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yanphobia · 2 years

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Cleithrophobia - Chapter 1

Cleithrophobia: The fear of being trapped.

Pairing: Yandere Male Drider OC x Reader

Warnings (for the entire story): Yandere, Horror, Graphic Discriptions of Injury and Death, Spiders, NonCon Touching, Possible NonCon (depending on reader's interpretation), Implied Female Reader (although it doesn't really factor too heavily into the plot), Extreme Dead Dove Do Not Eat

Index Chapter 2

Author's Note: This story was inspired by cobalt-sphinx's Drider x Reader from Quotev.

This was your fault, so take responsibility for it, you reminded yourself. It was your job on the farm to feed the animals, clean their enclosures, and take daily headcounts to make sure none had gotten out. So, when you had decided to bathe Shadow, the family dog, and when he had bolted out the door before you could put his collar with the invisible fence sensor back on, you understood that you were the one who’d have to go out into the woods to retrieve him.

The autumn trees may have looked beautiful in the sunset, but after a long day of work a young farmhand could only be eager to go home and rest. For over an hour you were out here, searching, and all you could think about was the dinner that Laura made that would be cold by the time you returned to the main house. You hoped that the older woman’s feelings wouldn’t be too hurt by your absence. She and her husband, Stan, where the ones who owned the farm, and they were gracious enough to allow you to live in their son’s old cabin in exchange for labor. As someone with nothing of your own, they were a godsend, and you swore to yourself that you’d become the best farmhand they’ve ever had to repay their kindness. Abandoning Shadow to the wilderness, especially after seeing how much Stan adored that hyperactive mutt, was not an option.

Your ears perked up when you heard rustling and whining nearby. Rushing towards it you glimpsed a familiar mass of black and white fur.

“Shadow!”

He was struggling greatly, seemingly stuck in a patch of brush and overgrown grass. “Calm down, it’s okay baby, let me help you.” You tried to reassure the poor terrified thing as you grasped his legs and tried to pull them free. It was only when you pulled the grass away that you saw them. Thick and ropelike, the sticky white substance that had been deliberately hidden by the foliage held Shadow’s paws down and left him defenseless. Spiderwebs, you realized. But what type of spider can make webs that strong? You blanched at the thought of how big it must be.

You quickly pulled out your swiss army knife and began hacking away at them as Shadow kicked fruitlessly. It took a few minutes but you managed to eventually free the poor dog and he immediately darted back towards the house; remnants of webs still tangled in his fur. You slowly pulled yourself up from the trap, cutting away the bits of web that stuck to your knees and held you down. Although the sun had mostly set by this point, there was still enough leftover light for you to see the shadow that fell over your form.

You didn’t want to turn around, you didn’t want to see it, but your body betrayed you. Still hunched over, with most of the webs cut away from your legs, you looked over your shoulder and up at the beast that you knew had created this trap. You had not expected, though, that it would look like that.

He was massive, looming over you and staring down with a sadistic glint in his many eyes. You could see at least six of them, all colored red, in this low light. He had the torso, and almost the face, of a man, but from his waist down he had the body of a spider. Thick, coarse, unruly brown hair covered his eight legs and abdomen, and flowing down from his head as well. His mouth was oddly shaped, as though there where a cleft in the middle of his thin lips that stretched upwards towards his narrow, flat nose. When those lips spread into a pitiless smile, revealing a mouth complete with sharpened black fangs, you saw that the cleft opened up as well, allowing his maw to open up far wider than any human’s possibly could.

You stared. You couldn’t help it. This... thing was about to kill you, and try as you might you could not convince yourself that this was only a nightmare.

“You... you’re... w... what are you?!” You managed to choke out.

The creature laughed, and within a second he had reached down and grabbed you by your hair, yanking you up off the ground and pinning you to his chest with his free hand. You cried out in pain which only caused him to laugh again and press his forehead against yours. You could see now that his middle pair of eyes, the pair that most resembled a human’s, had two pupils and two irises within each one. So, eight then, eight eyes he had, each one staring at you with a malice that killed any scream in your throat.

“I’m your murderer,” he growled, and threw you, roughly, back onto the ground as you lost your breath. You quickly scrambled up and flew back towards your cabin, feet barely touching the ground. He laughed at the desperate way you ran, and even after you had made it back home, back to semi civilization, back to whatever means of safety you could find, you could still hear his laughter in your head.

#yandere stories #yandere male #yandere #tw yandere #yandere x darling #yandere oc x reader #drider #drider x reader #yandere drider #yandere fanfiction #drider oc x reader #cleithrophobia

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maitaitiu · 2 months

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and yes, the sun will set. and then rise again OCxCanon week 2024 Day 3: out in nature Pairing type: familial Canon Character: Professor Laventon OC: Maitiu (trainersona) Fandom: pokemon Wordcount: 1401

AO3 link

CWS: none

Synopsis: Laventon visits the Obsidian Fieldlands in search of both fresh air and the boy he considers to be something like a son.

Kunal Laventon stretched his arms out as wide as they could go, feeling a satisfying pull in his shoulders as he breathed in the fresh air and looked out across the Fieldlands from the top of Aspiration Hill.

It was really a lovely day. And it had been far too long since he’d left the village; he’d been spending so long cooped up inside his study, tweaking drawings, and text for the pokedex, so it was nice to get out for a change.

He’d meant to be out here with both his kids, but Akari had been called away to help Mai of the Diamond Clan with something or other, and Maitiu had gone on ahead.

Judging by how the boy’s luxray, Clementine, was sitting just a few meters down the hill, boredly cleaning her front paw, he likely wasn’t too far away. Clementine was very protective, after all.

Laventon hurried down the hill to meet the feline, who purred upon seeing him, and rubbed her massive face into his torso in greeting. He was still a bit nervous at such a huge- and sharp-toothed- pokemon being so close, but Clementine was so friendly and sweet he didn’t mind too much.

“Is he around, then?” Laventon asked the cat, and a little chirrup was the given answer, “I trust that’s a yes.”

With a swoosh of her ropelike tail, Clementine turned and bounded down the hill, stopping every few paces to give Laventon a chance to catch up. She led him around the right of the hill, baring her teeth at any wild pokemon that even considered attacking as she guided Laventon through the fields.

There, after a rather winding path, Maitiu was sitting at the edge of a field of gracidea flowers, dangling a bit of string just out of reach of his sylveon, Sunny. Since she was so small, Maitiu didn’t have to hold the string too high for her to be leaping up at it energetically, clearly having a blast.

Clementine meowed to alert Maitiu of her- and Laventon’s- arrival, and the boy turned, giving Sunny the opportunity to snatch the string from his hands and shake it around in her jaws like it was a bit of prey.

“Hiya, Clemmy.” He said, reaching his hand up to pet her as she came closer, and then looked up, “Alright, Professor. Nice to see you outside.”

“It’s nice to be outside,” Laventon smiled, and carefully lowered himself to sit on the ground too; he’d pay for that with a sore back later, but his posture was so bad that his back was constantly aching, so what did it matter? “How are you faring, my boy?”

Maitiu hummed noncommittally, and, with some effort, managed to steal the string back from Sunny. She meowed loudly in indignation until he dangled it in front of her again.

“Alright...” He said eventually, “It’s nice ‘n quiet out here.”

“That it is,” Laventon agreed, appreciating the way the sunlight warmed his face through the trees, “I do feel like I’ve not seen you in a long while, though. When did you last return home?”

“Um…” Maitiu paused for a moment, moving his mouth slightly as he counted in a whisper, “…I don’t remember.”

Laventon sighed.

His boy had been more and more reclusive recently, spending practically all of his time out in the wilds, researching or just… avoiding the village. Laventon understood why, but it still was saddening.

He knew Maitiu had forgiven all the folks who’d used him as a scapegoat, knew the boy understood what had been going on- and was somehow far more accepting of his own fate than Laventon ever had been- but it was clear the experience had left him fearful and unsure of his position in the village.

The exile had lasted nearly three months- the seasons had shifted by the time the world had been returned to normal- and it seemed those three months, though they were over a year ago now, had let the wilderness claim Maitiu for its own.

As long as the boy was happy, Laventon couldn’t exactly complain. But he so clearly wasn’t. And on top of that, Laventon missed the boy he considered something of his son. And he knew Akari missed her surrogate brother. They were a ragtag little family of outsiders, and while they were accepted in the village, nobody really understood the isolation of being an Other like they did. They had to stick together.

“Why don’t you stop by tonight?” Laventon offered, trying to hide the hopefulness in his voice, “I think Adaman’s in town this evening, helping out at the Wallflower. We could ask him to sort us some supper, and Akari can tell us all about what she’s been up to today.”

“Maybe…” The boy pulled his knees up to his chest, and picked up Sunny, who happily squeezed her way inside his jacket, purring like a steam engine, “I haven’t seen Akari in a bit.”

“She misses you,” Laventon said, and held his tongue on the unspoken, but very much heard, As do I.

Guilt washed over Laventon as he watched Maitiu bury his face in his hands for a minute.

“I’m sorry,” the boy said, “I miss you both, too. Very much. It’s just…”

He sighed. Clearly struggling to find the words. Sunny reached one of her ribbon-feelers up and pressed it against his face. He leaned down and pressed a little kiss to her forehead.

“I don’t know.” He said quietly, “I do want to come. I’m just… nervous, I guess. I know I’m just imagining it, but I still feel like people are looking at me weirdly.”

His whole posture seemed to sink in defeat.

Laventon tentatively reached his arm out, and when the boy didn’t move away, he pulled him into a one-armed hug.

“We could picnic, instead? Maybe out here, or on Prelude beach? Would that be easier for you?”

“The beach?” Maitiu perked up then, immediately looking a little bit less like a kicked yamper, “That sounds nice.”

“We could even camp out there, if you’d like. Sleeping under the stars, talking over a campfire… listening to the waves…”

“Is that a good idea?” Maitiu looked sceptical, but there was a mischievous glint in his eyes- so rarely seen anymore- “Sleeping on the ground, in the cold… I mean, with your back…”

Laventon gasped dramatically, “How rude!”

He made sure he was smiling as he exaggeratedly turned his head up and away from Maitiu, who he could hear giggling, “How old do you take me for, hm?”

“I know, sorry, sorry,” the boy grinned, wicked as a banette, and Laventon found himself not caring in the slightest, “It’s wrong for me to disrespect the elderly.”

“You troublesome little fiend,” Laventon shook his head, smiling, “Perhaps I will un-extend the invitation.”

“Nooo!” Maitiu leaned over and lay down in the grass, “Sunny, bite him!”

The little sylveon obediently leapt from Maitiu’s jacket and onto Laventon’s shoulder, where she bit at his coat a few times without any real force behind it.

“Ah, a wild beast!” he exclaimed, and carefully lowered himself into the grass, too, “Alas… I have been mortally wounded… I now shall breathe my last…”

Sunny curled up on top of his chest, purring triumphantly. Clementine watched from within the flower-field, one eye closed as she attempted to nap with little success.

It really was nice out here. It wasn’t too cold today- though Laventon kept his knitted hat on- and the breeze was gentle, the air was fresh… He could understand why his boy was so intent on staying out here, even without all the memories- both new and old- that kept him out of the village. He’d have to make time to come out and explore the wilds more often, even if it was hard on his back.

But for now, he was having a lovely, relaxing lie down by some gorgeous flowers, guarded by his boy’s diligent pokemon, with the boy himself only a couple of feet away. And with the promise of a family picnic in the evening, the certainty of spending time with both of his beloved children, laughing and talking over food and the sound of ocean waves, Laventon found himself feeling more relaxed than he had in a long while.

Yes. He really would have to visit the wilds more often.

#oc x canon week #oc x canon week 2024 #trainersona #me #if this ends up in main pk.m.n tags bc of tumblrs incomprehensable search system. sorry. welcome to my cringe house #kunal is laventons first name. to me. hes so british indian. im right #words

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ao3feed-zukka · 3 months

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Tangled Up With You

Read now on Ao3 at https://ift.tt/qRH9Dov by Erisenyo [“Hey, have you seen—oh,” Zuko breaks off, Sokka glancing up and doing a double-take, torn between his sketch and the sight of Zuko half-dressed and still flushed from training and a bath. “Are you blueprinting?” “Drawing,” Sokka admits, tilting the board propped against his knees so Zuko can see, barely resisting the urge to reach out and smear charcoal and ink over Zuko’s skin. “Just woke up feeling inspired.” “Mm, I like it,” Zuko murmurs, peeking over Sokka’s shoulder, his fingers sifting absently through Sokka’s hair. “Are you experimenting with styles here?” he traces lightly over the winding, curving lines. “It’s got some viper cobra symbolism?” “Hm.” Sokka cocks his head, leaning into Zuko’s touch. “Yeah.” he finally says. He wasn’t quite going for that, but eyeing all his sketches and inked lines anew, he can suddenly see that it all is rather…ropelike.] Or, Sokka has something he can’t quite get off his mind. Something tangling up his thoughts. Something knotting up his tongue. Something wrapping around his imagination. Zuko might be willing to help him out. He does know how to tie a clove hitch, after all. Words: 15666, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Fandoms: Avatar: The Last Airbender Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: M/M Characters: Sokka (Avatar), Zuko (Avatar), Katara (Avatar) Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar) Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Fire Lord Zuko, Man of the World Sokka, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Banter, Squabbling with your boyfriend, A little pinch of that enemies to lovers vibe, Semi Accidental Kink Acquisition, Kink Exploration, Shibari, When you just really appreciate some good rope, Dirty Talk, Squabbling As Foreplay Read it on Ao3 at https://ift.tt/qRH9Dov

#IFTTT #zukka #sokka #zuko #avatar: the last airbender #atla #ao3 feed

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concealed-carrie · 1 year

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OPERATOR

I have never felt this safe in a hospital before. I am secured to this table, its cold surface yields nothing, I am awash in sterilizing light, and yet despite it all I am perfectly still. Med-techs worry over me, bustle about the room, maneuvering the requisite blades and appendages into place. Their movements are coordinated to a degree that implies a form of communication that I am not yet privy to. In their reflective faces I see myself shaved and skinny from prep week, covered in dashed lines and labels for different cuts of meat like this girl I once knew jumped me with a stick of liquid eyeliner. A part of me recognizes an inherent grotesquery in this situation, but the others remain silent, and the concerns of the first are dismissed. It’s like they said in the pamphlet: A weapon does not fear. A weapon does not regret. Everything is going to be okay.

A little later they’re calibrating me against a selection of pig carcasses impaled to make them stand on their hind legs. An uninitiated observer might assume that this is a test of my cutting power or penetrative capability, but no: this is about software, reflex. I am to proceed from this side of the range to the other, performing whatever action feels most natural on each successive carcass. To this end, I employ what they’ve given me. Limbs fold outward into blades and open panels cascade shimmering razor-filament in a bridal shroud. Joints vent steam with a teakettle wail as denticles flare up from skin. No one can touch me like this. Miles underground, under fluorescent lighting, I can finally feel the sun. Every part of me is beautiful. Every part of me cuts.

Thus unfurled, I begin my task, separating meat from meat from meat as I work my way to the other side of the room. The tactile experience of butchery is satisfying and somehow familiar. Text pulses neon pink in my peripheral vision as I dance from one carcass to the next: objective complete: proceed, objective complete: proceed. Reading those words, my internal narrator slips unbidden into a softer, sweeter, more insistent voice.

Blood arcs, skin opens like parted lips, and I feel an electric tightness mounting in my core. Potential energy winding up inside me, coalescing into something dense and warm, begging for escalation and release. Objective complete: next one, doll. I shiver. This sensation is foreign to me, but it feels like such a natural response to present stimuli – as elemental as salivating when you smell cooked salmon or tensing up when someone raises their voice – that it barely registers as out of the ordinary.

When I approach the end of the line I notice that the last carcass is still alive, chained to its post rather than stuck through with it. For an instant, all my momentum catches in my throat. Trussed up vertically it looks too much like a cadaver or a diseased person, approaching that species-level trigger that inspires disgust at the sight of one of our own too far gone to be worth saving. It’s not screaming yet, just breathing high and fast and ragged. One soft eye rolls down to meet my gaze. The other is milky white, filmed over or turned inwards. Both are pleading. Outstanding objective(s). 0.43 second delay registered. Be good now. That voice isn’t mine anymore, if it ever was. It’s something sharing space with me, dripping hot syrup into my brainstem. My mind conjures (or, more likely, is supplied with) an impression of a woman with the body of an infinite serpent. She looks like a field of stars miles off the grid from the back of a stolen pickup, smells like clove and carrion and autumn petrichor, feels like every girl who I’ve ever been held by and won’t ever see again. She coils around my most secret self and waits there, tremulous with anticipation.

The pig starts screaming and doesn’t stop until I’m done taking it apart.

As its internals slough ropelike onto the tile floor, I feel the presence in my head warm to me, suffusing me with belonging and purpose. In this moment, I know that I would do anything in the world to continue to earn its love. Call it premonition: I will look pretty for the parades and let them show me off at trade shows. I will paint over my chassis and file down my serial number when deniability is required. I will flay the skin from insurgents in countries deemed profitable. I will rip the breath and the lightning from as much meat as it takes to make you proud of me. I’ll be your perfect weapon, I promise.

Afterwards, I note a string of precum leaking from my half-hard clit, and register an anachronistic twinge of embarrassment that lasts until it vanishes down the inset drain with all the other fluids. Another ping. Now the text is center justified and speaking directly to me, filling my vision, my mind, my world:

wetware/hardware calibration complete

sync rate 97%

operator install successful

good girl <3

#original writing #empty spaces #combat dolls #gonna start posting some of my old stuff here ig #and new stuff im yirtzeh hashem #apologies to the college fiction workshop I field tested this on #you all are so brave

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eggplantmaniac420 · 9 months

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The fork, a little hairy-headed fellow with a long neck, the Bart Simpson of eating utensils. Necessary, irreplaceable at the dinner table, but ultimately a bit of a fuckup. He is as like to fruitlessly squash a stray cherry tomato, chasing it around the plate until its ruby juices are smeared across every nook and facet, as he is to gloriously spear the unruly veggie with his tines. He is capable of scooping, but it isn't his primary strength, and I don't recommend relying on him for it. Soups and stews are another obvious weakpoint. In the realm of spaghetti, however, there is no competitor.

The spoon, the belle dame of the bunch: her bebonneted face is smooth, featureless, radiantly concave; a polished mirror that, for want of its own distinguishing allures, reflects back to the beholder's eye its own internal conception of beauty, which, if the anatomy textbooks are to be believed, is housed entirely within a bloodless organ that floats listlessly amidst the goo of the vitreous humor. I offer no comment on her strengths and weaknesses as a dining utensil, which should be obvious to anyone lucky enough to make her acquaintance.

The knife, a dependable scoundrel. Though his manners are rough, and his grizzled countenance out of place in the prim and proper world of fine dining, he is the only one that can be relied upon to get the job done without fail. The fork can be your crutch if the knife doesn't seem worth the time to employ, and he serves well enough when the going is good - as in chocolate cakes, overboiled green beans, delicate filets of sole en papillote dressed in a thyme-tinged brown butter sauce - but, when grandma's dish of well-past well-done porkchops comes, grey and steaming, out of the oven, you'd be hard pressed to find any fork with enough muscle to pass muster (Speaking of which, please pass the mustard). The ropelike fibers of meemaw's hamsteaks can only be parted by the sawing of a sharp-toothed knife, and as much as you'd like to make a meal out of mashed potatoes and creamed corn alone, you'd be disappointing her (A terrible psychosomatic burden on her margarine-besotted heart!) if you didn't at least spend forty five minutes gnawing your way through the gruesomely dissected chunks of half a saltless chop; the other half, however, can be politely scraped into the trash if accompanied by a declaration, seemingly aimed at no one in particular, that you are "completely stuffed".

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danco110 · 7 months

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“Tiana, you don’t see another eyeball around here, do you?”

The angelic mechanic grimaced. She hesitated, but eventually joined in helping an equally disgusted Arvad search for the last bits and pieces of Braids’s minion. Meanwhile the living nightmare herself hovered a short ways away, pointing at something in the distance.

“Oh, company!”

Tiana and Arvad’s supernatural sight let them make out the details of the incoming object while it was still a speck in the distance. But being able to recognize the sight brought no relief to either of them.

“Tiana…”

“What the…JOYRIDERS!”

The angel flew forward in a fury, just as the weathered hull of the Weatherlight touched down before her. She reached the ship first, but Arvad was close behind her, and held her back as she tried to fly aboard.

“I can handle this.”

“It’s my ship, too,” Tiana grumbled, though she ultimately relented, and allowed Arvad to climb aboard in her stead.

Arvad leapt gracefully onto the deck and approached the door leading below decks. When he flung it open, however, he saw not an airship thief, but rather a familiar saproling sprinting out of the hold.

“Slimefoot?”

As the fungus fled, Arvad again glanced inside the ship. Fleshy growths seemed to race up the stairs and walls, directly towards him. Before he could react, a ropelike tendril lashed out, ensnaring him. Just before he was pulled below decks, he was able to leap to the railing, to help Slimefoot disembark and to warn Tiana.

“TIANA! The Weatherlight! It’s compleated-” was all he managed before disappearing through the hull doors. With that, the ship lifted off once more, sparking and groaning furiously as it pivoted to face a crestfallen Tiana.

“No, no, no, no, no,” murmured the angel.

The ship’s metal groaned again, uncaring of Tiana’s pleas.

“Come on, baby. Not you.”

Another flurry of sparks.

“Come on! Not the classic!”

The ship surged forward.

“NO!”

[“Ash! The Delta! It’s possessed!”

Almost forgot to write something for leading up to Halloween!]

#mtg #magic the gathering #dominaria #story bites

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frodothefair · 8 months

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꧁ The Flowers of Mordor ꧂

Chapter 5 - Book Learnin’

READ ALL ON AO3

SUMMARY : Sam knows he cannot tear himself in two, but Frodo's struggles after the quest are worsening. Marigold Gamgee gets a job at Bag End, and grows close to its enigmatic master. J. R. R. Tolkien meets Jane Austen meets Tess of the D'Urbervilles. CHAPTER SUMMARY : Marigold confronts Sam about a white lie. Rosie plays the diplomat. Gaffer has opinions about education. PAIRING : Frodo/Marigold Gamgee, Frodo/Sam secondary GENRES : hurt/comfort, angst, slow burn romance, slice of life, girl next door WARNINGS : PTSD, depression, panic attacks, eating disorder, eventual spicy scenes RATING : M

PREVIEW:

That day, Marigold was silent at supper. Not merely quiet, as was her custom in larger groups, but completely, deadly silent. She passed dishes and condiments without a word, and nodded and pretended to have too much in her mouth to answer questions. She all but looked through Sam who sat across from her – and so he knew a storm was brewing, and it was only a matter of time before the cloudburst.

And sure enough, after a few moments of being alone in the kitchen, him dunking the dishes and scrubbing off the remnants of food while she rinsed and wiped, she spoke up in a slow, deliberate tone.

“Samwise Gamgee, could you please tell me something?”

Silence AND his full name.

This was bound to be a tempest.

And sure enough, after a few moments of being alone in the kitchen, him dunking the dishes and scrubbing off the remnants of food while she rinsed and wiped, she up spoke in a slow, deliberate tone.

“Samwise Gamgee, could you please tell me something?”

Silence and his full name.

This was bound to be a tempest.

Sam swallowed, and lowered the dish he was scrubbing. It disappeared under the water with a clink.

“Of course,” he replied. “Leastwise I can try.”

Marigold nodded. She took up the towel and carefully wiped a plate, the cloth creak-creaking over the rim.

“Alright. Here’s what I’d like to know. And mind, you must tell me true. No fibbing.” She put aside the plate.

“Of-of course.”

“Is there a right and a wrong way of spelling things?”

Sam paused with his hand over the soapy water. That’s what she wanted to know? Then why in the Shire —

“Why, of course there is.”

The wet towel, spun into a ropelike shape, came down on his arm, hard.

“Samwise Gamgee, you bloody LIAR!!!”

Sam yelped in pain – the towel had nearly taken a off strip of skin. It had certainly taken off a strip of hair.

“What in the world—?! Mari, what’s gotten into you?!”

He sucked his teeth, backing away and rubbing his injured arm. He had nearly forgotten how dangerous his sisters could be with kitchen implements.

Marigold was twirling the towel at her side, an ominous look in her eyes.

“Nothin’s gotten into me,” she replied through clenched teeth. “ ‘Cept today I learned that I’ve got a rotten, no-good, filthy rat for a brother. You told me ‘it didn’t matter, so long as you got the point across.’ Those were your exact words.”

“What?! When?”

“When we were wee! When you taught me how to write! When Mr. Bilbo taught you!”

Sam clutched his smarting arm, trying feverishly to remember.

“I mean – maybe? I might have said that back then? But look, I –”

“But you what?”

He had started to back away, but Marigold began to advance toward him, so he beat an even hastier retreat and put the table between them.

“Well I – I didn’t want to hurt your feelin’s, is all” – he pleaded, a desperate tone rising in his voice. “You were tryin’ so hard, but you just kept gettin’ it all wrong, time after time, and I didn’t know what to do, so I thought –”

Marigold stopped and tapped her foot, folding her arms – the towel still in hand.

“And I thought, maybe – just maybe it would do to get it right enough, if you get my meanin’. We’re Gamgees, after all.”

He slowed his speech, his eyes darting warily from her face to the towel.

“Gamgees? What does that mean?” Her voice was as stony as her expression.

“Well, you know what I mean,” Sam rejoined, emboldened – if by nothing else then the table between them. “We don’t write letters to everyone we know all day – most folk we know wouldn’t even know how to read letters. And we don’t write books like Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Frodo. That’s just not what we do –”

Marigold lunged to the side, meaning to bring down the wrath of the towel full upon him, but he was fast enough to elude her. He raised his arms with a “whoa” expression, and the towel came down on the rough-cut table, polished smooth by many years of sitters and plates.

“And just who do you think you are to decide that for me?!” she cried. There was a sudden despair, if not tears in her voice. (And Marigold hardly ever wept – she only sulked, or got angry). “I may have wanted to write letters! I did write some things for Mr. Frodo the other day, and – and –”

Ah. Mr. Frodo. Sam might have chuckled.

“And what?” He let a smile slip into his words.

She looked like a child who was about to pout and stamp her foot, but only balled her fists at her sides.

“And – and if I’da known just how important spellin’ was, I would have worked harder at it!” – she wailed. “I wrote some things for him, and I got half of it wrong! Can you imagine?! I can’t tell you now embarrassin’ it was!”

Since Marigold seemed, for a moment, more intent on feeling sorry for herself than angry at him, Sam made a cautious step toward her – though he still kept the table between them.

“Well, better late than never, eh, Mari?” – he tried to inject a cheerful lilt into his tone. “And Mr. Frodo… Well, I’m sure he wouldn’t hold it against you. I mean, to be fair I didn’t expect you to believe it, not for this long. What with all the readin’ you’ve done for Mrs. Bracegirdle, I woulda thought you woulda figured it out for yourself…”

But in expecting Marigold to give up her defenses, even as she spoke of her shame, he could not have been more wrong.

The towel came down on his hand, hard.

“Don’t you put this on me, Samwise Gamgee! Don’t put this on me!”

Sam yelped in dismay, and backed all the way to the wall.

He considered, quite seriously, the option of begging truce – or simply escaping out the door, but was loath to reveal their argument.

Marigold made as if to strike him again, but he was out of reach, so she stamped her foot and took it out on the poor, defenseless wash basin, hitting it hard with her fist.

“You know I was too busy sortin’ out the hip bones from the thigh bones and the ergot from the fenugreek to bother over spellin’! You used to read to me yourself when I got tired!”

Sam sighed.

That much was true. And he did recall that Marigold’s progress through her books had been painfully slow – she had pored over them many a night after the rest of the household had gone to sleep.

He rubbed the side of his head.

“Ugh!” Marigold threw the towel to the ground. “I can’t believe this.”

Sam pressed his lips.

“Well, look, Mari” – he made one last, desperate attempt at conciliation. “I’m sorry. I really am. I shouldna have said what I said – not back then, and not now. But look – I really think you oughtn’t trouble yourself so much with all this. I mean – readin’ and writin’s hard, and there’s no need for everyone to do it well. And Mr. Frodo, well – he’s the kindest soul alive –”

“Yes, that he is,” Marigold retorted, her upper lip curling. “And Mr. Frodo doesn’t think I’m a dunderhead, unlike some people!” She picked the towel off the floor. “He agreed to help me, you know! He thinks I can write proper if I’m taught.”

“Oh, well then –”

“Oy, what’s going on in here?” The Gaffer appeared in the doorway. “I won’t have a rowdy house, not if I’m not the one dolin’ out the discipline!”

But Marigold, having said her piece, spun around and stomped out, and the slamming of a door was all the answer he got.

The Gaffer turned to Sam, who sank down at the table, cradling his head in his hands.

“Forty years an’ three sisters, and I still can’t get on with lasses…”

He, too, made no specific reply to his father.

Rosie appeared in the doorway and tiptoed past the Gaffer, crossing the room on quiet feet and coming up behind her husband. She put her arms around him and pressed a kiss into his hair.

“You get on with me, love, and that’s enough.” She gently rubbed his back.

Sam sighed.

“Let’s hope you don’t have as long a memory as her.”

“Oh, that’s interesting.” Rosie began to rock him back and forth, and raised an eyebrow. “So you think Marigold has a long memory, do you? I wouldn’t have known.”

(The two of them had played dolls when they were little, so of course she knew, but that was quite besides the point).

“I’m curious now” – she added, winking over her shoulder at her father-in-law. “What did you fight about? Was it that time you tied her dress to the tail of a pig and made it run down the hill?”

Sam shook his head, nonplussed.

“No, not that. But apparently I didn’t teach her spellin’ well enough when we were younguns, and she’s gone an’ embarrassed herself with Mr. Frodo.”

His wife’s gentle rocking was rather soothing, and by that point, he cared much less who knew.

“Ohhh, dear.” Rosie clicked her tongue. “And we really shouldn’t go embarrassing ourselves with Mr. Frodo, should we? Because Mr. Frodo judges sooooo harshly…”

The Gaffer shook his head.

He had been chewing on the inside of his cheek, watching the proceedings, and let out a gruff sigh.

“I said it before and I’ll say it again. I knew no good would come of book-learning’.”

He turned on his heel and shuffled out for his evening pipe.

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erisenyo · 4 months

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tell us about shibari fic!

The shibari fic! It came about as I was doing research for That Love You Were Looking For, and was digging into all the types of sex toys and accessories Sokka might be running into.

And I kept thinking about how Sokka's love of good rope along with his artsy side and Zuko's sailor past could make for a really fun combination, particularly Sokka working himself up to actually broaching the topic with Zuko lol

“Hey, have you seen—oh,” Zuko breaks off, Sokka glancing up and doing a double-take, torn between his sketch and the sight of Zuko half-dressed and still flushed from training and a bath. “Are you blueprinting?” “Drawing,” Sokka admits, tilting the board propped against his knees so Zuko can see, barely resisting the urge to reach out and smear charcoal and ink over Zuko’s skin. “Just woke up feeling inspired.” “Mm, I like it,” Zuko murmurs, peeking over Sokka’s shoulder, his fingers sifting absently through Sokka’s hair. “Are you experimenting with styles here?” he traces lightly over the winding, curving lines. “It’s got some like, viper cobra symbolism.” “Hm.” Sokka cocks his head, leaning into Zuko’s touch. “Yeah.” he finally says. He wasn’t quite going for that. But eyeing all his sketches and inked lines anew, he can suddenly see that it all is rather…ropelike.

#asks and answers #WIP ask game #It definitely becomes uh. a comedy of errors lol #A smutty one but. I can never resist the hijinks

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otherkin-confessional · 8 months

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i have so many phantom limbs. i have these long feet that i think are some type of cat. i have multiple types of tails, from long and ropelike to big and fluffy. i have clawed hands, i have fangs and weird spikes on my back and wings. i have strange ears, like some where ears are meant to be and some where animals ears are. sometimes i feel like an alternate, tall and thin and breakable and dark. im so many things and i don't know what i am. ive suspected dog, cat, rabbit, dragon, alternate, angel, and maybe even just a shapeshifter... i don't know. maybe im everything.

⭐️

#otherkin #otherkin community #alterhuman #otherkin confession #alterhumanity #therian #therian community #nonhuman

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reasoningdaily · 8 months

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The New York Times: In Texas, a Black High School Student Is Suspended Over His Hair Length

Soon after starting his junior year last month at Barbers Hill High School in Mont Belvieu, Texas, Darryl George was separated from his classmates because of the way he wears his hair, his mother and a lawyer said.

Since the term began on Aug. 16, Darryl, a 17-year-old Black student, has received multiple disciplinary notices that have culminated in more than a week of in-school suspension, where he sits on a stool in a cubicle and work is brought to him, according to his mother, Darresha George. Each morning, he is asked by officials at the school, about 30 miles east of Houston, whether he has cut his hair yet, she said.

He has not.

“He is actually getting singled out,” said Ms. George. “They are personally stopping him, ‘Did he cut his hair?’ Asking him at the door.”

Darryl has locs, or long ropelike strands of hair, that he pins on his head in a barrel roll, a protective style that reflects Black culture, Ms. George said. On Aug. 31, about two weeks after school started, school officials told her that his hair length, even though pinned, violated the dress code.

“I was told that every day Darryl comes to school, he would be put in in-school suspension because his hair has not been cut,” she said. “Even if pulled up in buns or neatly pulled back, because when let down it is below his earlobes and eyebrows.”

Supporters of the family, including legislators and activists, have called the suspension alarming, saying that it could test a new state law called the CROWN Act. The law, which Gov. Greg Abbott signed in May, says, in part, that any dress or grooming policy adopted by a school district “may not discriminate against a hair texture or protective hairstyle commonly or historically associated with race.” The law does not specifically mention hair length.

The Barbers Hill Independent School District’s dress code mandates that a male student’s hair “will not extend below the eyebrows, below the earlobes or below the top of a T-shirt collar.”

A district spokesman, David Bloom, said that the dress code and suspension were “not in conflict” with the CROWN Act because the code permits protective hairstyles, if the hair would not go beyond the permitted length when let down.

“The vast majority of hair code violation punishments — I.S.S. or more severe — have been handed down to white students,” Mr. Bloom said, using the acronym for in-school suspension, where, he said, students are kept in a classroom staffed by a teacher, and sit at desks separated by partitions so as not to disturb one another.

The school informed Ms. George of Darryl’s suspension just one day before the law took effect on Sept. 1, she said.

Even though the CROWN Act does not specifically mention hair length, Darryl’s supporters have said the district’s move violates the spirit of the law. Candice Matthews, a civil rights activist and vice chair of the Texas Coalition of Black Democrats, said that braids, locs and twists need to be long to protect the hair.

“It is a hairstyle that is cultural in nature,” she said.

At least 23 other states have adopted similar laws banning discrimination based on race-based hairstyles in the workplace and public schools.

On Sept. 8, the Texas Legislative Black Caucus sent a letter to the district superintendent, Greg Poole, and the school principal, Lance Murphy, urging the district to clear Darryl’s record and warning that the suspension could set a “dangerous precedent.”

“The school is arbitrarily coming up with something else, saying that it’s really not the hair, it’s the length,” said State Representative Ron Reynolds, a Democrat and chair of the caucus.

State Representative Rhetta Andrews Bowers, a Democrat and the primary author of the CROWN Act, said she was inspired by the Crown Coalition, which advocates adoption of the law in other states, and by DeAndre Arnold and Kaden Bradford, cousins who attended high school in the same district as Darryl and were suspended for the length of their dreadlocks in a case that garnered national attention.

“We anticipated that even with the passage of the legislation that there could possibly be incidents,” she said. “We knew that it was largely going to be education and awareness making people understand. We are still on that path.”

Darryl’s case is not the first to test the new law. In August, Katheryn Huerta, the mother of an elementary school student in Mabank, Texas, cited the CROWN Act when she was told that she would have to cut her son’s long hair. Ms. Huerta told WFAA-TV, a local ABC affiliate, that her district later relented, saying she could put her son’s hair in braids and a bun.

A lawyer for Ms. George, Allie Booker, said that Darryl had been given until the end of the week to comply with the school’s dress code or he could be placed in a disciplinary alternative learning program. Ms. Booker said she is considering legal action.

“We are not cutting his hair,” Ms. George said, “because that is part of his culture, that is his roots. It is like cutting off a part of him.”

#policing Black Heads #white supremacy in educational systems #systemic racism #CROWN Act #In Texas #a Black High School Student Is Suspended Over His Hair Length #Black Hair

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