Tumgik
chthonic-cassandra · 9 hours
Text
I am on a train home after a twelve hour work day; I type this as I pass by the stop I got off at for school over seven years of my adolescence, which has mysteriously been figuring into my nightmares of late. I haven't slept or eaten enough.
But I am at once so happy, even as I feel on the edge of tears. I love my job and I love my partner and my dear coworkers and my clients. I love all of you. I love the few precious friends I still have from my adolescence, despite cutting arguments on the train platform which has now gone past. I love [x] and [ ] and it doesn't matter how many people would not accept that. My life is very painful but it is very beautiful and I can keep working towards a version of it where the people and spaces where I have to be fake can fall away, never fully perhaps but more and more. And even if I haven't figured out how yet I can find ways to get more of the things I am lacking. So so much always.
21 notes · View notes
Text
Partner & I cooking lemon potatoes + baked feta with chickpeas & tomatoes while listening to Deb Perelman and Kenji Lopez-Alt's podcast on stovetop macaroni and cheese.
13 notes · View notes
chthonic-cassandra · 2 days
Text
Tumblr media
Oil flask in the form of a rabbit, Greece, 650-600 BC
from The Harvard Art Museums
579 notes · View notes
chthonic-cassandra · 2 days
Text
Not sure about anyone else but I re-read all my favourite AO3 comments when I’ve had a rough day so if you’ve ever taken the time to write a deep, funny, or just kind comment, thank-you.
6K notes · View notes
chthonic-cassandra · 2 days
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media
Fresco from the atrium of the House of the Tragic Poet, Pompeii.
Achilles sitting in his tent, Briseis is led out of the tent in the presence of many Greek heroes National Archaeological Museum of Naples, Italy.
184 notes · View notes
chthonic-cassandra · 2 days
Text
Different topic, but I would like to note for my own future reference when I next feel this way that one of the problems with being a therapist is that the majority of other therapists are pretty normative people living pretty normative lives.
12 notes · View notes
chthonic-cassandra · 2 days
Text
I think a lot about the element of A Little Life which is this pure focus on extremity - extremes of suffering and extremes of good fortune, right against one another, the agonizing descriptions of violence and physical suffering and psychological anguish right next the lavish extrapolations of immense love, tenderness, the materialities of beautiful objects and physical spaces.
My experience of the world is not so extreme as Jude's, in either direction. But the doubleness of those extremes in the novel express something crucial to me, something I struggle to countenance, and I come back to it often. I feel so eudaimon - in my beloved partner, in so many aspects of the life we get to live together - and at once such extreme violence has been done to my body [I am still unsteady with the number of times realization from last week], my mind holds such overwhelming and isolating experiences outside of consensus reality, and the anguish of all that does not fade next to all the joyful things and that rapture of them. How can they both be so true, and so much?
19 notes · View notes
chthonic-cassandra · 2 days
Photo
Tumblr media
Saints Catherine and Barbara (1510-20)
Master of Frankfurt (1460–c. 1533) 
630 notes · View notes
chthonic-cassandra · 2 days
Photo
Tumblr media
May Morris (1862-1938) for Morris & Co. - Honeysuckle, designed 1883.    Hand-blocked paper / 133cm x 55cm.  x
380 notes · View notes
chthonic-cassandra · 2 days
Text
Things that matter to me right now: flowers, bird song, books, my gods, tea, baking, my incredibly convoluted internal landscape.
16 notes · View notes
chthonic-cassandra · 4 days
Text
Tumblr media
Final stage of a very wobbly and very decadent anniversary dessert.
32 notes · View notes
chthonic-cassandra · 4 days
Text
Tumblr media
Stage 2 of today's involved baking project.
14 notes · View notes
chthonic-cassandra · 4 days
Text
Tumblr media
Dominique Papety (French, 1815-1849)
Women at the Fountain
562 notes · View notes
chthonic-cassandra · 5 days
Text
The Clothing as Communication movement began in the 2170s [...] As we left the Exponential Age behind, the Clothes-as-Com leaders called for our new modern age to be an 'honest' one, where our clothing would proclaim Hive, work, hobbies, allegiance, a glance proclaiming what makes each stranger special.
Ada Palmer, Seven Surrenders
There are moments in these books when I groan to myself about how how many things about living in the fictional world they depict I would find inexpressibly annoying, and then I realize that all the things I would hate about it are already on their way to happening in this present world already.
13 notes · View notes
chthonic-cassandra · 5 days
Text
Overindulgence
A Blood of My Blood-inspired fic for the peer review of @ibrithir-was-here and @animate-mush! Set when Quincey is a toddler, inspired by this art, and by my thoughts of how Mina might've borne the brunt of Dracula's cruelty and manipulation, especially early on in their time at the castle.
CW for abusive relationships, mental/emotional abuse, mental manipulation and mind control, violence, blood, injury and mild gore, violent threats, and violence/murder fantasies. (It ends on a somewhat hopeful note, but it's a rough ride getting there.)
~~~
I wish to spend more time with my husband.
It was a simple request, brought humbly— or as humbly as she could manage— before her lord. Time had softened her to the unyielding lines of his will, made her realize that outright rebellion was met with swift punishment. As her husband sacrificed for her, so she sacrificed for him, and they both sacrificed for their son, humbling their own will to their master's hand so that harmony would reign in the household. That's what marriage was, wasn't it?
And yet, she found herself greedy. Her longing for her husband had never gone away, and she wanted to be able to see him without having to beg for permission each time.
Her master, lounging in his chair by the fire while she stood before him with hands folded, quirked his lips in amusement. "My child, you have spent many long hours in the company of your husband since the two of you have come into my household. What has created this greed in you for more?"
Hours, yes, if all were totaled together. Hours spent in snippets and minutes, when they were allowed, the two of them acting out husband and wife for her master's amusement. She tried not to dwell on these thoughts; her lord was in her mind, seeing everything she thought, and she must remain submissive if she was to achieve her ends.
I wish to spend time with him more than just our feeding. I enjoy passing time in his company.
"Come here."
She balked for a moment, then stepped closer, her bare feet soundless on the stone. She didn't like that her lord was sitting— lounging— while she stood, as if she were a child no older than the toddler she was raising. He kept drawing her with his mind until she stood right up against him, his parted knees gently touching the sides of her legs as he leaned back in his chair. 
"And what will you do, should I grant you this request? Do you intend to sneak tastes of him while I am away?"
Of course not, my lord. I would never drink from him without your permission.
"So what do you intend to do?"
She didn't like standing here, pinned between his knees, his red eyes looking up into hers with something like amusement. He was toying with her for no reason— he never took her seriously. To him she was just the mother of his heir, the woman who happened to live in the household and was only useful for snatching away her young child when he got too noisy or bothersome. 
She tried to hold back her daydreams of bashing her lord's skull in.
I wish to speak with him, to read books together, to speak of our son and of our life here. I wish to hold his hand and to keep him from becoming lonely in the long hours when he is not carrying out your will. 
"He can read books just as well by himself, and if you ever wish to discuss your son, you may bring it up with me. And what wish have you to hold his hand? Do you crave warmth?"
I crave my husband, she thought, before she could stop herself.
"Crave. What a fascinating word. What unrelenting hunger it evokes. And what of it, Wine-Press? How can you be sure this craving will not lead to disobedience?"
She felt his thoughts force their way into her mind. She instinctively resisted before allowing him in— fighting him just made the punishment worse. Though he watched her thoughts, he did not often intrude, but when he did, it was usually to inflict fear. 
As long as she was obedient, her thoughts stayed her own.
When she disobeyed, his mind rushed into hers like the current of a diverted river, destroying everything in its wake.
The thoughts he pressed upon her were images, sharp as recent memories: usually scenes of violence, her husband or son being torn limb from limb by the wolves, or being tortured by their lord while she was forced to watch. 
He never made good on the threats; he seemed to entertain a genuine fondness for both her loves, particularly her son. But he had no such regard for her. He tormented her casually, as a careless child might pluck the legs off an insect.
She never told her husband about this punishment, fearing that he would lash out against their lord and endanger all of them. His burden to bear was keeping enough blood in his body to sustain them; her burden was enduring the punishment against her that their lord meted out. 
The only way she could endure this disinterested cruelty was knowing it was a sign that he never considered her a threat.
She tried to not ever let the thought fully form that he would regret underestimating her.
This time, though, the thought that he pushed into her mind was of a very different kind: an image of her drinking from her husband without their lord's permission, her husband gasping in pleasure under her kisses.
This is not my thought, she told him levelly, but the vision of the two of them entwined, without their lord's watchful eye, made an ache form in her chest where her heart used to beat.
"And yet it is your desire, I can see plain on your face." Her lord was staring up into her eyes now, his gaze keen but amused; he was reveling in this. She stood still at stone, determined not to tremble as he kept her pinned between his knees.
I would not steal that which is yours, she responded, trying to keep her thoughts calm even as the intruding thought played out the scene before her. Her husband was writhing in pleasure, whispering, I am only yours, Mina, only yours…
She looked sharply at her lord, unable to contain her frustration. I know he is not only mine, lord. He is yours, and I am yours, and our son is yours, and all in this castle is yours. I do not deny it! I have learned this hard lesson. I implore you to trust me.
"Trust you?" he echoed, his smile even more amused than before. "You, who have been defying my will since you arrived here? You, who daily entertain thoughts of driving a stake through my heart? You, who flinch each time I speak with my heir, whose mind burns like fire when I partake of the one who has agreed to be my sustenance?" He suddenly stood, and she stumbled back to catch her balance as he towered over her. "What makes you think you have earned my trust, child?"
It was useless to argue with him, to point out the injustice of his accusations, so she didn't even try. Instead, she took another step back and slowly sank to her knees, then pressed her forehead to the stone floor at his feet. I trust in your mercy, my lord. I humbly beg you to grant my request.
His satin shoe glided along her cheek, and nudged its way under her chin, forcing her to look up at him. He gaze down with something like fondness, but the sharp glitter in his eye made a shiver pass through her. 
"How I love to see you grovel," he murmured.
She caught and banished the thought of ripping his body apart with her bare hands.
"Very well," he said, and turned, his foot dropping away from her chin. He stooped and held out his hand in a chivalrous manner. She would rather tear off one finger at a time than take it, but she sat up and slipped her hand into his, allowing him to help her to his feet. He rarely touched her physically, but it didn't matter— he was already in her mind, leaving never a thought or a moment alone. 
"We shall dine early tonight," her lord told her as he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and began to walk toward her husband's chambers. "We shall each have our kisses, and then you may spend as much time with your husband as you wish."
She felt a pit in her stomach. Something was wrong— she knew he would not give in so easily. There must be some plan at work here. In her mind she gazed at the wall of fire that separated her thoughts from his. He could see everything in her mind, but she could see nothing in his. She only had her instincts to know that some terrible mischief was afoot.
They climbed the stairs in silence, his arm crushing her hand against his side. He walked into her husband's room without knocking, as usual, and they found him sitting at the window with their son in his lap. He looked up in surprise to see both of them there.
"Mum!" her son cried. "Papa is reading me the princess book!"
Despite the fear coiling inside, she smiled. He was referring to a book of fairy-tales that her husband often read their son, sometimes with her projecting images of the story into his mind. The fair princess of the tale always had silver hair and beautiful blue eyes, and the rescuing knight flowing black hair and a kind smile. The dragon always died.
"I— is everything all right?" her husband asked, his eyes widening with uncertainty as his gaze flicked between her and her lord. Between them, their son squirmed out of his papa's arms and raced forward, bowing from the waist as he'd been taught and saying, "Hello, Father."
"Hello, my little diavol," her lord said, with the fondness that couldn't be feigned, ruffling the boy's black hair. He raised his head to address her husband. "Nothing is amiss, my friend— we have just come to dine early tonight."
"Kisses!" her son shouted, jumping up and down with excitement. "Kisses kisses kisses!"
She quickly shushed him, pulling him against her side with her free hand. Her husband shut the book he'd been reading and stood up, fumbling with his collar and tie. "Of course, my lord. I am sorry I wasn't properly prepared. Just one moment."
Go out into the hall and wait your turn, she told her son, but her lord immediately intervened. "No. Stay here. You will have your turn soon." She tensed, uncertain what this might mean— but trying not to let on to her son that she was feeling tense. Why did he want the boy here? 
He let go of her hand and walked toward her husband, who had removed his collar and tie and unbuttoned the top of his shirt, exposing his pale throat. The bruises from the last feeding were still purple on his skin, and she felt fear running like ice up and down her spine. He was already a bit weak from last feeding…
Her husband stood very still as their lord circled behind him, and her husband looked at her with wide eyes, as if to ask what was going on. Usually their lord fed standing in front, not from behind.
I don't know, was all she could say, shielding the thought from their son. I don't know.
Their lord slid his hand into her husband's hair and tilted his head to the side, looking at her deliberately over his exposed neck. She was rooted to the ground, trying not to clench too hard on their son's shoulder. Her lord breathed on her husband's neck, and he shivered.
"Papa…?" their son said, a bit hesitantly.
He's fine, she immediately assured him. Father is just going to kiss him, as usual. Isn't that right, Papa?
"Yes," her husband said, and he did an admirable job keeping the fear out of his voice. "And then whose turn will it be?"
"Mum's, and then mine!" the boy said, excited again. 
She watched their lord teasing at his ear, mouthing over his skin. Her husband had broken out in a sweat. What was he doing?
When their lord bit down, her husband shrieked.
It was a short, unexpected sound that froze her down to her feet. Her son startled and cried out in alarm, and a flood of tears leaked from her husband's eyes as he coughed out another sound, and another, to try to make it sound like he was laughing. She felt ice in her lungs as she numbly watched their lord champ at her husband's neck like a wild animal, sending a spasm of pain over her husband's face with each movement. Precious blood seeped out of the messy wounds, running down into his white shirt. Their lord had never hurt him like this before— not this badly, not in front of the child.
She was moving toward them before she knew what she was doing.
"Mina, stop!" her husband gasped.
She stopped. Her lord looked up at her over her husband's bleeding shoulder, digging his fangs in deeper and making a tremor of pain go through her husband's body.
"It is his right," her husband said, and tears flowed down his face even as he grimaced a smile. "Don't stop him."
"What's going on, Mum?" her son asked, clinging to her skirt.
She forced a thought in her son's direction with one half of her mind. It's all right. Papa's fine. See? He's smiling! With the other half of her mind, she had rushed to the wall of fire that divided her mind from her lord's, and was tearing at it with her hands. Stop hurting him! Stop! Hurt me instead! STOP!
"I'm scared," her son whimpered.
"It's all right, son," her husband said again, his voice with pain as their lord kept gnawing on his neck, moving down to the meat of his shoulder, leaving bleeding bite marks all the way. 
Her lord locked eyes with her, his eyes gleaming with amusement. From behind the wall of fire, she heard laughter.
She started to move forward again, but her husband stared at her with terror radiating from his white face. "Mina, please."
She hesitated.
Her son hung on her skirts, behind her. Her husband stared her down, his face set, tears gleaming like silver over his forced smile. "Please," he whispered. "Don't."
He asked for so little. She could do this.
So she stood there. She stood there and told her son that it was all right, as their lord ripped and tore at her husband's flesh, as he lapped up mouthful after mouthful of precious blood— too much, he was taking too much!— as the color drained from her husband's face. 
She stared into her husband's eyes. Say the word, my love, and I will kill him.
Through the convulsing jaws on his neck, her husband shook his head ever-so-slightly. Hers was an empty threat, empty, empty, and they all knew it. She was not strong enough. Not yet. But when she was strong enough, she would take their captor apart piece by piece, burn him with fire until only ash remained, scrape him down to nothing.
Her lord looked up, and loosed his fangs long enough to chuckle. He seemed so amused by her fantasies of killing him. He did not know that this was a certainty in his future. She would make sure of that. 
At last, she backed away from the wall of fire in her mind. She imagined herself sitting on her knees, bowing once more with her face to the ground, even as her physical body stayed upright.
My lord, I beg you. Her plea was no longer desperate, only heartfelt. Please stop.
Her husband whimpered in pain as their lord sucked up another mouthful. Stop what? her lord said. Is it not my right to drink of him as I will?
Of course it is. But I beg of you to stop. I will do anything.
Her lord paused, his gaze piercing her across her husband's shoulder. His thoughts crawled into her mind, sending images of her chained to a wall, nailed down in a coffin for days without sustenance, separated from her son. Anything?
She gulped, refusing to let her tears fall. Name it, and I will do it. 
He chuckled and dug in his teeth again, sending another barrage of images her way. Of her groveling at his feet for hours, of her lying on a table as he used a hammer and mallet to shatter each of her bones, one by one. Anything at all, my wine-press?
She clenched her fist so hard the bones might crack, even as her other hand ran soothingly through her son's hair. Anything.
He released his teeth, and her husband crumpled to the floor like paper in a fire. Her son rushed to his side, but she was frozen in place, eyes locked with their lord as he wiped blood from his mouth with his sleeve. His face was flushed and ruddy, devoid of wrinkles and even his beard— he looked no older than a teenager now, rolled back in time through the precious blood of her husband.
She had not looked into a mirror in years, but in that moment, staring at his flowing black hair and his smooth face, those clever eyes, that grinning mouth… she thought she remembered that this was what her own face looked like.
She snarled before she could stop herself. In the background, she heard her husband laughing unsteadily and choking out words for their son, telling him that everything was all right, that it was all a funny joke, that Father had gotten a little carried away with his kisses— oops! 
She looked at her lord, hands folded, willing her body not to tremble, chasing away the thoughts that wanted to burn and main and kill. What would you have me do?
He smiled, his face looking eerie with its youthful cast. His voice came through her mind like a hot knife. There is nothing I want from you, my useless bitch. Take your time with your husband— you will never possess him the way I do.
She stared down at her husband, who was half-collapsed, still trying to soothe their son while steadying himself with one hand, and she wished that she could howl with anger.
Her lord opened his mouth and spoke aloud, his voice higher and younger than usual. "Now it is your turn to kiss, my dear."
It was permission to touch him, permission to rush to his side and help him up and onto his bed, their son still clinging to him and looking worried. Her husband moved under her hands like a rag doll, panting in pain, his face pulled taught, his eyes glassy, his skin so pale it was almost grey. 
Her lord was watched her keenly as she lapped up the blood running in rivulets from each of his wounds, trying to get the precious blood without taking any more than he had already lost, and perhaps ease the bleeding a bit in the meantime. Her lord could easily drink with barely a mark left behind, but here her husband's skin was ravaged, bits of gore sticking up from his pale flesh, the bite-marks messy and half-shredded. She would not allow herself to weep, not when their son was watching.
"And now your turn, my son," their lord said from behind her. She turned, aching to contradict him, but she knew she could not.
Hesitantly, their son climbed up onto the bed. "Are you all right, Papa?" he asked carefully. 
"Of course," her husband said in a faint voice, trying to hold out his wrist, but he was too weak to do so. She took his wrist gently and held it before their son.
Just a little sip, she told him.
"Nonsense," their lord said, his voice sharp. "He is a growing boy. Drink as much as you wish, my son."
Looking confused and still a bit scared, the boy sank his teeth into her husband's wrist and began to drink. She stared at him, feeling each drop leaving her husband's body as physical pain. Her husband was trembling, and it was all she could do to keep from tearing her son away from him.
After a couple small mouthfuls, he pulled away, looking uncertainly from parent to parent for approval.
"Drink more," their lord said. "You must be hungry."
"I am, but Papa…"
"Papa is fine, don't you see? Isn't that right, Papa?"
"Y-yes," her husband whispered, his eyes almost lolling back in his head. 
The boy took another few mouthfuls. She dug her fingers into the covers, feeling like she was going to scream. 
When he pulled off, their lord smiled at him. "Now, my child, I will put you to bed tonight."
"Really?" the boy said, his face lighting up with wonder. 
"Of course. I promised your Mum that she and your Papa would be allowed to spend time together." Their lord strode forward and plucked their son from the bed, cradling him and giving him a little tickle in his side that made him giggle. "Perhaps I shall tell you a bedtime story, of a brave dragon who taught those who wished to slay him their place in the order of things. Would you like that, my little one?"
"Yes!" the boy said, snuggling into his Father's arms. She saw that he was safe from the punishment, then; her husband alone had borne the weight of her impudence. 
Cradling her son, her lord left the room, turning to give them both a smirk on that too-young face before shutting the door behind him.
"Mina…" her husband whispered, and fell limp on the bed.
She spent a long, long day doing everything she could to keep him alive. She had treated an infected wound of his before, and dug out the yarrow she had dried the previous year, heating up water on the stove and making a poultice with shaky hands. She tore up her clothes to bandage him, she held him close, she whispered soothing thoughts into his mind, she mesmerized him so that he thought he was home in England and not in this castle. 
The sun rose and fell, and exhaustion tugged on her, but she stayed with her husband, her tears wetting his silver hair with red.
In the evening, he opened his eyes, and he was alive, if very, very weak. He was surprised to see her lying beside him; they had not woken up beside each other since their first night together at the castle.
"Does he know you're here?" her husband whispered.
She curled up beside him, holding him close. Of course he knows. He knows all. And he has permitted this— at least for now. She wanted to say I am sorry, but she didn't know how to begin explaining that her greed had nearly gotten him killed. So instead she held him, and whispered soothing words. He tucked his head against her breast, and they laid there, his body warm and fragile and near.
They were not kept apart after that. She was free to visit him, as long as she asked her lord's permission first. Whether she had passed some sort of test, or if tormenting her in that way had become boring to him, she did not ask.
Someday, though, they would be free of their lord. Someday, she herself would cast off their yoke and cut their captor to pieces, and she would fully claim what was hers.
It was only a matter of time.
~~~
31 notes · View notes
chthonic-cassandra · 5 days
Text
This kind of unbearable internal tension like a string pulled taut, which is this needing so much to think directly about my own traumas but at once find it intolerable do to so, pulling towards and away at once, until my mind is at this kind of standstill.
14 notes · View notes
chthonic-cassandra · 5 days
Text
by threadhandedjill
7K notes · View notes