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[idontmeantosoundrudebut]

Many of Horror (Chapter two - That awful dream and these awful feelings)

- N O T E S -

This chapter immediately begins with a dream, so sorry if you get confused or whatever haha lol bruh! This chapter does contain mentions of referenced suicide, panic attacks, past abuse and other depressing and relatable things lol! be warned! I'm releasing this on impulse because I really wanted to give you guys more and I'm halfway done with the next chapter, which is really fucking steamy by the way so, yeah, be excited for some horizontal tango action haha lol bruh! If you enjoy, please leave a comment or a critique or whatever, I love hearing feedback about my work like any other creator! (no tea, no shade)

Also, there is terrible terror called Pain from DOB and though they’re originally male, I’ve switched them to female because I felt like it haha lol bruh!

THIS CHAPTER HAS PSYCHOLOGICAL HORROR AND POOR MENTAL HEALTH! BE FUCKING WEARY!

- C H A P T E R  S U M M A R Y -

It's that awful dream again, he always has it when something goes wrong, when something changes suddenly. His head can't take change, can't take it when he messes up.

And he's always so angry and afraid when he wakes up. Surely, he should be better by now.

He hates feeling like this, like he's dying.

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He's in his childhood home. He doesn't know how he got here. They burnt that hut down years ago, a week after his father was exiled. He's standing in front of the hearth, the fire within writhing maliciously and crackling with laughter as it mocks him don't know where you are, little boy? You're home, home, home- This place isn't his home.

Snotlout doesn't belong here.

He sniffs the air and cringes at the smell of stagnant water and old blood. Something's died in here. Turning around, he stills at the sight of the corpse of a fawn lying mangled and blooded at the foot of the stairs, eyes bulging and guts tangled amongst its dainty legs, back so mauled that he can see the knobbly, pale arch of its spine.

Something innocent has died here, in this house, and it wasn't her, it croaks through a swollen tongue, teeth cutting through its cheeks with each hallow word that crawls out of its twisted throat. It's looking at him, stuck between life and death, and it's like looking in a reflection.

A black rabbit hops down the stairs, leaping over the mutilated fawn and sitting beside it. It seems calm, serene, despite the heavy stench of blood and dead water that hangs in the air, it seems at peace amongst the smell of death. The rabbit, blacker than grief, turns its head to look at him and it's like looking into a starless night, still and empty, but the flames appear in those eyes and dance in the blackness. An inferno in the dark.

There is something in the woods. You should go to speak to it, the black rabbit says and Snotlout can smell the blood in the air thicken, but there is still that undertone of stale water and he doesn't know where it's coming from.

I don't want to speak to it, he replies honestly, voice distant and quiet, and there is something inside him that says Whatever is in that woods is something better left forgotten, its something that shouldn't be spoken to.

But it wants to speak with you, the black rabbit replies and the fawn screams, It wants to speak with you, don't disappoint, be quick, don't be weak, it wants to speak with you, don't become the shame, hurry, it waits, don't make it wait, it wants to speak with you, don't disappoint, no rest for the innocent, hurry shameful boy, it wants to speak with you-

The fawn just keeps screaming. Glimmering scarlet gathers beneath its yapping jaw as more flesh is ripped from its cheeks, teeth not meant to taste blood flashing through the torn fur and cutting deep into its purple tongue, its blind eyes rolling to the back of their sockets and revealing thin, throbbing veins. It screams and screams like a tortured thing begging for death, yet still, it hangs on to the faint pulse in its heart. The black rabbit looks to the wailing fawn, then back to him.

Come to the woods. Let the innocent one scream in peace, the black rabbit says softly, hopping past him, large feet thumping against the wooden floor. The fawn keeps screaming. He asks it to stop, politely too, but he must have been too quiet. Still, it screams and screams.

A white light catches his eyes and he looks up to the landing where the stairs lead. There is a door there, left a jar and spilling blinding white light in a rectangular beacon. Steam rolls from underneath the door and through the gap, it is tinged red and smells of stale water, of dead blood. That door leads to the washroom.

To the woods, he'll go to the woods, he says simply, turning away from the screaming fawn whose body refuses to die and the door that leads to a room of blood and water.

Snotlout doesn't belong there.

He follows the black rabbit into the old wood. The trees are tall and black, reaching towards the terribly blue sky like their hungry for the sun, and their thin branches scrape against his bare arms like ghosts begging for a body to live in. Spring flowers and damp ferns brush against his legs and they also feel like hands, softer but still starving, still wanting. He follows the black rabbit, not because he wants to but because he has to.

It wants to speak with you, he hears the fawn scream in the distance.

He stops walking and stands very still, like a dear caught in an ambush. A few yards ahead in a sunlit clearing is a copper bathtub. That shouldn't be here, in the middle of the woods, it should be back at the house, in the washroom. The black rabbit runs ahead, a dark shadow against the pale grass, and disappears behind the tub.

Just like Snotlout, it doesn't belong here.

He walks closer and he smells it again. That smell of damp death. He can taste it now too, it's so strong, a coppery, stale wash across his tongue, between his teeth, down his throat. It's what he imagines it's like biting into a dead fish, all rotten blood and foul water. Suddenly his feet are bare, they make a slapping sound as he walks and he looks down to see that the ground is flooded with an inch of water. It looks dirty, wrong, tainted.

There's an arm hanging over the side of the bath tub. Was that there before he looked down? He can't remember, but it shouldn't be there. The hand is ivory in pallor, bone-pale, and two long gashes run up the inner arm from wrist to elbow. Dark blood drips from the nimble fingertips, the sound a soft drip, drip, drip as it hits the sodden soil. The trees ache and groan, they feast on the given blood through their gnarling roots that toil the black, wet earth and he thinks that they are alive. Alive and hungry.

Just like Snotlout, it doesn't belong there.

For some strange reason, he wants to hold that blood-slick hand. He imagines like that's what home feels like, cradled in her scarlet palms, gathered in her savaged arms. Her. When did it become a her? His heart told him so, oh Gods, he's so confused.

He stands at the foot of the copper tub and looks inside, expecting to see a woman with a painfully familiar face. But all he sees is blood. From bottom to brim, the tub is full of almost-black blood that glimmers red from the dappled sunlight above. The taste of blood on his tongue is so heavy that he thinks he might have a mouth full of it. A mouth full of blood and a heart full of water.

A single eye opens amongst the ocean of blood and he stares at it. It's pale and blue like a blue jay's feathers, like the terribly blue sky. He recognises those eyes, they look like his, just dead.

Always had her eyes, comes a snarling drawl and he spins around to see a great bear, stood tall and proud on the trunk of a fallen tree. He knows this place, he knows that tree, oh no, Gods, not this place. Great currents of slobber drool from the crooked mouth of the bear, sharp teeth yellow and glistening as a long tongue works around words it shouldn't be possibly speaking. Bears can't talk, but neither can black rabbits and mauled fawns.

It wants to speak with him.

Always had her eyes, wished I cut 'em out, the bear slurs as it slams a clawed paw down upon the tree, white bark spraying everywhere and he watches as those black claws curl deeper into the soft bark. He cut that tree years ago, a month after his father left, he cut it down and screamed.

Yer sick, boyo, there's somethin' festerin' inside ye, the bear bellows, spit flying and it leaves his ears ringing. He presses his hands to the side of his head and shakes it furiously. He's gone, he got rid of him, he's never coming back.

The bear laughs and it is a horrible sound, like cracking whips, like splitting flesh. I never left ye, lad, I'm always with ye, in that messed up head of yers, just as weak as yer mother's was, just as easy to break, the bear steps closer, further shredding the bark from the tree, and he is full of so much fear that it feels like there is a rabid animal in his chest. His hands feel heavy all of a sudden and he looks down to see that they're covered in blood, bright, terrible blood that falls from his fingers in great ribbons of scarlet that darken the water. The blood never stops oozing, like there is a great gash in his palms, but he can't help thinking that this isn't his blood. His heart is so scared, it's going to climb up his throat and out his mouth so it can run away.

No nono no nono no no no no no- She wasn't weak, she was brave, she was the strongest shield-maiden Berk has ever seen, she was-

WEAK! The bear roars, the sun in the sky trembles like it will fall, SHE WAS WEAK AND ILL, AND SHE'S GIVEN IT TO YE, SHE'S MADE YE SICK AND FOUL WITH WEAKNESS! The fallen tree flies across the clearing with a powerful swipe of its clawed paw and Snotlout watches it come closer, fearsome and monstrous and ugly, lips rolled up to reveal those gnashing teeth that glisten with starved spit, eyes blazing with an unimaginable evil. He looks down and sees that his hands are bound with rope, rope that burns and stings and cuts as he tries to escape, to run away.

YE WILL NEVER GET AWAY FROM ME, BOYO, IM YER OLD MAN AND YER MY SHAMEFUL SON, THE BOY WHO COULD NEVER GET IT RIGHT!

The bear rears back onto its back legs and its maw opens so wide that the flesh tears and the jaw breaks, leaving it and its tongue to hang loosely. A tremendous bellow fills the woods and the trees quiver, the earth quakes. Blood pours onto the heaving furred chest and streams down with a wet sound to the half-flooded earth, the already murky water staining pink. He stares up at the beast and gazes down its gaping throat, he has never felt so full of dread before.

Suddenly, the great bear begins to fall and he lets out a horrified scream as that open maw, that black throat, descends upon him. He leaps back into the copper tub to escape and finds himself consumed by blood.

Snotlout doesn't belong anywhere.

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Snotlout wakes up, screaming and falling.

He hits the floor with a sudden abruptness that knocks the air from his lungs and the scream still crawling from his throat comes to a stuttering halt, choking coughs now filling the blackness of his room. But that blackness soon retreats as the great blazing head of Hookfang forces its way through the skylight windows, looking around hastily before settling his cautious eyes on Snotlout, who lies pathetically on the floor beside his bed. The dragon crawls into his room and lowers the flame on his hide as Pain kindles a few candles in a short, fiery breath.

The dream? It came again? Hookfang rumbles, curling his large body up and resting his head on Snotlout's lap, expelling easing smoke from his nostrils. The violet Terror crawls swiftly from her nest of charred tunics and other burnt fabrics on the dresser to nestle herself close to his side, her usual fiery temper simmering down to accommodate to his sensitive nerves. His skin is caked in a layer of cold sweat but he feels so hot, like a furnace is blazing inside him, like a fever is boiling beneath his flesh. It leaves him shivering.

"Yeah, yeah it did," He responds, voice rough and cracked, breathing in the warm scent of smoke so it can overwhelm the still lingering smell of blood and water (it was a dream, but it follows him when he's awake, it echoes around him like a ghost).

Rubbing a hand over the side of his face, Snotlout tries to collect his thoughts and rid the dream from his memory, tries to think about other things, tries to distract himself before he starts to feel... the Itch. But then he remembers the blood. Not the blood in the bathtub or the fawn-blood at the bottom of the stairs, but the blood on his hands, that heavy blood, that blood that wasn't his. With panic rising in his throat, he lays his hands before him and inspects them with sharp eyes, expecting to see blood crusted in his callouses or dug beneath his nails, something to show that it was real. But there is no blood, there never is. But the candles flicker from a rogue breeze and in the shifting shadows, his hands go red and a scream is already gathering in his chest because, oh Gods, the blood is real and that means it was all real and the tub is in the woods and the bear- Oh Gods, not the bear- He's back and he's in the woods! A distant howl rings through his ear; He wants to speak with you! Hurry-

A guttural sound breaks the maddening spell Snotlout had caught himself in and he blinks, but he doesn't stop staring in fear at his hands, they look clean now but in the dark, in the dark the blood comes and the hungry things in the shadows can smell it. Pain rises onto her hind legs and begins to lick at his hands, cleaning them thoroughly with her forked tongue, soft sounds chittering in the back of her lithe throat. No blood, see? I taste no blood, so there is none.

"I know," He chokes out, the breath stuck in his chest forcing itself out harshly, and he sooths a hand over her head in a thankful gesture, her purple scales silk-like and warm beneath his palm, "I know, Pain,"

Hookfang's purring fills the room like thunder. Snotlout can feel it in the floor, in his bones, a gentle tremble throughout his body that helps him try and regain his focus. Pain, always quick to doze off, starts to purr a lighter and chipper sound in her sleep. They know the routine; it's been going on for years.

Snotlout sighs and wishes he was normal, wishes he didn't have these awful, repetitive nightmares and these violent urges and these ugly thoughts. Wishes he could deal with it alone because it's less trouble for the others, both his dragons and his friends, he wishes he wasn't such a bother to them. He wishes he could go back, back before it all happened, and be the old him, be that innocent child before he died in the house.

Gods, he wishes Eret was here.

Eret is so good at getting Snotlout out of his head, whether it be by fucking him or talking to him or just by simply sitting with him, no one knows how to ease the wrongness in his head better than Eret. But, to Snotlout's displeasure, Eret is traversing the archipelago on this good deed and Snotlout is here, alone and rotting. Damn the Gods, he hates feeling like this.

"Four times this week I've had that stupid dream, Hookfang, four times!" He emphasises this by holding up four fingers to the dragon, who nods in response with another plume of smoke to ease his frustration, "If this keeps up, I'm not going to be on top of my game, you know? And I bet Hiccup will notice like he notices everything, and he'll ask if I'm okay and I'll tell him fine and then I'll feel bad because I lied and-"

Stopping abruptly, Snotlout shoves his face into his hands and screams as hard and as loud as he can, he feels it ripping through his throat. It's lucky that he built his house so far away from anyone else. There is a crawling feeling moving across his flesh and its making him want to do something really stupid, something he'll regret, something weak. Hookfang croons at him, lifting his head as Snotlout draws his legs up to his chest, his left leg bouncing rapidly. Rudely awoken, Pain rubs her horned-head lightly against his side in attempt to sooth him.

Not Snotlout fault, Snotlout done nothing wrong, Hookfang reassures as he rubs his lower jaw over Snotlout's dishevelled hair, deep purrs vibrating throughout his body as he tries to sooth the harsh, ugly scents that pour from the Viking.

Yes, Snotlout done no bad, we promise, no bad has been done tonight, the Terror adds in earnest, nipping affectionately at his tunic as she hums to him.

"I know, I know," He snarls into his palms, both legs now bouncing as he digs his blunt nails into his browbone, "But I will, I will, I'll fuck up again and I'll need it again,"

The dark thing in his head swells like a storm-sodden cloud and it thunders and rumbles and cracks behind his eyes, sending jolts of impulsive, disgusting thoughts through his head.

TEAR OUT YOUR EYES. FLAY YOUR SKIN. RIP OUT YOUR NAILS. KILL THEM BOTH.

He shakes his head violently, as if he could through them from his mind, and pulls his hands away from his face, fingers twitching and palms sweating. There have been nights where the smallest temptation sets him loose.

Go see Hiccup, he will help, he will give you council, Hookfang advices as always, but Snotlout, for the fourth night in a row, dismisses the idea with a savage scowl and a dark look in his eyes.

"I can't run to Hiccup every time I want to hurt myself-"

The words trigger a reaction and in a sudden moment of impulse, Snotlout slams his fist into the floor, the wood splintering beneath the impact and his knuckles sting as they're impaled with shards of wood. Pain makes shrieks at the loud impact and immediately goes to his injured hand to clean it but Snotlout makes a snarling sound and wraps his arms tightly around his chest, as if he's trying to secure them so they can't do any more damage. She snorts disapprovingly at him but she knows he will ask for help when he wants it, so she curls up at his side again, jasper eyes only half-closed.

"Or to anyone, for that matter! I'm not a kid anymore, okay?! I'm Twenty-two, I'm an adult. Everyone's got their own problems and I'm not going to burden them with mine, not when I can deal with them myself," Hookfang, as well as Pain, lets out a scoff at that and he doesn't flinch at the death-stare thrown his way, which doesn't surprise Snotlout but it still damages his ego a bit.

"I can! I don't need you, or Hiccup, or anyone! You understand me, you stupid dragon!? I don't need anyone, not even Eret!"

But the fury in his voice catches in his throat at the mention of Eret and again Snotlout is full of the overwhelming sense of loneliness that has flooded him since he left Berk. His heart, the traitorous thing, aches at the mere thought of him and his hands, the stupid things, feel so empty without someone to hold on to.

He doesn't know why he's denying the obvious truths in his life. That's something the old him used to do, the angry boy who suffered alone because he believed he deserved it, because he thought asking for help was below him. Snotlout isn't that angry boy anymore, no, he understands the wrongs that were done to him and understands that asking for help isn't a weak thing. But old habits die hard, he guesses.

Without a shadow of a doubt, he needs Hookfang and Hiccup and, by the Gods, he doesn't just need Eret, he wants him. And it's beautiful because Eret wants him back and Snotlout is always left in awe at that.

"I'm being stupid again, aren't I?" Snotlout mumbles sadly, looking up to see Hookfang gazing down at him, orange eyes unimpressed, and he nods his head with an additional snort to support his answer. He looks down to see Pain stood rigidly beside him, tiny-lethal teeth bared and arrow-head tail darting left and right, and to further prove her wrath, she lurches forward and give him a shallow slash of her claws. It doesn't even cut the skin, just leaves three white lines on his forearms.

Snotlout exhales through a thin laugh, but the guilt is still heavy in his blood.

"I'm sorry, you guys, I'm not feeling myself again, with these dreams coming back and Eret gone. I just wish I could, you know, deal with things normally,"

Forgiving Snotlout, Hookfang again lowers his head and presses it up against Snotlout's drawn up legs, Pain too scuttles back to her place at Snotlout's side, teething devotedly on the corner of his tunic. A chill draft wafts in through the open windows and cools Snotlout's skin, which feel hot and tight.

We understand, Snotlout miss mate and the bad dreams back, We understand, Hookfang grumbles reassuringly, tendrils of smoke rising from flared nostrils, and he watches as Snotlout lifts his injured hand, slowly picking out the splinters in his knuckles with a look of deep focus on his face.

"I'll be back to my old self soon, pal, I just-"

He pauses, hissing as he methodically drags out a long splinter from the flesh between his index and middle knuckle. Holding it up against the candlelight, he marvels at the half-inch long shard of wood that had been nestled his flesh, thick syrupy blood dripping from the splinter onto his lap.

The pain that spreads across his hand and flares up his arm feels good, harsh and familiar and good, it brings a sigh of relief to his lips. The pain feels like absolution. His previous wrongs have been righted in the hotness of pain.

Then, Hookfang's nostrils quiver and his head shoots up quickly, turning to the open skylight with his teeth bared and eyes narrowed., Pain too takes up an offensive stance with ferocious growls unfurling in her throat. Snotlout swallows thickly when he hears the heavy beating of wings outside, his stomach twisting in anxiety because no one should be here, no one is supposed to see him like this, not tonight. He wants to be alone tonight. The roof creaks when a great weight settles upon it, dust pouring down to the floor in chalky streams. He stares wide-eyed and apprehensive at the square-view of the black night, heart pounding because something inside him is say he's back, he's back and he's going to take you to the woods.

But instead, Cloudjumper's head peers into the room, owlish eyes gazing down at him with a curious concern.

Why are you here? Hookfang spits lowly, his tail swishing in a display of irritation, Yes! Why Four-Wing here?! Not allowed! Go or Die! Pain adds hotly, tiny wings thrashing as she claws threateningly into the floor.

Cloudjump, amused and unafraid, snorts at Hookfang's brashness and Pain's threats, replying with a garbled I heard screaming, it sounded painful, so help has come.

"Help isn't needed right now, thank you, bye," He says crassly, arms wrapping around his chest defensively as he glares up at the Storm-Cutter, who stares back with soft eyes, completely ignoring the yapping Terror and the glaring Nightmare.

"Oh, I don't know about that," comes a serene voice and Snotlout watches as Valka descends downs into his room, perched on Cloudjumper's clawed wing. She easily steps off and steps forth to cradle Hookfang's jaw, the moody Nightmare instantly melting in her gentle touch. Pain forgets immediately why she was angry and scuttles swiftly to Valka, winding between her ankles like an affectionate alley cat begging for love (or food).

While crooning at the puppy-eyed Terror, Valka looks to Snotlout with a soft and reassuring expression, her eyes glimmering in the candlelight as they gloss over with empathy. She can see the tears stains that have yet to dry, see the stress and the tiredness and the fear. Snotlout stares back, jaw set and muscles stiff, she isn't meant to be here.

"You look like ye need a bit of help there, dear," Valka says as she crouches down, half crawling towards him, agile fingers gracing the floor.

It's the same movement she does when she meets a dragon who's wild and scared, ready to strike out in fear with its teeth bared and claws flexing. He feels a bit of pride that he's seen as a deadly thing, but then he remembers that he doesn't want to be feared anymore, that he doesn't want to hurt anyone.

Oh but you do, don't you? You think about it, you imagine blood and you hunger for the taste. People are traitorous creatures and they deserve-

"Snotlout,"

The voice knocks the grating snarl from his head and Snotlout looks up to see Valka crouched a few feet before him, cautious yet calm as she gazes questioningly at him. Can I come closer? She asks with her eyes, eyes that are so painfully familiar to him.

Those are his mother's eyes right there. Sister eyes.

He nods his head once, lungs still seized and heart still shaking, and then he nods again, firmer this time, trying to be braver because, Gods, it's only Valka, his aunt, his heart-mother. Snotlout shouldn't be afraid of her. But she's got a heart full of kindness and that has always scared him, kindness.

Kindness was an unfamiliar hand to younger him and it was easier to cling onto the hand that beat him, the familiar closed fist that promised tough love would make a man out of him. He'd bite the hand of kindness because it was a stranger's hand, he didn't know kindness.

But that was years ago, that angry boy who bit and spat at empathy is no more and Snotlout can now gather the courage to ask for kindness, sometimes he doesn't even have to ask. Still, it always leaves a tightness in his chest because... What does he do with all that kindness? Where does he put all the love given to him? In his heart, his black, scarred, twisted heart? No, but then where?

A hand, soft-skinned and porous-boned, cards through the hair on the back of his head and the trapped air is liberated from his seizing lungs, falling from his lips in a long, shaky exhale. He blinks the blurriness from his eyes and turns to sees Valka sat beside him with Pain coiled in her lap, a very gentle look on a face as she looks at him.

"A very bad habit that, gettin' lost in ye head. I'm afraid ye might get it from me, you know, Hiccup's always gettin' himself roped up in his thoughts too." She says quietly, as if she's scared she'll spook him if she speaks too loud, "Ye both think too much,"

He laughs at that, a dry, humourless laugh that's sounds gravely and dark in the back of his scorned throat.

"You know, I've been told I do the exact opposite of thinking too much," Snotlout replies, flexing his bloodied hand in front of him and revelling in the stinging pain that ripples through his nerves.

The deeper cuts on his knuckles have oozed heavy rivulets of blood down his fingers and have seeped into the callouses on his palms, a few veins of red have even made their way down his bare forearm. He looks down at the brilliant red and it looks like he's killed someone, or something. This is the blood of his guilt.

Valka's breath hisses as she inhales through her teeth, her hands reaching forward and cradling his gently as she looks over the weeping wounds. The careful gesture leaves him with goosebumps, it's the distinctive touch of a mother's hand. A hand he has longed to hold since he was a child.

"Yer stronger than ye realise, Snotlout, goin' to hurt ye'self badly one of these days," Valka whispers and Snotlout swallows, swallows the horrible urge to scream in her face-

THAT'S THE POINT! DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND?! I NEED TO! IT'LL MAKE ALL THAT GUILT GO AWAY IF IT HURTS BAD! THE PAIN, OH SWEET, FAMILIAR PAIN! IT STOPS ME FROM RUNNING BECAUSE IF I START, I WON'T BE ABLE TO STOP! I'LL RUN AWAY AND NEVER COME BACK!

Snotlout swallows all those terrible truths and oh how they swoon in his gut, like flocks of terrible birds in a terrible cage. It's all so terrible.

"Can't help it, you know, I'm brawn and no brains, all that stuff," He smiles awkwardly, watching her inspect his bruising knuckles and pick out the smaller splinters he missed. The pain is small, a petty penance.

"Well, I know that's not true, not when I see ye and Hiccup planning our raids-" Valka stands up and starts to roam around the room, stepping over Hookfang's smoking snout to get to the chest at the foot of Snotlout's bed, "You're a great strategist and I have never known a time where your instincts have failed us,"

Pain steps onto his lap and begins to clean the bloody cuts, Snotlout lets her and places a hand on her back between her wings, thumbing at a soft spot along her spine. She chitters gratefully. The chest opens with a quiet sound and Valka delves her hands inside, rummaging for a few moments before retrieving a bundle of bandages.

It's common knowledge among the gang where he keeps all his belongings, they all basically know his house better than he does at this point. It seems that so does Valka.

Hookfang grunts and babbles randomly as he shifts in his sleep, dragging his head across the floor and making Valka's journey back more hazardous, but she deals with it with as much grace as a woman who's lived amongst bumbling dragons for over twenty years. Curious, Snotlout looks to the skylight and sees Cloudjumper observing Valka with that fond and comfortable look he sometimes catches Hookfang giving him. The ceiling heaves with the Storm-Cutter's great breaths, it looks the house is alive, alive and breathing.

Alive and hungry.

"Now let's get these wrapped up, eh?" Valka crouches down in front of him, bandages weaved between her fingers as she gestures for his hand. "And in the mornin' ye'll go to Gothi, understood? Or I'll send Hiccup after ye,"

Snotlout snorts as he nods in understanding, keenly watching the first layer of bandaging being folded over his knuckles, red blooming on white before disappearing beneath the next layer. The pressure against the more vicious cuts is morbidly pleasant to him.

They're both quiet as she wraps his hand, nothing but the soft sound of their breathing and the rumbling tones of Hookfang's snores to fill the silence. He looks are Valka now, really looks at her, and he really does see that they were sisters, her and his mum, he can see it in her the pale blue of her eyes, in the auburn tumble of her hair, in the gentle curve of her face.

He remembers his mum now, remembers her in a memory from when he was seven and it was the heart of winter, cold and grey outside and warm and amber inside. She was sat by the hearth, fletching her arrows and polishing her bow as he watched her with the wide-eyed curiosity of a child, chewing his lips as a question flickered in his head.

"Mum?" She hums in acknowledgment, fire glistening in her eyes and haloing the tresses of her hair (She'd always remove her braids when she came home for the night, usually it was twisted into a beautiful fauxhawk braid), "Did you make your bow?"

She'd paused then, the rag in her hand stilling along the agile wood, and looked up at him with a terrible sadness in her eyes. They no longer looked blue, they looked grey, drained of all warmth. They looked like the winter sky. He remembers feeling sad too.

"No," She replied, a smile on her lips, but it was sad too and Snotlout didn't understand how a smile could be sad, smiles were supposed to happy things (he knows better now), "Your aunt Valka made it, but not for more me, no, I used to be awful at archery,"

"I don't believe you," He'd gasped loudly, "You're the best archer on Berk! Dad said you could hold a bow before you could walk!" She'd laughed at that, deep and hearty.

"Your dad's a fool, Lout, haven't I told you that before?"

Oh, mum, he was more than a fool. He was a monster in hiding and when you died he stopped hiding from me, he hid from everyone else but he didn't hide from me. I saw the beast, I saw him alone and I looked into his eyes and saw evil and the evil looked into me. Mum, I should have listened to you. Mum, mum... please mum.

"Your aunt was the best before me, you know? Taught me that to hold a bow is like to hold the wind, you have to be gentle and focused, precise, true to your heart that you only need one shot," His mum ghosted a hand over the dark wood of the bow, caressing it as if it were a lover's arching neck, and Snotlout had scooted closer looking at the finer details carved long the upper and lower limbs of the bow. They looked like dragons, like the outlined silhouettes of Nightmares and Nadders and Zipplebacks soaring together in a blazing herd.

"What was Aunt Valka like? Was she, like, a great warrior like you too?" He'd asked hesitantly, his mum always got that awful dampness in her eyes whenever she spoke of her passed-on sister.

"Valka wasn't much of a fighter, no," His mum shook her head, gazing deep into the cackling hearth, "She had a tender heart on her, wore it on her sleeve night and day, and it made her... different, but she didn't care," A smile crawled across her face, mirthful and nostalgic, "She was stubborn and her kindness did not mean weakness, remember that, Lout, It's not weak to be kind,"

I'm sorry, mum. I forgot. He made me forget. I'm sorry, I remember now.

The memory comes to an end, his mother's fire-lit figure swimming from his mind as he focuses his eyes back onto Valka's lithe fingers as they pin the bandages down and he remembers that bow for the first time in years. A grief fills him when he remembers what fate that great weapon met, snapped in two by hateful hands and thrown to the hungry hearth as his father spat she was weak, like her sister, they're both dead because they were weak!

Snotlout wants to apologize to Valka but then he'll have to explain the soft memory of his mum's sad eyes and the angry memory of his dad's bared teeth. The spitting embers as wood is consumed, as a relic is ruined in the flames.

"Were you surprised... When you found out?" He says instead and it's a question that's been brewing in his head for years.

Valka leans back onto her calves and gives him a confused look, tilting her head as she glides a hand along Hookfang's snout.

"Found out about what?"

"About-" He swallows firmly, ridding himself of the swollen lump in his throat, "-about my mum, your sister... Where you surprised- no, not surprised but... Shocked? When you found out how she... How she died?"

The question leaves the air thick and suspenseful; it leaves his chest tight (or maybe that's the anxiety because he's never talked to Valka about how his mum died and this feels like forbidden territory). He doesn't want to upset her but there are questions, fears, in his head that need to be answered because they're keeping him up at night.

Valka opens her mouth then closes it again, voice lost and words unwilling. Instead, she worries her lower lip and turns her gaze to the floor, looking between the wood panelling as of it holds the answer she needs. He doesn't rush her, Snotlout understands it's an awful question to answer, his stomach always goes in knots whenever Hiccup or Eret try to push him into talking about things. They don't force him, of course, but they believe it'll help with that heaviness on his chest. Snotlout can't say he agrees with them but he plays along now and again.

"I... I wasn't... Expectin' to see her again," Valka starts slowly, "when I left Berk, I had no intentions of returnin' so I had already mourned her, in a way, but... But I had hoped she'd live on happily, without me causing trouble for her to get me out of,"

A breathy chuckle comes from her and her eyes are sad too, but they aren't cold like how his mum's used to get, no, they still have that dragon-fire warmth. He's glad about that. Valka rubs her hands along her thighs and she gives him a kind smile that is the mirror image of his mother's. It leaves his heart swollen and aching.

"When Stoick told me... I wasn't as... Shocked as I should have been, but it was still a blow to the heart, she was my big sister, the person I admired and went to when I was scared," Valka speaks softly, as if she's lost in a distant memory, "It's terrible bein' the one left behind,"

He nods his head in agreement because, yes, it is. There is no greater loss than being the one left alive, being the other half who escaped the flames. Scarred, ruined, but alive, not with them in those great halls, with that great music, drinking that great peace. Yes, it is lonely to be alive.

"Your mother was a brave woman and I see that same braveness in you too," Valka extends a hand and touches her fingers to his chest, over the place that homes his heart, and he feels a swell of pride in that.

"But I also see the same sadness she had," She brings her hand up and her touch ghosts under his eye.

He inhales sharply and turns from her touch, feeling ashamed because he hates it when people see the things he tries to hide most. It leaves him vulnerable and weak, naked and defenceless; they can touch him where it hurts most, they can see all that foulness, they can expose him for the rotten thing that he is.

But she's right. Sometimes he'll catch his reflection and he never really sees himself. He either sees the sorrow-blue of his mother's eyes or the jaded-wrath of his father's face. He never sees himself; he doesn't quite know who he is.

"I see it too," He admits quietly, eyes stuck on the floor where he had struck, the wood bent and splintered, cratered, and there is something inside him that says you shouldn't have been able to do that, you shouldn't be that strong, something is wrong with you, something is festering inside of you and it's A N G R Y.

"It doesn't make you weak, Snotlout, that sadness," She says and he looks up at her from beneath his brow, jaw clenched as he tries to resit the urge to rip off his bandages and scratch feverishly at his wounds, "A weak person wouldn't have been able to survive all those years with what he was doing to you,"

Ten years he's been torturing you, Hiccup's voice cuts in suddenly in his head, how are you still alive, Lout?

His reply to that had been dismissive and mumbled, but in his head, he was saying I don't know, I don't think I am alive. I think my body refuses to die, but inside I'm rotting, I'm supposed to be dead but I'm not, my body won't allow it.

Gathering his words, gathering his confidence, Snotlout straightens his back and sighs harshly.

"But it's been two years since he left, since he last took me into the woods, and I still feel... like an open wound, you know?" He starts quietly, the scarred skin beneath his tunic reacting to his words like they understand and he tries to not to fidget at the crawling feeling that spreads across his torso. It makes his chest tighter, the itching feeling that drives him to do something rash, violent, mad, so it will all stop.

"Shouldn't I be better by now? Shouldn't I be normal? Fuck, I think- No, I know I've gotten worse since he left and it doesn't make sense!" His words begin to get frantic as he speaks more, as he pours his heart out to someone who might be able to help, and his eyes sting with tears because he's so frustrated, so confused, so angry.

A delirious haze falls over him and he starts babbling and crying and yelling, begging it all to go away as he brings his hands to the side of his head, gripping at his hair and pulling painfully. Usually the pain would ease him, as morbid as that sounds, but he is so mad with this mental fever that it doesn't even register and he can't see, his eyes heavy with tears that fall and never stop falling.

"I don't want to feel like this anymore! I want it to stop!" Snotlout begs in a shallow breath, voice loud in his ears and echoing, a howl in the empty night, and his chest feels tight and heavy, it's full of that foulness and it's crushing his lungs. It's happening, it's all going wrong and he can't stop it, he can't even breathe, how can he stop it if he can't breathe?!

He barely feels the arms that encircle him, hardly hears the soothing voice, the chittering purr, the easing rumble. He's stuck in his head, in his loud and sick head, and the waves of impeding doom that wash over him are sending his heart mad, everything is going too fast yet not fast enough, he want's it all to be over. Snotlout tugs at his hair, pants like a rabid beast amongst the keens and indecipherable begging, shivers and shakes. He feels like he's dying.

"Yer alright, my dear boy, yer alright," The gentle voice reassures and he almost believes it.

Hands cradle his face and they are so soft, so kind, they can't be his hands, his hands were so hard, so cruel. They come for him in the night, and they come with a grinning evil that laughs like a bag full of bones, hallow and wrong. But these wind-touched hands, these love-soaked fingers, they won't laugh or claw or hurt, they only hold with a great tenderness that has felled beasts. They swipe away the tumbling tears and ease the furrows from his brow, a face presses against his scalp and he feels a kiss being placed there, a kind whisper ghosting through his hair.

Snotlout, unknowingly, rocks back and forth in Valka's arms like a child during a storm, tear-stained and afraid and confused, believing that this is the end of everything.

Slowly, surely, the haze begins to lift and Snotlout is free from the gross confines of his head. His heartbeat eases to a loud but easing beat that thrums in his ears and he can feel his lungs expand with each breath he takes, no long constricting beneath an invisible weight. The world around him comes back to view and he's met with wide, draconic eyes that stared fearfully into his, Hookfang lets out an uncharacteristic whimper as he bumps his head against Snotlout's heaving chest.

Snotlout breathing now, Snotlout okay, coos Pain as she scuttles along his neck and Hookfang snarls weakly at her, rumbling I know, I've seen before, I know Snotlout okay, I know. But it's still scary. That part goes unsaid.

"I'm okay, Fang, It's-" Snotlout tries to swallow the panting breaths, tries to slow his breathing, "It's over now,"

The feeling of hands carding gently through his hair helps the tightness in his throat to loosen and the stiffness in his bones to lax, it's a familiar gesture that Eret always finds himself doing when they're together. But these are hands are small and soft, while Eret's are big and rough. These hands are Valka's and they are just as welcomed as Eret's.

"How about we go for a flight?" Valka encourages as she stands on her feet, glancing up to the Storm-Cutter who watches from above before looking back down to him, "The sky is cool tonight and Me and Cloudjumper wouldn't mind the company,"

Snotlout thinks for a moment before he nods and easily lifts himself up, rolling his shoulders and neck to relive the tension pent up in his muscles.

"Alright," Is all he says and Valka beams down at him as she steps onto Cloudjumper's extended claw, her partner lifting her up through the skylight.

Hookfang too readies himself and briefly looks begrudgingly to the purple Terror perched on top of his left horn, her wings spread smugly and claws flexing excitedly. He doesn't bother saddling up, he's gone without one before so many times that at this point, he finds it almost easier to fly bareback. It feels more free. With a calm sigh, he clambers expertly onto Hookfang's lowered neck and looks up into the dark night, at the waxing moon, at the winking stars.

He closes his eyes and takes to the sky.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READY! YOU'RE A BEAUTIFUL BITCH/BASTARD AND I HOPE YOU GET LAID VERY SOON (if you're of age, of course)

[hinac0lada]

make it with you

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: kageyama tobio/reader 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: another song inspired fic. ben&ben rly out here doing the best. hearts out for best boy hehe. this is another attempt at fluff so,, feedback would be nice. <3 [ graphic by me not exactly proud of it hnnng ]

kageyama treasures every moment he has with you. he thinks every second, minute and hour counts. time wasn’t very forgiving, after all. he likes that you can see pass through him and accept him. in spite of the rough exterior you’ve come across before forming a friendship with the hotheaded setter, you personally think that being close to karasuno’s genius player was a notable achievement in itself.

kageyama has become somewhat comfortable around you. he tends to sputter his words, which was unlike the milk lover boy. he’s less awkward and more open with his thoughts around you. he likes how you keep him company - something he wouldn’t dare admit out loud; for he suspects his team mates would never let him live it down, especially a certain short carrot-colored haired teen.

even with that said, time wasn’t going to be generous with him if he continues this charade of growing infatuation with his senior.

morning classes were always dull. the raven haired teen doesn’t have the urge to dwell on about the slow ticks of the clock plastered on the wall atop the chalkboard. time goes at a normal pace. a relatively slow one at that. nothing is indefinite. it’s just how things are.

he sticks to a routine he’s developed as days have come by. after classes he changes into his gym uniform, does training in the gym, back to academics and repeat. fair matches come by and go as they prepare for nationals. he’s not nervous (well, maybe a little). he anticipates the day it were to come.

he doesn’t doubt his skills. he doesn’t doubt his team mates will lead them to victory. he doesn’t doubt hinata, either. he knows he’s done his fair share of growth.

it was just enough for him.

everything he’s ever done didn’t come without a barrier blocking him from achieving his goal. his rigid endeavours come with a blend of synergy and control. it tears him to maintain balance between the two attributes. enrolling in karasuno taught him differently than the way he was treated in junior high.

he made friends along the way. friends who saw through his previous arrogant demeanor and desire to surpass the very best.

he’s learned unity.

he appears to have a weird thing for whenever he has spare time or when he does something outside of the volleyball club. during lunch break, he manages to always catch you alone near the vending machines, scribbling away in a little notebook you carry around with you. neither of you acknowledged the other at first, seeing as how he only aims to get a carton of milk to quench his thirst.

the first time you spoke to him was when you required critique from someone for your project. it was due your next class, so you asked the person closest to you, even if you didn’t know who he was.

“excuse me, could i spare some time from you for a moment?” you called out to the ravenette, who glances your way with a confused expression. he gets closer all the while still sipping on the same carton of milk he always buys on the vending machine. “uh, hey?” 

“sorry, but could i get your opinion on this? it’s important,” you ask sheepishly, turning your notebook around with a mini-canvas on top. you’ve used your notebook as some kind of surface to draw on for your work. the taller teen gazes upon the canvas painted with vibrant colors mixing with one another in a delicate manner. it was a fine piece, even though he didn’t really get the meaning behind it. the oil paints overlapped each other, creating a rough yet nice texture for the imagery you’ve chosen to depict on the media. “it’s.. good.” he awkwardly stammers.

“huh? is that all you’re going to say?” your lips was pulled into a small frown, dejected at the dry comment he stated. “tell me more! maybe there’s something wrong with it - or maybe yet, something’s missing from this? should i add some other details or─ ”

“h-hey, no need for that!” he interrupts with a small scowl. he didn’t mean to have that kind of expression, but you were fussing over nothing. “it.. it looks great. i think you just need to fix that part over here,” he points to one messy part of the painting. “it looks all bundled up and confusing.” you beam at this, grinning at the puzzled and stiff teen. “aha! thanks so much, milk boy! i owe you for this!” and with that, you scurried off to the main building.

kageyama was left in a trance. what had transpired left him puzzled, a bit flustered and something else he couldn’t fathom. 

he did feel a bit irked at the name milk boy. 

───── 

“no, that’s wrong kageyama-kun. it’s supposed to say ‘enormity’, not ‘ennourmity’.” you scold him lightly as you corrected his mistake on spelling. he isn’t that good at english, so he turned to you for help. he’d rather ask you to assist him than beg tsukishima to tutor him again.

it’s been a couple of weeks since you first interacted. somehow, you’ve gotten close with your underclassman. with the promise of owing the setter for (not much, in his opinion) his helpful incite, you brought some pork buns as a treat. since then, you’ve practically hung out during lunch break. it appears as though you don’t hang out outside of these breaks, but why question a good thing?

“ah, i see. sorry.” was his nonchalant reply. you pout, reaching for his ears and tug them lightly but harsh enough. he makes a surprised noise of protest, narrowing his eyes at you. “oi, what was that for?” he holds up his thumb and index finger to numb the little burning itch on his right ear.

“you always seem so bland! show some emotion will you?” you giggle at his baffled expression. he rolls his eyes at this. “i’m not bland, dumbass. i do show emotions, in case you didn’t know─” 

“yeah, you only show emotions whenever you’re angry, bakageyama!” you duck your head as he attempts to swing his arm at you. you stick your tongue out at him, scampering away when he gives chase. it was fun teasing the first year. he seems so tense and so awkward. he needs to loosen up a little.

“HAHAHAH─ okay, okay! i give, i give!!” you squeal as you’ve been backed into a corner, his hand still has that strong grip on your head. you attempt to move his hand - slapping it even, but he wouldn’t budge.”bakageyama-kun, is that any way to treat your senior?”

“for a senior, you sure do act childish,” before lifting his hand, he manages to mess your hair up from its initial neat state, making you groan at him. he returns to where you both sat, picking up his things and stuffing them back into his bag. “ha? where you going kageyama-kun?” you inquire as you brush some array strands of hair back down with your fingers.

“i have practice next. you should get back too, [last name]-senpai,” he hands you your bag, walking past you. “oh. well, ask me again if you need help anytime soon!” he nods in affirmation, waving a goodbye as went on your separate ways. he stops by the vending machine, only to discover there weren’t any milk boxes left. he sighs in dejection, opting to trudge along the steps to the gym to change into his gym clothes.

setting his bag down, he feels something rectangular and hard through his bundle of clothes. taking it out, he discovers it was a milk carton with a sticky note on it.

‘remember to work on your english more, kage-kun!   - your smart senpai, [name] :P’

he didn’t know when you’d sneak this inside his bag without him knowing, but he certainly wasn’t complaining.

─────

kageyama swings by your usual spot, looking even more tired than usual. he says it was nothing, focusing on completing his needed lesson for the day. you try to tell him you could tutor him another time, but he insists it was not a problem. it’s hard to constantly look out for him when he looks like he’s about to pass out.

“kageyama-kun, i really suggest you should take it easy. i mean, look at you! are you even getting enough sleep? are you eating well?” your concern over him makes his heart flutter, but he couldn’t focus on that when his vision started getting all fuzzy. “it’s nothing i─” he cuts himself off with a yawn, tears slightly forming at the corner of his eyes. he must not realize his own fatigue, yet he doesn’t want to listen.

“i still have practice..”

“no, you don’t.”

you decide to stop the work you previously helped him on, cleaning up your things and packing them inside your respective bags. he watches you silently, fighting the urge to pass out. he’s been pushing himself a little too hard. he practiced with hinata the other night to work on their new quick that he must’ve not known how much time has passed. he usually does this though, so he doesn’t understand why he feels much more tired and sleepy.

he doesn’t know how and he feels too drowsy to question why he ended up in the school clinic with you by his side. he promptly passed out on the bed as you got there. you’d have to stop by the gym to tell them of kageyama’s absence. honestly, this boy can be too much for you sometimes.

despite knowing you have your own club to get to, something in you doesn’t want to leave his side. but you’d get scolded if you skipped out. 

you went back to your usual spot near the vending machine, popping in a few coins and purchasing your selected drinks. smiling, you skipped back to the clinic, placing kageyama’s favorite drink on the table on the opposite side of the bed. you pulled out another sticky note, writing a short message and sticking it on the small carton.

sighing, you picked up your things, stopping by the door to give the sleeping male one last glance before heading to your club.

‘don’t go passing out during your matches, okay? - your caring senpai, [name] >:)’

─────

“you know, you’re the first person i ever let watch while i do my work,” you give him a small smile as he pays close attention on your canvas. you both had free time today, so you hung out at a nearby park. he’s bought some snacks along while you brought your art supplies with you. he watches you intently as you recreate the image in front of you; grassy field, trees blending in the background on the left side while the sun was nearing dawn. it was beautiful picture.

“oh.” he says dumbfounded. you don’t give a sign of acknowledgement as you went silent, intent on finishing this piece.

“you’re the first person i can be.. more open to,” he pauses. “i mean, like.. i can tell you anything without being judged for it. and i’m grateful.”

you focus on the painting breaks, glancing at him beside you. you smile at his words. he can be sweet when he wants to be, in his own way at least.

“and i’m honored.” you gaze returns to the canvas.

minutes after you finished, you set it aside to dry. you placed your dirty paint brushes in a plastic, mentally reminding yourself to clean them when you get home before finally focusing on the male in front of you. you made small talk. it didn’t matter which topic it lead to, talking with kageyama was nice. he wasn’t as dull as you thought he was, and he didn’t think you were too annoying.

as you ate your favorite snack, he mutters something underneath his breath, the tips of his ears glowing a light red. “hm? what is it?” you lean closer to him, wanting to know what he was going to say.

“.. i said thanks. for those milk cartons you’ve bought for me the past few days.” he mumbles as he avoids your gaze. he had been wanting to thank you for a while. even though he did so already, he still felt flustered. it appears he’s learned the term of having a crush shortly after spending a hefty amount of time with you.

he's adorable, you think. it was probably rare to see him like this. you chuckle at him, unwrapping your snack to finish the rest of it.

“it’s not a problem at all, kageyama-kun.”

─────

karasuno wins the game by two sets. kageyama glances at the stands above, eyes scanning the crowd for a specific [h.c] haired female. you promised you’d watch his game. and you did. his eyes met yours, navy blue clashing with [e.c] irises. you beam from the stands, waving your arms wildly at their victory.

“great job, kageyama-kun!! i knew you had it in you!” the third years share a knowing look. nishinoya and tanaka pat his back albeit a bit too hard in pride with a few teasing comments. his other fellow first years snicker at his flabbergasted expression that was quickly replaced by his usual scowl. 

despite being teased by his team and gaining even more snarky remarks from tsukishima, you coming to watch him play was more than a victory for him.

kageyama, while rummaging through the bag he uses to store spare clothes and his uniforms, feels yet another soft and hard materials from his belongings. he pulls out a small carton of milk along with a plastic filled with his favorite snacks.

‘good luck on your game today! i know you’ll do great! - your loving senpai, [name] <3′

to him, you were more than enough.

[roleplay-salt]

About; Rules; FAQ

Welcome to Roleplay Salt! This is a blog for roleplayers to vent & rant anonymously about the things that peeve or hurt them in the roleplaying community.

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Unless they are throwing bigoted slurs, threats, or suicide-baiting remarks at the anonymous submitter, they are not doing anything wrong. They have just as much right to disagree with your submission as you had when you sent it to us. We are, first and foremost, a place to vent frustrations or hurts behind the safety of anonymity, and we are also a free-speech blog. We are of the belief that discussions, no matter how heated, is healthy and brings the community together as a whole. Just as your submission may provide someone else with the awareness that they are not alone in similar frustrations, someone disagreeing with your submission may provide a new perspective to you and others that had not been considered before.

“How does name-calling and swearing and being mean add to a discussion? You and your blog are what are wrong with the roleplaying community!”

Just because someone isn’t being nice to you as they give their side of the argument, doesn’t mean that it cancels out their actual argument. You’re choosing to be offended and distracted by how abrasive they are, and that’s no one’s problem to deal with but your own. You have the ability to block anyone so that you no longer have to see their comments on future submissions. Why would we police what people say, the endgame of which would be to ban them from ever reblogging or commenting on submissions again if they don’t listen to us, if you’re not even willing to try solving the problem first by just blocking them? Wanting to have the last word or being upset that your submission didn’t receive the feedback you wanted is not a reason for us to step in and step on someone else’s right to speak, rudely or otherwise. If you’re not going to block them, then why should we?

“Could you not post submissions on sensitive topics like noncon, incest, and pedophilia?”

We have started tagging posts that we believe might be sensitive and controversial in nature with the tag “#twcontroversy”. We recommend blacklisting this tag. If that is still not enough, then we recommend unfollowing/blocking us. These are topics just as relevant in the roleplaying community as anything else.

“Could you promote me?”

Certainly! But only if you are another community-involved blog (a blog that provides a ‘service’ to the community, such as advice, roleplay help, a place for confessions, etc.), and it must be relevant to the roleplaying community to some degree! If you want to promote a roleplay blog, then we suggest sending in a shoutout submission!

“I sent a confession in weeks ago. Where is it? How long will it take for it to get posted?”

It’s either sitting in the queue or sitting in our drafts, waiting to be queued. We have 1,200+ followers so far, and on average we’re sent 15+ submissions a night. We only post between 5 to 8 submissions at night. Your submission is on a wait list. That’s all we can tell you.

“Why don’t you just close your submission box until all the current confessions are posted?”

Because we’re a vent blog first and foremost. If we close our ask/submission boxes, then we’re no longer an option for people who might desperately need to vent or talk about something that could have happened to them that day but have no other options. We want to be a healthy alternative to just bottling it up or possibly lashing out at the wrong people.

“I don’t believe you! I think you deleted my submission because one of you didn’t like it! You’re not unbiased at all!”

We’ve posted submissions about highly controversial roleplay topics like noncon, racism, transphobia, and pedophilia. We reassure you that your salt submission about OCs, theme trends, blog selectivity, etc. is not on that same level, least of all to the point that one of us would delete it. The only submissions that we have deleted, so far, are the ones that have included racial and homophobic slurs.

“[insert OP/commenter] is obviously a rapist/pedophilie!”

If we find that you have accused someone of being a rapist, pedophile, or apologist of either because of their defensive views on noncon/pedophilic ships or roleplay, your comment will be removed and you will be blocked. These are serious accusations that you shouldn’t be throwing at people over fictional content and we refuse to to let you use this blog as a platform to spew such slanderous accusations.

[sterekreversebang-blog]

Sterek Reversebang Feedback BINGO

Hi everyone! 

Now that the stories have started posting, and you’re hopefully all diving into the awesomeness that our artists and authors created, it’s time for us to say: don’t forget to show them how much you liked the stories and art!

So, to encourage all readers (yes, even those of you who created works for the RB) to do more than kudos or like the works in this year’s reversebang, we’ve decided to do a:

FEEDBACK BINGO

The idea is borrowed from Star Wars Writer Alliance (used with permission) and amended to our needs.

FAQ:

what’s a feedback bingo? it’s a list of ways to give artists and authors feedback on their works.

do I need to sign up to participate? no, there are no sign ups for this

how do I participate? at the bottom of this post, you’ll find a list of ways to give our authors and artists feedback, from a kudos or a like, through comments, to appreciation posts. Do as many of these as you like, and take note of the stories/art you’ve given feedback to. At the end of the event, we’ll ask that you compile a list of the items from the list that you did along with the fics/art you’ve done them for, thus creating your personal rec list. 

is there a deadline? because our authors are stars who write way more than the minimum limit for this event, you’ll have the whole month of August to read, comment, feedback in any way you want to. You can make your compilation list earlier though.

are there prizes? as of now, no. This bingo is about rewarding the creators for their hard work, and appreciating their contributions. (watch this space though ;)) 

anything we didn’t answer? email or send us an ask

Rules:

BE NICE! Do not leave critique unless the author specifically requested it in their notes or tumblr post. As the old saying goes: “if you’ve got nothing nice to say, don’t say anything at all”. Show love to the stories you enjoyed, give a chance to authors you haven’t read anything from before, but do not post hate or complaints. If something is genuinely harmful in a story (or something isn’t tagged appropriately), find a way to approach the author privately and not anonymously. Help them, don’t lecture or chastise. 

Don’t like, don’t read, don’t comment. You don’t have to read all the stories. Mind the warnings and the tags. 

DO NOT REPOST! Art especially, but also fic. Link to the original post, reblog with comments, DO NOT post art pieces on your own blog/twitter directly.

Keep track of what you commented on, reblogged, recced, tweeted about, etc, including the links to the works. 

The Bingo Card will be posted at the end of the event, and you will be able to see how many squares you’ve managed to mark off. If you choose to do this, it’s not necessary to fill the whole card (5x5 for fic, 3x3 for art), but you can if you want to.

Have fun! The aim of this bingo is to show our creators appreciation. Whether you’re one of them, or you’re a reader, leaving comments and showing love to creators is encouragement and it’s very important fandom currency. 

Your SRB Mods

Ways to leave feedback: 

For fics:

Kudos a fic Just felt like leaving a kudos? Lost for words? Not in the right frame of mind for leaving a comment? 

“Downloaded for future re-reads” Did you like the story so much that you saved it so you could read it again and again? 

Bookmark a fic as rec When you’re bookmarking, tick that little “rec” option, so people can see it on AO3 (and don’t make it private, that defeats the point ;)) 

Reblog tumblr post for fic Look in the notes on the author’s post, look in the #sterekreversebang tag on tumblr, or look at the author’s tumblr - if they have a post made for their story, reblog it. Or reblog the art post that links to the fic.

Comment on fic from week 1 Pick a story posted in the first week (July 2 to July 7) and leave a comment. (caveat: comment should be at least one sentence)

Comment on fic from week 2 Pick a story posted in the first week (July 9 to July 14) and leave a comment. (caveat: comment should be at least one sentence)

Comment on fic from week 3 Pick a story posted in the first week (July 16 to July 21) and leave a comment. (caveat: comment should be at least one sentence)

Comment on fic from week 4+ Pick a story posted in the first week (July 23 to July 31) and leave a comment. (caveat: comment should be at least one sentence)

Keysmash comment
 Words? What are words? Did a fic leave you incoherent? (doesn’t have to be the only thing in the comment, but the comment must contain a keysmash)

“Thank you for writing/sharing”
 Sometimes it’s the little things. And the short comments. They still count.

“Extra kudos” When the kudos button gives the doomed “You already left kudos here” message. 

do a live read of a fic on tumblr or twitter (or in the AO3 comment section) Sometimes we read and want to comment on the minutiae of the story. Do it. Ramble all you want, make multiple posts, comment from the beginning of the story to the end.

Twitter rec Got twitter? Use it. (don’t forget to mention the author’s username, and link to the fic!)

Long (2+ long paragraphs) comment
 Found a fic that made you say all the things (nice though)? Felt like writing a whole essay of your thoughts? 

Comment on multiple chapters of a single fic


“Best ___ I’ve ever read” What was the one thing that you’ve read in works before, but this one fic did extra well? 

Character appreciation 
Is there a character that you think was extra awesomely written? (canon or OC, it’s all good.)

All the FEELS Did the fic give you specific feels? Made you cry? Made you happy? Made you sad? Made you giddy with joy? Did you get butterflies in the stomach or did it drop in fear? 

Comment on <10k fic

Comment on >10k fic

Comment on a fic with <100 kudos  (if all our fics reach 100 kudos, this option will be amended)

Comment on fic with <20 (unique) comments (see above. replies from authors don’t count)

AU appreciation Got special love for the Alternate Universe the story was set in? 

Art interpretation Loved how the author spun the idea that the artwork sparked? 

Rec on FB/Discord/elsewhere Make a recommendation post outside the already mentioned places (not AO3 itself, as that is against their terms). 

For art:

reblog art

tag commentary

like art

AO3 comment

send artist askbox love

reblog caption comment

artist appreciation post

reblog art with <200 notes</b>

reblog art with >300 notes

[thenexusarchiver-blog]

In Blissful Whispers : Scene One - Survivor

Hissing streams of a crackling faucet echoed through the halls of the battered dwelling. The closet was filled with a dreadful chill, waking a boy with a bruised face swelling.

Irritable, ruthless, and cruel were winter's whispers, the blankets of the boy kept little cold at bay. A man soaked in rain mended the roof's tears, an agony in his eyes with an origin he wouldn't say.

Struggling to break from the blankets to move, the boy stumbled out from the storage space. A gasp left the man as he noticed a bruised limb, the boy's ankle broken as tears plagued his face.

 Chains that once bound the boy lied on the floor, the bindings long parted  by a rusted lock pick. The man rushed the child to the nearby couch, the clock beside it cursed with a melancholy tick.   Occasionally grunting as the man wrapped his ankle, the boy welcomed the warmth of the nearby fire. Six oaken bars burned within the brick fireplace,   the heat their last defense from cruel winter's ire.

Long had silence engulfed the battered home, not a soul to be heard inside or out. Dawn's light trickled through seared blinds nearby, the damage clear from the bandits' bout.

Devastation and death had claimed Three Hills, not another survivor left in the village. A wave of despair had washed over the land, now-vacant homes sites of bandit pillage.

 Gone were the slavers that had bound the child, battered cages and chains their only trace. Something or someone had scared them away, a powerful force of much faster pace. A relieved sigh could be heard from the Human, the wrap on his ankle now easing his pain. The Angel nearby remained dreadfully silent, a smile of assurance he tried to feign. Zipping through the home to protect their findings, a pack of black mice fled into the walls. With a twist of his wrench and a slap on the pipe, the faucet ceased its hissing through the halls.

Echoes and screams from the dead pleagued the boy, the fire nearby the glow of yesterday's sky. Ruthless and merciless were the boy's captors, the inhabitants of the village begging not to die.

 Wander often did the young boy's eyes, searching for a method to pass the time. The painful healing only made the wait worse, he wanted a distraction from the cruelty of this crime. An hour or three had finally passed, the pains of hunger making itself known. The child sat up in the couch and attempted to stand, confiding in the progress that his wound had shown. Soon learning that he had not healed, the boy returned to the couch with a painful cough. Rushing into the room as he saw the boy's pain, the man folded his arms and offered a scoff.

 Persistent and eager was the young boy, a hungered glare soon telling the man why. Returning the kitchen and searching the cupboards, he put together an meal with a painful sigh.

Listen closely did the boy as his caretaker cooked, a fading stove ember warming the meal. The scent of meat and stew weaved into the room, a full-belly's bliss the boy eager to feel. Amber and thick and creamy with meat, the masterful soup was delicious indeed! Each spoonful of soup was eagerly savored, the child slurping it down with frightening speed.

Grateful for the meal he had just received, the Human boy bowed his head towards his host. A smile shined back towards the boy in reply, the man hiding a sorrow that would've plague most.

Uneasy and silent was the stoic man, his eyes scanning the halls many a time. Hours passed as the two waited, while the curious mice did the boy mime. Evening had arrived not too long later, the repairs of the home still taking place. The young boy had wanted to help, however, t'was best to give the man space.

Dark fell after the windows were sealed, debris from the outside trapping the heat. Damp and seared cloth covered the walls, nailed in pairs that the cold could not beat.

 While the rest of the house was warmed by the fire, the man carried the boy to the back rooms. Untouched by the battle were the quiet beds, a vacancy in them holding darkness that looms.

Intact and unmoved were the covers of the beds, the soft ruby sheets a welcoming sight. The man rested the child on down to sleep, wrapping him warmly in sheets that held tight.

The child wore a smile as he was tucked in the bed, grateful for the kindness the man had shown. Silently ponder did the boy as he rested, thinking how to repay this charitable loan.

Holding no longer to the realm of the woken, the boy closed his eyes and welcomed sleep. Drifting through streams of wandering dreams, the boy found only a void eternally deep.

 Panicked cries echoed through the veil, pleading for a hero that never came. No matter how far the pale lights ran, the ruthless shadows felled them the same. Anguish and ruin overwhelmed the child, watching the slaughter from behind a cage. Ruthless and precise were the slaver's axes, a helpless village victim to bandit rage.

In a matter of minutes was the village slain, the horror repeating time after time. A sea of ashes and embers danced through the void, a ruthless flame slaying many in their prime.

Never ending was this unyielding nightmare, the child constantly begging it stop. But there came no end to the ethereal torture, for eternal is fear, war's cruelest crop.

In Blissful Whispers is a (largely) light-hearted spin-off book to my series, The Nexus Chronicles. The Nexus Chronicles - In Blissful Whispers follows the lives of a silent boy and deafened man who are brought together by the cruelty of the cycle. With the aid and company of Loris Aplegel, a motherly and protective Nit'za who looks after them, the two survivors are led down a journey of recovery, acceptance, and hope in this peaceful spin off to the main series. Any feedback or critique is appreciated! For those interested, you can read the few next chapters of In Blissful Whispers at my website: www.thenexuschronicles.com/in-…

[commodoreg]

In response to edits:

Oh wow, I wasn't expecting this much feedback from Mel. :O Well, Miss Editor, just know that I roughly stopped at the 15 min mark and didn't have a huge amount of time to edit, but you seemed to catch a couple things I wasn't thinking about, so I guess it doesn't matter. I'm all for critique and learning from my mistakes, so thank you for doing this. :) I don't usually write in this format often as I'm mostly just writing in a script structure for the game, so expect a lot of flaws. Buuuuuut, let me just address a few of the issues you brought up in the comments. (Posting this in blog form cuz screw posting this as comments.)

1) *Gets out her editor’s pen* First and foremost - “That is because that’s only half the story” is a super clunky sentence.

Yeah, you're right about this. I saw just from a cursory glance this sentence was a bit weird, but I didn't really have the time to fix it.

1.5) Also, calling the boy “the youth” and “the boy” in the same sentence is bad. A simple “he” works, as the subject of the sentence hasn’t changed. Really, the solution is putting a period after “understand the difficult text” and starting a new sentence.

Right. I added "youth" and other words to address the subject because I realized when rereading that I only called him "the boy", and I did far too much. It's a bit tough to balance when to say "he" and "the boy" so that it doesn't become repetitive. Because by this time, we don't know much about the boy.

2)  “The father recommended that he skip* over any part”… “The child of barely ten years” is clunky and forced within that sentence, making it too wordy. Just saying “the ten-year-old” would work fine.

You're probably right. I think I was going for a more elegant way of saying "he's ten years old". I could've said a boy of just ten winters or something, too.

3)  "eager to prove themselves older than they’re labeled” is just pointless fluff. Could get rid of all of it or at least the “older than they’re labeled”.

That could've been shortened down, sure, but I still sorta like that line. You can have some fluff in your writing! It just needs to be kept under control, I suppose.

3.5)  Hehe “labyrinthine”. Cute word, but comes off a bit try-hardish within this narrative, like ‘I need a big, intimidating word to really convey the complexity of this tome!“

I'll have you know that I'm the biggest try hard around. But no, I believe the word works because of the boy's imagination and the way I ended it after. I could probably work a little harder to make the analogy work, but I don't hate it. Also no, I didn't go searching for a big word like labyrinthine to make me feel better about myself. It just popped in my head and I went with it. :P

4)  “Of course, books are made exclusively from words and sentences, but they became something much more when you could imagine the scenes, scents, characters, and world—when you could relate to the story or expository written. ” You’re talking to the reader. It’s a style some authors love, but it feels a bit out of place here, much like the “that’s just half of the story” sentence.

I actually really liked writing that bit, so maybe it's my styyyyyle. Only change I'd make to that part is writing more coming from the boy's own personal thoughts than the narrator's voice.

5)  New paragraph at “If the boy had to describe” as the previous was about reading the book and now he’s digesting the experience. Two different subjects. Goddamn why does this reply cover up the paragraph, I hafta keep posting and rereading stuff and making new replies.

Hmm, okay. I do split up my paragraphs, but I usually do it by intution rather than a guideline. Actually, that describes a lot of my writing in general. And yes, the comment function on tumblr is bad. tumblr is bad.

6) Why’d you explain why he’s confused but not why he’s annoyed? Either go all in or not at all!

Two reasons. One, you already should know why he's annoyed. It's explained in the second paragraph that the boy was out to prove his father wrong, but he ended up exactly as his father had said. Second, the story cuts off there because my time was up. The next part would've explained why again by mentioning his father—hopefully bringing the reader up to speed.

[cryptoga-blog]

Are Tokens Like Gold? Attorneys Inquire Tough Thoughts on ICOs

http://www.cryptoga.com/news/are-tokens-like-gold-attorneys-inquire-tough-thoughts-on-icos/

Are Tokens Like Gold? Attorneys Inquire Tough Thoughts on ICOs

It truly is unconventional for panels to get heated, but that is just what took place throughout a dialogue on securities law and the Basic Settlement for Potential Tokens (SAFT) on Tuesday.

Named “Structuring Legally Compliant Token Profits,” the panel took location at the Cardozo School of Law, at Yeshiva University in Manhattan. There, much of the discussion centered on the SAFT white paper released by Cooley LLP attorney Marco Santori and Protocol Labs, as effectively as critiques leveled yesterday at that design by the Cardozo Blockchain Task.

Stepping again, Santori was there reveal to the viewers how the SAFT tries to crack a token sale into two areas, separating the fundraising of a project from the code that will at some point support electricity the software program project for which it has been developed.

In the very first element, an investor receives a contract for cash after a protocol is introduced and all set for use.

The people today who pre-buy these tokens “acquire on business chance,” Santori reported. That element is definitely a protection, he granted.

Continuing, Santori when compared this element to how bankers utilized to finance miners to dig gold. When the gold arrived again, no just one thought that the gold was a protection, he reasoned. In this way, he reported that, with the SAFT, the entrepreneur won’t even have to promote what he created to pay his buyers again. The investor just offers backers electronic currency, the metaphorical gold.

Yet, attorneys on the panel of 7 kept returning to this dilemma of regardless of whether these kinds of a token could actually be thought of like a mineral ore and the SAFT as the instrument that financed the mine.

Wright disagreed with the thought, contending that the courts will not individual the coin from the SAFT. Somewhat, he argues they will appear at the entire system.

In a discussion with CoinDesk afterwards, he reported, “That is the law.”

Coins as commodities

Yvette Valdez of Latham & Watkins complicated the worries of business owners even more, premising her feedback by stating, “I will not assume the pre-sale and SAFT is that easy.”

A commodities attorney, Valdez lifted an crucial dilemma: have business owners been as well centered on the U.S. Securities and Trade Fee when the Commodity Futures Investing Fee is most likely to have jurisdiction? In her feedback, she defined that it truly is very long been a apply for, say, an oil firm to promote ahead contracts to refineries that say, proficiently: “We are going to produce 100 gallons of crude oil on this date for this value.” This is lawful, she defined, mainly because the refinery is a industrial merchant. You can find no doubt that it will obtain the oil and use it.

If a hedge fund tries to purchase a contract like that, however, it results in being a financial derivative.

In the exact way, a undertaking investor who purchases a stack of tokens with a SAFT in advance likely is not, for illustration, heading to use them to stake racks of servers in their again offices to run, say, filecoin. They intend to promote them for a profit at some level.

“The folks shopping for a utility token on a ahead basis,” she reported, “I will not actually see an exemption.”

By the panel’s stop, it appeared as however token issuers confronted even more lawful landmines than when it commenced, but as Klayman put it, there’s never ever a easy reply on these questions.

“It truly is nonetheless the specifics and instances,” she reported, incorporating:

“You can find no ‘this is good’ or ‘this is terrible.'”

Panel photograph by Brady Dale for CoinDesk

The leader in blockchain news, CoinDesk is an impartial media outlet that strives for the highest journalistic requirements and abides by a rigid established of editorial insurance policies. Intrigued in featuring your skills or insights to our reporting? Call us at news@coindesk.com.

Disclaimer: This posting really should not be taken as, and is not intended to provide, financial commitment information. Make sure you conduct your have complete investigation ahead of investing in any cryptocurrency.