#but Part Of choosing this form is to lull people into a false sense of security. a triangle in a funny hat with a silly voice? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

little-mad · 3 years

Text

Downsides of Thievery Pt. 4

~ Previous Part ~ Next Part ~

After the scolding he issued, Rael felt fairly confident that he would be hearing no more disturbances from his human prisoner. Despite Gavin Stone seeming to have gained a bit of confidence recently, Rael still remembered the way he had trembled and squirmed in his hand. Surely that fear would be easily re-instilled by Rael’s sharp warning.

Unfortunately, Rael’s prediction proved incorrect, an occurrence that was quite unusual and quite hated. “Hey, how are you speaking our language?” Rael’s jaw tightened as he heard the human’s words. When he glanced down he could see the man looking up expectantly through the bars of the cage.

The answer to the human’s question was relatively simple. Rael, along with everyone that worked in or around the palace, had been required to learn several human languages. The idea was that if a human visitor ever somehow got lost in the palace, any staff member they may stumble across would be able to assist them.

The process of studying languages was made much easier by imbibing potions that aided in quick learning, which explained how Rael had managed to become fluent in four human languages in a matter of weeks. Not that he really wanted the ability to communicate with humans. Perhaps his prisoner wouldn’t be pestering him so much if they couldn’t understand one another.

Now Rael needed to decide whether to answer Gavin Stone’s question or ignore it. Obviously, he didn’t know the human well enough to know which option would be most effective in getting him to shut up.

He sighed, deciding to go with a third option. “That is not crucial and therefore does not warrant a response,” Rael said in the most formal and rigid tone he could manage. He would behave as unapproachable and unfriendly as possible to deter any future interaction from the human.

“Come on, it’s boring just sitting in this cage,” the human complained, sounding far more like a child than the adult he was meant to be.

A mischievous thought popped into Rael’s mind. Ordinarily, he would ignore these kinds of thoughts while he was working. Rael was never one to fool around on the job. However, there were no alteons around, meaning there was no one to judge him or get him into any kind of trouble. The only witness was the human prisoner, who had no voice among alteon society.

After coming to an abrupt stop, Rael reached down towards his hips and unattached the small cage from his belt. “Hey, what are you--” The human’s words were cut off and replaced with a startled yelp as Rael swiftly pulled the cage, along with its occupant, up into the air.

Rael held the cage mere inches from his own face. The proximity was so close that he could see the miniscule details of Gavin Stone’s face, like the fact that the man had a little freckle near his jaw.

“If you would like some excitement, I could always remove you from your cage and carry you in my hands instead,” Rael offered smoothly, a sly smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “Although, I can’t guarantee I’ll be particularly gentle. People always say I have a firm grip.”

The way the human’s hazel eyes went wide as he sat sprawled out in the middle of the cage brought Rael a sense of satisfaction. The little man’s recent actions had proven him to be nothing but trouble, if the fact that he stole from a diplomat wasn’t evidence enough. Rael was more than happy to set the human straight.

For the second time in a day, Gavin found himself being held directly in front of an alteon’s face. And man, did he not like it. Being so comparatively small, trapped in the gaze of such a massive person--it was unbelievably intimidating. It made him feel like he was a specimen under a microscope or something.

The fact that Gavin had iron bars separating him from his captor didn’t really make him feel any safer, especially considering the threat Rael had just made. The alteon’s words had sent an icy chill down his spine, and the smirk on the giant face hovering in front of him did not help him feel any better.

It was startling how Rael had gone from irritated, but mostly indifferent, to intentionally intimidating. Gavin had had the guy pegged for a tight laced no nonsense type, but apparently he had a roguish side to him. Were Gavin’s heart not hammering wildly from adrenaline and fear, he might have been able to appreciate the fact that the alteon had a hidden, less boring side to him.

“Uh--that’s not really what I had in mind,” Gavin awkwardly responded as he clambered up to his feet. “I kind of just wanted to talk…” he trailed off with an uncomfortable laugh. It was nigh on impossible to maintain any composure while a jumbo elf guy stared at you so intensely.

Rael lifted a single dark eyebrow. “Oh? But I’m quite certain you wouldn’t be so bored if I carried you in my hands.” A shiver ran across Gavin’s skin at the memory of being trapped in the giant’s hand. As much as he didn’t like to be stuck in the cage, he’d choose that over a fist anyday. At least the iron bars of the cage couldn’t spontaneously contract around him and squeeze his poor, fragile body--or at least, he hoped they couldn’t.

“No, that’s okay. I...I’ll stay here,” Gavin replied.

A smug look took form on Rael’s face. “Very well then. There should be no need for further interruptions then,” he stated.

With no warning, the hand holding the cage moved down towards Rael’s belt. Of course, Gavin was once again thrown to the floor. “Would it kill him to at least give me a little heads up?” he griped internally.

In a matter of moments, Gavin’s cage was reattached to his captor’s belt and they were on their way again. Gavin resumed his previous “withstand the giant leg bumping into you” position and, for the moment, he remained silent.

It wasn’t as though Gavin was planning on doing what Rael wanted. The giant man may have essentially threatened him and effectively scared the shit out of him, but that didn’t mean he was ready to fold. Now that he knew Rael had this whole other side to him, it made Gavin want to push him even more.

And while there was no doubt that Rael could easily crush him if he wanted to, Gavin had a feeling that doing so would get him in big trouble with his boss. Of course, the alteon could always make Gavin’s trip to the palace more uncomfortable, as he had threatened. However, that was something Gavin was willing to risk if it meant he could satisfy his inexplicable need to disobey orders.

Gavin granted the alteon a couple minutes of quiet, almost as if to lull him into a false sense of security. During this downtime, Gavin pondered what exactly he should say next. As he was thinking, he noticed his bladder beginning to complain. He was suddenly keenly aware of the fact that he hadn’t gone to the bathroom since the morning. Honestly it was a miracle he hadn’t wet himself from fear yet.

“Hey, Rael? How much longer till we get there?” Gavin asked. He looked upward to carefully watch for the alteon’s reaction.

Even from the awkward angle Gavin was looking from, he could tell that Rael’s nostrils flared, and his lips pressed into a thin, angry line. Unsurprisingly, he appeared to be displeased with Gavin’s outburst.

“Unfortunately, we still have around half an hour left,” Rael said through clenched teeth.

“That’s too loooong,” Gavin’s mind whined. There was no way he was going to make it that long without his bladder exploding. Plus, who even knew if there would be somewhere he could go to the bathroom at the palace. “Do they even have indoor plumbing here???”

“Uh--do you think we could maybe take a little pit stop?” Gavin asked hopefully. Honestly, he wasn’t even purposefully trying to be annoying this time. He was just genuinely in need of a bathroom break.

“‘Pit stop’?” Rael inquired. Apparently his fluency in English didn’t cover all of the little phrases.

“Allow me to rephrase,” Gavin said. “Can we stop so I can go pee in a bush?” Being so blunt about the subject felt strange when talking to the likes of Rael. The guy spoke so formally that Gavin had to wonder whether he’d wound his sensibilities with this kind of talk.

Sure enough, Rael’s eyes widened slightly at Gavin’s request. The fact that he was taken aback by something Gavin had done was more than a little satisfying. Ruffling those carefully arranged metaphorical feathers of his always counted as a win to Gavin.

After recovering from the initial surprise, Rael’s expression returned to its usual annoyed glower. “Can you not hold it?” he questioned, a tightness in his voice.

Gavin shook his head, though after remembering Rael probably wouldn’t catch the movement, he said, “Not likely.” The constant bouncing movement of his cage would make it all the more difficult to keep his bladder under control.

A long, growly sigh sounded from above. Gavin looked up to see Rael wearing a dark scowl on his face. “Fine,” the alteon relented as his walking came to an abrupt stop.

For once, Gavin was actually prepared for the massive movements of his giant captor. He clung tightly onto the iron bars as Rael unhooked the cage from his belt and carried it into the air.

A flurry of disorienting motion later and Rael was sitting on a log with Gavin’s cage resting on one of his legs. As Gavin looked up at the alteon, he couldn’t help but notice he was basically in the giant man’s lap. “Oh god, it’s like I’m his little pet,” Gavin’s brain moaned as his face began to heat up slightly.

Seemingly oblivious to Gavin’s embarrassment, Rael looked down on his captive sternly. “I will let you out of this cage and you can...do your business,” the alteon stated, a bit of awkwardness tinging his voice at the end of the sentence. He cleared his throat, as if to regain his composure, and continued. “If you make any attempt to flee, I can assure you that recapturing you will be nearly effortless.” Yeah, he’d proven that when Gavin had tried to run from him on the roof.

Pushing down the intimidation, Gavin waved a dismissive hand. “Yeah, yeah, I got it.” As if running away would do him any good at this point. He had nowhere to go in this dimension. And as much of a hardass as Rael was, he’d much rather take his chances with him than risk an encounter with some random alteon.

Rael narrowed his eyes as he scrutinized Gavin for a moment. Then, after he was apparently satisfied, he took a hold of the cage and relocated it to the ground in front of his feet.

Gavin watched as Rael’s large fingers easily managed the latch on the cage that no human would ever be able to handle. As soon as the door was unlocked, Rael pulled away and sat back up straight.

Tentatively, Gavin approached the now open cage door. Ever since arriving in the alteon dimension, he had been enclosed in his little prison. It had almost become like a little safety bubble. A shitty, no fun safety bubble, but still a safety bubble.

A part of Gavin didn’t want to leave the cage, as crazy as that seemed. Being completely exposed to the giant world of the alteon dimension was...freaky as hell. “What if a bird grabs me? Or a stiff wind just blows me away?” Gavin’s mind was racing through potential hazards he could face. But then he felt his bladder clench as the need to relieve himself grew ever more urgent.

When nature called, you had to pick up. And so, Gavin walked forward and took his first steps onto alteon soil.

#g/t #giant/tiny #g/t writing #my writing #oc: gavin stone #oc: rael

46 notes · View notes

manicmarsupial · 3 years

Text

Tiny Arthur

Sorry for the crappy title. My brain did a dumb and couldn’t think of anything better.

I think both @tiny-james and I are equally responsible for the shenaniganary that made me write this. I’m not happy with the last sentence, but whatever. On with the story

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

Hosea Matthews has seen a lot of shit in his life, not to put too fine of a point on it. But this takes the cake. And he’s stone cold sober…this time.

His sharp eyes track what appears to be a miniature person dart across the floor of the grimy saloon. He keeps his eyes on it as it stays skirting along the walls.

When a group of people leave a table, the little person bolts under, grabbing crumbs from the floor and stashing them into a bag. Hosea leaves his untouched glass at the bar and puts on a drunkard act, making wobbling steps toward the table. With deft fingers, he fumbles through his pocket, spilling coins as he pays the bartender, ensuring some of the fallen change rolls under the table.

“Oh dear, I’m all thumbs, aren’t I?” he gives a drunken laugh as the bartender grunts in reply.

Hosea crouches down and grabs the coins he had dropped, making sure to scoop up the tiny being as well.

Using the well-practised dexterity of a lifelong pickpocket, he drops the coins into his pocket and keeps his new passenger securely within his hands.

He maintains the alcoholic fool act until he’s out of sight of the saloon, feeling tiny fists pummelling his palms the entire time.

Once he reaches a secluded area, he unfurls his hands, his own eyes meeting the frightened blue ones of a teenager no bigger than his thumb.

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

At first, Hosea thought he was dreaming. It would have been convincing but for the slight weight in his hands. For once in his life, the eloquent silver-tongued con man is speechless.

“My word…” is all he manages to whisper after a long pause.

He moves his hands slightly closer to his face to get a better look at the tiny teenager, who unfortunately appears even more terrified by the slight movement.

“It’s okay. I won’t hurt you,” Hosea attempts to calm the small person in his hands.

Based on the fact the poor teenager is taking panicked breaths, it’s not working. Gently tipping the tiny human into one hand, Hosea rummages through his satchel and pulls out a broken bar of chocolate. He snaps an even smaller piece off and offers it to the frightened person, who backs away shaking his head.

“Take it. You must be hungry,” Hosea holds his hand flat, the small piece of chocolate resting on his fingertips.

The tiny teenager shakes his head again, but his stomach betrays him with a grumble which Hosea actually hears. The teen pouts and takes the chocolate. Hosea gives a slight smile as a look of delight passes over the tiny features as the teen gorges the chocolate.

It doesn’t take much thought for Hosea to decide that he’s going to take care of this tiny, half starved street kid. All that remains is gaining his trust. He waits until the teen finishes the chocolate.

“I’m just going to put you in my pocket. Don’t worry, you’ll be safe,” without waiting for an answer, Hosea slips the miniature human into his shirt pocket, feeling the little hands scrabble for purchase on his palms.

Quickly righting himself after dropping into the pocket, he begins fighting, attempting to escape the confining material.

It nearly breaks Hosea’s heart how averse this teenager is to kindness yet makes him set in his determination to care for the young man. He calls for his horse, trying to ignore the tiny fists punching his ribs. Mounting up, he sets his horse to a gentle trot, trying not to jostle his tiny passenger too much.

Sometime during the trip, the fighting stopped, replaced by faint soft snoring. The tiny teen exhausted himself, Hosea restrains the urge to laugh lest the shake wakes up his passenger.

After setting up camp in a secluded area, Hosea gently takes the tiny human out of his pocket. The teen grumbles, beginning to stir. Hosea softly brushes the teen’s dark blond hair with his finger, lulling the small person back to sleep. Using a glove and his neckerchief as a makeshift bed, he places the sleeping figure down before settling in for the night himself.

Arthur sits bolt upright. The last thing he remembers is being captured and dropped into a human’s pocket. Part of him wished the human had outright killed him, get it done quickly. But why give him chocolate? Red flags go off in Arthur’s mind. Maybe giving him a false sense of security before torturing him. Humans aren’t as nice as all that.

That didn’t explain why the human gave him a glove and a scarf as a fairly comfortable bed. He whirls around at a soft noise, biting back a yelp upon seeing the human frighteningly close to him. Although the man is asleep, he still towers over Arthur. Choosing not to linger, Arthur wriggles out of the glove.

Only a few steps and he pauses in thought. He was at his most vulnerable. Not only asleep, but asleep in a human’s pocket. Yet here he was, unharmed and in comfort. Ever wary of humans, Arthur turns to leave.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a booming voice makes him jump and whirl around

The human is awake and sitting up.

“Why not?” Arthur demands with more bravery than he felt.

“You gonna hunt me down?”

“Me? Nah. I’d be more worried about coyotes,” the human sounds calm, almost friendly.

A chill goes through Arthur’s spine at the mention of those carnivores.

“I don’t much like coyotes…humans neither,” Arthur mumbles.

“Can’t say I blame you,” the human chuckles.

Arthur almost smiles. The human’s laugh seems so genuine.

“Ah, where are my manners?” the human exclaims.

“I’m Hosea Matthews. You got a name?”

“…Arthur”

“A good, strong name,” Hosea smiles.

Arthur stands still in confusion. This human, Hosea, is simply talking to him, making no attempt to harm him. Everything he’s heard about humans being cruel, soulless, Hosea is being anything but.

“You got family?” Hosea’s question interrupts Arthur’s thoughts.

Arthur shakes his head.

“Not anymore”

“I’m sorry,” Hosea replies softly.

“s’not your fault,” Arthur mutters.

“If you don’t mind me asking, how? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“Humans caught ‘em. I never saw them again,” Arthur trembles as he holds back a sob.

He stares at the ground avoiding looking at Hosea.

As Hosea studies the tiny form of Arthur, he wants nothing more than to embrace and tell him he’ll be okay. As Arthur trembles, Hosea slowly places his hand behind the tiny teenager and gently strokes his back, hesitating as Arthur flinches.

“Hey, it’s alright. You’ll be okay, Arthur,” Hosea croons.

Arthur leans into Hosea’s hand, then buries his face into the older man’s palm, quietly sobbing. He doesn’t flinch as huge fingers wrap carefully around him.

“If you want, you can come with me.”

Arthur wipes his eyes and looks up.

“Is it safe?” he asks.

“Well, no. I have the law constantly after me.”

Arthur looks worried.

“But you’ll be safer from animals and being trod on,” Hosea digs through his satchel, taking out the chocolate bar, breaking off a piece.

“You’ll be better fed too,” he holds out the tidbit.

“Unless you’d rather keep having stale saloon leftovers.” Hosea smiles.

Arthur thinks about this. Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s taken the food from Hosea, then clambers into the older man’s palm, munching the chocolate.

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

It’s fair to say neither Hosea nor Arthur had planned their day to end up like this. It took a lot of negotiation for Hosea to think of a safe place for the much smaller Arthur that the teen was comfortable with. His pocket would’ve been too restrictive and riding on his hat would be too unsteady.

Arthur wakes up due to the noise Hosea was making packing up the camp.

“Good sleep, Arthur?” he smiles.

Arthur responds with a noncommittal grunt.

“We’ve got a long day’s ride ahead of us,” Hosea stands up, lifting the camp accessories onto his horse.

Arthur’s voice catches in his throat as the human stands to his full height. He knew humans were big, but to be so close to such a towering figure made Arthur’s stomach churn, terrifying him slightly. Seeing the human so casually lift up a bundle hundreds of times heavier and larger than he was. He shudders at the thought of what the human could do to him with strength like that.

Arthur flinches as Hosea turns around to face him, heart pounding as the human’s ground-shaking footfalls approach. He trembles a little as Hosea’s huge form crouches down.

“Ready to go, Arthur?” Hosea holds out his hand next to Arthur.

He nods and climbs onto the hand before him.

“Careful now. Hold on,” Hosea warns.

Arthur wraps his arms around Hosea’s thumb, the wind rushing through his hair as the human stands up. Awe fills his face as he looks around.

“You okay there?” Hosea asks softly.

“Y…yeah. Everything looks so different from here,” Arthur mutters.

“Hmm, I suppose it does. I haven’t given it much thought,” Hosea muses.

He moves his hand near his neck where there is a slight gap by his scarf.

“Go on, hop in, Arthur.”

Arthur slides off the hand, landing on Hosea’s shoulder. It’s not a bad spot. He can easily hide and see what’s going on. The scarf provides a nice wall against the chill breeze, and the human’s body heat is creating a nice warm area wrapped by the scarf.

Arthur’s slightly startled when he’s practically squashed against Hosea’s neck by the older man’s hand. He yelps as he feels a wide swinging motion, then a steady clopping. The pressure of the hand releases.

“You alright there, Arthur?” the closeness to Hosea’s booming voice, Arthur gives a frightened squeak.

“Sorry. I didn’t want you to fall while I mounted up,” Hosea apologises.

“’s alright. I’ll be fine,” Arthur mutters, trying to calm his racing heart.

“Why do you have the law after you?” Arthur pipes up.

He won’t admit that he likes this spot. He can still talk to Hosea without shouting, being seated below the man’s ear.

“My friend and I steal valuables from people who can afford to lose them.”

“Then what?”

“We give it to people who need it.”

“Why would the law chase you for that?”

“It’s complicated. Rich people don’t like having their stuff stolen, much less being given to the poor. The people who are supposed to keep the law…well…they like money. Whoever has the most money, has the law on their side,” Hosea explains.

“Humans are confusing,” Arthur replies.

‘My dear boy, you just said a cotton-pickin’ mouthful,” Hosea chuckles, the shaking of his chest jostling Arthur.

There hadn’t been much sound nor movement from the tiny person snuggled on Hosea’s shoulder. He was still there. Hosea could feel Arthur huddled under his scarf. Carefully turning his head, he sees the teen sound asleep, curled up under his shirt collar. He smiles and lightly brushes some stray locks away from Arthur’s eyes with his finger.

Arthur stretches with a groan. It only slightly shocks him that he’s right next to a human. If he were honest with himself, he should be worried at how quickly he got used to it.

“Comfortable there?” Hosea asks with a smile.

“No,” Arthur lies, yawning.

“You think we should stop for some food?” Hosea asks.

“I suppose,” Arthur mutters.

“Hold on then,” Hosea dismounts when he feels Arthur grab the scarf.

He takes his hat off and holds his hand up to his shoulder. Arthur clambers onto Hosea’s palm, holding on as the human places him on top of the hat.

“You will be safe there while I set up the fire,” Hosea gives Arthur a friendly smile.

Arthur had seen fire before, but never like this. Normally raging through a building, however in this case, slowly licking at some dry wood. The flickering was mesmerising and soothing.

“Arthur?” Hosea’s voice brings him back to reality.

“Hmm?”

‘I asked if you’ve ever tried rabbit.”

“Uh…no…”

“Now’s your chance.”

Arthur wouldn’t admit it to Hosea, but seeing the human rip apart the rabbit with his bare hands so easily honestly scared him, an uneasy feeling in his stomach as Hosea impales the chunk of meat with a knife. Continuing to remind Arthur of his insignificance alongside the towering human. He shudders despite the warmth of the fire. The sun has some bite to it, yet the chill seeps into his bones as he sits in Hosea’s looming shadow. Arthur quickly turns to face the fire, distracting himself from his terrifying thought processes,

“That should do it,” Hosea sits up, testing the meat tenderness with his fingers.

He slices off a sliver and hands it to Arthur. The tiny teen cautiously takes it, warily sinking his teeth into it. Admittedly it tastes quite nice, if a little weird.

“So, what do you think?” Arthur hadn’t realised Hosea was watching for his reaction.

“It’s alright, I suppose,” Arthur mutters.

He can’t help but look up as the human takes a bite of the rabbit meat. The chunk bitten off, he notices, is almost four times his size. His blood feels like it turned to ice seeing Hosea’s jaw move, his teeth probably bigger than Arthur’s head, no doubt mashing the meat into a pulp. He shudders at how easily this human could eat him, a mere snack, barely enough to fill his stomach.

Arthur feels the blood run from his face as he watches the mush descend as a lump down Hosea’s throat, disappearing under his collar, on its way to the digestive system.

“Arthur, you okay? You’ve gone pale,” Hosea looks concerned.

“I’m fine,” Arthur mumbles.

“We shall see,” Hosea says, reaching a finger toward Arthur.

‘Whoa, what are you doing?” Arthur protests.

“Relax, dear boy. I’m just seeing if you have a temperature.”

Arthur pouts as Hosea presses the pad of his finger to Arthur’s forehead.

“A bit low, but nothing to be alarmed about. Don’t want you to get sick,” Hosea scoops up the teen, gently depositing him between his neck and scarf.

Arthur holds on to the plush material as the huge form of Hosea packs up the camp and mounts onto the horse.

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

“Now, my friend may be loud and scary looking, but he won’t hurt you,” Hosea explains.

“But what if he does?” Arthur hesitates.

Hosea turns to face the tiny figure of Arthur.

“You can stay with me if you feel safer that way,” Hosea suggests.

Arthur nods and snuggles against Hosea’s neck as he approaches a campsite. Dismounting and securing his horse to a hitching post, he puts his hand to his shoulder.

“Come on, Arthur,” he urges softly.

Reluctantly Arthur climbs onto the offered hand, holding on to Hosea’s thumb as the human walks to a tent in the middle of the campsite using one hand to shield Arthur.

“Hey, Dutch,” Hosea calls to the man sitting under the tent.

Looking through the gaps between Hosea’s fingers, Arthur can see another man sitting down reading.

“Welcome back ‘Sea. Anything good?” the man looks up.

“Well, I may have found a new gang member,” Hosea replies.

“Really? You only went to scope out targets. Where are they, then?”

Heaving a sigh, Hose opens his hands to reveal Arthur to his friend.

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

Arthur thought he had mentally prepared himself enough to meet another human. He was wrong. This new man had an air of darkness surrounding him, whether due to his clothing choice, or the fact he was looking at Arthur like prey, just as a hawk or a snake studies a mouse. The smile Dutch suddenly makes doesn’t make Arthur feel any better. In fact, Arthur’s survival instincts kick in, and he goes to hide. The only place he can go is under Hosea’s shirt sleeve, causing a yelp from the older man as Arthur climbs up, stopping and hanging on for dear life near Hosea’s elbow.

‘I take it you didn’t expect that?” Dutch’s laugh thunders in Arthur’s ears.

“I didn’t expect him to be that scared of you, Dutch,” Hosea’s voice rumbles beside Arthur.

“You want to try saying ‘hello’ to Dutch again. You don’t have to go that close to him,” Hosea whispers.

Dutch smacks his friend’s arm.

It doesn’t take long for Arthur to poke his head out from under Hosea’s sleeve, then crawling onto the human’s palm, clutching the shirt material like a security blanket.

“Arthur, this is Dutch. Dutch, Arthur,” Hosea introduces, gesturing with his free hand.

“Pleasure to meet you, young man. Didn’t mean to scare you,” Dutch greets formally.

Arthur nods in acknowledgement, slightly tightening his grip on Hosea’s cuff. He can’t help but suspect that Dutch is a conniving sort.

#Red Dead Redemption 2 #RDR2 #RDR2 G/t #Arthur Morgan #but he's tiny #Hosea Matthews #totally would kidnap a tiny little malnourished street kid #only to take care of him #Dutch Van Der Linde #scares the poor little kid #The Curious Couple and their Unruly (tiny) Son #has a nice ring to it #Why do I make everything I touch G/t?#I can't help it #G/t #Giant/tiny #Giant #tiny

63 notes · View notes

biconicfinn · 4 years

Note

id like to know, what are your takes on politician!Alec? if you want to talk about that

THANK YOU FOR THIS ASK!!!!! POLITICIAN ALEC IS MY FUCKING JAM DJKABVHJKDBVKADVBFAV okay anon strap in because this will get crazy

holy shit this is long so i’m putting it under a read more!!

okay so first of all: alec is someone who has been trained from a young age to be a politician, he would have been educated in diplomacy and politics, his parents were expecting him to become head of the new york institute and they have no qualms about living vicariously through their children and forcing their burdens on them as we have seen in the show.

he was probably taught clave law and the accords, a whole bunch of languages (polyglot power couple malec ftw) because i assume the NYI uses english as their lingua franca because of their location but since institutes also have to deal with local downworld and mundane populations it’s safe to assume that in other countries where english isn’t the main language, they go with the local languages and alec would need to communicate with these other institute heads, etiquette, some formal ballroom dances like the waltz, the art of negotiation, administrative stuff like resource allocation, budgeting, public speaking, the nitty gritty details of the clave workings, in addition to the knowledge of the different races of the shadow world, hand to hand combat, combat with a variety of weapons (he masters archery to utter perfection but he definitely is also incredibly proficient in close range combat as well).

sorry i just love alec and he is definitely more competent than most of the Alec StansTM (yall know what im saying) make him out to be

okay so!!!!! it’s pretty much canon that alec has spent a considerable amount of time as acting head of the NYI; what with maryse and robert always fucking off to idris to lick the boots of the clave and so he probably has a good relationship with the people under his command. he’s probably put protocols in place to reduce casualties and injuries, form patrol teams that are well-balanced so that they are versatile enough to take just about any threat that comes their way, etc.

of course, thanks to a little thing called the nephilim’s deep-rooted homophobia, a lot of the work alec put in probably got negated when he came out. it took a lot of courage for him to come out and to be openly gay. raj was an absolute asshole to alec for no reason and often questioned his leadership decisions post coming out, and even if not all the shadowhunters reacted like that, they did show some resistance(?) to alec’s leadership when he was appointed head and questioned him. it probably took a lot out of him because it’s one thing to have your people doubt you as a leader because of your actions or words; your decisions as a leader, it’s another thing for them to mistrust you entirely because of a fundamental part of your identity that you can’t change. you can build trust by publicly admitting and apologising for mistakes and putting in honest work to be better, but it’s impossible to build trust when the other person doesn’t even see you as human to begin with.

this is turning into a hoti!alec ramble but i promise i will bring this back to politician!alec okay i promise i just need to establish the headcanons i’m building on first sorry

okay back to business!!!! i feel like alec is so very genuine and honest outside of the political sphere alec “casual wedding vows” lightwood anyone? so when he does show his ability to be a complete fucking shark in the political arena a lot of people are blindsided because they expected him to be very honest and direct but he knows that as much as he’d like to be genuine, he needs that shrewdness to navigate the political minefield of idris. he prefers directness, but if you take the manipulative, indirect, route and underestimate him, he will not hesitate to turn your own methods against you.

he is also the type of leader who constantly tries to make an effort. his intentions were genuine with the downworld cabinet and i think that if it wasn’t set up in the middle of the shitstorm which was valentine’s re-emergence and the circle’s rise, it would have been more successful. he has a lot to learn and unlearn, and he (an utter perfectionist) will do as much as he can to help the downworld. i like to think that in a post s3 world, but before the time skip, he helps to re-establish the ties between the shadow world factions in new york and focuses on being the nephilim voice of the downworld to the clave, constantly trying to push for new accords and reformed policies, and he makes an effort to not speak over the downworlders, but instead be their representative and ally to the clave because the clave are racist bastards who wouldn’t listen to them but they have to listen to alec lightwood (”it’s lightwood-bane, actually”), one of the heroes who stepped up to defend alicante when the rift to edom opened. (and also because if they did try to slander or belittle him, they risk angering magnus, who has enough clout to embargo most warlocks from providing magical assistance to any local institutes, if he feels that the downworld is being ignored despite the fact that a warlock is the sole reason why alicante was’t razed to the ground, or that he and his husband are being targeted by the clave. because they are That Couple.) in conclusion alec is a good ally okay?

but as much as he tries/tried to do right by the clave, he sometimes also doesn’t give a fuck about them. he’ll be in meetings at idris, and maybe they’re discussing asinine, irrelevant, minor issues that are really just stupid excuses to showboat and compare family clout and whatnot and he’ll be pissed as fuck because instead of discussing actual relevant issues like irregularities/strange patterns in demon attacks, hunting down remaining circle sleeper cells, reparations for the downworld (like for the heavenly fire project), rewriting the accords, rebuilding idris, helping get the attacked institutes back up and running, you know, actual important issues that need attention but no, we’re discussing some petty family squabble that turned into a political feud that involves everyone and their fucking uncle. and he gets so damn angry he just blows up and rants at them and tears them a new one. he finishes his impressively long spiel with “you know what? fuck this. when you guys are done fighting like children and taking up precious time that we should be using to talk about real, pressing issues that affect the entire shadow world instead of five people at this table, let me know and i’ll be there but until then don’t bother. if you’ll excuse me, i’m going back to my husband. thank you. and for the last damn time, my name is alec lightwood-bane. i already changed my damn name legally so fucking use it.” and he just leaves to go back to new york because fuck the clave.

he goes back home to the loft and it’s like the stress and anger just melts away because he walks in on magnus dancing around the kitchen as he cooks dinner, singing dancing queen at the top of his lungs, laughing when magnus twirls to see him leaning against the doorway of the kitchen with his heart eyes and blushes at being caught doing somethin so silly

he becomes a successful inquisitor by sheer force of will and determination. it’s not at all intentional, but it just happens. with the success of the cabinet and the measures he puts in place, he shares it with other institute heads and slowly more and more institutes are collaborating with the local downworld and most of the time, the statistics pay off in the long run. there are starting troubles as with any new initiatives, but soon enough there is a sizeable number of institutes following them successfully and it’s hard for the clave to ignore. alec gets invited to alicante to discuss the possibility of him becoming inquisitor just when the downworld deputy program is taking off in new york. (it all starts with simon asking “so are you guys nephilim or shadowhunters? what’s the difference? or is it interchangeable?” and then they realise that while nephilim is a term to describe half-angel half-human beings, shadowhunter is a term more commonly used by active duty demon hunters and drops out of use as a self-descriptor when the nephilim in question leaves combat. “so that means technically anyone in the shadow world whose job it is to fight demons is a shadowhunter? right?” and the lightbulbs light up in alec’s head immediately) oops time to get back to it the point.

okay so!!!! the clave offer alec the position of inquisitor and it’s part recognition for his efforts and acknowledgement of his skills, part them wanting to keep him under their control. how does that work? well it’s simple. if alec is inquisitor and the clave makes it as hard as possible for him to do any effective work, bogging him down with bureaucracy and and votes on motions that are just shy of the majority needed to pass laws etc etc. basically throw every road block they can at him and wear him down; forcing him to step down and thus silencing him, and by extension, the downworlders who rely on him for a voice in the clave.

malec side note: so they first say that magnus can come to alicante and make an exception for him, and the general plan is to make it look like they’re actually doing something good when it’s to lull them into a false sense of security. (but alec and magnus choose to live in brooklyn first because despite everything, it is still dangerous for magnus to be the only warlock in a city full of nephilim) but then alicante opens up to the rest of the shadow world, magnus becomes the high warlock of alicante, and the clave are dealing with the force of nature that is known power couple and ultimate badasses magnus and alec lightwood-bane. oops.

but they underestimate the power of alec’s Lightwood(-Bane) DeterminationTM and his sheer stubbornness. so their plan backfires spectacularly when within the first few years, he’s implemented laws to open alicante up to downworlders, expunge criminal records of downworlders who were previously wrongfully charged with crimes, rehabilitation of wrongfully imprisoned downworlders, mandatory downworld cabinet and downworld deputy initiatives worldwide, as well as be part of the core group that rewrote the accords to be more fair.

alec probably retires after like five years of being inquisitor and then magnus steps down as high warlock and they just travel the world together and be in love and happy, occasionally consulting on political issues here and there but for the most part they just run off into the sunset to be immortal husbands together because they’ve sacrificed enough for the good of the shadow world to last several lifetimes.

#skyrambles #skygetsasks #alec lightwood #shadowhunters #thank you for the ask anon!!! (although im like 99% sure i know who you are skbskbshfbsfh)#Anonymous

23 notes · View notes

thegentlecriticfilmreview · 4 years

Text

Fargo!

I am posting my essay on Peggy Blumquist and Hanzee Dent because I got an A+!!! I could not be happier about this grade lol. Fargo is one of my favourite shows and I was so excited when my Women in Pop Culture prof ( this is my favourite prof I have ever) said we could choose our own film/tv to analyze. I am worried that the format won’t upload properly but oh well?? Also fully aware that not everyone will agree with my analysis of Peggy but I truly believe she was a victim of her times!! if anyone reads this I HOPE YOU ENJOY IT.

An Analysis of Noah Hawley’s Fargo

The words, “This is a true story,” spill across the opening scene of every episode of Noah Hawley’s FX TV show, Fargo. The second season uses this phrase not only to welcome the viewer into the world of Fargo, but also to “reveal that true stories are always subjective stories, which means they are constructed stories” (Redmon, 2016, pg.16). This essay will focus on season two’s Peggy Blomquist, a white, middle-class woman, and Hanzee Dent, an indigenous man. The actions and motivations of both characters are constantly questioned by other characters in the show and the viewer, as the vibe of the season deeply inhabits the dominant hegemony of America in 1979. Peggy and Hanzee’s stories of survival in a world that rejects them prove that there is great power in constructing truth that exists outside of the dominant ideology.

As mentioned above, Fargo operates within a dominantly male and patriarchal lens. From an exterior perspective, Peggy is the perfect model for the male gaze. She is a slim, white, blonde woman, and presents herself in a feminine manner. However, the male gaze is a source of extreme discomfort for Peggy. In fact, the thing she wants most in life is to, “self actualize.” This goal of “self actualizing,” does nothing to tell the viewer what type of person Peggy wants to be, it serves only to let the viewer know that she is someone who struggles daily with her sense of self. Peggy has an impossible time separating herself from her marriage, indicating that she has in some ways internalized the male gaze. John Berger’s 1972 Ways of Seeing, describes this well, “the surveyor of women in herself is male: the surveyed female” (Zeisler, 2008, pg. 7).

A connection can be made to the conclusions drawn by 1970s American media about women. “The ways in which women were portrayed in the overall narrative, focusing on particular limited dimensions of the characters...were women portrayed as physicians or housewives? Active or passive?” (D’Acci, 2004, pg. 379). Peggy’s lack of a sense of individual self is her driving force in the series, “the relevance of the male gaze here is not in how it manifests but how agents push against and subvert its unconscious influences” (Ritland, 2018, pg 1284). In fact, what is truly at stake for Peggy Blomquist when she hits Rye Gerhardt with her car, is her fantasy identity.

The scene that deserves the most recognition in Peggy’s story arc is from the season finale, “Palindrome.” Finally caught and arrested for the hit and run murder of Rye Gerhardt, Peggy attempts to explain herself. “I wanted to choose, be my own me. Not be defined by someone else’s expec-and then that guy. That stupid guy, walked out into the...why’d he have to do that?” The camera angle, when focusing solely on Peggy, is similar to the angle Lou Solverson would see her from his driving mirror. This speech of Peggy’s can instantly be ridiculed, as we see it through Lou’s eyes, particularly when she describes herself as a victim. This is where it is necessary to adopt an oppositional female gaze, “the female gaze refers to work presented from a decidedly female perspective that challenges the patriarchal status quo” (Ritland, 2018, pg. 1284).

Peggy states that she was a victim before Rye Gerhardt ever was, and that Lou would not be able to understand because he is a man. “It’s a lie, okay? That you can do it all. Be a wife and a mother, and this self-made career woman, like there’s thirty-seven hours in a day! And then when you can’t, they say it’s you.” Peggy’s expressions here echo a genuine concern of the constructions presented to women. “In the 1980s, there were TV characters who seemed to be striving for feminist ideals, but for most of them—as it was for women in the real world—it was almost impossible to be feminist superwomen in a world that was still stubbornly unequal” (Zeisler, 2008, pg.13). For Peggy, second wave feminist discourse in the mainstream media had led her to believe she could, “do it all.” When this turned out to be false, Peggy realized that she had betrayed herself by internalizing the male gaze and its, to borrow Susan Douglas’s term, enlightened sexism. “Enlightened sexism is feminist in its outward appearnce (of course you can be or do anything you want) but sexist in its intent (hold on, girls, only up to a certain point)” (Douglas, 2010, pg. 285). Lou halts Peggy in her realizations of America’s hypocrisies surrounding equality. In doing so, he unknowingly proves her suspicions true. “They say it’s you. You’re faulty.. like you’re inferior somehow!” The female gaze validates Peggy as a victim of the times. What makes this more interesting is how the three other feminist characters in the show, who firmly believe the time of inequality is over, subsequently die at the hands of men.

One of the most compelling storylines in the show is Hanzee Dent’s. A Native American man, he was adopted by the drug-running Gerhardt family as a child. What is so appealing about Hawley’s depiction of Hanzee is that he seems to truly understand that “representations are mediations- that is, they are formed in the human mind and are human interpretations of some exterior realm” (D’Acci, 2004, pg. 375). In fact, even as we watch Hanzee betray his foster family and destroy their drug empire, the relations between indegenous and white characters in the show is the most believable part of season two. “Audiences are always aware that the version in motion on screen is but one version of some story that belongs to a group of people” (Redmon, 2016, pg.18). The hegemonic, patriarchal Gerhardt family is a screamingly obvious metaphor for the colonizer, which to Hawley’s credit, is why the depictions of indgenous characters in the show are so successful. “Hegemony is the power or dominance that one social group holds over others. This can refer to differences between and among social classes within a nation” (Lull, 2003, pg 61). The best way for him, a white writer, to portray indegenous characters, was to do so through the eyes of European settler families.

The patriarchal, hegemonic narrative of Fargo’s second season actually allows the viewer to occupy the spaces Peggy Blomquist and Hanzee Dent invented for themselves. “In the end, Hawley explicitly establishes what might have always been implied in his assertion that his story is a true story, namely, that his story is an anti-binarist construct that can tolerate alternative arrangements” (Redmon, 2016, pg. 25). Peggy’s refusal to believe that second wave feminism had achieved gender equality is the reason she is the sole feminist character to survive. Hanzee’s decision to forsake the Gerhardt family can be seen as a personal rebellion against colonization, especially considering his last scene, where we hear him speak his native language for the first time in the series. Lastly, Peggy and Hanzee’s recognition that the dominant ideology of the time was not on their side is what inspired their very empowerment.

#fargo #peggy #hanzee dent #essay #i know that no one cares #noah hawley #yay #kind of a review #tv #film

22 notes · View notes

suddeninklings · 5 years

Text

Summary. Louis Bloom needed a change. Alone in a new city, he is ready to make his mark as he had in Los Angeles. Sadie Sims is alone, too. But she knows the city in ways he doesn’t.

Introduction.

The dinner rush at Whitney’s on 4th had long passed. It had been busy, for a Tuesday. Customers of all sorts had come and gone. Tourists, locals, and regulars, but the crowd was mostly middle age. This wasn’t a place where young blood flocked. It was a staple of the Inner Sunset, but it had remained more or less unchanged since Ben and Vera Whitney had purchased the property in 1972. Too old to be hip. Too young to be a historic treasure…

Now there were only the hangers-on. An older couple sat in the coveted corner window booth, sipping decaf, indulging in a hard-earned, comfortable silence. Two men were seated at the counter, eating eggs and reminiscing. There was only one patron who sat alone by the front window. Louis Bloom. He occupied the same booth he had the night before. And the night before that. It was the only storefront on the block still open. The others, consisting of a family-owned pharmacy, a chain deli, a hardware store, a UPS store and a hippy gift shop, were all closed for the night, their windows darkened. Street side, he sat just under the “h” in “Whitney’s” that had been painted on the window in a curly, but dated font. The paint had been scratched away here and there, a victim of age and weather. The booth he chose was in better shape than most. It was perhaps too plush, covered in a cherry red vinyl, but it was clean. In front of him sat a plated omelette, barely picked over, and a large mug of black coffee.

His attention was directed at his phone, a pair of cheap, black headphones crammed into the aux adapter. One bud was stuck in his ear. The other hung down in his lap. He was listening intently, scrolling through several online police patches he had discovered thanks to a local reddit board. He switched between them every third minute, but it was turning into a dead night. Aside from a few low key robberies. Maybe on another night he would have considered pursuing them, but he needed something big if he was to maintain a good relationship with the contact he had made at one of the local stations. His name was Robert Dean and he was primed for Louis’ intervention. His station was struggling in the ratings and he was desperate for a leg up. The perfect partner. It was no small miracle that he had been able to track one down only two weeks into his tenure in this new city. San Francisco.

The decision to leave Los Angeles wasn’t an easy one, but he couldn’t deny that circumstances needed to change if he were to continue to grow in the industry he had revolutionized. His relationship with Nina had soured. The competition had grown since he had exploded onto the scene. The number of copycats had risen significantly in a matter of months. It didn’t surprise him. Imitation is the highest form of flattery, they say. They. He thought, bitterly. They were ruining everything. He was no longer a lone shark in a large sea. He was one of many, hunting and feeding at the first scent of blood. Bait was being gobbled up so quickly, he was lucky to get by with one good story a week. It wasn’t enough. He needed more. A new sea, one untainted by the mimics that clung to him as if he were some giving, door-opening host. He thought long and hard about where he would choose to move. Chicago had been his second choice. Perhaps he would find himself there, eventually. But the city by the bay had some scintillating perks. It was a city in flux. The burgeoning, nationwide class war was escalating faster here than in most urban areas. The beloved streets, still rife with historical infamy, were now caught between the poorer sentimentalists and the vampiric greed of Silicon Valley overlords. A battle wouldn’t decide the victor. This was a war. The tension was palpable. He could smell it on the air as soon as he arrived in town, with only his equipment and his car. It thrilled him. What need was there for uppers or alcohol when the night brought a rush that could sustain him for days.

“Refill?” A waitress stood by his table, a tired but sincere smile gracing her face. She must have been at least forty years of age. Her hair was dark, her teeth and fingernails showed signs of steady smoking, but she never smelled of it. She wore a small name tag clipped to her apron, bearing the name “Annie”. He smiled back, maintaining eye contact.

“Yes, thank you.” He said.

“Anytime, honey.” She replied, before shuffling away.

He liked Whitney’s. The staff was amiable and attentive, but never chatty or meddlesome. For the most part, they let him be, only stepping in when it was clear he needed something. Aside from the owner, there were no men working there. At least, the night wait staff was all female. There were three of them: Annie, Laurel and Sadie, each working five days so that there would always be at least two to support Vera at the counter while Ben hovered over the kitchen staff most nights. Except for the first and third Monday, when the diner was closed altogether. Annie was off on Sundays & Mondays. Laurel on Tuesdays & Wednesdays. And Sadie on Thursdays & Saturdays, most likely because she was the youngest and therefore the most likely to want to be out and about on such a vital weekend night. Vera was a warm woman, portly with a throaty voice, but she seemed rather attached to the youngest waitress. At first Louis thought them related in some way. They had the same bright eyes. He had never met the day shift staff, since he was usually tied up at his place, editing or planning his route for the night, running errands or sleeping if the need presented itself.

He shifted in his seat, sighing as his eyes flicked from the screen for a moment. His stomach constricted. That’s right, he had come here because he was hungry. He reached for his fork, severing another large bite and swallowing it down. The omelette was more cold than hot now, but he barely tasted it. He focused again on the screen, this time turning his attention to a watchdog group he had found on facebook. He had gone to the effort of creating a burner account for the sole purpose of gaining access to the group. It was made up of locals throughout the city, and while he had only found two leads worth following, it was proving to be a helpful tool as people seemed to post to the thread day and night, hour by hour. It baffled him, people’s need to overshare, to shout to the technical ether every thought and experience they deemed worthy of public consumption. Though in most cases, not a single shred of it was worth more than a scrap of trash. What was it about the social networks that lulled the masses so easily into a false sense of security? Didn’t they realize people were always watching, cataloguing it all? It baffled him. But people clung to it as if they were made from it. As if every post or like or emoji were connective tissue, vital to survival. Pathetic, he thought, padding through another thread. Eyes searching for various keywords. But helpful. That he couldn’t deny.

“Uh, sir?” Came a soft call.

He looked up. It was Sadie this time. She wore the same royal blue dress as the others. It sported a wide wrap around white collar, with five large buttons that came together at the front. Unlike the older two, she pinned her name tag to the side the cropped apron tied around her waist. Her hair, a natural ashy blonde, was choppy and short, but she had most of it tied back away from her face by a thin folded floral bandana.

“We’ll be closing in ten minutes.”

“Alright,” He said, his eyes drifting to his watch. It wasn’t often that time slipped away from him unnoticed.

“Was there anything wrong with your food?” She asked.

He looked to his plate where a good portion of the omelette still sat untouched.

“No, actually, could you box it for me?” He asked, his dark blue eyes meeting her cool, almost grey ones.

“Sure,” She said with a smile. It wasn’t as seasoned as Annie’s but Louis could appreciate the effort. She took the plate and headed into the back. He watched her disappear through the door, the chatter on the radio in his ear dimming. There was something strange about her, something familiar. He had yet to put his finger on it.

She returned a moment later and handed him the box in a brown paper bag.

“Thanks,” He said, thumbing a wad of bills in his pocket.

“Oh, you pay at the front,” She said, gesturing over her shoulder.

He pulled a twenty loose and held it out to her. She eyed it, almost suspiciously.

“Split it?” He explained. “With Annie.”

She nodded, taking the bill in between her thumb and index finger and folding it. “Thank you.”

Her gaze fell away from him, dodging his eye. Louis thought little of it. He was used to it. She looked as though she wanted to say something else, but drifted back to the counter, calling for Annie.

He took one last listen to each station, hoping for some sort of lead before he would need to resort to drifting up and down the streets. He was still familiarizing himself with the streets and alleyways. Which ones were less traveled, which were highly looked after. Fortunately for him, at seven miles, it was a much smaller layout to anything he was used to. He didn’t expect it would take him much longer to learn the ins and outs of the landscape. For now though, he was taking it easy. Acclimating.

With nothing sparking his attention, he slid from the booth tucking the phone into the back pocket of his jeans and slipping the other earbud into place. He stepped outside, pausing at the edge of the street corner, trying to remember where he had parked.

He heard the faint tinkling of the bell that hung above the entry door behind him.

“Goodnight, Ms. Sadie.” It sounded like Annie’s voice.

“Night, Annie.”

“You walk around the panhandle, you hear me? And head straight home. I don’t like the thought of you wandering around.”

Louis pivoted slightly, watching them from the corner of his eye. Sadie was rolling her eyes.

“Annie,” she said, seemingly over a conversation they must have had more than once. “I don’t wander, I just walk. And I’ve never run into any trouble.”

Annie just tutted, stepping of the curb and crossing the street to her car. “That don’t mean you won’t.”

Sadie lifted a hand to wave her goodbye, then turned on her heel and headed down the street towards the park. As she walked, she pulled the kerchief loose and stuffed it into the pocket of her jean jacket. The jacket was at least two sizes too large for her. She reached into the backpack slung across her left shoulder and pulled a folded baseball cap out, plunking it onto her head. It was a deterrent. With the large jacket, short hair and hat, she could easily be mistaken for a boy.

Follow her. A voice in his head urged. He wasn’t sure why. There was potential there. A young woman walking alone through the streets at night…it meant trouble certainly. But was it newsworthy? Or was it an everyday tragedy. Too familiar and too frequent for people to care. Really care.

He took one step towards the park when a blaring siren shattered through the relative peace of the dark, empty street behind him. His fingers went to his ear, pressing the bud deeper in as his free hand fiddled with the tracer on his phone.

Finally, he thought, listening greedily to the dispatch. Something good.

He spun back around, heading for his car and his equipment.

Thanks for reading! This was really just to get my feet wet I guess. This story is just flowing out of me and I can’t be stopped.This story will eventually go to some dark and creepy places. It’s the nature of the character and noir after all.

#nightcrawler #fanfiction #louis bloom #jake gyllenhaal #tnio

13 notes · View notes

thesweetblossoms · 5 years

Text

Conversations at Night

🎹Last week, a newly immigrated Jordanian Uber driver, Omar, drove me to work, he mentioned that he studied Arabic literature and was curious about by name. When I told him, it was indeed an Arabic word, chosen by my father, he readily shared his research and knowledge, to tell me more about its meaning. He relayed to me that the name derives from one of the oldest tribes in the Arabian desert, that the root word means hardworking as well intelligent. Although I had known that my name meant, intelligence, since I was a little girl, after learning the actual root word, “Sammar”, I researched further, discovering it also means “conversations at night”. This is such a haunting meaning, since I often think and write at night, and it pleasing to think that my name might indeed be a self fulfilling prophecy.

If I were to list seven elements that contribute to a women’s appeal, that carry the impression of compelling, interesting and unforgettable femininity, that strengthen a ladies ability to exert a magnetic pull, sex appeal, as well as attraction, my list would include grace, intelligence, wit, confidence, imagination, style and vision. For each dispenses the charms, extracts the best elements and leaves faint traces of the women’s soul into the atmosphere she inhabits and colors all her encounters.

A graceful women is one that may be counted on to examine the hand she has been given and find the only way to play would be to create, envision and design, a charming, memorable and beautiful life. She would notice that a hand painted thank you note and homemade lemon zested madeleines would be a happy gift to send to an elementary school teacher, or a message to an author, after reading a book may increase the power of both written and unwritten works, or that dealing with multiple obligations yet remaining unfazed is the key to carrying out each endeavor well. A graceful women is often a reliable friend, somebody who has kindness and strength to spare,

who is generous and open hearted in providing ideas, advice, new ways of thinking, perspectives and insights that open channels, clarifying problems, dilemmas or troubles. By confronting issues with a high level of ability, sharpness, composure and calm, she inspires faith in outcomes as well as a sense of security in others, for she reminds us, that the universe readily furnishes us with necessary tools and the awakened among us may cannily use these to create gardens, or start companies, write books, raise children or steadfastly and relentlessly chase any dream.

Intelligence is an irreplaceable tool in a women’s arsenal. While appearances satisfy many evolutionary prerogatives, people are often attracted to the components of a persons personality, character and energy. Thus ones ability to think, to make connections, to gain and use knowledge, to envision new and different worlds, to find patterns, to look minutely at details, to be able to grasp the universal horizons, to simplify the blinking space between birth and death, to detect humor or to ideate a world without pain and suffering, may be intoxicating to others, just as newly opened ivory roses, are to an orchid pink desert hummingbird.

The wittiness factor adds a sparkle to drifting breezes, ticking minutes and to the light filled hours of experience, for any encounter is more pleasurable when the conversation is amusing, interesting and articulate. The epitome for wit may be Jane Austen’s, Elizabeth Bennet, a heroine that is able to duel with the most bedeviling of men, who is able to enchant all around her with her kindness, intelligence and passion. For eons, I thought that being witty meant the ability to think fast and return a volley with ferocity and brilliance, yet it may actually embody a larger context, as being witty may be a certain kind of sensitivity, of knowing the correct words to appease a tense situation, perhaps with a gentle surrender, or a thoughtful offer, or it may be the priceless skill, at a dinner party or even, an attorneys break room setting, perchance, to extract the most vivacity from another person. A witty disposition unleashes the exuberant and sardonic ability to ascertain the humor inherent, even within the bitterest of dilemmas and unsavory intervals, it persuades the sleepiest of senses to savor the intrinsic qualities of reality, of the funny, cute and precious elements of quickly changing and developing children, or of noting the romantic opportunities of lounging in candlelight, when the power goes out, or in taking rain showered tree and blossom perfumed walks in less crowded sidewalks, or of knowing that what is truly relevant is how much you laughed, or lingered in beauty or dwelled in love.

Confidence is a narcotic quality, it opens ones experience to manifest the most fruitful results. It relies on an innate sense of place, an ability to see through many of the artificial blocks that prevent us from enjoying the present. I am awed at the way certain individuals carry themselves, the plus size models, or the plainly dressed and unassuming tech founders, or little children who have not been conditioned to compare themselves to media and cultural archetypes. Confidence arises from a comprehension of the value that one may add to the situation, knowing that the simplest gestures may tint the quietest hours, or even the most hectic ones, it is the calling card of the person, who introduces themselves and gains a new friend, or the individual that sweeps aside other peoples narrow viewpoint by example, or who seldom worries about how the audience regards them, as long as they adhere to high principals, values and modes of conduct.

Creating imaginary worlds, or parallel dimensions is a satisfying and alluring anecdote to navigating life in our present form. Therefore, a wild, creative, whimsical, exuberant, fantastical, energetic, ephemeral or any other type of imagination allows us to wonder into other realms that may exist in the vastness of eternity, like invisible moons, beguiling us unawares. An imagination could spark an ambrosial love affair, by sensing possibility in a potential partner, despite the blindingly obvious shortcomings, leading one on a romantic journey that could be thrilling despite the gaping variance from previous amorous notions. Or it could lead one to design and create an incandescent and disarmingly magnificent garden, laden with peach hydrangea, royal purple forget me nots, green tea dogwood blossoms, pink sapphire peonies and a hanging rope swing, knotted to a stately fairy light strung oak tree, to softly glide upon, while caressed by honeysuckle perfumed drifts, lashings of tenderness from ripening pink moons and lulling gold silk threaded clouds. It could create worlds that linger in our shared literary world, enthralling readers over generations with indelible characters and themes, such as J.M Barries, Peter Pan, or A Midsummers Nights Dream by William Shakespeare. An unfettered imagination could birth an enthusiastic and charming story about a mischievous giraffe in Paris, or a lonely starfish who longs to escape the coral reefs, or a striking, haunting and unforgettable love story set in the English countryside.

Words are more permanent than thoughts, as thoughts dissipate unerringly into the atmosphere, so just as writing encodes symbolic meaning, accelerates and defines the future as well as leaves greater tangible traces than musings alone, personal style is also an imprint of ones personality into reality. Sometimes the simplest ideas beguile me, the idea that a dress as ephhermal as a chiffon piece protects, shelters and conceals us from the part of reality that is separate from our selves, yet also exists as a work of art, or that how we dress impacts our energy, attitudes and moods, wearing floral patterns reminds us of the healing potential of nature, a black studded dress advertises that we must not be trifled with, or a nude halter silk dress evinces a desire for frivolity, sensuality and celebration. My thoughts often dwell upon an inking, an ominous sensation or a persistent thought cloud, that there is scare time as well as opportunity, to express myself to the farthest limits of possibility, to sit quietly to read and think about manifold subjects that render illumination, or even to savor the wondrous scenes occurring across time and space, as it entails a sacrifice of other pressing matters to notice, contemplate and mull the mysterious unfurling of the hours. I feel this way especially poignantly regarding style, that there isn’t enough time to wear the clothes that have come across my path, that I may not have adequate chances to choose different earrings to compliment my outfits or wear lovely shoes that would enhance a carefully chosen scarf. Just as the way an exquisite platinum ring sets of a twinkling emerald gem, this dearth of time influences me to both savor as well as thoughtfully consider the ritual of dressing in the morning for work, or selecting a caramel and gold beaded party dress to wear for a date night, or collecting another white cotton dress to linger in the garden.

Ones vision far exceeds the artifices and false boxes of sex, status or upbringing as vision is an element of our soul, it is a masterful and ecstatic gift, one that many lucky people possess, yet only to squander it in half sleepy lives, leaving a handful to scale the heights of awareness, or risk the temptations of insanity, topple precariously over the edges of reason as great visual artists such as Vincent Van Gogh, Claude Monet or Georgia O Keefe. For vision is a subtle ecstasy, enabling us to be charmed by overwhelmingly gorgeous vistas such as lilac clouded rainforests in Costa Rica, or Balinese, glimmering beach temples, a misty pine tree cove in Vancouver, a small town waterfall in Connecticut with groves of blossoming plum trees, a hilly glade ripe with nigella, cosmos, asters and lace flowers in Colorado, a moonshot Taj Mahal with night blooming jasmine and tuberose, a concealed hydrangea, rose and clematis ivy and moss draped reading bench in a garden in Cotswalds, or a white chiffon gown and black tie soirée at the Hall of Mirrors at the Versailles. Yet, the boundless gift of vision includes the ability to create imaginary worlds, perhaps, the talent to create a Parisian rooftop soirée with pink champagne, piano music, shadows of darkness and light, a setting for an overture, for the mischievous heiress in a backless black silk dress with emerald earrings, and the tall, captivating, yet, impecunious gentlemen in a patched up tweed jacket, both, serenaded by the musical notes and lilac dusk breezes floating over pooled pillar candles, strung Japanese lanterns, multiple riveting conversations and hinting at a momentous rendezvous, by star struck water fountains in the rose gardens below. But, vision unwavering burnishes the magic of the ordinary, common place or even mundane, like a spell or incantation, it charms us when we are at leisure, maybe, when we see the tiny spiders performing gymnastics over the blossoming tomatillo plants, or the shadowy outline of cosmos on the pavement, or a black thrasher bird feather, of the slowly whirling pink grasses in the inundating light.

During a spell of neglecting to refill my hummingbird feeders with handmade nectar, I diverted my spare time to planting seeds, fertilizing and watering my garden consistently. On Saturday afternoon, while lazying in the balcony garden with cups of Irish coffee, I noticed a hummingbird fly into the covered garden with pots of jasmine, tuberose, black eyed Susan’s, flowering basil, cosmos, roses, sweet alyssum and Mexican sunflowers, and sip greedily from the roses and cosmos before flying away. I was bewitched by the sight, realizing how much I miss seeing the fast beating whizzing petite birds visit my garden, yet enthralled that by growing flowers they may still frequent my space and imbibe in the nectar they find therein.

By looking again, more carefully, calmly, methodically at the possessions we already have concealed away in delicate pouches or miniscule ceramic bowls, or barely holding up in creased envelopes in oyster pink Prada purses, we might be delighted, intrigued and captivated by what we discover. I recently took out my Elsa Peretti teardrop necklace out and considered the fragile silver chain and the evocative shape of a single drop of water, borne of insidious joy or recalcitrant sorrow. I hadn’t worn it for many years as there were two tiny knots in the chain that I couldn’t untangle and was too busy to take to Tiffany's to repair. Yet, once I took it out again, with a degree of maturity or skill that is the gift of growing older, I was able to focus on the minuscule tangles and unknot them slowly with concentration and patience. With the years, we gain talents, perspectives and abilities that are not immediately apparent. So it is with pleasure that I wear my long ago acquired and conscientious stored necklace, hoping it charms the seductive flow and cadence of the present time, to symbolize our physical ability to transform energy when we cry and to take the tears and alchemize it to realms of imagination, wonder and beauty.

Often during breaks between work, I succumbs to islands of fancy and I scribble shards of fancy and nonsense; I seek alchemy in every leaf and discover magic in every blossom, I leave secrets in the open meadows and plant revelations under the shadows of cedar trees, I traipse into comedies in the coffee beaned darkness and escape tragedies in the mirrored light, I linger in the borders between moments, in the beats between the notes and the spaces between the lines.

One is able to measure the healing quotient of a house by the vibrancy and the lushness of its plant inhabitants. I am aware of this co-relation, whenever I enter a space with emerald, jade, arsenic green, oyster or polka dotted pink, or hues of deep Provençal lavender, that appear content, peaceful, well tended, happily imbibing light showers, fending off the dusty cadence of windows, rising tenuously, joyously or even arrogantly from black pearled soil, that itself, is verdant, sufficiently hydrated, evidently fertile, and with lilting stems that have been either left to its own devices, or that been thoughtfully sculpted with the gardeners hands with a pair of much used, oiled and sharpened bonsai scissors. There is a tangible loving energy that emanates from these spaces, where the subtlest creatures are cared for and honored. For our lives are akin to sheafs of fragilely stroked watercolor botanical paintings, tied loosely with a nude pink silk ribbon, each offering a daily experiment in alchemy, practiced, by cutting off a branch to allow another, greater access to light and air, or by gently pulling off dried leaves, so that another might sprout from the green stem below, or to take a flourishing limb from one plant to embed into another pot so that it may root and create an independent plant. These houseplants allow us to deepen our connection to nature, to entwine with it unwavering flow, recklessly, by attempting to manipulate and control living entities, by inviting other species and personalities into our midst, by examining the visible patterns, arcs, shapes, forms and manifestations of botanicals, to attempt to understand its quiet language and to bind ourselves to them, within our own scant hours, upon this pale dot, that is planted itself, by some unknown gardener, into eternal space.

Spend the day looking at the shadows and the night looking at the stars. For there is magic and mystery in the hidden spaces that the illumination conceals, while there are truths, beyond the blatant solar flares that the softly lit moon shyly gives away. I linger in the early November breezes while the crescent moons silver filters indolently through a congress of palm tree leaves, into my Paris cup of chamomile tea. I lull in the lantana, basil, chrysanthemum, rose, tuberose, orange leaf and jasmine perfume. I am soothed by the abstract and bewitching melodies of the wind chimes, the song of the flowing water in the fountain, of old memories lingering within the fabric, weavings and leaves; of the faded firoza, mustard and cream kantha blanket, ivory paint chipped rattan chair and the new marigold plants. These ameliorate the current time, by reminding me of my grandparents garden, as a little girl, even though, the textures, fragrances and lyrics are carefully, and irreversibly separated, by a handful of decades from my contemplations, here, bathed in the heady new moon and the gently biting desert winter winds. But perhaps, there is more to consider, for garden perfumes, night nectar chasing moths, fluttery eucalyptus branches and the tricks of the heavenly bodies, might allow frames to shift and flirt unbeknownst with each other.

Can you hear the wondering butterfly and the prancing bee, whispering gently through the lavender breezes, follow me, follow me? 🌊

#design #healing #lifestyle #love #gypsy #style #bohemian #flowers #perfume #wellness #women #jewelry #tiffany #ideas #pleasure #magic #alchemy #shortstories #gardening

3 notes · View notes

parallel5ths · 5 years

Text

Buffy paper!

I had to write a paper for my English class and wrote this in about 12 hours. It's definitely a little haywire, but a good starting point for expanding on the universe.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer has become a cult classic since it’s premier in 1997. After it’s unsuccessful predecessor by the same moniker, no one would have imagined it would explode to the icon it is today. Buffy Summers, introduced as a high school sophomore, has a destiny and that is to be the Vampire Slayer. Each generation, there is only one Slayer who is chosen in her teenage years. Buffy’s path from high schooler to adult is an obvious one in age, but less obvious in other ways. This series is widely appreciated for its exemplars on serious issues such as depression, addiction, and death. Through these outlined examples, the mystical are used to illustrate the complex problems faced by ordinary people throughout their lives creating a series that is entertaining, serious, and relatable.

Buffy seamlessly interweaved the real world with the mystical to find a unique way to tell a story. This gave it a unique following due to the numerous subjects it tackled. “Buffy used the monsters that crossed into the human world through the Hellmouth as a metaphor for the horrors of high school, which in turn were a metaphor for the horrors of life in general” (Genzlinger 2017). Season Five is a great example of this. This season finds a way to weave interpersonal family dynamics with an otherwise outrageous storyline. While Buffy navigates a romantic relationship as well as being a big sister to a whiny teenager, she also must find balance in her role as the Slayer. One moment of distraction is all that is needed for someone to get the upper hand, a point which she is very familiar with after her brief death in the first season. As if all of that wasn’t enough, her mother then falls ill. Buffy had been surrounded by the reality of death for years now, but there is something vulnerable about it being your mother.

In a show usually filled with comedy to offset the seriousness, the episodes about Joyce Summers had a very different feel to them. The music is either very quiet or completely absent, only making the backdrop starker. In the hospital scene where it is revealed Joyce has a brain tumor, we are met with a close-up of Buffy’s face as the color drains and the sound falls away. Dr. Michael Bryant, who uses this scene in his medical classes comments “Patients’ minds often fixate onto the most serious condition possible, once told they have a brain tumour. Any other words become white noise and static, and float past on empty currents of dead air.” This portrayal of that heartbeat in your head feeling when confronted with news you cannot comprehend is relatable.

Episodes pass, and we are lulled into a false sense of security. Up to this point, we have lost characters but none this close to the main group. As I Was Made to Love You ends, you see Buffy arrive home, putting her jacket down and calling for her mom as the audience sees a blurry background behind. She turns, pulling this into focus as we see Joyce laying lifeless on the couch. Buffy calls her again, hoping for her to wake but the reality starts setting in. Her voice softening, she says “Mommy?”, a departure from the “mom” directly before as the screen cuts to black. Amidst the monsters and boogeymen of Sunnydale, they found the monsters we really face every day.

Throughout the season, Buffy is seen becoming unsure of her roles as parent, sister, and Slayer as they start to conflict. The episode Intervention begins to show Buffy’s depression and detachment forming. Buffy goes on a vision quest to find answers about her role while the Buffybot fools the rest of the Scooby Gang into thinking she’s the real deal. This is the first stark difference between the Buffy from season one and who she has become now. “The relentlessly cheery Buffybot functions as an idealized version of the Slayer, restoring something of the human Buffy’s youthful chirpiness and being used as an emotional substitute by Dawn who actually lies down on the bed next to her as if she were the real thing” (James 147). With a few exceptions, the Buffybot is able to take Buffy’s place in all roles of her life while also being more likable to her friends and family. Buffy’s resurrection at the beginning of the penultimate season is the final nail in the coffin before Buffy’s depression is shown in the foreground.

At the end of After Life, the audience gets the moment they have been waiting for. Buffy has her heart-to-heart with Dawn, thanks her friends for saving her from a hell dimension and there’s a group hug. She walks out the back door into the sun which is almost too bright, a reference to Buffy’s time in the afterlife. The speech that follows is one any Buffy fan will remember vividly. After Buffy’s sacrifice to save her family and the world, she was rewarded with Heaven. She was finally happy, loved and at peace. She was ripped away from perfection by the people in her life who love her most and they can never know. Knowing what she lost was already weighing on her as she mentions how everything on Earth is “hard and bright and violent” (“After Life” (41:42-41:47). As the tragic hero figure she is, the episode ends with her emphasizing that no one can know what she has shared.

Through the next few episodes, we see Buffy once again struggle with where she fits in. Buffy’s “rebirth” symbolizes her official birth in adulthood in many ways. The rest of the Scooby Gang has established their lives while she was gone. Everyone is in committed relationships, they have jobs or are in school and she is just the Slayer. Her new “enemies” in this season even comment that she is unfocused while jumping job to job. She is stuck in two roles she didn’t choose, despite the name “Chosen One”. It’s at this point she starts spending more time with Spike, the only one who seems to see her pain and understand how she feels. He understands more about the supernatural side of her that no one else can relate to. In Once More with Feeling, the musical episode, there is no disguising Buffy’s pain. Through the various songs she features in, she describes going through the motions and being unable to feel anything. Buffy’s secret is laid bare to the rest of the gang, forced to reveal she was in Heaven. Finally, she tells Sweets, the demon orchestrating these catchy numbers, to “give me something to sing about. Please, give me something” (43:48-44:00). Her depression has progressed to the point where she doesn’t feel like she has anything left. She immediately starts dancing, eventually spinning in circles progressively faster until she appears to start burning. An assisted suicide attempt in front of everyone she loves. Yet, Spike is the one who jumps in to save her, from the fires of Hell it seems, by telling her she has to keep on living. The episode ends on Buffy “getting the fire back” and kissing Spike, the beginning to a complex relationship between Buffy’s human and supernatural side.

Although the rest of the season primarily focuses on Willow and her addiction to magic, Buffy is still fighting her battles throughout. She takes a minimum wage food service job to make money since she is now the sole provider and has no qualifications she could put on a resume. Dawn starts acting out by stealing and sneaking out with boys, a cry for help and attention. Buffy is drowning too deep in all her own roles conflicting while also battling the lack of desire to do so to notice what is happening. In rapid fire, Buffy finds out about Dawn stealing, her ex-boyfriend shows up with a wife and Xander abandons Anya at the altar. Everything is completely in flux, but it is always her responsibility to hold everyone and everything together.

With Buffy as her most confused and detached, her best friend needs her the absolute most. Once again, things start getting back to normal when Tara is suddenly shot and killed. With Buffy also in critical condition, Willow no longer has the desire or ability to hold back her rage. From the beginning of the show, Buffy has many moments of powerlessness, but this time is different. Willow is stronger, faster and has nothing left to live for. This is also the ultimate betrayal to Buffy. Willow was her first friend when she came to Sunnydale and has been there through everything. Not only has Willow killed a human but has tried to kill Buffy’s sister and father figure. In Willow’s effort to kill her pain by giving further into her magic addiction by literally absorbing it from Giles, she can feel everyone’s emotions at once. A throwback to the third season when Buffy hears everyone’s thoughts after she’s infected by demon blood, we see how differently they deal with their depression.

As the season starts to come to an end, Buffy and Willow’s storylines diverge. Having handled their problems differently, it makes sense their paths parted, and they end them separately. Buffy and Dawn become trapped together in the Earth by Willow’s hand, in a similar way that she was forced to dig her way out earlier. The Summers sisters are forced to finally face each other and talk. Buffy comes to terms with the fact that Dawn is also becoming an adult like she did and shielding her isn’t the same as protecting her. Willow’s solution to the pain in the world, hers included, is to end the world. A departure from previous seasons, Willow cannot be defeated by magic or strength. Xander, the final piece of the trio and Willow’s friend from childhood, talks to her and reminds her of who she is. As Dawn and Buffy fight a parade of demons off side by side, Xander refuses to leave Willow’s side. Despite the threat of death and being pushed away, he continues to tell her he loves her after each lashing. Her power fades as she starts to feel again, crumbling to tears as the weight of all the pain and loss hits her. “When Willow took the power from Giles, she exulted in feeling ‘connected to everything’. But that connection was false, and it led Willow to try to end the world. Buffy found the true connection in her inner humanity” (Field 540). When the scene switches to Buffy, she breaks down in happy tears, happy she has time to fix everything she has neglected. Standing with her as they were both faced with death opened her eyes to how much she had been ignoring.

Although many viewers were understandably upset with the finale, it was important to the overall arc of Buffy Summers’ growth. As opposed to their usual triumphant ending where they beat the bad guy, their denial, pain, and grief were killing them instead. At some point, these feelings needed to explode in order to resolve. From these examples, we see two women who have gone down the same path but react differently to it. Having flawed characters who fight their demons, physically and metaphorically, in an unperfect way is important for young people and older alike. Showing vulnerability in a female character while also keeping her strong is a tough feat few writers have achieved. Buffy the Vampire Slayer does it time and time again. It is no surprise to the fanbase that there is a new show coming out. Into every generation, a Slayer is born, and this generation needs one to look up to too.

#buffy #btvs #buffy the vampire slayer #Joss whedon #whedonverse #buffyverse #depression #addiction #psychology #essay #paper

1 note · View note

weareyour4 · 3 years

Text

The Dangers of Multi-Level Marketing…

By Emmaf8

The world of multi-level marketing is based upon emotional language both positive and negative. The numbers are often misleading and with MLM recruitment growing during the pandemic its important to understand the hallmarks of an MLM, the language used to describe them and the pitfalls of joining one.

This time last year the number of redundancies in the UK had increased by 27,000 in the quarter between April – June 2020. This statistic happened to coincide with a rise in invites to join multi-level marketing companies arriving in my inbox but what might the correlation be? There are two ways of approaching it and two camps who broadly represent these views.

On the one hand, this was the highest level of redundancies since 2013 and understandably led to many people looking to subsidise their incomes or find a new job. MLMs offered good opportunities to work from home. This attitude leans into the kind of rhetoric used by MLM recruiters and the Direct Selling Association (DSA) (the only UK recognised trade body for MLMs) who talk about direct selling as a ‘flexible option’ to earn money around existing commitments. The second camp, comprised of those who are more sceptical about direct selling or who belong to the Anti-MLM community online would point to the rise in unemployment and rise in MLM recruitment as recruiters seeing an opportunity to cash-in on others financial uncertainty.

The DSA estimates that around 631,000 people in the UK play some part in the chain of direct selling (a rise of around 200,000 since 2019) and on average these sellers earn £481 per month. However, this is only an average and many could be earning much less. It also doesn’t reflect how much money is being earned from starter fees and how much comes from actual product sales. In addition, not all companies have the same protocols for calculating sales, so this £481 figure could partially come from sellers themselves purchasing stock to match monthly targets, and their upline profiting from those purchases. While MLMs are not technically pyramid schemes they do follow very similar selling practices and the numbers make clear that they are successful only for the very few and this success comes off the backs of others.

My contact with MLM sellers always began with a Facebook invite to join a private group or page where they were selling their products to friends and family. The Body Shop at Home, the multi-level marketing branch of the Body Shop UK, USA and Australia would soon become easily recognisable for me as multiple friends and acquaintances invited me to purchase through them rather than the prominent brick-and-mortar stores. The Body Shop at Home follows a direct selling business model where individuals sign up to sell the company’s products and earn commission from this while also recruiting other people, who form their downline. There is an initial fee of £49 which pays for your starter kit although you are encouraged to purchase additional stock. The posts you see online from people working for multi-level marketing companies like this one usually follow the same basic structure. This person is so lucky to have found this opportunity, they are so pleased to be controlling what they hours they work and encourage people to join their team and earn easy money.

The first invite I received to this effect came in August 2020 from a friendly acquaintance of mine who I’d met at university. She had recently graduated and in the financial uncertainty of graduate employment in a pandemic had joined the Body Shop at Home to boost her finances. What was initially a group invitation that I was indifferent about quickly became a daily bombardment of posts. Our limited relationship meant that I felt comfortable muting her posts and moving on. A short while later a woman I’d gone to school with added me to a Facebook group for the same company. She was in a similar position to the first woman, a second-year student, not working because of Covid, looking for extra funds.

Of the 631,000 MLM sellers in the UK 96% of them are female. In May 2020 the Institute for Fiscal Studies found that mothers are 47% more likely to lose or quit their jobs than fathers and MLM’s can appear to promise much needed revenue for stay-at-home parents. The third contact I received from a Body Shop at Home consultant reflects this. A woman I knew through her husband added me to a by now typical Facebook group. I was surprised at first because she had a job as a veterinary nurse, but it soon became clear that she had opted for this MLM role as the couple were expecting their first child and they wanted to subsidise their income while she was on extended maternity leave.

There is a disproportionate amount of recruitment materials aimed at young women, particularly new mothers which is made even more problematic considering that less than 1% of MLM participants turn a profit and over 99% break even or make a loss. These figures, presented by Dr Jon M. Taylor for the Consumer Awareness Institute reflect the ‘predatory and harmful’ practices of MLM recruitment. While the Body Shop at Home is a fairly low risk MLM, due to its low starting cost and lack of pressured sales targets it is still inadvisable to join. Other MLMs such as Forever Living cost £199.75 for its ‘Start Your Journey’ pack and a Nu Skin starter pack costs between £346 and £1,107.

In response to the vast number of horror stories available online, where people tell their personal stories of losing £1,000s into MLM memberships the Anti-MLM community is present. The largest discussions I’ve found come from Reddit and YouTube. Much of this community has a vested interest in informing people and encouraging them to choose other employment. They point out the common language used by MLM recruiters who are often referred to as ‘hunbots’ due to their overwhelmingly female recruitment pool and opening messages beginning with the words ‘Hey Hun’. While the activity of the Anti-MLM community is based out of a moral wish to challenge questionable business practices (which many of the Anti-MLM community members have fallen foul of at some point), language such as the labelling of ‘hunbots’ strikes me as alienating. Amelia Tait explains how uplines isolate their sellers by encouraging them to stay away from those who criticise the company. I worry that the dismissive language at times deployed by the anti-MLM community while offering fair critique of the immoral selling techniques of MLMs risks alienating and further fuelling the confirmation bias encouraged among direct sellers.

In conclusion, the business practices of MLMs are questionable to say the least and the figures speak for themselves in terms of the success to failure ratio. While the ethics of the higher ups in these companies are certainly questionable, I worry about the everyday sellers at the bottom of the pile, joining due to financial problems and lulled into a false sense of security by misleading language.

References:

Employment in the UK - Office for National Statistics (ons.gov.uk)

DSA UK – The Direct Selling Association UK

'They have you in a cultish grip': the women losing thousands to online beauty schemes | Beauty | The Guardian

DSA UK – The Direct Selling Association UK

Become A Consultant | The Body Shop At Home™ DSA UK – The Direct Selling Association UK

As many lose work in the pandemic, “multi-level marketing schemes” spot a recruitment opportunity (newstatesman.com)

00008-57281.pdf (ftc.gov)

00008-57281.pdf (ftc.gov) p.7 -1

'They have you in a cultish grip': the women losing thousands to online beauty schemes | Beauty | The Guardian

0 notes

lizzybeth1986 · 7 years

Text

Note: Since this post is about group scenes, and Book 2 is still ongoing, I will be updating this essay as and when a group scene appears in the book. As with Book 1, I will be concentrating mainly on the portions that include Liam.

ETA: COMPLETED

Bathhouse/Spa Scene

Technically the spa is free - the part that costs diamonds is crashing the “boy’s” side and getting to spend time with your LI if you’re going for Drake or Liam. It also gives us some great insights into Maxwell’s past, by revealing his hippo tattoo.

Like Liam, Maxwell appears to have been very close to his mother and remembers her fondly for the unconditional support he recieved from her (calling him her “little hippo”, telling him that hippos were strong and tough). Both Liam and Maxwell have similar backgrounds - privileged upbringings that nevertheless had its negative effects, lost their mothers at a young age, and as adults they cling to those memories in varying ways.

The scene then diversifies into time spent with Drake/Liam, depending on who the reader ships. The encounter with Liam can go two ways - one is the romance option: a massage followed by some stolen kisses (the MC still manages to kiss him if she so chooses a few minutes later, even if she doesn’t choose the massage), and the other, more neutral option: asking Liam about the “raising a barn tradition”. I’d like the elaborate on the latter, because I believe it raises some very interesting points.

Today I’d like to talk about Liam not in respect to his relationship with the MC, but instead to his relationship with the reader. Whether one chooses him as an LI or not, he is our main link to this fictional kingdom. He is the reason our character gets the opportunity to travel to Cordonia in the first place. Book 1 is about his social season. Throughout the series, we see Cordonia through the eyes of someone who is completely new to the place (the MC), and in that position Liam (as Cordonia's future/current king) is our main source of information to truly building a worldview of this place.

Now, all the prominent characters in their own capacities help the MC understand the country. Hana, Maxwell and Bertrand help us understand the rules, norms and conditions of high society within the kingdom (for instance, making us understand how important apples are to the economy), Drake gives us a unique perspective of the royal court through Savannah’s experience, Olivia in her one diamond scene gives us an insight into Cordonian history that will prove to be important later.

But Liam, in his capacity as Prince and then King, gives us an insight into the heart of the country, its culture, why it is the way it is, why things happen a particular way here.

At the Masquerade, he elaborates on the importance of the social season, warns us about the fierce competition, and reveals how dangerous instability within the royal family can be.

At the Regatta, he recounts the history of the boat race, and talks about Cordonia’s ties with its neighbours. Sharing this historical tidbit saves the MC a lot of embarrassment while dealing with the press.

At the Forgotten Falls, Liam narrates a love legend. This may not have much to do with Cordonian politics or the court, but love legends are part of a country’s cultural fabric.

At the ruins, he talks about history and how his father views his place in it, and wonders what mark he will leave on his kingdom.

Here, after building the barn, he briefly touches on Cordonia’s agrarian roots, but more importantly, helps us understand that the start to a new couple’s life is a community effort in Cordonia - that not only are the couple or their families part of raising the barn, but also their friends, neighbours and peers. Whether this applies to all, or even some, aspects of Cordonian society, is something we may only learn over the course of book 2.

Liam, in telling us these stories that don’t seem to important in that moment, allows us to chart Cordonian history and culture, and gives us an insight into the way the country works. He is our source of information for many of its cultural anomalies, and gently guides the MC - who cannot always relate to their way of life - into knowing how to tackle things and what to say.

In a sense, Liam is our Encyclopedia Cordonia 😂

The MC’s Journey

I’m just going to leave this bit of dialogue here:

MC: When you put it that way, I'm not sure if it's an amazing advanture or something I'd barely survive.

Liam: Most great things in life are a little bit of both, if only metaphorically.

If this isn’t a summary of what the MC’s entire story in The Royal Romance is, I don’t know what is.

Fondue Party Scene

This scene takes place in Italy, during Madeleine's bachelorette party celebrations and after she has thoroughly humiliated Hana. The purpose of this scene, therefore, is to cheer Hana up and make her feel less of a failure than she already does.

As with the Truth or Dare sequence in Book 1, Liam doesn't feature in this sequence, possibly for two reasons: a. Possibly kingly/political duties, and b. He also happens to be the fiance of the bride whose bachelorette party it is, making it even more unlikely that he will be close by, unlike Drake and Maxwell.

However, he does feature in a childhood story Drake tells us, of the two playing hide and seek in the palace as kids. This story highlights Drake's competitive nature (not coming out of the laundry chute for hours because he didn't want to lose) and Liam's tendency to panic/worry when he cannot find people close to him.

This is possibly a trait that has followed him to adulthood, if his appointing of Drake as the MC's bodyguard is any indication.

Camping Scene

The camping scene takes place as a breather for the group, coming right after a charged sequence where the MC gets to ask Queen Mother Regina about her involvement in the plot and learns about her filial relationship with Adeleide. The MC needs time to come to terms with these revelations and arm herself for the next confrontation, and the rest of the group need to be away from court drama. It is Drake, the camping veteran, who suggests exploring a campsite.

Liam is more relaxed and himself in this sequence, watching his friends tend to a stray lizard and offering help to set up the tents. While helping the MC with hers (if she so chooses to let him), he talks of going camping with Drake often enough that he would have to know how to build a tent and fend for himself if he had to survive. Later, he tells her about getting lost while camping, and being found by Drake afterwards. This sequence helps us understand two things about Liam:

1. The Liam - Drake dynamic. Liam jokingly tells us, early on in the book, that Drake "never lets me get away with anything", and that that is his favourite thing about him. Liam sees Drake as someone who keeps him grounded, and as a person who has had his back when he has needed it, such as the boat rescue and the lost-at-camp story. Later in New York, Drake buys Liam a compass as a wedding gift, hoping that if Liam is to ever feel like he will lose his way, the compass will remind him of who he is, and what he hopes to achieve.

2. It also gives us a glimpse into how truly lonely Liam can be sometimes, and why he holds his friendships so close to his heart. Liam is the only one in the group known to be so intensely involved in court, and he can find no genuine friends there. Maxwell is involved only to a certain extent as is Hana, and we aren't completely sure yet how involved Drake is, even though he may be more involved than he lets on.

Liam cannot trust easily. He has learned long ago that there aren't a lot of people he can genuinely rely on. So he holds on to the few friends he has like a drowning man to a raft. He needs this group as much as they need him, because he knows these people care for him as a person and worry about his well-being.

Shanghai Panda Reserve

The group scene at the panda reserve begins with a scenario where only Liam is allowed inside the enclosure, given his privilege as King of Cordonia. If the MC and her friends convince Xinghai to let them join him, this scene is unlocked.

This scene does not have any specific signifcance like the Night Market scene later on in the chapter, but is more of a fun activity involving cute animals.

Liam, particularly in this sequence, shows his characteristic ability to communicate well with animals: introducing the group to Yue Yue and Yang Yang, happily carrying them around, predicting correctly that hunger may causing their change in mood. Liam's ability to connect with animals is a recurring theme in the books: he is shown speaking affectionately to the horses in the stable just prior to the Fox Hunt in Book 1, cares for the MC's horse (if she buys it) while she is gone, has an instant connection with the corgi when they meet in Paris - to the point where he is able to train him for the proposal in New York and is adored by the pandas in the short time that he is there.

Coney Island

The trip to Coney Island takes place shortly after the MC's name has been cleared, and is planned as a way for the group to celebrate the MC's victory over the scandal that nearly ruined any chances of her staying in Cordonia. This - along with the Beer Garden sequence - are meant to lull the characters into a feeling of false security, a feeling that everything has been worked out and they don't need to worry anymore. But even in this relaxed atmosphere, there are signs that things will soon take a turn for the worse.

The most prominent part of this sequence is the scene in the fortune telling booth, where each of our main characters get varied fortunes. The most confusing so far is Liam's, which is the only one written in the form of a verse. We will explore what this fortune could possibly mean in a separate essay.

Liam confesses to wanting to go to the circus/carnival from time to time, but tells the MC later at the Ferris Wheel that he had "only hoped to see the circus, not join it. My youthful rebellion had its limits". Why is this particular statement interesting? Because his older brother Leo, in RoE Book 3, relates to us a story of how he desired to be part of the circus as a young boy, and how Liam wanted to be his assistant. Yet here, Liam tells us that he was more comfortable with enjoying parts of it rather than actually joining it. In a lot of ways, one can see the circus as representative of the world outside Cordonia: while Leo feels trapped in his role as Crown Prince and desires freedom from it, for Liam it is a part of who he is. The outside world represents everything Leo could possibly want from his life. Liam, however, is happier with having freedom in small doses - his joy lies in simple moments where he can shed his role for a while, but not completely because in being King, being protector and guardian of his country, lies the core of his identity. It may not have been a role he may have always wanted, but one cannot deny that it's who Liam is. So while Liam may enjoy thr circus/outside world from a distance, he may never truly be a part of it.

Other moments involving Liam include him joining the others in a high-striker competition (and reaching only the halfway mark), a cute childhood story about how he used to give titles to all his soft toys (when one has the power to grant titles, why let it go to waste?), and an offer to buy cotton candy for everyone. I see the last as his way of caring for the group: he tends to match Hana when it comes to looking after them, individually and together (an example of this would be him ensuring that Drake is well-taken-care-of when he goes to play pool in Paris, and his offer to help build tents).

Beer Garden

The Beer Garden sequence is seen as the last chance the group will have to interact together before the Finale, and is seen as a breather they take before the Homecoming Ball the next day. Almost half the court makes an appearence here, including former ladies-in-waiting Kiara and Penelope, and noblemen Neville and Rashad.

Much of the scene is provided to the player for free, even allowing us time to have a chat with Bertrand about what happened in Paris. The sequence is extended if the rest of the group manage to convince a reluctant Liam to stay back and enjoy the festivities, and involves plenty of drinking and dancing on a table.

In this sequence, we see Liam preferring to be a distant observer who isn't very keen on dancing alone. He tells us that he is not altogether comfortable doing so, which comes as a surprise (considering the MC remarked that he was an excellent dancer during their first waltz together).

This is similar to how he acted at Drake's birthday party at the American bar in Applewood: he has to be pushed to "show a move" during the celebrations, and seems more comfortable doing a slow romantic dance with the MC. Here, too, he needs the MC's encouragement to climb on the table and dance along.

This reminds me of a dialogue said by Madeleine during her bachelorette, when the court ladies explain to her that this is their first time at a club. We don't all have the luxury of engaging in such gauche behaviour. Liam would have been brought up in a similar manner, perhaps with even more stringent restrictions. It would not be altogether surprising if his inability to dance outside of choreographed waltzes requiring partners has more to do with not having enough opportunities to let loose very often.

#the royal romance #trr liam #king liam #king liam the sexy #trr maxwell #liam: diamond scenes #bathhouse scene #liam the encyclopedia cordonia #fondue party scene #italy #camping scene #france #panda reserve scene #china #coney island scene #usa #beer garden scene #cordonia

54 notes · View notes

littlepondhq · 4 years

Text

𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐲𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐝 the big fishes as quotes??

i didn’t know if you meant like. philosophical quotes or media quotes. so i decided to pick a serious quote from a serious motivational website, and then a brian david gilbert quote because i love brian david gilbert and also i got overwhelmed by the sheer number of tv show/movie/other media quotes so. had to narrow it down somehow. also bc more people should be aware of him and his show unraveled.

serious quotes first, then less than serious.

the art room: “believe you can and you’re halfway there.” – theodore roosevelt / “the days of spring will surely bring the birds and bees cavorting, but since i am a gentleman, i’d much rather be jorting.” – bdg

the back field: “never underestimate the power of dreams and the influence of the human spirit. we are all the same in this notion: the potential for greatness lives within each of us.” – wilma rudolph / “you only get bonus points if you make a vr fishing game for a beloved franchise.” – bdg

under the bleachers: “education is not the filling of a pail, but the lighting of a fire.” – w.b. yeats / “surprise! i lulled you into a false sense of security.” – bdg

the cafeteria: “defeat is a state of mind; no one is ever defeated until defeat has been accepted by reality.” – bruce lee / “and if someone comes up to me and introduces themselves as duke mirage, my pants are already off.” – bdg

the computer lab: “life is really simple, but we insist on making it complicated.” — confucius / “where! is! my! sonic game with the quilting circle!!” – bdg

the courtyard: “be like the flower that gives fragrance even to the hand that crushes it.” – ali ibn abi talib / “my second thought, was what the fuck? hey todd, what the fuck?” – bdg

the greenhouse: “i’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” – maya angelou / “(sometimes i think i can talk to plants) come on, let’s do a sibling dance!” – bdg

the library: “you cannot swim for new horizons until you have courage to lose sight of the shore.” – william faulkner / “biblical literalism is just an early form of fandom.” – bdg

the rooftop: “being realistic is the most common path to mediocrity.” – will smith / “you awake one morning to find that your jeans have written their preferred jort length on the wall of your apartment in ancient runes.” – bdg

the science lab: “i hated every minute of training, but i said, ‘don’t quit. suffer now and live the rest of your life as a champion.‘” – muhammad ali / “i’m choosing to think of it as something like nuclear fission, as opposed to thinking of it as dumb.” – bdg

the second floor bathroom: “know the rules well, so you can break them effectively.” – dalai lama / “sex? on this bed? never heard of it. what is it?” – bdg

the theater: “if you don’t turn your life into a story, you just become a part of someone else’s story.” – terry pratchett / “who doesn’t love a little erotic lizard fiction?” – bdg

#anonymous #this is.... so stupid but i had fun making it #so thank you for the question anon!!!!!#even if i maybe flubbed it #under the cut bc its Longe

0 notes

mon-blanchetts · 7 years

Text

Thieves Among Us (Part 4)

Let Jon have his armies and his devoted wildlings and the love of their people, she thinks. Let him have his dragon queen. She’s in possession of a secret, tragic as it may be, but at least it’s entirely her own. For Sansa, that’s more than enough. It has to be. Rated M; inspired by content from S7. Previous chapters can be found here.

A huge thanks to @alittlestardustcaught for beta reading this chapter!

We used to play in the godswood together when we were children, me and you and Robb and Theon. You remember that, don’t you?

Jon stared at the ancient face carved into the heart tree. That was what Sansa had asked him when they had been in the broken tower, when the tension in that small room had been thick enough to taste on his tongue. There she was, looking out towards the godswood with her back facing him, her body a tense line, her voice soft and wistful. It wasn’t enough to fool him—Jon knew that she was barely holding herself together, but he couldn’t undo what had been done. Worse, he didn’t what she was referring to—not then, not now. It rang true, was the thing, authentic, and yet for the life of him he couldn’t conjure any memory whatsoever to fit with her words. All those moons ago, Jon had assumed that he’d been too wrapped up in his intentions to think about anything else other than what he had to do, what he had to end, but lately his perceptions had altered. More and more, he realized that there were other things he couldn’t remember, a dark space in his consciousness where something ought to have been, but no longer was. It left him feeling unsettled and out-of-touch, but he had yet to mention it to anybody. Jon wanted to change that.

The winds were biting this afternoon, moving all around him in a way he thought somewhat uninviting. Despite all the layers he wore beneath his cloak, Jon never felt warm, whether he was inside or out. It wasn’t a bad thing to lament over—at least it kept him alert, sharp. Warmth lulled him to sleep, wrapped him with a false sense of hope and security. Not a soul on either continent was in a place to think that, him least of all.

“Still praying to the old gods, are you now?”

Beric Dondarrion’s voice was smooth like marble, a calming sound that seemed fitting for the place they stood in. Jon turned his back on the heart tree, taking in the man approaching him. “No more than I pray to all the other gods,” he replied.

“Don’t believe in any of them, you mean?” Lord Beric smirked. “Not even the Lord of Light, who brought you back to life? Who chose you to be the Prince that was Promised?”

Jon huffed in response. That damned prophecy, not to mention that damned title—why did he have to be part of it all? He was a survivor, first and foremost; all he could hope for was to see the world he knew make it through whatever was coming for all of them, but Jon knew he wasn’t the only one who believed that. The Red Witch was entirely at fault for this, and for that he was even more exasperated with her. Where she had disappeared to after she’d been given a private audience with Dany remained a mystery, but there was not a doubt in his mind she would find ways to stir up trouble wherever she was.

“Maybe I don’t know what I believe in anymore,” he said, turning to the heart tree again. He tried to ignore the way his stomach throbbed to life again, just as it had when he woke this morn. “What I do know is that I’m here—I’m alive, and now there’s an undead army of thousands, maybe more, marching towards us…yet here I am, trying to convince myself and everyone around me that we can defeat them.” Jon knew it was the worst thing to say, but doing so had been strangely comforting. Remedial, almost, seeing as he’d wanted to let it out for ages.

Behind him, Beric Dondarrion said nothing. Strange to think that this was likely the first instance they were making conversation, despite the fact that they had journeyed beyond the Wall together in order to gather proof of the Night King’s army of the Dead. A white walker had dealt him a near-fatal blow to his stomach when that horde of wights had ambushed his party, a stab wound that had gone deep. Even now, Jon could remember with vivid clarity how it felt, as if the blood in his veins had turned to ice while the enemy’s spear was lodged in his flesh—but there was something else to it as well, something that he didn’t have the chance to reflect on until he’d reached the safety of the Wall. Jon couldn’t explain it, but in that moment he felt as if he had lost a part of him, as if the white walker had ripped something vital out of him when it had pulled its spear back.

Jon glanced over his shoulder. Lord Beric was studying the red leaves above him with his exposed eye, one gloved hand resting on the pommel of his sword. He had seen the man fight and drink and laugh, all the things that the living did, but there was always a haunted look in his eye that never went away, an emptiness that came through his voice no matter what he was saying. A shell of a man. That was what Beric Dondarrion was.

“When was the last time you set foot in the godswood, Lord Beric?”

The man snorted. “Barely even went to my own, back before everything went to shit.” He looked around, as if he was expecting someone else to be with them. “The people at the castle like to talk quite a bit. A fellow died here, no? That’s a travesty, in a sanctuary like this.”

Jon nodded. “So the story goes. They found the corpse lying about, but there isn’t anyone who can explain what happened, not even the maesters.”

“Was the man someone of importance?”

“That depends who you ask,” he said, unable to hide the smirk that formed on his mouth. He turned his gaze down at the snowy ground beneath his feet. Jon tried to imagined the corpse lying before him, facedown in the snow just like Maester Payton and others had described. The body had been given to the flames shortly after the discovery, just like he’d ordered of every corpse in their midst. Sansa had seen to that.

Beric Dondarrion cocked his head. “From the sound of it, you weren’t too taken by him. Am I right?”

“Petyr Baelish was Lady Sansa’s guest, not mine,” he said, his voice hard, unforgiving. “I’ve a feeling there aren’t a great many who miss him, but I could be wrong.” Sansa’s face flashed through his mind and his wound throbbed with more fervor than before. She had written to him personally about the whole thing, a detached, sterile piece that arrived at Dragonstone by raven. Littlefinger is dead, his body found in the godswood, but nobody knows how he got there or what happened to him. We’ve burned the body. Squabbles have begun over his legacy. If she had experienced any grief of loss, it was completely missing in her letter.

“One less corpse for the Night King to get his fucking hands on, that’s how I see it,” Lord Beric mused. He looked Jon straight in the eye. “Why did you ask for me, Your Grace?”

It was a last resort, but Jon felt that someone who’d been through the same experience might understand. Was his predicament truly his own?

“There are things I can’t remember,” he said, his eyes still focused on the face of the heart tree. “It’s just…at first, I thought it was only things that happened a long, long time ago, but now I’m realizing that there are more gaps in my memory, things that people discuss of recent that I can’t recall at all.” He let out a sigh, his breath floating before him.

When Jon glanced at Lord Beric, his expression was unreadable. His stomach knotted inside him. Jon didn’t know what the man was thinking, wasn’t sure if he understood. Suddenly he felt foolish about the whole thing, angry at himself for requesting his presence here, a man he didn’t really know about.

“You don’t get to come back the same,” Lord Beric said, upending the silence between them. “You forget things that happened in your life, and there’s no picking and choosing the memories that disappear. Those lost memories, though—you’ll never know how meaningful they were, anyway. You could say it’s a small mercy.”

“That’s no mercy,” Jon protested. He wasn’t sure why, but he was oddly affronted by the man’s comment. He felt swindled, incomplete.

Lord Beric lifted an eyebrow. “Isn’t it? Those memories you say you can’t remember—they could have all been bad ones, something sad or tragic. That’s not a terrible thing to have away with.”

Jon scoffed. “I doubt the Lord of Light is benevolent enough to allow something as convenient as that.” He thought about what Sansa had made mention of in the broken tower. She had shrugged it off as soon as she realized that he didn’t know what she was talking about—she’d shrugged him off shortly after, but that hadn’t been a surprise at all—but her disappointment was discernible in that small chamber built high above the keep. Why had she brought up something that happened so long ago? Was it all to fill that ugly silence that pressed down on them while she came to terms with what he was doing, or was there more significance to it?

“I thought you weren’t keen to believe in the Lord of Light,” his companion pointed out, tilting his head to the side to scratch beneath his chin. Jon said nothing.

“Look at it the way a scale works. The Lord of Light puts you on one side, but there’s nothing else to put on the other side to make it balance. A life is owed, yours, but something has to give for you to come back. So a compromise is made. You get to come back, I get to come back, but we’re not the same people we used to be. Every course of action has a consequence.”

Jon tried to swallow what Lord Beric had said “How much have you forgotten?”

His companion shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you. Sometimes I do things I find myself questioning afterwards and wonder if it’s because it’s to do with who I was before. Besides,” he reached forward to touch the heart tree, almost reverently, “how do you know what’s lost to you if you didn’t have any knowledge about it in the first place?”

An image of Sansa, splayed out beneath him, naked, her auburn hair spread over the pillow, her head tilted back in ecstasy to expose her beautiful throat. A better man wouldn’t have done what he did with her, despite Littlefinger’s own beliefs. It’s easy to fall in love with her, your sister, but even easier to fall in lust with. Any man able to withstand charms like hers might not be much of a man at all. Jon hadn’t been out to satisfy his lust, not while he’d been inside Sansa. He just wanted to help her forget, just like she had asked. Give me back a piece of home I’ve lost, Jon. Give me something to get lost in. A part of him knew that they were doing something wrong, filthy, but it had been too easy to push that away, too easy to forget the sanctity of their blood relations. And yet, Jon had taken Sansa to bed because he loved her. Perhaps it was that love that had become twisted when he had been brought back. Telling her he regretted it all when he didn’t had been a means to protect both of them, but it had ended up destroying what precious bond that they had forged, a bond that he realized could never be replicated or mended.

He thought of all the people he placed his confidence in, Sam and Ser Davos and Tormund. Jon thought about Dany and the ironies that the gods enjoyed heaping on him. He had known her for such a short period of time, and yet the history they shared was probably enough to span an entire lifetime. War had the ability to make time stretch when it saw fit; it was no wonder that one experience felt like it happened ages ago. He had questioned his connection with Sansa based off what he thought he knew—he had questioned his connection with Dany because of what he didn’t. Were all of his follies also the work of the same god?

“What goes through your mind, Your Grace?”

Jon blinked once, twice. He looked at Lord Beric. “Nothing worth voicing out loud,” he said, offering the man a tight smile. The leaves rustled above their heads while the wind wailed, a sorrowful sound that seemed to go straight to his heart.

“I’ll stay here then, if you’re finished with me,” his companion said, glancing at his surroundings. “Not a bad place after all, this.”

Jon left Lord Beric on his own. His wound was throbbing again, but he ignored it. A small worry had been accounted for, but it hadn’t been lifted, not really. His sporadic bouts of amnesia still weighed him down along with the rest of his troubles, but it was a small comfort knowing that he wasn’t suffering alone. He didn’t think he agreed with Lord Beric’s philosophies, but he had none to offer, either.

Every course of action has a consequence. That part was certainly true. There would have been consequences, severe ones, if he and Sansa hadn’t ended what it was they had, despite his own desires, despite hers. Littlefinger had veered too close to the truth, and Jon wasn’t sure how far the man would’ve gone with his suspicions, who else he would have passed them to. What if his lords had got wind of what he’d been doing with Sansa? His stomach twisted almost painfully from the thought. The King in the North, fucking his own sister. That’s how they would’ve all viewed it. Neither of them would have been able to hide behind the Stark name then. They would have been as corrupt as the Lannisters, as mad as the Targaryens, not a bit different than their enemies. What defense could either of them stand on, had their transgressions come to light? Would Sansa have wanted him then, knowing that he’d been an accomplice in her downfall?

He almost didn’t notice the entrance of the crypts, nearly passing it entirely, but he stopped in his tracks. The last time he had been there, he’d looked to Ned Stark’s effigy for guidance and strength; Jon had merely glanced at the statue of Lyanna Stark without giving it any thought whatsoever. There wasn’t a reason to pause and reflect, nothing to linger on. Lyanna Stark had been a tragic figure, no doubt, but her presence had been muted in favor of the battles and victories he and his brothers were more interested in. If only he’d known differently. If only Ned had said something. He had promised though, hadn’t he? His uncle had promised to discuss more about it when he came back from King’s Landing, but how much would he have let on?

Again and again, he dreamt of her. It was the same thing every time; always she would appear before him as a child, dressed in Stark gray, her eyes full of wisdom that wasn’t natural for her age. They both partook in that same game of hide-and-seek, that which he always lost because then Sansa would appear, always Sansa, completely oblivious to their presence, pulling out that casket from underneath her bed, its design so simple and nondescript that he couldn’t even begin to figure out what lay inside. It eluded him each time, its contents, despite the fact that he was always trying to see, always waiting for her to lift open the lid while Lyanna giggled behind the drawn curtains. Whenever he got close to finally satisfying his curiosity, darkness took hold of him and he found himself back in his own bed, frustrated and confused. Of all the things to grow mad about, it was being thwarted by his desires in a dream.

A raven squawked somewhere behind him, shaking him out of his contemplations. He looked up, but only overcast skies looked back at him. Gray, like the colour of his mother’s dress when he dreamt of her, like the colour of his eyes. The colour of Sansa’s gowns.

Something dawned on him. He hated looking back on their last conversation, considering the way he had ruined what could have well been his best chance at reconciliation, but he couldn’t ignore it any further. Sansa was hiding something. He had his suspicious even before that, but for the first time, Jon realized that she was keeping something from him. It was in the way she avoided him, the closed-off way she spoke with him when they happened to be alone. Jon thought her behaviour was in response to everything he had done wrong in her eyes, but something still didn’t sit right with him.

His wound was throbbing more strongly now, making it hurt when his stomach rose while he inhaled, and he wondered if it was going to re-open again, like it usually did. Sam would be as furious as he would be perplexed, but Jon couldn’t blame him for his reactions. Something wasn’t right about this injury; it was disquieting, to say the least, but not as disquieting as the thought that Sansa was hiding something from him. What was she hiding?

Jon walked on, leaving the crypts behind him. As badly as he wanted to know, how would he ever find out? Not from Sansa, unfortunately. His heart constricted when he remembered how she stared at him coldly at the feast held the night before he had traveled to the Gift, together with Dany. Sansa didn’t attend the banquet that had been held after the feast; his eyes had been searching her out the whole time, until an observant attendant informed him that Lady Sansa had chosen to retire instead. No, Sansa wouldn’t tell him anything, even if he demanded it of her. If he really wanted to know what she was keeping from him, he’d have to find out through other means.

He didn’t mean to be here, not alone. Not without Sansa’s permission. Her bedchamber was her private sanctuary and he knew he was intruding upon it, but the moment he’d made the decision to slip through the space left by the open door, Jon knew that there was no going back on his intentions.

Nothing had changed since he was last here; all of the furniture was still arranged in the same spot, tilted at the same angles. Everything looked as it should be. So why couldn’t he shake off the feeling that a great change had taken place? Why did something feel wrong in the air?

Jon always remembered how warm it was in her bedchamber, even when there wasn’t a fire blazing inside the hearth; but he was always cold now, even here. He hadn’t come back beyond the Wall right, he realized more often than not. The fact that he felt no warmth, not to mention that damned wound on his abdomen that refused to heal properly, were the most obvious signs. He was afraid to learn what else might be wrong with him, what other thing might wear his resolve down just a little more.

But, gods, he used to feel so warm in here. Jon was always warm when he had clung to Sansa like she was air—her hot, bare skin pressed tightly against his while he moved inside her to a rhythm that was exclusively theirs. And Sansa, achingly sweet and achingly beautiful, would match him with every thrust, chanting his name over and over and over again, an erotic hymn that brought about the most divine moment he had ever experienced. Jon screwed his eyes shut and drew in a shuddering breath, hoping to disarm the images that were shoving themselves to the forefront of his mind, but that only made things worse. More images flashed by with startling clarity: the curve of Sansa’s hips beneath his fingers, gripped so tightly for purchase that there would no doubt be a patch of bruises the next day—the little gasp that always came from her swollen lips just before her crisis washed over as reverently as his own did just a few beats later.

Jon knew that his mind was playing games with him, no longer a faculty he had as much faith in these days, but he could’ve sworn that he could smell vestiges of their sexual transgressions, thick and heady, so potent that it made his head swim. But there was something else lingering in the air, too; even though everything looked fine, he was positive that he could grasp the metallic tang of blood. The realization served to remind him again why he had chosen to come here in the first place. He’d been dreaming that same dream night after night—dreaming of Sansa so often, of that casket she always pulled from beneath her bed—that he began to wonder if there was any truth behind it. The idea was ridiculous; the chances that Sansa actually had a casket that she hid in her bedchamber seemed slim to none, but Jon could never extinguish the possibility completely.

He could feel his heart hammering against his chest; Jon reached out towards one of the bedposts to steady himself, confused by the sudden terror that gripped him. What was there to be so scared about? So what if he did find something beneath Sansa’s bed—what if he did find the casket he had seen in his dream? What would she possible have in there that was worth mulling over to this extent? Jon didn’t have the right to be here; he didn’t have the right to any information that Sansa decided she wanted to keep to herself. Should that include the things that he might be involved with?

What are you hiding from me, Sansa?

The silence in the room rang in his ears in a way he didn’t think possible; he felt as if his heart was trying to escape from his chest. Desperate to quell the panic that was growing, Jon walked to the side of the bed that Sansa always stood in his dream before he sank to his hands and knees, the cold floor against his palms sending a jolt through his body.

He ducked his head beneath the bed frame. Everything was just a dream. Only a dream, and nothing more.

There was nothing.

AN: If you got this far, I just want to say thank you for sticking it out with me. I don’t know how interesting this story is now that Season 7 has aired, but it’s where I’m getting all the inspiration to write, and I’m going to ride that high until it wears out, which I hope isn’t soon, because I do want to finish this story, bloody hard as it is. I also want everyone to know that the light is coming, but it time was needed. Again, thank you so much for reading; your feedback and comments are the absolute best a writer can hope for!

#jon x sansa #actuallyjonsa #jonsansaff #jonsansasource #gotfic #don't even know if this story's relevant anymore #but I had way too much written for Part 4 that I knew I had to release it in some shape or form #thieves among us #writings

129 notes · View notes

atlaswriting · 5 years

Text

“I’m sure she does want to ride you,” I tell him bitterly as we’re locked into our seat. We’re halfway at the top when I speak again, “She’s pretty.”

I stare out at the water. It’s hard to see anything but the cruelty of the waves, the sureness of mortality. My nails tap on the metal securing us in and I can imagine flinging myself into the depth; allowing the water to fill my lungs intimately with salt. “Are you going to sleep with her?”

Abram groans, rocking our seat and I find myself holding on tighter to the bar. “Jesus Christ, Elise,” his hand curls around the metal, white knuckling for the second day in a row. I begin to wonder if there will be a time Abram isn’t holding on for dear life around me. “What does it matter to you anyway?”

“If you’re going to get an STD, I would certainly like to be made aware so I don’t make any more mistakes.”

He laughs, humorlessly and shifts in the seat as we descend. “Mistake.” Abram repeats, nodding, “You just can’t help but twist the knife in deeper, can you? You are so selfish, Elise. You know what? You and Sylvia should be friends since you’re so much alike.” He doesn’t wait for the attendant to release us, choosing to unhook the bar and storm off down the boardwalk.

“What’s wrong with him?” Jason asks as he leaves the ride a few seats after we do. I wait for him to catch up to me before reaching for his hand and holding on tight, “Woah, you okay? It didn’t go that fast.”

I shake my head.

There’s no way for me to tell him that the thrash of my barely beating heart is because of Abram—or that these days I think more about ending my life than beginning it.

I can’t tell him of the constant ache and the bruising in my lungs. I can’t tell him that the Gods and Ghosts fighting for real estate in my brain are constantly warring and I am tired.

Instead, I sit next to him in the sand and tell him about Simon, about Anais and how I wanted to run away but there was no place far enough, no place deep enough to swallow me whole. Glancing back out at the water, I tremble with the overwhelming desire to tie a millstone around my neck and repent for all my sins.

After I finish speaking and become an emotional mess of fighting tears and losing, Jason leans over, kisses my cheek and turns me toward him. “I love you.” He says matter of factly—like it is the most certain thing in the world.

My jaw unhinges and I look back at toward the water, then find Abram—like a beacon—amidst the crowd of people a few yards away—then back at Jason.

“You don’t have to say it back, I just—I want you to know.”

My brows knit together and I do my best to hide the disappointment from corrupting my features, I pull my lips apart in a smile that’s all too rehearsed and I grab his hand, bringing his fingers to my mouth and pressing my lips to them. “Thank you.” Is all I can manage. I ignore the moment of hurt that flashes over his face, he’s quick to recover and pull me back to the group.

♡ ♡ ♡

“Jason told me he loves me.” I approach Abram carefully, using my words like some kind of white flag. Underneath his t-shirt his muscles tense and he moves his eyes all over the beach—everywhere expect on me. Sienna forgot her hoodie in the car and Abram offered to grab it—I, of course, followed.

Unlocking the car, Abram kneels in the front seat and grabs two hoodies—Sienna’s and his. Without prompting, he holds his out for me, “You were shaking.” I take it and pull it on, swimming in the black fabric, finding the sort of comfort I should be looking for in Jason. “Did you say it back?” I can’t tell if he’s mad or curious. He keeps his eyes trained on the sand as we hike back toward the glowing fire and the dozens of bodies surrounding it.

“No. I didn’t say it back. I said thank you. I’m not going to say that just to say it.”

“You said thank you?” Abram snorts and I shoot a glare at him, “I’m sorry that’s just… horrible—so horrible it’s funny.” Silence falls over us and I’m grateful because the burn in my calves is growing intolerable. “If you don’t—or are not going to love Jason, you need to tell him. This whole game you’re playing it’s not right. Jason doesn’t deserve this.”

My jaw tenses and I want to tell him that just because something is complicated doesn’t make it a game.

“At least Jason knows who he wants.” I bite out resentfully, using what little strength I have to walk ahead of him. I find Jason seated by the fire, ignoring everything that Jane is saying. I plaster the practiced smile and sit beside him, looping my arm through his and leaning my head on his shoulder. Still, I watch Karli and Abram, and her inability to keep her hands away from his body. The closer she gets to him, I get to Jason and when she leans in to whisper something in Abram’s ear, I retaliate by pressing my lips to his. Kiss him in the sort of way that’s been reserved only for Abram—and maybe, if I close my eyes hard enough, I can fool myself.

♡ ♡ ♡

I wake the next morning beside Jason, still in Abram’s hoodie and drowning in shame. As any decent boy, he slept fully clothed—after I told him I wasn’t feeling good, blaming the sun and heavily fried churro, I allowed the fraught beat against my ribs to lull me to sleep.

On the table next to me, my phone buzzes incessantly and I cautiously pick it up, “’Lo?” I answer, sleep thickly coating my throat. I glance back at him, still sleeping and sneak out of the room, walking straight for the porch.

“En as-tu déjà assez?” Her voice on the other end of the phone is the last thing I wanted to hear, yet I refuse to hang up.

I sigh, “I’m not in the mood to fight with you today, mama.” Pulling my knees into my chest, I tug the hood over my head and sink back into the darkness.

“Was the truth not everything you wanted it to be?” When I don’t answer, Cerise continues, “Your father or the boy?” She asks.

“Les deux.”

I can picture the knowing smile that curses her lips now, parting like a cheshire cat—no less deviant, “I could have told you that, Elise, une mère sait mieux.” She clicks her tongue but then her voice softens, “Which hurt worse?”

The last few days flash through my mind like a movie I never wanted to see. I consider both Abram and Simon for a moment; weigh the pain that hangs heavy around my heart before answering her, “Les deux.”

The soft that Cerise attempts over the phone offers a false sense of ease and I can feel the sadness as it rocks my body, “What have I say about crying, mon cher?” She asks, “Leave that for the weak and the poor—and you, my girl, are neither. I will turn your cards back on and you can come home, where you belong. Oui?”

I use the sleeves of his hoodie to wipe my eyes, steeling my spine and hardening all the flawed soft in me, “Oui, mama. I’ll be there.”

“My dear,” Gigi says when I re-enter the kitchen. Bodies have filled the empty seats at the table and she’s busying herself at the stove, “I didn’t know you were awake—I suppose that means all we’re waiting on is Abram and Kayla.”

“Karli,” she corrects, walking into the kitchen and sitting next to Nyx, Abram trails behind her.

“My apologies, I tend not to remember those who aren’t permanent.”

“Gigi,” Sienna bites back through clenched teeth, she offers an apologetic smile to Karli who shrugs it off.

I take her in—even after having slept all night, she still looks perfect. Unkempt hair works and I can’t help but choke on the jealous that burns a hole through me. “It’s alright,” she says, “After last night I think I might want to become permanent. If that’s all right with you, Gigi.”

If she hears her—she says nothing. The little act of defiance makes me want to hug her.

“We should do something together today,” Jason says to Abram. “Sienna’s already got plans, but she said Karli didn’t. If you were interested?” He looks at her and she nods, biting into her toast. “What do you think?” He asks looking over at me.

I stare down at my empty plate, full up on cynicism and longing I shake my head, “I think I might go back and be with my mom for New Years.”

“You what?” Abram’s coffee nearly dribbles out of his mouth, he’s quick to recuperate and wipes at it with a napkin, “Why would you do that—I thought she turns off your cards?”

Shrugging, I pick apart the single piece of toast that I pulled onto my plate, just to give my hands something to do. “She offered to turn them back on if I went home. Besides, all the fried food and grease is making me sick.”

“Yeah,” Abram cuts in angrily, “That’s making you sick.”

An argument forms in my chest and I drop the pieces of toast, curling my hands into a fist, but before I can say anything there’s a knock on the door and when Gigi answers it, Anais walks in.

“How did you get past security?” I shoot up into a standing position, “This place is watched better than the president.”

Nonchalantly she shrugs, slips her coat off and drapes it over a chair, “Everyone has a price, bug. Can I talk to you?”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Elise, please.”

♡ ♡ ♡

“I know you’re angry with me. But I want you to listen.”

I snort, crossing my arms over my chest and staring out into Gigi’s well kept lawn. “I’d rather not hear the story of how you ended my parent’s marriage.”

Anais laughs, “If only it were that simple, darling. Your father and I—we had never done anything while he was married to your mother. We didn’t want to—we couldn’t hurt her,” she plays with the rings on her fingers, “I fell in love with Simon when I was seventeen and for years I remember chasing lovers I thought would satisfy me just enough to survive. I thought that maybe if I could force myself to be happy that…”

“Eventually you’ll be happy.”

She nods, a sad smile weighing her lips down, “Fake it ‘til you make it—but it never happened. I filled myself to the brim with boys and girls and money but there was always a hole. And your mother—god, Cerise was furious when I told her I loved him. She told me she would do everything in her power to make sure I never got him.” Anais’ body shakes with a sob, “We stopped talking for years after the divorce. It was part of the agreement. Simon was to stay away from everything that belonged to Cerise—her money, her sister, her daughter. If he did that Cerise promised she wouldn’t go to the press and damn his reputation to Hell.”

“And she lied.”

“Of course she lied. Your mother lies like breathing. I don’t want you to think that I’m doing this to be spiteful—I spent years living with a broken heart because it was the one thing Cerise could control me with. If you want me to stop, I will. For you I would do anything.”

My nails dig into the palms of my hands, “Does he make you happy?”

“God, Elise,” Anais wipes at her eyes, “More than anything in this world.”

Slowly I feel my neck moving and I release my hand from its torture to lean over and hug her, “Then I want you to be happy.”

♡ ♡ ♡

Confession: there’s a bullet wound in my chest that is the shape of his mouth.

I stare into the mirror—the girl has disappeared and in her place a ghost. She answers to my name, kisses with my mouth and devastates with my hands. I look at the reflection and no longer see a person, but a problem.

Abram said I ran from all my problems. Unfortunately, the biggest one I couldn’t.

I fall to my knees, pray to the only God that I worship to. I empty myself until I’m full. I throw up until I’m a heaving mess, and try as I might I still can’t get my fickle heart out of my body. Standing, I wash my mouth and as I’m leaving I stumble, falling back onto the lid of the toilet with a loud thump.

“Elise?” Abram enters the bathroom without a knock but I have no energy to yell at him. “What’s wrong are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I snap, “I just felt a little faint. I’m fine let me get up—,”

“No, stay. I’m going to get Gigi.”

I grab his hand before he can leave and dig my fingers in, “Don’t. Please, Abram. It’s not a big deal; I guess I accidentally skipped lunch. I’ll be fine honestly.” My chest heaves with labored breathing and the room hasn’t stopped spinning.

“I can get you some food?”

“I’m not hungry. I’ll eat at dinner.”

Jason peaks into the semi-open door, “What’s wrong?” he opens it wider, “Elise are you okay?” He pushes past Abram to kneel beside me.

“I just told Abram I’m fine, I think I’m coming down with something, that’s all.”

“You are not getting on that plane. You are not going to your mother’s.” Abram says, voice hard and final. Jason glances back at him, eyebrows coming together, “Not if you’re this sick.” He adds, recovering himself, eyes flickering down to Jason who absently nods.

When I have the energy, I leave the bathroom and despite his protests, I tell Jason he should go meet up with friends, that I’ll be fine alone. He tries to argue, even going so far as to start texting his friends, but Abram assures him that he’ll stay behind, that he can meet up with Karli tomorrow if he wants.

“Eat.” Abram passes me a plate with half a sandwich on it. Sitting beside me, he starts eating the other half, “It’s only half. I wasn’t going to make you eat a whole thing—but you have to eat something.”

My hand doesn’t want to move, calculating each calorie that’s in front of me. Fear cements itself in my gut and I find myself getting nauseous again. He doesn’t take his eyes off me until I lift it to my mouth and take a bite. Then another. Then another. Half the sandwich is gone when I find my voice.

“You don’t have to babysit me; I’m not going to keel over while you’re off doing God knows what with your new girlfriend.”

#thread: ablise #thread: all

0 notes

langsage-blog · 7 years

Text

Herpes Natural Treatment

What is Herpes?

Herpes refers to a family of viruses. Almost everyone carries one or more of the most common herpes viruses that occur in people (pets have different types than you do). The most well-known types are:

HSV-1 (cold sores)

HSV-2 (genital herpes)

HZV (chickenpox and shingles)

Six additional types round out the human herpes family. Among these are viruses that scientists believe to be responsible for many diseases, including:

Infectious mononucleosis

Chronic fatigue syndrome

Disorders of the immune system

Hepatitis

A type of skin cancer called Kaposi's sarcoma

This is a pretty nasty family of viruses. Herpes viruses are under constant scrutiny by research scientists because new discoveries point to an ever widening role for herpes in more and more diseases. Nearly 50,000 scientific journal articles have been published on herpes since 1975, more than 15,000 since the year 2000 alone.

The old notions of herpes as just a sexually transmitted disease that 'a friend of mine, not me' has, or as ordinary childhood chickenpox or an occasional cold sore, are obsolete. These old beliefs lull people into a false sense of security by completely missing how deadly this family of viruses can be to almost everyone in the country.

Herpes Dangers Are Much Greater Than Your Doctor Knows

If your doctor knew the trouble that herpes viruses can cause, you would be hearing about a worldwide herpes pandemic. Three-quarters of the population already has a type of herpes virus that has been linked with lupus, lymphomas, and a number of cancers. This type causes mutations that turn on cancer genes. Cancer is a bigger problem than ever, regardless of the propaganda claims from the cancer research industry.

Cardiovascular disease is one of the leading killers in all developed nations. Recent research has found that type of herpes virus may play a key role in the development of coronary artery disease and atherosclerosis. This type infects about 60% of adults and is even more common among homosexual men. It can be sexually transmitted.

Herpes viruses are opportunistic. They bloom when they sense that the immune system is preoccupied fighting off another infection, such as a cold or flu. When herpes viruses sense that stress, aging, cancer or physical injury, etc., has weakened the body, they accelerate their attack. This is why symptomatic herpes outbreaks often occur right after an illness like a severe flu, a physical injury such as surgery, or periods of emotional stress.

No Symptoms? The Shocking Hidden Story

A much larger number of people have herpes viruses than actually show symptoms, whether they be genital herpes, cold sores, shingles, or chickenpox. Symptom-free carriers of HSV-2 are more prevalent than those who develop genital rashes. Almost everyone has HSV-1, although fewer than 20% will ever have cold sores. All adults who had chickenpox as children will harbor HZV for life, even though this virus will only reappear as shingles in a minority of them.

Two newly discovered herpes viruses rarely cause typical herpes symptoms. However, they are found in about 90% of the population. These are considered to be "universal" herpes viruses. One is now linked with the development of multiple sclerosis. New types of herpes also play a role in heart disease, hypertension, Alzheimer's disease, cancer, lupus, and multiple sclerosis.

No Such Thing as a Herpes Cure: Even 'Latent' Infections Ruin Your Health

As you can see, herpes infections aren't just nuisance diseases as once thought. Regardless of whether they cause outbreaks or remain latent, these viruses are dangerous to everyone who has them. The old logic held that, since people were not visibly sick most of the time with herpes virus diseases, these viruses must be 'sleeping' during most of our lives and therefore were not dangerous to our health. Herpes viruses are not actually 'sleeping' at all. Rather, they are very active in the parts of the body that they inhabit, inflicting constant, cumulative damage to critical organs in our bodies as they replicate at a low level throughout our lives. This damage begins early in life, at a low enough level to not produce any noticeable symptoms in generally healthy individuals.

This new way of viewing herpes viruses is a tremendously important revelation that will affect everyone, since herpes viruses are universal factors in human health. The medical data are very clear. Virtually 100% of the human population, regardless of location, carries at least one herpes virus. Research also shows that the majority of the human population is harboring at least five herpes virus infections.

And herpes viruses never go away completely. This means that no treatment can be considered a true herpes cure.

Ongoing herpes research underscores the challenge of understanding how this family of viruses affects our immune system. Several dozen complications are already known to be associated with herpes infections of different types, and more are being discovered each year. Many such complications, such as painful post-herpetic neuralgia, do not respond to antiviral treatments and can drag on for months or years after the initial infection has subsided.

Drugs Are Not the Answer

Synthetic drugs do, indeed, stop viruses from reproducing. They do not, however, help your body defend itself. On the contrary, drugs slow your immune system down right when you need it the most. Why doctors continue to prescribe them has to do with big business, not with your health.

You must learn about the actions of both new and old antiviral drugs if you want to even think about choosing this route for your health. Drug companies have come up with a lot of tricks. Your only defense against them is to keep up with what they are doing.

Best Natural Treatments

The main advantages of natural treatments are that they are non-toxic, have multiple ways to help you fight a viral infection, and often help boost your immune system just when you need it the most. They also offer short-term solutions as well as long-term health. The track record of herbs is especially impressive against the trickiest types of herpes, the ones that cause genital herpes, cold sores, and shingles.

Worldwide research on natural herpes treatments is substantial. The health benefits of certain herbs, such as creosote bush and lemon balm are well-established. The importance of boosting the right vitamins, minerals, and other nutritional supplements is a must-know for you. Research on the benefits of Tai Chi may even surprise you. On the other hand, studies on lysine supplementation show that this amino acid doesn't really measure up to what people have thought.

Key to Your Success Against Herpes

It may be my bias as a former university professor. However, I believe that the key to good health in the face herpes is to know about how the latest research can be of benefit to you. The activities of herbs against viruses are being investigated in laboratories around the world every day. Hundreds of research articles have been published on this topic over the past few years.

It may be difficult and overwhelming for you to find the latest research on your own and to interpret its value for you. Your best bet is to find a scientist who has expertise in this area and with whom you can communicate regularly. You can also surf the Internet to find all of the sites and blogs that offer reviews of the scientific literature for the public and that provide regular updates on the latest studies.

Living a normal life with herpes, whether it leads to outbreaks or lurks dangerously in its so-called 'latent' form, demands that you stay well-informed. It is your best hope for making the best choices for your own health.

#herpes

0 notes