childhood survival

To all the survivors out there..

SVTFOE FANDOM: Marco spent 16 years chasing down Hekapoo to earn those scissors. As a 30 years old man, the safe kid was forced to leave his childhood behind, learning to survive in a cruel, different world. The trauma of coming back to Earth’s timeline, which immediately reverted him back to his 14 years old-self, definitely scarred him for life. It will take days, weeks, maybe months or years for him to adjust to his old life, slowly starting to remember his family, his friends, even though deep down he will always feel like an outcast, as the 30 years old man trapped forever in the body of a teenager he is.


Hey guys.

I apologize for being the wet blanket at the mo. The news about Carrie Fisher is really getting to me. Like, bad. The kind of bad where I’m gonna need to call my therapist while she’s on vacation bad.

Yeah, I know the whole “But you never even know her! Stop making this about you!!” thing and I get that. I’m not trying to make this about me.

I grieve for her family. I grieve for her. I grieve for a world without her in it. I grind my teeth at the fact that just yesterday, we were being told she was stable. I grieve for the complete suddenness of this. It feels like I’m one big ball of grieving.

I’ve always been attuned to people’s emotions. Call it bullshit if you like, but when enough people are sad or hurt or angry, you *feel* that. It’s in the air, in your veins. It becomes you.

Today is a grieving day, and the fact that I can’t lay in bed and sleep through it is turning me into a major depresso grump. I don’t take feelings like this and turn them into art, as much I’d love to for Carrie Fisher’s sake. I shut down, I reboot, I make things than after a nice joke or two.

I’m in shut down mode right now.

And the plain fact is, I can’t be on here (Tumblr) right now. Every other post is a tribute to Carrie Fisher, or a gifset, or whatever. Which is good, it’s deserved. But man, I can feel my chest tightening up just thinking about. I’ve been crying most of the day, and lemme tell ya, that is not easy when you sit in a crowded office answering phones for eight hours a day.

I probably won’t be on for a bit. I just can’t handle this place right now, and I hope you peeps understand. (I’m not even sure why I’m making this post. Trying to explain, I guess, but words are just *pzzzrtblght* right now. It feels like I’ve lost someone I knew.)

Thanks for understanding, and if you don’t *shrug* You are who you are.

And, sorry for being the drama llama. Happens. I’m gonna go now.

cassandra allows herself a week.

more would be greedy, the hungry grasping of a child, sticky-fingered and wanting, and she has not been a child for some time now. perhaps she has only just reached the age of majority, but she has been playing the part of lady de rolo since she could count her winters on both hands; the turn of pelor’s sun and the change of the seasons ceased to matter a long time ago.

sometimes, though, she thinks it might be nice to be a child a while longer.

so. she gives herself a week.

not wholly, of course. there are affairs that must be seen to, preparations to be made, relief to pass on to the sunken-eyed and gaunt survivors of the city. but for a week she allows herself the wild moods of childhood: the anxiety of surviving, and the guilt of her mistakes, the thrill of freedom. she allows herself the relief that her brother still lives, the joy that he returned, the fury that he fled.

(not only fled: that he abandoned her, one foot caught in her tangled, too-small childhood; that she stumbled he ran and he did not look back. it is hard to be grateful and bitter in one breath, but she is not the only one caught within a fractal heartache; she sees the shape of guilt upon face, and though there is no forgiveness in her she thinks they might make a whole between them.)

for a week they are like ghosts, brimming with unhealed hurt, drifting through the pale stone halls, and she feels all of it, and rages, and weeps, and rests in fits and starts, disappears at odd times and wanders through the small hours of the morning. they are all restless, her brother and the friends who pass in his wake; they do not ask her of her oddities and she does not comment on theirs.

this is not youth, this shattered playacting, but she has never been particularly good at youth. it is a freedom of sorts, and that is what she has missed the most; it is enough.

and yet, this promised week passes, days and hours and minutes ticking towards its end. percival de rolo––heir, prodigal son, revolutionary––speaks of name and legacy even as he readies himself to flee again, eyes knowing as she stares at him, and she cannot stir her fury within herself because she understands now; she has seen the ghost of him.

she, she grew into a woman. he is still a boy.

so she cinches the armor of her maturity around herself, straightens her spine and steels her gaze. this is more familiar than chain or plate or hide; this has protected her these past five years and will hold. her brother, narrow beneath his layers, rawboned and hollow, hugs her too tight, fingers grasping and greedy at her back, and she holds him just as hard.

(they do not make one whole, pressed together like this, broken pieces grating and sharp. they are still separate, half-broken and relearning hope.)

“goodbye, sister,” he says at the sun tree, and her steely gaze meets his shame. he is unbearably young beneath the armor of his coat and his machines and his mask. he wears a raven’s skull at his breast. cassandra wears her unwon years upon her shoulders and is regal in a way he only knows to mimic.

it is unfair, she thinks for a single, horrible instant, the fire of her anger flaring so bright she might burn with the heat of it. unfair that he may run free and leave her with this atlas weight. he is the elder brother, the heir, the inheritor. this is his duty to uphold.

but then, percival has always been younger than his years, and she has always been older, and isn’t it funny how these things turn out?

“goodbye, brother,” she says. it is not and never will be a pardon. but he can no more change his nature than she can undo her wrongs. they’ve forgotten each other in their own private captivities––another precious secret the briarwoods stole away.

the tree snaps shut behind them and cassandra’s week is over. she squares her shoulders, stands taller than she is and prouder than she feels. she is lady cassandra de rolo. she is old before her time and wise beyond her years.

she is lady de rolo, and there is work to do.

The Family of Henry VII with St George and the Dragon

At left, Henry VII, with Prince Arthur behind him, then Prince Henry (later Henry VIII), and Prince Edmund, who did not survive early childhood. To the right is Elizabeth of York, with Princess Margaret, then Princess Elizabeth who didn’t survive childhood, Princess Mary, and Princess Katherine, who died shortly after her birth.

Just Wanna Hold Your Hand

This story is a (belated) birthday gift for my wonderful friend, @grapefruitwannabe! But since I’m posting it on Valentine’s Day, I figure it can be her valentine too (cc: @inuyasha-valentines). So, happy birthday, my lovely! And on this Day of Valentines, I offer you the gift of InuKag love.

Inuyasha had never faced a challenge like this one. Nothing else he’d ever come up against—surviving childhood, fighting bloodthirsty demons out to skin hanyō hide, enduring ubiquitous contempt and ostracization from both humans and demons, being pinned to a damned tree for 50 years—none of it compared to the sheer heart-pounding terror of the task ahead of him.

He was going to try holding Kagome’s hand.

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“kevin day is an exy robot” “kevin say is an asshole” “kevin day is a coward” listen ok first of all no one can call my boyfriend an asshole but me but more importantly the reason kevin is seen as an exy robot is bc his entire life has been dependent on it like straight up u think the moriyamas would keep him around if he wasn’t the best at this fucking sport but he cant be The Best bc that has to be riko so he grows up in an abusive environment where exy = survival since childhood and some of yall r scandalized that he carries parts of his abuse with him and some of yall never stop to consider why kevin is so terrified like is that radical? that he would be scared shitless of his abuser?? bravery isnt always the brash, in your face rebellion we see in our leads, maybe kevin’s acts of courage were smaller comparatively to neils but that doesnt make them any less significant, hes just tryna live so id appreciate it if yall just cut him some fucking slack

tv has saved my life many times! in really specific, visceral, undeniable ways.

and it’s just really weird not to be watching any at all right now

I’ve always been fascinated by the things that draw two people together, especially in fiction.

With Juno and Nureyev, the connection was so strong so fast that Nureyev trusted Juno with his freakin’ name after like a day. Something he’d never done before. Before this episode, I was thinking his competence? His sense of justice? His being protective of Nureyev during that fight? The totally drift-compatible way their banter fits together?

This new episode pretty much crystallized the reason why.

(spoilers under the cut)

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So awhile ago I posted a picture of Benedict Cumberbatch I added to my parents wall of long dead ancestors.It has gone unnoticed for a little over a month…

I thought to myself, this is ridiculous. Maybe they’ll catch on if I replace another.

So in come The Doctors …still nothing 2 weeks later. What the balls. This is our front entry way. SURELY if I add ONE MORE…

…Clearly ya’ll know what’s coming next. 4 days ago the SPN boys showed up to the party and there is no sign of their awareness.

JESUS, MARY, AND THE FREAKING CAMEL. WHAT WILL IT TAKE??…Though I have to say, it’s a nice welcome home every day.

People have the audacity to always ask “Never Trust who?” “How you gonna find a man with Never Trust on your face?” “Why would you put that on your face?” So let me answer these politely. For those who ask me “Never Trust Who?” What the fuck are you asking me for? Ask yourself. It’s to each its own. You wanna know who I never trust? For whut? Scared your name might be on the list? For those who ask me “How you gonna find a man with Never Trust on your face?” Who’s looking… & so what I have trust issues. When the time comes my man will know my story, support my story & love me for me unconditionally. My man will protect me from the Never Trust, as I do the same for him. For those who ask me “Why would you put that on your face?” I’ve survived trauma, I’ve survived a childhood of Never Trust. I’m allowed to live how ever I please. I wear my heart on my sleeve, like I wear this Never Trust tatted on my face. I’ve embraced my vulnerability. I trust. I do. I forgive as well. And when you judge me by my appearance, read that I don’t play that shit. I’m not pressed for those who act out of insecurity. I’m not pressed for those who can’t keep their word. The fakes and frauds are the “WHO” muthafuckas. Acting like you’re blind to the fuckery. My eyes/heart/soul has seen and felt it all.