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vivrcard · 3 years

Note

POV

ok i really had to think about this one because ive written so much! but i decided that i want to cause problems on purpose this fine evening <3. i wrote the original version of this piece in july of last year which was before i made randy genderfluid and i dont feel like going back and changing pronouns atm but! you can read the original here. it was a character study type thing for tucker :~)

without further ado:

“I killed her.”

Tucker stood at the other end of the long wooden table, hands folded neatly in front of him. He was neat, and he was formal, and his voice was calm and collected. Some might have described his voice as cold. Whatever it was, it broke Randy out of the almost continuous loop of thoughts they’d been having for the past day.

They were surprised at how well they’d managed to keep it together to this point. They had to keep it together, because if they didn’t, then who would? Siriun, always the one to get into antics, hadn’t said a word since the group had encountered the body at the bottom of the ravine. Ísja was much worse off: he’d started panicking even before the body had been found, right when everyone realized that Lani was missing. The poor boy seemed to have so much on his mind these days, and this certainly wasn’t of any help. Not when it so clearly mirrored the disappearance of his own father. The only difference here was that there was a body to bury.

Randy could sympathize with him. The sense of distance that had greeted them when Winifred, their own daughter, disappeared had come back to haunt them at full force. Things were muddled, to say the least. Real but not real. Colorful but monochromatic. Sharp-edged but soft. They walked the tightrope between dreams, reality, and the regrets that had haunted Randy for more than twenty years now.

“It was my plan from the start,” Tucker continued. “She was stronger than any of us. A menace if we’d left her unchecked.”

Randy vehemently wished that he’d show some sort of emotion. Something. Anything. The smile he always wore when he was uncomfortable was nowhere to be seen. He didn’t show a single sign of despair, either, but that was always hard for him. They kept hoping to catch sight of a creased brow, nervous bouncing heels, absolutely any sign of despair. But unlike when Winifred had disappeared, there was nothing to be found here.

“You bastard.”

Num’s chair creaked against the floor unpleasantly as he flung it back and stood up. His fists were balled in rage that didn’t cease when he grabbed Tucker’s tie. Truth be told, Num may have been the one keeping it together the most. It was surprising given his and Ísja’s brotherhood–Randy would’ve thought that their reactions would be similar. But here he was, hard-edged and angry.

“We’ve been nothing but good to you and this is what you do? What are we to you, livestock?” Num spat, his grip on the tie tightening. “I always knew we couldn’t trust you!”

Tucker’s expression remained steely, his eyes narrowing on Num. He made no move to tear Num’s hand away, nor did he look as though he had much to say. Still, there were none of those telltale signs of nervousness that Randy was so accustomed to seeing. It was odd. All of this was so against his very nature. Tucker had always been one to avoid killing at every opportunity, even if it meant his own starvation. He’d never regarded anyone in the group with such callousness aside from the occasional wry remark. He was kind. He was careful. More than anything else, he was scared.

He was Randy’s best friend.

Num’s expression screwed itself further into rage and disgust. “At least say something you stupid, conniving–“

“Enough of this, Num!” Randy shouted, slamming their hands onto the table and shooting upright.

Please.

Their sense of detachment didn’t lessen despite the pain that budded in their calloused hands. They could still feel the under-used mattress from Tucker’s apartment against their back, relinquished in favor of Tucker taking the couch. They could smell the cigarettes. They could feel the paperwork as they thumbed through it. Those old folders. Those old notes. Those old photographs, one of which had no right to be there. Tucker–he wasn’t like this.

Both Num and Tucker whipped their heads toward Randy in sync, Num’s eyes wide. But he didn’t loosen his grip. Instead, he stood up straight and squared his jaw. “He killed Lani! Who’s to say that he won’t kill anyone else? Who’s to say he won’t kill any more of us?”

No.

“I said enough!”

Randy’s limbs moved of their own accord as they bridged the gap between themself and the other two, only stopping to take a non-aggressive but firm hold of Num’s wrist. Then, they pulled his hand away from Tucker’s tie, Num looking bewildered all the while.

Tucker didn’t so much as flinch.

There was a lump set deep in Randy’s throat as they searched Tucker’s face for something, anything to cling to. This wasn’t like him. This wasn’t like him at all, and if they kept repeating that, maybe it’d become all the truer.

“Where’s Lani?” Randy asked, just barely managing to keep their voice level.

“I killed her, remember?” Tucker replied, maintaining direct eye contact. “We found her body at the bottom of the ravine.”

Randy inhaled deeply. This wasn’t right. Tucker wasn’t like this, no matter how badly he wanted the rest of the world to believe this was his true nature. No amount of shadow merging, oil secreting, or w-shaped pupils could ever convince Randy that he was a monster.

A monster wouldn’t flinch when their best friend put their hands on their shoulders, would they? Randy almost felt themself starting to apologize, but there were more significant issues at hand. “No, you didn’t. Where’s Lani?”

“I killed her,” Tucker replied, still stone-faced. But Randy could hear the slight shake in his voice; notice the waver in eye contact.

Randy’s own hands were shaking despite their gentle grip on Tucker’s shoulders. “Tucker,” they said, voice run taut, “you didn’t kill her.”

“I did.”

“No, you didn’t. She must’ve fallen somehow. This is no one’s fault.”

If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine for not watching her more carefully.

“I killed her, Randall!” Tucker finally snapped, yanking himself away from Randy’s hands. A few of the objects lining the walls shook with his words, clanging inharmoniously with his shouts. Upset. A monster wouldn’t have been this upset over a murder. “I killed another child of yours because you were too damn trusting! I killed her because you wouldn’t open your eyes! I killed her because the situation called for it, and because you couldn’t possibly even try to understand that above all else, I’m a monster! I was created to make others suffer and you just happened to be the prime victim!”

Getting shot to death would’ve been a less painful punishment than what Tucker was spewing. Each word he shouted pushed Randy further into the theoretical street, detaching them more than they’d ever let themself be. This wasn’t real, was it? Tucker wouldn’t say things like this. He wouldn’t shove the pain of losing Winifred so close to the surface as if it was happening all over again, because he’d been just as upset. But the pain made Randy’s hands ball into fists. They almost wished they weren’t wearing gloves for the sole purpose of feeling their nails dig into their skin.

Breathless as he’d gotten, Tucker wasn’t done. “Have you even stopped to ask yourself why your life went to shit the second you met me? Have you ever stopped to think that maybe I’m the one to blame?”

Neither of the two spoke for what felt like hours. If Randy had been well grounded before, they were no longer as such, stranded in the murk of betrayal, disbelief, and pain that Tucker had left them in. No hope in sight. Nothing to make sense of. Only them and their emotions.

“Get out.”

The words felt like poison leaving their lips. They were better than this, they knew that. But Tucker–

“Get out before I make you!” Randy shouted.

Tucker stared for a few beats and deep in Randy’s heart, they knew they’d caught a glimpse of sheer pain on his face that ultimately dissipated. There was no going back, however.

Missing loved one number three, and this one was their own fault.

#asks #i wasnt sure how long this was supposed to be so i just went kinda ham lmao #all this happens a little more than halfway through wthi but it's gonna be years before i get there so! i can cause problems as a treat #thanks for the ask!!

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fanders-sanctuary-au · 5 years

Text

Dream's Orders

So this is my tiny for this Fanderside Au! I’m pleased to meet him, and if you wish to play with him, please feel free to ask me about doing a rp or co-story!

I hope you enjoy!!

Warnings- Mentions of abuse towards tiny’s, mentions of suffocation, mentions of starvation, mentions of plans to murder someone. Indication of past psychical and emotional abuse.

I believe that is everything, please tell me if I missed anything.

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

“You understand what you’re to do?” The man speaks gruffly. He’s dressed in fine clothing, and looking down at a tiny standing before him. The tiny has silver grey hair that reaches his shoulders and pale blue eyes. He’s dressed in ill fitting doll clothing, standing a mere 4 inches high, bruises and scars of all kinds, both old and new, cover his body. He makes no indication that they hurt, he couldn’t afford to show that weakness.

“Yes sir” the tiny says, his voice is faint, hardly a whisper in the air but the man hears it all the same. The man nods and motions for the tiny to get in a box that’s sitting on it’s side near him. He does, limping as he climbs into the box. It’s sealed and dumped in the outgoing mail. Hopefully he’d arrive before he got too bad with lack of food and water, but if he failed there were more that could be sent in his place, they were raised for these kinds of jobs after all.

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

The package arrived in the regular mail, one side had been slightly crushed and the plain box was addressed to “Sanders Sanctuary” Thomas hummed as he gathered the box with the other mail, and headed inside.

“Bill, bill, invite to an interview..” He paused looking at who was invite him and wrinkled his nose. Nope, those people had a very bad reputation for spinning anything someone said into some sort of slander. That got ripped in half and tossed in the trash.

“Lets see.. magazine, and this?” He mused looking at the plain box. No return address, and just addressed to the sanctuary? Puzzled Thomas got out a letter opener and sliced open the tape holding the box shut. He opened it and very nearly dropped the box in shock when he saw what was inside.

“Larry!!” He yelped as he bolted for the medical wing.

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

“…though the mail…” the words floated though his head. It was too much effort to actually open his eyes, and the voice wasn’t familiar. It wasn’t his sir speaking, or any of the trainers he knew. He felt weaker the normal and his head was spinning.

“cruel… could have died!” He really wished the voices would be quiet, but they didn’t seem to want to stop. Finally he managed to pry one eye open. The room that greeted him, made both his eyes snap open. He was NOT where he was supposed to be! This was not Sir’s cage! He then remembered what happened, he’d been given orders, and put in a box. Then mailed.. .it had taken.. what a week and a half? Two weeks? He wasn’t sure.. but the heat of the summer in the enclosed box had been almost unbearable, it had been suffocating. Of course it wouldn’t be the first time he’d been suffocated, no being smothered by a pillow and trapped in a plastic bag held tightly around his body was probably worse then the stale, sweltering air inside of the box. He had no idea when he’d finally blacked out from lack of water, food and the heat.

“Woah.. it’s alright.. ” a gentle voice spoke to him. Slowly the pale blue eyes turned and looked at the blurry figure.

“I’m glad you woke up, but don’t try to push yourself. You were pretty dehydrated, and you’re pretty malnourished.” The blurry person said. He nodded, nothing new on those fronts. Being underfed kept him quiet and not with enough energy to try and escape Sir, or fight back.. or well anything. The rest, well he had spent quite a long time taped inside a box in the mail with no food or water.

He was still trying to sort out what was going on though, he hadn’t expected to wake up.. in a hospital? And weirdly enough everything seemed to be his size. Had he been sent to the wrong address? Chapped lips parted as he shifted slightly

“.. where?” his voice was a rasp, worse then when he spoke to Sir, but the person, still blurry darn it, attending him spoke.

“Sanders Sanctuary, you were.. well…” they trailed off as if unsure if they should say how he arrived.

“Mailed.. to us.. ” he said. Again there was a nod, he knew this, he’d gotten his orders and climbed into the box obediently, thank goodness he was in the right place. Still he was very confused, Sir had never mentioned they had a hospital here.

“I’m sure your throat is dry as sand, lets get you something to drink!” Suddenly the blurry figure left his sight and came back, a cool hand lifted his head slightly and something was pressed to his lips. Then the fist brush of liquid graced his chapped lips and he drank willingly. The one supporting him told him to drink slowly and he did so. The liquid felt like heaven and the pounding headache was already starting to lessen a bit. But he was feeling exhausted, not unusual, he was always tired.. sore, hurt, nothing new. But it was odd to have someone gently lay him down and smooth soft covers over him. He noted absently he was no longer in the painful doll clothes, but something softer that fit far better then anything he’d ever had on in his life.

“You get some rest, we’ll talk more later alright?” the blurry person said. He nodded once more and his eyes shut, how strange to be allowed to rest so much.

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

This was the routine for at least four days. Finally though he was sitting up on his own, and able to talk normally. He found out he had on a pair of soft pants, and a t-shirt that opened in the center. He’d had a heart monitor on him, along with an IV, both things were tiny sized, and he was more puzzled then ever. He watched the others his size come and go, and sometimes saw humans come in, and move a part of the roof to gently set tiny people in, or to put supplies into the room. They never stayed long, he honestly was more confused then ever.

“Alright, I have been told you’re clear to leave the hospital!” a nurse tiny said. He nodded his head and would get up off of the bed.

“Now you go see Patton, He will guide you to your new room and help you get settled alright?” He nodded his head in agreement, and though he was still limping, he headed out of the hospital. It didn’t take long for him to locate Paton, or more accurately for Patton to locate him.

“Kiddo! They were able to let you out today!” he said cheerfully having been heading to to the hospital to check and see if he’d been cleared. He nodded his head again.

“Yes, You must be Patton?” he asked. His voice was still whisper quiet, but Patton nodded beaming at him.

“Yep! nobody has told me yet, so what’s your name kiddo?” He asked curiously.

“Dream” He said simply in response.

“Dream huh? Well that’s a great name! Why don’t we get you settled in alright? Virgil will want to get some measurements on you, right now we just guessed at the clothing size you needed, and he’ll want to know what kind of style you like.. ” Patton rambled on as he led Dream down the walks and halls that were all borrower sized.

None of this made sense to Dream. This Sanctuary was supposedly tied to the Shadow man, and Sir wanted the owner and the Shadow Man dead. Dream had been told to expect torture or experimentation, but to get the job done. And it wasn’t like that would be any different then just going though his daily training. Torture, pain, suffering, conditioning, all of it done to him all the time so he was the perfect little assassin. He could hold up to torture and not crack, he could pretend he had no pain, and he didn’t really care about killing a human or tiny alike. His hands were not clean in the least in that sense. He’d gotten numb to the guilt that it caused him.

Outside of Sir, nobody believed a tiny could do something as complicated as being an assassin. Still though, this place… was nothing like he had expected. They had been weirdly kind to him, and weirdly accepting of his refusal to speak about, well much of anything, and just… weird.. in general.

“Oh that’s Thomas!! Thomas!!” Patton called out, bringing Dream back from his thoughts.

“Here’s the one who.. this is Dream! He’s finally been released from the hospital! I’m taking him to his room now!” Patton said. Dream looked at the human. He didn’t seem… he simply looked overworked, tired, and perhaps a bit stressed, but the warm smile he sent Dream’s way confused him more.

“I’m so glad you’re recovering so fast Dream. If you need anything don’t hesitate to ask alright?” he said. Dream nodded very slowly at the human. And again his expectations were being twisted, this man didn’t seem cruel, or like a mob boss, or any underground owner he’d ever met. Dream’s head was starting to spin from the confusion.

“Good, why not go get some rest. We’ll have dinner in a few hours if you’re up to meeting everyone.” Thomas added and headed down the hall. Dream’s pale blue eyes watched him. This was one of the people he was supposed to kill? That was supposedly someone in league with the Shadow Man? He didn’t look like he could hurt a mosquito. Dream looked back to Patton and frowned. Everything seemed.. complicated. But he wasn’t allowed to survive if he failed. He had been given orders from Sir. Kill them both, or die trying. Dream sighed a little bit, feeling some odd weight settling heavy in his chest.

“Everything alright kiddo?” Patton asked. Dream simply nodded a little, though Patton was sure that there was something turning behind those pale eyes.

“Alright, so here is your room, why don’t you get settled in for a bit, and I’ll see you later alright?” he offered. Dream nodded and then stepped in the room. He could use some down time, and some peace and quiet to shove these weird conflicting emotions to the side. He had a job to do, and he wouldn’t fail Sir.

Thomas Sanders, and the Shadow Man were to die. That was all there was too it. So why did he have an odd tight feeling in his chest at the thought?

Dream sat down on the edge of the bed in the room and looked at the floor.

“.. i .. have to .. right?” he muttered out loud to the empty room.

T: AAAAAAAh, So you have me HOOKED on this idea! What a cool idea, a borrower sent to infiltrate the sanctuary! And oof, I just wanna give poor Dream a hug. But I am so here for him getting his walls slowly chipped away and him finally realizing that everyone here is really good, and him wrestling between that and what he’s been ordered to do...super cool, thank you for writing this!

#your ocs #dream #fic #fanders sanctuary au #g/t #g/t sides #infinitesimal!sides #tw torture mention #tw abuse #submission

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possibilistfanfiction · 6 years

Text

where the days have no numbers (to slow among roses, or stay behind)

[yall were rly cute abt the fic where lexa needs to retire & they have hale so here’s a little continuation for u. lexa’s hip gets better n they go on VACAY! ao3.]

where the days have no numbers (to slow among roses, or stay behind)

if it’s harmed, it’s harmed me, it’ll harm, i let it in —bon iver, ‘00000 million’

lexa looks out of place, and uncomfortably so, in a hospital gown and the beds that on many warriors look tiny. but you’re struck again—as you are sometimes, when things are calm and the world smells like flowers, and lexa’s hair is loose from its braids and you are sure she has never loved anyone as much as she loves you—you are struck that your wife is small, and slight, and delicate.

she is, also, incredibly stubborn and sort of ridiculous, which right now is helping the pang in your chest lessen, just a little bit.

‘stop trying to take those off,’ you tell her, and try to be gentle about it, because you know she’s mostly just scared and not trying to be consistently obstinate.

lexa lies back against the pillows, looking impossibly younger in the soft gown, without any armor or warpaint. she huffs. ‘this procedure is for my hip, clarke. i do not see the use for all of these.’

she looks toward the oximeter on her finger with absolute disdain, and you can’t help but laugh.

she glares.

‘they’re just so we can make sure that you’re healthy the whole time.’

‘i am healthy,’ she says, and without swords and daggers her annoyance looks a little like a pout.

‘you are,’ you say, grant her that at least, kiss her cheek gently when she petulantly turns away. you smile against her skin, though, and you feel her resolve start to waver. ‘you’re very healthy, and once your hip is healed, i have all sorts of plans to increase your flexibility.’

she turns toward you. ‘yes?’

‘mhm, commander,’ you tell her, and her pupils grow in size immediately. you want to laugh because you have been having sex with her for almost fifteen years and still this never fails. ‘lots of range of motion exercises.’

it takes her a moment to laugh, but then she does, softly and with resignation. ‘i look forward to that, clarke of the sky people.’

you smile fully then, and tug her in for a kiss. her IV line gets caught in your hair and you have to carefully untangle yourselves, but she doesn’t seem nearly as frustrated as before.

the hospital in polis is coming along—she’d given you and raven free reign, essentially, to build an equipped hospital in polis, to work with the healers to blend both your practices of medicine. raven had been able to salvage some ark tech, and replicate it as well, and so now you have x-ray machines in polis, and three surgical theaters that are almost up to your mother’s exacting standards. you’ve spent your years setting up clinics in most clans, educating their healers, traveling with—and without—lexa to the far reaches of all of the land you could’ve never dreamed of. you’ve delivered babies, and treated head wounds, and tried to chart every poison and antidote the grounders seemingly have an endless supply of; you have given yourself to leadership and education and healing.

your mother had grumbled when you’d insisted she travel to polis to do lexa’s surgery here, but when you’d pointed out that there was no good way to transport your wife after her surgery back to your home, you had seen your mother consider having to have a sore, stir-crazy commander in her pristine arkadia hospital, and she had agreed.

you’re waiting for her to be ready, now, with lexa in this small sterile room that she hates, hooked up to all sorts of machines that she hates, and you can understand: she has been hurt before, but never electively. you think this sort of decision goes against her very nature: to give in to the way of grace, to let something heal her when the earth cannot.

but she loves you, more than you ever could’ve known, so she’s here, quiet and stubborn and grumpy, in this hospital bed. she’s nervous, fidgeting and stoic, and you adore everything about her.

you’re about to tell her this, or try to, when your mother walks in, brusque and professional, in her surgical scrubs.

‘ready?’ she asks.

‘yes,’ lexa says, very seriously, and you squeeze her hand with a little smile when she looks to you.

‘she’s good to go,’ you tell your mom, and her eyes are soft and understanding when she sees the two of you. it had been difficult at first, because of the mountain, but your mother had grown to love lexa, because they both want to give you the world.

lexa swallows and turns to you, kisses you gently, chastely. your wife—the most powerful person in the world who comes with cities that have fallen under her hand, an army that looks at her like a god—is scared, and you kiss her forehead. ‘you’re going to be just fine.’

love is not weakness, you have learned, and she is the strongest thing you have ever known.

your mom smiles gently as you back up and she steps up next to the bed, explains the surgery quickly once more, as per procedure that she insists on sticking to, which is comforting in its own way. and then she puts her hand gently on the side of lexa’s face, cups her cheek, in the same way she’s done for you, in a gesture of incredible comfort, and fondness, and tenderness, your whole life, in the same way she does for hale, now.

‘you’re going to fall asleep, and you won’t feel anything, and the next thing you know, clarke will be right here again when you wake up. it’ll be just like a blink.’

lexa nods. ‘thank you, abby,’ she says, and then turns toward you.

‘see you soon, niron,’ you say, and she kisses your knuckles.

‘ai hod yu in,’ she tells you, and this surgery is, in the long run, not dangerous at all—not compared to every battle you have ever seen her off to fight, every tense meeting among generals in the tower, even.

but still, you feel it, feel her and your life together, the very center of all you are.

‘i love you too.’

she smiles and your mom nods at you seriously and wheels her away.

you stay staring for a while at your hands, where hers had been.

she is just as obstinate when she’s out of surgery as before, trying to take the oxygen cannula out of her nose, generally just being a pain in the ass to the post-op staff as they usher you in the room with a sigh of relief.

‘my love,’ she breathes out when she sees you, stops her struggle against a lead stuck to her chest.

‘hi,’ you say, trying not to laugh, and sit down next to her bed, take her hands in yours—out of comfort but also stillness. ‘how are you feeling?’

she shrugs unevenly, a gesture so young and unlike her you wish you had one of raven’s cameras with you.

‘are you in any pain?’

‘pain is just,’ she says, then leans back her against her pillows like the words have taken a lot out of her. ‘pain is merely a state of mind, clarke.’

‘well, you just got a bunch of new nerves and twenty-one stitches after my mom reconstructed your bones, so—’

‘shhhhh,’ she tells you, and closes her eyes. ‘brevity.’

you laugh and kiss the top of her hand, which makes her smile lopsidedly. ‘get some sleep.’

‘i’m not tired,’ she insists, still with her eyes shut.

you can’t help but smile, because your mom told you with utmost confidence that everything went better than expected, and that your wife is, indeed, very healthy.

‘get some sleep, lexa.’

she’s still for a few moments before she nods minutely and then whispers, ‘stay?’ a little roughly.

you feel eighteen again, in love and blown away and aching. but now it’s easy— you have built a word full of peace together: ‘always.’

lexa is tired, you can tell, but the good kind of spent because you had hiked to the tidepools together, and she had told hale stories after stories about all of the small creatures you can find there. your daughter had been delighted, and you need to thank raven again for the camera she had managed to salvage, because now you have a picture of your wife holding your daughter while they peer in wonder at phosphorescent starfish, their hair wild in the wind, their eyes bright.

lexa had carried hale all the way back on her shoulders, telling you both about the different kinds of birds, and trees, and generally finding what you can tell is an immense amount of joy in sharing the ground with you.

it’s been months, and she’s regained almost full mobility, only feeling pain when it had gotten especially cold, and then it was mostly just stiffness.

when she had been well enough to quietly pitch the idea of a vacation to you—six whole days with no duties to anyone—you had cried, because you still owe your lives to your people, and you always will, but there is a sort of breath now, the same sort of healing that came to her bones.

she had brought you to this grand, single story house on the beach, one that apparently she had been having built for three years now, before hale was even born, hoping for this day. it’s the most spectacular gesture: the big windows looking out over the ocean; the aisle in front of them; the big bed with soft, warm linens and a driftwood headboard—all of it for you; all of it for your love.

tonight lexa grills fish she caught this morning, somehow managed to have something called a lemon to squeeze over them, and herbs she apparently planted herself, over a year ago, in a small garden on the side of the house.

so much of her love is unspoken, and tender, and grander than you know how to give sometimes. but you tuck hale in together and you take a blanket and some wine out to the beach with her hand tucked in yours, the air salt and warm, the waves of her hair loose and long—and you try.

this is your private beach, and you take your clothes off together and touch each other, like have for fifteen years, like you do with more care and attention every day.

she traces a tiny scar under your eye and you pay careful attention to the one down her hip, but then you don’t think about harm so much anymore. you touch her and she arches into you, and she kisses you—down your skin and into your core—and you look up to see the stars; you close your eyes and see them all the same.

afterward you laugh into her neck about the sand somehow stuck to the side of her face, and she wraps her strong arms around you and spells out words on your skin that you can’t follow.

you lie like that for minutes together, listening to the sea and looking at her under the moonlight, washed out and stunning; you are incredibly in love.

‘what are you thinking about?’ you ask her, after a while.

she hums. ‘your medical procedures are so odd.’

your lips quirk up.

‘i had to choose to let your mother harm me so that i could heal, in the long term.’

the way she says it, full of softness, makes you remember her all those years ago, when you’d first met, the way she wanted more than just survival, her trust in you, the way she knelt before you in reverence.

‘i am going to grow old with you, clarke of the sky people,’ she says, with the same conviction she does when she gives speeches as the savior of her people.

you kiss her, deeply, and when it grows too heavy you tickle her side and she laughs with a yelp into your mouth, kisses you softly afterward.

you say, ‘i don’t plan on anything else.’

hale wakes you both up in the morning, crawling over lexa with an oomph to plant herself in the middle of the bed. lexa groans and rolls over, throwing an arm over both of you.

‘rest, strikon,’ she says, her morning voice rough and only one eye peeking open. you kiss hale’s forehead with a little laugh when she huffs but snuggles up against your chest and sighs into it.

she’s quiet for a few minutes but then wrinkles her nose and sits up, her little fist held high.

‘why is there san, mama?’

‘sand,’ you say, and you can feel yourself blushing, even though lexa glares at you both and hale has no idea what’s going on. ‘and, um, we were playing in it last night before bed.’

lexa snorts from below her pillow and that’s all it takes for hale to squeal in delight and pile on top of her, mixed english and trigedesleng about playing in the sand almost in full sentences, and lexa laughs and turns over and hugs hale to her chest, blowing a raspberry against her cheek.

your heart is full, and whole, and hale reaches for you and pulls you toward both of them, into a clumsy embrace where you knock limbs and feel the summer sweat already beginning. your chest aches, and the air is warm; you are at peace and your wife is looking at you like you are the first person any sort of gods ever found holy: you are so far from harm.

#possibilist #possibilistfanfiction #no plot 2.0 but its CUTE!#moms! vacation!#clexa fanfiction #clexa week 2018

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kinosternon · 7 years

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(CW: abstract discussions of abuse, several heaping spoonfuls of new-adult angst. Also, length—this is like 2,000 words lol)

This particular story, such as it is, starts with me chatting with a very close friend of mine over Skype, and looking through my email at the same time. (Me and this friend are the type of close where we Skype once a week and they play video games or code while I browse the Internet and watch whatever they’re up to, so a certain amount of multitasking is par for the course.) I’m a big fan of StoryBundle and related stuff, so when I came across their Write Stuff 2017 bundle (https://storybundle.com/writing), I remember that I’d bought a similar bundle of theirs last year, and went to check it out.

It actually wasn’t the first time I’d looked it over. I’ve been trying to give up writing for the past several months, and been through a similar cycle several times: get fed up with the pressure of writing, decide to give up on writing altogether, feel a lot better, start thinking about writing again—without so much as opening a document or a notebook. Reading the descriptions for the bundle got me thinking about the whole pattern, and I said out loud to my friend, “Reading about writing feels like looking through an ex’s Facebook.”

Then I stopped and thought about what I’d said, because it did. That was exactly what it felt like. So I started to wonder why.

As a white, male, able-bodied 20-something in the United States who attended a liberal arts college and tries to be at least politically aware, if not politically active, I find the narrative of abuse survival to be one that’s ineffectual to apply to myself. Have I been in some shitty situations with people?

…Yeah. I have.

Have I caused some shitty situations? Without a shadow of a doubt, though I’m pretty hopeful about the idea that I’ve never been outright abusive. Certainly I’ve never been so intentionally, but intention can only get a person so far.

I struggled for a long time with the idea that I may have experienced abusive situations in my childhood and beyond, and now I’m more or less at peace with the idea that abuse is a narrative that I don’t feel comfortable applying to my life experiences so far. I heard a lot about abuse growing up—which is good, it’s absolutely vital to spread that knowledge—but not a lot about what to do and how to go forward when a relationship is just shit, and that left me stuck for a while. It really wasn’t fun.

Still, eventually, I figured out an answer to the latter question I’m comfortable with. I don’t need to be able to prove, to myself or anyone else, that a relationship is abusive for me to want to leave it. I think more people out there need to remember that, especially because the myth of needing proof is often used by abusers themselves.

To believe and be properly sympathetic to people who had undergone abuse, I had to understand that their concerns were not my concerns—that I am not, in my head, part of the “survivors of abuse” identity group. Anything else was harmful to me, and both disrespectful and detrimental to the people I might encounter during my attempts to be a good ally.

Abuse, at the moment, isn’t a helpful way for me to frame my relationships. Negativity and toxicity, on the other hand, absolutely are. I started feeling a lot less anxious when I started applying more shades of subtlety to my emotions and experiences.

Time and circumstance can change relationship dynamics a lot. Lately, I’ve reconnected with a friend whom I’d labeled “toxic” pretty vibrantly in my head, and whom I’ve got a complicated history with. I turned the idea over in my head for months, dismissing it as a bad idea with more and more reluctance each time. In the end, fairly sure of the reasonableness of the idea, I followed through on the impulse to contact them online. Turns out the friend was not only still happy to hear from me, they were in a much better place than they’d been back when I cut off contact. And I’m in a better place now, too. They don’t test my boundaries anymore, and even if they did, I’d feel much more sure about enforcing them.

Having this friend back in my life has been enjoyable and enriching. Another source of support in life is always welcome.

I’ve made some new friends, too, and both reconnecting with sour friendships and making new ones that I’m okay with require a certain amount of emotional resilience. I’ve been trying to cultivate a strong sense of self-worth, agency, and self-reliability independent of those friendships, and it’s been helping.

I’m not quite sure what to call the more welcoming side of those efforts, though. Tolerance, forgiveness, and patience all have different undertones. I think it’s somewhere between the three, and I’m still testing out the way those nuances shift depending on the specific circumstance. And they all start with an awareness of my own limits, and the feeling that I’m always allowed to stop and walk away.

Anyway, this was a story about writing. Setting boundaries for yourself is important, I thought, as I considered where the thought of “writing as shitty ex” had come from. If I kept shying away from writing all this time, then maybe it really was a toxic relationship.

The problem is, writing isn’t a person. I don’t ascribe very hard to any one particular class of thought or pedagogy when it comes to writing, either, so as far as I can tell that isn’t the difficulty. It’s still possible that outside influences are building up and forming an unpleasant imagined persona, like an unwelcoming audience. But for a little while now, I’ve been trying to curtail instances of random exposure to the displeasure of strangers, and by now that influence has noticeably lessened. So what was going on?

When I thought about it in those terms, it wasn’t too hard to reach a perplexing conclusion: I’m in a bad relationship with writing, and I’m the only person in that relationship.

I’m all the moving parts. Just me. Which led me to wonder, what am I doing to myself that I haven’t consciously realized?

I recently started tutoring a couple of kids in creative writing through Skype call. (Someone thought it was a good idea to put an advertisement on a freelancing website, instead of a tutoring-specific one, but that’s another story, and one that I know very little about.) The first couple of lessons were a little bit awkward, until one of the parents clued me in to the idea of working through prompts in class, instead of assigning things and providing feedback. Then a couple of online resources mentioned the idea of working along with the kids on exercises, so I tried that, too.

I would’ve figured it was a bad idea, putting them on the spot or accidentally showing off, but so far both strategies seem to be working. It’s been good to show that even a teacher can’t think of everything on a tight schedule, that what I come up with is imperfect or incomplete. And better still, I’ve gotten into the habit of waiting a little longer for answers, continuing to ask prompt past the first, dubious or hesitant response. I’ve been asking a lot of “Why?”, and making games out of brainstorming. It’s been fun, and I’d like to think I’m not the only one learning.

I think I’ve forgotten how important patience is in writing, as in many other things.

One summer, between semesters of college, I tried living with friends. It was a lot of fun, but there were parts that were very stressful—specifically, the coming-up-with-rent part. I managed to land a decent ghostwriting job, but it wasn’t enough to keep up with bills, not by a long shot. (I was extremely privileged to have parents that were willing to come up with some of the difference, without which I would have been very ill-advised even to try.) So I tried to balance an internship or two alongside it, which ultimately led to me keeping abreast of chores and stressing instead of working on everything else.

Near the end of the summer, desperately trying to make up a huge word deficit on a ghostwriting project, I set myself a goal: 24,000 words in 24 hours. A quota of 1,000 words an hour, with permission to do whatever I wanted each hour, after hitting that point.

I managed it, almost getting to the end of the piece. I don’t think I so much as opened the document for eight weeks afterward. I blew far past the intended deadline, and in the meantime, my client moved on to greener writing pastures. I was never paid for that project.

I didn’t realize until years later that ever since then, something related to the writing part of me has felt injured—that it feels like something got sprained inside.

People talk about their inner editors. Whatever that particular force in my head is, I’m not sure it counts as just an editor anymore.

My editorial sense is just fine when it comes to other people. I like providing developmental edits. I’m good at line-editing and formatting. I’ve interned at a literary agency, and, as mentioned above, worked as a ghostwriter before that. I occasionally beta-read fanfic and/or critique friends’ work for fun. I like fixing other people’s writing, and I like meeting them where they are in their efforts to improve their technique.

Moreover, I’m pretty confident of my technical writing ability. I know how to put together a sentence. I’m as susceptible to typos as the next person, but otherwise my error rate is pretty low. I’ve got a working sense of structure, pacing, and style. I actually know how to format dialogue correctly, how to use a long dash and a semicolon, and the difference between a too-long sentence and a run-on.

That doesn’t mean I don’t still have a long way to go—that’s the nature of writing. (See: I write long sentences even when I shouldn’t, and I’m far too fond of italics.) But I’m not all that self-conscious about any of that, really. It doesn’t bug me.

No, I’m just completely certain of my inability to have ideas. Or, having miraculously had an idea that I didn’t immediately tear to pieces, to actually sit down and start. Or, having started, to muddle through the middle, let alone finish. Or, having somehow finished, to have the self-discipline to do any revision whatsoever.

I “know” these things just won’t ever happen—that I “can,” but that I won’t. And I “know” that I shouldn’t give up on one of my most-developed skills. But when I finally gave myself permission to give up—to move on to something I haven’t built up to be so utterly wraught—I felt a lot better. And thus the cycle began.

Even getting to that point—feeling like I deserved a chance to walk away—was in itself a kind of growth. But I think I’m ready to try moving beyond it. I’m just not sure what direction “beyond” will be in.

I’m slowly circling around a choice. Like water spiraling around a drain, or one of those pennies in a black-hole model at the mall. (Anyone else remember those?) I could try to break free—I’m fairly certain that I can, to whatever degree I want, though there would be parts of it that would hurt. But I don’t think I want to.

I’m not going to let writer-me take over my life again anytime soon. I don’t want to give him any power, because or the past few years he’s done the opposite of earn it. But I might be willing to get back together with him, for a bit of a trial run. The equivalent of a re-friending on Facebook and maybe catching up over coffee.

I find myself curious as to how it might go.

#abuse cw #physical injury cw #(mild metaphorical mention)#rambling about writing #but I guess it counts as #my nonfiction

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