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helianskies · 1 year

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Diálogo prompt 25, spuk, definetly possessive england😍😍😍😍😍😍😍, if it is posible, pirate spuk

hello anon! sorry for casually sitting on this but. it's here! 🍪 happy birthday to me! :D the full fic is also on ao3 if you'd rather read it there <3

Want

Watching is far from enjoyable.

Arthur sips from his cup, drink soured by his surroundings and company, and he tries not to break under the pressure of revellers and their song.

Wedged next to him in a corner is perhaps his only friend on this earth beside his own ship, dearest João, Portuguese by birth and reckless by nature. They crossed paths about a month ago in Curaçao, and agreed to meet again elsewhere in the Caribbean—their current haunt. It's been nice to catch up. It's been nice to see him, to see how well he is and how he has been thriving out here.

What has not been nice, however, is that their shared visit to this humble, little, inconsequential, speck-on-the-map of an island has been marred by the presence of another. The presence of someone like them, lawless, shameless, restless.

João knows Antonio only in passing—reputation precedes them both, a whisper in salty wind, a threat across fine borders. But to Arthur, Antonio is more than a mere whisper; he is a scream, a deafening cry in the midst of battle, a creeping howl in the dead of night. And right now, that very thing, who has finished joining in with the revelry and singing, saunters over all too confidently and comes to stand within arm's reach.

Only a small table separates them. Arthur could fumble for his flintlock, João could jab him in the leg with a blade. Perhaps they consider it. Perhaps only Arthur does—who truly knows?

"You are both looking very bored in this sad little corner," Antonio remarks as a hip sinks and he leans on one leg more than the other. It emphasises a pretty curve, as well as his pretentiousness. "Is this an age thing? Or do you just have nothing to celebrate?"

Arthur, who is quite sure he is younger than the Spanish weasel stood before them, does his best to not scowl too hard, though he feels his distaste is already known. João, on the other hand, gives a gentle, amused scoff as he continues to drink; he is better equipped, it seems, to deal with such comments (or to not deal with them, really).

“Come on,” the Spaniard implores, “you may as well join us, no? I might even buy you both a drink, if you’ll indulge me.”

A glance is shared between the two friends. Arthur senses the other’s inclination—the offer of a drink is something João has never before turned down, as far as he knows—and so the blonde turns to the intruder and asks, “What exactly are you celebrating?” to which Antonio’s smile appears to turn.

“We sank a unit of naval ships in the early hours of the morning on our way over from Grenada,” he tells them. “The crew’s just started a week’s worth of drinking and… libertinaje, much to their delight.”

“Any navy in particular?” João then queries.

Antonio’s eyes shift away from Arthur, though he still feels as though he is being watched as the answer leaves the other’s mouth: “British, without a doubt.”

It almost makes him feel sick. Arthur’s only salvation is that he has had his own run-ins with fellow countrymen, and the need for survival and prosperity turns any flying flag invisible when cannonfire is involved.

Still, Antonio proceeds to offer them that drink. Again, Arthur and João look at each other for a silent response, and, defying all his own expectations and instincts, Arthurs finds himself agreeing with both of them, and being dragged from his seat over to the front bar for a freshly-filled tankard.

How time passes in the way it does, Arthur does not entirely understand. One drink turns into two turns into five. For a short while, the three of them are at the heart of a pirate choir. Arthur loses his hat, his jacket, his inhibitions, while João and Antonio watch on and join in and are then lost in the alcohol-induced haze that the Brit’s mind creates.

Songs blend into each other, as do faces, as do conversations. Whispers whizz around the room like pestering flies. At some point, Antonio breaks out into something more folkish than sea-faring; hands clap along and the few who understand the seemingly heartfelt lyrics join in. But Arthur is not drawn to his voice so much as his body, his waist, his hips. It feels dirty. It feels filthy. But he also can't help it…

…like he can't help the blooming warmth he feels when his hat appears to suddenly materialise on Antonio's head, and he wears it so wonderfully that Arthur dares contemplate what he would look like wearing only the hat…

…like he can't help but shiver, almost, as fingers glide across and around his cheek, a passing caress as the song and its siren dance around him as part of a performance that, God, Arthur wishes could be private, for him, for only him…

…like he can't help how violently his mind turns when performative affections are directed elsewhere and João plays into them and Arthur suddenly doesn't know which one of them he wants to gut first, or if only one deserves his wrath…

The song ends. Another begins. And with it, the Brit feels like he blacks out.

He can't be sure how much time he has lost by the time the three of them return to their corner—their quiet, boring, sad little corner tucked away by the stairs up to the inn rooms above (stairs already taken by some of the Spanish men, notably).

Arthur finds himself in the chair against the external wall. To his right, Antonio and João are in the middle of an on-and-off hysterical fit of giggles quite unbecoming of men of their repute. Only, Antonio has in fact made himself comfortable on the other’s lap (he doubts João has even realised, or that he simply doesn’t care—doesn’t think much of it) as he listens to whatever absolutely made-up adventure João is telling him about.

For reasons he cannot quite place, it makes Arthur feel… uneasy. He does not like that they are so close, and so open. Innocent as it may be, his mind wanders. It imagines things that could happen (that could be happening right under his nose!) and plays out scenes that only make him feel worse. He sees wandering hands, dangerous eyes…

“You,” Antonio says, João apparently having finished his tale, “are trouble, and trouble that hides itself well. I’ll have to watch myself around you, eh? I’m scared to turn my back!”

His fingers twirl João’s hair, curling around and around and around. Arthur hates it, but still does not know why. Antonio glances at him (he can smell it on you) and his smile turns easy, lazy, before he returns to the other Iberian and whispers something in his ear.

The way his unknown words make João laugh is terrifying. Arthur feels only fear and damnation. Antonio pulls back, continues to toy with the other’s hair and the Brit’s feelings, and time, once more, makes fools of them all.

More drinks come, but Arthur is no longer tempted, unlike his companions. He watches them drink and slur and stumble, and, as the tavern steadily empties, he finally suggests to João, the most far-gone, that perhaps it is time to call it a night.

Fortunately for him, João does not protest and Antonio even agrees. He helps Arthur get João to his feet, then out of the building, and down the lane towards the docks. Arthur cannot pinpoint precisely when it happens, but at some point, they are met by one of João’s own crewmates who offers to escort the other all the way back to bed—the penultimate offer of the night that does not get refused.

That leaves Arthur and Antonio alone. That leaves Arthur alone with Antonio, and the thoughts that still plague him.

“On that note,” Antonio says, “I think maybe I ought to, uhh… also go back…” He turns to Arthur, still smiling away, perfect, annoying. “It’s been kinda nice, though. I really did not expect you to join us."

Arthur shrugs. "You know what they say about keeping your enemies closer."

The other scoffs, but smiles, like he has been bestowed an honour. And then he asks, "Where are you, then?"

"Standing next to you…?"

"I… meant your vessel."

"Oh, uhh… Jus’ down there,” he replies. “You?"

Antonio hums, and then throws a gesture outwards, forwards, sea wards. "There," he replies, unfazed. "I'm out there…"

Arthur is perplexed. "Out… there?"

"Yeah," he says and sighs. "I don't like docking too soon after arriving somewhere in case we have to make a quick getaway, but… something tells me I should not risk rowing." It makes him snort, somehow amused by the peril. "Back to the inn for me, then." Antonio turns to Arthur. "I will not keep you any longer.”

Yet, as Antonio turns to walk and in fact does start to walk, Arthur is met by a breeze, and wafts of various images—of hats, of only hats, of sensual hips and whimsical whispers, of rum-spiced lips, of conquest and victory—that plunge him into action.

"How about," he calls after the other, "you skip the inn, and join me instead."

It makes Antonio halt, twist slightly on his heel, and regard him somewhat sceptically. "On your ship?" he asks, as though it is a ridiculous thought. "Why, so you can kill me and dump my body at sea?"

"Hadn't crossed my mind."

"Surprising."

"I have more rum onboard."

"So you can get me even more drunk and then kill me?"

"It would make it easier," Arthur concurs, "but I haven't got murder on my mind, this evening. Too drunk for it myself. If you're not interested though, I suppose I'll just… entertain myself—"

"Are you really asking me to board your ship for a… friendly drink…?"

"…yes."

It takes a moment for it to form, or perhaps for Arthur to recognise it, but Antonio's smile returns to his face. It makes the Brit's stomach flutter with anticipation and thrill.

"Alright," Antonio replies as he starts to step back towards him, a bit unsteady, even if he tries to play it off, "I will come with you. But I also reserve the right to shoot your brains out if you try anything funny, Kirkland. Satisfied?"

The blonde concedes, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Satisfied," he agrees, and with that, he gestures for Antonio to go ahead and walk with him.

Of course, 'satisfied' is only the tip of the iceberg of what Arthur is feeling.

As soon as Antonio walks by, and Arthur becomes the only thing standing between him and the mainland, he feels a rush of something he can't describe. But it feels good, he knows that much—and that is all he needs.

The walk is largely carried out in silence. Arthur lets Antonio go up the gangway first, mindful to watch the other's steps (for even if there is some rope railing, he could still potentially fall into the water), and greets him on the main deck with a firm clap to the shoulder, before the silent walk continues.

He guides Antonio up to the quarter deck. He guides Antonio through a door. He guides Antonio then through another door, and then, still speechless, they are alone in the privacy of Arthur's quarters.

"Nice," is the only word that initially comes from the Spaniard. His eyes dance around the room, grazing over the dark wood, the scant furniture, the candles that Arthur forgot to blow out before leaving for shore…

(Perhaps not a bad thing.)

"I expected more…"

Arthur is taken aback. "More?" he asks. "More what?"

"Just more ," Antonio replies. He takes a few steps further in, contemplates the rear musty windows, and then takes a seat quite abruptly on the bed. "I do not intend to be rude, I just mean… I expected more extravagance. More gold, more colour."

"Well," the blonde returns, "at least I now know what to expect on your ship."

"Ahh, you got me there. But where is the fun in stealing and plundering if I do not occasionally display my trophies?"

Perhaps Arthur should have expected as much from someone like Antonio. The Spanish have a thing for all things shiny and golden, almost like magpies, clever, resourceful and greedy.

"Come on, then," Antonio calls, retrieving Arthur's attention. "I believe there was a promise of a drink? I fear I am already starting to sober—and I have been known to be a lot less pleasant when dry."

Arthur tries not to smile too suddenly, or sharply. "Then we'd better see to that, hadn't we?"

The gesture is welcomed with a rather delicate smile, which stirs the fires in both Arthur's chest and groin. A stranger would not look at that man and think him guilty of everything from petty theft to serial murder. Arthur wonders if there are scars across his body, however, that paint a different picture…

He pours them both a drink. The room is silent and he can feel eyes watching him. As amber liquid fills up small glasses, he hears some movement, shifting, or shuffling—nothing of great concern, but as it is the only noise other than trickling rum that he can hear, it sticks out, awkward. Though, what if Antonio conceals a weapon? What if, foolishly, Arthur has invited Antonio onto his boat only for the other to attempt the kill?

The thought vanishes as fast as it appears, and Arthur lifts both glasses from the cabinet surface to rejoin his guest. Surely Antonio would not be so brazen or stu—…

Antonio is on the bed. As in, comfortably on the bed. Lying on the bed. He’s propped himself up against the pillows, legs crossed, quite relaxed. And, brazed indeed, pats the other side of the bed next to him—an invitation to join him once more.

This time, Arthur does not feel that tug to refuse or hesitate.

He brings Antonio his drink and feels a sort of… spark, he believes, as they briefly connect. If the other feels it, too, it does not show; Antonio merely thanks him, and wastes no time in downing the drink he has been handed.

“You didn’t have to drink it all in one go,” Arthur marvels, even if it is how he would drink it, too.

Antonio agrees, nevertheless: “I expected it to be diluted,” he says. “Well done you for, uh… not doing that. Makes a nice change…”

“What can I say?” Arthur not-so-humbly replies as he returns to the cabinet and retrieves the decanter, having a terrible feeling they will need it. “I am a man of quality.”

The Spaniard snorts—a sudden reaction that he tries to fend off but ultimately fails to mask. Arthur would usually have felt offended, but… he, too, is amused by his peer. Prior to today, he had thought the only thing Antonio laughed at was death. How wrong, it seems, he has been.

All the same, Arthur offers Antonio a top-up. The other accepts, on the condition that Arthur finishes his own glass before refilling one.

“I would hate to be ahead of you,” is his reasoning. “More ahead of you than I think I already am, at that.”

So Arthur obliges. He mimics Antonio’s own drinking method, unfazed, and instantly pours them both another for good measure. Once more, he is thanked. Once more, he is left amazed by how easily the other puts it away, empties his glass.

For a split second, he wonders why Antonio does it—if he feels a need, perhaps, or if it is mere habit—but the thought is washed away by spiced rum, and sure enough, the drinking sees time make fools of them both.

Before Arthur knows it, the supply depletes, rare laughter comes to fill his room, boots and jackets get discarded as the atmosphere settles, and they are both left lying together on the bed. When it happens, Arthur feels so light yet so heavy, and the room moves in funny ways whenever he moves his head. Antonio can’t be much better off.

And yet, at some point Antonio suddenly swings his legs off the bed and announces his departure, and all of that alcohol starts to fester and bubble inside of Arthur with just as little warning.

Antonio stumbles. How could he not? He stumbles as he stands, just as Arthur stumbles as he sits up and demands to know, “Where are you going?”

“Back,” comes a fatigued response. “I have k—" He stops to hit his chest, fending off something that Arthur simply hopes is not vomit, and then resumes: "I have, uh… kept you up for long enough, I think, and there is a bed patiently waiting for me."

Yes, a demon within Arthur bellows, mine.

Compelled to action, he does not give Antonio a chance to collect his boots.

"Stay," he says—urges—reaching over to the other but not quite able to grab anything (he does not want to look entirely like a fool). "Or have I bored you that much?"

"I would hesitate to call you a bore," Antonio assures him. "If anything, I…" He glances back at the Brit, and Arthur notes the crease in his brow. "I wonder if I have bored you."

Arthur is adamant, "Absolutely not. Why would you think that?"

"Because," Antonio says, "you have spent an entire evening staring at me, being teased by me, entertaining me… and yet, nothing has happened."

"L— Like what?"

"You tell me."

"Me?"

"You invited me onto your ship," Antonio reminds him, returning to the bed and perching precariously on the edge. "Bearing in mind that you and I do not have the nicest history together, if you really did not intend to kill me, then why am I here?" He leans in. He looks so… "You… tell me."

Arthur feels backed into a corner. "Does there have to be a reason other than the one I gave you?"

Antonio, in turn, reacts as though he feels the same. "The reason you gave is nothing but a lie—and not a good one at that," he remarks. "As amicable as we have been, we certainly required the alcohol."

"But I—"

"The truth is, I am confused," he presses, however. "I am confused by you and your behaviour… Because if you had invited João to join us as well, maybe I would understand my being here, mmh? But if anything, the fact that it is just you and I, and that you want me to stay… it does not make sense."

"Maybe I just want the company," Arthur tries to reason. "I've enjoyed this evening, against all odds. I just thought you were enjoying it, too…"

"And I have, I just— I think I expected more from you."

Arthur knows what he means, yet doesn't at the same time. He feels somewhat offended that Antonio feels let down in any sense—that he feels entitled to more than simple camaraderie—but while the devil on his shoulder natters away about etiquette and enemies, the much more understated angel whispers other devilish words in his ear: just tell him.

On the one hand, he doesn't want to. To admit the things he has felt through this evening and to admit them to Antonio's face would be akin to burying himself alive, surely. Perhaps even under hot, burning sands. Perhaps in an iron coffin, dumped at sea.

On the other hand, however, would it… be so bad? Antonio is evidently not above flirting with men, so is it so far a push to think he may go beyond just flirting? Beyond a smile, a touch, a kiss?

Arthur is not given a chance to find out of his own volition.

"I will leave you to sleep," Antonio announces again.

But this time, Arthur is able to take a hold of him before he can leave; he seizes a hand—a wrist—a forearm—and pulls Antonio back down—back to him—and seizes the opportunity just as firmly.

"You want to know what I want?" he asks, not anticipating nor allowing for an answer. "I want what you so willingly give to others, yet not to me."

Antonio considers him—glances up and down—and asks, "Meaning?"

"I have seen you, and not just tonight, get very, very friendly with many, many men," he replies. "João, more recently. But I have also seen you amongst the Dutch, with the likes of Francis, and even the locals—"

"What's wrong with Francis? Francis was good fun…"

"—and I am feeling left out. You give them your attention, your affection, maybe even more," he goes on irrespective, "but I am left with only scorn and jest."

Antonio raises a brow. "If you consider us enemies, is that not what you should expect to receive?"

To which Arthur, following a soft sigh, says, "I no longer care what we consider each other. Not tonight, at least."

"Then why? Why are we here?" the Spaniard seems to beg him to explain.

"Because I want you," Arthur finally concedes, shame gone and replaced only with fantastical whimsy. "I want you, in so many ways, and I want you all to myself, Antonio."

For what feels like an age, they only look at each other. Arthur cannot tell if he has confused Antonio, or has unsettled him, perhaps, or if he has only amused him and made a mockery of himself in turn. But he has said what he needed to—what the other needed him to—and he can hardly retract his stat—

"Then take it."

He blinks. His grip loosens. His tongue ties. "I, uhh…"

"Don't play the fool," Antonio warns, however. "If you want something in life, Arthur, you should know by now that the best way to have it, is to take it. No?" He leans in—maybe even crawls across the bed to bridge the small gap between them—his body so close, so near—God, his eyes, his lips, his—! "When you are ready, cabrón. Best to do it before the rum wears off if you want to be intact come morning…"

Something about the threat riles him up, and in a good way. Whether or not that is something to worry about is a thought that does not even cross Arthur's mind. Instead, his free hand (the other maintains its hold, fearful of letting go) finds the Spaniard's face, finds his hair, finds his neck, and reels him in.

Antonio is a siren. He must be. Little else can explain the intoxication that Arthur feels as they kiss—as hands dare to roam, as hunger urges them on, as Antonio starts to palm and tease at Arthur's unsuspecting groin.

And that is only the beginning…

* * *

The sun rises faster than is welcome.

Arthur wakes as he normally would, feeling groggy (not helped much by the contents of his stomach) and wanting nothing more than to go back to sleep. And he could, of course. He could go back to sleep, ignore the morning, and return to his dreams with no real consequence…

…but next to him lies a prize that he fears may yet scarper if he lets his guard down.

Really, the fact that Antonio is there at all is a surprise—a delight. The other appears to still be deep in slumber, as far as Arthur can tell, and he would prefer it to stay that way for a little while longer.

Last night (or earlier that morning, he supposes) has made him think. Some things were said (and done) that he has been unable to escape both in the sleeping and waking world, and as Antonio sleeps on, Arthur’s mind continues to work. It continues to debate. It continues to argue against itself. And all the while, Arthur himself tries to decide which voice—an angel’s or a devil’s—to listen to.

The decision is a difficult one to make. But, in the end, all it takes is a final glance at Antonio, at his unworldly serenity, at the hints of Arthur that linger on his bare skin, and at the window that casts out towards the sea… and he knows what he must do.

Arthur moves carefully and cautiously from the bed. He finds some clothes—a temporary fix—and ventures out of the cabin and out into the breaking day.

On the deck are only a few of the crew. Everyone else, it seems, is sleeping off the night before (admittedly, the sea air seems to do something for Arthur’s head, refreshing, sobering) and, after checking with the quartermaster, Arthur receives confirmation that everyone is accounted for. Arthur has never been so glad to have an organised and rather responsible man helping him at the helm.

Nevertheless, he has not left his guest unattended without reason. He passes onto the quartermaster a simple order. He is given the assurance that it will be carried out as fast and smoothly as possible. He thanks the other, and, when asked why such an order is required, gives only a strategic advantage as his answer. And then, with nothing more to add or be questioned, Arthur parts and returns to his quarters.

There is little else to do. Antonio sleeps, and so Arthur watches. He stays with him. He may even lay there next to the other’s resting form and hold him in a way he had not held anyone before, just to ensure he stays asleep and at peace for as long as possible.

The reasoning is simple.

If you want something in life, Arthur, you should know by now that the best way to have it, is to take it.

Those had been Antonio’s words, unmistakable, and unexpectedly inspiring.

So that is exactly what Arthur intends to do: to take that which he desires for himself, and to not look back when the island, his dear friend João, and Antonio’s ship all disappear into the misty Caribbean horizon.

#helia writes #hetalia #hws spain #hws england #engspa #hws portugal #full fic on ao3 as always!#not sure if you'd consider arthur to be overly possessive in this one but uh. well. things happen! :)

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extenebrisadastra · 2 years

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OFMD colour interpretation

Everyone's talking about colour meanings in Our Flag Means Death and I have my own two cents to give too.

So imo, there's 3 colours that are really of importance to the relationship of Blackbonnet, and we can see them all together in Blackbeard's final flag:

White, black and red. I noticed that these colours keep showing up in important moments that are defining to Stede's and Ed's relationship. Of course there's the "default" colour of each of these men that show us how they start off.

White and lighter shades in general are Stede's colour. They symbolise his naïveté and innocence that he displays and lives by to a fault. It's most plainly used when he visits the republic of pirates in an extravagant snow-white costume. He's the odd man out in this place that he tries to belong to, and he doesn't even realise how out of place he is nor how big of a danger his surroundings really are to him. Over the whole episode, he keeps running into trouble and almost gets himself killed or bought various times. He also makes Lucius wear the same ridiculous costume when he drags him around the town with him, but unlike Stede he is very incomfortable in it because he's more in touch with reality and gets splattered with blood not one but two times during their trip.

Black and darker shades are Ed's / Blackbeard's colours. They symbolise emotional isolation and stagnation, an unwillingness or incapability to cope with pain. Ed's clad in nothing but black in the beginning before he begins to let Stede rub off on him and accepts a few spots of colour here and there. He only banishes the colours again in the end when he can't take the pain of Stede leaving anymore and decides to go back to his former self, trying to make himself believe that everything colourful in between didn't happen and can't hurt him.

So white and black both represent the traits that drive Stede and Ed when they're not with each other, and furthermore the things that they each have to overcome to be together.

Even though Ed is often seen in the dark in his first an last episode, there's always a source of light somewhere. In the beginning he looks out at the sunbeams from his dark cabin, as if he is watching something beautiful that's out of his reach yet.

In the end, he withdraws completely into the shadows and veils every window of the ship with curtains to keep the sunbeams out. Stede was his light, and now every reminder of that hurts.

Stede's world, on the contrary, gets lighter when he realises his love for Ed, and this time it's no ridiculous over-the-top snow-white but a warm shade of light that accompanies him when he rows out to find the love of his life again.

Their kiss scene is special in that both men are rid of their default colour in it, Ed shed his jet-black leather and Stede no longer wears pretentious shiny costumes. They both sit at the shore and face the soft natural light together, and it seems in this moment that they can both let go of the things that haunted them and begin something new together.

Red is a colour that neither of them really wears, but it's even more meaningful when it makes an appearance. During the whole show, red serves as a colour of the most dangerous things, everything that you fear and that can make you bleed. Examples for this are Spanish Jackie, Stede's nightmare visions, Mary's widow friend, the Spaniard that stabs Stede, as well as the scarf of the priest at Stede's and Mary's wedding.

While red's negative side is fear, there's another side to it, and that is vulnerability - something that is scary no doubt, but necessary when you want to find love. This positive side of red is depicted by Lucius who always has something red about him. He isn't afraid of being vulnerable because he knows how and whom he loves, and knows who he is. He carries his heart on his sleeve and does so without fear or undue carelessness.

Red is necessary for both Ed and Stede to trust things to work out in the end, and Lucius as a sort of personification of that acts as a messenger between them. He supports Stede even on his dangerous ventures and is there for him when Ed almost leaves with Calico Jack, he helps Ed to realise his feelings towards Stede and he tries to comfort him when he turns into a crying mess after Stede is gone. This is also why Lucius has to go once Ed turns bitter and banishes everything that makes him vulnerable and has the potential to hurt him - Lucius knows what Ed feels for Stede, and he has the talent to strike a nerve that Ed would rather ignore now.

Red, of course, is also the piece of silk that represents Ed's shielded heart as he hides the fabric from the world until one man comes into his life who wants to share it with him. Ed doesn't hand it over easily, but when Stede takes it gently out of his hands after the party, just to place it back on Ed with loving care, he feels for the first time that vulnerability doesn't have to mean pain.

The last important appearance of the colour red in Blackbonnet scenes is the robe that Stede wears when he begins to let Ed into his heart. The garment is not fully red yet - it's more of a pink or fuchsia tone that occurs when Stede's naive world is first speckled with splashes of colour. Red mixes into his white as trust grows, and we can see him begin to turn into something more real and heartfelt in the company of Ed. Sadly this robe also works the other way. After Ed gets a glance at happiness with the man that he loves, he loses him again and his first instinct is to hide in the same robe that Stede wore. Now, however, it portrays the regression that Ed's emotions go through. His dreams were crushed and his openness made him bleed, so when he gets worse and worse he decides to keep himself alive the only way he ever knew - by accepting the darkness back into his life, and shying away from the light that seems out of reach once again.

#ofmd #our flag means death #ofmd colour theory #blackbonnet #stede bonnet #edward teach #blackbeard #it's absolutely ridiculous that I came up with this instead of writing fic #I've been awake all night thinking about this #bonus points for noticing that lighthouses are red and white #ofmd spoilers

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breitzbachbea · 3 years

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Day 1: Language [GreSic]

Here is my first entry for @aphrarepairweek2021! No intimacy like finding traces of a shared past on your tongue.

Ship: Greece/Sicily [OC] (Herakles Karpuzi/Michele Vento) Set in an Human/Organized Crime AU Read it here on ao3

All Sicilian & Greek words are translated at the bottom - I marked the words in red, so that you can easily find where you left off if you jump to the translations!

Much thanks to @amber-isnt-a-precious-stone for betareading this Oneshot & to @crispyliza for helping me with the Greek transcription. Love you guys <3

Since I don't describe Michele in the oneshot itself, here's also a Teenage GreSic kiss, drawn by my friend @/C0FFINATED from twitter! (They're 16 & 15 here; in the Oneshot, they're somewhere between 18 and 20)

In Una Lingua Familiare

They sat in Herakles’ old and battered kitchen. It must have been the height of Greek Luxury back in the 50s, when it had been renovated. Now it felt cosy, with all its chipped tiles and worn handles.

Something flew past the window and they both turned their heads.

It flew past the window again.

“Taddarita,” Michele told Herakles with a content smile.

Herakles smiled back. “Nychterida.”

“Oh, I think that’s the same word,” Michele said and lifted the small coffee cup to his lips.

“It’s not,” Herakles said. “After you butchered it.”

Michele chuckled about it. He still hadn’t taken a sip. Herakles had made them Greek coffee and Michele was careful with it. He dreaded the thought of reaching the bottom and ending up with a mouthful of coffee grounds. “We didn’t butcher them, we’ve made them our own. But we’ve kept them, regardless.” He finally drank some before he glanced back to Herakles with eyes half lidded. “Carusu,” he said.

“Agori”, Herakles replied.

They had drifted off and talked about history and linguistics again. A safe topic. No business. No nightmares. Michele had tried his best to get rid of the bags under his eyes before he came to Greece but he had no idea if he succeeded. Herakles hadn’t said a word about it and he was grateful for it.

He just wanted to go back to the days when he learnt Ancient Greek at the liceo classico and Herakles did the same at his lykio. When they had found another shared passion to fill the time of the rare afternoons spent together in Palermo or Athens.

“Modern Greek is still Greek” Herakles said. “The words we kept, we didn’t change.”

“Even if we changed them to suit our tongues, we haven’t replaced them,” Michele answered. “After the Phoenicians and the Romans came. And the Arabs and the Germans, the French and the Spaniards. None of them could take the words from us.” His voice was low and he wondered if it even left his mouth or just stuck as vibrations to his lips.

Herakles gave away nothing as he looked into Michele’s eyes. His form was mostly in the shadows, with only the dim light of the moon, the city and a dingy lamp in the corner of the room.

Almost nothing. His tongue darted out and licked delicately over his upper lip.

Michele watched him intently. “Liccu,” he said.

“Lihoudis,” Herakles replied.

They said nothing for a while, broke eye contact and Herakles took a sip of his coffee.

“There’s an Italian version of Herakles, too,” Michele said and Herakles lazily raised an eyebrow. “I could call you Erculi.” His accent was heavy when the name rolled off his tongue.

Herakles' thumb rubbed over the edge of his cup. His lips were slightly parted and Michele didn’t miss the attentive spark in his eyes.

He tried to distract himself by taking another sip of coffee.

“Mihalis,” Herakles said and Michele swallowed coffee grounds and sugar.

His hairs stood on end. He wanted to take Herakles’ hand and call him Erculi and babble sweet nothings in Sicilian at him. He wanted to be reminded of the touches they had shared when they had been kids, behind the safety of a schoolbook and the wild growth of a garden or sometimes tucked away in the corner of a dock wall.

Now they weren’t kids anymore, however, freed from their parents' watchful eye. He could do all that.

Herakles chuckled and despite the hour, it was a joyful little sound. Michele had put the coffee cup down and thought to get a glass of water to wash the coffee out of his mouth. He didn’t dare look at Herakles.

“You know who also changed my name?” Herakles asked and Michele glanced at him.

“Who?” The grounds stuck to his tongue and the walls of his mouth, but he wouldn’t say anything. Not unless Herakles said something first.

“Natasa. She calls me Iraklis, because she thinks Herakles is pretty pretentious in this day and age.” He chuckled again, his eyes on the table instead of Michele, and a faint smile on his face. “Maybe that’s also the reason why we Greeks changed all the words you Sicilians kept.”

Michele chuckled to himself. He got up to fetch a glass of water.

“She's been a big help in navigating this Shark Tank. Calls me Ira for short,” Herakles said and Michele nearly choked on the water. One last chuckle left Herakles, more of an amused sigh.

“Oh,” Michele said, as steady as his voice could manage.

“Interesting.”

Herakles looked at him from the corner of his eyes. “Yeah?”

In Italian, Ira means wrath.

They weren’t kids anymore, Michele thought. He wanted to sleep.

So he put his glass of water down, walked over to Herakles and peered inside his coffee cup. Empty, but so carefully drunk that he didn’t inhale the grounds.

“Iri means to go in Sicilian,” Michele said. Herakles had turned towards him. “I think I want to go to bed.”

Up close, he saw the dark circles underneath Herakles’ eyes. There was a cut on his thumb that hadn’t yet fully healed. Scratch marks peaked out underneath his hair and shirt.

And Michele didn’t care one bit for any of it, because it didn’t change that Herakles was so beautiful it knocked the breath out of Michele’s lungs.

Herakles scooted back with his chair, a dull sound on the old tiles, and welcomed Michele onto his lap. His hands steadied him as he sat down and one found its way into Michele’s hair as he kissed him. He liked the warm and heavy weight against his head and his own thumb brushed over Herakles’ cheek. Herakles’ lips were soft and warm and when his tongue darted out into the other’s mouth or it willingly met Herakles’ in his own, there was a faint taste of sugar and coffee.

Herakles broke their kiss and pulled back. When Michele opened his eyes, they went wide upon meeting Herakles’ stare. The pleading in his eyes scared him.

“Mihalis,” Herakles then whispered and Michele was ready to keel over.

“Erculi,” he got out, voice on the verge of tears and held onto Herakles for dear life as they kissed again.

~*~

"Taddarita/Nychterida [νυχτερίδα]" = Bat

"Carusu/Agori [αγόρι]" = Boy (In Greek, it can also be used to mean "Boyfriend". Since the Italian ragazzo works the same way, I assume the Sicilian carusu can also refer to a boyfriend. Do with that information what you will.)

"Liccu/Lihoudis" = Greedy; To have a sweet tooth

#aphrarepairweek2021 #day 1: language #aph #hetalia #hws #aph greece #hws greece #hetalia oc #aph sicily #hws sicily #aph gresic #hws gresic #storie nostre #hera #miche #gresic #oh BOY OH BOY OH BOY #I HAD SO MUCH FUN WRITING THIS #PLEASE ENJOY EVERYONE

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lang-queen · 4 years

Text

There's this issue about accents I wanted to ask your opinion about

This is the first time I'm ever going to be personal here, because I really would like to discuss this with a language-related community. What's the main issue?

For years, I've been trying to change my English American accent to a slightly British one, and also my writing.

Let me give you some background: I'm Mexican. My mom taught me American English from a very young age, that's the one she knew. It was until I was around 13 years old I discovered how other accents sounded and immediately fell in love with British. Since then, I tried to imitate it, but it wasn't until finishing high school that I decided I may slowly give it a try, carefully, because I didn't want to sound ridiculous.

Now, what concerns us: Well, everyone I commented about my objective thought it was weird or pretentious, both in my family and friends in language faculty. And I agree to some extent, of course. Yet, I still found it was weird they thought that way, since it's just an accent.

Mexico has some kind of an inferiority complex syndrome and Europeans are seen as naturally better than us, for their skin colour and, generally, for being first world. (I do not think this way, I'm all about treating everyone equally, nor better, nor worse). That is to say, their comments sounded as if I should know where my place is.

I commented this issue in a not-language-related subreddit and I received similar responses, about how it was strange, since I have no contact whatsoever with the UK or British people in general. Keep in mind that, even though I'm from Mexico, I have had as much contact with Americans as with British people, that means none. Just what the internet has to offer.

Then, I knew about this Asian girl who learnt Spanish. She commented that she first started with Argentinian Spanish, didn't like it and moved on to Mexican Spanish, didn't like it neither and then ended with a European Spanish accent. For the comments I previously received about my change of accent, I asked her about it. She was surprised of my question, because she did not receive any comments like that and wasn't aware something like that could be an issue, since, in her learning process, she neither had contact with Argentinians, Mexicans, or Spaniards, except for her teachers and the internet.

This let me wondering about things I can't even finish to comprehend at all that I wanted to see with a language community, and since everyone here is supportive and respectful, I wanted to know what you think.

Is the accent of the language you learnt/want to learn/are learning correlated with your geographic location? Is this a factor that matters this much?

How much your native culture affects the way you learn a foreign language?

What's really the importance of learning an accent over another?

How much can personal experiences affect language learning?

Racism and discrimination issues of each culture affect language learning? This comes for, as I said before, Europeans being seen as better than Mexicans by Mexicans themselves.

You don't need to respond all the questions literally, more like share your opinion.

Don't focus on me, please. This is more of a research about a topic I'm curious about, it would be interesting to go more in depth (hell, maybe this becomes my Master's thesis topic in the future!)

Thanks for reading it all if you did.

#language learning #lang-queen #langblr #languges #language #languageblog #tongueblog

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roccinan · 3 years

Note

‘‘i screwed up, all right. but i never once lied to you. i’ve done a lot of shit in my life, but loving you is different.’‘ berlermo please?

It’s a bright day in Palermo when a familiar face comes knocking on Martín’s door. It’s a face Martín has imagined seeing many times. It’s a moment when music should swell and one- or both- of them should jump into each other’s arms and scream the other’s name. Perhaps a kiss or punch of passion. Something, anything at all to commemorate the moment.

But Martín feels his mind go blank. Not a drop of rage or sorrow or even relief. He blanks, quite literally. And slams the door in Andrés’ face.

He turns around, pretends nothing happened, and goes back to the kitchen. There’s leftover pasta in his pot. He just ate, but he should eat again. Then maybe have a drink, watch some television, go back to sleep. He doesn’t want to think about what he just saw.

Andrés knocks again. And again.

“Martín!” his muffled voice cries, “open up! It’s me.”

And he keeps saying those same damned words, like Martín’s in shock and needs reassurance that the great Fonollosa is alive and well. After five years of no contact. For heaven’s sake, Martín had to see him on the news of all things. Rather sickened by the whole thing, Martín shouts back:

“Son of a bitch! I know it’s you! Go away!”

Andrés falls silent then. Martín goes back to cooking his pasta. Smoke in his eyes. Fuck. He rubs his eyes, gulps. Then nearly jumps out of his skin when Andrés slams a hand against the window by his stove. He smiles from beyond the glass, like his charm has any effect on Martín now.

“La concha de tu madre!” Martín cries, “can’t you let me eat in peace!? Fuck off!”

Cursing, he draws the blinds before Andrés can speak. He looks to the sad excuse of a pot. And remembers with some bitterness that Andrés was always the better chef between them. What did he ever see in Andrés-looks-like-a-noodle-Fonollosa anyway?

He’s so caught up in his self-pity (and no one in the universe deserves more pity than Martín, according to Martín) that he doesn’t hear the clamber upstairs. By the time he hears the THUMP, Andrés has already tumbled down the stairs. Lying crookedly at the bottom, he holds up a hand, as if to beckon Martín nearer.

“How’d you get in here!?” Martín demands, fast approaching with a ladle- which he will use against the Spaniard’s thick skull if necessary.

“For a master thief such as myself,” Andrés says, “finding an entrance is child’s play.” As if he didn’t just break Martín’s window, climb in, and fall down the stairs because he panicked. Again, Martín asks himself what he ever saw in Andrés-is-a-pretentious-idiot-Fonollosa.

“Then get up,” Martín says, “if you’re such a great master.”

Andrés hobbles upwards, acting as if his middle-aged back isn’t clearly killing him. “I screwed up, all right.”

“No, you don’t say.”

Andrés sighs, and with an obvious unease so uncomfortable that he can only be truthful, tells him, “But I never once lied to you. Martín, I’ve done a lot of shit in my life, but loving you is different. I-”

“If you need some favor for your bitch of a brother, fuck off right now-”

“I didn’t come for him.” Andrés grabs his wrist, fingers around the ladle. “I came for you. I never lied. I love you.”

Martín’s about to shake him off. He sneers. “Oh yeah? Don’t the mitochondria get a fucking say?”

The Spaniard grins again, and unfortunately, he’s every bit as beautiful as Martín remembers. Especially when Andrés says, “They already did. But what’s one percent to ninety nine?”

#anonymous #r prompts #that's all I have for now adfasdf #hope you liked it anon!#drabble

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ashestospace-fics · 3 years

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Okay so regarding your what type of "Hispanic" the OM! bros would be. Since you specified Hispanic and not just Latino, you CANNOT tell me that Lucifer wouldn't be an actual Spaniard. I mean come on.. the whole vosotros thing? Old Barcelona? A splash of colonizer in him?? Lucifer is one pretentious mf who would rub it in the rest of the brothers faces that "tHey GOt SpAniSh fROM hiM". Yeah.. I'm sticking to my unpopular opinion

PORFAVOR JFIDJWIWV

Pls I can't, I only imagine everyone calling him colonizer or Mammon going "Amo no me azotes porfa" when he gets in trouble.

#ashes.ask

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puffintalia · 4 years

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Can I ask 29 for Nedport?

29: “Come over here and make me”

sorry this took so long aa ive never written them before and i had no clue how to go at this prompt

Cannons. The sound of cannons blasting through the air, making everything rock and shake violently, waves crashing onto splintering timber. Salt and gunpowder filled the air, the smell overpowering. Disorientating - or it would be if he wasn’t used to it. The second he found a safe path, there would be another deafening boom and the ship would lurch again, sending guns and swords skittering across the deck.

And through it all, there was laughter. Smug, familiar laughter. Him.

Jan looked around, confused. The ship alongside his was old and grand - it would have been impressive if he didn’t know it so well. Shining figureheads and gold inlays only meant so much. A pretty ship never stopped anyone from being an arrogant, insufferable bastard. The laughter drew closer, ringing in his ears. The cannons were loud, but this was different. A personal game.

He reached for his sword, only to find it gone. A flash of green between the sails and - there! There, hanging onto the rigging, gloating down at him in a way that made Jan want to slap the grin off his face.

He gritted his teeth. “Will you shut the fuck up?”

“Why don’t you come up here and make me?” Rafael drew his sword - Jan’s sword - with a flourish, clinging to the ropes with his other hand. Pretentious as always, but an impressive feat considering how aggressively it was swaying. He didn’t envy his position.

Just to annoy him, Jan refused his challenge, tempting as it was. “What the fuck do you want?”

Rafael thought for a second. Huh. Didn’t know he could do that. “What don’t I want?”

Faster than Jan could comprehend, he swung down, sword slashing the sails. He landed and pinned Jan against the mast, the sword tucked under his chin. Slowly tilting it up, even though Jan was a good six inches taller.

“Gold, glory… a chance to see my favourite rival.”

“Antonio’s not here,” Jan replied, bitter. Idiot Spaniard, probably living like a king back home while he sent Jan to the other ends of the Earth to do his dirty work.

“Good thing he’s not my favourite.” Rafael winked as he pushed his sword up higher. He looked over his shoulder.

The brawl breaking out by the doors made it pretty clear his partner (captain? What was their deal, anyway?) had just disappeared into the hold. Gunshots rang out, barely audible over the creaking of the shattered deck. It was clear his men were losing - for once, his trade was completely legitimate, so many of his best fighters had opted to enjoy their chance at a break. It was almost as if Kirkland had known he was weak, known when he was most defenceless. God, they didn’t stand a chance. His sailors laid strewn on the floor, the few who still could moaning in pain at every rock and swell of the waves. To think he’d once trusted him with his life. He looked down at the other man in front of him as best he could, his jaw set in grim determination.

As Rafael raised the sword, he turned his face away.

It hit the mast right next to his face, driving in with a force that splintered the old wood. Jan winced. Hand still on the hilt, Rafael leaned in close, dropping the theatrics to whisper in Jan’s ear.

“Just doing what I have to to keep Arthur happy. You know how it is.” He checked over his shoulder. “If you want to live to see tomorrow, I need you to listen to me.” He raised an eyebrow. “Unless you really are willing to die for my brother. But somehow I doubt that.”

Jan shook his head. “You’re a dick.” It was more out of habit than any real feeling. How many times had they played this charade?

“Oh, I’m anything for you, you know that.” Rafael laughed, twirling the sword as he turned away. Jan knelt behind him, the same act of defeat he always played. “I’ll tell everyone you put up a good fight. You owe me one, Mogens.” He shrugged, watching Arthur emerge victorious with the cargo. “Sorry about your boat.”

“You better be.”

#aph portugal #aph netherlands #hws portugal #hws netherlands #nedport #hetalia #aph #hws #drabble challenge #cannon fire

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lianneoelke · 5 years

Text

Yukon Gold, Part 1: Do You Know the River?

The long awaited write up of our 2019 Yukon adventure is finally here. You’re welcome.

400 km of canoeing down the Yukon River is no small feat. Brian made sure Rob, Jordan, and I were well aware of the fact. Especially since Rob and Jordan were relatively new to the canoeing scene. Brian was eager to use his experience from a childhood spent navigating white water to keep us all alive. And survive we did, in part because there wasn’t really any white water on our trip.

After weeks of maps, YouTube videos, meal prep, and capsize practice in the ocean, the four of us were ready to journey from Carmacks to Dawson City in eight days. We arrived in Whitehorse on the morning of Thursday, July 11, and soon realized we were in for a smoke show. Forest fires were raging across the Yukon, and a territory wide fire ban was in effect. Bummer.

After buying fresh groceries, fuel, and bear spray, we dropped our bags off at a seedy hotel and explored Whitehorse. The river, though smoky, was beautiful and not nearly as cold as we feared. We ended up (of course) at Yukon Brewing, the biggest craft brewery up north. After sampling everything they had (which was decent enough), we went to Woodcutter’s Blanket, a delightfully small brew pub where we poured over maps and made last minute adjustments to our plan. Woodcutter’s beer met the extremely high standards set by us pretentious city folk.

Next up was an unremarkable dingy bar next to the hotel, where we enjoyed more Yukon Gold (which would become the official beer of our expedition) while playing pool (I think Brian won? He doesn’t remember) and Dutch Blitz (I definitely won).

The next morning we packed our bags, grabbed coffee, breakfast, and lunch, and jumped on a Husky Bus to Carmacks, where we had arranged for the rental canoes to be dropped off.

We loaded up the boats and put in, right as a group of nine canoeists from Spain (who would later come to be known as the Spanish Armada) pulled in. Maybe we didn’t look as prepared as we felt, because as we untied our ropes and started paddling, one of the Spaniards called out “Do you know the river?” and we replied “sort of” and he said “The Five Finger Rapids! Stay right! But not all the way right!”. Then the Spanish Armada was lost to the smoke and current and we were on our own.

River paddling was new to us lake canoeists, and as we cautiously tested our paddles against the current, we were delighted to discover how easy it was to let the 8km/ hr water move us along. We were fresh and eager to paddle relatively hard until we reached the famous Five Finger Rapids. Brian had done his part to instil a healthy fear of the rapids into us all, and after waving to the people viewing from a nearby platform, we plunged into the churning water. Thirty seconds and a couple small splashes later, we were out of the rapids, thinking “that’s it?”. Exactly as Brian hoped. Better safe than sorry.

We reached our first campsite quickly. At this point the river closely followed the highway, so the campsite had car access and was relatively developed with outhouses, cooking shelters, and fire rings we couldn’t use. Rob treated us to a lovely pasta. Fresh ingredients cooked simply and all that. Having successfully navigated the rapids on our first day, we were all in high spirits and enjoyed the evening.

The next morning dawned wet and smoky. I resigned myself to the possibility that we would never have clear skies for the duration of the trip.

Smokey or not, we were all delighted to be on the river. Group dynamics were starting to comfortably settle. Despite their relative inexperience, Jordan and Rob’s canoe proved to be quite strong, with Jordan’s powerhouse stroke keeping them in the lead and Rob’s gentle finessing keeping them on course. They decided to call their canoe unit “JJ” (for Jordan and Judson). Neither of them seemed to realize what a terrible name that is.

Press release from JJ:

JJ is complex unicellular dictatorship. Her architecture is modeled on eukaryotes and possess analogous sub-cellular organelles such as a membrane (canoe), mitochondria (solar panel), ER (garbage bag) and cilia (Jordon). JJ functions as an independent authoritarian state. Decisions, actions and morals are attained as one unified body. Her unofficial slogan is: JJ first. Her unofficial motto is: For the good of the state.

Brian and I took a more relaxed approach and were content to keep our individual identities. We called our canoe “Falcon Heavy”, as a nod to the fiftieth anniversary of the moon landing and a humble comparison to the innovative explorers of SpaceX. Mottos are stupid so we didn’t have one.

With another six days left to reach Dawson City, we had time to stop wherever we felt like, including old historic sites like Yukon Crossing...

... where Rob promptly lost his first fishing lure.

The morning was a wet and buggy affair, so we improvised a lunch shelter with a tarp and paddles.

Next stop was Minto, another old outpost. We knew our friend Brittany was starting her own canoe journey from there, so we kept an eye out for her going forward. Minto is also where the highway splits off from the river, so at this point we were even more on our own.

We spent our second night at a site called Thom’s Location, which featured a rustic cabin with trees growing out of the roof.

Jordan went above and beyond with his fresh ratatouille and chocolate zucchini loaf!

We didn’t see any other paddlers the next morning, but we did see a moose and her two calves. JJ scared them away by getting too close.

Dall sheep dotted the mountains.

Brian taking in the view (ie me).

Last stop of day three was Fort Selkirk, a historic trading post and campground marked by a smiling gold star on our map.

The campground was large, with a wood stove in the cooking shelter, garbage cans (a true luxury!), and stunning views. The Fort itself was a collection of abandoned buildings stretching a kilometer down the river.

“Hello! Just going to take a quick look in here. In we go. Nae drama.”

Most of these buildings were open for exploration. It felt like Red Dead Redemption II, though we unfortunately did not come across any horse stimulants, cocaine gum, or half empty bottles of bourbon.

The Jack Thornton school.

Storm clouds moved in quickly, as they did nearly every evening on the river. Thunderstorms made us nervous, since there were already enough forest fires burning in the Yukon (including one on nearby Volcano Mountain). Fort Selkirk was prepared with pumps and hoses reaching down to the river.

Jordan wasn’t worried about forest fires.

Brian spent the hot summer evening firing up the hot wood stove in the hot cooking shelter to make his hot jalapeno cornbread (surprise: he put cheddar in the cornbread! This one’s for you, Rob!). As we enjoyed the cornbread with Brian’s famous BBQ beans while also enjoying the view, we asked ourselves again: “Do you know the river?”. The answer was still “sort of”. We were getting to know each other as well, with distinct boat identities emerging, camp routines settling, and phrases like “just going for a little wee wee over here” and “Muchas gracias. MUCHAS. GRACIAS.” becoming as familiar as the constant splash of paddles or chirping of squirrels.

Little did we know, we’d need all our newfound knowledge to survive the following day. Stay tuned for harrowing thunderstorms, merging rivers, and muddy islands! Yukon Gold: Part Two coming soon. Or whenever I feel like it.

*around half of the above photos (the good ones) were taken by Brian.

#yukongold #yukon #yukonriver #exploreyukon #fortselkirk #canada #explorecanada #staywild #canoe #canoeing #canoetrip #camping

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mamgt · 6 years

Photo

There is a satisfaction in the thought that within months, I have read more books that feature feminism. I understood then the power of being represented in media such as seeing a girl whose skin tone was similar to mine. It gave me confidence and gave me someone to look up to. However, it is only recently I grasped that there is power in reading about great women, fiction or real. What is most important is that I was not given women who were impossibly accomplished. It was the fact that I was able to relate to these women and feel like I too was at the center of my narrative without it being egotistical. For there is a difference between the adolescent perspective that the whole world revolved around you versus now as an adult I see that the choices I make resound the rest of my life. I am at the mercy of my own hand despite environmental factors. I am someone who could be both sexual and religious. I am someone who could rise against the trials of bias. I am someone who could find the light and the reason to inhale the air again.

The Handmaid’s Tale was another installment to the new confidence I am gaining bit by bit. Although, the ending is quite vague and would seem like a complete loss, a tragedy, the very opposite of happily ever after, the book still brought my great inspiration. It brought fear, no doubt. It fleshed out nightmares that may have always been residing at the back of my head. Yet, it was comforting to know that there are people out there who understand that fear. There are people who recognize the issues bearing down our necks simply because we own an uterus. The book was as great as the trend of #MeToo. It brought out the worst that was actually a reality. It was formed to be like a dystopian yet I related to it so much. It was reading into an alternate universe that could happen the next day. The fact that there was no clear reason as to how the state of the world became as such made it possible for me to put it into my context. It could happen because of this and this. It could happen next week even. It felt foreign and it felt real.

In terms of how Atwood had written the book, she had used such beautiful prose to paint pictures that became wonderful metaphors such as the ends of the tulips. The mirror that did not reflect clearly and the use of Bible verses. What I enjoyed the most was the simple wording unlike other authors that peppered books with pretentious words that could be simplified. Atwood gave me that. She gave me simple words but tied into the most beautiful bow. She felt a lot like Dickens (which is one of my favorite classical authors for the same reason that he too used really great metaphors).

The following I am about to write down is a ramble so if you would like to keep reading, you may.

Before I could even begin to talk about the sexism and discrimination women received in the novel that mirrored so much of what is happening now, I would like to mention something very personal. When I had begun reading the novel the word Salvagings was already equated to the killings. The real meaning of the word becomes the metaphor to me, it becomes the paradox. Thus, coming to the historical notes and to find out that the Philippines had become the inspiration somewhat of the coining of the word for this dystopia, a chill went through my body. I had not noticed, like I said, that this irony was one that is specifically tied to my country. I was not aware that to everyone else it meant to save. Learning about the Martial Law, this word had no other meaning to me but the lives lost but I forgot that it didn’t mean that. It scared me. It scared me that the only time I would read about my country was either through a prostitute in Coelho’s novel or an inspiration of a world in its worst times. I cannot come into terms with this reality. Surely, it may be just some perception of the West that had painted my country as the cousin of Hell. Either way, it is no compliment. I think this fact has even overshadowed the rest of the book simply because it was too close to home. Literally. Not only did this book flesh out the realities of a patriarchal world but a world that belittled my people. True enough, if the Spaniards had not come maybe there wouldn’t even be a Philippines. Yet, it is here and I have come into this country long after its birth and so I take it upon myself to defend my motherland. I would like to be painted a different way and not known by these dark moments. Maybe that is up to us and not to the Westerners. But I would like to say it out there to the universe. I would like something to change. I do not like seeing my home, my people in negative light.

However, the novel is not to spur some heated nationalism within me. It is a depiction of the human race that does not cease to look down upon women and degrade them to mere vessels of other human beings. Even the resignation of Offred was a symbolism to the power of oppression and the reality that women live in. We are taught that it is our fault, the same way Janine had to. It is the length of our clothes, the cut and the style. Styles that were also made by other humans. We are kept silent by the stigma that we were asking for it, the we are immoral for we are descendants of Eve who bit the fruit. It was infuriating to read but at the same time, it was the truth. Painted and described differently but more or less what was already happening. We change women but not the men. Put the men in power because the women are fragile and needed to be taken care of. None that I belittle if you do want to be taken care of because I do to. But to prevent them from their own agency, the Handmaids were not even allowed to speak to each other and READ, was not a concept that was new to the human race. Perhaps, it was simply set at a different time and a different place but all things were but mirrors of the past jumbled up to make the possible future.

Everyday, even now, is a struggle to be a woman. I have seen it and felt it with my own skin and eyes. Danger is upon you when the sun goes down. Blame is only imposed on the victim. We are still fighting a battle that has long been fought for and I will stand by the women who valiantly, head first, exerted the power that is in us.

#the handmaid's tale #margaret atwood #book review #review

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shrug-hellyeah · 7 years

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Spaniards are literally the most pretentious, arrogant, and racist people ever. Y'all have such a superiority complex and are anti-black AF

lmao lemme stretch my fingers

I’m not even gonna reply to the pretentious and arrogant shit, because we’re 47 million people and too diverse to generalize with that, All I can say is from my own point of view, and that is that Spanish people are most of the times eager to help and treat well tourists and immigrants.

Now, let’s get started with the racism shit. I’m sure you’ve heard about the alt-right parties that are rising all over Europe. In Spain? They are at the bottom of the list. We literally laugh at them cause they are shit. Am I saying there’s no racism in Spain? Of course not. Is this racism from a minory, most of the times from old, uneducated people? Completely. This year there are around 5 million immigrants in Spain, around the 10% of our population. Since I know this hate comes from that post where I said I was sick of the way Spanish people were treated for something done centuries ago, let me add that most of these immigrants come from América Latina.

Let me say this again: Spanish people aknowledge the genocide and feel ashamed of what we did, but we, as a generation, aren’t responsible and shouldn’t face hate for something done 5 centuries ago.

Also, fuck you. You probably haven’t met a Spanish person in your entire life.

#you already hate me #my friends #my family #because we are Spanish #you don't know us #Spain is one of the most open minded countries I know #yet we still have the stigma of being rapists and racists #I'm so tired of this

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gaijinginger · 7 years

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Days 4-5: Happy Accidents and Pleasant Encounters

I ended up going to Golden Gai the night before last- for those who are unfamiliar, it’s a square block of about a hundred odd little bars, some with as few as three stools. The one I drank at had about twelve seats; four were occupied by Californians, two by Spaniards, one by a Pole, and three by the drunkest Okinawans I’ve ever met. They insisted on calling me “1-D” the entire time, on the grounds that I apparently look like Harry Styles. I’ll take it as a compliment; I fared better than one of the Californians whom they dubbed “George Lucas” for his resemblance to the creator of Star Wars. We drank, we chatted, we sang “Country Roads,” and at the end of the night I got a really great group pic that will follow this post. I’ll probably never see any of them again, but for a night we were one big happy drunk family. For this introvert, the whole evening was a testament to the power of putting yourself out there.

Yesterday morning, I started off the day with my first Japanese sushi meal. Absolutely baffling to me that I made it this long without it. It was nothing short of mind-expanding levels of good. After that, I bid my farewells to what was probably the strangest place I’ve ever slept in. In retrospect, staying at Anshin Oyado Shinjuku was nothing short of a psychedelic experience. Read my previous blog post for more, and for further context and reference images, google the place. It’s pretty strange in the best way. Very glad I stayed there!

After checking out, I headed back over to Akihabara to my next sleep box, First Cabin Akihabara. The capsule here is my biggest yet, with ceilings big enough that I can stand up inside and a bed large enough to be considered a double by conservative estimates. No place to put my luggage again though, which means my large backpack stays at the front desk. The location is fantastic though; it’s about a five minute walk to Akihabara station.

Since I wasn’t able to check in until around 5 yesterday, after dropping off my luggage I headed over to Mitaka, about a 40 minute ride out of downtown Tokyo on the subway, to check out the Ghibli Museum. Or so I thought. Upon arriving at the museum, I found out that it’s closed for maintenance until the 26th. Good reason to come back. Luckily, there’s a wonderful park located directly next to the museum, and I ended up walking around it for about two hours, in the process getting a nice taste of rural Japan. The park is just big enough that you can’t see the city from within, and being surrounded by greenery and minimalistic shrines for a few hours was a welcome change of pace from the hustle and bustle of downtown. I sat on a bench and wrote for a while in classic pretentious-20something-white-dude-in-Asia fashion, then made a few loops around the park before stopping by a nearby restaurant for another helping of black curry and short rib, this time with cheese. After that I went back to my hotel, did some laundry, and promptly fell asleep at around 8:00pm.

This morning I got up at around 6, ate a small breakfast of rice balls and miso at my hotel, and then walked around Akihabara for a bit. I video chatted some friends from home from around 8-11 in hopes of sharing some of the sheer WTF factor of Akihabara (there are entire multilevel stores dedicated to the sale of cartoon porn magazines. We’re talking dozens of them in Akihabara alone. In the biggest stores, each floor corresponds to a different genre. Floor one is guy-on-guy, floor two is girl-on-girl, floor three is girl-on-octopus, you get the idea. And again, it’s all cartoons. After audibly saying “what the...” for the seventh time to myself, I knew I had to phone some friends to externalize my confusion/disbelief and share the craziness.)

After this, I had a mid-morning meal at a small diner in central Akihabara consisting of sliced breaded chicken and scrambled eggs over rice, then spent another two odd hours wandering around, weaving in and out of the weirdest stores I could find. Believe me when I say there’s no shortage. I feel sincere sorrow for their earnest visitors and patrons.

After a bowl of ramen for lunch at around 2, I headed over to Harajuku to meet up with a new friend of mine, my waitress from the Dozeu restaurant I ate at for lunch on my first day in Tokyo. She didn’t make it into my first blog post, but we ended up chatting quite a bit during my lunch and subsequently added each other on Facebook (social media, for all of its drawbacks, makes the world a hell of a lot smaller). She’s about my age, and speaks about five languages by my count, so she makes an excellent Tokyo companion. Plus we have a mutual appreciation for Wes Anderson movies, F. Scott Fitzgerald and Jim Carrey. We got Starbucks and walked around Harajuku for a bit, and ultimately headed over to Shibuya to get dinner at a Korean restaurant in an area understood to be the district where Asians who aren’t Japanese gravitate in Tokyo- primarily Koreans, Nepalese, and Vietnamese.

To wander Tokyo alone as a westerner is great, but to wander with the aid of a native is absolutely amazing. Her observations about Tokyo and Japan as a whole were innumerable and invaluably enriching to my experience, and she’s already a good friend to boot. We’re planning on hanging out again next week before I leave, and thanks to Facebook we’ll always be in touch.

Over dinner of Korean blood sausage and kimchi we shared laughs at the most peculiar aspects of our respective cultures- she was in utter disbelief as I explained the ritual of bringing a tree into one’s house for the Christmas holidays, and how corn supersedes cane sugar in most American food. I was similarly baffled by her summation of her generation of Japanese young people- by her description, half of them are so wrapped up in their careers that their only outlets for romantic and sexual energies are the same baffling cartoons I described earlier. The other half has no interest in marrying before the age of 30 (at least there I can relate). No wonder Japan has a looming population crisis by all estimates.

Tomorrow I leave for Kyoto for three days. Somewhere in there will be a day trip to Hiroshima. Big doings! I’m really loving it here. Those of you experiencing anxiety from my absence probably won’t be thrilled to hear that I’m already thinking of my next excuse to be here. Expect another post in two days or so.

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floraexplorer · 6 years

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Sailing Mallorca with InAdventures: The Floating Retreat I Didn’t Know I Needed

One morning in Mallorca, I am staring upside down at the Mediterranean sea.

The calm voice of our yoga instructor tells us to step out of Downward Dog and into the next pose. As my body rights itself on the slowly rocking deck of the boat, I have to concentrate hard to ground myself in the practice.

It’s understandably difficult when you bear in mind where I am. Standing on the prow of a small yacht in the middle of the Med is undoubtedly one of the strangest places I’ve ever practiced yoga – and yet for the past few days, it’s been the way each of my mornings have begun.

A post shared by CARA LOUISE / / (@cgypsyy) on Jun 18, 2018 at 10:25am PDT

I’m not the most likely traveller to spend a week on a yacht.

Boats are not my forte. Growing up I was always scared of waves, and used to cry when my parents suggested going to the sea. Even after snorkelling with sharks in the Galapagos and going scuba diving in Australia, I still have a healthy respect for open water. Something about its hidden depths and the sudden sense of how comparatively small I am makes it hard to enjoy boat life.

Yet I still agreed to live onboard a boat owned by a Spaniard for five days as it sailed around Mallorca. Why?

Well for starters, I’m helplessly in love with Spain, and every opportunity I have to travel there is a joy. But I also wanted to challenge both my sailing concerns and the preconceptions I have about all-inclusive boat trips like this one with InAdventures Travel.

(Photo courtesy of @FlipAbroad)

My major reservation with the trend for group sailing trips is, honestly, feeling trapped into situations I don’t want to be part of. There’s a reputation for sailing holidays to be wholly focused on getting drunk, and while I do enjoy a drink, feeling obliged to get drunk because it fits the stereotype is not really my idea of fun!

But as soon as I spoke to Pau, the founder and skipper of InAdventures, I got the impression that his sailing company was different. The concept for his trips is to combine sailing, yoga and organic food with outdoor adventuring around the Spanish island of Mallorca: perfect for modern, eco-conscious explorers who want to see a hidden side to the island from a local Mallorcan who loves his home.

I was sold. Both on the trip concept, and on its clearly passionate organiser.

Stepping on board the InAdventures yacht

When going sailing with a bunch of strangers, one of the most important factors is a positive group dynamic. Luckily, the fifteen other writers and photographers were just as keen for a relaxing week as I was.

I’d never met any of them before, but it didn’t take long for the bonding to begin – particularly when a welcome platter served in a paella dish appeared from the galley before we’d even left the harbour.

That first afternoon set the precedent for a week of luxurious sailing. After a quick intro from Pau about what our plans for the next few days would entail, we set sail for open water, zipping through the waves with the engine off, the sails full, and the wind at our back.

What is the InAdventures boat life really like?

As a pretty novice sailor I’d had a few concerns before arriving, but they all vanished once I saw the boat for myself. However, living in a floating home does warrant some crucial lifestyle adjustments:

Cabin space is limited. This means learning to tidy up after yourself and packing away as much of your stuff as possible. Luckily, small boats are filled with hidden cupboards and storage spaces, so if you love organisation as much as I do it’s pretty much a dream scenario! It’s also worth bringing a soft bag – I used an Osprey Fairview 40 pack which was perfect.

Sharing a bed with a stranger is way easier than you’d think! Most of the InAdventures cabins are for two people to share (although you can pay a bit extra for a private cabin) – and as a solo traveller it means immediate bonding times with your lucky cabinmate. I was suspicious about how small the mattress looked, but as soon as I clambered into bed each night, both Daisy (my bed partner) and I were asleep in minutes.

Boats move. A lot. This shouldn’t come as a surprise, but leaving valuable objects in perilous positions means they could fall into the ocean and vanish forever. Keeping track of where your belongings are and ensuring they’re stowed safely is paramount.

None of the doors lock. A knock-and-wait system for the bathroom develops pretty immediately as a result, but the quicker you remember this, the better.

Flushing a marine toilet takes practice. Also known as ‘heads’, these tiny toilets require the use of a hand pump in two different directions: one to flush away used dirty water, and the other to rinse off the bowl with clean water. There’s no flushing of anything that you haven’t eaten first, either – that includes toilet paper, which goes in the bin instead.

Saving water is a priority. When the boats leave harbour they have a finite amount of fresh, clean water on board, which is destined for cooking, drinking and washing for the entire length of the voyage. We shut off the taps whenever possible and didn’t shower much (easy when the ocean is right next door for a quick cool-down!)

As I quickly discovered, we barely spent any time below decks. Instead our days were entirely spent outside, either clambering from one boat to the other or adventuring on land.

All of the InAdventures voyages run with two boats in tandem

Want to join the next sailing retreat? Use my code ‘FLORATHEEXPLORER’ for a 5% discount!

Exploring Mallorca’s coastline

Pau didn’t call his company ‘In Adventures’ by accident. In fact, I get the feeling that he perceives being ‘in adventures’ in the same context as being ‘in love’, as every day he had a new Mallorca-based activity on the agenda for us to throw ourselves into.

One morning we hiked along the Mallorcan cliffs next to crystal clear waters, before wriggling into wetsuits and helmets and abseiling our way down towards the sea. I’d been certain that I was too nervous to tackle the abseil, but strangely I found an unexpected surge of confidence – so before I had a chance to back out, I was roped up and shimmying down the side of a cliff.

(Photo courtesy of @MyTravelTricks)

Once we reached the water, our guides surprised us with the exploration of an underground cave. Clinging onto guide ropes suspended in the water, we swam towards a tiny opening in the rocks then inched our way through waterlogged sand until we found ourselves inside a series of huge cathedral-like spaces, carved out naturally over thousands of years and filled to the brim with stalactites.

Whether it was kayaking at sunset, hiking across tiny islands to local lighthouses or simply diving into the ocean from the side of the boats, Pau ensured there was more than enough activity to build up our appetites.

Luxury dining at sea with our private chefs

After our land-and-water-based adventuring, we boarded the boats again for lunch. The amazing food throughout the week was rustled up by Javi and Cara, two chefs who achieved unbelievable culinary feats in the boat’s minuscule kitchen.

With each new meal I had a new appreciation for cooking at sea. We feasted on avocado toast and fresh fruit platters; tapas of pan con tomate, prosciutto, fresh anchovies, and dill-sprinkled smoked salmon; and my personal favourite was a huge seafood paella, accompanied by ice-cold jugs of freshly made gazpacho, which went down a treat.

Finding our balance

By the time each afternoon arrived we naturally gravitated to the prow, chatting and laughing as our boat moved effortlessly through the glass-like sea on its way to our next location for the night.

It was wonderful to realise that a group of people who’d usually revert to their laptops and editing software in their daily lives were actually choosing to relinquish their technological attachments and simply relax together!

But there’s a different energy when you’re on board a boat.

It’s too hot for make up or fancy outfits and there’s no space for pretentious attitudes: instead, you have bare skin and honest conversations with people you’ve only just met.

(Photo courtesy of @FlipAbroad)

I suddenly found myself seeing my own body in a different light, too. I’ve gained a fair bit of grief-weight in the last year, and it was a bit startling to realise I didn’t look how I used to (especially in a bikini).

But bodies can surprise you. On a boat you’re suddenly behaving with pure instinct, reacting to the swells of unexpected waves and the slope of the deck. With no place to hide from my body’s true self on board, I was able to find gratitude for its incredible abilities which I too often take for granted, instead of raging against the things I can’t easily change.

Noticing the sensation of my tensed toes standing firm, grounding themselves against a bone-white boat hull, for instance. Or how I instinctively grasped a sail rope and curled my fingers around it without thinking.

I know next to nothing about boats, so accepting that I had no control while sailing through the sea was actually a well-timed lesson in humility.

I spend too much of my life trying to stay on top of things – but it’s something of a relief to occasionally relinquish all control, and pass that responsibility to someone else. For a while, it leaves you free to simply exist.

Why I loved sailing Mallorca’s seas

After a week at sea with InAdventures, I feel cleansed. Reinvigorated. Ready for the next challenge. Moreover, I think I have a new-found love of sailing – who’d have thought it?!

But I guess my current search for honesty and vulnerability made this trip the perfect place for me to be this summer: being out at sea, at one with nature, and enjoying the experience alongside a group of passionate travellers, too.

(Photo courtesy of @FlipAbroad)

I’ve been back on dry land for over a week, but the ocean is still echoing in my ears. I can still feel my inner compass rocking, making my steps a little shaky on solid ground.

Perhaps I belong back on the boat?

Have you ever rekindled your love of the sea on a trip like this one? Would you like to sail round Mallorca with Pau?

The InAdventures crew still have a few spaces left for their September trips. You can use the code ‘FLORATHEEXPLORER’ for a 5% discount – and tell Pau I sent you!

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