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alters-journal · 2 years

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Realized I take out a lot of abuse rhetoric on inanimate objects.

TW: Abuse rhetoric, slight vent as a means to work out thoughts+emotions

When something has done something before but won't do it again. "Just do it. I know you can. You've done it before so just do it."

When something doesn't do what I want it to do and I break it trying to make it do what I want it to. "See what happens when you don't listen?" or "Should have just done what I told you."

When something is doing something I don't want it to. (screaming) "Stop (fucking) doing that!"

Now obviously this isn't terrific but at least I'm not taking this shit out on people or animals. It's probably a power dynamic thing. I see people as my equals and animals as close enough to my equals so that I don't abuse them. An object is an object it's not alive y'know? It makes me wonder if that's how my parents saw me when they said those things to me. Was I seen as subhuman? Less than an animal? On par with a fucking chair? My father showed more affection to his fucking stolen truck and piece of shit laptop with a battery life of 4 minutes than he did to me. Was I less than an object?

Whatever I gave that antivaxxer POS covid lol ✌️

#do not rb #trauma #did #did system

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dracoimreh · 4 years

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FanFic Recs - SanSan Cultural AU - Winter’s Gift by littlefeather - 128k words - WiP

“Wasicu! Wasicu!” The people cried out. Women gathered their children and ran into the tipis, while others came forward, staring at them. Sansa wondered what the word meant, when suddenly she and Margaery were surrounded by the members of the tribe.

“Yamni Sunka! Yamni Sunka!”

Shaking, Sansa looked up at him. “What-“

“They call me Three Hounds.” Sandor interrupted without looking at her. “Do not make white talk in camp. Wait.”

Sansa was so frightened she forgot to answer. Hands grabbed at her skirts, feeling her bare legs and her hair. The indignity of being manhandled combined with her all-consuming fear drained the last of Sansa’s strength and rendered her speechless.

Reaching across her body, Sandor blocked their grasp, and not knowing what else to do, she turned and began to whimper into the buffalo robe. A warm wetness trickled down her legs, shaming her further still.

Sandor and Bronn shouted words that Sansa did not understand at the people, who at once moved away from them.

“Amáyuštaŋ yo po! Leave us be.” Sandor explained. “Come.” With a gentleness surprising in so large a man, he lifted her down from the saddle. He eyed her skirts, now soaked down both sides of her legs. “You made water.” There was no humor in his gaze; in fact, Sansa only saw sadness there.

“You have stolen us, what did you expect? I am afraid.” Sansa sobbed out angrily. She no longer cared what happened to her, she was through with being submissive. “I am heartsick. My family is dead!”

Sandor winced at her, his mouth stretching into a thin line but he remained silent as he stared at her.

Sansa stomped her foot. “I should have died with my family!”

“No, you not die. Not then. Not now!” Sandor hissed as he stepped closer. Stunned, Sansa stumbled backward until his hand grasped her wrist and held her on her feet. “You not die.” Behind her she could hear Margaery yelping as Bronn dragged her from his horse. Turning, she saw him jerk her to her feet.

“You cannot keep me alive if I want to die.” She saw fear enter his eyes then.

Sandor turned to Bronn. “Wawat'echala Misukala Ki.” Gentle, my younger brother. “Ci wiyape kokipe.” The women are afraid.

Two elderly women at once came forward and spoke to her and Margaery in soothing tones, stroking their hair. Even though she did not understand their words, it seemed very similar in attitude to the one her mother used with her when she was a little girl, bringing Sansa to tears. Soon she sunk to her knees, sobbing into her skirts, the young woman giving vent to her anguish and grief.

Sandor sat down beside her, watching her. “What will you do with us?” She asked in a decidedly different tone once she regained her composure.

Raising his brow, he nodded toward an elderly man with long white hair. “We speak to father.”

Out of the midst of the tribe emerged a tall man resembling Sandor who had eagle feathers woven in his white hair. The people moved aside for him as he made his way toward them.

“Ateweya Ki.” My father. Sandor bowed slightly and Bronn quickly followed suit.

Not knowing what else to do, Sansa bowed slightly in imitation of them, which at once drew the man’s attention to her. Awkwardly she waited, listening to the lengthy discussions between Sandor, Bronn, their father and several elder members of the tribe without understanding any of it, until Sandor abruptly left the group and led her to his tipi.

“Wait! Stop! What are you doing?” Panic took hold of her. “Stop, please!” Sansa struggled against him, twisting in his grasp.

“You stop!” Iron fingers gripped her arm. “You come with me. Now.”

“But-“

“No!” He growled harsher than Sansa had heard him speak before. “Chief Standing Bear asked what should do with you and Yellow Flower. I want you as mine.” Sandor pulled her closer still. “He gave you to me. I found you. You are mine now.”

“Yours? I’m not yours!” Sansa glared at him, digging her heels into the soft dirt.

“Yes, mine.” Sandor lifted her over his shoulder. “My woman.”

“You mean: your wife?” Sansa cried out in disbelief.

“Yes. Father gave me you.” Sandor snapped angrily. “I keep you safe.”

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Beyond the story, littlefeather also gives you heaps of cultural insight regarding the ways of the Lakota people with her end notes. Great adventure and romance read - find it over at Ao3!

*Technically unfinished but still emotionally satisfying. Please also note historically accurate violence TW.

#sansan #sansan fanfiction #fanfic recs #fanfiction recommendation #dracoimreh recs

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