that he had guided his people to something far more frightening but far greater. To inspire them to live a life of uncertainty, with great risk, but great reward. The Promised Land was where you found it, Mercy would say, often.

Sometimes she even believed it. This year was harder.

Was he ever resentful, she wondered, absent-mindedly setting the low table, for the punishment? That for one moment, he reacted in anger and bitterness instead of in patience and grace, that he lashed out, and so was barred from the doors of promise forever? Mercy thought on these things, and her own trespass against God, wondering which had kept her wandering all these years, without the promise she had so hoped for.

Sitting in Canada with her small second Overwatch, the way forward had seemed so simple. She had escaped the bondage of loneliness, and now there was only to keep going, to increase that family around her, to grow in love, even to hope for that thing she had imagined might be lost to her for so long, something she hadn’t dared hope for. She loved her Overwatch family. She loved her wife. She loved for a child. Now she could see it all growing further away, a golden land that she, like Moses, would only ever see others enter.

Tears filled her eyes as she considered it, blurring the fork she set down on the table. The day was rainy and cold, even for the general London April, and it went all the way through her, darkening and covering any warm space she may have been able to find within herself.

It was a year of failures. The same ones, over and over again, of bodies as quarrelsome and betraying as the Israelites, of ground being lost and joy being further and further away. This was meant to be a day of celebration, of freedom, but it all felt so empty, the freedom of a stray dog without home or comfort.

There was a knock at the door, and Mercy stood up straight, adjusting her sweater and tucking her hair behind her ears. There was no reason to ruin the day for everyone else, even if she could not find the joy for herself. When one is happy, it is easier to serve God and your community, she had read, from some rabbi, somewhere, and she did not deny that this was true.

Why then, had God denied her so much?

“Ang!” There was a bright, high peal through the entryway as Tracer sat on the small chair next to the door, taking off her shoes slowly, “Sorry, took us a bit--”

“We’re on time, Lena.” Emily smiled as she hung up her jacket.

“Oh. Right then, me planning is as bang on as ever,” She laughed merrily, “Entirely didn’t assume I’d missed the mark, exacting as I am.”

“You’re early.” Mercy touched at the edge of the couch.

“Someone tell Fareeha, she’ll want to note this in the official Overwatch ‘istory.”

Emily took her shoes from her and set them in the rack. “She’ll only be telling you you’ve no excuse hereafter.”

Tracer shook her head and clicked her tongue. “Bloody fucked every which way, I am.”

Yes, Mercy’s mind answered, you are.

It’s clearly degenerative and aggressive, whatever got set off. The seizures will get harder to treat, and the tremor, not to mention we have about a whack-a-mole’s guess at what it’ll start going after next. I’ve never seen anything like it. I don’t think it’ll affect her cognition, luckily. Or unluckily, I guess...

She heard Pradeep’s voice echoing in her mind, and did her best to shake it off. She hadn’t given up yet. Things weren’t so bad that they could give up yet. There was still a chance, however small, wasn’t there? Even if they could just arrest it, just stop it where it was--her eyes flickered to the brightly colored cane Tracer’s hand reached for, more commonly carried than not now--she could live out the rest of her life in relative happiness. She could see it, in her mind’s eye. That golden strip of promise just beyond the horizon.

But she hadn’t been able to touch it, no matter how many specialists she bullied into consulting with her. No matter how many papers she read. No matter how long she walked and how fervently she prayed.

“Ang?” she looked up, and realized that Tracer was now standing in front of her, a puzzled look on her face. “You alright, love?”

Mercy shook her head. “Of course, only I am lost in my mind. Tired, I think.”

Tracer looked at her for a moment in that sharp way she had, eyes flitting like a hummingbird across Mercy’s face, but she was saved by a knock at the door, and the further entrance of Dva and Winston, chatting amiably as Winston carefully sidled into the apartment, McCree a short but meaningful distance behind them.

There they were, an assembled party, still crossing the long desert, signs of promise beginning to pop up around them. Since the battle for London, the world had taken a different view of them, an altogether kinder one. Pharah had her office building, constructed where she had always hoped. McCree had gotten a pardon from Interpol itself. Tracer had been offered damehood, which she had rather aggressively rejected, and the Victoria Cross, which she had aggressively accepted. All of them where heroes worldwide, their work seen for the long journey it had been, and honored. Mercy should have every reason to be pleased.

Professionally, her life had never been better, or the way more clear.

“Angela,” her wife’s voice pulled her out of the thought, “the family, I think, is assembled.”

She said it with a half-smile as she looked over to the strange assembly that filled the room. Mercy nodded, and watched as Pharah walked over to the table she had built with her own hands, in the center of the living room. There was a bubbling sort of excitement among all of them, and why wouldn’t there be? It was the first Passover in Pharah and Mercy’s new apartment, the one built on the bones of the old. Life had been destroyed and life had been rebuilt into something more suited for them, something better. Renewal. Hope. Mercy could see it all, and reminded herself of it, as Pharah playfully bickered with Tracer before grabbing her by the armpits and thumping her to the floor, back up against the couch. The rest of them settled in their own spots, on the floor, looking over to Mercy from time to time.

A perfect Seder, with the people she loved, and yet her eyes wandered to the corner next to her seat, the one she hadn’t even realized she had left clear. There should have been something, someone, there this year. She had prayed for it, she had pleaded for it, she had given and fasted and hoped for it. And yet the corner stood empty. The promise was for other people.

”It’s not surprising given your advanced maternal age,” she said it gently, but Mercy still winced, “and...some of what you’ve been through.”

Mercy was not now, and had never been, ignorant of certain medical realities. Her entire life since she was a child, had been the understanding of such things, and the painful knowledge that very often what we wish was true directly contradicted what was on the chart. The doctor kept talking, and Pharah squeezed her hand.

Pharah. She’d offered to be the one to carry a child, despite it not being her immediate inclination. Mercy had never been able to find the words to tell her that she needed to be the one to do it. That she had lost her entire family all those years ago, and needed to be related to one other person on this earth, and to know that. Even she didn’t understand it completely, only knew that it had driven her onward. Only knew it kept her coming back to this office to be told that the best they could do was keep going.

The best she could do was ignore the chart.

She should have filled that corner with something other than her own empty hopes. She blinked back the bitter saltwater of her own affliction, and began to walk toward the table.

“Pesach is a story of the impossible,” she sat herself down next to Pharah, but just kept staring at the Seder plate in the middle of the table, “We were slaves. We could not be bringing forth our own freedom. Only God could do that, and there was no reason to believe he would be doing it at all. We had been in bondage for so long. There was no reason to believe God would be giving us the Torah. There was no reason...to believe that we would be here. No reason there should be any Jews left at all.”

Mercy wished one of them would stop her, that one of them would recognize the ramble for what it was was. Mercy barely understood it herself, and anger touched the edge of her mind as she considered all the things God had done but also all the things that he had chosen not to do. He had chosen to allow the Holocaust, and where had their deliverer been? He had allowed the Jews to be blamed and pilloried for the failings of AI technology, in both the fringes and, more quietly, in the larger community. He had allowed them to be shot while they worshipped, or bought groceries, or simply lived their lives. He had allowed Mercy to hear every suspicion and cruelty of the others in the labs and offices, who could not imagine the blonde, blue-eyed woman next to them could possibly take offense. And then, he had allowed Mercy’s house to be bombed, twice in her life, he had allowed her wife to be tortured, he had allowed Tracer to suffer, and he had allowed Mercy to remain childless.

“Why.”

The fifth question, left out of the Haggadah.

She looked around the table at them.

“Why did he save us? And then, sometimes, why did he not? I--” she shook her head, “am never understanding the reasons. Why. I am only always asking. Why.”

It was a why to God, for certain, for all the things she thought but good not bring herself to say, but a why to herself as well. Why had she stayed? Why did she pray every morning, why did she say Shema before she laid down at night? Mercy would have been the first to say that it wasn’t about God, but also she could not have answered what it was about at all. What did she find in her prayers and her study, knowing so keenly that God would not hear her, had not heard her cry for years?

Perhaps that was what drew the Jewish people together--knowing God will not listen, and saying the prayer anyhow. Knowing that to be a Jew was to live in danger, and to wander, but refusing to be anything else. To never stop asking, no matter how silent God became.

Even David, knowing God would punish him with the death of his child, had kept pleading, and fasting, and praying, to the very end. There had always been the chance God would turn back.

“We’re outmanned, outgunned, and those things can keep coming--”

“Didn’t say we was going to win did I?” Tracer’s eyes narrowed and her voice raised, pulling the attention of the room back to her. “Said we was going to fight.”

She looked out over the tightly assembled group packed into the room.

“Some of us will die today. Likely a good number of us. ‘E’s right you know. There’s no reason to believe we can take the advantage over them. Every reason to believe that London is going to be nothing but a pile of rubble and fires at the fag end of it all. But I,” She thrust her finger into her chest, “am not going to give over this city bloody quietly. It’s a part of me, innit? And we’re a part of it. Can’t untie the Oxtons and England, and I don’t mean the bloody Crown, and I don’t mean the bloody government, I mean England.”

Tracer paced across the top of the bar. “I am fighting for England, and for London, and what that is, is every kid running out the schoolyard, every pissed stumble ‘ome, every day of our lives, THAT is London. And England. We are London. We are England. Not anything or anyone official. Not Parliament. Not the fucking royals. You and me, and your dad, and mum, and this grotty little pub, and me footie team, and the greengrocer down the way, and Alfie’s flower stall, THAT is England, and I won’t let anyone, or anything, take this place I love, while I still draw a breath in this world. I won’t ever surrender. East End gets flattened, East End gets the worst of it, but we don’t roll over and give it up. We never ‘ave.”

She stopped for a moment, then nodded. “And I won’t start now. I can’t win, maybe. But I guarantee you, I can give them the worst day of their lives, and even if they stomp over these streets, they’ll remember my name. That’s what we’re fighting for. Not because we can win. Because we fight for what we are.

Mercy gave a weak chuckle and shook her head. “We are telling this story not to answer these questions, but to keep asking them. We are telling it, to give our own answers. God--” her voice caught, barely believing herself in that moment, “--God is revealing himself, in us, all the time. We, we are God’s hands, and God’s eyes, and...his words, when we remember. When we can be seeing the midrash in our lives.”

She took a deep breath.

“Tonight we remember that we are free. Tonight we remember the things that make us slaves.”

____

The smell of brisket filled the air. Pharah’s timing had become more and more impeccable over the years, throwing herself into the celebration of Passover, a love letter to her wife written with the greatest tenderness in pan sauce and flourless chocolate cake. Mercy had always, truthfully, questioned the wisdom of the most serious of plagues being recounted as they were on the edge of the feast. But perhaps that was the point of it. Perhaps it was about being kept waiting for your desires, your hopes. Perhaps it was about wondering if it would ever come.

“Aaron said to Pharoah, the worst would be coming. That God would take the firstborn of the Egyptians, but that the Hebrews would be spared, if they were marking their doors with the blood of a lamb…”

Sacrifice. Something always had to be sacrificed. A lamb. A child. A friend. Perhaps this had been her downfall, that she was unwilling to sacrifice anyone. She would never be Abraham, committing her dearest loves into harm. She wanted to save them all, and she had been punished for this disobedience, all those years ago when Overwatch fell. They had made something ugly of her love. Maybe God had seen her, and decided what the sacrifice would be for her.

Maybe God would take the firstborn, however Mercy felt about it.

It would be easy to blame God for that empty corner of her living room and her heart, for it was all within his power to give. But the things that happen to us are rarely laid at God’s feet alone, and Mercy imagined her own moments of frustration, of foolishness, and wondered, which one was it that had brought her to this moment? If she had wanted to have a child, why then had she spent so long pursuing her work, running through war zones and long nights in laboratories? She should have known there are some things which still have a time limit. She should have known there was no guarantee.

But if God had not wished it, why had he sent her Pharah? It was already to already believe her chance lost, but to show her that sliver of what might be, that green and verdant edge at the horizon of the desert, that was crueler still.

She understood why some of the Hebrews had returned to slavery. It was easier to never know what you were losing. What could be lost.

Tracer twisted against her back uncomfortably for a moment, but focused herself and shook her head. “I don’t understand why the first-born ‘ad to die, God being mostly angry at Pharoah.”

“It was no longer a warning.” Pharah took a sip of wine. “There had been nine warnings. It was a punishment.”

“‘Ardly seems fair to punish the lot of them for a bit of governmental wankery. Some ordinary Egyptian’s not keeping the ‘ebrews enslaved.”

“But I doubt they protested the murder of the Hebrew sons. It is a kind of blood for blood. That they had so many chances to avoid that is a mercy in itself, God would have been right to kill their children first off. Justice. ”

“No, isn’t justice. Revenge. Eye for an eye makes the whole world blind, Fareeha. Think you’d be defending your countrymen a bit more.”

Pharah smiled and leaned toward Tracer. “Some of us are not compelled to excuse our country’s imperialism, and violence.”

Tracer leaned back against the couch. “Alright, fair cop and well ‘it, but I am still right about the firstborn, Fareeha.”

Her own Hilell and Shammai, ever arguing, ever debating, ever loving each other. She had watched that grow and bloom, too, over the work of years, step by step as they wandered together through an uncertain land. She had doubted, when she first fell in love with Pharah, that anything other than the glue that was Mercy would keep them together, but that had been arrogance. Tracer was more loveable than she seemed at first blush, and Pharah more loving than most would have imagined, and the two of them had grown together, though never in quite the same direction.

Tracer was right, of course, that there was something unjust in taking something so precious, for a casual sin. Pharah was right, of course, that the sins of the community must be borne by the community, too, and that there had been so many chances to turn back. Did God ever owe them an apology, for such rashness? Or worse, for such calculation? It was one thing to act in anger, it was another to take something so precious so calmly.

Perhaps the worst of it was that he was not angry at Mercy at all. Perhaps it was only that simple, calculated punishment that led her to this day, to the taste of saltwater and horseradish even more bitter on her lips than she had believed possible. It purged her mouth of the sweetness of the wine and the richness of the meat, leaving only that acrid dryness in its wake.

Perhaps the worst of it was how angry Mercy was with him.

The plagues passed. Freedom was had, for some, but even as the meal passed in front of her, Mercy kept thinking only of her own bondage, of the unanswered cry to God. She saw it in the empty corner beside her, the shake at Tracer’s hand as she drew the wine to her lips, in the way Pharah had carefully assigned the seating and set the table, in the way Winston avoided her gaze as they spoke of Yocheved’s baby, in the way Dva spoke to her so gently. The way Emily looked at her and Tracer both.

In this victory of a meal, Mercy tasted only the failures of this past year. Miriam’s Well kept them alive in the desert, but Mercy began to wonder if it hadn’t been the bitter alkaline of survival, and not the sweet cool of living.

The blessing over the wine buzzed from her lips without a thought, and the door opened. Next to her, sitting at that empty corner, was Elijah’s cup. The cup filled with the hope and promise that some year, everything she had been waiting for would come through that door. The cup was an outstretched hand to God in the darkness, whispering about trust. Every year, she had held out that hand. She held it out after her parents were killed. Held it out after Overwatch fell. Held it out as she was in exile from the medical community. She kept looking ahead in the dark, trusting what she could not see.

She believed.

To believe in Elijah. To believe that hope could always walk right through the door, that it could sit at your table and drink your glass of wine. To believe that there was a chance to see the dream fulfilled, to touch your feet on that Promised Land.

Next year, in Jerusalem.

It was too much to ask. It was too deep a failure, this year, marked by all of her insufficiencies, unable to have a child, unable to save Tracer, throwing herself at these same things again and again, the outcome never changing. She’d gotten no closer to getting pregnant. Tracer’s health continued to deteriorate.

Not even taking the moment to excuse herself, Mercy got up from the table and ran into the small, tight powder room, the one Pharah had barely managed to niggle into the plans. She pulled herself into the bright white of that room, and she cried, and she cursed, in every language she knew, that God had kept everything from her, that God was punishing her for nothing, that God had judged her for her failings and ignored his own. She was angry. She kept that anger close to her like a flame, even as the immense darkness of her own sorrow crept in. She forgot there even was a Seder, in the other room, saw only the burning, everlasting bush that was her that was God that was the anger and love of all her people, all those years.

There was a knock at the door, and Mercy wiped at her eyes. Pharah had been so tender and good, through all of this, and the last thing she needed was--

“It’s Emily.”

Mercy had not expected that, and for a moment, it disarmed her so thoroughly that she opened the door.

There was nothing exchanged, for a moment. Emily would say that she was no great mind, and no great judge, and no great hero, comparing herself unfavorably to the company Tracer generally kept. She would say this never seeing her own gift for knowing the kindest thing to say, for looking at the faces of people as she did her class of children and opening her own heart to them.

“It’s just this year, Angela.” Emily nodded. “I know.”

It was not a question, nor a complaint, nothing but an acknowledgment of the thing that had been Mercy’s own plague, sent by God, or, at the very least, not evaded by him. Mercy nodded, tears still streaming down her face.

“Do you know Moses died, never seeing the Promised land? He was going through...and a mistake, meant God would never let him see it. He was kept from the promise of God.”

“Promised Land. I suppose it would be easy for a place you never see to be perfect.” Emily leaned against the doorframe. “I don’t know much about the Torah, of course, but I remember the story hardly ending with happily ever after.”

Mercy shook her head. “They were….argumentative, and lost faith, and difficult.” she sniffled. “But they were not in the desert.”

“It’s hard, to be Moses, isn’t it Angela? You go among people who don’t understand you, you try to lead them in whatever way you can, and for all that, you feel you will never find home. God barely listens to you, but you stay all the same. I think you’re brave for it.”

“I’m not--”

“Aye, you are. The moral compass for as long as I’ve known them, and for longer than that, I know. Lena and Fareeha would say so, as well.” Emily sighed. “This year has been forty for all of us, but for you I know most of all. But,” Emily looked back over her shoulder and stared at Tracer, “It’ll end, won’t it? Even Moses stopped walking.” She turned back around and wiped the tears from her eyes. “The Promised Land is just another beginning. But I don’t know the Torah very well.”

Mercy looked up at her. “You are knowing it well enough.”

“I’m sorry, about the baby. Cried over that myself, me and Lena never being able.” She sighed. “I just keep walking. What else can we do?”

“I’m sorry I,” Mercy closed her eyes, “I am failing you both.”

Emily put her arm around Mercy’s shoulder. “No. You could never. You’re taking us on the journey.”

“I should go back, to the table. I am being--”

“We’ll keep going, aye. Eventually, we’ll find the end of it, whatever that is.”

Hand in hand with Emily, Mercy walked back to the table. She was no clearer or calmer on the subject of God, of what he was denying her, of what he was denying all of them. But she saw the faces of her fellow travellers more clearly. It was not only Moses who made the journey. It was not only Moses who felt lost along the way, and it was not only Moses who died reaching for that unattainable goal, who strived and hoped against everything.

They were together. She did not find the Promised Land, but she found their hands in hers.

She poured the final cup of wine. All things come to an end. Even the desert.

#HON HON HON #The third one is The Promised Land and will theoretically be done someday ahah

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aaronbleyaert · 3 years

Text

Tomorrow is a Hundred Years Away

And even as I’m pouring the last drops of our second pot of coffee in your cup I’m still trying to tell myself that I’m not going to make another pot, but even my own mind can’t keep a straight face at the thought. I decide to pretend a third pot was the plan all along and pour the water in for another go before bringing your coffee back and setting it down with a little flourish.

You sit as you do, as we do, every morning, at our big ugly kitchen table: two 30 somethings who are more than happy to slowly sink into the staid portrait of a classic old married couple. We sit side by side, our legs touching, comfortable in the warm silence our two bodies create. The very thing that my teenage self feared most has come to pass: I'm living the life of a happily married woman, wife to a man I adore. The horror of comfort! The terror of wedded bliss! All of those years spent scared of being tied down, of being locked in a marital prison; all for naught. My life, this life, here with you - the whole thing almost feels like too much to wish for.

I watch as you gaze out the window, trying to burn it into my memory. “Remember this, Stephanie.” I think. “Remember, remember, remember.” I try to lock this moment, this one perfect moment, right now, here, of you and I just like this, away down deep where it can’t be touched. Where it can live, somewhere inside of me, forever.

Of everything I’ll lose in the next few months, moments like these are what I’ll miss the most.

I remember when you and I sat here - looking out this window, just like we are now - for the first time. That first early morning, having our first coffee together in this house, looking out at the tendrils of early morning mist still stubbornly clinging to the tops of the pines; I remember how the trees seem to stretch out forever like a lush green carpet across the valley before disappearing off into the low hanging clouds in the distant sky. It felt like all the good in our lives was laid out right there in front of us, just waiting for us to step forward into the future and live it.

“Would you look at that” you said on that morning, a little kid giddy with excitement. “The trees, the clouds, the sky, the world, the planets, the stars; all of it right out there, right outside our humble kitchen window. The whole sum total of existence, all trapped behind a single pane of glass.”

We sat there in quiet reverence, knees touching, marveling at the vast beauty of the world beyond our window - breathless at the thought that nothing less than the all of existence was sole spectator to you and I, and that moment: Our first morning spent together. I remember gently knocking wood; a quiet wish that this moment would last forever - or that somehow, in some future life, I could live this moment again, Over and over and over, for eternity.

“What a sight.” I said.

And then you leaned over and kissed me.

Looking back at my life, at our life, that moment is maybe the happiest I've ever been. I wanted to trap it like a firefly in amber and live inside it for a hundred million years. But, of course, the Great Unspoken Tragedy of Time is that it keeps gently nudging us forward, ushering us past what truly matters while muddying the clear waters of purpose with petty wishes and self-important worries. Eyes up! Face forward! Onward! Onward! A brighter future lies just around the corner, it says! A better life! All the while, the happier tomorrow is quietly slipping by the beautiful present into the yearned for yesterday. The next moment is always only a moment away - whether or not you want it to be. We cannot make a home in the present, so we must make that home in our memories. And to lose that home is to lose everything.

Not wanting time to push me forward into the next few minutes and the confession I have to make, I look down and watch my fingers trace the raised patterns of thick paint on the table. God. This table. If there is anything in all of creation that is completely impervious to time - and not to mention ugly - it is our kitchen table.

This thing must weigh a million pounds. A heavy hideous stout old beast slathered with cheap white paint, it’s almost pretty. Like one of those ugly dogs that are cute, it’s where hideous and adorable meet back on the other side. It’s my secret hope that the table is actually made from some kind of beautiful wood; Walnut, or Rosewood. Something valuable. Or Teak: The wood of royals. Wouldn’t that be a trip? Something majestic under all this crap paint? As the doctor visits have mounted and my life has started to come apart these past few weeks, it’s been all I can do to not take a steak knife and scratch off a little of the paint to take a peek underneath to see if my suspicions are true. I can just see the Antique Roadshow now:

“Stephanie: Good news! Your boring old kitchen table is actually a teak treasure from the jungles of India, brought by the explorer Francisco de Almeida in the year 1505! How did you come about it?”

“Well, Mark, it’s a funny story; it was actually our kitchen table for years and years, just sitting there, quietly, as we had our coffee every morning. Anyway, one day - ”

“Wow. How funny.”

“Right? Anyway, one day I had been going through a lot of medical trauma and so to distract myself thought just popped into my head: What if there was something special about our ugly table?”

“Something special, Stephanie?”

“Yes! Something special - you see, it used to be covered in this awful white paint.”

“Thick, cheap, white paint?”

“Yes, Mark. Exactly.” (audience laughs)

“Oh no!”

“Oh yes! And I just started thinking: This table, this ugly, heavy, but otherwise rather unassuming white table - what if there was something more to it? Something special, underneath? Something more beautiful than what we could see on the outsi - “

Hey, what are you thinking about?

I blink quickly, and look up, returning from the Roadshow set to your kitchen. Our kitchen.

Nothing, I say. Why?

You just looked like you were thinking of something funny.

I look back down at the table, at the white paint. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

I open my mouth to tell you my theory about the table and its secrets, about the Antique Roadshow bit with the 1505 Francisco story in this Mark voice I made up - but instead what comes out of my mouth is not the theory about our (your) table and its exotic secret, but instead it’s the thing I need to tell you. The thing I’ve been needing to tell you for weeks. The Truth.

I’m sick.

I’m really really sick. Like, the kind of sick where people don’t get better sick. I hear myself using some of the same words the doctors used when they told me: Rare, Degenerative, and eventually, the only word that matters in these sorts of cases: Terminal.

You look at me in disbelief, your wide, beautiful eyes not wanting to accept what I’m saying - much the same way, I imagine, as I looked at the doctor when she told me the news. Only she also used other, bigger, more doctory words like “transmissible spongiform encephalopathy”. I don’t tell you these words; it feels like to say them aloud would be too much like dark magic; too much like summoning an evil I don’t want. Although, at this point, what’s one more curse on top what I’ve already got?

You look down at your hands. You look at them for a long time. I wonder what you’re thinking. Then you quietly ask how much time we have left. I notice you say we, not me. You’re sweet.

I press my bare feet into the cold kitchen floor, trying not to cry and trying to figure out how best to tell you the truth without actually having to say it out loud. The silence settles around us like a dark cloud; a flock of big black birds, all watching with their beady eyes, waiting for an answer. Minutes pass. The clock ticks quietly in the hall.

It’s when I tell you how long that you finally start crying. We lean into each other, our bodies comforting each other in their own way. Our coffees sit on the big ugly table, untouched, steam rising lazily into the cool morning air.

Definitely shouldn’t have made that third pot.

***

When I was a kid, I lived next to this kid named Phillip. It was never Phil, just Phillip. One Summer, Phillip and I for some reason became obsessed with digging this hole. I don’t honestly remember how it started; maybe one of us had seen something on time capsules, or maybe we wanted to try to find out if the water table really existed. Whatever. Kids are stupid.

What I do remember is that, one day after school, Phillip and I for some reason started digging this hole on the side of his house. And every day after that, after school, we would run home, go back to the side of his house, and work on The Hole. Deeper and deeper. Wider. Steeper. Down down down. You’d think that we’d get sick of it - after all, you’re just digging a deep dumb hole, there’s nothing down there but more dirt you dummies - but that wasn’t the way we saw it. To us, it wasn’t just a hole; every spade of earth we turned over was a chance for a new forbidden discovery, a new illicit thrill. Arrowheads! Haunted pottery! Old machine parts! Every day we ran to The Hole, shovels in hand, with the same thought: What new thing would we discover today? What new piece of magic lay secretly buried, all these years, just out of sight, waiting to be discovered and pulled up into the light to be born into a spectacular new life? What beauty lay hidden just under our feet, lost down there in the cold black earth?

Our all-consuming daily digging obsession went on and on past the end of the school year and well across that whole summer; The Hole got so big and deep that we started putting a tarp over it to keep the rain out so it wouldn’t become a flooded mess. In the end though, it met its fate like all childhood adventures: Boring reality butted in. One day, Phillip’s dad walked around the side of the house, found the hole, and made us fill it in. When we protested, he just shook his head: “You spent your whole summer on a hole. Youth is wasted on the young.”

***

My brain is so weird; sometimes I think it knows things that I don’t. For instance, I’ve recently started catching myself thinking of “our” things as “your” things:

Your car.

Your house.

Your bed.

Your ugly kitchen table.

Your life.

Your life after me, of course I mean. What will that be like, I wonder? My life always felt so rushed: I dashed to work, I hurried home, I raced to the store, I ran to the bus, I worried about missing the train, the dinner, the movie. Why? Why did I do that? Why was I worried? My whole life I’ve had plenty of Life left to live, but I spent it all driving a million miles an hour to a million different places - only to get there and be worried about what I was doing next. Onward! Onward! Missing out always felt like a fate worse than death. How wrong I was.

Now that my life is ending, and there’s an actual clock counting down, I couldn’t care less. I don’t rush anywhere. I don’t race to any event. I don’t worry about making the movie or missing the bus. There will be other movies, other buses. Now that my future has fled, what’s most important is what’s around me, right now. It’s only at the end of my life that I’m realizing that life really takes place in between the times we think will matter; the moments I didn’t pay attention to were the ones that mattered most. Turns out the real beauty in life was there just underneath the surface after all.

They say those who fail to learn from their mistakes are doomed to repeat them - but that’s wrong. No one gets to repeat anything. We should be so lucky to given such a chance; mistakes or not.

***

My first thought is that I am freezing cold. Why am I so cold? And why is everything in my bedroom orange? I look around, and it takes me a second to realize that I’m not in my bedroom. I’m outside. What am I doing outside at night? The orange glow from the streetlight throws wild, unfamiliar shadows on the trees by the side of the road. What is this? I hear you screaming my name from somewhere far away. As if in response, the icy winter wind gusts out from between the black trunks of the barren pines, pushing me in your direction. I turn, my legs stiff, and begin walking towards where I think you are, but it’s cold and -

I wake suddenly in our (your) bed. It’s morning. I look around, slowly. The terror of the bad dream slowly drains out of my chest in the white glow of the morning. I look over; you’re still asleep. I desperately have to pee - a side effect of the medication - so I slowly pull the covers back and roll to the side to get out of bed without waking you. As I put my feet on the floor, I notice they are bloody and scratched; black with dirt. Not a dream after all.

***

One night, I call my mother for our weekly catch up - but her phone keeps ringing and ringing. This never, ever happens. She always picks up. Concerned, I find you in the living room half watching the TV while doing your crossword.

I’m worried about my mom. I say. I think she’s in trouble. Maybe hurt.

You look up, sharply. Hurt? What do you mean?

I just tried to call her. It just keeps ringing and ringing. Should we call someone to check on her?

Your face changes. I can tell you don’t want to do this, that it hurts you to do this, but it’s something you feel that you need to do. You pause, then carefully put your crossword aside.

I think your mom is okay. Come here for a second.

You stand, and I follow you into the kitchen. There is a piece of paper taped to the wall next to the phone that I’ve never seen before. It is written in all caps with a big black marker and says:

CALLING YOUR MOM?

LOOK AT THE CLOCK.

IS IT AFTER 8PM? ------> YOU HAVE ALREADY CALLED HER TONIGHT.

IF YOU HAVE ALREADY CALLED, SHE WILL NOT ANSWER.

DON’T WORRY, SHE IS FINE.

You look at me, and at the clock. My eyes follow yours. The clock reads 8:34. I slowly nod. As I put the phone back on its cradle, I read the note again. It’s in my handwriting.

***

Even as I’m pouring the last drops of our second pot of coffee in your cup I’m still trying to tell myself that I’m not going to make another pot, but even my own mind can’t keep a straight face at the thought. I decide to pretend a third pot was the plan all along and pour the water in for another go before bringing your coffee back to the table and setting it down with a little flourish.

You sit as you do, as we do, every morning, at our kitchen table. It’s a heavy old thing slathered with cheap white paint. It must weigh a million pounds. I secretly suspect (read: hope) it’s actually something beautiful underneath; walnut, maybe. Or teak. The wood of royals! Something exotic - wouldn’t that be a trip? These past weeks it’s been all I can do to not give in to the thought and scratch a little bit off with the butter knife to take a peek. What if it’s something valuable? Like really majestic? Hidden under all that hideous thick paint uncaringly slopped on. The more I think about it, the more positive I am: Someone, at some point in history, decided to cover this regal, majestic table in terrible thick white paint. But did that change what the table was, underneath? It changed the way we (I) looked at our (your) table, but didn’t change what the table was, inside. What an epic crime it would be if the table believed that it was just this white coated monstrosity. That it forgot what it truly was, underneath the thick paint. Does it still count as something beautiful? Even if I’m the only one who knows it?

Not wanting time to push me forward into the next few minutes and the confession I have to make, I look down and watch my fingers trace the raised patterns of thick paint on the table. My life, this life, here with you - the whole thing almost feels like too much to wish for.

I watch as you gaze out the window, trying to burn it into my memory. “Remember this, Stephanie.” I think. “Remember, remember, remember.”

***

It can be hard to see yourself as you really are. To try and see the truth of someone else? Nearly impossible.

So years ago, I came up with a neat little trick: whenever I would a take photo, I did something sneaky: I would count to three, and then pretend to take the photo. Everyone would smile. Then, believing it was done, they would relax - and that’s when I would really take the photo, capturing everyone in that one unguarded moment. We are really only our true selves when we believe no one is watching. Those moments that are in-between; those are only real moments that matter.

***

I am outside, in the darkness. No orange light, now. On all sides, I am surrounded by branches that claw at me with their long, sharp fingers. No matter which way I turn, they are there, raking their nails across my cold, tender skin. When I was younger I used to live in a hole with a kid named Phillip - not Phil, but Phillip - and every Christmas morning, Phillip would hide under his bed, hysterical, refusing to come downstairs and open his presents. He thought that Santa Claus was a giant bearded fat man in a red suit with long, sharp claws who would crawl down the chimney into the house while you were sleeping. We would sit in our hole, in the dark, and Phillip would tell me in a high whisper about Santa: That he could see deep into your soul with his ancient watery yellow eyes and knew in your heart how you felt - if you had acted bad. If you had darkness in you. It petrified Phillip. Silly Phillip, I think, as I stagger through the cold forest in the dark, the branches scratching my arms and face. The bearded man only wanted to bring you his gifts. The bearded man. With the claws. He would crawl down the chimney while we were sleeping, he would slither into our heads with his long claws and wrap himself around our hearts, knowing how we truly felt. Click click click his claws tapping against the old wooden floors in our house in the night, scratching and scurrying over to the plate of treats we had left out for him; an offering to the long clawed greasy red shadow that came every year in the night. Traveling on the night air, high up in the black sky, soaring on the sharp cold winds that roar right at the edge of space across the slumbering world, the only witness to his flight the endless flickering points of pale flame, flickering white stars long dead, like the countless white grubs in the steaming fresh earth of endless turned spades, that one hot sticky summer we spent digging our hole. Phillip died not long after we filled in our hole; died that winter, his blood leaking out into the bright white snow. His dad put him in a different hole, down in that cold dark earth where everything is alive and nothing lives. Phillip, not Phil.

A sudden winter wind knifes through the dark woods, scattering a small flurry of snow and bringing a gasp to my lips. There is rot in these woods, I think, suddenly afraid. It feels like something is watching as I stumble around; something ancient and hircine, watching with watery yellow eyes, crouched somewhere I can’t see. A low sob escapes my chest. I don’t want this. Please. Long brittle fingers eagerly scrape against each other, somewhere high above against the black night sky. It’s cold. So cold. Off in the distance, a faint voice screams for Stephanie. Who is Stephanie?

***

It’s morning.

I am sitting in your kitchen, at your table, as you set a cup of coffee down in front of me with a little flourish. It’s cute. Our first date, and already the consummate host! You will make some woman very happy one day, I think. Knock wood that it would be me. It would be nice to sit here with you, morning after morning, day after day, and have this sort of life together. My younger self would recoil at the thought - me? A happily married woman? Content with starting my every day off like this with you - I can just picture my younger self screaming bloody murder. I laugh at the thought. Us, every morning, like this, at this table? A dream. Almost too much to wish for.

Although, this table… It is hideous. Who would paint such a beautiful table with this cheap white paint? A shame. A crime. It has the look of such a pretty, ornate table; you can nearly see the beauty, just underneath the surface. But in your home, this ugly table stands alone - the rest of your house has the look of a woman’s touch. Tastefully decorated, but lovingly lived in. I wonder who you used to live here with. How it ended. Did she break your heart?

My eyes wander back to the table. I wonder what really is underneath? I can’t stop thinking about it.

When I was young, my neighbor and I spent the summer digging a hole. To everyone else, it was two weird kids digging a weird hole. But we did it because we had a crush on each other and didn’t know how to say it. So, instead, we spent every day together, digging - it was as good a reason as any to be in one another’s company and not have to awkwardly talk about it. When the hole got deep enough, we would sit in our hole, our special place under the tarp, and make up stories about the things we were going to find; buried treasure, magical pottery; old robot parts. One day, when I was in the middle of a story about a bank robbery and how the gang had no choice but to bury their loot and split up before they were captured, he leaned over and kissed me. It was my first kiss; a small moment in the middle of an unbearably hot, sticky Midwestern Summer under a tarp in a big wet hole next to a house - but I wouldn’t have traded it for anything. I kissed him back.

There are few things more true in this world than the beauty of a small moment.

When you’re not looking, I take your butter knife and scrape some of the paint at the edge of the table. The wood underneath is dark. Excited, I try to press into it with my thumbnail. It’s hard! Teak, I’ll bet! I love teak. How beautiful! I smile to myself. A teak table painted birdshit white. Who knew? The wood of the royals, right here under all this cheap paint. A thing of beauty, just waiting its turn to be rediscovered and once again have its moment in the sun.

I look over to see you watching me, smiling with your big wide eyes. Did you see me scratch your table? I smile back. What a beautiful smile you have - and I tell you so. It’s flirting, shameless; I know. But what do I have to lose? A handsome man like you, single? Inviting me here, into your home? Making me a morning coffee, of all things? Almost too much to wish for.

You ask if I’m hungry; I’m not, but I want to stay with you here in your house for as long as I can, so I say yes. An obvious trick. You laugh and pull out a pan to make some food. It’s quite the production; you drizzle oil into the pan like a ballet dancer; you crack the eggs like a ninja; you drop the salt and it spills all over the floor. I love it. I love it all. I am laughing hysterically, in spite of myself.

I look out the window: The trees, the world, the sky, the stars; all trapped behind one single pane of glass. All of it just a spectator to you and me and this moment - this one, lovely moment. How can I be so lucky, I think, to live a life that would have just a single moment like this. How lucky to be alive at all. So many years I lived rushing from place to place, right by moments like this, instead of living in moments like this. Youth is wasted on the young.

You look up from the sizzling pan. Ugh, that smile again. Lord. I can’t. My heart beats faster. Do I have a really have a shot with this man? This wonderful man, as I sit at his ugly royal teak table in his beautiful house? Expertly assembling my breakfast on a plate, you glide over with a little dance, and set the plate down. Suddenly, I’m starving. Pulling your chair close, you sit next to me, our bodies almost touching. It is sublime.

You run your finger over the edge of the table, over the small scratch I’ve made in the paint. I didn’t notice before, but I see now that it’s next to countless other small scratches made by someone else. Sadness flickers across your face, and you look up. Our eyes meet.

It's teak! I can't help but exclaim. The wood of royals!

You break into a laugh.

What a perfect moment, I think. Time pushes us forward - but please, just this once, let it wait. Let me live right here for just a moment more: in our house, at our table. Here, with you. Silence settles around us like a warm blanket. The clock ticks quietly in the hall.

I look out the window. The trees, the world, the sky, the stars; all is still.

What a sight, I say.

And then you lean in for a kiss.

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catbreeds2 · 3 years

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Scottish Fold Cats

There’s nothing a Scottish Fold — named for his folded ears — likes increased than to be collectively together with his people, collaborating in regardless of they’re doing.

In 1961 Scottish shepherd William Ross seen a white cat with uncommon, folded ears at a neighbor’s farm near Coupar Angus throughout the Tayside Space of Scotland. Realizing the individuality of this cat’s ‘lop’ ears, he requested spherical and positioned that the feline was a barn cat of no express pedigree. Named Suzie, the cat belonged to Ross’s neighbors, the McRaes.

Ross realized that Susie’s mother was a straight-eared white cat. Her father was unknown, so it was unclear whether or not or not Susie was the first of her kind, or whether or not or not the folded ears had merely in no way been seen sooner than. Susie’s brother was moreover a Fold, nevertheless he wandered away, certainly not to be seen as soon as extra.

Ross and his partner, Mary, have been enchanted by the feline and when Susie produced two folded ear kittens a 12 months later, they acquired one, a white magnificence like her mother whom they named Snooks.

The Rosses started a breeding program and proceeded to analysis establishing a model new breed by attending cat reveals and talking with breeders. Proper now, they often known as the breed ‘lop-eared’, after the rabbit choice.

In 1966 the Rosses began registering their cats with the Governing Council of the Cat Fancy and, along with completely different followers, began the prolonged means of accomplishing acceptance for his or her folded associates. By the tip of the final decade the breed was renamed the Scottish Fold.

Inside the early 1970s, nonetheless, the GCCF stopped registering Folds on account of points about ear issues akin to infections, mites, and listening to points. To proceed inside the current ring, the Scottish Fold needed to give up its kilts and bagpipes and switch to America.

Folds had been first launched to the US in 1970 when three of Snook’s kittens had been despatched to Dr. Neil Todd on the Carnivore Genetics Evaluation Coronary heart in Massachusetts, who was researching spontaneous mutations. He lastly abandoned his evaluation, nevertheless positioned homes for his Folds. One in all his cats found his choice to Salle Wolfe Peters in Pennsylvania, who’s primarily responsible for rising the breed in america. Totally different Folds had been later imported to america. All actual Scottish Folds may very well be traced once more to Susie’s line.

The Scottish Fold was accepted for CFA registration in 1973; in 1978 it acquired Championship standing. In an amazingly fast interval, the Fold earned acceptance in the entire cat associations and a spot throughout the U.S. cat fancy’s prime ten hottest breeds.

The prolonged haired mannequin of the breed was not formally acknowledged until the mid-1980s, although longhair kittens have been cropping up inside the Scottish Fold litters as a result of the genesis of the breed. Susie might need carried the prolonged hair gene, being a barn cat of not sure origin. Utilizing Persians in early crosses moreover helped to find out the longhair gene. CFA, CCA, ACFA, NCFA, ACA, CFF, AACE, UFO, and TICA have accepted the Scottish Fold Longhair for Championship.

The Scottish Fold Longhair is assumed by four utterly completely different monikers, counting on the affiliation and area you reside in. ACFA, AACE, and UFO seek the advice of with the breed as a result of the Highland Fold. TICA, NCFA, ACA, CCA, and CFA title the breed the Scottish Fold Longhair, and CFF refers again to the breed as a result of the Longhair Fold. Canadian breeders moreover identify them the Coupari.

Life Span: 11 to 14 years

SCOTTISH FOLD PERSONALITY

The Scottish Fold cat persona is outgoing, cuddly and lovable. The overall cheeks and angelic expression don’t mislead – it’s a very sweet breed. This cat simply is not your best choice for busy individuals who aren’t residence alot because of they need plenty of love and gentle, playful interaction.

These cats present distinctive breed traits like hugging with their entrance paws when held shut, and whispering whereas cuddling.

They’re acknowledged to sleep inclined on their backs and to “sit-up” with their entrance paws resting on their ample bellies in a sort of Buddha-pose.

Although gaining in recognition and considered one of many additional recognizable pure-breeds, the Scottish fold stays to be a relatively uncommon pure-bred or “pedigreed” house cat.

The Scottish Fold is accessible in any coloration or pattern. The coat is dense with an opulent undercoat. Shedding may be extreme and customary grooming is definitely desired.

These are fairly chunky, medium-sized cats that do have quite a few breed-related nicely being factors, most of which will likely be prevented if extra care throughout the alternative of a breeder is employed.

On account of it is mellow, nice, and considerably needs interaction, the Scottish Fold is an impressive family cat that does exceptionally correctly with, and often seems to cherish children.

SCOTTISH FOLD HEALTH

Every pedigreed cats and mixed-breed cats have varied incidences of properly being points that may very well be genetic in nature. A typical lifespan is 15 years. Points that may affect the Scottish Fold embody the subsequent:

– Degenerative joint sickness, notably inside the tail however moreover inside the ankle and knee joints, inflicting ache or poor mobility. It’s essential to cope with the tail fastidiously if it has developed stiffness. – Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy, a kind of coronary coronary heart sickness, has been seen inside the breed, nonetheless it has not however been confirmed to be a heritable kind of the sickness.

SCOTTISH FOLD CARE Comb the Scottish Fold’s coat weekly to remove ineffective hair and distribute pores and pores and skin oils. A longhaired Fold may should be groomed a couple of events each week to ensure that tangles don’t develop.

Brush the enamel to cease periodontal sickness. Daily dental hygiene is best, nonetheless weekly brushing is finest than nothing. Trim the nails every couple of weeks. Wipe the corners of the eyes with a cushty, damp materials to remove any discharge. Use a separate area of the fabric for each eye so that you just don’t run the hazard of spreading any an an infection. Check the ears weekly, significantly in the event that they’re tightly folded. If they offer the impression of being dirty, wipe them out with a cotton ball or snug damp materials moistened with a 50-50 mixture of cider vinegar and warmth water. Steer clear of using cotton swabs, which could hurt the within of the ear.

Preserve the Scottish Fold’s litter discipline spotlessly clear. Cats are very particular about bathroom hygiene, and a transparent litter area will help to keep up the coat clear as successfully.

It’s a superb suggestion to keep up a Scottish Fold as an indoor-only cat to protect him from illnesses unfold by totally different cats, assaults by canine or coyotes, and the other dangers that face cats who go exterior, resembling being hit by a vehicle. Scottish Folds who go exterior moreover run the possibility of being stolen by someone who need to have such an exceptional cat with out paying for it.

SCOTTISH FOLD COAT AND GROOMİNG

With one of the best ways his small ears match like a cap over his rounded head, the Scottish Fold is usually described as resembling an owl. The ears fluctuate in look from a single fold, bent forward about halfway up the ear, to a double fold, significantly tighter, and the triple fold, lying tight to the head, which is fascinating for current cats. Kittens are born with straight ears, which might or couldn’t fold after they’re about three weeks earlier. In depth open eyes gaze out on the world with a sweet expression. The medium-size physique can be rounded, completed by a medium to prolonged tail that usually ends in a rounded tip.

A shorthaired Fold has a dense, plush coat with a easy texture. The longhaired choice has medium-long to prolonged fur with britches (longer fur on the upper thighs), toe tufts, a plumed tail, and tufts of fur on the ears. He might also have a ruff throughout the neck. The Scottish Fold is offered in quite a lot of colors and patterns, along with steady, tabby, tabby and white, bicolor and particolor. Eye shade depends upon coat color. For example, white and bicolor cats can have blue eyes or odd eyes (each eye is a definite coloration).

SCOTTISH FOLD KITTENS

Scottish Fold kittens are often very quick to adapt to a model new setting. They’re normally a bit on the clumsy side, and kitten-proofing, considerably with regard to avoiding extreme places, is extraordinarily recomended.

These is not going to be the type of kittens to get lost and get misplaced, though. You may likely know the place they’re all the time – very close to you, if in a roundabout manner on you!

Although they’re vivid and playful, teaching is normally considerably troublesome and this generally is a kitten that may miss the litter subject for only a few weeks, or presumably years.

There could also be little or no sense of urgency, and these mellow kitties will match correct in with the whole family. Solitude will make them sullen, nonetheless, and these often should not good various in case your schedule requires you enable the cat alone for prolonged intervals.

Demand for this superb breed has risen in the previous couple of years. Scottish Fold cat breeders are fairly simple to hunt out, nonetheless kitten prices are going up and prepared lists are frequent.

SCOTTİSH FOLD CAT BREED TRAİTS

The Scottish Fold’s folded ears are produced by a dominant gene that impacts the cartilage of the ears, inflicting the ears to fold forward and downward, giving the highest a rounded look. As a result of the gene is dominant, all Scottish Fold cats ought to haven’t lower than one folded ear mum or dad to have folded ears themselves. When a Fold is bred to a straight-eared cat, roughly 50 % of the kittens can have folded ears, although the number of Folds in any given litter can vary enormously.

Breeding Fold to Fold will enhance the number of Fold kittens, however moreover considerably will improve the probabilities of skeletal deformities. Homozygous Folds (Folds that inherit the folded ear gene from every mom and father) usually tend to develop congenital osteodystrophy, a genetic scenario that causes crippling distortion and enlargement of the bones. Avoiding Fold-to-Fold breeding reduces the problem; however, controversy surrounds the breed on account of this defect. Thickness or lack of mobility of the legs or tail are optimistic indicators of trouble. You presumably can determine tail flexibility by transferring your hand down the tail in a extremely gentle, barely upward-arching movement.

All Folds are born with straight ears. At spherical three weeks the ears begin to fold, if they will. Because it is not readily apparent what variety of Folds one has, breeders ought to play a prepared sport until the ears develop their final folds. Even then it’s powerful to tell if the folds could be the tight folds preferred inside the current ring or the looser, pet-quality folds.

No matter being folded, the ears are nonetheless expressive and swivel to concentrate, lay once more in anger, and prick up when the can opener whirrs. The fold inside the ear can become a lot much less pronounced when the cat is in heat, upset, or sick. Although some Fold householders report an elevated manufacturing of wax buildup of their cats’ ears, apparently the folded ears do not make the cat additional vulnerable to mites or infections. The beforehand reported susceptibility to deafness is also related to the reality that many early Scottish Folds had been white, and white cats might be liable to deafness unrelated to the fold gene.

SCOTTISH FOLD BREED STANDARD

Head Type: The highest is spherical with a company, chin and spherical, full cheeks. A flattened, or dish face is typical, nonetheless not necessary. Males can appear pretty jowly as they mature and it’s a fascinating trait. The ears must be small, folding over forward and downward. Tightly folded, tiny ears are extraordinarily fascinating. The ears are set to the sides, and ideally, physique the rounded skullcap on each aspect. The eyes must be spherical and pretty enormous with a sweet expression. Certainly one of many breeds most beautiful choices. Any eye shade nevertheless some preferences counting on coat shade.

Physique and Tail: The physique is medium dimension and properly rounded with hips equally as giant as shoulders. Company, muscular and thick. Legs are transient to medium with good bone and large, spherical, well-knuckled ft. The tail is medium to prolonged and tapering. A protracted tail is fascinating.

Coat: Fast in measurement, plush, delicate and dense. There are longer coats typically.

Pattern: All colors and patterns are accepted.

Complete Look: This have to be a medium measurement, significantly cobby cat, in some other case well-formed and of fundamental shorthair sort. The excellent ears, coupled with the big, spherical eyes set it apart and gives this cat perhaps primarily essentially the most distinctive expression throughout the feline world. Pretty inside and outdoors, the Scottish Fold cat is an distinctive choice.

A FEW MORE SCOTTISH FOLD CAT FACTS

Scottish Fold kittens are born with common ears that begin to fold over throughout the third week of life. Normally occurring all through the same litter, some individuals ears in no way fold, and these cats are referred to as, not very cleverly, “straights.”

#catbreeds #catlovers #scottishfold

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kpopboysreact · 5 years

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Could you do Shownu's reaction to coming home and finding his gf curled up on the couch after she missed work from degenerative disc disease flare? I know this is weird and you do not have to answer if you dont wamt too ofc. I actually have this and having an issue right now from it ~💜

Shownu came in from another long day of work, shrugging his jacket off to the ground. He was prepared to collapse on the couch and call you over, but there you already were. "What a sight for sore eyes." He sighed, plopping down next to you. It was then, he realized your face was contorted in pain. "Baby?"

"Welcome home..." you managed to grumble, wiping the sweat off your forehead with the back of your hand. "How was your day?"

"Never mind that." He insisted, shifting gears instantly into jagiya-protection mode. "Normally you’d be at work right now. What’s wrong?"

"I had another flare up. I couldn’t even stay at work."

His face went pale. "You should have called me, I would’ve come straight home."

"I know, and that’s why I couldn’t call you."

Shownu sighed, then lifted you up and placed your curled body on his lap. He kissed your forehead and rocked you back and forth, playing with your hair. "Is there anything I can get you? Anything at all?"

"Just your presence makes me feel better." You smiled and pecked his nose.

"Funny." He returned your cute peck. "I was thinking the same thing about you."

You kissed once, sweetly, enjoying the heat radiating off each other accompanied by the combination of your perfumes. "Actually..." you bit your lip. "Could you get me some tea? And my h-"

"Tea and heating pad. Got it." Shownu picked you up, carefully moving you to his back, and hoisted you up as you wrapped your legs around his torso, resting your head on his shoulder. "First stop, let’s get you into bed. Second stop, tea and heating pad. Anything else, my queen?"

You giggled. "That’s more than enough. Don’t worry, i’ll be okay."

Shownu turned his head and quickly kissed you again. "Okay. Close your eyes, we’ll be at the bedroom in a moment." You moaned in appreciatoin and shut your eyes, your breathing slowing.

Good. Shownu thought, as he snuck out his phone while he walked to the bedroom. He pulled up the Monsta X group chat. "Hey, guys. Won’t be at practice tomorrow."

"Is everything okay?" Wonho replied instantly.

Shownu carefully turned his head to look back at you, making sure to not disturb you. "Yeah." He responded to wonho. "I just have something really, really important to take care of."

#monsta x reactions #monsta x #kpop reactions #kpop

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minotaurman-ayjay · 4 years

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Do not drink and drive

This post details the car accident that I survived.

It will be about how the accident occurred.

What happened to me (Injuries, Court).

What happened to the drunk driver (Prosecution)

and where I am, now.

TW: graphic details of car accident trauma, pictures of x-rays (when I get them). Details of out-of-body experience, and potential glimpse on the afterlife.

In 2015, I had just bought a brand new car, a black and gunmetal grey Volkswagen CC. I loved that car, and I was going to treat it like it was my baby. I bought the big, thick manual that details every part of the car so I can fix it myself if I ever need to.

I didn’t even have the car for more than 3 months.

I was at an intersection, about to go north (one way) on an entrance ramp to the highway. I saw these headlights coming toward me. I didn’t think anything of it at first until I remembered “Wait a minute, this is one way.” Before I could finish that thought, he had collided head-on with me. “Why didn’t you react earlier? You knew you were on a one-way street.” Let me tell you, even though you *know* you’re on a one-way street, to see headlights coming at you is confusing. It’s disorienting, and usually it’s way too late when you remember that YOU’RE the one going the right way, and this motherfucker is about to hit you.

He was in a huge pickup truck called a “dually”, it’s a pickup truck that has a set of two wheels in the back and has a hell of a lot of horsepower.

When he collided with me, his truck went over my car, nearly crushing me in the process. One of his tires was about 3 inches away from my face.

I was pinned under the dashboard, I had lost consciousness. I vaguely remember someone holding my hand and saying “It’s going to be okay. Just stay with me.“ I had an out-of-body experience, I saw myself getting extracted out of the car. I was pretty beat up, my face was scuffed up and bloody from the scrapes of the airbag hitting me. When I was pulled out of the car, my limbs were listless like noodles. I remember seeing my legs… My feet, in particular. Both of my ankles were dislocated, and my hip was dislocated and it looked like it was nearly coming out of my skin.

This is where my out-of-body experience ends. I briefly regained consciousness in the ambulance, I don’t remember if I had an exchange with the EMTs or anything like that, because soon I had fallen asleep again.

Then I remember waking up at this house that I had never seen before. There were people everywhere, music being blared, it looked like a party. I approached the door and my friend Evan, who had died several years before in an accident where he was killed by drunk driving, was at the door with is arms crossed.

I’ll never forget this shocked expression on his face as he asked me "What the hell are you doing here?” and I was like “What are you talking about? You invited me.” He scoffed “Like hell I did, man. Go back home. You’re not supposed to be here.” I thought he was just being an asshole, and we were always confrontational with each other… But it’s all in jest. I posted up to him and said “Fuckin make me, man.”, and then he shoved me.

The shove was so realistic, so jarring, so violent that I had fallen backwards— and then I woke up in the hospital, and according to my mother I was on my way to Radiology to get xrays when I came to. I don’t know if I caught a glimpse of some afterlife, or if I was dreaming, but it was very real. My mom knows that I almost died, and watched me fight for my life.

Anyway, they had to restrain me because the drugs that they had given me made me combative. I was taken to the hospital where my mom works, as it was the closest hospital to the accident scene. She was also on duty that day, and for her to see me like that *had* to have been traumatizing to her.

Apparently I continued to go in and out of consciousness, and when I finally came to for good, I was in the ICU.

The moment I woke up, I felt this whole body pain, like an elephant was sitting on me. Not just my chest, but my whole body felt crushed under this gigantic weight. It was so much pain that it literally felt like weight, like I had woken up on a different planet and the gravity was crushing me. I begged and begged and begged for pain relief, I couldn’t breathe. My mom put the morphine control in my hand and told me to press it. I clicked that thing probably 4 or 5 times. It probably only worked once, but by then I didn’t care. I was so divided from the pain that it didn’t matter anymore.

My mom told me what happened, and what my damage was.

1) I had brain damage and a severe concussion. I was monitored in the ICU for 3 days to make sure I didn’t have a brain bleed they couldn’t detect. (I can’t remember the details of the brain damage). I had to relearn words, I had to relearn how to talk without stuttering or forgetting what I was saying mid-sentence, or having a word just disappear on me. This still happens from time to time.

2) My sternum had been displaced. Meaning it was fractured and pushed inward. Had my sternum been pushed in any further, I would have died. To this day, I still live with this. Because of this I cannot bind. I still cannot afford the surgery necessary to reposition my sternum.

3) My hip was so severely dislocated that it broke the acetabulum. This is the socket that cradles the ball joint in your hip. I still live with hip complications to this day. Because of this dislocation and the missing piece of acetabulum, I have degenerative osteoarthritis in my hip. I am a fall risk without a cane. I need a hip replacement, but surprise, I cannot afford the surgery.

4) Both of my ankles were dislocated and had bilatural fractures… Which means I had fractures on both sides of both ankles. One of the ankle bones was crushed beyond repair. I needed rods, plates, screws, and a bone graph. I still live with ankle complications to this day. Because of the surgeries and extensive injuries, I have degenerative osteoarthritis in my ankles. If I am to be on my feet or walking for more than an hour, I need to wear boots that are high topped to support my ankles. The drunk driver’s insurance was able to cover these surgery… However, as it became apparent over the years that I needed more surgeries and had more complications because of the MVA, it turned out that the drunk driver had changed auto insurance companies. Since America is the Greatest Country In The World™, health insurance providers DO NOT COVER INJURIES THAT ARE A RESULT FROM CAR ACCIDENTS. You have to go through the at-fault party’s Auto Insurance to get your bills paid. However, SOME health insurance companies WILL temporarily cover what is needed and will go after the at-fault party’s health insurance on your behalf.

But since this fucking shit smear changed insurance companies, I am absolutely fucked, and I can’t track him down to sue him.

5) I have damage to my eardrum. Luckily, it was not punctured by the force of the airbag hitting the right side of my face.

6) I have nerve damage in my knee (somehow? I don’t understand it, either) I can’t kneel on it. I either feel nothing (like the body part isn’t mine or something?) or excruciating pain when I try. There is no in between. Sometimes the nerve damage *itches like fuck*, but I cannot scratch it, as I will either feel nothing, or it will hurt.

7) I have nerve damage on the tops of my feet. I do not like it when my feet are touched. It causes electric shock feelings that travel to my ankle. It’s not pretty.

8) I have nerve damage in my face. I have Trigeminal Neuralgia that is secondary to trauma. Look at my “bloggy” tag to learn more about this.

9) I now have fibromyalgia. When it’s cold, or rainy, or if I’ve pushed myself too much, I will wake up the next morning feeling like I just came to in the ICU. Where I feel this full body pain that’s like an excruciating weight. Luckily, marijuana helps me with fibromyalgia and trigeminal neuralgia flare ups. I take a 2,000mg of gabapentin (spaced throughout the day) and 200mg of seroquil to manage them.

10) I have PTSD that is triggered by the smell of hot metal, the sound of circular saws, and by car accident scenes in movies. It took me forever to get over being gunshy in an intersection, and to even drive at all.

I was bedbound for 2 months, and wheelchair bound for 8 months. I was taking physical therapy and speech therapy for a year before my restitution to cover it had run out.

Needless to say, my quality of life had taken a drastic decline, compared to me pre-accident. Before the accident, I was in shape again. I was gaining muscle and I was close to meeting what I call my “healthy dad-bod” goals. I was going to go to police academy that year, but that was because I wanted to be an investigator for the Crimes Against Children Unit. I’ve had to reshape my future entirely. At the end of it all, my bills were $110,000. Luckily, I only had to pay $10,000 out of pocket, and that’s *LUCKILY*

So, what happened to the drunk driver?

The trial did not last long, he has been given 10 years probation (and straight to prison if he violates), mandatory rehabilitation, and to pay me restitution. Which had recently run out. I don’t know what has become of him, because as I said, I cannot track him down to sue him for my ongoing injuries.

If you are EVER considering driving while drunk, don’t fucking do it. Do not think you are invincible. Do not think it’s not going to happen to you. Do not think you’re not going to hurt someone. I don’t care if you are a “functioning alcoholic” or a “seasoned drinking veteran”, you WILL fuck up. This man that had hit me was 63 years old, and has probably been driving drunk for who knows how long. And once you DO fuck up, you are going to kill somebody. IF they DO manage to live through YOUR mistake, their life is changed *forever* and their quality of life will NEVER be the same again.

You are garbage the moment you sit in the driver’s side with booze in your blood.

#Do not drink and drive #drink responsibly #survivor #tw: car accident #bloggy

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orangecountyhealingcenter-blog · 4 years

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Shaman Therapeutic

Shamanism " Due to the fact that it is not an organized religion as such, however rather a spiritual practice, shamanism cuts across all faiths and creeds, reaching deep levels of ancestral memory. As a primal belief system, which precedes recognized religion, it has its own meaning and cosmology, populated by beings, gods, and totems, who show similar qualities although they appear in various kinds, relying on their places of origin."

~ John Matthews, The Celtic Shaman

What is shamanism? Shamanism is a spiritual practice discovered in cultures around the globe from ancient times up to the present day. First and foremost, shamans' practices are useful and versatile. These practices coexist over centuries with differing cultures, systems of federal government, and arranged spiritual practices.

Many formalized religions, from Buddhism to Christianity, originated from ancient shamanic roots and still bear the shamanic threads of deep connection to the divine in all things. However shamanism itself is not a formalized system of beliefs or an ideology. Rather, it is a group of activities and experiences shared by shamans in cultures worldwide. These practices are versatile and exist together with various cultures, systems of government, and arranged spiritual practices.

Individual practice Nowadays, in non-indigenous cultures, shamanism is studied and practiced as a life course. Following a shamanistic point of view, individuals look for to be in relationship with the spirit in all things. They seek to use information and guidance from non-ordinary reality to intentionally form their own life experience.

This viewpoint is not inherently inconsistent of any religious practice that allows a person to be in direct relationship with whatever they view as a higher power.

Consulting with shamans Just as in ancient times, modern people seek advice from modern shamanic specialists for useful and practical solutions to problems in everyday life-from individual health problem, professional challenges, or household discord to ancestral issues.

Shamans operate in voluntary, thrilled hypnotic trance states, which alter their awareness to take a trip to the worlds of the invisible worlds. Their ability to gain details and make changes in the undetectable worlds is dependent upon the working relationships they establish with spirits there. In this sense, shamanism is a relationship-based practice of making changes in invisible realms to effect recovery, of people or communities, in the realm of common reality.

For some peoples, such shamanic practice is part of their dominant culture, for others it is straight contradictory. Some Despacho are intuitively guided to look for assistance from a modern shaman, typically when other alternatives have been exhausted, without even comprehending what a shaman is or how they work.

What is a shaman?Collage of a shaman, drum and kava According to famous American psychologist and awareness pioneer, Stanley Krippner, shamans are "community-assigned magico-religious experts who intentionally modify their consciousness in order to obtain information from the 'spirit world.' They utilize this understanding and power to assist and to recover members of their neighborhood, in addition to the neighborhood as a whole."

Krippner explains shamans as the first doctors, diagnosticians, psychotherapists, religious functionaries, magicians, performing artists, and storytellers.

In shamanistic cultures, all grownups are accountable for their relationships with spiritual energies, including those of their house environment (geography, animals, and plant life,) their ancestors, their own personal helping spirits, and Spirit, the developer force.

Nevertheless, the shaman is special because she or he not only has actually increased facility for taking a trip in non-ordinary realms, but also utilizes their spirit relationships to develop modifications that will manifest in the real world, for the recovery of people or the community. This definition separates shamans from other kinds of specialists. For example, mediums utilize altered states of awareness, but they do not take action in those modified states. And sorcerers take action in transformed states, but not necessarily to recover.

Abilities of shamans According to Christina Pratt in The Encyclopedia of Shamanism, a shaman is a practitioner who has actually gained mastery of:

Altered states of consciousness, having the capability to go into alternated states at will, and controlling themselves while moving in and out of those states. Mediating in between the requirements of the spirit world and those of the real world in such a way that can be comprehended and used by the neighborhood. Serving the requirements of the neighborhood that can not be met by specialists of other disciplines, such as physicians, psychiatrists, priests, and leaders. A shaman is therefore a particular type of therapist who uses an alternate state of awareness to enter the unnoticeable world, which is comprised of all hidden elements of the world that affect us, including the spiritual, psychological, mental, legendary, archetypal, and dream worlds.

Categories of therapists There are three classifications of contemporary shamans, consisting of those who:

Originate from an unbroken shamanic custom and continue to practice in that tradition, generally in their native culture. Come from a shamanic custom, however serve to bridge between that custom and the modern-day Western world, typically by including events and rituals that were not required in their indigenous culture. Are called by Spirit to serve the requirements of their neighborhood as shamans, though they might be long separated culturally from their initial shamanic roots. How can shamanism benefit your health and wellbeing? Individuals might look for shamanic healing for various ailments. If they are living within a shamanic culture, shamanic Despacho is typically part of a multidisciplinary technique utilized for any disease or imbalance, in collaboration with physical healers, botanical medications, modifications in diet, and other treatments.

In contemporary western society, shamanic healing is unknown to a lot of non-indigenous people. Regardless of that, people are discovering their way to contemporary shamans for all kinds of health difficulties, however particularly when they are not making acceptable improvements with traditional methods.

Shamanistic viewpoint on disease The perspective on individual illness is various in shamanism than in the traditional medical view. In a shamanistic view:

Comparable signs or illness do not come from the same underlying root energetic problem. Neighborhood disharmony often manifests in individual disease. Any illness might have a significant underlying spiritual or energetic problem, despite the type in which that disease manifests - physical, mental, psychological, spiritual, or relational. Specific health problems are most likely to have a spiritual component that might react to shamanic recovery methods. These consist of mental diagnoses like anxiety and anxiety, ADD/ADHD, autism, and dependencies.

Health problems that manifest physically may still have substantial spiritual foundations. This is especially real for illnesses that have atypical or early presentations, such as a degenerative illness that generally happens in older years occurring in a young adult.

The sense that something is "missing out on" or that "I have not been the same considering that ..." can frequently be a sign of an energetic loss of some type, including soul energy loss. Shamanic recovery is typically part of a multi-pronged technique to a health problem, and is completely suitable with both traditional medication and other integrative treatments, such as Conventional Chinese Medicine, homeopathy, naturopathy, chiropractic, and others.

Shamanistic recovery Shamanic recovery work needs 2 distinct phases:

The accurate medical diagnosis of the seen and hidden energies at the root of the problem. Carrying out the specific choreography of energies required to resolve the issue. The shaman might serve by eliminating energies that are inappropriately present, or by returning energies that have actually been lost. This includes soul recovery to accomplish recovery by means of the return of lost parts of the soul.

When an individual is living within a neighborhood that supports such work, there is time and support for the integration and processing that an individual need to do to finish a lot of recovery processes. In modern society, the shaman and the customer need to produce the resources and structure for the individual to adjust to the shift in internal energies.

Shamans direct and move energy to bring back the consistency within the person, in between the private and the community, and in between the neighborhood and the spirit world.

How do I discover a shamanic practitioner? For individuals who live within a native culture, shamanic practitioners are easily known and quickly available. But for most of contemporary westerners, shamanic practitioners are not known. As shamans are called to their practices through direct spiritual initiation, there is not an accrediting body to sign up specialists. That stated, the Structure for Shamanic Studies does publish a computer registry of Licensed Shamanic Counselors who have actually completed a training program in Core Shamanism through the structure.

If you discover a practitioner in your local community, ask pals and coworkers about their reputation. Then consult with the practitioner and ask how they were started and trained, as well as how they practice. One important question is whether the specialist would be available after a shamanic recovery (specifically a soul retrieval), to aid with concerns of integration and processing (or if they a minimum of refer to a coworker to assist because work).

Exists good evidence for shamanic healing? Because shamanic healing is embellished to each distinct individual and their health problem, it does not provide itself readily to traditional research study designs. In addition, there has actually been little interest in or financial backing for research in these practices.

Countless years of practice show that shamanic methods have value to those who utilize them, or they would not have made it through and been perpetuated. Most understanding in this area has originated from the observations of cultural anthropologists. In addition, in numerous early cultures, knowledge of plant alleviative properties came through the practice of Shamanism, knowledge which is still utilized today. There has been a growing body of scholastic studies in this field given that the 1950s (classic texts are noted in the Recommendations and More Details section listed below).

Over the last few years, some initial research study efforts have actually begun, although they are still challenged by the style problems. The following are resources and sites that carry details about research study publications, often focusing on a specific practice that may be used within shamanic recovery (e.g. ayahuasca-facilitated recovery) instead of on the basic practice of shamanic healing

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